Page 12 of Lord of the Darkness

“Well, now that you’re paying attention, please listen to what I’m trying to tell you: Ariana doesn’t love me. I’m not sure that she could even be said to like me. I’m getting the impression that she acquiesced to the marriage because she didn’t feel that she had any other choice.”

“And I’m telling you, you place far too much importance on romantic love and freedom of will! The beauty of an arranged marriage isn’t how it begins, but what it becomes. Ariana might feel that she doesn’t love you now, but she’ll change her mind. What else is she going to do? Divorce you?” Hazelworth gave a harsh laugh, knowing full well that the cost, and the scandal, of a divorce put it totally out of the question. “Women have a remarkable gift for acclimating themselves to situations that they can’t get out of.”

Benedict sank down into one of the winged leather chairs opposite Hazelworth with a groan of exasperation. No matter what Benedict said, he was never going to convince Hazelworth that the marriage represented any kind of crisis. For Hazelworth, it appeared that there were no problems in a marriage which couldn’t be solved by the stern application of the husband’s authority.

“I knew a man once,” said Hazelworth. “A merchant who married a seemingly charming young woman. And she was a wayward, wicked thing with bright red hair and cold, conniving green eyes. And she used to sneak out of the house every night to go to see the dancing monkeys — they were these monkeys that danced and performed acrobatics, and one of them played the tambourine. Amazing creatures. Owned by a man who’d retired from a circus, and taken up a cottage nearby. Anyway, the merchant got tired of her going out every night.”

Hazelworth paused and sipped his madeira.

“And…?”

Benedict wanted to know where the man was going with his tale, as it seemed rather outrageous, and not relevant. Hazelworth set his glass down and went on.

“It didn’t sit right with him, as he had known other women who used various pretexts to sneak out and meet their lovers, and he was suspicious.”

Hazelworth gave a humourless laugh.

“Of course there was no proof that she was doing any such thing, but it still bothered him. And no matter how many times he warned her not to leave the house after sundown, she would still wait until he went to sleep and go out to watch the monkeys perform. The man who owned them held a performance every evening – late, because the men who came past by then had had enough to drink to be generous with their coin.”

“So what did he do?”

Hazelworth shrugged.

“He tied her to a tree. Every night at sundown he would tie her to the tree with a piece of rope, and then he would bring her dinner and she would have to eat it out there. And sleep out there. And he only let her go at sunrise each day.”

“But that’s horrible!” said Benedict, overwhelmed with disgust.

“It may be. But do you want to know something? It worked. He only had to leave her out there for seven nights. On the final morning he brought her inside and extracted her promise to never go out like that again. And she never did.”

Thin curlicues of smoke hung over Hazelworth like steam over a warm beverage. Benedict studied his impassive face, wondering what sort of person this was, who could find beneficial moral instruction in a story like that.

He wondered how badly the couple’s marriage, and the woman’s spirit, had been broken, if the tale was actually true.

“So that’s my advice to you,” said Hazelworth, rising from his chair and extinguishing the cigar, on the dish left for that purpose on the side table, causing a cloud of ash and smoke as he continued speaking.

“Be as firm as you can. Women are drawn to the masculine virtues, and shun a man who behaves like a wilting flower. If you want her to love you, if you want her to respect you, you’ll need to be hard and ruthless.”

“But I’m not hard and ruthless,” said Benedict, “I never was. When I was a small child, I shoved a boy who was being cruel to me. He fell and split his lip, chipping a tooth. There was blood everywhere — and I just remember being down on my knees begging him, ‘Please forgive me, I’m so sorry, I’ll never do it again… I’m so, so sorry…’”

That incident had stayed with Benedict ever since, making him a man who worked to achieve what was necessary by any means he could which did not involve violence, or excessive threat. His own father had not been impressed by it, but had allowed that Benedict’s rather more cunning methods often worked well. Hazelworth shivered in disgust, as if the spectre of such sensitivity made him nauseous.

“If you don’t feel you have it in you, at least do your best to make her think you’re hard and ruthless. Marriage needs theatre and spectacle to be successful, just like anything else.” He moved stiffly away from the couch towards the door, motioning for Benedict to follow. “Try doing it my way for a few weeks,” he said as they made their way into the dark hallway.

Benedict made a vague noise which he hoped Hazelworth would take as assent, and the man went on.

“She might tell you that she wants a sensitive, caring man to look after her needs and whatnot — and maybe she does! But she’ll never respect that. One day she’ll thank you for being firm when you needed to be, you can depend upon it. At that point I’ll be in my grave, but you can thank me, and I’ll hear you from wherever I’ve gone.”

Benedict smiled in a placating manner, knowing that if he objected, they would be standing here for another ten minutes while Hazelworth argued his case. He was relieved that the conversation had ended, though he felt a pang of unease at the thought of Lady Hazelworth and the trials she must have suffered. As they were coming down the stairs, they were approached by one of the footmen. He looked deeply flustered and kept tugging agitatedly at the collar of his livery jacket.

“Where are my daughter and my wife?” asked Hazelworth. “Are they still talking?”

“My Lord, there’s been a… an incident.”

“What sort of incident? Out with it!”

“The young lady ran off from the house. She was found standing by the river talking to—”

“To WHOM?”

“My Lord, the man whose name you do not wish us to speak!” cried the footman, in great distress.

Hazelworth slammed his fist down hard on the oak banister. Benedict, still in shock, looked from one to the other with a perplexed expression.

“You mean the man who assailed us coming in?”

“Yes, if that wasn’t already clear to you,” said Hazelworth, moving briskly the rest of the way downstairs and into the parlour, despite the cough which wracked him. “I tried to warn you that something like this was going to happen — if you don’t keep a firm hand on your woman, she’ll take her wares elsewhere!”