idiot, that suited me perfectly well. Another lesson from the gaming table: better to be thought a fool than a threat. ‘Please.’
She dipped her chin in gracious assent. ‘That summer in Lincoln was a happy time. Home had become oppressive, though I only realised this once I had left. My mother never strayed far from the village, but in her later years she would not even leave the house, save for church. My father too seemed altered by the trip. He laughed more easily. It is a comfort now to think of those last days.’ She looked down. ‘He died. My father died. It came without warning. One moment he was well, and the next . . .’ A tear slid down her perfect cheek. She trapped it beneath her fingers, brushed it away.
‘I’m sorry.’
Eight years had passed, and still the grief lingered. I could see how naturally it fell upon the contours of her face, how familiar and constant a companion it had become. How, in fact, it had shaped her, and turned her beauty into something austere and remote. I had lost my mother when I was a child and understood that ache, that hollow yearning for a beloved parent. This much of her story, at least, was true.
She took another sip of wine. ‘I could not bear to return home without him. There was a gentleman. James Fairwood. I didn’t love him. He was thirty years my senior and . . . well. I did not love him. But he was kind, and asked nothing of me. I accepted his proposal.’ There was a short pause, as she wrapped herself in old, private thoughts of her loveless marriage. ‘Mr Fairwood had come recently into a fortune. We bought a large manor house near Horncastle. Five years later my husband fell ill with a fever and died. I was alone.’
I sensed a rich satisfaction in that final sentence. ‘That is young to be widowed. You must have been desolate.’ I chose the word deliberately – it was too rich an emotion for her, and I wanted to hear her denial.
She gave it at once, with some force. ‘Desolate? No indeed! The marriage had been a convenience for both of us.’ And then she froze, realising her mistake.
‘A convenience? How so?’
She was furious with herself. She had been so careful with her story, reciting her monologue with precision. No wonder she hated my questions. Nothing an actress dislikes more than interruptions from the audience. ‘We kept each other company.’
I put my glass to my lips, hardly able to conceal my amusement. Imagined James Fairwood, recently come into a fortune, searching Lincolnshire for the most cheerful companion he could find – and choosing this elegant block of ice. Hogwash. ‘There were no children?’
‘No!’ she declared, before I had even finished the question. And then, recovering, ‘No. We were not blessed with children. It is a great sadness to me,’ she added, without conviction.
My suspicions were confirmed. Mr Fairwood had been past fifty when he came into his fortune. A man of means must take a wife or else face endless gossip. I would bet every coin in my pocket that Fairwood had no interest in women. A swift marriage to a respectable lady, who wanted nothing from him in return, had been a wise step. It had indeed been a marriage of convenience for both of them. She must have been delighted when he died, poor fellow.
‘I sold the house,’ she said, ‘and set up a new home in Lincoln. Time passed, and I found myself to be . . . content. There were a few suitors, but they were more interested in my fortune than my intellect. Foolish, frivolous boys.’ She offered me a sidelong glance. ‘I preferred my own company. And then my mother grew sick.’
She rose and crossed to the desk by the window, searching through the drawers. ‘I left a letter here,’ she explained. ‘Metcalfe must have taken it to his quarters. He wanted to study it more closely. He believes I am a cuckoo in the nest.’ She closed the final drawer with a smart shove. ‘If only that were true. How I wish I could leave this wretched
She dipped her chin in gracious assent. ‘That summer in Lincoln was a happy time. Home had become oppressive, though I only realised this once I had left. My mother never strayed far from the village, but in her later years she would not even leave the house, save for church. My father too seemed altered by the trip. He laughed more easily. It is a comfort now to think of those last days.’ She looked down. ‘He died. My father died. It came without warning. One moment he was well, and the next . . .’ A tear slid down her perfect cheek. She trapped it beneath her fingers, brushed it away.
‘I’m sorry.’
Eight years had passed, and still the grief lingered. I could see how naturally it fell upon the contours of her face, how familiar and constant a companion it had become. How, in fact, it had shaped her, and turned her beauty into something austere and remote. I had lost my mother when I was a child and understood that ache, that hollow yearning for a beloved parent. This much of her story, at least, was true.
She took another sip of wine. ‘I could not bear to return home without him. There was a gentleman. James Fairwood. I didn’t love him. He was thirty years my senior and . . . well. I did not love him. But he was kind, and asked nothing of me. I accepted his proposal.’ There was a short pause, as she wrapped herself in old, private thoughts of her loveless marriage. ‘Mr Fairwood had come recently into a fortune. We bought a large manor house near Horncastle. Five years later my husband fell ill with a fever and died. I was alone.’
I sensed a rich satisfaction in that final sentence. ‘That is young to be widowed. You must have been desolate.’ I chose the word deliberately – it was too rich an emotion for her, and I wanted to hear her denial.
She gave it at once, with some force. ‘Desolate? No indeed! The marriage had been a convenience for both of us.’ And then she froze, realising her mistake.
‘A convenience? How so?’
She was furious with herself. She had been so careful with her story, reciting her monologue with precision. No wonder she hated my questions. Nothing an actress dislikes more than interruptions from the audience. ‘We kept each other company.’
I put my glass to my lips, hardly able to conceal my amusement. Imagined James Fairwood, recently come into a fortune, searching Lincolnshire for the most cheerful companion he could find – and choosing this elegant block of ice. Hogwash. ‘There were no children?’
‘No!’ she declared, before I had even finished the question. And then, recovering, ‘No. We were not blessed with children. It is a great sadness to me,’ she added, without conviction.
My suspicions were confirmed. Mr Fairwood had been past fifty when he came into his fortune. A man of means must take a wife or else face endless gossip. I would bet every coin in my pocket that Fairwood had no interest in women. A swift marriage to a respectable lady, who wanted nothing from him in return, had been a wise step. It had indeed been a marriage of convenience for both of them. She must have been delighted when he died, poor fellow.
‘I sold the house,’ she said, ‘and set up a new home in Lincoln. Time passed, and I found myself to be . . . content. There were a few suitors, but they were more interested in my fortune than my intellect. Foolish, frivolous boys.’ She offered me a sidelong glance. ‘I preferred my own company. And then my mother grew sick.’
She rose and crossed to the desk by the window, searching through the drawers. ‘I left a letter here,’ she explained. ‘Metcalfe must have taken it to his quarters. He wanted to study it more closely. He believes I am a cuckoo in the nest.’ She closed the final drawer with a smart shove. ‘If only that were true. How I wish I could leave this wretched
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