The Undoing Of A Lady

THEY WERE THE TALK of the town. Nat Waterhouse and his blazing, unconcealed lust for his wife-and hers for him-were the on dit of Fortune’s Folly. Lizzie felt wretched.

She had been the center of gossip many times before and it had never troubled her and if she and Nat had been happy and scandalous together, then the salacious chatter of the village would have meant nothing to her. But they were not. She could not deceive herself. She and Nat were not happy because they wanted different things. He was quite content to use physical passion as a substitute for real intimacy. He wanted nothing more than a dutiful wife in the house and a wanton bride in his bed, whereas she wanted everything: his desire, his love, his very self. In a very short space of time she had learned that the extremes of sensual delight had nothing to do with true love. It was a hard lesson for such a hopeless romantic as she had turned out to be and it made her miserable for with Nat’s lust she also wanted his love and he could not even begin to understand that. When he had apologized for leaving her alone on their wedding night and had asked her what was wrong she had felt helpless, for if he could not see how could he ever understand? She did not want to have to explain to him that it hurt her feelings to be left alone on a night that should have been special and wonderful and just for them. She did not want to have to explain the gap between her romantic imaginings and the reality, and to see his look of incomprehension and feel his pity. She did not want to have to tell him that she loved him heart and soul, and that she now realized she should never have married him because to him she was no more than another responsibility. Certainly she could not tell him that when they made love it broke her heart because it was so passionate, so exciting and yet ultimately so shallow without love.

Lizzie had a cup of chocolate at the Pump Rooms, bought some red ribbons and a new pair of fine kid gloves at Mrs. Morton’s shop and then went to Mr. Tarleton’s circulating library just as she had said she would. The day was fine and bright and the village was busy and she was aware of-but felt strangely isolated from-the stares and whispered asides of those she passed. It was evident that her escapade at the card tables the previous night was already common knowledge, as was Nat’s ravishing of her in the carriage. There were sly winks and smiles that made Lizzie feel all the more miserable.

She felt exhausted, sore from the demands of Nat’s lovemaking but unhappy more from the emotional distress of suppressing her love for him. Her body ached and her mind felt cloudy and dull. She wondered if a hot spa bath would ease her but the thought of taking one seemed too much work. It had been difficult enough to dress that morning.

She looked along the row of books and tried to decide which one to choose. Reading would be good. It would soothe her troubled mind and give her something to do all day. Only she could not seem to decide on a title. All she could see was Nat’s face before her that morning. She knew he had tried to reach out to her, to bridge the gap that was widening between them all the time despite the intimacy of their physical relationship. She had not been able to respond to his attempt. She was too tired now and she felt too battered and bruised emotionally to make further effort. It was as though she had encased her feelings in ice now and could feel nothing anymore.

She sat down on one of the comfortable armchairs that Mr. Tarleton had placed in an alcove for the benefit of the library’s clientele and stared blankly into space. Last night had been frightening. She had been so unhappy, racked with unexpected grief for Monty and haunted by her memories of the loss of her family. She knew that she had deliberately allowed that misery to turn to anger against Nat because anger and wildness were more familiar to her and more easy to deal with than the deep dark well of grief that reminded her of the last time she had lost all that was dear to her. So she had gone out and behaved badly, drinking too much again and allowing Tom to provoke her into gambling the necklace and then she had taunted Nat and vented her anger and resentment on him. She had welcomed his desperate lust for her because she wanted whatever he could give. And yet somehow what he could give simply was not enough. What she wanted was his love-but that was not on offer.

The murmur of voices roused her. Priscilla Willoughby was on the other side of the bookcase. Lizzie recognized her light, drawling voice and also Lady Wheeler’s fluting tones; Lady Wheeler who not so long ago had flattered her and fawned on her and was now busy ripping her character to shreds.

“Did you hear the on dit? Yes…totally shameless…drinking gallons of champagne and gambling her jewelry, and her brother only dead a few weeks, though no one really mourns him…”

I do, Lizzie thought. Perhaps I am a fool but for all his faults, I miss Monty. I must be the only one who does.

“It amazes me that Nathaniel married that little hoyden.” There was a spiky edge to Priscilla’s dulcet voice. “Though it is no surprise to me that she behaves so badly. Her mother was nothing but a high-class whore. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lady Waterhouse herself had had several men before she wed- John Jerrold for one…”

“Poor Lord Waterhouse,” Lady Wheeler said again, sounding excited at the thought of Lizzie’s supposed indiscretions. “Yet he seems to desire her for I heard…” Further furtive whispers ensued, “Yes…In the carriage…Absolutely scandalous…And to think I always imagined that he would much prefer a well-bred wife like Flora Minchin, or you, Priscilla.”

“Nathaniel is not thinking with his head at the moment,” Priscilla snapped. “All men are the same, led by what is in their breeches.”

“Priscilla!” Lady Wheeler sounded faint with outrage. Priscilla Willoughby moderated her tone.

“Lord Waterhouse will regain his senses soon enough once his lust has worn thin. Then he’ll see that little wanton for what she really is.” She laughed. “He certainly cannot love her. He was hopelessly in love with me back in his salad days. He told me I am his perfect woman.” She sounded very smug. Lizzie could see her now through the gap between the bookcases. She was dressed in pale lilac with a huge straw hat with lilac ribbons framing her face. She looked cool and glacially composed. “He wrote me endless love letters, you know, Margaret, pouring out his feelings for me.” She gave her little tinkle of laughter. “I think he is still more than a little in love with me now, to tell the truth!”

Lizzie stood up abruptly, catching her sleeve on the shelf and sending a stack of books tumbling to the floor. Both Lady Willoughby and Lady Wheeler turned, as did all the other occupants of the library. Lady Wheeler flushed an embarrassed puce but Lady Willoughby stood quite still, a little, triumphant smile on her lips.

“Lady Waterhouse! I did not see you there.”

“Indeed?” Lizzie said. She met Priscilla Willoughby’s scornful gaze and tried not to feel young and vulnerable. “I was interested in your reflections upon the male of the species, Lady Willoughby,” she continued. “Clearly you have had sufficient of them to make a study.” She nodded abruptly to them and walked out of the door into the hot street. The sun beat down on her head and the light was so bright it almost blinded her. She had forgotten a bonnet or a parasol. She felt hot and dizzy.

Love letters, Priscilla Willoughby had said. Nat, that most practical and unsentimental of men, had written Priscilla Willoughby love letters. She was his perfect woman, well-bred, refined and a lady to the bone. What had the letters said? Had they contained all the words that Lizzie herself wanted to say to Nat and had to keep penned up inside.

I have loved you always…

I will love you to the end of time…

Had Priscilla kept them tied up with ribbon, hidden in a box? Or had she valued Nat’s love so little that she threw them away or burned them or simply left them to flake into dust?

Perfect Priscilla, Nat’s ideal woman…Lizzie could discount some of Lady Willoughby’s words for the jealous spite they most certainly were, but in one case she was horribly afraid that Priscilla might be right. The deep feelings and emotions-the love-that Nat would have for a woman like that would endure far longer than the lust he had for Lizzie. One day his desire for Lizzie would burn itself out, for it was too intense to last and had no deep foundation. And then there would be nothing left at all…

Lizzie found that she was shivering despite the heat of the day. She walked slowly along Fortune Row, largely oblivious to the crowds of people out enjoying the summer sunshine. She sat down on one of the benches in the gardens and stared blankly into space. She had no idea how long she was sitting there for until a shadow fell across her and a voice said, “My lady asked me to deliver this to you, ma’am.”

Someone dropped a letter into her hand and Lizzie looked up to see the retreating figure of a maid dressed in a neat uniform. The girl did not look back. Lizzie looked down, puzzled, at the paper in her hand. It looked old and worn and it was not addressed to her-it was addressed to Priscilla Willoughby.