He glared at her. “Another installment. Stick around, lady. I’m not done yet.”
“He
is!” she laughed, and ran forward to tender Henderson mercy.
Belle too took a step toward Arnold, but Avondale grabbed her arm.
“Leave him. If that mutt means anything to you, leave him alone, or I’ll kill him.”
“Oliver—what are you doing?” she gasped.
“What does it look like?”
“You’ve killed him.”
“Not yet, but if you keep it up, I will. Go on in. Lady Dempster will look after him.”
“I can’t leave him!” She stared at Henderson, then at Oliver, wondering if she dared to disobey him.
“Go inside!” he commanded.
In this mood, she thought it best to do as he said, and walked slowly around to the front, looking back over her shoulder to ascertain that Oliver didn’t resume beating Arnold. She saw him turn and walk away, back toward the stables, and felt it safe to go indoors. Oliver had run mad. She hadn’t thought he would really knock Arnold out. She had envisaged a few threats, insults—but not this brutish behavior. And with Lady Dempster there to see and tell the whole.
She met Kay in the hall, and told her in a disjointed fashion enough to get her into the study to receive Henderson’s body. Kay quite agreed with him that it was wise to leave, as soon as possible, and helped him hide out in the study till his valet got his cases packed, and had the carriage sneaked out at the far side of the house, not along the driveway, but over her lawn, with the horses and wheels doing some considerable damage, but not so much as she feared Avondale might do if he saw Arnold leaving. She assured Arnold that she would make sure Belle got home—she could use her own carriage if necessary.
“I’m not running away, you know,” he informed his hostess.
“Oh, no!”
“I had a letter from Mama this morning. She has got a cold, and I can’t leave her alone.”
“No, much better to get home right away.”
“Someone must be there to take care of her. To see the doctor is called, and the possets prepared. Her woman is no good at a posset. No good at all.”
“I’m sure you make an excellent posset, Arnold.”
“And with the mood Avondale’s in, it might be better if I go. I wouldn’t want to spoil your party.”
Kay thought it had been effectively spoiled already, but didn’t offer a single demur to his opinion. “You had better run along, and for goodness’ sake, Arnold, don’t go telling around Amesbury what happened.”
Arnold had no notion of broadcasting his disgrace, and agreed to a pact of silence with no trouble at all. If Miss Mickles ever heard, she’d turn him off. Though really, he considered, God hadn’t kept His half of the bargain at all. He didn’t really
have
to offer for Miss Mickles.
With his chin swathed in a warm cloth, and slinking down so that his head did not project above the window, Arnold was sneaked away from Ashbourne while the hostess took her guests to the opposite side of the building to show them her collection of figurines, and to mention casually that Mr. Henderson had had a letter from home telling him his mama was very ill—a heart seizure, she believed—and he had to leave them.
Only Lady Dempster’s laughing black eyes were there to refute her. Belle expressed polite concern, and Avondale said he hoped it was not too serious. For nearly a quarter of an hour she conned her guests, till she turned her back to see to lunch, and Lady Dempster began making her rounds.
Chapter Twelve
Lady Hathaway had gone to considerable pains to lay on a very nice luncheon. Her French chef, Pierre, was a wizard with an herb omelette, and she had personally selected fresh herbs from her border for him. There were prawns in wax baskets, cold cuts, and a raised partridge pie, but with all this she had only slim hopes the meal would be a success. Belle had gone to her room prostrate when everyone began looking at her and whispering; Lady Dempster was in a frenzy of spreading the tale. She might as well have served cold gruel for all the note anyone took of the food. Belle didn’t come to the table at all; Oliver came and sat with his old marble face of yore. Had it not been for Mr. Lucas with fresh news from Doncaster it would have been really a very bad meal indeed, but he had some tales of the races that interested the gentlemen. It came out in the course of the meal that George Traveller had been at Doncaster, and Oliver looked with a guilty start at this. After lunch he approached Kay.
“Did Belle talk to Lucas before I got back?”
“Yes, she was here with me when he arrived.”
“Did he happen to mention about Traveller being at Doncaster?”
“Yes, he told us, for I mentioned about Honey being here, you know. What a stunt to pull on his poor wife. I was afraid you’d come back with her again. Is she at the inn? She must be put off.”
“She’s gone to Doncaster to meet him.”
“She knew he was there all the time! Why, the lying hussy.”
“Oh lord, so that’s why she was in a snit.”
“You really can’t blame her—he not leaving her a penny. But she wasn’t in a snit, was she?”
“I mean Belle. I told her . . .” He shook his head and frowned.
“What did you tell her?”
“A wagonload of lies, and she knows it. That’s why she was needling me about the money, and Henderson.”
“What is it with you two, Oliver? I never saw such a pair for never understanding each other. I think you go me and Alfred one better. Don’t you ever talk like ordinary people?”
“No, we just argue. It’s my fault. Partly my fault, but she’s a clam too. She never tells me anything. Kay, what am I to do?”
Kay hunched her shoulders philosophically. “She’s still here. He’s gone—Henderson—and she’s gone—Mrs. Traveller. You’ve sneaked your way right next door to her, and if you can’t make something of all that, you’re not the man I take you for.”
“I shouldn’t have done it. Shouldn’t have hit him. He’s smaller than I am. And Dempster there . . . I’ve ruined your nice party, Kay. I’m terribly sorry.”
“Never mind that. It wasn’t much of a party anyway. I can always have another. If it gets you two together it’s worth it.”
“We’ll never get together. I’ve really lost her now.”
“Don’t be such a gudgeon, Oliver. She’ll be tickled pink you beat up Arnold Henderson. Very flattering that you were so jealous. I know I would be.”
“You’re not her. She’s different. My God, she’s different.”
“She’s human, I suppose.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think she has a heart.” He threw up his hands and made some sound, not quite a laugh or word, but a sound of despair.
“I don’t know why you should say such a thing. She has plenty of heart. What she doesn’t have is experience. She’s young, unsure of herself.”
“No, I used to think it was that, part of it. At first, but not anymore. You saw the way she acted at breakfast. She’s not unsure of herself.”
“She’s waking up.”
“If that’s the case, she isn’t liking what she sees. She wants to be rid of me.”
“Are you talking about divorce? Has she asked you for one?”
“Yes, but I told her that is out of the question,” he said with no doubt and no hesitation.
“If she’s become the heartless monster you seem to think, why don’t you give her one?” Kay asked sagely, hoping for some praise of Belle that she might relay. “If you don’t like your wife and you don’t want a divorce, what
do
you want?”
“I want her. I never said I didn’t like her.”
“Tell her, then.”
“I’ve told her every way I know how. What can I do? You’re a woman, Kay. Tell me.”
“Since you’re asking, I’ll tell you what I’d do. I’d take her to Belwood. It was a big mistake to ever stay in London when you two were little better than strangers. You can’t get acquainted in that place, even if you live together. There’s too much else going on. You need a bit of privacy.”
“I’ve been trying to lure her home to Belwood for ages."
“And she wants to go. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Time is on our side, Ollie. She’s stuck here, with Arnold gone off on her, the old stick. She can’t leave till I lend her my carriage, and I’ll make sure it’s busy or
hors de combat
till tomorrow. There’s the ball tonight, a nice romantic affair for you to woo her at. A pity you burned my books, and you might try that again.”
He smiled a little ashamedly. “I’ll see they’re replaced, along with the crystal goblet. But really I needed some release, and they were so close to hand.”
“Lucky it was only books and a glass.”
“Do you think she means to attend the ball? She didn’t come down to lunch.”
“She’ll come. With that beautiful white gown hanging in her closet, she must be anxious to show it off. She’s perked up her style a bit, by the way.”
“Belle was always stylish.”
“I didn’t mean to deride her,” Kay said swiftly, concluding that Oliver didn’t know the difference between a slightly dowdy gown and too dashing bonnet worn on the other occasion she had met Belle and the more elegant ensembles sported now. The bonnet, she recalled, Belle had explained as a gift from her husband.
“She has excellent taste,” he added.
“Yes, a perfect paragon. I should have known more than to utter a word against her, and
you
of course can say what you will against her. Heartless and all the rest. Now go away and quit pestering me, Ollie. I have a dozen things to see to. Pierre was complaining of the migraine when he was making the omelette this morning, and it is
crucial
that he be kept in spirits, with tonight’s dinner to prepare. I must see that La Travalli isn’t down there flirting with him. She’s taken to the kitchen today, and it’s a good place for her too, except for Pierre. They
converse,
incidentally. In some strange tongue that is not quite French nor Italian either. Half in half. Why didn’t we think of trying
French
with her? Go and do something with yourself. Go for a long ride or walk and give your mind a rest. Your fists too. I’ll see that Belle comes to the ball.”
“I’ve been a beast and a boor, and most humbly beg your pardon.”
“You haven’t been a bore, anyway. That is the unforgivable sin at one of my parties.”
“You’re my favorite hostess.” He kissed her old raddled cheek, and she blushed like a schoolgirl.
“Get on with you, pest,” she scolded, and he left. He intended going for a ride, but met Ed Delford and Ryan Sloane going for a game of billiards and was invited to join them. Their wives were taking an afternoon off to prepare for the ball. He knew these couples to be friends of Belle, and with a view to some future doings with them, accepted their offer to join them. The whole debacle of the Henderson affair had been well bruited about by this time, but this uxorious pair of husbands were all in favor of a man sticking up for his wife, and congratulated Avondale heartily. He really did not wish to discuss it, but they had received commands from the top that they were to hint him to a more proper course, and persisted. Their approval softened him, and he admitted at last that it had angered him a little to see Henderson always tagging after her.
“I guess it would,” Delford took it up warmly. “But then there are always men like him dangling after a fellow’s wife. Do you remember that damned Jackson used to be always after Belle in London, Avondale? I daresay you had to give him a taste of the home-brewed as well.”
The only Jackson Oliver could call to mind was an elderly gentleman of ostensibly impeccable background, a friend of Lady Hasborough, his cousin. He had taken Belle about a bit, but he couldn’t believe it was Matthew Jackson spoke of, and disliked to admit such ignorance of his own wife’s doings as to inquire whom it was that Delford referred to. He made some mumbling comment that was taken for assent, and lined up his ball.
“And Fischer,” Ryan Sloane went on. “I gave him the heave-to for you, Avondale. Daresay Belle told you. Was tagging after us the day we went to Bartholomew Fair. Rum place to go, but the ladies wanted to see it, you know. My wife, and Delford’s too for that matter, are not city ladies, and wanted to see the tourist sights. Have to do the pretty with the ladies. They’ll grow out of it in a year or so, but for the treacle moon, you know, you have to squire ‘em about a bit.”
Oliver didn’t even know Belle had been to Bartholomew Fair, or had wanted to go. She hadn’t told him. Probably thought he’d laugh at her, and so he would have too.
“Lord yes,” Delford took it up. “Do you mind, Ryan, your Beth was in the sulks for a week, and it turned out what was eating her was that you’d promised to take her to Astley’s to see the horses, and hadn’t done it.”
“We nearly had a rift over it,” Ryan continued. “She got as silent as a jug on me. Took to flouncing past me with her shoulders in the air and a face on her like a martyr. I had to coax it out of her, and all it was was that I’d forgotten I’d promised to take her to Astley’s. Took her and she turned sweet as honey. Lord, what little ninnies they are,” he said, but in a fond way, smiling.
“What you have to watch out for is the silent treatment,” Delford stated, and behind Avondale’s back the two happily married men exchanged a mutual wink. The whole had to be made an innocent discussion. Avondale would not welcome advice, but a discussion of wives in general might pass. Delford went on with the game, seeming to pay attention to his cue and his shot, but as he played he kept talking. “When they clam up on you, it’s a danger signal. What you’ve got to do is get them talking, about anything, and worm it out of them. It’ll all come flooding out, on a burst of tears likely as not, but at least you get to know what’s eating them. You may say what you will about women never being silent, I’d rather have them talking. A silent woman is a dangerous thing. She’s sitting there tallying up points against you. You can see it in her eyes. Thing to do is keep at them till it comes out. They
want
to tell you. They’re dying to throw your faults in your face, and it don’t take a whole lot of urging.”
“That’s true,” Ryan agreed. Oliver had become a mere listener to this conversation, but an interested one. “And we ain’t that different ourselves, are we? Mean to say, if they’re ashamed to admit they're in the boughs because you forgot to take them someplace, or forgot to bring ‘em home a bunch of flowers or whatnot, well, we’re often a little shy of saying what’s bothering us too. I turned huffy myself with Beth when she danced twice at a ball with that jackdaw of a Withers—you remember him, Delford. She said he danced like a sprite, damned caper merchant. I gave her the merry devil when we got home, pretending I thought it didn’t look well for a married lady to be so particular. She made short shrift of that excuse, rattled off all the other married ladies that had done the same thing, but she ain’t slow. She twigged to it I was jealous, and was in alt with me.”