SARAH WAS very glad late the following afternoon to be visited by the doctor again and told that she would be able to start walking on her foot the next day, provided she rested it frequently.
"No dancing, young lady," he said, "for at least a week."
She had almost welcomed the injury for the excuse it gave her to stay away from those people she wanted to avoid. But circumstances had not worked that way. She saw almost as much company from the sofa in the salon as she did when she was free to go abroad all day long.
Even that day she had had hardly a moment to herself. Lady Murdoch had gone to take the waters and meet acquaintances in the Pump Room before breakfast. Sarah had risen later than usual because she was not going herself. But even at that early hour she had been called upon by the Misses Seymour and Mrs. Smythe, whom she had met early in her stay at Bath. All three claimed to have missed her company in the last day and a half. They had stayed with her until Lady Murdoch's return.
As on the day before, Lady Murdoch had insisted on remaining home after breakfast to keep Sarah company. But scarcely an hour had passed before Mrs. Bergland was ushering into the salon George and his party and Mr. Stonewall. Sarah had been deeply embarrassed. Both George and Lady Fanny had been subdued; she guessed that the poor girl had been lectured after her visit of the day before. Lady Cavendish, after sitting for five minutes, had borne Lady Murdoch away to stroll on the Crescent, explaining that one could not stay in Bath without at least once walking with all the most fashionable set on the most beautiful street in the city. It had been left to Hannah and Mr. Stonewall to keep the conversation alive.
Hannah did not speak as freely as she had done the previous day, either. Sarah did not know if it was the presence of George that inhibited her or if perhaps she also had been alerted to the truth. The latter seemed unlikely, though. Surely the girl would be far more embarrassed than she was if she realized that she was talking to her fianc6's former wife.
Sarah was greatly beholden to Mr. Stonewall, who took the chair closest to the sofa and proceeded to monopolize the conversation, entertaining her and all of them with his endless supply of amusing on-dits concerning the fashionable set in London and Brighton. She was all the more grateful to him because he scarcely knew her. They had been no more than introduced on the afternoon of her fall.
Even though Mr. Stonewall ensured that there were no lengthy pauses in the conversation, it seemed an age until the opening of the front door heralded the return of the two older ladies and the imminent departure of all the guests.
And even that had not been the end of the company. Winston called after dinner. Fortunately, Lady Murdoch was tired after her walk and decided not to go to the Sydney Gardens as she had earlier planned to do. If Winston was surprised to find her there, he certainly did not show it. After inquiring solicitously after his cousin's health, he proceeded to charm the older lady as only he knew how. She rhapsodized about him for long minutes after his departure.
"He clearly likes you, Sarah," she said, not for the first time. "I can always tell, believe me. I think he admires Lady Fanny too. He walks with her in the Pump Room each morning, and she told us that he danced with her twice at the ball last night. But I still think he has a preference for you, dear. Mark my words. And that is as it should be. You are his cousin, and you are a remarkably lovely young lady. In fact, you two would make an extraordinarily handsome couple." She winked and nodded.
Sarah bent her head over her netting. "We are more like brother and sister than anything else," she said.
"Oho!" Lady Murdoch said with a knowing laugh. "That can very quickly change, my dear. He will be offering for you before we leave Bath, I should not be surprised."
Sarah said nothing.
"And you need not hesitate to accept him," her cousin continued. "It has occurred to me, Sarah, that perhaps you would discourage him because you cannot bring him a dowry. Though as to that, I do not suppose that young man would be so mercenary. He would be getting a beautiful and an accomplished wife, and I am sure he is wealthy enough in his own right. But you are not to worry, anyway. I shall see to it that you have a handsome dowry, my dear. Not that that will be all, of course. You must never think that I would leave my dear Sarah, whom I think of as a daughter, unprovided for. I saw my lawyer before we even came here, and he is drawing up a new will for me. I say no more, my love, but I will say that you are to think of yourself as my chief heir."
"Oh!" The exclamation came out as a sort of wail from Sarah. "Please, ma'am, you must not. I am in no way worthy. I have done absolutely nothing to earn such a mark of distinction."
"There you are very wrong, my dear," Lady Murdoch said with much head-nodding and winking. "You have made an old woman extremely happy. Can you imagine how left out I would feel now, Bertha with her granddaughter and her other charge to boast of and fuss over and me with no one? As it is, my love, I feel I have every advantage, for you are easily the most handsome young lady in Bath. And, of course, dear, just your company in the last weeks has brought me enormous pleasure. It is my dearest wish to see you well settled. Then I may have grandchildren to boast of. Or near enough to grandchildren, anyway."
Sarah's eyes were swimming in tears. "I am so undeserving," she said. "If you only knew! Oh, I do love you, Lady Murdoch. You have the kindest heart!"
"Well," that lady said, embarrassed for once, "I have the money with which to be kind, my dear. Some people do not. And I do hate to have you call me `Lady Murdoch,' as if there were no close connection between us whatsoever. I cannot ask you to call me `Mama,' for you must have fond memories of your real mama, though I understand you were a mere infant when she passed on. You must call me 'Cousin Adelaide.' Let me hear it."
"I should be honored to do so," Sarah had said, "Cousin Adelaide."
Altogether, then, the two and a half days she had been forced to spend indoors had proved eventful and emotional ones. Sarah welcomed the chance to go out-of-doors. Perhaps there she would have more freedom to avoid unwelcome companions.
She did not go to the Pump Room on the following morning, having agreed to accompany Lady Murdoch to the Crescent after breakfast. It was just around the corner from Brock Street and was not a particularly lengthy street, though breathtakingly picturesque, with its smoothly curved crescent of tall, attached buildings, its wide cobbled street, and the park sloping away in front of it to the busier part of the city below. She had walked there only once before, but Lady Murdoch had been greatly impressed the day before with all the fashionable crowds that strolled there and were willing to stop to talk.
During breakfast, Sarah was sorry that she had made such definite plans earlier. Lady Murdoch, of course, had divulged these plans to what must have been a large gathering of acquaintances in the Pump Room, with the result that everyone she was most wishing to avoid was coming too. She had no objections whatsoever to hearing that Mr. Stonewall and Captain Penny were coming to the lodgings on Brock Street to accompany them, but she could certainly have lived without the additional presence of the Duke of Cranwell, Lady Cavendish, Fanny, Hannah, and Winston. And she wondered with some puzzlement and anger why George had allowed this excursion to happen and yesterday's visit. Could he not have prevented both?
Cranwell could not have prevented the first meeting. Josh had maneuvered yesterday's visit by commenting innocently when they had all met on Milsom Street after breakfast that poor Miss Fifield must be feeling very restless, having been confined to her lodgings for almost two whole days. It had taken no more than that hint to set Lady Cavendish to suggesting that they all go right then to visit the poor young lady. She would quite welcome the chance to take her friend from the house for an hour. Poor Adelaide was too concerned for the welfare of her young cousin to go about much herself. What could he have done? Especially as Hannah's face had glowed at the suggestion, and she had smiled up at him-a rare occurrence-and asked him if they could really go.
But this morning's arrangement to walk on the Crescent with the ladies from Brock Street had, surprisingly, been his own suggestion. It was time to put his plan into action. He was not sure that the morning would offer the opportunity to put it into effect, but he must try. It was tempting to procrastinate, but it was becoming increasingly obvious to him that his own party and Lady Murdoch were becoming inseparable. There seemed no chance that the novelty of a renewed acquaintance would wear thin with the two older ladies. They seemed all set to spend their time in Bath together.
It was quite a gay party that set out for the Crescent from the house on Brock Street. Cranwell had Hannah on his arm, Josh had quickly stepped forward to beg Sarah's company, Captain Penny had claimed Fanny with no less alacrity, and Winston Bowen, quite unabashed, declared that the greatest honor was his in having a lady for each arm. He led the way between Lady Cavendish and Lady Murdoch. The latter was loudly proclaiming that they would draw all eyes, as they had captured the most handsome young blade in Bath.
Cranwell did not rush his plan. He waited until they had all strolled up and down the Crescent, stopping frequently to talk to acquaintances. After a half-hour their party was quite widely dispersed along the street, he and Hannah talking with Mr. John Staple and his sister, Sarah and Josh talking with two ladies, a Mrs. and Miss Marchmont, he seemed to remember from an introduction a few days before. He waited until the two groups came together again.
"It is a beautiful day for a stroll," he said conversationally, drawing Hannah to a halt and smiling at Sarah and Josh.
"It is amazing what stories one can pick up during a morning's walk," Joshua agreed, "is it not, Miss Fifield? Mrs. Marchmont had a few shockers for us."
Cranwell smiled and looked closely at Sarah. "How is your ankle feeling, ma'am?" he asked.
She looked at him for the first time, surprise raising those arched eyebrows even higher.
"Really quite well, I thank you, your grace," she said. "It is only now beginning to ache slightly."
He had not expected his task to be quite so easy. "Ah," he said, "I had feared as much. It is very easy to overdo things when one is recovering from such an injury. It is quite obligatory, I believe, to stroll for a whole hour here. But I am sure that under the circumstances even the highest sticklers will excuse you." He smiled warmly. "Josh, may I entrust Lady Hannah to your care for the next half-hour while I accompany Miss Fifield home?"
Her eyebrows had almost disappeared under her hair, Cranwell noted with fascination. The expression beneath those eyebrows was one of mingled alarm and incredulity.
"Eh?" Joshua said. "I can take Miss Fifield home, Cran. You needn't trouble yourself."
"Ah, but I know how you thrive on such scenes, my friend," Cranwell said with a smile. "Miss Fifield, will you take my arm?"
She obeyed him without hesitation. She looked dazed. He had been afraid that she might express a preference for Josh's company, and then his plan would have had to wait for another occasion. They turned in the direction of Brock Street, and he explained his purpose to Lady Murdoch, who was just then coming up with her two companions.
"But you must not rush home, ma'am," he said graciously. "I shall take care of Miss Fifield and stay to converse with her until you arrive. There is really no hurry at all."
He waited until they had turned out of the crowded Crescent and onto Brock Street.
"I wish to talk to you, Sarah," he said quietly.
"Oh?" she said. "What about?" Her voice was breathless.
"I think we should wait for the privacy of your lodgings," he said. "It is no light conversation that I plan."
"I did not think it was, your grace," she said.
She felt very familiar beside him. She had a way of laying her hand along the inside of his arm in what he had always thought an unconsciously provocative manner. Now he knew it to be the gesture of a practiced coquette, but it nevertheless had the effect of making him very aware of the shapely figure at his side. Even without looking directly at her he was aware of the glorious red of her hair beneath the poke of her bonnet and felt a stirring of the old desire to feel that hair over his hands. He could not now understand how he could ever have imagined her innocent. The woman positively exuded sexuality. He gritted his teeth. He had been the one with all the innocence.
She led the way into the house past the housekeeper and into the salon. She motioned him to a chair as she removed her shawl and bonnet and laid them down close to the door. He shook his head, putting his hat and cane beside her things.
"You had better take the weight off your foot," he said. "Your ankle has not swollen again, has it?"
"I think not, your grace," she said stiffly, seating herself on the sofa where she had reclined on his two previous visits.
He crossed the room to fetch a small footstool and placed it in front of her.
"Rest your foot on this," he said, and he knelt on the floor in front of her and took her foot in his hand as she lifted it.
She pulled sharply away, but he tightened his grip on her ankle.
"There is really no need to panic, ma'am," he said, looking up at her with one raised eyebrow. "I am merely checking to see if there is any swelling."
He pressed gently around her ankle and set her foot down on the stool.
"I think there is no further damage done," he said. "But if I were you, I should not do any more walking today."
"Your grace," she said, "you did not bring me back here so that you could play at being physician. You wished to talk to me?"
He straightened up. She was right. Why did he always have this tendency to put off an evil moment?
"You must leave here, Sarah," he said abruptly. "There is no other solution."
She looked down at the hands in her lap. "I have already told you," she said, "that I am not free to come and go as I wish. I must do what Lady Murdoch decides."
"You must see," he said, "that the situation is impossible. Every day, several times every day, you are in company with my sister and with my betrothed. It will not do."
"You think I have not tried to do as you asked?" she said, looking up at him with a flash of some spirit. "I have no wish to be in your company either. Do you think I like to be reminded of the past any more than you do, George? Do you think I have done anything in the last two days or so to seek out anyone's company? Yet I saw you twice, and the girls twice. And this morning I did nothing to plan this walk."
He watched the color rise in her cheeks and along her throat. He watched her green eyes flash.
"I think the fault is not all yours," he admitted. "For some reason, Hannah has taken to you. And Fanny is fascinated by you. She knows who you are, of course. Sarah, I cannot allow it. Hannah is to be my wife. She is a young and innocent girl."
He watched the green eyes brighten before she put her head down sharply. With tears?
"Do you think I have not thought of leaving?" she asked, her voice subdued again. "It would take time for me to find employment. And I would hurt Lady Murdoch dreadfully if I left to be a governess. She has been kind to me, and I know that she has come to rely on my company."
"She obviously knows nothing about you," he said. "Do you not think you will hurt her worse if you stay with her until she finds out the truth? These things have a tendency not to remain hidden forever, you know."
She lowered her head even further so that all he could see was the thick curls on top of her head.
"I am sorry," she said. "I have no choice."
"Yes, you do," he said. He took a deep breath and fixed his eyes on that titian hair. "I do not know exactly what you have been doing for the last four years, Sarah. Fanny says you were living in a cottage somewhere and were happy. I do not know if that is the truth. But were you happy enough to go back if you could?"
"I cannot," she said, looking up at him again. Yes, there were definitely tears in her eyes. He steeled himself to resist the power of her acting skills. "You know I cannot."
"Yes, you can," he said. "I will pay your way back. I will give you three times as much as I settled on you after our divorce. That should cover your expensive style of living. But you must leave within the next few days."
She kicked the stool aside and jumped to her feet. Her cheeks were flaming. "Don't!" she said. "Don't treat me like dirt. Oh, I know I deserve to be despised, but you demean yourself to be so cruel. Don't insult me so." She buried her face in her hands.
"Sarah," he said, "don't. Please don't cry. I did not mean to insult you. I have no right any longer. I merely have a problem, and I cannot think of any other way to solve it. I must send you away. Can you not see? I have the welfare of two young girls to consider, not just my own comfort."
She said nothing. He guessed that she was making an effort not to sob aloud. Damn! She was such a good actress that he could never be sure that she really was acting. He always felt guilty, afraid that he was doing her some terrible injustice. Was she merely holding out for more money?
"Don't cry, Sarah," he said, uncomfortable. He walked closer to her, reached out a hand, and tentatively covered one of hers over her face. "Stop now. I wish you no harm, believe me. Sarah?" He twined his fingers around hers and stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.
She tried to pull away, but in the effort a sob finally escaped her. Oh, damn! Hell and damnation! He caught her by the shoulders almost as if he wanted to punish her and yanked her against him. He put a hand on the back of her head and held her face against his neckcloth.
"Hush now," he said. "Hush." Without conscious thought he was rocking her in his arms. "Don't cry anymore. Stop now and we will talk about it. We do not have a great deal of time, Sarah."
She gulped and pushed away from him. She groped around in the pocket of her dress for a handkerchief. He pulled one out of his own pocket and put it into her hand.
"Here," he said, "use mine. You never seem to have a handkerchief when you need one, do you?" And then he could have bitten his tongue out. What in heaven's name had sent his mind back to his carriage on their wedding day?
"I shall have it laundered and returned to you," she muttered after drying her eyes and blowing her nose. She sat down on the sofa again.
"Well," he said after a short pause, "you tell me, Sarah. What is to be done?"
"I do not know," she said. "I wish I did. Why do you not go away?"
"I hardly think that is to the point," he said, angry for some reason that she would so glibly suggest that he inconvenience himself. "Do you not realize, Sarah, that even without my presence here you are living on a volcano? A secret like yours is very difficult to keep, you know."
"I suppose you do have that other alternative," she said. "You can get rid of me very fast if you choose to do so, your grace."
"I think you know I would not do that," he said.
"Why not?" she asked, looking up at him with anger in her eyes again. "You did it once before, did you not? You dragged me through the mud once. I wonder that you hesitate to do so again."
"After what you told me," he said, "after the contempt you showed me, did you really expect me to remain married to you?"
"I thought perhaps you were a gentleman in every sense of the word," she said. "I was mistaken."
He stood and stared at her incredulously. "And it was on that assumption you gambled?" he asked. "I have often wondered why you allowed the marriage to take place when I was bound to discover your secret very soon afterward. You thought that once caught, I would remain in your net for a lifetime, did you? A perfect gentleman I may not be, Sarah, but neither am I an utter fool."
They glared at each other silently, both breathing rather fast. But this was solving nothing, he thought, and the others might return to the house at any moment.
"Sarah," he said, forcing himself to look away and speak reasonably again, "I have offered you a certain sum of money. If it is not enough, I shall increase my offer. And if you find it offensive to be bought off, think of it this way. We have a common problem. We can solve it together, me by paying a certain sum of money, you by making a journey and another way of life. We both make an effort, and together we solve a problem. Please, will you accept?"
She lifted her chin and looked into his eyes. "I found it humiliating the first time, George," she said, "to take your money when you did not want my person. But at that time, too, there was an insoluble problem. With the scandal fresh on everyone's mind, I was doing terrible harm to my aunt and uncle by living in their home. So I took the money. After four years I lost it in a manner that I choose not to discuss with you. But I will not take anything more from you, even though this situation is equally as bad as the other one. I would die rather, or suffer all the humiliation of being exposed here for what I am."
God! Why did she seem so righteous? Why did he suddenly feel so much in the wrong? His temper snapped.
"Perhaps you would accept the money if I called upon you to render suitable services," he said through his teeth, advancing menacingly on her.
She shot to her feet. "How dare you!" she spat out. "Of all the filthy-"
Her hand was raised to strike at him when they both became aware of the outside door opening and several voices approaching.
She sat down abruptly and grabbed for a box beside her, which she tipped onto her lap. A heap of tangled silk threads and numerous needles fell out. Cranwell crossed the room with rapid strides and was looking out of the window, hands clasped behind his back, when the door opened and the whole of the outside world seemed to spill inside.
Sarah insisted that Lady Murdoch not change her plans to go to the Lower Rooms that evening, though she would not go herself. She explained that she wished to be wise about her ankle and to rest it after the morning's walk so that she might have an outing the next day. When she was alone, she took the precaution of retiring to her room with a book. She left instructions with Mrs. Bergland that she was not to be disturbed under any conditions. She could not imagine who might visit her at such a time, but she had learned from the experience of the previous few days that in Bath any hour seemed suitable for visitors.
She had brought a book upstairs with her, but she looked at it with some incredulity as she sat on the edge of her bed. Had she really imagined that she might read? She had so much on her mind that she already felt as if her head were spinning on her shoulders.
He really did hate her. She did not know why she should be surprised at that. Even the real facts would justify his feelings, but she had seen to it that the facts were magnified and distorted. She was not quite sure why she had done so. Heaven knew, she had loved him and had wanted his love in return more than she had ever wanted anything else in her life. There had been so much of suffering and degradation in her past that she had longed with all her being for the refinement, the courtliness, the deep affection that life with George had seemed to offer.
Perhaps it was her deep love and respect for him that had finally made her act as she had. When he had left her and sent her back to Uncle Randolph, she had been numb with grief and horror for the first day, wanting only the chance to talk to him again, to explain as she had been unable to do when he had confronted her. But by the second day the old humiliation had taken control of her again. She had convinced herself that he was right: she was evil, no better than a whore. By right, she was Winston's mistress, not George's wife.
And she had blamed herself bitterly for what she had done. She should never have allowed even a friendship to develop between the Duke of Cranwell and herself. She should certainly not have encouraged his visits or his growing attachment to her. And she should have refused his proposal in no uncertain terms. There should have been no question of acceptance.
The fact that she had married him, had involved him in her own shame, became to her the worst sin she had committed. And it had seemed to be one that she could never atone for. She had ruined the life of the man she loved most in all the world. Her silence in allowing the marriage to proceed had been worse than the active sins she had committed with Winston.
She had not expected to see George again. She had thought he would stay away from her forever afterward and pretend that she did not exist. And she had felt no resentment against him. She had only grieved that she had destroyed his freedom and his ability to find happiness with another wife. When she had seen him ride up to her uncle's house, she had quickly hidden herself in the grounds, taking refuge on the stile that had always been one of her favorite spots. And she had quickly planned what she should say and do if he came to seek her out.
She was totally unprepared for his words and his manner. She had expected him to come to accuse and to preach. She had not expected his reasonable, almost humble attempt to come to some sort of explanation and understanding. She was not prepared for his forgiveness. He did not openly offer that forgiveness, but she sensed that she could win him back. He was prepared to listen, to sympathize, and to pardon.
And she completely took fright. She could not accept his forgiveness; she did not deserve it. She would never be able to look into his eyes again, knowing that he knew, knowing that he must be suffering agonies of remorse for having been deceived into marrying her. She could not trap him into a life like that, a life in which honor would hold him close to her when inclination must make him wish to be anywhere but near her. She had dealt him the greatest injustice of all by marrying him. Now she must do all in her power to give him some measure of freedom, at least.
And so she did something she had never done in her life, something that she did not know she could do. She acted a part, the part of a heartless, cynical coquette. She quite deliberately tauted him until she saw his look of pain and gentleness turn to one of disgust. And she watched him go, her chin up, a malevolent smile on her lips. And she crumpled up against the stile afterward and cried until she had no energy left to continue.
She had still not expected him to divorce her. Truth to tell, she scarcely knew what divorce was. And even when Uncle Randolph had called her into his study to read the letter from George's lawyer, she had not really comprehended. The marriage was to be ended; she had understood that. But she had not realized that the whole matter must go before Parliament, that everything must be dragged into the open. Uncle Randolph had called his own man of business down from London, and he had explained matters to both of them.
She might have fought the action, the lawyer had advised her. The Duke of Cranwell would have difficulty winning his case unless he could prove that at least one of her indiscretions-that was the euphemism the man had used-had been committed after the wedding.
She might have fought. What had she done? She had coolly looked the lawyer in the eye, with Uncle Randolph sitting there listening, and told him that in that case there was no point in fighting the case. She had been indiscreet-she had emphasized the word-at least once since her marriage. And she had smiled at the man until he had lowered his eyes to the papers he shuffled in his hands, obviously embarrassed. She had done the only thing in her power to atone for her chief sin. George wanted to be completely free of her. She had made it possible for him to be so.
And she wondered now why he hated her so.
And he wanted her to go away. He wanted never to see her again. He was willing to pay a small fortune to achieve his wish. And she had refused, had become angry at the insult. She did not have the right ever to be angry with George, ever to refuse him anything reasonable. And his request was reasonable, was it not? She found the present situation intolerable. What must it be for him?
Oh, but she could not accede to his wishes. She had thought that she had already sunk to the greatest depths of degradation possible. And to take money from George again so that she could set up an independent life would be further humiliation. He would be keeping her. She could not allow that.
But what, then?
There seemed to be no answer, though Sarah racked her brains and thought in endless circles until the sound of Lady Murdoch's voice in the hallway below set her to blowing out the candles on her dresser and undressing quickly in the dark.
She would think of something tomorrow.