But would he wait? Despite his strange words about waiting for her toseduce him, about waiting for pleasure, she did not expect much patiencefrom such a man. Would his resolve last even the day? And would sheperhaps not be better to get it over with?
There was no amorousness in his manner as he took her on a tour of thehouse, the gardens, and the outbuildings. In the stables they once morediscussed riding lessons but this time without heat. She was touched todiscover he had carefully selected a horse for her and had it sent toHartwell to await them. The dappled gelding which carried the femininename, Stella, seemed quiet and had a friendly look in its eye.
At six o’clock they ate a well-prepared but simple meal in the smalldining room. The maid brought in all the dishes, including the colddesserts, and then left them to serve themselves. Beth felt it was thefirst normal meal she’d eaten since leaving Cheltenham but thought itwiser not to say so. Wiser not to raise any kind of controversy.
They talked mainly of poetry, contrasting Ben Jonson’s statement that agood poet is made as much as born with Socrates’s statement that poetswork not by wisdom but by inspiration and an almost magical gift. Beth wassurprised at how much she had to stretch her mind to hold her own. HalBeaumont had obviously been telling the truth about the marquess’intellectual abilities. Beth was rather alarmed. She had once anticipatedfacing a fribble on this marital battlefield.
When they eventually called truce they settled for a less demandingactivity ? a few hands of casino. Then Beth played the piano for him,though she knew her performance to be competent rather than gifted.
It was superficially the most commonplace of evenings, but Beth’snerves were stretched like the strings of the instrument she played.
Eventually, unable to bear the situation any longer, she announced herintention of going to bed. He rose. She looked at him in alarm. He merelyopened the door for her, kissed her fingers, and bid her good night.
She desperately wanted to ask what his intentions were but dared not.Redcliff prepared her for bed and left. Beth lay awake listening formovement next door, for the turning of the knob. She didn’t know whethershe would greet her husband’s appearance with alarm or relief, but as theclock ticked the minutes away she began to think it would be relief. Shecouldn’t bear much more of this tension . . .
The Marchioness of Arden drifted into sleep; she woke the next morningstill an unsullied virgin. She told herself firmly it was exactly what shewanted and a sure way to foil the duke’s plans.
They stayed ten days at Hartwell and the first day was the pattern forthe rest. Every morning they rode, and Lucien proved to be a surprisinglypatient and understanding teacher. Beth made progress but paid for it withaches and bruises. He taught her piquet and won a small fortune from her.She beat him at draughts every time. They sat in pleasurable silencereading books from the small but excellent library; later they indulged infiery discussion of their reading, welcoming the sharing of ideas andinsights but also seeking to gain points in the ongoing competition oftheir lives.
As they strolled in the garden or walked briskly across the fields,they discussed the international situation and the danger of Napoleondefeating the allies gathered against him and recommencing his attempt torule the world. Lucien was sure he would be defeated and clearly longed tobe with his friends who were preparing for that fight.
One day he even quoted the words Shakespeare put in the mouth of HenryV. “ ‘And gentlemen in England now abed/Shall think themselves accursedthey were not here,/ And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks/ Thatfought with us ?’ ” He broke off. “The where and when are yet to bedecided. I doubt it will hold off until Saint Crispin’s day, however.”
If it would have served any purpose Beth would have laid down on thegrass and told him to take her and be off to fight. But there was noguarantee that one act would achieve the end, nor that their first childwould be the necessary son. Nor, she supposed, that it would live. Theburden of privilege demanded that he stay as safe as possible and breed onher until the line was safe.
As Nicholas Delaney had said, it was all barbarous.
Apart from that outburst he avoided high emotion and most personal orcontroversial topics, though they did, tentatively, share some of theirviews on the liberty of the individual and theories of government. Bethwas surprised to find him liberal for his class, though she was stilltempted at times to blast him for arrogant shortsightedness.
He touched her only in the way a gentleman would touch any lady ? tohand her over an obstacle, lift her down from her horse, or offer an armwhen walking. Sometimes, though, Beth would catch him watching her, andthe expression in his eyes would send shivers through her.
On June 15th, their last day at Hartwell, a lazy, sunny afternoon, theysat reading on the grassy bank of the stream. Lucien was in comfortablecountry clothes. His pantaloons were loose fitting, his jacket casual, andhe had left off his cravat in favor of a knotted neckerchief. A straw hatshaded his eyes. Beth herself was in the lightest and simplest of hermuslins with a wide villager hat to protect her from the sun.
Birdsong surrounded them and the busy clamor of the insects. Occasionalsoft splashes announced the presence of feeding fish.
“Perhaps you should do some angling here, Lucien,” Beth said lazily.“You could catch our supper.”
He looked up from his book with a grin.
“Not unless you want to feast on gudgeon and chub, a nibble per fish.There’s little in this stream worth catching.”
“Could you not stock it?”
“I believe my father tried. It’s not a good stream for sport fish. Forone thing it almost dries up in a drought. . .”
They were interrupted by the demanding quacks of a family of duckswhich paddled busily around the bend, mother in front and ducklings in anorderly line behind, all except one which straggled, laggingabsentmindedly then putting on a mad dash to catch up.
Beth chuckled as she reached for the bag of oats she had brought tofeed them. “I do believe, our little sluggard is of a poeticaldisposition,” she said to Lucien as he came forward to join her at theedge of the stream. “He is clearly so taken by the beauties of the scenerythat he forgets to paddle.”
“We’ll have to name him Wordsworth then,” said Lucien, watching hiswife as she scattered the food widely on the water.
Despite her bonnets, the sun had brought out a few freckles on her nosewhich he found charming. Here in the country, living quietly, she hadbegun to relax and show him her spirit, her wit, and her humor. He wasrapidly becoming entranced. If he’d considered the matter he would havesaid days spent in country walks and evenings with just one person,reading and discussing ideas, would soon pall. Now, however, he wasreluctant to return to London and the social round.
There was something magical about Beth, he thought. On firstacquaintance she seemed ordinary, and yet many things ? the tilt of herhead when she was curious, the twitch of her mouth when she was amused,the way her eyes lit up when she laughed ? all transformed her into aspellbinder. It was a fragile magic, however, easily banished when she wasunhappy. He was desperately afraid of destroying it forever. Watching hernow as she talked nonsense to little “Wordsworth” and scolded his motherfor snatching food from her infant’s beak, he longed to take her in hisarms here on the sunny, grassy bank, and teach her the wonders oflove.
Beth looked up and caught him studying her. Her eyes questionedhim.
“I was just standing guard,” he said lightly, “in case your enthusiasmpitched you into the water.”
