“He’s at Worthorne Manor. You know that, Marcus. He said good-bye to you yesterday.”
“Did he?”
“He told you to stay out of trouble.”
But Marcus wasn’t listening. He looked down at the cartoon again, and his instincts told him that it was Portia who was in trouble. It was time to throw himself onto the dais again—metaphorically speaking—and this time he wouldn’t allow anyone to stop him.
“Marcus, what is the matter with you…? Marcus!” she wailed as he shot to his feet and hurried from the room, his coffee cup left teetering. His footsteps pounded across the hall and the front door slammed.
Apart from the evening meal, Portia found it easier just to keep to her room. If she went downstairs, she had to share the house with Lara and Arnold, and although she had brazened it out at first, playing the heroine, now she was weary of Lara’s venomous stares and Arnold’s superior smiles.
It wasn’t that she cared what they thought of her, but she was angry that they should think they could treat her this way. Oh, she understood that they believed she would bring disgrace on them and were looking out for their own interests. They saw her as the golden goose, and couldn’t afford to let her run off with the gander. But they had no right to bully her and keep her prisoner in her own home, and worse, accompany her everywhere she went. There seemed no escape, but at least she could close the door to her bedchamber and pretend to be alone.
And now her mother, whom she was trying to save from a terrible fate, had taken to coming downstairs and sitting with them after dinner. “So nice to have these little family gatherings,” she said to Portia, clinging to her arm. “It reminds me of when your dear father was alive. Was he your father? I can’t remember…”
“Can’t you, Mrs. Stroud?” Arnold said with that nasty smile.
“Did these family gatherings include lessons on morality?” Lara added, forcefully dissecting her chicken pie.
Portia didn’t find much joy in dining at home anymore, but her pride forced her to continue doing it. Besides, she didn’t want them to become suspicious. She’d been working on a plan to spirit her mother away, but she needed an accomplice and as yet could think of no one she trusted enough to resist Arnold’s threats and to keep silent.
Apart from Marcus.
She sighed; she could hardly ask him. Especially as she had not seen him since the night they said good-bye at Aphrodite’s. Their last night. He could be anywhere now. He’d promised he was going to Norfolk to make a life there, and she had believed him, but that was before he asked her to marry him. Deep down, Portia wondered whether she ever truly believed he was going away for good. Perhaps it had suited her to believe, so she could use it as a sop to her conscience and agree to one more night in his arms.
She still dreamt of him. It was worse than ever. She wondered if she would ever forget him or whether she would carry his touch, his kisses, his smile with her to her grave. When she remembered how she’d told him to marry someone else if he wanted a wife, she shuddered at her own hasty words. Marcus with another woman was beyond bearing, and yet she couldn’t have him herself. She couldn’t.
Abruptly, she rose and went to stand at her window, looking out. She was due to attend a function tomorrow night—a grand ball at St. James’s Palace—and she should be planning her outfit. Once upon a time she would have looked upon such things as of the utmost importance. She’d felt it was her duty to represent her husband to the best of her ability, that everything she did reflected upon him and his memory. Now, all she could think of was Arnold and Lara and their treatment of her, and the undeniable fact that she was a prisoner.
Even Hettie wasn’t the same, although she could not put her finger on exactly what was different about her faithful maid. But she had noticed the way Hettie watched her, as if waiting for something to happen.
She remembered all the times she had spent with Marcus, but in particular remembered that day at St. Tristan. There was a golden glow about the memory, like a heavenly experience, and she wished she could run down the stairs and out of the house and catch the train to Little Tunley. She wished it was possible to go back in time.
Perhaps, just perhaps, if she had her choice over again, she might stay at St. Tristan and never come back.
“I have sent the lavender shot silk to be pressed,” Hettie said, bustling into the room. “The one with the à la grecque neckline and three flounces on the skirt. It is elegant but quite plain for a ball dress, and Her Majesty always admires you in lavender. You should wear it to the grand ball, my lady.”
“She thinks it makes me look sallow,” said Portia wryly.
Hettie smiled. “You’re very beautiful, my lady. Even queens are women, underneath their crowns.”
Portia sat down before the mirror, while Hettie picked up the wreath that was to sit on her hair. The hairdresser would come, and her fair tresses would be caught up in elaborate twists of curls to one side, while at the back it would be plaited and held off her nape with jeweled combs.
“Victoria professes to love me, but I don’t think she does. Not really. It was Lord Ellerslie she loved. I am a reminder of him, and she sees herself as the guardian of his memory.”
Hettie’s eyes were downcast as she concentrated on her task, trying the wreath in various positions. “You have never spoken like this before, my lady.”
“I have never felt like this before.”
“Don’t let the Gillinghams hear you, lieben.”
Portia used her key to open her ebony jewelry box inlaid with mother of pearl. “Don’t worry, I will mind my tongue.” She chose her favorite black mourning locket with a silhouette of Lord Ellerslie upon the front and a lock of his hair inside. “I want Mrs. Stroud to take a holiday.”
“Oh?” Hettie raised her eyebrows.
“For her own sake she needs to go away. If only she had kept in touch with the people she knew before, when we lived in the New Forest, but she dropped them all when we came to London.” Her mother had been so full of Portia’s triumph, she believed herself above her old friends. Now she was in need of them and it was too late. Even if they could help her, Portia doubted they would. There was Great-aunt Cecily, of course, who lived in Cambridge. Cecily would enjoy taking Mrs. Stroud in, if only to be able to constantly remind her of how far she had fallen. Portia knew her mother would not enjoy such reminders, but could beggars be choosers?
“Cambridge might be somewhere safe,” Portia murmured to herself. “I wonder if it is possible…?”