Page 64 of Private Arrangements
At first, Elliot's tale invoked in Langford nothing but contempt. He would never let a woman, any woman, matter half so much to him. Any man who did so had only himself to blame for such an idiotic attachment.
Then, after his initial outburst, Elliot did something startling: He apologized. Through gritted teeth, he apologized for everything—for his lack of character, his lapse of judgment, for taking his despair out on Langford when it was his own fault that his wife was unhappy in the first place.
Langford, still irked, accepted his apologies with no pretension of graciousness. But after Elliot's departure, he couldn't get the man out of his head, couldn't stop seeing the expression on Elliot's face as he apologized, an expression that held only self-reproach and a determination to do the right thing despite the avalanche of scorn he was sure to trigger.
With this unconditional apology, Elliot had proved himself, despite his earlier action, to be a man of fortitude, conscience, and decency—everything Langford scorned and despised as too plebeian for his exalted self.
“I didn't want to change or be changed,” said Langford. “The way I'd lived was a highly pleasurable, highly addictive way to live. I was loath to give it up. But the damage was done. I was shaken. In the subsequent days of my convalescence, I began to question everything I'd taken for granted about my choices in life. How many others had I hurt in my mindless quest for amusement? What worthy use, if any, had I made of my talents and my vast good fortune? And what would my poor mother have thought of it all?”
Mrs. Rowland listened with grave concentration, her eyes never leaving his. “What happened to your friend and his wife?”
It was a question that still plagued him in the dark of the night. From what he'd learned, they seemed to be fine, with no reports of shameful squabbles or unseemly fondness for the bottle. “I understand they have produced three children together. The eldest came along about a year after he shot me.”
“I'm glad to hear that,” she said.
“But that doesn't really tell us anything in and of itself, does it?” A man and his wife could very well procreate in mutual abhorrence. He wanted to picture for himself a family in harmony, but his mind would only paint images of silent, frightened children walking on eggshells around parents locked into a hideous bitterness. A bitterness for which Langford was responsible.
“Marriages are curious things,” said Mrs. Rowland. “Many are exceedingly fragile. But others are exceptionally resilient, able to recover from the most grievous injuries.”
He would like to believe her. But the marriages he'd known had been by and large indifferent. “You speak from personal experience, I hope.”
“I do,” she said firmly.
“Tell me more,” he said. “I demand something at least halfway sensational in return for the divulging of my own unspeakable past.”
She picked up her teacup and then, rather resolutely, set it down again. “Sensational it wouldn't be. The most sensational thing I've ever done in my life was blurting out to you that I wished to marry you. But it should come as no surprise now that I had indeed wished to marry you, more than thirty years ago.”
It was still a surprise to hear her speak of it so candidly.
“I believed I had the looks, the comportment, and your mother's approval. The only obstacles were your youth and your certain disinclination to marry a girl handpicked by your mother, but I considered neither insurmountable. When you were done with university, I'd still be of a marriageable age. And in the meanwhile I would educate myself in the classics, so as to distinguish myself from other women who would be vying for your hand.
“My plan no doubt strikes you as both arrogant and simpleminded. It was. But I believed fervently in it. In hindsight, I can see that we'd have dealt disastrously together—I'd have been dismayed by your promiscuity and you in turn repelled by my sanctimonious meddlesomeness, as my daughter has called it. But in those heady days of 1862, you were mythologically perfect and I was fixated on you.
“Needless to say, when Mr. Rowland began his courtship, I was not thrilled with his attention. I craved rank and disdained money made in sooty ways, whereas he possessed nothing but the latter. I didn't understand why my father welcomed his calls, until I did as well. Believe me, having to marry him for such a mortifying thing as my family's ruinous finances did not further endear him to me.”
There was regret in her voice. Suddenly Langford realized that the regret wasn't for him but for the long-departed Mr. Rowland. He felt an odd pulse of jealousy. “You mean to tell me your marriage eventually recovered from that grievous injury?”
“It did. But it took a long time. When I married Mr. Rowland, I decided to be a right proper martyr. While I refused to lower myself by seeking out your news or succumbing to affairs, I also refused to see him as anything other than a legal entity to whom I sacrificed my dreams for the sake of my family. Even when my sentiments finally changed, I didn't know what to do. It seemed ridiculous that I should feel something other than duty and obligation toward a man I'd called only Mr. Rowland for so many years.”
Her voice trailed off. She finally lifted the cucumber sandwich to her lips again. “We had three good years before he passed away.”
He didn't know what to say. He'd always considered happy marriages to be the stuff of fairy tales, about as likely as fire-breathing dragons in this mechanized age. He found himself ill qualified to comment on her loss.
In the silence, she ate the cucumber sandwich with great daintiness. When she was done, she shook her head and smiled wistfully. “Now I am reminded why polite society does not engage in rampant honesty. Awkward, isn't it?”
“Not so much as it is thought-provoking,” he answered. “I don't think I've had a more frank conversation in my entire life, on things that mattered.”
“And now we've nothing left to talk about except the weather,” she said wryly.
“Allow me to correct your misconception here, madam,” he said, with equal dryness. “I understand that beneath your facade of ideal femininity, you are a bluestocking who just might be learned enough to appreciate my vast erudition.”
“Oh-ho, watch that arrogance, Your Grace,” she said, grinning a little. “You might find it to be exactly the other way around. While you were out carousing nightly, I read everything that was ever jotted down during classical antiquity.”
“That may very well be. But have you an original thought on it?” he challenged.
She leaned forward slightly. He noted, with pleasure, the gleam in her eyes. “You have a few days to listen, sir?”
Chapter Twenty-five
