The House of Happiness (15 page)

“Y-you did before,” Eugenia reminded him, lowering her gaze.

“Ah.” The Marquis was silent for a moment. “It galls me to think of it. But I was driven by a terrible fear.”

“Fear, my Lord?”

“That this present joy might never be mine! But come. You are tired and surely hungry.  I am not such a –
brute
– as to put my pleasure before your well-being! I shall leave you while you change for supper.” 

Eugenia was grateful for the faint twinkle that she detected in the Marquis's eye as he bowed low and departed. 

Once alone, however, she sank into despondency.  It was with a great effort that she rang for Bridget to help her dress for supper.

Despite the fact that she had not been able to eat breakfast or indeed take any refreshment during the long journey, Eugenia found herself at table merely toying with the salmon laid before her.  It was only at the Marquis's urging that she finally forced herself to swallow a few mouthfuls, if only to placate him.

He gently teased her, wondering aloud whether this was the same girl who had flown eagerly from dish to dish when he had first met her at Lady Granton's soirée, and she marvelled at the way in which he had begun to revert to his old self.

She sensed his secret hope – that at last having her all to himself, removed from the seductive presence of Gregor, he might encounter no further obstacle to winning her full affections. 

It made her uncomfortable to dwell on this thought and so she began to ask him about his former life. Eventually she touched on the question of the Countess whom, all those years ago, he had followed to France.

The Marquis, interpreting her apparent interest as the usual wifely desire to discover the secrets of her husband's romantic past, smiled at her. He twirled his wine glass in his hand as he replied,

“My reasons for travelling to France – and then remaining there – I have explained. I did not wish my wards to be torn from their native land after being so cruelly orphaned. But, yes, I was drawn to the Countess, though on closer acquaintance I found her to be – not the woman I had hoped.”

“Oh.” Eugenia's hand strayed to her napkin, the corner of which she began to fold and refold nervously.

“Eugenia,” explained the Marquis gently, “a man of my experience has – in the common way of things – become connected with many women who appealed to me in one way or another.

But my heart never found a home until I laid eyes on you again in London. Perhaps I had always been secretly in love with the little girl who twirled for me in her new dress at the Buckbury Christmas party, all those years ago!”

Eugenia scrunched the napkin tight in her fist. She wanted to respond in kind, to offer up a similar hint of affectionate memory, but she felt paralysed.  At last she threw down the napkin and pushed her plate away. 

“I – I cannot eat any more – my Lord.”

The Marquis dropped his eyes and was silent for a moment. Then he pulled back his chair.  “It has been a long day,” he said.  “Let us retire to our rooms.”

Seated a little later before the dressing table while Bridget brushed her hair, Eugenia stared at herself in the mirror.  The Marquis had gone to his dressing room, leaving her alone with her maid to prepare herself for the night ahead. Her huge eyes glimmered in the candlelight with unshed tears.

“Don't you cry, miss,” said Bridget hotly.  “You plumped for this, so you did. You've upset a lot of plans, so you have.”

Eugenia tasted salt as the tear reached her lip. “What do you mean by ‘plans', Bridget?”

Bridget opened her mouth to reply and then checked herself. “Nuthin,” she muttered. “Only – I'm sorry you ain't going to know what real passion is!”

“Do
you
know, Bridget?” asked Eugenia mournfully.

Bridget leaned in close. “It's like nothing else at all. Your flesh is all fever and you want to die, so you do.”

The maid straightened quickly as the Marquis entered. Eugenia, quickly wiping the tear from her lip, made a tremulous nod of dismissal and Bridget hurried away.

The Marquis advanced. Eugenia could see his reflection in the mirror and could see the way he hungrily devoured her image, taking in the curve of her breasts beneath her silk negligee and the milky white pallor of her flesh in the flickering candlelight. Her red lips parted in painful anticipation. She felt a wave of guilt that she could not return his ardour in kind.

The Marquis caught up a handful of her golden hair and raised it to his lips. Eugenia stiffened as he then leaned forward and delicately, tenderly kissed the exposed nape of her neck.

With that, Eugenia – tired, exhausted and terrified of the unending conflict within her bosom – plunged her face in her hands and burst into tears.

She felt the Marquis pull away.  After a moment she raised her tear-stained face to the mirror.  The Marquis stood like someone struck through the heart. The sadness in his eyes was unmistakable.

Eugenia tried to curb her sobs.

“M-my Lord – !”

The Marquis raised a weary hand. “Say nothing, madam. All is only too clear.”

“But my Lord – “

With a bitter smile, the Marquis moved away. 

“Good­ night, madam.”

Eugenia stared after him wonderingly.  “You – you are leaving me here, sir?”

The Marquis paused at the door. “Madam,” he said softly, “I will never take to my bed a woman whose heart so obviously lies elsewhere.”

With that, he was gone.  Eugenia stared after him, hand to her heaving breast, alone to muse upon the consequences of her too divided heart.

*

She was a wife yet not a wife.
A wife in name only
. How she lamented this unnatural state of suspension. Morning after morning she rumpled the bedclothes to look as if both she and the Marquis had slept there. She could not bear for Bridget to know the truth, which was that the Marquis spent every night on the sofa in his dressing room.

During the day he proved as polite and attentive to Eugenia as she supposed it was possible for him to be in the circumstances. They sometimes took walks together around the lake or drove to see some ruin or great house in the area. That these excursions were undertaken in near total silence was a fact unsuspected by Bridget or the Marquis's valet or anyone else at the hotel.

Most of the time the Marquis left her very much to herself. He went hunting with the proprietor of the hotel or fished on the lake.

Eugenia tried to pretend to Bridget that she welcomed these periods of solitude. Alone in her room, she attempted to read or embroider.

At supper she and the Marquis exchanged pleasantries and nothing more. The Marquis's forbidding brow rendered her too timid to broach the subject of their conjugal relations.

The inevitable result of the prolonged tension, the sleepless nights and the lack of nourishment – for her appetite had still not improved – was that one morning Eugenia felt too dispirited to rise. When Bridget entered with a basket of freshly laundered linen she discovered her Mistress still lying curled on her side under the counterpane, her breakfast tray untouched.

Bridget set the basket down. “What's the matter, my Lady?”

Eugenia's reply was barely perceptible.  “I feel – unwell.”

Bridget leaned over and felt Eugenia's forehead. “You're hot, all right. Wonder what it is?”  Somewhat insensitively, she gave a throaty chuckle.  “It's too early for symptoms of –
that
, my Lady! Or is it?”

Fully understanding Bridget's insinuation, Eugenia became flustered.

“No, no, it is not possible – not in a thousand years – for the Marquis will not – has not – slept in this bed. Not for one single night!”

Her voice trailed away and, fist to her mouth, she pressed her cheek into the pillow.

Bridget's eyes were wide.  She gave a long, low whistle. “That's how it stands, eh?  Well I never.”  She stared at Eugenia for a moment and then seemed to suddenly make up her mind as to how she would proceed. She sat on the edge of the bed and stroked Eugenia's damp brow. 

“There, there,” she said soothingly.  “It'll all work out for the best. You'll see.”

Eugenia, exhausted, closed her eyes. Bridget continued to stroke her brow until Eugenia's breathing steadied. Then the maid rose carefully and tiptoed from the room.

Around noon, Eugenia woke with a start. She remembered that she had unburdened herself and felt a sense of utter relief that she was no longer all alone with the unpalatable truth, even if her confidante was only Bridget. She must, however, extract a promise from Bridget that she would discuss the matter with no one but herself. She did not want her mother or great-aunt finding out.

With this in mind, she sat up and rang the bell that connected with Bridget's room. When Bridget had not appeared after ten minutes she rang again.

A few minutes later the hotel maid popped her head round the door.  “Were you ringing for Bridget, my Lady? Only she's gone off to the village to post a letter.  She didn't want to wait until the hotel collection.”

Eugenia wrinkled her brow for a moment. To whom was Bridget writing from the hotel?

“Can I help you with anything, my Lady?” asked the hotel maid.

“Thank you, yes. I should like to dress.”

Eugenia was still puzzling over Bridget's unaccustomed letter writing as she entered the dining room for lunch, but when the Marquis turned to watch her approach the resolute expression on his face proved a distraction.

“I have made a decision, madam,” he announced as the waiter drew out her chair.

The Marquis waited until the waiter had moved away before continuing,

“Since neither of us is deriving the benefit we might from our sojourn here at the lake, I propose that we return to Buckbury tomorrow.”

“And – and then?” ventured Eugenia.

The Marquis took up his napkin and shook it out. “And then, madam, we shall, for the foreseeable future, continue this charade. I shall, of course, encourage you to spend as much time as you wish at “
Paragon
”, once your mother returns from her trip abroad.”

The Marquis regarded her coldly.  “Did you imagine that I was about to set you free – Eugenia? Is that what you want?”

The sound of her name on his lips made her start. “I – I don't know what I want, my Lord.  I wish I did. And I don't know what – what
you
want.”

“I want,” replied the Marquis icily, “what is mine. Whatever form such possession takes.”

Eugenia did not know what further to say.  She did not know if she was relieved or distressed to hear that the present impasse between herself and her husband would continue unchanged.

Bridget's eyes gleamed when she learned that they were to return early to Buckbury.  She hummed as she set about packing.

“
You
are happy, at least,” commented Eugenia. 

“Oh, I am, miss. I don't like it here.  I like it at ‘
Paragon
'.

Eugenia was surprised that Bridget had said ‘
Paragon
' and not London, where Gregor must by now be residing. Perhaps Bridget had found a beau amongst the young men who worked on the Buckbury estate. That might explain the letter she had sent yesterday, though Eugenia wondered which of the estate workers would actually be able to read.

It was also strange that Bridget had said ‘
Paragon
' when from now on it was Buckbury that was to be her home, Unless – unless the maid half suspected that the Marquis meant to relegate his wife to her mother's company as much as possible in future!

They returned to Buckbury the following day and life fell into much the same pattern as at the hotel. The Marquis was perfectly civil to his wife before the servants, but in private he was distant, performing the barest of courtesies.

After supper he escorted Eugenia to what had been designated the ‘bridal chamber' and bade her goodnight at the threshold, making his way alone to the room he had slept in before his marriage.

During the day Bridget was little company.  She performed her chores willingly but otherwise made herself absent at every opportunity.  Eugenia assumed she was meeting the lover she had written to from the lakeside hotel. She did not question Bridget nor chide her for not being at her Mistress's  beck and call. Eugenia genuinely wished her maid happier than herself in the matter of romance.

Of the portrait of Eugenia painted by Gregor there was no mention. She saw it, shrouded in a sheet, propped up in the Marquis's study.  She did not dare ask to look at it and the Marquis never offered. 

It was not long before she began to despair of ever leading anything approaching a ‘normal' life again.  She did not even have the diversion of a busy social round, for the Marquis did not care to accept invitations to dine with his neighbours.

He was, however, at home to callers and one of the most persistent was Lady Walling. Soon Lady Walling was appearing every day for tea.

Eugenia was expected to preside as hostess on these occasions. She poured the tea, proffered the sandwiches, smiled weakly and listened politely to Lady Walling's constant chatter.

Try as she might, her dislike of Lady Walling intensified with each visit. She soon began to suspect that Lady Walling knew that all was not well with the Marquis's marriage.

“There are rumours that your bride does not exist, my Lord,” Lady Walling said one afternoon, blinking sweetly over the rim of her cup. “You do rather hide her away here. Anyone would think you were ashamed of her!”

“Anyone can think what they please,” replied the Marquis with a shrug. “We – do not care for Society, my wife and I.”

Lady Walling placed her free hand on her breast. “Then I am truly honoured that you should care to admit
me
to your circle, my Lord. I am glad of it for I have come to depend upon your hospitality when I ride out each day.”