Parting the Veil by Paulette Kennedy

CHAPTER 36

In anticipation of Malcolm’s return, Eliza took more time with her toilette than she had of late, winding a strand of black pearls through her neatly braided and coiled hair. She felt and looked haggard, despite her rouged cheeks and mouth—as if she were cheap fabric torn in half. She spritzed on her favorite lilac perfume and went down to the drawing room, where she took up her needlepoint and arranged herself on the chaise in what she hoped was an alluring fashion.

Malcolm came through the door a little after twelve o’clock, followed by a puff of frigid air. She sprung from the chaise to greet him, standing on tiptoe to kiss both his wind-chilled cheeks. His hair was neatly combed, and he’d grown a moustache since she’d seen him last. It gave him a devilish air. She wasn’t keen.

“Did you miss me, darling?” he asked, giving her a tight-lipped smile.

“I have! But I’m not sure you missed me. I was hoping at least for a letter. Your telegram was rather spare.”

“Drat. I’m so sorry. I’m ever doing things to make you cross, aren’t I?”

“Yes. And I’m not so sure about your new moustache, husband.” Eliza arched a brow. “You look a bit like a villain in a vaudeville.”

“Oh? A bare upper lip isn’t the fashion in London, I’m afraid. I was only endeavoring to fit in. If it displeases you, I shall shave before dinner.” He kissed the top of her head, his brows drawing together. “You look frightfully pale, darling. Have you been unwell?”

Eliza sighed. Ever one with the stunning compliments, wasn’t he? “I haven’t had much of an appetite lately, that’s all. But Shirley’s made a wonderful luncheon in celebration of your return. Come see.”

They went to the dining room, where the table waited with a tureen of lobster bisque. Malcolm pulled out her chair and Eliza sat, snapping her napkin open. “How was London?”

“Dreadful. The past week has been just a bunch of old men sat round smoking cigars and whinging about the defeat at Ladysmith. I’m glad to be home, although I’ll likely have to return before the week has gone.”

Eliza frowned. “So soon?”

“Wars are tedious business, love, and we must do our part. As I’m no longer in the military, this is my way of serving the empire.”

“Seems as if it would be the easier thing to let the Boers have their full independence,” Eliza murmured, garnering a sharp look from Malcolm. “Surely the loss of life isn’t worth gaining a few gold mines in the queen’s interest.”

Shirley swung through with a platter of fresh, crusty baguettes. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Malcolm. “Good to have you home, your lordship.” She spooned soup into their bowls and ground fresh pepper over the top.

“Ah, good day, Mrs. Duncan. Have you been keeping my wife occupied?”

“Oh, she’s been right busy indeed, sir. Keeping company with the local ladies. She even hosted a party on Samhain.”

Eliza cleared her throat and shot a pointed look at Shirley.

“It were only a small party, sir. Embroidery and such.”

“Excellent!” Malcolm said. “I’m ever so glad you’re making social connections, darling. I shan’t have to worry about you being lonely when I’m gone.”

Eliza took a drink of water. “Yes. We were making christening gowns for the orphaned infants at the mission. Polly’s stitches are very neat and even. Do you know, the boy who fell in our south wing is courting her?”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, he’s quite recovered. I visited him at the hospital. He told me you paid him a generous sum for his troubles.”

“Right.” Malcolm dabbed at his mouth, his moustache twitching. “Never mind that. How is your sister? Is she finding her new station as Fawcett’s nurse satisfactory?”

“She’s well enough, I suppose. She’s gone back to New Orleans for the winter. Her mother wrote to her and she went to be reunited with her.”

“She’ll return, though?”

“She’s said she’ll be back before March.”

“Fair enough.” Malcolm nodded. “I’ll have Mr. Mason look after Sherbourne House this winter. We’ll need to let it out if she lingers much longer, however. It would bring in a goodly revenue for the estate. The middle classes are keen at pretending to be us these days. And we wouldn’t want squatters coming in.”

“Mr. Mason wouldn’t let that happen. And if Lydia says she will return, she most certainly will,” she said, unable to hide the thread of irritation in her voice. “She still means to marry Clarence—their engagement has only been delayed.”

“Very good.” Malcolm took up a baguette and broke it in his gloved hands, sending a shatter of crumbs across the tablecloth.

Eliza wrinkled her brow in confusion. “Why are you still wearing your gloves?”

“What?”

“Your gloves,” Eliza said, motioning to her own, which lay neatly folded to the side of her place setting. “You’ve forgotten your manners.”

“Men have started wearing their gloves at dinner in London, darling.”

“How strange,” Eliza said. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Ah, it’ll likely make its way to Hampshire soon enough. These sorts of things always hit the countryside last.”

While Malcolm was in an amiable mood throughout the rest of their luncheon, chattering on about the newest MPs and the votes they’d made in support of the war, Eliza was suddenly becoming bilious. Heat and cold shuddered through her body in alternating waves. She pushed back from the table, her gorge rising. “I’m not feeling so well, husband. I think I’ll turn in for a few hours, if you wouldn’t mind. I’ll be happy to hear more about London and the war at dinnertime.”

Malcolm looked at her warily, arching one dark brow. “Are you quite sure you’re all right?”

“It’s only one of my migraines flaring up, I think.”

“Well, if you’re not better by tomorrow, we should have Dr. Fawcett examine you.” He stood to press a kiss to her clammy forehead, and she hurried up to her room, where her fine lunch promptly met her chamber pot.

Eliza rolled onto her back, panting and slicked with sweat. She nuzzled into the sheets with a satisfied sigh. Her nausea from earlier in the day had been replaced by an urgent need to lay with her husband that demanded satisfaction. Multiple bouts of satisfaction.

“My.” Malcolm laughed. “You’re feeling better.”

“Indeed. Whatever my sickness was, it was brief.”

“I thought you were going to tear me to pieces,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the path of scratches she’d left on his back.

“I had to mark you as my own, lest the ladies of London get any ideas upon your return.” Eliza bit her lip and smiled up at him. “You’re mine.”

“I am that,” he said. “Although I assure you, you’ve nothing to worry about.”

“When I didn’t hear from you, I began to wonder.” Eliza turned her words over in her mind before speaking them aloud. “I saw Lord Eastleigh after I said goodbye to you. At the station. He missed the first train.”

“Oh?” Malcolm asked, his voice deepening. “I do wish you wouldn’t bring beastly Eastleigh into our bed. What did he say?”

“He said he’d keep an eye on you. That you act a different person entirely while in London. And when I didn’t hear from you, not even one letter . . .”

“Ever the architect,” Malcolm spat. He rubbed his neck in irritation. “Despite what Eastleigh said, I was no different in London than I am here, although I can venture a guess as to what he was implying.” He let a puff of air out of his lips. “Like most young men, I had some wilder days in my youth. I visited a few of the brothels he frequented. And it’s expected that men of my station will take a mistress, but you keep me more than satisfied, my love. Likely he was trying to cover his own bad behavior.”

“Have you heard Una is with child?”

“No.” Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “Rather fast, isn’t it? I’m surprised he didn’t dangle that before me in London. It’s just the sort of thing he’d crow about.”

“I’ve my suspicions they’ve been enjoying one another’s company for quite a while.” Eliza thought for a moment, wrinkling her brow. “You know, you say it’s expected for highborn men to take a mistress, but what about women? Why is it so taboo for a wife to take a lover if married men enjoy such freedoms?”

“I suppose it goes back to men believing their wives are their property, to be taken and dispensed with as they wish, and a wife cuckolding her husband is an affront to his stature. My father was that sort.” Malcolm pulled on his pajama trousers and stood, stretching his lean but well-muscled chest.

“Well, I certainly hope you don’t view me as an old leather shoe to be tossed to the side or a heifer you can take to market.” Eliza sat up, the sheets falling around her hips. “I’d like a nightcap, wouldn’t you? Sit with me awhile before you leave.”

Eliza shrugged on her nightdress and they went through to the small parlor adjoining her room, where the dainty crystal chandelier threw multifaceted amber light over the burgundy walls. Malcolm went to the liquor cabinet in the corner and drew out a decanter. He poured himself a dram and smiled over his shoulder. “Whisky or brandy, darling?”

Eliza sat in one of the high-backed chairs in front of the fire. “Brandy, please.”

Malcolm brought her drink to her, his fingers grazing her own.

She took a deep breath. “I made some discoveries while you were gone.”

“Yes?” he asked. “What kinds of discoveries?”

“Your father was a horrid man, wasn’t he? Abusive.”

“He was. He could be. His mother died shortly after he was born, and my grandfather was too busy with politics to pay any attention to him. He was raised by nannies, then shipped off to boarding school as soon as he was old enough. I’m quite sure he never learned how to be a proper husband or father because of it.”

“Your mother must have been dreadfully unhappy. In her loneliness, do you think she ever took a lover?”

Malcolm blanched. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, darling. Or why you’re bringing up such things when we’ve just had such a lovely time together.”

“Because I mean to know, Malcolm. I found a photograph of a young man. Along with some love letters.”

Malcolm leaned forward, a shadow slanting over his face. “Really? Where?”

“In my armoire,” she lied. “I also found her diary there.”

“Darling . . . I . . .” His eyes were flitting about again, looking everywhere but at her. “You found her diary?”

“Is that where she’s gone—with this man? This M?” Her voice was staccato, sharp. Determined. “If so, you can tell me. I’d hardly blame her.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions, Eliza.”

“Am I? Did your father really die in the fire, or was he murdered first? Was he shot? Perhaps by your mother’s lover?”

“Christ, you’re like a bloody courtroom barrister all of a sudden.” Malcolm’s face had gone red, his eyes glassy.

“And what of Beatrice? No one seems to want to talk about her either, do they? I wonder why.”

“I can’t tell you everything about the past, darling. Some things must still be kept from you.”

“Why?”

“Because there is too much at stake. You can’t possibly understand why, but old secrets can still do harm.”

Eliza stared at him, her frustration at his obstinance shifting to rage. “Our marriage feels like a game of hide-and-seek, Malcolm. I plead for the truth and you keep it from me. I am your wife!”

“You are. And it’s my duty to protect you.”

“Protect me?” Eliza stood. Blood pounded in her ears. “If I’m in danger, you’d better tell me from what or from whom, because as it stands at this very moment, I’m most afraid of you!”

“Do you really want to know the truth?” he asked, walking about like a caged jaguar. “If so, I will tell you as much as I can.” He stalked to the liquor cabinet and knocked back the remains of his whisky, grimacing as he swallowed. “But you must promise you will hear me out.”

“I will listen and try to understand, husband.” She lowered herself back to her seat, her pulse thudding like a timpani.

“You knew of our debt to Eastleigh.”

“You were honest with me concerning that. I hope.”

“Yes. To a point. The truth is, the mortgages and financial pressure Eastleigh exerted became too much for our father. We contrived the fire as a way to receive an insurance payment.” Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut. “I helped him set it. Then things went all wrong.”

The matter-of-fact way he stated the truth ran through her, taking her breath. A vision of the south wing, its windows lit with flames, shot across the back of her eyes. “My God, Malcolm . . . to hear you say it!”

“Yes, well, it’s a burden I’ll have to bear for my whole life, isn’t it?” he said. “It wasn’t entirely my doing, but the guilt will ever haunt me.”

Eliza’s mouth went dry. “All this time, you’ve been lying to me.”

Malcolm turned and nodded sadly. “Yes, darling. I have been a liar. From the very moment I first saw you, I’ve been false. I wish the fire were all I had to confess, but as we’re in the process of laying my shame bare, I suppose I’ll go on and tell you the rest. We’ll start at the very beginning. Perhaps you heard talk of a highwayman terrorizing the countryside when you first arrived in Hampshire? Isn’t it queer there’ve been no reports since we married?” He gave a grim smile. “That night you saw me from your window, I wasn’t going on a midnight ride for pleasure. I was going to rob whomever was unlucky enough to meet me on the road. It was the only way I could afford to feed myself or my staff. That’s how desperate I’d become. But I never harmed anyone I robbed, I promise you.”

Eliza remembered their night at the theatre—the jewelry he’d slipped into the clerk’s hand. It hadn’t been an old watch chain meant for pawning. He’d stolen it. She was sure of that now. After all the trust she’d shown, after she’d defended him to her sister—he’d been lying. Blatantly. I’m always right—Lydia’s words rang through her mind like a schoolyard taunt. She’d been used for her money, under the guise of love, and wedded herself to a thief and an arsonist. This . . . this was too much.

“It was my money that drew you to me,” she said with a contemptuous sniff. “I should have known.”

“No, Eliza. It wasn’t your money. Not for me, I swear it.” Malcolm crossed the room and knelt at her feet, reaching for her hand. “I was besotted. I married you because I loved you, I swear that much is true!”

Eliza flinched, pulling back as if he were a cobra set to strike. As if he were the serpent from her dream. Angry tears bristled at the corners of her eyes. “You’ll not touch me, husband. Not now.”

“You wanted to know the truth, dammit, and I’m telling you!”

She clenched the arms of the chair, her nails digging into the varnish “The truth! After how many lies? Do you expect me to sit here and nod politely as you confess to highway robbery and an arson that resulted in the deaths of your father and brother? And as you won’t tell me what happened to Beatrice or your mother, how am I to know whether I am looking at their murderer right now? I am terrified of you! Of this house!” She sprung to her feet, sending the chair toppling to the floor.

“I did not kill Beatrice or my mother. How it wounds me to hear you say these things! I would never hurt a woman, Eliza. I swear it!”

There was a knock on the door. “Everything all right, m’lord?”

“Yes, yes, Turner. We’re quite well,” Malcolm called, his eyes glistening as he stood.

Eliza looked at her husband, incredulous. Was he about to cry? Christ. “I cannot fathom this,” she hissed. “Any of it.”

“I thought perhaps with time you’d understand. I thought with what happened to your own brother . . .”

Her anger overtook her then. “Don’t you dare, Malcolm! Don’t you dare. It’s entirely different. You were complicit. You are a criminal, guilty of an imprisonable offense!”

He seized her wrist and stood. “Do you know? I am already imprisoned! Every day I’m tortured by what I have done. By what I have seen. I never wanted to lie to you. It is not in my nature!”

“And how am I ever to trust you again? ‘Don’t lie to me, Eliza, I’m your husband,’” she mocked, pulling free from his grasp. “Weren’t those your words to me, the day after our wedding, about this?” Eliza raked her fingers over the scars on her forearm, a trail of red welts emerging from the path of her nails. “Even though we’ve both our shameful pasts, I was honest with you about mine!”

“I was afraid you’d think me a monster if I told you the truth, and I was right.” He sat heavily, his head in his hands. “I promise you—even though I’ve done horrible things I will regret for the rest of my life, I could never, ever hurt you.”

“But you have hurt me, Malcolm. You have! You’ve wounded me as mortally as an arrow through the heart ever could.” Her eyes spilled over with hot, angry tears. How dare he put this on her shoulders! Him! With his limpid green eyes brimming and overflowing with tears of his own. He was a liar, with a clever silver tongue. She despised him in this moment. But she hated herself even more for being tricked and taken in by his charm. No more.

He reached for her again, and she pushed him away, running back to her bedchamber. She flung open her armoire and pulled out her valise.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving,” Eliza spat, ripping dresses from their hooks. “I . . . I don’t know where I’ll go, but I can’t spend another moment in this miserable house with you and your bloody secrets.”

“I’ll tell you everything else, I swear it! We’ll go to Scotland, like I promised . . . we can even leave tonight! I’ll spend the rest of my life earning back your trust, Eliza. I’m ready to be free of this. All of it!”

“It is too late! People do not lie to the ones they love, Malcolm. I gave up everything for you. I defended your honor and threw myself into proving your innocence because I loved you. I loved who I thought you were.” Her fists clenched at her sides. “I thought, ‘Here at last is a man who sees the good in me. Here is a man who has been hurt as much as I have.’” She gave a bitter laugh. “You played your role quite well, sir, and it’s a cruel lesson you’ve taught me. But I’ve learned it well, all the same. I’ve been learning not to trust those who profess to love me, over and over again, for my entire life.”

“Eliza, please!”

She pulled her coat on over her nightdress and threw open the door, then raced down the staircase shod only in her slippers. Turner stood at the foot of the stairs, his gentle, wrinkled face drawn, his eyes glassy. “Mum, if I may, his lordship only means to protect you . . . He’s not . . .”

Eliza shook her head and put her hand up. “Ready the carriage, Mr. Turner. I’m leaving.”