The Irish were born with a heavy sense of tragedy, which in Walsh’s case, infused his poetry with gloom. Charles had taken the time only recently to glance through Walsh’s latest published work. His poems lacked the passion of Byron or the intellect of Wordsworth, or the heartfelt tug of emotion Keats inspired. He was damned if he knew what Nellie saw in the fellow.
Nellie was often in the Irishman’s company. Might she care for him? Could they have been in love once, and her father sent him packing? Charles scowled. He disliked the direction of his thoughts. He gazed their way again. Nellie did look wonderful tonight. He approved of that crimson gown. It was cleverly designed, one could not criticize it for being indecorous, yet he found it quite sensual the way the material moved and clung to Nellie’s curves beneath the sheer silvery overdress. He glanced around the ballroom. Several ladies wore a similar design tonight, and red was popular among the married ladies. Pride in her warmed him, but despair quickly followed. How he missed her smiles, her affection, her sense of humor, and especially their lovemaking.
How long would they continue to behave like strangers? Would she listen to reason? After all, Angelique had finally accepted their affair was at an end, and Drusilla, although present tonight, had not even smiled at him, he noted with relief.
Chapter Twenty
When Jason related their news to Nellie, she felt so happy for them. She would write to Beverly at Shewsbury Park. It also made her a little sad, for the chance for her and Charles to have a baby seemed to diminish every day unless things could change between them. If she couldn’t find a way to mend the hurt between them, would she send him into another woman’s arms? But how could she when he seemed so distant and unfriendly?
On the carriage ride home, Charles sat opposite her. His gaze rested on her, his brows drawn together in a frown. “Your flirting with that undistinguished poet must be viewed by the ton with some considerable mirth.”
His harsh criticism made her gasp, and she opened her mouth to rebuke him. But then she recognized a note of jealousy in his bitter tone and smiled to herself. A spark of hope for their future together warmed her. Where there was jealousy, there was caring and need. She glanced down at her hands so that he might not see the smile in her eyes. “I don’t intend to quarrel with you over Walsh. He has no claim on my heart.”
“Oh?” Charles’s voice sounded indifferent, but she wasn’t fooled by it. “I applaud you. Better to pick on one of the better poets.”
“I shall keep that in mind. Who would you recommend? Not poor Keats? He is not robust. Byron, perhaps?”
“He would be willing.”
“Perhaps he might be. But I am not attracted to poetical gentlemen in that manner, Charles. You must know that, for I married you, remember?”
Charles chuckled. “Touché, Nellie.” Charles’s smile faded. “Beverly is enceinte. Did Jason tell you?”
“Yes, and I couldn’t be more pleased for them. Your mother will be thrilled.”
Nellie glanced up at him, but in the dim light of the carriage lamps, couldn’t read anything into his expression. She thought again of the little boy she’d seen in Bond Street with his mistress. That he might have a son no longer seemed to have the power to hurt her. If he was Charles’s son, did Charles love him? And support him? She suspected Charles guessed what she was thinking, for he fell silent.
When they reached home, Nellie said goodnight and retired alone.
It was several days before Beverly’s reply to her letter came. She wrote that she was in good health, but Jason fussed over her too much. The dowager duchess, however, was ill, and a physician had been called up from London.
“My former governess, Mrs. Perlew, has written to me,” Beverly added. “She wishes an introduction to you. Mrs. Perlew is in the process of setting up a home for orphaned children in London and hopes you might agree to be their patroness. I said I would recommend her to you as she is a determined woman committed to her cause. I have included her address here, should the orphanage appeal.”
But of course she would. Nellie set about replying immediately. She would invite Mrs. Perlew to come and see her.
Nellie asked Charles about his mother that evening when they dined alone before attending the theatre to see the famous actor, Edmund Kean, perform in Richard III.
He pushed his plate away and rubbed a hand over his jaw, his blue eyes darkening, making Nellie regret she’d raised the subject. “I am worried about her,” he said heavily. “Jas will keep me up to date.”
She reached out and touched his hand. “We must go soon to see her.”
Charles nodded abstractly. She was aware of the long hours he spent at the beck and call of the government since the war had ended.
“You look tired, Charles,” she said with a throb of concern for him in her heart.
“I am a little tired of London, I must say. It was expected that the end of the war would bring good fortune, but we are facing an economic slump and much unrest. The agriculturalists with Fairbrother’s backing have secured a new Corn Law.”
“What does that mean?”
“It places a heavy duty on foreign wheat. Its intention is to aid the English farmer by keeping out cheap foreign grain.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” she asked.
“Taxing imported grain will keep up grain prices and rents and raise, rather than lower, the cost of bread.”
“So more hardship for the people.”
He nodded, and she was gratified to find respect for her in his eyes.
“You are a good man, Charles,’ she couldn’t help saying.
He smiled. “An imperfect man, perhaps, Nellie.”
“No.” She shook her head as she put down
