Flowers From The Storm (64 page)

But it was impossible. The constraint between them had reached incurable proportions. She left him at an utter loss. He could not touch her, he could not depend on her; he had himself only to get through it.

She lifted her head suddenly. “Jervaulx,” she said, with the air of having taken an irrevocable decision.

He closed his hands hard and looked up at her.

“Thou ought to understand that I cannot curtsy nor give vain flattering titles to the king,” she declared.

She flung a look toward him, as if she expected a battle, and then, shying from it, pushed her chair back and bolted from the room.

Oh, excellent, Christian thought, dropping his head back on the chair. I’m looking forward to it.

Supper would be served at midnight in the dining room. Christian intended to place a quartet of musicians on the library gallery for the card players. He’d had the blue salon cleared for dancing and the real orchestra. Some of the best furniture from the salon had been moved to the back parlor on the ground floor. That room was unrecognizable now, after the refitting, transformed from the most casual to the most magnificent chamber in the house in a scheme of pure white and gold, expanded with mirrors, accented with a vivid red and blue rug, and porcelain dragons writhing up the tall pair of candelabra standing to either side of the new crimson sofa.

That sofa appeared ominously empty when Christian made his inspection. The whole room looked precisely what it was: a shameless grovel to a king who couldn’t climb the stairs—therefore bring the ball to him. There was a chair for his mistress Lady Conyngham and accommodation for the favored Dr.

Knighton, space enough for anyone His Majesty wished to honor by calling them down from upstairs, and another set of musicians who would wait in the adjacent breakfast alcove until—if—His Majesty appeared, at which time they would play Italian airs.

Christian leaned on the doorpost. Behind him, a footman made a polite cough. Christian turned. He accepted the note offered, hiding the further sinking of his mood as he recognized the telltale wafer. With a sigh, he walked across the hall to the billiards room, poured himself an early cognac, and broke the seal.

Your Grace
, Eydie wrote—intending a pointed sarcasm, he supposed—
I have received in the post anHonorable offer of Matrimony from Mr. Newdigate of Bombay. In view of his steady devotion tome since before my marriage, his substantial prosperity and the generosity of his proposals, andmy Understanding that I can no longer expect worthy treatment from those of whom I deservebetter
—“better” being underlined three times—
I am inclined to accept him. Therefore I will bedeparting for Calais directly. Mr. Newdigate kindly forwards Sufficient funds for my own travel,however he is not aware of a Package which I must perforce leave behind me, as I am completelywithout means to convey it to Scotland. As you have indicated your Keen Interest in this parcel, Ileave to you how it may best be disposed. I do hope your little Quaker nurse does not prove ahorrid Embarrassment to you at your party, my dear. Your sister tells me that you are not well
—
Iwonder that you have undertaken to entertain at all. Do you think it quite wise
?

The pert tone of this missive made him set his teeth. Well enough if Eydie had dug up a nabob for herself, but he had no time for it now. He’d have to make the arrangements to return the babe to Scotland himself, as it was obvious Eydie would not lift her finger. At least she didn’t seem inclined to drag the child off to India—clearly the nabob wasn’t to be imposed upon by any such tedious details as deep mourning or infants.

He set up the writing machine, but scrawled only a brief reply, watching the copying pen for mistakes. It was so short he could hardly botch it even the first time. He pulled the sheet free and dispatched it.

Maddy was standing in a robe, staring listlessly out the window of the spare bedroom where she was to dress when she saw the hackney draw up before the front steps. As the cab’s door opened, she sucked in a horrified breath at the sight of a Friend’s hat and dark coat.

The maid was already laying out the silver gown. Maddy hastened back from the window, slamming the shutters. “Quick—something—” Her day dress had been left downstairs. “Help me put it on!” She snatched up the ball gown and thrust it at the startled maid. A minute later, barely buttoned and hooked, Maddy was rushing down the stairs.

She reached the hall just as a harried footman laid aside a tray of glasses to answer the bell. “It will be for me,” she said, desperate to think of somewhere to hide him—why, oh, why had Richard come now of all times! The back parlor was impossible, the breakfast room full of Italian musicians, Calvin’s buttery stocked to the ceiling with crates of champagne—she thrust open the door of the billiards room. “Show him in here.” She stepped through and closed herself in.

There was a murmur in the vestibule, and then the foot-man held open the door. “Mr. and Mrs. Little, Mr. Bond, Mr. Osborne.”

Maddy had a moment of strange suspension. It was not Richard.

She stood facing the elders of her own Meeting, with her heart withering in her breast.

The footman closed the door. Maddy’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

“Archimedea Timms,” said Elias Little, “we are come in concern to see thee here in the house of an unbeliever.”

The other three stood somber, looking at her in the silver ball gown that mocked Plain Dress.

Elias spoke quietly. “We ask thee, hast thou wedded this man?”

She had known this would happen, that they would come to tell her, but she had not known how it would feel. She had not known what it would be to face them, these people she had loved, who had been as good as family to her. Constance Little was already weeping, silently, her hands twisting in her apron.

Maddy blinked. She turned her face away. Wordlessly, she nodded.

“Oh, Maddy,” Constance said in a whisper.

It was as if they had not quite been able to believe it before. Elias glanced around the rich leather and gilt appointments of the room. He gazed at the billiards table, his kind face furrowed with distress.

“It is a real sorrow to Friends,” he said, in his great soft voice that she had heard roll out so often on First Day. “The Meeting has directed us to visit thee, and bring thee to a sense of thy wrong. According to the good order of Truth, a Friend ought not to be unequally yoked to one of the world, nor make a motion toward marriage without the consent and approval of Meeting.” Elias held out his hand, touching her wrist, speaking more gently. “Archimedea, these are not aimless regulations, but protection for thee, that thou dost not run into the enemy’s snare. A young person may be hasty, and mistaken in the Way, and therefore the matter is brought before Meeting and declared unto Friends, who are able in the wisdom and power of God to see into it, whether it is in the Light. Dost thou understand this as the Truth?”

She swallowed. “Yes.” Oh yes. She understood.

“And yet thou wast not governed by it. Thou took not counsel of the Lord, nor of Friends, but only thy own willful way.”

She half-opened her mouth, and then pressed her lips closed. She did not speak.

“Understanding this, thou wilt know why we are come.”

Maddy made a small sound of misery. She turned her back on them.

There was a faint rustle of paper. Elias cleared his throat. “Archimedea Timms, because thou hast from a child been used to go with thy father to Meetings, and taken the outward character of our profession, bearing the name of Quaker, and because thou hast run out from the Truth and married a man of the world, a necessity lies upon us to give forth this testimony against thee, that thou art not at all—” There his deep, soft voice faltered. “—not at all owned as one in fellowship with us.”

The tears began to fall, dripping down in hot salty grief to Maddy’s chin.

Elias took a deep breath. “Furthermore—because it be well known to many that thou hast had the name and appearance of a Friend, and art reputed by the World’s people a Quaker, for the safety and honor of the Society, we direct thee to publicly clear truth by drawing up a paper making it known that thy unequal marriage was not taught nor countenanced by Friends, and to copy it three times, and deliver said copies one to Meeting, to be read out, one to him called a minister who performed the marriage, and one to the newspapers, in order that thou may not under the name of Quaker deceive the world.”

Maddy closed her eyes. The newspapers! It was because of Jervaulx, because he was a duke and so everyone must know. She put her fingers up and wiped her eyes, turning quickly. “Let me do it now, then.”

If she waited—if she stopped and thought—she was afraid she would not have the courage. She cast a wild look around the room, turning from Constance’s tears. There— the duke’s writing machine—she pulled open the little drawer on the closed box and found pen and ink. There was no paper; she opened out the box and caught the pieces that fluttered free.

The topmost was already used, scrawled
Send the parcel to me
in Jervaulx’s imperfect handwriting.

Maddy scratched through that so hard that the tip of the pen broke.

“Archimedea,” said Elias, “thou ought not to write in an immoderate spirit. Thy words must be acceptable to Meeting.”

Maddy dropped the pen. She sat down on a bench. “I should not have done it.” Her face wrinkled up.

She could not keep control of tears, or the low mourning note in her throat. “I want to go back.” She rocked, weeping, and looked up. “Oh, Constance, I want to go home! Can’t I go home anymore?”

Constance rushed to her, taking her hands, kneeling. “Maddy, dost thou wish to come back? Thou canst come to me! Clear Truth, and come and live in the Light.”

Maddy looked up past her toward Elias in a wild and sudden hope.

“Thou knowest that we bar no one from Meeting, Archimedea,” he said. “But thou canst not manifest the appearance of a Friend and be wed to this man of the world. We could not be easy in such a thing.”

“But I could come back?”

“I cannot speak for Meeting,” Elias said. “We’re only given to say that the paper must be written.”

She bowed her head. “Yes. Yes, I’ll—”

The door to the billiards room opened suddenly. Maddy jerked upright, clutching Constance’s hands.

Jervaulx stopped, with a look of blank startlement. He seemed slow to retrieve his focus; for a long moment he just gazed at Elias Little.

Then he found Maddy; he looked at her hands locked with Constance’s and the scatter of paper on the sideboard. A wariness came into his face.

Maddy slowly let go of a breath as she realized he was not going to explode. She disengaged her hands from Constance’s. “Jervaulx,” she said, lifting her chin, “these are Friends who have come to speak to me.”

He said nothing, only stood there with that guarded look.

“This is my husband,” Maddy said quietly.

He was dressed in formal coat and black breeches, his shirtfront all lace with an emerald pin glittering in the folds—tall and still, not a little Satanic in his looks: the model of a carnal pleasure-seeking man.

“Speak what?” he asked, with a hint of challenge.

“We come to testify that Archimedea is no longer in our fellowship,” Elias said somberly, “because she has gone out of the Truth and wed herself to thee.”

Jervaulx looked to Maddy’s tear-stained face and back at Elias. “You cause… to cry.”

“It is a heavy thing that we do.”

The duke surprised Maddy. Instead of erupting into a temper he only said, “Finish?”

The elder nodded. “We have said what we were directed to say.”

Jervaulx stood back and held open the door.

Constance turned. She gave Maddy a quick hug. “Come to us,” she murmured, before she hurried past the duke out of the room. The others followed more slowly. None of them looked back or said anything.

Maddy was left in place, facing him.

He walked to the sideboard, gathering up the broken pen and papers. He collected it all and put it away, closing the box, crushing the sheet that she’d scratched over. He looked up at her sideways. “Not sorry… Maddy,” he said with cool defiance. “You weep… but I am not sorry.”

* * * At dusk, he looked down from the library window and saw her in the empty court, kneeling near the wall, her head bowed, as if she were praying. He made a wordless mutter toward his secretary and left the room. In the garden court, he found her on her knees in the biting cold, dressed in her old drab Quaker clothes, pulling at tiny weeds along the base of the wall with her fingernails.

“Maddy,” he said, brought up short in his irritation, confounded by this strange task. “What are you doing?”

She sat back on her heels and looked up at him briefly, then went back to her meticulous weeding. “I wish to make myself useful in some way.”

He stood watching her. “Not now. You… dress. Don’t have to… useful.”

She bent closer to the ground, digging at mortar with her bare fingers.

“Don’t,” he said sharply, disliking to see her at such work.