She raised her hand, cutting him off. “I sing for my supper every Wednesday, Justin. Mrs. Plumb has been a good friend.” She indicated the small drawing room in which they sat. “She gives me my privacy when I need it and ensures I do not lack entertainment.”
Justin gave a wry laugh as he removed his face mask. “I wish it weren’t necessary to disguise myself, Mariah. I feel like a thief in the night and don’t know how I’d begin to explain these visits to my wife.”
“Your wife should strive a little harder to value the prize jewel she married. You’ve not told her about what you’re doing, Justin? You promised me.”
His urge to confide in Mariah about his marital problems was checked by her mild criticism of Cressida, and he regretted unburdening himself when he’d hinted that his wife was no longer as eager for the joys of the marital bed as she once had been. But it had been so good to see Mariah again after so many years and natural to revive the friendship with its old familiarity.
“Cressida is an angel. I’d trust her with my life, but since you are concerned that she mixes with some of the parties concerned in my investigation, I assure you that my lips are sealed.”
“Cressida is a lucky woman.”
He glanced at Mariah’s face, serene and faintly sympathetic in the light cast by the Argand light on the low table nearby. He did not think jealousy was behind the faint contempt he sensed. Mariah and he had shared similar interests and an affectionate rather than passionate physical relationship all those years ago. He’d been generous when he’d given Mariah her congé, though her illustrious marriage to Lord Grainger ought
to have ensured her comfort for the rest of the days. It was, in fact, when Mariah looked set to be left all but destitute by the aging peer who was in the process of divorcing her that she and Justin had met. Mariah had already risen to great heights of her own accord when she’d won Grainger’s heart. The once-famous opera singer had gone on to win Justin’s after she’d sought legal advice while struggling to maintain her dignity—and enough support to keep body and soul together—in the face of Grainger’s appalling treatment of her during the final months of their marriage. Mariah had given the youthful Justin her loyalty and her gratitude for his friendship. Much later, she’d given him her body, but never a hint as to the reasons for her humiliating divorce. Not all of them, anyway.
“It seems Cressida would rather put you through the mill than offer a reasonable argument for her cruelty.”
Mariah looked so disdainful that Justin laughed. “You always were my champion, my dear Mariah,” he said, “but since you have never met my wife, I beg you to refrain from passing judgment. I must be blamed for this erroneous perception of her, for, I assure you, a man could have no better a wife.” Smiling, refusing to countenance the churning in his breast, he added, “Cressida is the most conscientious of mothers. It is a trial and a sadness that our youngest is not robust, but I will not hear Cressida criticized for choosing her son’s comfort over mine on occasion.”
“Perceptions matter as much as the truth.” Mariah fixed him with a direct look. “The word about town is that Lady Lovett has not been seen more than three times by your side during the last year. You are lonely, Justin.”
The concern in her expression was genuine, not a gambit for offering him the solace of her charms.
Indeed, it was on account of his genuine liking and respect for his old friend and former mistress that Justin allowed her to persist with the subject.
“Have you ever suspected there might be someone else, Justin?”
When he shook his head, she countered, gently, “I was married to Lord Grainger for many years. I thought I knew him better than I knew myself. It was only in the final year of our marriage that I discovered I did not know him at all.”
This was not the time to question Mariah about her husband. Justin rose and went to the window. “As I have already made plain, Mariah, nothing stands between Cressida and me except”—holding back the curtain, he stared into the moonless night—“the children.” It was the first time he’d put it into words. A vision of their young, happy faces blurred in his mind. Unhappily, he added, “They are everything to her.”
“Children play an essential part in the success of a marriage, as I well know”—her voice wavered—“but they cannot provide her with everything she needs, Justin.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mariah, it was thoughtless of me—”
“You are too sensitive if you thought your words implied that, just as your many children may be the reason for your troubles, the lack of children was the entire reason for my divorce and current situation.”
He no longer wanted to pursue this line. Mariah was quite likely to prize from him deeper pain and grievances than he wished to articulate.
“Cressida has given me four healthy daughters and a son, yet I am as drawn by her beguiling charm as I was the day we met.” He realized the words sounded trite and rehearsed. Forcing himself to cast aside his despondency, he began to pace. “She is an extraordinary woman and, just as she is devoted to family life, I am devoted to her.”
Mariah gave a desultory little clap. “Bravo, Justin. I wish all husbands were as loyal to their wives as you are to your Cressida. I hope she may yet prove she deserves you.”
From the window embrasure, Justin turned. “She does so every day. Cressida is kind and gentle, and it is only natural that with the arrival of so many in the nursery, she is less driven by the carnal desires which curse we men.” With a restless sigh, he returned to the sofa, giving Mariah a rueful smile. “You sought my services in the hope I might put an end to your pain and suffering by at least supplying you with an answer to the one question that has haunted you for eighteen years—the identity and location of your daughter.” Taking her hand, he squeezed it lightly. “Though so different from my wife, you are a woman, Mariah, who craves the same things Cressida does, the joy of seeing one’s children grow. Ironically, Cressida has this in such abundance she no longer needs me as much as she once did. I have her love and affection, and I tell myself it should be enough.” He shrugged, as if it didn’t hurt. “I’m following your investigation for you as a friend and, as discussed, I refuse payment for these services. But…” He dissembled, unsure where his thoughts were taking him. Deciding there was no need to censor the activity of his brain, he proceeded with unusual recklessness, his throat suddenly dry as he realized how much he wanted advice. “But, Mariah, as a friend, and a woman experienced in life’s sorrows and disappointments, perhaps I could ask from you some small payment? Perhaps you could tell me plainly if you believe all hope is lost.” He hesitated. “And, if not, suggest how I might rekindle my wife’s desire?”
Mariah’s look was kind. In the manner of her countrywomen, she gave an expressive shrug. “Have you tried talking to her? That’s always a good beginning.”
“I hear the irony in your tone, and I concede that words are the obvious, but sometimes the hardest, way to begin.” Frustrated, he added, “Cressida knew nothing about relations between men and women when I married her, though she seemed to have no aversion to her…bedroom duties.” With a pang of remembered longing, he reflected upon her unexpected enthusiasm and the heights of passion that had quickly elevated their relationship beyond the early kindling of their love.
Until Thomas’ birth. No… He frowned, thinking. She had withdrawn before that. With three children in the nursery, her wifely devotions had swung definitely in favor of motherly duties, though it was only in the past ten months she had developed the regular megrims that seemed to coincide with his visits to her bedchamber.
“Cressida was obviously born to be a mother.” He raked his hand through his hair. The evening had been most unsatisfactory. He could tell Mariah nothing that would give her comfort with regard to her search for her lost child, meanwhile, Mariah’s mild criticism of Cressida needled him, though he’d pressed on to discuss the marital problems that neither he nor his wife seemed able to broach.
He picked up his demi-mask as he prepared to leave, returning to the subject of the business that had first brought them together. Briskly, he said, “I have been stringing out your anticipation by talking of my marital concerns when I intended merely to tell you that I have found not one, but two, likely avenues to pursue. Next time I visit, I shall have the list of the children who were admitted to and removed from the Sedleywich Home for Orphans in the years in which you are interested, Mariah. My report is begun, and I am following your lead, though I must tell you now, if your suspicion is correct, great effort has gone into muddying the trail that might reveal your daughter’s new identity.”
Mariah sent him a grateful look. “You are a good man, Justin, and you have always been kind to me. If I can do anything in return, it would be to suggest that when you get home, take your wife into your arms, and ask her what is troubling her. Words may be the hardest way to broach the subject, but you have to give her the opportunity to say what’s in her heart before you reveal the state of yours.”
Chapter Four