It seemed to him this empty panic was a foreshadowing of the rest of his life without her.
And he immediately, almost abruptly excused himself from his conversation.
In the withdrawing room, Alexandra and Lady Scottsbury had fussed with their hair and cordially talked of modistes as other ladies came and went. They didn’t talk about their husbands.
But they were alone, for now, apart from the attendants, a pair of young maidservants wearing shy smiles.
And in the lull, Lady Scottsbury studied Alexandra, her expression indecipherable. It was a bit as though she was struggling to decide whether or not to say something.
Finally she leaned forward and began soothingly, “I just wanted to tell you, dear, that it’s all right if you have one of those modern marriages. I won’t tell a soul.”
Alexandra froze. “I beg your pardon?”
“Marriage for love is a bit of a fairy tale they try to feed to young women,” Lady Scottsbury said frankly. “Almost no one of the upper classes ever does it. You’ve made a splendid if unorthodox match, but even so, some couples cannot simply abide with each other and that’s the way things are. But you are doing a marvelous job tonight—and it’s a job, isn’t it? Marriage to a man like that?—and he’s no doubt proud of you. It’s our lot in life, isn’t it, to look after these men? To endure their foibles?”
Alexandra was speechless.
Inwardly, she was reeling.
It was a bit like the nightmare she’d once had where she’d entered a full ballroom wearing her slippers and nothing else. She felt as though Lady Scottsbury had whipped aside her social defenses.
“Oh, but I don’t. My... my marriage isn’t modern,” she stammered. “I’m afraid you are mistaken.”
But this was just another social lie and she heard the moment her ability to sound convincing defected.
Lady Scottsbury tipped her head sympathetically. “My dear, one of you is sailing to America in a few days. I heard through Scottsbury’s niece, who is related to a gentleman who is related to the ship’s captain, that the name Brightwall is on the passenger rolls. There is probably only one Brightwall in all of England. He is so lately returned from Spain, and yet off again to America? It doesn’t seem so; I’m given to understand he is preparing to undertake his duties in parliament. So it must be you who is off. I know your charming brother and father are currently in New York. Both are missed at White’s, or so my husband tells me. And I thought, it seems very clear that the Brightwalls are not people who are pining for each other.”
Alexandra was bludgeoned by an epiphany: everything Lady Scottsbury said was true, and it horrified her.
Because after days of trying to convince herself otherwise, she realized she desperately wanted it not to be true.
Infuriatingly, she could think of nothing socially deft to say, and her silence felt like a self-indictment.
Lady Scottsbury smiled knowingly, ruefully, not unsympathetically. Satisfied she had imparted wisdom to the younger woman, she gave one last pat to her hair. “Don’t worry. We haven’t told anyone else, and we won’t. My husband is fond of your husband. Scottsbury isn’t all bad when he isn’t in his cups. And lovers are an eventual compensation—for both partners. Remember that. I best get back to him lest he get himself murdered for saying something he doesn’t mean. As I said, it’s a job.” She winked and departed, leaving Alexandra’s composure in tatters.
Alexandra wondered how many of the people downstairs were entertaining the same kinds of thoughts about her and Magnus.
And just like that, she felt denuded of defenses. She could not yet imagine returning at once to a crowd of people who insisted she must be proud of her husband, and he must be proud of her. She didn’t trust her eyes not to betray her inner turmoil.
And she was so accustomed to smoothing things over for everyone else, to rationalizing and enduring and finding her equilibrium in the midst of upheaval, it was a shock to realize she had no idea how to settle or comfort herself. She could not quite get a purchase on the reason she was so thoroughly upset.
What she wanted was a few moments entirely alone to gather her composure.
Reflexively, she climbed a flight of marble stairs and wandered a bit until she found a little alcove likely normally used to display statuary or ferns. It was about the width of three people standing side by side, and half as deep, but it was currently empty save for a tall, spiky-leafed plant in a pot. If she craned her head one way, she could just about see the top of the stairs. If she craned it the other way, she could look out a large arched windowinto an endless black night. Clouds obscured the stars. There was no clarity to be found anywhere tonight, it seemed.
In a room somewhere nearby, billiard balls collided on a table to the accompaniment of the murmur of voices and laughter.
Below, she faintly heard the orchestra tuning, in preparation for this evening’s soprano entertainment.
She stood for a time like a statue and waited for Lady Scottsbury’s particular form of jaded kindness to stop stinging.
Presently, Magnus appeared at the top of the stairs.
Her heart gave a painful leap. She jerked it back like a dog on a lead.
His head swiveled about. He was looking for her, she would warrant. He looked genuinely, nakedly worried.
This, paradoxically, brought her an absurd stab of happiness.