Mary took a step forward, and her voice was like the lash of a whip.
“Did you challenge him? Did you challenge him?”
“No, Mary, I did not. The man is a drunken lout, and a fool, and no gentleman. By tomorrow he will not even recall what he said. And I should be very much surprised if he does not take himself away tomorrow—I should think Dr. Ritchie will see to that.”
Edmund gestured to a chair, inviting her to seat herself, but she remained standing, looking at him with an expression which mingled disdain with disbelief.
“Captain Templeton insulted me, in public—and you refused to fight him? You refused?”
“Mary, by now everyone in Belfast knows Templeton for what he is—a pathetic drunk, who most likely was cashiered out of the army. He is beneath your notice and mine.”
“I see,” said his wife, speaking slowly and with a dreadful calmness which did not disguise the rage boiling within her, “so... you would fight a duel for your cousin Fanny—but you refuse to do the same for me? For your wife?”
The truth of the accusation briefly silenced Edmund. Until that moment, he had not thought of that other incident years ago, when he challenged Mary’s brother Henry, in the mistaken conviction Henry had deceived and seduced his cousin Fanny.
On that occasion, he had not hesitated to challenge Henry, and it had led to catastrophe. And yet—how were the two incidents to be compared?
“Mary, there is a difference, which I think you must acknowledge. I believed Fanny to be ruined by your brother—which, thankfully, was not the case. But, when I was operating under that misapprehension, honour required me to call him to account. In the present instance, to challenge Templeton would, I think, be rather to give credence to his insults, to invest them with a—”
“The difference—and I suppose I have always known it—the difference is you love Fanny more than you could ever love me. That is the difference.”
“Mary! We have had this quarrel too many times before. I married you. It is not Fanny who poses a danger to our marriage, it is not I who—truly, I wonder how can you continue to upbraid me with your jealousy of a blameless girl when—” Edmund broke off, unable to give voice to the rest.
“Your heart never belonged to me. Never!” Mary shouted, then, collecting herself, hissed out her question: “Tell me, Edmund, tell me, my dearest, faithful husband—if Captain Templeton insulted your precious Fanny in public, if he said something against her virtue, against her character, as he has insulted me, what would you do? Would you wave him off and tell him to go home?”
Almost imperceptibly, Edmund startled at the thought, and Mary saw it, and her expression changed from contempt to something like triumph. She pointed to his right hand. Edmund looked down, and saw that his hand was clenched into a tight fist.
“There! There is my answer. You betray yourself. The mere suggestion that someone would insult your sweet little Fanny, and the anger rises within you! You would have challenged him—for her! You would have fought him—for her! You would not have permitted him to walk away.”
Edmund shook his head. “Mary, pray consider what you are saying. What purpose can it serve?”
Mary turned from him and walked to the window. He could hear her voice breaking as she answered, “What purpose can the truth serve? What purpose indeed, Edmund? If I tell you I can no longer endure being last in your affections, what purpose does it serve, if you refuse to acknowledge the truth? Looking back, I see now that she poisoned our marriage, even from the start.”
“Whatever you may say of me, Mary, you must acknowledge that Fanny has done nothing to merit this animosity from you.”
“Always so quick to defend her! Always so swift to condemn me! And now you make that sound, that exasperated sigh I know so well. As though I was not in my right mind, and you are the martyr to my whims and caprices.”
“In the catalogue of your whims and caprices, do you include, taking Lord Elsham as your lover?”
This unexpected, bitter, reproof from her husband—who normally could not bring himself to mention Lord Elsham—goaded Mary to new heights of rage.
“You drove me away, Edmund. I left Thornton Lacey in absolute agony.”
Edmund buried his face in his hands. Of course his wife viewed the history of their marriage in this way. It was futile to argue with her, as he had reminded himself so many times before.
“But do you not understand, when you refused to fight Captain Templeton, you ruined me, ruined all of us?” she said after a moment’s silence. “By now, all of Belfast knows of my humiliation. How can I ever show myself in public again?”
Edmund shook his head. “I intended, by ignoring his insults, to refuse to lend credence to them, to treat him with the contempt he deserved. If I had called Captain Templeton out, what then would have been the result?” He rose and joined Mary at the window, placing a conciliating hand on her shoulder. “I should have been instantly dismissed from my post at the school in disgrace. Can you not—”
Mary flung off his hand, and turned and slapped him hard across the face.
“Were you this calm and philosophical when you attacked my brother in the park? Were you calculating the consequences then? Oh yes! There is no need to throw it in my face—again! You are unwilling to make any sacrifices for me,” she screamed. “I am not Fanny, am I?”
Edmund left the room, collected his jacket and hat from the hall, and slammed the front door behind him. Walking away like a man possessed, he was inevitably reminded of
