She nodded her head and made a murmuring sound, indicating she accepted his apology.
“But that’s the truth of it. I crave the excitement. You never know what a throw of the dice or a deal of the cards will yield. And the disappointment of losing never detracts enough from the thrilling unpredictability. Or at least not enough to keep me from doing it again and again. Wagering money I don’t have. Risking everything.”
William kicked a stone in the lane. “Drinking alcohol, on the other hand, is not exciting. It yields a reliable result. Insensibility. Stupor. Which is what I seek when I’m not gambling.”
He wanted to lose himself. Just like Caroline did. Was that why she had always been so vulnerable to the pleasures her husband offered her? Because in those moments she could forget everything except their bodies and their sweat and the sweet build toward release?
Her mother hadn’t had that. Her poor mother. A daughter of an earl, a lady with few interests apart from her drinking. Which had come first, Caroline wondered. The lack of occupation or the drinking? Either one could so easily lead to the other.
“It’s been both good and difficult for me to be here, Lady Burchester, and I thank you for the part that has been good. But I know it must be difficult for you, as well.” She started to protest and he cut her off. “No need to be polite. Having a guest when you’re first married, getting accustomed to a husband who takes in his vagabond friends, managing a new house—you have been very gracious.”
She did not know what to say to that, so she said nothing.
“Do you know the poet John Keats?”
“N-n-no.”
“I heard Phin mention you like poetry.”
“I d-do. But I don’t know n-n-new poets.”
“He’s brilliant, I think. He’s very young, and I suppose he might be too modern for some. He had a few poems last summer in theAnnals of the Arts. Do you know that periodical?”
Caroline shook her head. No periodicals and very few newspapers had ever come to Sudbury Manor.
And last summer. How long ago that seemed now. She had still been so alone. But she had devised her plan to bed Phineas last summer, hadn’t she? How bold she had been. How well it had all worked out for her. She almost smiled.
“One of the poems just struck me, though, as something you would appreciate.Ode to a Grecian Urn. I understand a collection including that poem is to be published this summer. If I have the funds, when I go back to town, I’ll procure a copy of the book for you. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
“That is very kind of you, Lord Dagenham, but you needn’t go out of your way.”
“The poem ends with some rather remarkable lines.Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”
Beauty is truth, truth beauty. The phrasing was lyrical and lovely, but the meaning of the words? Entirely false. The truth was horrible and ugly. She was surprised William would repeat these lines to her. It sounded like something her husband would say, back when he was still quoting poetry to her.
“We two would be wise to remember the value of the truth, Lady Burchester.”
She didn’t like this conversation so she made no reply. She was no liar, but there were some truths which could never come to light. For the first time in several days, she wished William Dagenham would leave Burchester. She much preferred her husband who avoided unpleasant subjects and was content with her as she was and didn’t push her, didn’t prod at her.
In the middle of the morning, Caroline had occasion to go to the steward’s office. She wanted the ledgers from six and seven years earlier to peruse with William this afternoon. She was just about to knock on the door when she heard raised voices coming from inside the office.
“You should have thought of this before.” A woman’s voice. Mrs. Fox, the housekeeper, maybe.
Chambers answered. “There’s no difficulty. The viscount—” His voice dropped so low Caroline couldn’t hear him.
“Today?” the woman said loudly. “Good.”
Someone walked past the far end of the passage, and Caroline suddenly felt guilty. She was eavesdropping. She knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Chambers called out.
Caroline opened the door and was confronted with a red-faced Mrs. Fox and an expressionless Mr. Chambers. The atmosphere felt unpleasant. She asked for and received the two ledgers she wanted and left the office as quickly as possible.
Phineas Edge surveyed the tidy fields of the Willoughby farm. He had always liked this bit about being earl, seeing how people lived, getting to talk to them, trying to ease their worries. But in the past, that pleasure had been overshadowed by the sense that he couldn’t do much, he was too poor, he had no grasp of money, he was failing everyone who lived on his land. Those guilty feelings combined with the vexations of the Burchester house had always pushed him to return to London, to his friends, where he could be lord ofthe chairin his club. Where he could spend his days delighting lonely widows and losing himself in whisky and billiards and mindless copulation.
But with his wife now taking on the responsibility of solving his money problems and making the house as comfortable as Sudbury Manor, London held no appeal. And his afternoons out with his tenants had become the second best part of his days. Second best after bedtime, of course, when his Caro would come to him and quiver under his touch with the same lovely responsiveness she had first shown him in her father’s house.
His life was very full right now. Full, but not complete. He wasn’t a fool; he knew there were still many things he didn’t know about his wife. But he had learned some patience and, as ever, he was hopeful.
