The Governess Affair
Page 25
But perhaps she sensed it anyway, because a few days after that, he received her next response.
Mr. Marshall, she wrote, I am delighted that you are delighted that I am delighted with my new home. Can I predict the substance of your next missive? That you are delighted that I am delighted that you are delighted, et cetera.
I have just saved us both a great deal of postage and awkward conversation. If we keep this up, we shall quickly run through our ink. And so I shall say this as simply as I can, without once hinting that I expect any more of you. I am glad—damnably glad—that I had one night with you. There are dark times in the evening when I imagine your arms around me. For all you claim to be ruthless, you have been my shining, guiding star. Let us not pretend that we mean nothing to one another. We may not be husband and wife in the truest sense, but we have been friends and we have been lovers, and I hope that we may be friends still.
His lungs ached when he read that. His entire body ached, truth be told, from his toes to his heart.
Still, the next morning, he spent an immense sum shipping the shawl to New Shaling, along with a note: Bought this a few days ago. It made me think of you.
His days passed by rote. Everything was now falling into place. He’d had a message from the duke, indicating that he’d managed to smooth things over with his recalcitrant wife. Investments were coming through. In three months’ time, with the duchess’s revenue finally secured, he’d have made the duke more than a thousand pounds—more than five thousand pounds. He’d win his wager. From there, he’d begin to expand his empire.
The problem was that his heart wasn’t in it any longer. He’d spent his entire life focused on making something of himself: on the thought that he might one day argue his father’s voice into silence.
That evening, before he’d heard back from her about the shawl, he wrote to her again: You can call me your friend if you like, but I think of you when I stroke myself. When last I checked, that points to feelings that are decidedly more than friendly. Have I horrified you too much?
He waited days for her reply. When it finally came he read it instantly: Sir: I am a respectable married woman. I cannot express in words the horror and revulsion that arise in me upon reading the sentiments you have communicated.
Hugo raised his head from the letter. But he hadn’t finished, and some penchant for punishment forced him to continue: Your letter only underscored my own failings. After all, as your wife, it is my duty to stroke you. Is it not?”
It was all Hugo could do not to leave for New Shaling on the spot.
THE HOUSE WAS BUSTLING in preparation for the duke’s return. Hugo couldn’t find it in him to care about much of anything. He could scarcely make himself bother over even the basics of the accounts; he didn’t want to think of the future.
It was Clermont’s fault—all of it. These last months had robbed him of his certainty. And what he’d taken from Serena…
Hugo shook his head. It didn’t matter. He had only a few months to go. If he could stomach that, he’d win his wager, collect his money, and never see the man again.
He heard the carriage arrive below. All the other servants must have gone down to greet their master; Hugo stayed up in the office, sorting through bills and payments, reports from estates. It seemed rather ironic that even though Hugo had almost stopped exerting himself, everything prospered. Ships had come in ahead of schedule, bearing cargo that was vastly more valuable than what had been paid on the other end. The price of wheat was rising; wool was doing even better.
It was as if the entire universe was rewarding him. If this luck held up once Hugo started investing his own money, he’d be a wealthy man by the age of forty. He’d have servants and his own estate. He would beat back that dark, dismal voice inside of him by the sheer dint of his accomplishment. Perhaps in ten years, he might make another visit to New Shaling, and see if he could rekindle...
No. No. He couldn’t think that way.
It took hours for the duke to recover from his journey—eating and cleansing himself, or whatever it was that dukes did after retrieving their errant wives. Hugo sat in his office, waiting for the duke to show his face. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to confront him about his lies, or if he hoped the man kept away, so he didn’t have to look at him.
Eventually, the man wandered into Hugo’s office.
The Duke of Clermont hadn’t changed. He was still a big, solid mass of a man. He hadn’t grown any fatter; his eyes weren’t any narrower. And yet Hugo’s first thought was that the man seemed a hundred times more swinish.
“I see the governess is gone,” he said cheerily. “And the duchess is back, and in a few months, assuming all is well, I’ll have another payment from the trust.”
“Yes,” Hugo said tersely. “Good.”
But the duke was in a voluble mood today. “What do you think I should buy, first thing?” he mused. “Horses? Or a mistress?”
He couldn’t believe the man was still talking that way—not after all he’d been through.
“I have a better idea,” Hugo heard himself say. “You could go on a journey.”
“A journey? Now, there’s a capital idea for escaping my wife. Brighton, perhaps? Or France?”
“None of those,” Hugo said. “I was thinking that you could go to hell.”
He didn’t curse. He didn’t. And yet he could not make himself regret those words. A fierce sense of rightness beat in his chest, alongside his awakening heart.
His pronouncement was met with flat silence. Clermont cocked his head in disbelief, and then slowly—ever so slowly—shook it. “I’m not—I’m rather certain”—he spluttered—“I don’t believe you should address me in that fashion.”
Hugo stood. He wasn’t taller than the duke, but still the other man took a step back.
“You told me that you wanted me to take care of an employment matter. An employment matter. Do you have any idea what I might have done to her?”
“Oh, come now, Marshall. You’re not going and getting a conscience on me, are you?” Clermont pouted. “It’s so inconvenient, and I’ve had to listen to Her Grace harping on and on for the last three weeks about this and that and morals and love. My head is sick of nodding to the tune of nonsense. I have had nothing but lectures for days and days now. Is it never going to end?”
Hugo gritted his teeth. If he wanted those five hundred pounds, he had to work with this man for the next few months. He had to.
Mr. Marshall, she wrote, I am delighted that you are delighted that I am delighted with my new home. Can I predict the substance of your next missive? That you are delighted that I am delighted that you are delighted, et cetera.
I have just saved us both a great deal of postage and awkward conversation. If we keep this up, we shall quickly run through our ink. And so I shall say this as simply as I can, without once hinting that I expect any more of you. I am glad—damnably glad—that I had one night with you. There are dark times in the evening when I imagine your arms around me. For all you claim to be ruthless, you have been my shining, guiding star. Let us not pretend that we mean nothing to one another. We may not be husband and wife in the truest sense, but we have been friends and we have been lovers, and I hope that we may be friends still.
His lungs ached when he read that. His entire body ached, truth be told, from his toes to his heart.
Still, the next morning, he spent an immense sum shipping the shawl to New Shaling, along with a note: Bought this a few days ago. It made me think of you.
His days passed by rote. Everything was now falling into place. He’d had a message from the duke, indicating that he’d managed to smooth things over with his recalcitrant wife. Investments were coming through. In three months’ time, with the duchess’s revenue finally secured, he’d have made the duke more than a thousand pounds—more than five thousand pounds. He’d win his wager. From there, he’d begin to expand his empire.
The problem was that his heart wasn’t in it any longer. He’d spent his entire life focused on making something of himself: on the thought that he might one day argue his father’s voice into silence.
That evening, before he’d heard back from her about the shawl, he wrote to her again: You can call me your friend if you like, but I think of you when I stroke myself. When last I checked, that points to feelings that are decidedly more than friendly. Have I horrified you too much?
He waited days for her reply. When it finally came he read it instantly: Sir: I am a respectable married woman. I cannot express in words the horror and revulsion that arise in me upon reading the sentiments you have communicated.
Hugo raised his head from the letter. But he hadn’t finished, and some penchant for punishment forced him to continue: Your letter only underscored my own failings. After all, as your wife, it is my duty to stroke you. Is it not?”
It was all Hugo could do not to leave for New Shaling on the spot.
THE HOUSE WAS BUSTLING in preparation for the duke’s return. Hugo couldn’t find it in him to care about much of anything. He could scarcely make himself bother over even the basics of the accounts; he didn’t want to think of the future.
It was Clermont’s fault—all of it. These last months had robbed him of his certainty. And what he’d taken from Serena…
Hugo shook his head. It didn’t matter. He had only a few months to go. If he could stomach that, he’d win his wager, collect his money, and never see the man again.
He heard the carriage arrive below. All the other servants must have gone down to greet their master; Hugo stayed up in the office, sorting through bills and payments, reports from estates. It seemed rather ironic that even though Hugo had almost stopped exerting himself, everything prospered. Ships had come in ahead of schedule, bearing cargo that was vastly more valuable than what had been paid on the other end. The price of wheat was rising; wool was doing even better.
It was as if the entire universe was rewarding him. If this luck held up once Hugo started investing his own money, he’d be a wealthy man by the age of forty. He’d have servants and his own estate. He would beat back that dark, dismal voice inside of him by the sheer dint of his accomplishment. Perhaps in ten years, he might make another visit to New Shaling, and see if he could rekindle...
No. No. He couldn’t think that way.
It took hours for the duke to recover from his journey—eating and cleansing himself, or whatever it was that dukes did after retrieving their errant wives. Hugo sat in his office, waiting for the duke to show his face. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to confront him about his lies, or if he hoped the man kept away, so he didn’t have to look at him.
Eventually, the man wandered into Hugo’s office.
The Duke of Clermont hadn’t changed. He was still a big, solid mass of a man. He hadn’t grown any fatter; his eyes weren’t any narrower. And yet Hugo’s first thought was that the man seemed a hundred times more swinish.
“I see the governess is gone,” he said cheerily. “And the duchess is back, and in a few months, assuming all is well, I’ll have another payment from the trust.”
“Yes,” Hugo said tersely. “Good.”
But the duke was in a voluble mood today. “What do you think I should buy, first thing?” he mused. “Horses? Or a mistress?”
He couldn’t believe the man was still talking that way—not after all he’d been through.
“I have a better idea,” Hugo heard himself say. “You could go on a journey.”
“A journey? Now, there’s a capital idea for escaping my wife. Brighton, perhaps? Or France?”
“None of those,” Hugo said. “I was thinking that you could go to hell.”
He didn’t curse. He didn’t. And yet he could not make himself regret those words. A fierce sense of rightness beat in his chest, alongside his awakening heart.
His pronouncement was met with flat silence. Clermont cocked his head in disbelief, and then slowly—ever so slowly—shook it. “I’m not—I’m rather certain”—he spluttered—“I don’t believe you should address me in that fashion.”
Hugo stood. He wasn’t taller than the duke, but still the other man took a step back.
“You told me that you wanted me to take care of an employment matter. An employment matter. Do you have any idea what I might have done to her?”
“Oh, come now, Marshall. You’re not going and getting a conscience on me, are you?” Clermont pouted. “It’s so inconvenient, and I’ve had to listen to Her Grace harping on and on for the last three weeks about this and that and morals and love. My head is sick of nodding to the tune of nonsense. I have had nothing but lectures for days and days now. Is it never going to end?”
Hugo gritted his teeth. If he wanted those five hundred pounds, he had to work with this man for the next few months. He had to.
