Nicola Cornick - The Notorious Marriage

Kit Mostyn closed the parlour door, moved over to the sofa and sat down. The fire was dying down now and the room was chill. The dinner plates had not been removed and sat on the table, the food congealing, and the smell of beef still in the air. There was also a slippery patch of blancmange just inside the parlour door.

Kit reached for the brandy bottle, poured a generous measure into a glass, and then paused. Truth to tell, he did not really want a drink, but the temptation to drown his sorrows was very strong.

The springs of the sofa dug into him. It was going to be an uncomfortable night, hard on the body but even harder on the mind. Which was why the brandy was so tempting. He could simply forget it all. Except it would all be waiting for him when he awoke…

Kit pushed the glass away and lay down, wincing as a spring burst and stabbed him in the ribs. Eleanor. His mind winced in much the same way as his body had just done, but he forced himself to think about her. It was only five months, yet she had changed so much. Previously she had had an artless self-confidence that had been the product of a privileged and sheltered upbringing. She had been bright and innocent and sweet. Now…Kit sighed. Now Eleanor had a shell of brittle sophistication and he was not entirely sure what was hidden beneath.

Kit shifted on the sofa as he tried to get more comfortable. The candles were burning down now and the old inn creaked. He wondered if Eleanor was asleep yet.

He thought about her and about the rumours that had assaulted him ever since he had returned to England, and about finding her in a cheap inn taking dinner with Sir Charles Paulet. He had been so angry to see all the rumours apparently confirmed. Angry and jealous. His innocent Eleanor, who had evidently not spent the waiting time alone.

Yet she had insisted that she was there under duress and there was the evidence of the blancmange…Kit turned his head and the arm of the sofa dug painfully into his neck. Perhaps it was true—but then what of the others; what of Grosvenor and Probyn and Darke?

Most telling of all was Eleanor’s fearful reaction when he had suggested that they should sit down and discuss matters calmly. Kit frowned. He knew that he should have explained himself much sooner, that he would have done so had his jealous anger not intervened. Yet when he had tried she had shied away from it. What had she said—‘I have no particular desire for us to become drawn into descriptions of what each has been doing’. He was all too afraid that he knew the reason why. There must be compelling reasons why Eleanor did not wish him to enquire too closely into what she had been doing in the past five months.

A huge, heavy sadness filled Kit’s heart. She need not worry—he would never force explanations from her, put her to the blush. Nor would he press her to accept his account of what had happened to him and thereby risk prompting any unfortunate disclosures from her. It seemed they were trapped within the modern marriage that Eleanor had decreed, each going their separate ways. It was not at all what he had hoped for when he had returned.

By the time that the carriage rolled into Montague Street the next day, Eleanor’s nerves were at screaming point. She had slept very little the previous night, had rejoined Kit for a poor breakfast of stale rolls and weak tea and had spent the journey mainly in silence, pretending to an interest in the countryside that she simply did not possess. It was raining again, and it seemed only appropriate. Kit had been as silent as she on the journey—Eleanor thought that he looked tired and he had seemed withdrawn. All in all it was enough to make her retreat even further into herself and to reflect that her life from now on would be a pattern card of superficial contentment. She and Kit would preserve a surface calm, and no one would know that underneath it her feelings were still aching. Least of all her husband. And one day, perhaps, she would feel better.

Eleanor could well remember her mother, the Dowager Viscountess of Trevithick, instilling in her day after day that a lady never gave way to any vulgar display of feeling and particularly not in public, but when the carriage steps were lowered and Kit helped her down, her composure was put to the test almost immediately.

‘But this is not Trevithick House!’

She saw Kit smile. ‘No. Naturally I would expect my wife to live with me in the house that I have rented for the Season!’

Eleanor stared. ‘But my clothes—all my possessions…’

Kit took her arm, urging her up the steps, out of the rain. ‘They were sent round from Trevithick House yesterday.’

Eleanor was outraged at this apparent conspiracy. ‘But I don’t want to stay here with you! Surely Marcus—’

‘Your brother,’ Kit said, with a certain grim humour, ‘whilst disapproving heartily of the whole matter, was not prepared to come between husband and wife! Come now, my dear, we are getting wet and achieving very little standing here…’

Eleanor allowed him to help her up the steps and through the door of the neat town house. The butler came to meet them; Eleanor recognised his face and flinched away. How could she fail to recognise Carrick, whom she had last seen fetching a hansom to take her back to Trevithick House five months before? She had been pale and exhausted from crying over Kit’s disappearance and Carrick’s face had mirrored the pity and concern he felt for her. Now, however, he was smiling.

‘Welcome home, my lady. I will show you to your room.’

Eleanor raised her chin, horrified to realise that she was almost crying again, uncertain if it was because of the unlooked-for warmth of his welcome or for other reasons. This was ridiculous. She was turning into a watering-pot and could not bear to be so feeble. This rented house, comfortable and welcoming as it looked, was not her home and she did not want to be here, especially not with Kit. She managed a shaky smile—for the benefit of the servants.

‘Thank you, Carrick.’

The butler looked gratified that she had remembered his name. Eleanor felt even worse. She followed him across the hall and up the staircase, very aware that Kit was bringing up the rear. She wanted to tell him to go away. Instead she ignored him. It was the best that she could do.

The house was small but extremely well appointed. Eleanor could not fail to notice that the carpet was a thick, rich red, the banisters polished to a deep mahogany gleam. There were fresh flowers on the windowsill and the smell of beeswax in the air. It was charming and she could not fault it. It was simply that she did not want to be there.

Her suite of rooms consisted of a large, airy bedroom and an adjoining dressing room decorated in cream, gold and palest pink. A small fire burned cheerfully in the grate though the May morning was promising to be warm.

Carrick bowed. ‘I will send your maid to you, my lady—’

‘In a little while, Carrick.’ It was Kit who answered, before Eleanor could even thank the butler. ‘There are some matters that Lady Mostyn and I have to discuss first.’

The butler bowed silently and withdrew. Eleanor straightened up, marshalling her forces. She looked at her husband as he lounged in the doorway.

‘Must we speak now, my lord?’ she asked, just managing to achieve the bored tone she strove for. ‘I am unconscionably tired and want nothing more than some hot water and a luncheon tray. Then I think I shall sleep. I fear that I had very little rest last night.’

Kit strolled forward into the room, swinging the door carelessly closed behind him.

‘It will not take long, my dear,’ he said, effortlessly matching her sang-froid. ‘I simply wanted to mention that I understand there is to be a ball at Trevithick House in a couple of days and we shall attend.’ His smile deepened. ‘It will be the perfect occasion to demonstrate our reconciliation!’