The children shrieked their amusement.
"Now it is time for me to join in the games," he said. "I came here with Freddie to find out what horrors Aunt Sarah is resurrecting for me. Ah, a tricorne. Is that for me, Aunt? I think I rather fancy that. Tricornes worn with wigs were so much more dashing than top hats, don't you agree, girls? Let me show you."
Anne dislodged the plumes from her wig and removed the headpiece and the patch unnoticed while the children and the two men turned their attention to the small pile of garments and accessories that Sarah had lifted out onto the floor.
Miraculously, no one had taken cold during the afternoon of the picnic, though all of them had, to a greater or lesser extent, had a soaking. Most of them had soon warmed up before the drawing-room fire and with the aid of brandy for the men and steaming tea for the ladies. Anne had been the only one over whom the duchess had really fussed. In fact, when she knew that Anne had been left behind with her grandson at the site of the picnic while the others came home out of the rain, she had roundly scolded them all and insisted on accompanying Freddie in a closed carriage when an hour had passed and it had become obvious that the pair must either have met with some accident or have taken shelter somewhere.
The duchess had been horrified when she saw her grandson emerge from the boathouse carrying his wife bundled up in a blanket. She had not even commented upon his shocking dishabille, but had lifted Anne's feet to the seat of the carriage, so that they would not receive any of the draft from the doors and had chafed her hands all the way home. Despite Anne's protests, she had insisted that Merrick carry her up to her room, and soon a whole string of maids were carrying hot pitchers of water to the room for a bath and hot bricks to warm the bed, where Anne was banished for the rest of the day. As a result of the treatment, or in spite of it, she had not suffered any ill effects from her exposure to the rain and cold.
No physical ill effects, that was. But during her enforced stay in her room, she had nursed other wounds. It was so easy to tell oneself that one would be sensible. It was so easy to say that her love for Alexander was only physical and that it therefore was of no real importance. It was easy to tell herself that after five more days she would be glad to go home so that she might be free from her imprisonment to her own desires. It was another thing entirely to convince her emotions to agree with her reason.
She loved Alexander. Despite what he was and what he had done to her, despite everything, she loved him, and the thought of being separated from him again soon, perhaps forever, was one she did not dare let her mind dwell upon. She was becoming so dependent on his presence. The mere sound of his voice or the simple knowledge that he was in the same room could brighten her day and torture her all at the same moment. Although she was trying to avoid him except when contact was absolutely necessary, she knew that really she was not trying as hard as she might. She was much more successful at avoiding Jack, probably because she really wished to do so.
Life was going to be unutterably dreary when she went home alone. There would be no chance contacts, no possibility that perhaps sometimes he would look upon her a little more kindly than was usual, no chance that occasionally they might share a smile. And the nights were going to seem endlessly empty without Alexander to love her, without the warmth and comfort of his body against which to curl into sleep.
She wished the afternoon had not happened. It had seemed much more intimate to be with him in the boathouse during the daytime than to have him in her bed at night. It had seemed far less as if he was merely using her as any man might use his wife. She could almost have imagined as he had kissed and caressed her before entering her that he had done so out of love. And he had smiled at her when she had tried to withdraw from the embrace, instead of becoming angry as she had half-expected. She was no longer able to tell herself that he had never shown her any kindness. She had not missed his motive in taking her on top of his body for their coupling. He had taken the hard floor against his own back. She ached for him, for his love, for some sign that she was more to him than a mere convenience. She very much wished that the afternoon had turned out differently.
No, she did not, of course. Her life was going to be a lonely and a barren business. And her memories of these two weeks at Portland House would be painful ones. But would she exchange this life, unsatisfactory as it was, for the life she would have had if Alexander had not been stranded at Bruce's home? It was very unlikely that she would ever have married, and her life at this very moment would be intolerable if she had not. Bruce had recently wed the daughter of the vicar in the village where he taught. Anne would have been in the unenviable position of being a spinster in the home of married relatives.
She was far better off as she was. Redlands was her home and she was undeniably mistress there, loved as well as respected, she had reason to believe. And she had a husband who was able and willing to pay all her bills, with the result that she could make of the old, shabby building a home that pleased her love of beauty. And she had her memories: memories of her wedding night, when she had given herself up to ecstasy, believing herself loved; memories of a family that, for all its oddities, was close and filled with affection, and that had extended that fondness to her; and memories of two weeks in which she had known physical fulfillment with her husband and in which she had seen him in a somewhat more sympathetic light than she had ever before seen him. Memories were a poor substitute for present happiness, but they were at least something.
It was, then, with a determined cheerfulness that Anne had joined in the almost feverish preparations of the final few days before the grand ball. She patiently went over and over a scene when Claude was dissatisfied, when tempers were generally running short. She helped the duchess sort through the cards that had been returned in reply to the invitations that had been sent out, though she did not know quite to what purpose they did so. She played with the children and took them for a long walk in the lime grove, when everyone else either ignored their existence or snapped at them for being underfoot. She gave her attention to Freddie when he was fretting over the decision of whether to wear his puce satin waistcoat beneath his gold evening coat at the ball, or his pink-and-blue-striped one. And she desperately clung to every contact with her husband, committing every word, look, and gesture to memory for future reference.
It was a result of her kindness in giving Freddie some attention that Anne became his confidante. He had brought his evening coat and the two waistcoats to the library, where she sat alone, by prearrangement. It was the morning after the search of the attic for their play costumes.
"Oh, I think definitely the puce, Freddie," Anne said, having given due consideration to both garments under consideration. "It is so much more distinguished than the striped for an evening function. And it complements the gold of your coat so much better. What do you think?"
"Grandmamma will frown and say something cutting if I do the wrong thing," he said. "But if you say so, Anne, the puce must be the better. You would tell me the truth. You have taste. Always look lovely. Lucky man, Alex. Brains, you know, if I had brains, perhaps I would have married you, Anne."
"Brains have nothing to do with the matter, Freddie," Anne said kindly. "Any woman would be fortunate to be your wife. You have the gift for making someone feel special, and you do not need intelligence for that."
"Do you think so?" Freddie asked eagerly. "Damme, I thought no woman would ever have me. Do you think Miss Fitzgerald would consent, Anne?"