The Spanish Marriage (14 page)

“Chilly? Douglas Matlin, you’re about in your
head! It is the mildest evening we’ve had in days,” Lady Ocott
scoffed. “To pull a shawl about her shoulders would quite hide that
lovely embroidery, it would be a crime! I swear, those months in a Spanish
dungeon have deprived you of your taste.”

“Dungeons are likely to leave their mark, ma’am.”
Matlin bowed curtly. He tried again, a little more gently. “The ’broidery
is pretty, Thea. Forgive my tactlessness; I was never well versed in ladies’
fashion.”

After a long moment Lady Ocott said brightly, “Well, I
think dinner must be ready, and we don’t want to be late to the theatre
for Thea’s first play, do we?” With iron grace she herded her small
party into the dining room.

The rest of the evening was as awkward. To Thea it seemed
that every time Matlin looked at her it was with the same air of faint
disapproval, that every remark either of them made demanded endless
explanations or apologies. With an air of hectic enjoyment Thea concentrated on
the insipid goings-on on stage; during the interval when Matlin and Lord Ocott
went to stretch their legs, smoke cheroots, and send for refreshments for their
ladies, Thea steeled herself to smile and to talk with the alarming press of
people who seemed to wish to be introduced to her. Lady Ocott made
introductions with a smooth, smiling blandness which Thea suspected hid a quite
enormous enjoyment: whenever she pronounced the words “Lady Matlin, my
nephew’s wife” her eyes lit shrewdly. She was happily aware of the
stir they were causing.

Gradually, as Thea grew accustomed to it, her smile grew
less forced and her manner easier. It was pleasant to be so obviously admired,
the focus of attention, to be offered a polite handshake by people whose names
she had read in outdated issues of the
Gazette
and
Belle Assemblee;
Lady
Cowper and Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, Lord Granville Leveson-Gower; and Sir George
Boucher, the last an old school-friend of Matlin’s. A frail, pretty woman
waved languidly to Lady Ocott from across the theatre:
“Bessborough’s daughter, William Lamb’s wife Caro,”
Lady Ocott whispered with satisfaction. “A sad flibbertigibbet but a
trendsetter. You are starting very nicely, lamb.” Thea began to think
that she was indeed.

Then Matlin returned, shouldering his way past the crowd with
a lackey at his heels who was bearing cups of fruit punch, and everything
seemed suddenly awkward again.

“I cannot think what has come over that boy,”
Lady Ocott murmured fretfully to Thea. “He used to be the most polished
companion. Perhaps it’s just the time he spent away or only weariness.
Did you see the look he gave poor Sir George?”

Thea nodded and turned her attention back to the stage.

o0o

They stayed for the farce and a set of ill-performed musical
airs, then they made their way slowly from the theatre. When Lady Ocott
suggested they might compound Thea’s informal debut by continuing on to a
party she knew of, both Thea and Matlin declined.

“It’s been very exciting, ma’am, but I’m
still getting used to these hours, and I would be yawning into some poor gentleman’s
face now. Everyone has been so kind to me.”

“Nonsense, why should they be anything else?”
Lord Ocott scoffed genially. “Well, we’ll let her rest tonight, my dear.
I don’t doubt you’ll be in demand thereafter, eh, Dorothea?”

Matlin said nothing. He had once or twice roused himself to
be pleasant, to meet Thea’s obvious enthusiasm with good humor, to
encourage her enjoyment, but all during the long evening he had felt himself
sinking lower and lower into some sort of cloud. Thea, watching him covertly,
recalled him in his fever, when he had gone into periods of deep, stuporous
sleep. She was concerned enough so that, when the party reached the house and
Lady Ocott professed herself ready to retire, she asked Matlin in an undertone
if he were quite well.

“Well? Good God, yes, of course. What would make you think—”

“You seem....” Thea stopped, uncertain of how to
explain his manner. Matlin looked down at her. As Lady Ocott disappeared at the
top of the stairs and Lord Ocott began to follow after her, he came to a
decision, took Thea’s hand, and led her into the library. He closed the
door behind them.

Thea watched him nervously, expectantly. Warily, Matlin
thought. It was harder to begin than he had thought it would be, and he had
expected that it would be very hard indeed. Since the night they had arrived in
London he had kept his distance, and tried to plot the best approach to the
subject of annulment. Somehow, although he had verged upon it several times,
Matlin had not told his uncle of the state of things between him and his wife,
and when he had once murmured something awkward about offering Dorothea her
freedom Lord Ocott had turned to him irritably. “Freedom? What sort of
mad start is that? You’ve only just wed the girl, for God’s sake. A
scandal won’t do your career any good.”

He was alone, without advice, to face his wife.

“Are you happy, Thea?” He asked when he could
not stand the silence any more.

Thea looked up at him uncomprehendingly. Was this what he
was leading up to? An inquiry into her health and contentment?
I
will
never understand him,
she thought irritably, while she assured him that she
was, indeed, very happy. “Your aunt has been kindness itself to me, as I’m
sure you know.” Self-consciously Thea gestured at her dress;
unfortunately this drew Matlin’s eye to the low, embroidered neckline.

“Are you certain you aren’t chilly?” he
asked nervously.

Thea shook her head. The room filled to bursting with silence.

“Did you enjoy the play?” Matlin asked at last.

Thea assured him gratefully that she had. “It was
silly, all those people getting so woefully tangled up when anyone could
see
that the heroine was really the lost daughter all the while, but—yes,
I enjoyed it. Everyone was so kind.”

“Yes. I saw that.”

Something in his voice flattened Thea’s enthusiasm. “Matlin,
is there a reason why people would not have been kind to me?”

“No, of course not. Good God, child, after all you’ve
been through, you deserve every bit of enjoyment....” He faltered.
“I just, somehow, did not think my aunt would be introducing you around
as soon as this.”

“Ought she not to have done?” Thea blinked.

“No, no, of course not. Only I thought that when we reached
England—damn, what a coil.” He turned and paced toward the empty
fireplace.

Thea began to lose her patience. “If all you’re
going to do is make hints at something, I am going to go to bed. Excuse me, but
it
has
been a long day.” She stepped back toward the door. Only
the sight of his face when he turned back to her stopped her. In profile, with
his brows drawn together, he looked miserable and uncertain, much the way Thea
had been feeling herself for days. “So what did you think?” she
asked gently.

Unexpectedly her gentleness provoked Matlin to anger. “Dammit,
did no one, not your Silvy or the Mother Superior, explain to you what kind of
marriage I was offering and to what purpose?”

“What kind? I was under the impression there was only
one kind of marriage, sir; unless you wanted to set up a harem.”

“You know damned well that’s not what I meant. I
married you to get you safely out of Spain, with a chance for the rest of your
life, with your reputation intact. A
mariage blanche.
”

“A....” Words failed Thea. For a moment she was
perilously close to nervous giggles. “Well,” she gasped out at
last. “That part didn’t work out as planned, did it?”

Matlin flinched; she might as well have struck him. It was
the first time she had alluded to the night in the hut, and her tone seemed to
confirm all the ugly names he had called himself. “Thea—God, there’s
no way to say what I—we can still have the marriage annulled; you can
have your freedom. You’ll be free to choose the right man, not some
vagabond who swoons in your garden. Aunt Susan will take you around; I’ll
see to it that my family, yes by God, your father’s family as well, will
back you in your debut....”

“I thought that a marriage which had been consummated
could not be annulled,” Thea said dully. Then, with the beginning of
rage, “Of all the rag-brained schemes! What earthly good could it do my
reputation if you married me, only to repudiate me the moment we reached
English soil? A fine nine-days’ wonder it would be in the
ton,
and
a splendid start for my debut!”

Matlin’s face was ashen. “The
ton
forgets
its scandals quickly, and besides, I’d never meant that this should be a scandal.
No one would think badly of you. As for the....” He flushed. “As
for the consummation, no one need know what happened, what I did to you. You
could have your freedom....”

“And you could have yours, which I collect is more to
the point. I should have known you didn’t want
me;
I should be
used to that by now.” Thea stood by a wing chair with one hand on the
chairback as if for balance. The candlelight gleamed on her pale curls; her
face was still, as if she waited for something unbearably important.

Looking at her, Matlin had a sudden urge to take her in his
arms, to protest that the only thing he wanted was for her to be five years
older, old enough to justify the maddening urge he had to press his lips to her
throat as he had done once before.

“Is that what you want?” Thea repeated.

“You should have your freedom; it’s what you
deserve.” He turned back to the fireplace and made himself speak easily,
evenly. “A chance to do all the things you dreamt of in Spain, your come
out, picking among suitors, dancing at Almacks’.” Even as he said
them the words sounded incongruous. What would she think of him? What could she
think of him that would be worse than the reality? “I did not mean to
shackle you to me when you should be enjoying those things, my dear. What
happened....” He colored. “What happened to us one night in Spain
was nothing more than a, a slightly drunken dream, if you will let it be. I
could never apologize enough for what I—God, I wish you will believe that
I meant all for the best. I never meant to hurt you.”

I never meant to hurt you. The words hung between them. Incredulously
Thea smiled at him, a lopsided smile. It had all gone wrong. The dreams she had
dreamt as she nursed him, the one strong magical dream that had been with her
since his proposal, the dream, as it had seemed, come true on their journey.
All gone.... For a moment Thea could have killed him with pleasure for
destroying that dream.

“Thea?”

“ I’m glad, at least, that you never
meant
to
hurt me,” she managed at last. The irony in her tone hurt them both. “I
wish your apologies could do more. I wish they could undo everything back to
the day I found you! They can’t. They can’t make up for the hunger
or the sickness; they can’t take me back to Silvy and Mother Beatriz and....”

He hardly recognized her: the pale cold face of a moment before
was flushed; her face contorted with the effort of keeping back tears.

“Thea....”

“No!”
She jerked away from his
outstretched hand. “There’s one other thing your apologies can’t
undo. You can’t get this marriage annulled unless you want to annul a
child as well!”

Appalled at what she had said, Thea clapped her hand to her
mouth and ran from the room. Behind her, Matlin stood stock still,
thunderstruck.

Neither Thea nor her husband slept soundly that night; both
discovered singly the striking loneliness of being wide awake in a house full
of sleeping people.

After Thea ran from the library it took Matlin a quarter
hour to follow her up the stairs. In that time he had dispatched the better
part of a decanter of brandy and had ordered another bottle brought to his
dressing room. He slept, after unsuccessfully striving to drown his horror,
guilt, and confusion, only to wake reluctantly after noon; his head was
pounding and his stomach was in rebellion, with the guilt unabated. Lord Ocott,
come to fetch him for a drive, shook his head disgustedly.

“If you insist upon rumfuddling yourself as a regular thing,
boy, I don’t doubt you have problems with that pretty wife of
yours.” Ocott had no idea how heavily his words weighed on Matlin or why
his nephew only shook his head miserably and turned to the wall.

Dorothea, without Matlin’s recourse to brandy, lay awake
in her bed for most of the night, and, when wakened with the chocolate tray,
she sat up heavy-eyed and exhausted. It was easy, as she dressed, to ask
herself over and over how she could have done it, what in God’s name had possessed
her to blurt out such a thing. She had destroyed, in that moment, any chance
she and Matlin could have had together. Where had it come from; how could she
have allowed herself to be goaded into telling that abysmal lie? What in God’s
name was she to do, she wondered miserably, as the months went by and it became
obvious that
there was no child.

Lewis entered the room just as Thea finished clasping a bracelet
on her wrist. It was a slender gold and pearl bangle, one of the few jewels
which had come to her from her mother; it was old fashioned but oddly
comforting, a little piece of her own past. She looked up and smiled wearily at
Lewis.

“My lady asks would you come to her when you’re
ready, ma’am. In her dressing room.” Lewis examined Thea with a
critical eye. “If I may be so bold, ma’am, might I suggest a touch
of rouge? My lady had eyes that sharp for picking up when a body’s
feeling peaked-like.”

Thea thanked Lewis and, after a grim glance in the mirror,
did apply a dot of rouge to each cheek. The ruse did not fool Lady Ocott.

“Good God, lamb, it that’s how a night of
theatre and admiration affects you, I shan’t so much as let you see the
pantomime at Christmas-time. You look as if you hadn’t a moment’s
sleep, and here I was, all set to take you to Bond Street with me.”