Parting the Veil by Paulette Kennedy
CHAPTER 40
Eliza cut the leaves of her new book with her sewing scissors and cracked open the spine. Malcolm fidgeted in the seat next to her as the train sped back to Hampshire, checking his watch and returning it to his waistcoat pocket over and over.
He’d been in a cycle of moods since the funeral, his tempers vacillating like a gyroscope. During their two days in London, he’d harangued her about everything from the manner in which she dressed to the way her shoes clicked on the floor of their hotel room, only to praise her moments later for her wit. She’d bitten her tongue so many times she was surprised she still had one.
“What are you reading, darling?” Malcolm asked.
“It’s a book of poetry. Walt Whitman.”
He gave a disdainful sniff and toyed with his cuff links. “Silly things, poems.”
Eliza rolled her eyes. “I don’t think so at all. Verse is one of the loveliest modes of expression.”
“Always the dreamer, aren’t you, pet? Your frivolity is endearing.” Malcolm pinched her chin and Eliza flinched away. She could no longer abide his touch.
“Say,” he continued, “what did you and Una speak about after the funeral? You’ve been out of sorts ever since.”
Oh, I’ve been out of sorts, all right. Eliza closed her book and sighed. “She was upset. People in mourning sometimes say unkind things.”
Malcolm gritted his teeth. “But I asked what she said.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, especially right now.”
Malcolm huffed, his breath fogging on the glass window.
The truth was, Eliza couldn’t bear to speak the abominable things Una had said. Nor could she look upon Malcolm’s long-fingered hands without imagining them caressing Ada, their bodies wrapped in an infernal embrace. Had he shot his own father to have her, then started the fire to hide the evidence, perhaps killing his brother and Mrs. Galbraith by accident? After all, the author of the sordid love letters she’d found had only signed them with a singular M. Was that M for Malcolm?
She wanted to believe that Una’s words had been a vindictive lie. The thought of Malcolm lying with his mother was so abhorrent it physically sickened her. There was a visceral part of her that refused it.
They were crossing the Thames, the red-sailed barges spilling black clouds of smoke. The skies over London were in a near-constant haze from the unpleasant fug. She hadn’t been fond of the city. Her soul was most anxious to be back in the countryside, with its fresh air and open landscape. The one thing she had to look forward to in the coming weeks was their Scottish holiday. She had a feeling the Highlands would suit her spirit, and perhaps give her time to be alone in the wild, away from Malcolm. “When are we leaving for Scotland?” she asked. “I was wondering what I should pack. I’d reckon it’s much colder there than it is in Hampshire.”
Malcolm turned his head slowly. “What did you say?”
“Scotland. You said we’d go to Oban to see your hunting lodge. Brynmoor. We talked about it on the day you brought me back from the hospital. At great length.”
A low growl came from the back of Malcolm’s throat. His eyes narrowed to slits. “I most certainly did not. Travel in your condition over such a long distance would be anything but prudent.”
Eliza sat back against the train car’s seat, her mouth falling open. What on earth was wrong with him? He’d been acting increasingly queer. Well, he wasn’t going to turn her own mind against her again. If she were to be trapped in this marriage, she would not play a willing sycophant to his delusions. “Malcolm, we did speak of it! I remember it well. Are you becoming ill?”
“I am not ill!” A sudden roar erupted from his mouth and he stood, rocking back and forth as the train rumbled through the Battersea docks.
The other first-class passengers, startled by his outburst, put aside their papers and sewing to look. Embarrassment flooded Eliza’s face with heat. She tugged on the hem of Malcolm’s coat. “Darling, sit down. You’re causing a scene.”
“Liars. All around me. Betraying me,” he muttered.
“What on earth are you talking about?” she asked. “What liars?”
“All of you! Even him!” A well-dressed man with a full gray beard glared at Malcolm from across the aisle and snapped his paper, shaking his head. This was beyond embarrassing.
Eliza stood. “There now. It’s all right,” she soothed, patting and pushing at his shoulders. The train lurched and Malcolm fell against her, nearly knocking her to the floor of the car. A gentleman in the seat behind theirs reached out to steady her arm.
“Get your hands off my wife!” Malcolm screeched.
The man’s eyes widened. “So sorry, sir. I was only preventing her from falling.”
“Is that so?” Malcolm was sneering now, his lips tight over his teeth.
“Look, chap.”
“I am no chap, sir. I am a viscount!” Malcolm thundered, going out into the aisle.
Merde. Eliza sank down into her seat, hiding her face in her hands.
“Well, your lordship,” the other man said, squaring off with Malcolm, “I’m a baronet and you’re bloody well acting far below your station, if I may say so.”
Malcolm laughed. “Who are you to tell me how to behave?”
“Malcolm, please! You’re going to get us removed.”
The baronet rolled up his sleeves and stepped out into the aisle of the train car. He was short and stocky, with broad shoulders. He’d likely best Malcolm, if it came to it. “Very well, my lord. If it’s a fight you’re after, I’ll not disappoint you.”
Malcolm began struggling with his coat as the baronet looked on, an amused smirk on his face. As Malcolm was peeling his gloves from his hands, Eliza noticed a constellation of bumps scattered over his palms. They were small—no larger than the barrel of a pencil, with red margins and a clear center like a blister or pustule. She remembered Eastleigh’s words to her at the theatre and a shard of raw panic went through her. Was this a sign of the disease he’d warned her about?
“Malcolm, would you please sit down! You’re being ridiculous.”
“I will not sit until this man has apologized.”
“He already has!”
With a resigned sigh, the finely dressed older gentleman Malcolm had accused of being a liar calmly walked up and pinched Malcolm’s shoulder from behind. He fell to his knees and went limp as a kitten. The train porter rushed up the aisle and helped the man haul Malcolm to his feet. “Let me go! That man challenged me, and on my honor, I shan’t back down!”
“My lord,” the bearded man said firmly, “I am a psychiatric doctor. If you keep that claptrap up, I’ll see that you’re escorted to Bethlem Royal at the next stop.”
“I must apologize, gentlemen,” Eliza said, trying to salvage what little dignity they had left. “My husband has not been well. We’ve just returned from the funeral of a dear friend. I’m afraid the shock has gotten to him.”
“That is quite apparent,” the doctor said. “For the sake of yourself and the other passengers, I’d offer an intervention. I’ve a tranquilizing vial in my bag. If you’d give me permission, my lady, I’d like to administer it.”
“I’ll have all of you know, Lord Eastleigh was no friend of mine.” Malcolm was shaking now, sweat beading along his hairline. A vein pulsed at his temple. He’d gotten himself into a state, and it showed no sign of improving. “I have no friends. Everyone wants rid of me, it seems! Even my own wife.” There was more murmuring throughout the carriage. Undoubtedly the other occupants were working out who they were. Yet another item for the gossip sheets. They were certainly keeping the presses well inked these days.
“Malcolm,” Eliza soothed, “no one wants rid of you. Perhaps you’ll feel less anxious after a nap. Doctor, if you wouldn’t mind? The sedative?”
“Right. Hold his lordship, young man.” The porter locked Malcolm’s arms behind his back as the doctor produced a vial of clear liquid and prepped a syringe, flicking it with his fingers as he filled it. “This is only a bit of chloral hydrate, sir. It will calm your nerves and give you a nice rest for the remainder of the journey. There’s no harm in it, I assure you.”
Malcolm strained his neck and gnashed his teeth as the needle went into his arm. Within moments, his muscles went slack and his eyes grew heavy-lidded as sleep took him. “Help me get him to the infirmary car,” the doctor ordered the young porter. “His poor wife needs her rest, too.”
After Malcolm was taken away, the baronet leaned around the post between their booths with an apologetic smile. “So sorry for all the trouble, my lady. But your husband is a right loon.”
She hadn’t the strength or desire to disagree. She sank into her seat, her head pounding dully behind her temples. Was this to be her life, then? Chaotic madness, all of it. Even worse, with the papers out, it would only be a matter of time before Malcolm punished her for her behavior with Eastleigh. To bring a child into the mess was cruel. Pure folly. Eliza rested her hands on her belly, absently rubbing, and nestled into the corner of the compartment to hide from the pitying looks of the other passengers. Outside, rain began to lash against the windows. A bone-deep weariness set in, heavy and thick as treacle. She closed her eyes as the train curled on its journey southward.
Sleep had become her only solace.