that there was nothing to be seen of the prospect since it was dark outside, or that the fierce cold he’d let in caused them unnecessary discomfort. The ladies pursed their lips, shivering in silence as goose pimples rose on their décolletage. The men too fell silent. Montfort, still shadowed by his sleepy dog, lumbered back to the head of the table and lowered himself slowly into his chair.
At the far end of the table, Foley alone was undaunted by his host’s foul temper. He rekindled his conversation with Bradfield. The subject matter was inaudible, but to judge from Foley’s black brows jerking up and down like startled spiders, it was a question of some drama. A short interval later and the rest of the assembly had mustered the courage to resume a subdued chatter. The attorney Wallace attempted to attract the attention of Miss Alleyn, who was rapt in her nephew Robert’s account of his imminent voyage to Italy.
Miss Alleyn, her thin nose reddened by the sudden burst of cold, was trying to question Robert on the details of his journey, but, apparently oblivious to her, he was deep in conversation with Elizabeth on the subject of Rome. In the midst of this exchange he leaned over to her, whispered a confidence, then continued with his description. Soon after that I heard a loud snort and a strange growling sound issued from Montfort’s lips. Robert paused and turned to his father, his brow wrinkled in puzzlement.
“Are you well, sir? You appear out of sorts. Does your gout trouble you?” he inquired solicitously.
“If I find myself indisposed, I would thank you not to add to my unease by your interrogation. You may fancy yourself a physician, but that is no more than a flight of your imagination.”
Robert was startled by the harshness of this retort. “I did not intend to add to your discomfort. I am merely concerned for your well-being.”
“I will choose when and with whom I wish to discuss my well-being, Robert,” responded his father bitterly. “And as for you, Elizabeth, I will thank you to remember your guests.”
As if she’d been slapped, Elizabeth flinched and lowered her eyes. She was coiffed with an elaborate white-powdered wig interwoven with silk rosebuds and leaves, and her gown was of crimson silk trimmed with black lace. The richness of this garb seemed only to heighten the pallor of her powdered face. A black beauty spot had detached itself from her upper lip and trembled precariously before falling to her breast. She stroked the ringlet of white hair that lay on her shoulder, as if touching something soft in the face of his harshness offered some small consolation. Then, though plainly shivering from the cold, she took out her fan and began fanning herself as if feverish with heat. This evident distress failed to move her husband. Turning to the roast partridge on his plate, he pierced its golden skin with his fork, hacked off a large section of succulent meat, and began to chew.
I t was not the first time I’d witnessed Lord Montfort speak roughly to Elizabeth, and I confess his treatment of her rankled with me. Perhaps I was being foolishly unworldly in my distaste; after all, what husband is not masterful on occasion? Is it not a man’s God-given right to be ruler in his own household, to demand obedience of his spouse whenever he deems it necessary? Yet in this instance something in the disparity of their ages (she was only three years older than his son), something in his physical grossness and her fragility (I could not help picturing his vast belly crushing her birdlike frame) struck me as profoundly distasteful. How had such an unlikely match come about? I’d quizzed Constance, a fountain of knowledge on such subjects, and learned a little of the sorry tale.
Some five years earlier, aged seventeen, Elizabeth, the youngest daughter of a respectable merchant, had attended a summer ball. Henry Montfort, widower, owner of this fine estate, and father of one motherless
At the far end of the table, Foley alone was undaunted by his host’s foul temper. He rekindled his conversation with Bradfield. The subject matter was inaudible, but to judge from Foley’s black brows jerking up and down like startled spiders, it was a question of some drama. A short interval later and the rest of the assembly had mustered the courage to resume a subdued chatter. The attorney Wallace attempted to attract the attention of Miss Alleyn, who was rapt in her nephew Robert’s account of his imminent voyage to Italy.
Miss Alleyn, her thin nose reddened by the sudden burst of cold, was trying to question Robert on the details of his journey, but, apparently oblivious to her, he was deep in conversation with Elizabeth on the subject of Rome. In the midst of this exchange he leaned over to her, whispered a confidence, then continued with his description. Soon after that I heard a loud snort and a strange growling sound issued from Montfort’s lips. Robert paused and turned to his father, his brow wrinkled in puzzlement.
“Are you well, sir? You appear out of sorts. Does your gout trouble you?” he inquired solicitously.
“If I find myself indisposed, I would thank you not to add to my unease by your interrogation. You may fancy yourself a physician, but that is no more than a flight of your imagination.”
Robert was startled by the harshness of this retort. “I did not intend to add to your discomfort. I am merely concerned for your well-being.”
“I will choose when and with whom I wish to discuss my well-being, Robert,” responded his father bitterly. “And as for you, Elizabeth, I will thank you to remember your guests.”
As if she’d been slapped, Elizabeth flinched and lowered her eyes. She was coiffed with an elaborate white-powdered wig interwoven with silk rosebuds and leaves, and her gown was of crimson silk trimmed with black lace. The richness of this garb seemed only to heighten the pallor of her powdered face. A black beauty spot had detached itself from her upper lip and trembled precariously before falling to her breast. She stroked the ringlet of white hair that lay on her shoulder, as if touching something soft in the face of his harshness offered some small consolation. Then, though plainly shivering from the cold, she took out her fan and began fanning herself as if feverish with heat. This evident distress failed to move her husband. Turning to the roast partridge on his plate, he pierced its golden skin with his fork, hacked off a large section of succulent meat, and began to chew.
I t was not the first time I’d witnessed Lord Montfort speak roughly to Elizabeth, and I confess his treatment of her rankled with me. Perhaps I was being foolishly unworldly in my distaste; after all, what husband is not masterful on occasion? Is it not a man’s God-given right to be ruler in his own household, to demand obedience of his spouse whenever he deems it necessary? Yet in this instance something in the disparity of their ages (she was only three years older than his son), something in his physical grossness and her fragility (I could not help picturing his vast belly crushing her birdlike frame) struck me as profoundly distasteful. How had such an unlikely match come about? I’d quizzed Constance, a fountain of knowledge on such subjects, and learned a little of the sorry tale.
Some five years earlier, aged seventeen, Elizabeth, the youngest daughter of a respectable merchant, had attended a summer ball. Henry Montfort, widower, owner of this fine estate, and father of one motherless
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