Married to a Perfect Stranger (6 page)

“Turn Arthur into a paragon of virtue,” said John.

Mary couldn't fathom his dry tone. He didn't seem angry, as she had feared he would be. “More or less.” She shrugged. “I promised him that Arthur would be put to work. But I thought it would go better here than directly under Mr. Windly's eye…” She'd also thought, in the end, that Mr. Windly had suspected as much, even known that she would treat Arthur with more sympathy than he could muster himself.

“There can be no doubt of it,” John declared. “You did quite right.”

Mary had expected annoyance at the least, a battle at worst. This response confused her. “So, you don't mind if he is with us for a few months?”

“On the contrary. He's quite welcome.” The smile he gave her was one of the most open and sincere she'd seen since his return.

Mary watched her husband head for the stairs, surprised and grateful. He'd been so irritated about the servants. Why was he suddenly amenable? Truly, she didn't understand him. And now that the hurdle of Arthur was successfully passed, she felt a tinge of guilt. She was sure the boy had his slingshot packed away in his bag.

When she took up the tea and broken tarts a bit later, she found John settled at his desk, deeply engrossed with pen and ink. Oddly, a bulky document covered with ink was spread before him. He barely acknowledged her arrival, though she could see it was from distraction.

Later still, Mary climbed into her unfamiliar bed alone. Though she was worn by days of travel and her rocky arrival, she didn't fall asleep right away. She was acutely conscious of John on the floor beneath, directly below her pillow—almost as if she could hear the scratch of his quill across the page, see the look of concentration on his handsome face. She remembered the way his strong, shapely hand had gripped hers earlier, how he'd looked at her with such unsettling intensity. That look had been…thrilling. And fleeting. And confusing. John had never looked at her that way before he went away. The girl she was then wouldn't have wanted him to, really. Now, she hoped he would do it again, soon.

Indeed, what if she went downstairs this minute, as she was, in only her thin nightdress, and stood before his desk…? A flush began in Mary's cheeks and burned all the way to her toes. Where had that idea come from? A host of others, equally new and enthralling, bubbled up as she imagined what might follow.

But, no, he'd been so completely taken up by his document. If he turned her away… She punched her pillows and turned over.

This stranger husband roused such a welter of emotions in her—anger and fascination and frustration and spikes of desire. Had she known what any of those words meant before? She'd felt more, it seemed, in the past few weeks than in her whole previous life. Which was…disconcerting. To say the least.

Mary turned over again. Starting fresh; they were starting fresh.

The sheets and coverlet felt heavy, stifling. What should she do? What did she want? Everything, declared a new inner voice, one that she scarcely recognized. She was no longer the docile creature who went along with what others decreed—the follower of stronger-willed sisters, the obedient, if disappointing, daughter. Mary's hands curled as if to grab and hold. She'd discovered a self absolutely brimming with wants. The only question was how to satisfy them.

Mary didn't hear her husband leave the following morning; he was up and out so early. This was his invariable habit, Kate told her, setting down a plate of toast at breakfast. “Up with the birds,” she said, in a tone that suggested a proper master would loll away the morning in his bed.

Mary ignored her. She took her last cup of tea upstairs to the room she'd chosen as her own retreat and set about putting down roots in her new home. There was work to be done, tasks she understood and was good at; there was a certain thrill in beginning them.

And so she started her first full day in London making lists—things needed and where to get them. In many cases, she had no idea where to purchase the items she wanted, but she was confident she could find out. For the draperies and other furnishings, she would consult friends of her family or John's who lived in London. Her mother had given her some names and also written to her particular friends. The most pressing needs she dealt with by the simple expedient of knocking on the doors of three of her neighbors and asking the servants who answered where these households purchased their wood and coal and staple groceries. Since she got the same answers at all three, she sent Arthur off to the designated vendors with written orders for immediate delivery. If the skip in his step was any measure, the boy was delighted to be given this outdoor mission. Mary wondered how long it would be before she saw him again.

In the afternoon, having ticked off a satisfying number of lines on her list, Mary went out to walk in the central garden of the square. This was a surprisingly spacious stretch of vegetation, beautifully landscaped. Local residents had keys to the gate in the tall wrought iron fence that surrounded it, so casual walkers couldn't enter. The rectangle of trees and late summer flowers and gravel walkways felt quite private and exclusive for a patch of city.

After she'd taken a bit of exercise, Mary sat on a bench and opened the sketchbook she'd brought along. She had no plan other than to let her subject come to her. Fancy and intuition would lead her down their own pathways, directing her to anything she needed to discover. She took out her pencil and waited for her hand to move.

It soon did. A head and shoulders began to form on her page, and then another. The features of Mrs. Tanner and Kate the maid gradually emerged as Mary lost herself in the process. She used her hands, her heart, the techniques her mind had learned, the impulses of her spirit.

Fifteen minutes later, Mary gazed down at a dual portrait. Her cook and maid stared out at her, wearing their customary sullen expressions, pure embodiments of disgruntlement. Mary sat still and let the images sink into her consciousness. Though she hadn't noticed it before, the two faces revealed similar lines. And that called up memories of certain ways they spoke to each other, small gestures that she'd noticed without noticing. Mrs. Tanner and Kate were related, she concluded. Mother and daughter, most likely.

With that insight came a cascade of others. Mary realized that these two women were humiliated and afraid. They'd lost their familiar place in the world, tumbled down many ranks in their social scheme. They were terrified of falling further, furious at the workings of fate, and fighting their fears with belligerence. Her idea of dismissing them in the next few days and hiring more amenable servants withered and died. Seeing them exposed in her drawing, she couldn't think of turning them out. She also couldn't suppress a sigh at the thought of the complicated negotiations that lay ahead.

“That's very good,” said a voice above her head.

Mary jumped. Her hand moved instinctively to hide the drawing as she turned.

A woman stood behind the bench—old, small, a little bent. A fine lace cap covered her snow-white hair, and her pelisse was beautifully tailored. Pale blue eyes gazed from a wrinkled face, backed by the fine bones of persistent beauty. “And you don't even have a model,” she added. Her expression was all bright interest and admiration.

Mary made herself straighten out of her defensive hunch and remove her hand from Mrs. Tanner's face. “I…can draw pretty well from memory,” she said. She smiled. “Although, you don't really know whether it's a good likeness.”

“The feel of it tells me it is,” the old woman replied, smiling back at her. “It has great vitality.” She took a step closer to get a better view. “Two women outraged by life, wishing they could make someone pay for whatever's happened to them. Yet fearful, because they can't.”

Mary blinked, surprised to hear her thoughts so clearly echoed.

“It's really remarkably lifelike.” The woman walked around the bench to sit beside her, taking a small sketch pad from under her arm. “I draw a bit, too.” She opened her tablet on a charming scene, a view of the circular flower bed in the center of the square, the greens and purples picked out in watercolors. “Landscapes only, I'm afraid. Something about faces makes my pencil go off. Perhaps it's a sense of being overlooked. I dislike being watched while I draw.”

Mary certainly understood that. “I think of it as watching
them
,” she offered.

The old woman shrugged. “Perhaps I've just been too…encumbered by people in my life.” She glanced at a house on the other side of the square from Mary's. Her smile returned, impish and youthful despite her wrinkles. “These days it's my servants. They will hover. It's all I can do to escape to this bit of garden. I promise you that two or three of them are peering out the windows right now, wondering who you are and what in the world I think I'm doing. Outdoors without a bonnet! Or my gloves. Scandalous!”

Her lighthearted tone made Mary dare, “What
are
you doing?”

The old woman laughed. “Teasing them a little, perhaps. But chiefly making the acquaintance of a new neighbor. I haven't seen you here before. And I'm quite brazen, you see. No waiting for a ‘proper' introduction.”

Her roguish look made Mary laugh as well. “I'm Mary Bexley. We just moved into number thirty-six. My husband John and I.”

“Eleanor Lanford. I've lived in this square for six years.”

“I'm so glad to meet you…Mrs. Lanford. You are my very first acquaintance in London. Indeed, this is my first day in town.”

“Is it? Ever, you mean?”

Mary nodded, wondering if she had sounded countrified.

But her companion was examining her with every appearance of cordiality. “You rather remind me of one of my great-nieces. You must call me Eleanor. Mrs. Lanford…” She waved the label aside.

“That's odd. I was just thinking you were rather like my Great-Aunt Lavinia.” As soon as the words popped out of her mouth, Mary wondered what she meant by them. There was no resemblance. Except…perhaps in the feel of her new neighbor. She had the sort of self-assurance and marked presence that Aunt Lavinia used to have. “Are you acquainted with everyone who lives in the square?” Mary said, to change the subject.

Eleanor Lanford looked at the row houses surrounding them. “Not really acquainted. I know most of the names and some of the professions. There are several senior barristers and a banker or two. They are all closer to my age than yours. And rather…punctilious. You are quite a breath of fresh air for the neighborhood.”

This was flattering, but disappointing. Mary couldn't imagine making friends among people like that.

“This garden could use some children playing,” her companion added wistfully.

A woman came out of the house Eleanor had pointed out as her own. She looked like a superior lady's maid. She started toward the garden gate.

Eleanor rose. “I must go. You are very talented, my dear. I hope to see you again soon.”

The servant marched over to the wrought iron fence and stood waiting. She looked militant.

“I hope so, too,” said Mary. The servant's frown made her add, “I hope I haven't caused you any trouble.”

“Not at all, my dear. I am quite able to control my household.” Eleanor's straight back and raised chin were suddenly the picture of aristocratic hauteur, dissipated a moment later by a twinkle in her pale blue eyes. “I keep all the keys to that gate, and my staff are reduced to peering through the fence and beckoning.” She gave Mary something very like a wink before slowly, with great dignity, walking away.

Mary watched her meet the maid at the garden gate and saw that Eleanor was treated with marked deference. Even at a distance, Mary thought she could see affection as well as concern in the fussing. The servant took Eleanor's sketchbook, offered an arm, and shook her head good-naturedly when it was refused. They walked together into Eleanor's house. Mary sat back with a smile. She had made her first friend in this new place, and that made a great difference.

She sat for a while longer, enjoying the autumn sun. She was just about to go in when her idyll was interrupted by a spate of furious barking. This was soon joined by the sound of racing footsteps and an inarticulate shout. Curious, Mary rose and went to look through the fence in the direction of the noise.

Arthur emerged from one of the streets that gave onto the square. He was running as hard as he could, his skinny arms pumping, eyes wide and wild. The barking grew louder as a huge yellow dog appeared behind him, getting closer with each lunging stride. It was about to catch him.

“Arthur!” Mary ran over to the gate as the boy's head swiveled toward her. She waved. He spotted her and veered in her direction. Mary pulled the gate open. Arthur hurtled through, and she shut it right on his heels, only just in time. The gigantic dog slammed sideways into the wrought iron pickets, bounced off, and stood slavering and barking, inches away. Its teeth were daunting, long and sharp.

Mary backed up several steps, even though the animal couldn't reach them through the fence. “What have you done?”

“I never meant to hit him,” Arthur cried. “There was a ruddy great rat right outside the market stalls. Biggest rat I've ever seen. You think the London rats are some kind of special…?”

“Arthur!”

He danced in place. “So I was going to kill the rat, see, as a favor to the hawkers.” His air of put-upon virtue was laughable. “And I'd've done it, too, but
this
great brute walked in front of me just as I let fly.”

Now Mary saw the strings of the slingshot sticking out of his pocket. “You shot this dog?” She looked at the huge creature. It had settled into pacing and growling just outside the fence.

“By mistake,” Arthur insisted. “An accident, like.”

“Who does it belong to?” Mary couldn't decide if the appearance of an irate owner would be good news or bad news. He could call off the dog, but he might want to drag Arthur to a magistrate.

“Don't know,” Arthur replied. “Didn't see anybody with him.”

Mary examined the dog. He had no collar. His yellow coat was rough, but he didn't appear underfed. She gazed up the street. No sign of anyone looking for him. Nor was there any reaction from the nearby houses, despite the earlier barking. She moved closer to the fence and slowly held out a hand. The dog rushed up and stuck his muzzle between two of the bars. He snapped and growled. Mary jumped back.

“Have a care!” said Arthur. “He ain't what you'd call friendly.”

“I see that.” Mary scanned the streets again. They were empty; still no signs of life from any of the houses. It was certainly a quiet neighborhood. Or perhaps just a cautious one. From this angle, Eleanor's house was blocked by a bushy evergreen. “Kate will see us eventually and come out.”

“Her?” Arthur jeered. “She wouldn't lift a finger against a dog like that.”

Mary was afraid he was right. And what would she have done if she'd looked out her window and seen such an animal? Rushed out to confront it?

“Reckon I could scare him away,” Arthur said. He took out his sling. The dog erupted in a frenzy of barking.

“Arthur! Put that away.”

He shoved it back in his pocket, and their jailer quieted. “What are we going to do?” For once Arthur sounded like a small boy rather than an apprentice wreaker of havoc.

“We'll wait. The dog will get bored and wander off.” Or so Mary hoped.

“But I'm hungry!” Arthur was always hungry. In Somerset, the cook had made it her mission to fill him up, but she never managed it. Huge quantities of sustenance disappeared into his rail-thin little body without perceptible effect. “I gotta eat.”

“Shh. You're upsetting it.”

Arthur subsided with a mumble that sounded very much like, “It's upsetting
me
.”

They sat down on a bench. Arthur fidgeted. After a while, the dog lay down on the cobbles and rested his formidable jaw on his forepaws. Thinking he might have calmed, Mary rose and slowly approached the gate. The dog jumped up, growling, and started to bark. “Stupid mongrel,” muttered Arthur as she retreated again.

The sun inched down behind the western roofs. A breeze rustled the autumn leaves. A passerby indignantly declined to become involved in their dilemma, moving off at a blistering pace when he spied the dog.

This was ridiculous, Mary thought. She would simply walk through the gate and across the square to her front door. It was well-known that dogs responded to an air of command. Her father's dogs always did so. But when she put her hand on the latch, this animal lunged at her with a growl and snap so threatening that she pulled away again.

* * *

John's mood was far lighter than yesterday's as he headed for home. His report had been handed in on time and welcomed with a mention of his good work on the China voyage. He hadn't encountered Fordyce. He left his office with a solid sense of accomplishment and a mind full of the plan he intended to put in motion in the next few days. He was even able to get away a bit early.

Passing a flower vendor outside the Foreign Office building, he paused and looked over her small selection of late blooms. When he told her he wanted something for his wife, the woman helped him put together a charming little bouquet. It seemed a good idea to arrive home with a…not a peace offering. It wasn't that. It occurred to John that one often sent flowers after being presented to a young lady. He'd sent something—roses?—the day after he and Mary first danced together at a Bath assembly. Remembering her curtsy and introduction last night after dinner, he smiled. Recalling the feel of her hand in his, the visions it conjured, he let out a breath. The bouquet could be a tangible sign of their fresh start.