Authors: Alicia Meadowes
“But love can be blind,” Lady Marian continued driving toward her goal. “And I would not have you marry my son in the dark,
as it were.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Huxley, but I do not understand.”
“Well, surely there must be things about Justin that you would like to ask me about him. After all, who should know him better
than his own mother?”
“I… it never occurred to me to wish to know more than I do.”
“Really?” Lady Marian trilled a light laugh. “But what
do
you know about him?”
Arabella blushed and began to stammer. She knew she was being pressed toward some revelation that she did not want to hear
but had no idea how to handle this woman whom she already feared and disliked. “Well, I… I know that he has been in India
for many years as a member of the British army,” the young woman responded lamely.
“Ah yes, India. Justin was a mere lad of seventeen when he broke his father’s heart and ran off. His father never saw him
again.”
“That is too bad,” Arabella responded dully.
“Yes, too bad. And what of Robert, my oldest son? What has Justin told you of him?”
“Only that he is dead.” Arabella was horrified at the lady’s line of conversation, but too confused to do other than listen
stupidly and wait for her to be finished.
“Do you know how he died?”
Arabella shook her head no.
“He was murdered.” Mrs. Huxley delighted in the alarm that appeared in the girl’s soft blue eyes. “And the perpetrator of
that heinous crime walks among us free to this day.”
“Oh no!” Arabella cried, attracting some considerable attention. “How terrible!”
“Yes, how terrible. But what if I should tell you I know who the villain is but lack the proof to bring him to justice.”
“Oh, Lady Marian, please. I’am dreadfully sorry for your tragedy, but can we not talk of something else. I… I am beginning
to feel quite ill.”
“Do not be such a poor spirited creature, my dear Miss Stanton. You will never endure the life you are choosing for yourself
if you do not grow some intestinal fortitude.”
Arabella no longer made the effort to respond with courtesy. She visibly crumpled in her chair as she fought to hold back
the tears threatening to fall. “Mrs. Huxley, why… why are you telling me these things?”
“Why do you think, you silly child? I wish to save you… to prevent further tragedy. You are no match for my son. It would
take a female of tremendous courage and cunning to endure life with one such as he.”
“But it seems you mean me to connect Justin with Robert’s death. Surely you are not suggesting that Justin had anything to
do with it.” It was a whisper.
“Not only do I suggest—I accuse him—of both Robert’s and my husband’s deaths!” Lady Marian’s voice rose to a hysterical pitch,
her eyes glittering wildly.
“How can you say such a thing!” Arabella was beside herself. She no longer whispered, but cried aloud, and those nearby began
to stare openly. “It’s not true!”
“Oh but it is true! Your future husband plotted the murder of his brother so that he might become the earl. And he killed
my husband so there would be no one in his way to prevent him from enjoying the fruits of his villainy.”
“No! No!” Arabella wailed. She jumped up, holding her hands over her ears. “You lie!” she screamed and ran sobbing from the
room.
At that point, Justin came up to his mother carrying two glasses of champagne. He handed one to her and bowed. All eyes in
the room were on the disgraced pair, but Justin comported himself as if nothing were amiss.
“I believe you requested champagne, madam.” He handed a glass to her, and raising his own, he toasted, “To you, my dear. Your
victory is quite complete.” He knew she had won and he accepted it fatalistically.
Lady Marian drank down the glass of champagne. Then she nodded to those in her immediate vicinity and
left on the arm of her son, who gallantly escorted her through the staring guests and out of the Stanton residence.
“Needless to say, the wedding was called off and Justin was branded a monstrous villain,” Harding concluded. “He returned
to India shortly thereafter. Although no one truly believed the charge of murder, a shadow of evil attached itself to Justin
that has followed him ever since.”
Edward Harding’s revelations about the deaths of Justin’s brother Robert and Ellis Huxley acted as an agent to stir into motion
the conflict between Marisa’s desires to stay with Justin and to part from him. Her womanly instincts to succor and comfort
the man to whom she had pledged herself for life warred against a newly discoverd yearning toward independence.
Had she not given her lord all he deserved of her humanity? He had used her badly and did she not have some right to strive
toward the possession of her own soul in peace and harmony? Yet, did any woman, once married, have that right?
Perhaps she was crediting herself with too much importance anyway. She had every reason to believe his lordship wished himself
well rid of her.
And where was he, she wondered as January drew to a close. They would be married a year in February. Would he remember? And
did she really care?
Marisa could not sort out her feelings concerning the earl. At times she felt she would go mad trying to understand herself.
It was the discovery of the pressed rose in her husband’s volume of
The Lusiads
that resolved her dilemma. There it lay between the pages of verse lamenting the death of Inez de Castro. It was the same
passage she had read so long ago in London when she first discovered her husband’s interest in Camoes. Only now the lines
were underlined:
Her cheeks’ fresh roses ravisht from the root.
Both red and white.
It was the white rose she had fastened to Justin’s lapel the night of their ball, its fragile petals transparent as tissue
paper, but carefully preserved. And inscribed in the margin were lines in the bold script of her husband’s writing:
The marble heart was pierced by
A white rose and there
Such tender torment abides—
A sob escaped Marisa’s lips as the significance of her discovery made itself felt in her mind and heart. Justin had saved
the rose she had so spontaneously bestowed on him that night. Not only saved it, but cherished it in one of his treasured
volumes. The words inscribed pierced her heart with such tender pity that she broke down and cried and felt herself cleansed.
She would stay to try again, if Justin so desired it.
The test of that decision was thrust on Marisa two days later when the earl returned from his recent mission to the Beira
region. He had gone to inspect the conditions of his men and to personally question two French officers captured in a recent
skirmish along the eastern frontier where Portuguese guerillas were harrying French outposts and patrols. The information
obtained from the prisoners was extremely valuable. There was every possibility that the French would be sending in General
Massena, the wily French Fox who had won so many outstanding victories for France, to lead the opposition against England’s
Wellington and the Portuguese coalition.
The earl came upon the household while it was still at breakfast. Immediately the easy conviviality shared by the Hardings
and Marisa was frozen into a stilted exchange of pleasantries as all parties tried to behave with a nonchalance that none
actually felt. Making their weak excuses and claiming various duties, the Hardings departed to leave Marisa and Justin to
establish communication without the embarrassment of nervous onlookers.
The unhappy couple regarded each other through the extreme discomfort of confusion and misapprehension. Each mistakenly believed
the other to wish himself free of the entanglements of matrimonial obligation. Yet each in his deepest heart did not want
that final separation that would permanently sever the bonds between them.
For Marisa’s part, she was ready to try to achieve a lasting relationship with the earl. Not only did she feel that it was
her duty, she still yearned to bring happiness to this troubled man who had been hurt so deeply in the past. She could no
longer be sure it was love that prompted her—at least not romantic love—but neither could she deny that this dark, tormented
man had engaged her heart.
The earl’s feelings at this juncture were both stronger and more confused than Marisa’s. He was certain that he did not desire
a separation from this woman who daily was becoming more important to him than he had wanted. Because of this, he feared the
need he felt growing out of all proportion to his ability to control it. Marisa could enslave him, if she but knew it. He
was in agony.
For both of them, these thoughts were not clearly articulated, and they groped through a fog of inner conflict compounded
by unreasonable fears of rejection that neither could bear to sustain.
“You are looking very well, Marisa,” the earl ventured at last. “I hope I find your health much improved.”
“Thank you… Justin. I am much better. Dr. Lomas comes to remove the splint next week, I believe.”
Lord Straeford was heartened by his wife’s apparent willingness to converse with him. “That is good news indeed. You must
be heartily sick of that encumbrance by now.”
“It is surprising, but I have managed to get about quite well despite the clumsiness of it. Not that I don’t wish to be rid
of it. I just mean, I hobble about rather well… considering… Oh bother, you know what I mean,” she claimed, flustered.
“I know… I understand….”
They stared at each other awkwardly.
“Did you accomplish all your military objectives?”
Marisa questioned nervously, seeking a topic for conversation.
“Yes, I did. But you must not question me too closely on that score, my dear.”
“Oh, no, my lord,” Marisa claimed, becoming more flustered. “I do not mean to pry into secret matters. Please do forgive me.”
“But there is nothing to forgive, child. Do not look so alarmed. Your question was perfectly natural.”
“It is only that there is such disquiet these days. I hear rumors that the British army may withdraw and quit Portugal altogether.”
“Never believe it,” Straeford claimed emphatically.
“Major Harding says the Duke of Wellington is much criticized by the governments both here and at home for not engaging the
enemy.”
“The duke will fight only when he chooses and will not be stampeded into hasty action no matter what the pressures are from
political factions. He is a man of singular self-possession.”
“You sound convinced of his good judgment.”
“I am absolutely certain the duke will lead us through to victory over the French. And now, my dear, let us turn our minds
to matters that touch us more personally.”
“Of course, my lord, whatever you say.” Marisa felt her pulse quicken with apprehension. He was going to send her away.
The earl, however, did not speak. Instead he rose from the table and paced the room a few times, unable to make himself say
the words that might send her away from him.
“Marisa,” he began at last, “there is a packet leaving for England next week… I… shall I… that is… it is possible to reserve
space for you… if you wish it.” His voice had gradually lowered, so that his last words were barely audible.
He is not sure he wants me to go, Marisa realized with surprise. Maybe he really wants me to stay. “Next week seems such sudden
notice, Justin. I’m not sure which day the splint is to be removed, and I might need some time to… adjust. I mean… perhaps
we should
wait a little longer… unless you think it would be best…” Her voice, too, had lowered to a whisper.
She is not sure she wants to go, Justin thought, not realizing he was echoing Marisa. Maybe she really wants to stay. “That
sounds very wise to me, my dear. We must be certain you are well enough to travel… if you should so decide. We shall just
put off any decision for the present, shall we?”
“Yes, let us wait and see.”
Golden sunlight streaming through the tall library windows created a false sense of early spring although it was still February.
Marisa opened the library doors and stood on the threshold to stare at a scene she had never expected to witness.
The earl was leaning over a chair, dangling a piece of string before the bewhiskered nose of a tiny calico kitten. So absorbed
was he in tantalizing the sprightly creature who swatted at the string with lightning-quick movements that he did not hear
the door open. It was only as the kitten darted behind the settee and Straeford turned that he beheld his wife in all her
amazement. Hastily rising to his feet and brushing off his coat to cover his chagrin at thus being discovered, he muttered
an incoherent greeting.
Marisa, who thought to ease his discomfort, hobbled forward leaning awkwardly on her crutch and called softly to the kitten,
who was now inspecting the satin ruffles at her hem.
“Wherever did you find this precious creature?” she queried with an eager smile.
The earl secretly rejoiced in his wife’s friendly demeanor. He still could not believe that the distant apathy with which
she was wont to regard him following her accident had really dissolved.
“One of my men…” Justin stopped midsentence to rush to Marisa and scoop her up in his arms. Just as he was answering her question,
Marisa; who had leaned toward the kitten, lost her balance as the crutch slipped beneath her, almost causing her to fall.
“Can’t have you breaking any more bones,” he claimed hoarsely as he placed her carefully on the settee.
He was white about the lips, as the memory of that terrible fall for one hideous moment flashed vividly before his eyes.
For a few tense seconds neither Justin nor Marisa spoke. They had not been so close to each other for so long that it threw
them into some confusion. Justin was still leaning over Marisa when the two looked at each other and their eyes locked in
a hold neither could break. To overcome the unbearable tension, they both began to speak simultaneously and stopped suddenly.
Then Marisa’s lips curved in a smile of sweet friendship, and Justin, warmed by the glow of her natural goodwill, smiled too.
It was little enough, to be sure, but it was a further move toward the harmony they both desired more than they knew.