Love Affairs. Louise Allen
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ear bobs and silver chains flying. She knelt on the floor, muttering curses under her breath, and tried to gather them up while her maidservant nagged. ‘What’s the matter with you? You’ve got little Alice, you’ve got a lovely home and a fine husband who isn’t lacking in his attentions to you...’
Laura sat up abruptly and banged her head on the underside of the table. ‘Ow!’ She crawled out and glared at Mab. ‘I will thank you not to refer to private matters of that sort. Nothing is wrong.’
‘Then sit down and let me do your hair.’ Mab was, as usual, unsquashable. She swept the brush through Laura’s hair, provoking a gasp of pain as the bristles found a tangle. ‘There, of course! I know what’s wrong, its that time of the month. I lost count, what with the excitement over the wedding and all. That’s why you’re so down in the mouth, just like normal.’
‘So it is.’ Laura rubbed her back, which now she thought about it, was aching. She did some rapid calculations. ‘Tomorrow.’ Now she had the knowledge that she was not pregnant to add to her usual monthly misery. She would be fine by the day after, once she had got through a day of being clumsy, achy and prone to tears and another day of cramps. Tonight, she thought, with the feeling of someone glimpsing a small patch of silver lining in a very dark cloud, she could tell Avery to keep to his own bedchamber for a few nights. He’d be hoping he had got her with child, she was sure, gloomily pleased to be spreading the misery.
* * *
By the time she went downstairs she had talked herself into a more positive frame of mind, although she was grateful that Alice was going to be spending the day with her friends, the granddaughters of Mrs Gordon. Avery had ridden out early to inspect some distant woodland with a view to selling some of the timber, Pritchett informed her.
She had been reluctant to turn off any of her old staff so Avery had agreed to Pritchett taking over at Westerwood while his own butler remained in control of the town house and the Westerwood butler, who had been feeling his rheumatics, moved to the easier duties at the Leicestershire hunting lodge.
Pritchett refilled her coffee cup. ‘Which room do you wish to look at today, my lady?’
The rooms at Westerwood Manor were all in excellent condition, but some seemed dated, others were not very comfortable. Laura had been working round them, making notes and listing necessary work. It made a neutral topic of conversation with Avery and it was helping her learn his tastes before they moved to his main country house, Wykeham Hall. It was best for Alice, they had agreed, for her to become used to the changes to her family in a house she was familiar with.
‘This room, I think... No, the Blue Sitting Room.’ Avery was away, that was the safest time to investigate the room where Piers’s portrait hung.
‘Very well, my lady. I will send Jackson and one of the maids along to assist you.’
‘No need for that, thank you, Pritchett. I do not expect to have to change anything around. I just want to familiarise myself with that room.’
* * *
It took an hour of procrastination before Laura finally shut the door behind her and went to sit at the writing table that faced the fireplace and Piers’s portrait. This was the table where Avery had kissed her with such passion, the place where she had learned the truth about Piers’s return to Spain and his death.
Laura folded her hands on the blotter and made herself look steadily at the picture until she felt her calm return. He looked so young, so unformed in that flamboyant red jacket. Had he really loved her or was it simply a boy’s first calf love? If she had refused to make love with him, would they have drifted apart naturally?
Yes, she thought, sadly. Yes, what we had was sweet and strangely innocent. Or perhaps naive is the better word. If he had lived, we would have married because of the baby and by now we would have outgrown each other and yet be tied together for life.
She got up and went to lift down the heavy cavalry sabre from its stand on the mantelshelf. It was not even scratched, Piers had owned it for such a short time. A bullet in the chest had killed him before he was able to raise his sword in anger at the enemy. Laura touched the tassel that hung from the finger guard, then set the weapon back in place.
It felt as though she had said goodbye, finally. Laura went back to her seat at the table and straightened the blotter, the paper knife and the inkwell automatically, unable somehow to leave the room yet. Presumably there should be writing paper and sealing wax in the drawers, she had better check that was all in order.
She opened the shallow right-hand drawer and found expensive paper, a knife for trimming pens, a taper and a coil of wax. All as it should be. She pulled at the left-hand drawer and it stuck. When she bent down to check she realised it was locked, although the wood of the drawer had shrunk so that the tongue of the lock was visible. Impulsively she picked up the paper knife and pushed it into the gap. The flimsy lock popped open and the drawer slid out.
It was empty except for a tattered, much folded, piece of paper. Curious, Laura picked it up and flattened it out on the blotter. It was not even a full sheet of writing paper, just a torn quarter of a page, ragged at the edges, covered in a brown stain with only a few words visible.
Then she realised she was looking at her own handwriting and that this must be part of that desperate letter she had written to Piers when he had left for Spain and she had realised she was carrying Alice.
These brown stains must be blood, Piers’s blood. She snatched her hand back, then, ashamed at her squeamishness, traced the few faintly legible words with her fingertip, seeing again the full message she had tried to send. Her fear, but her trust in him despite his apparent desertion. Her anxiety and her desperate need for reassurance.
She had no idea how long she sat there or when the realisation came to her that he must have kept her letter beneath his uniform against his heart, and that was why it was rent and bloody, just as his body had been. He had died knowing she loved him, knowing he was to be a father. She hoped he had been happy at the news, even if, like her, he would have been apprehensive.
Something dripped onto her hand and she realised she was weeping, the tears sliding silently down her cheeks. Laura found her handkerchief and mopped her eyes.
‘How very touching.’
She started and the paper fluttered to the desk, as brown and tattered as a dead leaf. Avery ducked under the raised window and stepped down into the room, just as she had all those weeks ago when she had found him here.
‘This is the last letter I wrote to Piers.’ Why was Avery’s face so set and hard? Because she had opened the locked drawer? She answered the unspoken accusation. ‘I know the drawer was locked. I did not intend to pry, it must have been instinct.’
Avery shrugged. ‘I wonder you care to touch it.’
‘Because of the bloodstains? If he was wounded and in my arms I would not care about the blood.’ She looked down at the scrap again, away from her husband’s hard, inexplicably accusing, eyes. ‘Piers must have carried it against his heart.’
‘A strange thing to do, considering what you wrote.’
‘I do not understand.’
* * *
Why did she sound so confused—surely she recalled what she had written in that last letter? Avery reached across and picked up the fragment and stared at it again. ‘It was how I found you, and Alice,’ he said absently as his mind grappled with the puzzle. ‘Your name is not common.’ It was like trying to read the occasional coded message that had come his way when abroad, the sort where individual words and the spaces between them had to be shuffled and...
The spaces between. God, had he been so blinded by his own guilt and grief, the need to blame someone? ‘Read me what you wrote.’ He thrust the paper at Laura.
She stared at him as if he was drunk, but she was prepared to humour him, so took it and laid it in front of her. One rounded nail traced the first line as she read, hesitating out of forgetfulness or emotion,