Lord Hadleigh's Rebellion

Well, that was true enough, particularly since the present had become unbearable. It was a long time since merely the presence of a woman had roused Russell so rapidly. Even with Caroline true passion had been missing—something which explained why their relationship had deteriorated so rapidly.

He thought of Ritchie’s eyes following Pandora around the room: his rapt expression when she had been cuddling their child. He cursed himself. What was the matter with him that Ritchie and his doings seemed to exist as some kind of reproach to his own empty existence?

Mary saw his face change and, before she could stop herself, put a hand on his arm.

‘What is it, Russell? What troubles you?’

‘Nothing,’ he said abruptly. ‘Only that I am selfish to tease you so, and to jump on you just now, without warning. Whatever could you think of me?’

Honesty won, as it usually did with Mary. ‘I thought how much I was enjoying being jumped on. I suppose that means that I wasn’t really thinking of anything at all. Until I remembered our situation.’

Russell began to laugh and his body began to behave itself. He remembered that one of the reasons why he had loved Mary was her transparent honesty—which made her subsequent behaviour so surprising.

‘You did not find me repellent, then?’

Truth won again. ‘No, I never did.’

The smile which she gave him served to set his recovering body on edge once more.

This would never do. Russell rose, put out his right hand, said, ‘Allow me,’ and lifted her. ‘Is it your wish that I escort you to the drawing room?’

Before Mary could answer him, the door to the gallery was opened by Perry Markham, followed by the Hon. Tom Bertram and a giggling Angelica.

Perry made straight for them, saying, his voice lurching like his walk, ‘We have come to see what could be occupying you so. Not the paintings apparently, Hadleigh, since you had your back to them.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Russell, raising the quizzing glass which he rarely used and inspecting Perry through it. ‘I have been admiring your Duccio, a very rare specimen that, and the Tintoretto behind me. That, too, is a nonpareil, or so both my brother and Mrs Wardour assure me. For my part, I prefer something less showy, like the tiny Watteau—a great favourite of yours, I dare swear.’

Perry goggled at him. Dutch O, What HO, and Tint O—whoever he was! What in the world was the fellow spouting about? Perry Markham might be the heir to rooms full of rare paintings, but he knew nothing about any of them.

‘You see how well Mrs Wardour has been instructing me,’ continued Russell sweetly, using all the charm for which he was justly famous. ‘Pray do tell me, which is your favourite painting? I would be delighted to inspect it.’

Perry gazed wildly around the room before pointing at a Fragonard oil of a pretty courtesan and saying, ‘Oh, that, I suppose.’

‘Really,’ teased Russell, swinging around and bringing his glass to bear on it. ‘I can’t read the painter’s name from here. Do tell me who he is.’

Perry continued to goggle helplessly at him. Mary, to save the poor wretch from further embarrassment, said helpfully, ‘It’s by Fragonard and its title is Girl with One Slipper.’

The Hon. Tom, not so fuddled as his host’s son, exclaimed, ‘I like it, but it’s a trifle warm, is it not? Shouldn’t be hung where the ladies can see it.’

‘Really!’ exclaimed a tittering Angelica, who was behaving as though she, too, had spent the evening drinking, ‘Do let me look,’ and she swayed over to the painting, past the amused Russell and inspected it closely.

‘It looks quite ordinary,’ she announced disappointedly.

Mary, whose attempt to spare Perry from Russell’s naughtiness had backfired badly, and who was determined to reprimand him in private for roasting the poor ignoramus so mercilessly, announced, ‘Oh, dear, Lord Hadleigh, I am most dreadfully thirsty. I should imagine that by now lemonade and other light refreshments will be being served.’

‘Quite so,’ agreed the Hon. Tom. ‘We came here to get away from them.’

Russell, bent towards her and put out a gallant arm. ‘Allow me, Mrs Wardour. I, too, feel in need of light refreshments. I have no wish to be overset by the heavy.’

‘Stop it,’ Mary hissed furiously into his ear when she took his arm. ‘I am having difficulty in keeping a straight face while you engage in your nonsense—and he is our host’s son.’

‘Delighted to oblige you,’ Russell almost carolled, so pleased was he that Mary was at last treating him as a fellow human being and not an obstruction in her path. ‘You must continue to instruct me in proper conduct during the remainder of my stay here, most improving, exactly what I need.’

‘Did he really mean that?’ asked a baffled Angelica when Russell and Mary had disappeared through the door. She was the only one who had heard Russell’s reply to Mary. Fortunately, she had not heard Mary’s remark which had provoked it.

‘Mean what?’ asked Perry, who was now fuddled in a double sense. Firstly through the amount he had drunk and secondly through Russell’s nonsense about painting and artists.

‘About Mrs Wardour instructing him.’

Perry shook his head—and then wished he hadn’t. He thought that it might be about to fall off. The Hon. Tom, who was uneducated, but not a fool, said slowly, ‘He didn’t mean any of it. He was roasting us.’

‘Was he, by God!’ exclaimed Perry making a staggering run for the door. ‘I’ll teach him what’s what and no mistake.’

‘No, you won’t,’ said the Hon. Tom. ‘In the condition you’re in he’d make mincemeat of you. They say he’s as good with the gloves, the foils and the pistols as that brother of his. Besides, you’d only be proclaiming that he’d riled you. Refuse him the satisfaction. What’s more, your pa wouldn’t like it.’

‘Pa never likes anything Perry does,’ offered Angelica helpfully.

‘There!’ said the Hon. Tom. ‘Leave it. You’ll have forgotten everything by morning, I dare swear.’

‘He always has done before,’ was Angelica’s brutal finale to the whole unhappy encounter. Did they really want her to marry someone who spent his time admiring paintings?

Which, if Mary and Russell had heard her, would have had them agreeing that it was the most sensible thing anyone by the name of Markham had said, or thought, all night!

‘That was really exceedingly naughty of you,’ Mary told Russell reprovingly, once they were safely out of the picture gallery. ‘You must have gathered by now what a nodcock Perry Markham is, but there was no need to have made a fool of him quite so mercilessly.’

‘No?’ replied Russell, haughty eyebrows raised. ‘He began the whole wretched business by jeering at me and mocking me, most mercilessly, after dinner for not wishing to see that poor wretch hanged tomorrow. I was only giving him a taste of his own medicine—and before two others, not before the entire assembled men of the company. I consider that he got off lightly—but I promise not to do it again if it distressed you.’

‘And you really are not going to watch the hanging tomorrow?’

‘By no means. I take no pleasure in behaving like the ancient Romans in the Colosseum who cheerfully watched gladiators slaughter one another, even if I do admire their architecture and their writings. By the by, I hope that none of the ladies will be in the party, although I suspect that quite a number of women will be present.’

Mary shuddered. ‘It is bad enough speaking about it without being there. Will all the men be going?’

‘Most, I suspect. But let us speak of more pleasant things before we rejoin the others.’

‘Indeed. There is one question which I should dearly like to ask you, and that is, did you ever meet Lord Byron before he started out on his travels again?’

‘Several times. I heard him make his speech in the Lords on behalf of the hand-loom weavers who were losing their livelihood because of the new machines. I thought it very fine. I also think it is a great pity that he never bent his energies more towards politics than pleasure. After all, he is his own man, unlike others who have their choices made for them. I agree that he writes some immortal poetry, but his private life of unbridled pleasure does not bear inspection. I gather that now he is in Europe he still mixes writing divine poetry with living a sybaritic life.’

How easy, Mary mused later, while retiring for the night, it had been for them to fall back into the half-serious, half-jesting mode of conversation which they had enjoyed before their affair had come to its sorry end. There was no doubt that their minds worked in harmony. Earlier that evening Miss Truman had commented that Lord Hadleigh had the reputation of being a lightweight in life and love.

After talking with him again, Mary thought that she was wrong. She was, however, gaining the impression that something was awry in Russell Hadleigh’s life, and that he envied his younger twin, Ritchie, not only for his happy marriage but for having a settled aim and career. He must also have watched Ritchie achieve a certain amount of justly earned fame for his exploits as a soldier, leaving the Army with the rank of colonel and a reputation for courage and enterprise.

She shook her head. Why should she waste her time thinking about the problems of her one-time lover, however much, if truth were told, he still attracted her?

But the past was the past and must remain dead. A thought which she took to bed with her after reading a little of one of Mr ‘Monk’ Lewis’s lurid romances, a Tale of Terror called Feudal Tyrants. Mary had a passion for such novels, which had shocked her husband whose taste in literature was fixed on the arid and the philosophical. He considered it to be her one weakness.

Whether it was Mr Lewis’s vivid descriptions of past times which excited her brain, or whether it was meeting Russell Hadleigh again that did the damage Mary could not decide on the following morning. Whichever it was, during the night—was it in a dream?—she found herself walking in the gardens of her father’s home in Oxford. She was seventeen again and beside her was a handsome young man who had arrived that morning to be her father’s pupil.