PARTINGS

First

He shaded his eyes against the low sun and watched the carriage as it took her away, further and further from him, until it disappeared in the mist gathering around the river. Even then he continued to stare, unseeing now, at the spot where it had last been visible, whilst the sun set, and the twilight deepened around him, before finally lowering his hand and walking slowly back to the house. Frank was waiting in the hall, and, shocked at the stricken look in his master's face, spoke quietly: "There are good fires burning, Sir, in the drawing-room and the study – the evening seems chill." He could not trust himself to speak, and nodded his thanks.

"Shall I bring some supper, Sir, to the drawing-room?" Frank asked after a moment or two, his master still standing silent, irresolute.

"No, Frank, thank you", he said at length, "not the drawing-room" – not there, where she had sat so recently, telling him in icy tones that she was leaving to visit her brother, that she could not say when she would return – not there. "Some wine, please, Frank, in the study."

He slowly climbed the stairs. He felt stunned, uncomprehending of the catastrophe which had befallen him. His legs felt leaden and there seemed to be an actual, physical pain somewhere in his body, but he could not determine where. He sat heavily in the study armchair, which Frank had drawn near the fire. There was a gentle knock on the door: Frank with the wine, which he poured, and then he stood hesitatingly at the door. Seeing his master's wretchedness, he regretted that the only way he could show his sympathy, the only way he could help this young man, to whom he was much attached, was to ensure that his every daily comfort was anticipated and quietly attended to. What was her Ladyship thinking, he wondered, to leave him like this, and he and she only just married too…

"If there is anything else, Sir Percy…?"

"No, thank you, Frank. Goodnight."

"Sir."

Now alone, staring into the fire, and knowing he would not be disturbed, he allowed his self-control to relax; he leant back in the chair and closed his eyes; he would have wept – indeed a dry, tearing sob racked him – but no tears came. There was just this awful, dead, flat feeling. How could she do it? How could she leave him, alone, like this, barely a day after their wedding?

Their wedding, ah, yes, when he had been blissfully, ecstatically happy to hear her declare before God that she would be his wife… Perhaps she had regretted the promise, the instant she had made it? Perhaps she was wishing she had not accepted his proposal so soon? Perhaps she had realised she did not love him enough … Perhaps she did not love him at all …

He went back, in his mind, over and over the events of the past few hours, but the only thing which seemed clear was that it was the terrible St. Cyr business which had caused this disaster; perhaps he should not have betrayed his fears and asked her about the rumours – but surely she should understand that he had to know, he had to know… He had not pressed her to explain; there had not been any harsh words exchanged – in the few which had passed between them on the matter; surely her leaving could not mean that the rumours were true? This was a horrifying thought, which he hardly dared frame, and tried to push away, but which still lurked at the back of his mind; why else could she not have stayed? She had seemed so calm, icy calm… Perhaps she had wished he would beg her not to leave – but he could not bring himself to humble his pride so … The wrong lay with her, unwilling though he was to blame her; the wrong lay with her, if she would not tell him, at least, what lay behind the rumours…

All these thoughts turned, over and over in his brain, whilst the night grew dark around the house, and the fire, untended, sank to grey ash.

The sudden hooting of an owl roused him and he realised how cold he was. He looked at his watch: almost four o'clock – another hour or so and it would be beginning to get light. Perhaps he would try to rest for a few hours before he had to face the day; tense with cold, he gathered his long limbs and rose slowly from the chair, and walked wearily along the landing, passing the door to the chamber he had shared with her only the night before, and into the dressing-room next to it, where he stretched out under the covers on the couch and, as he gradually grew less cold, fell eventually into a fitful doze, and then into an exhausted sleep.

Second

She shaded her eyes against the low sun and watched the coast of France as the Day Dream bore her away, further and further from her native land, and from Armand, until the skyline disappeared in the gathering mist. Even then she continued to stare, unseeing now, at the spot where it had last been visible, before lowering her hand and closing her eyes. She was alone: with his usual tact, Percy had allowed her complete privacy for this moment; but she felt absolutely alone, lonely – there was no-one who would feel as she did, who could sympathise with her, no-one present who was leaving all the familiar places behind, as she was, and travelling into the unknown: to married life, with Percy, in England… She would have wept, but apprehension stopped the tears at their source; to what was she journeying now? She did not know what to expect of England, of Richmond where his home lay; she had never been to London. And that was only part of it: what would life with Percy be like? She reflected sadly that all the happy promise she had envisaged before their marriage had been destroyed; Percy was still courteous, certainly, solicitous for her comfort and convenience, undoubtedly, but otherwise, apparently, quite indifferent towards her – and she feared that was how he would remain; there was no sign of the passionate man she had married, just a few weeks ago….

Her mind travelled back to that happy time: she remembered how, when she had awoken that first morning, she had opened her eyes and not been able, for a moment or two, to recall where she was; but then Percy had greeted her: "Good morning, Lady Blakeney", which had made her smile, and turning to face him, she had found him propped on one elbow and regarding her tenderly. He had asked, "Did you sleep well, dearest?" and she had not liked to confess that everything had been so unfamiliar that she had lain awake for what felt like most of the night, and she had replied, "Yes, thank you, Percy, and you?" He had been more honest, and said with a smile, "I was too happy to sleep much!"

Then he had taken her hand and held it to his heart, and said, "I cannot tell you, sweetheart, the joy it gives me that you are my wife," and had kissed her, "to have you sleep in my arms, to lie with you at my side, to wake beside you and know that this is the first of many mornings – God willing – when we shall greet the new day together." Then, becoming suddenly serious as he often did, he had asked quietly, "Is all … quite well, dearest? You – you're not hurt?" This time she had not hesitated: "All is quite well, Percy; I am not hurt", and his relief had been almost palpable; he had put his lips to the palm of her hand and said, "I would not hurt you for the world, my Margot", and she had been glad she had been able to answer him directly. In truth, there had been no pain to speak of, and Percy had been so gentle – holding back, she knew somehow – until she seemed ready to receive him, that remembering how they had truly become man and wife, she had looked forward to the end of the day, and treasured the thought of the night ahead.

They had breakfasted together, Percy himself making the chocolate the way he knew she liked it, and had been planning how they would spend the day – when there had been the knock on the door and Percy's valet had brought that terrible letter….

She could not bear to dwell on how quickly their happiness had been shattered, and she consciously turned her thoughts elsewhere; she thought back to the day when Percy's note had arrived at Armand's house, the first she had heard from him since she had left; fearing what it might contain, she had not dared to open it for some hours, and when she had summoned up the courage to read it, she did not know whether to weep tears of relief, or of bitter disappointment: it was so cold, so formal! 'He was planning to return to England and would be pleased if her Ladyship would consider accompanying him' … She knew by then – had known for weeks – that she should not have left him; she bitterly regretted having done so almost before she had reached Armand's house, but her pride would not let her return, not before he had asked her to do so; and when she had gone back to him, she had found him so changed: aloof from her, impeccably polite without doubt, but absolutely withdrawn, touching her only when ceremony demanded it, and – without saying anything – totally rejecting any attempt, any thought on her part of trying to bridge the distance between them. She did not understand; she knew his character was complex, and his notions of honour demanding, but she did not understand what had happened. Life with him now stretched ahead in her imagination as some desert, devoid of animation, love, happiness: what, if anything, would she be able to salvage?

"Your Ladyship!" – it was his drawl, breaking into her sad thoughts – "Lady Blakeney, I trust you are not becoming chilled? Allow me to fetch a wrap – or perhaps you might prefer to go below, into the saloon?"

She turned, to find him gazing at her, his eyeglass poised in that affected way he had (why had she never noticed it before?) and gesturing towards the companionway below; as her eyes met his he let the eyeglass drop, and, after a ceremonious bow, he said "We shall soon be out mid-Channel, Madame, and there is a stiff breeze blowing: you may be more comfortable below, but if you wish to stay on deck I pray you will allow someone to remain with you and ensure your safety."

She wished – or maybe did not wish, she could not make up her mind – that he would stay with her, but clearly this was not his intention; and so, gathering up her skirts, she said "Thank you, Sir Percy, but no, I shall go below" and climbed carefully down the companionway.

He watched her until she was out of sight, when he turned his gaze toward England, and home. It would not be the happy homecoming he had envisaged.

The end.