She turned to her son. “Her hips are too narrow. Has she any people? Any heritage? Can she even give you children?”
He dropped my hand. “Mum, please don’t be rude. Piers has been very successful here in Charleston.”
She glared at him, opened her handbag, and pulled out a pair of white gloves. “You know I hate when you call me that, Henry.”
His face reddened. “Sorry, Lady Mother.”
My mouth dropped open.
With her gloves finally on, she held a hand out for me to take. I grasped her fingers and gently shook them once before letting go. She peered at me. “Eleanor Frances Astley Davenport. You may call me Eleanor. Not Ellie or Nell or Fran or Mrs. Davenport. Certainly not mother-in-law or anything of the kind. To Henry, I am Lady Mother, never Mum. Though he persists in his childish infatuation. To you, only Eleanor. Do you understand?”
I nodded, speechless.
“Close your mouth,” she told me. “You look like a codfish.” She cast her frigid gaze on Henry. “I had such high hopes when you were born,” she said with a touch of wistfulness. She turned to me again. “You will be welcome at Excelsior Hall on holidays and when expressly invited. Never in between. You are to mind my son in all manner of things, is that clear?”
I looked to Henry, aghast. But he stared at me as if this were all perfectly normal.
“You haven’t any reason to trust your own judgment, being of low birth with no real position in society, so it should prove easy for you. Be an obedient, dutiful wife and I’m sure this union will succeed. But if you are willful,” she continued, “if you are negligent of my son or indecorous in your behavior, if you disappoint him…” Her eyes flashed. “Well, you will find him to be well-trained in the art of discipline. I saw to that myself.”
I stood there, horrified, unsure how to respond when Henry finally spoke up. “Piers, show some dignity. Find your tongue.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I finally uttered, too shocked to say anything else.
“Shall we luncheon then?” she asked. “Is she respectable in public?”
Henry slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “She will be agreeable. I assure you, Lady Mother.”
Eleanor sniffed. “Very well then. Proceed.”
I spent the next hour and a half feeling like I was in another time, maybe on another planet. Henry and his mother discussed the stock market, the state of the British royal family, the upkeep needed at Excelsior Hall—which I had gathered was their crumbling family home in Virginia, one she hung on to with great effort after his father disgraced them with several bad investments—and the perils of steeplechasing, a horse racing event I’d never heard of. When I asked for a glass of champagne to celebrate, Henry took it away while it was still half full and gave it back to the waiter. He ordered me the roast chicken, taking pains to make sure they did not cook it in too much butter. Eleanor ate only a wedge salad.
When lunch was over, she kissed her son on the cheek. “Don’t waste time,” she told him. “You have a duty. Fertility is likely her only virtue, and it has a shelf life.” Her eyes cut to me and back again. “Grandchildren are all you can give me now.”
“Can we drive you to the airport, Lady Mother?” he asked her.
She waved a hand. “Don’t be absurd. I don’t need assistance. I remain perfectly capable of maintaining my own affairs. Let’s hope you do the same.” She leveled her gaze on him before turning to me. There were no cheek kisses, not even another handshake, just a cold, “Piers.”
We watched her get into a car and drive away.
“She won’t even stay the night?” I asked.
Henry rounded on me. “Could you say nothing? Seriously, Piers?”
I swallowed my words. “I—I’m sorry. I was nervous.”
He glared at me. “You know how important this was for me,” he said angrily.
I gaped. “Henry, she insulted me! At every turn! On my wedding day! And you stood by and said nothing. You let her speak to me like that.”
He grabbed me by the arm and tugged me to the car. “Get in,” he said, pushing me toward it.
Shakily, I climbed into the passenger seat. We didn’t speak the whole ride home. I cried silently, wondering how the happiest day of my life had gone so terribly wrong. I believed then that it was Eleanor’s fault, that she brought out the worst in him. Later in bed, when he began to undress me, to kiss my neck and breasts, I convinced myself it was over. She was gone, and things would return to normal. Henry would dote on me, cherish me, take care of me. He would forget her outlandish advice and accusations. He never apologized, but by the time he was inside me, I didn’t care. I mistook his sexual attention for affection, a gesture of reparation. He was hungry for me that night, so eager and insatiable, ferocious with his thrusts. “No one will ever love you like I do.”
I remember the way his hand wrapped around my neck as he came, almost tender, how it slipped over my own mouth as I moaned with pleasure. “Hush,” he told me, looking down. “Don’t spoil it.”
Eleanor died six weeks later. She suffered a fatal heart attack. Her maid found her sprawled across the wool rug the next day, but it was too late. The night Henry got the news was the first night he hit me. I remember him putting down the phone slowly and turning to look at me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, noting the strange fall of his face, his slack jaw. “Did something happen?”
