An Absent Wife (9 page)

Waiting for her to emerge from her cabin, he noticed the gentle movement and remembered that he was on a ship.
It was so stable most of the time, he’d forgotten entirely. Impatience nipped at his heels as he waited, but he wouldn’t rush her. The woman’s toilette was a thing of mystery—something for men to be unaware of.

He’d learnt her routine now, and he knew where she was most of the time, ensuring he went out of his way to avoid her.
He wasn’t afraid of a confrontation as such, and he didn’t even think she’d make a scene—unlike Evie, who would be in full dramatics. Evie liked dramatics; she was animated and full of life, and it had been what had drawn him to her. But she could also be trying, because sometimes he got the feeling that it was more about the dramatics for Evie than the purpose for them. It grew tiring. He went long stretches without seeing her, which only increased the probability and nature of the dramatics—putting him off seeing her for even longer stretches. But eventually his needs outweighed the unpleasantness. She’d been his mistress for three years now, but he’d started thinking about the idea of letting her go and finding another—a task he’d never gotten around to. He didn’t understand the men who changed their mistresses each month—just the sheer unpleasantness involved put him off.

Finally, Adele emerged from her room, wearing the yellow gown he’d seen quite a few time
s now. “Have you nothing else to wear?”

“No, I don’t.”
She looked at him and he wondered if he saw defiance there. It wasn’t blatant, but he suspected he saw flashes of it. “My wardrobe was minimized with other purposes in mind.”

Lysander frowned.
It was unfortunate—keeping one’s wife in one gown was untenable for a man in his position, but then there was nothing for it. He couldn’t very well, have a new wardrobe made in the middle of the ocean. Or maybe he could; he should enquire, he told himself. Money did tend to solve any problem.

Holding out his arm, she took it as they started walking toward the salon.
She kept her hair simple, perhaps too simple for the fashion, but it did suit her. It had a certain elegance to it—elegance he’d never noticed in her before.

Perhaps the trying nature of his voyage and the inherent dra
matics of finding his wife halfway across the globe, was having a strange effect on him. All of a sudden, he was finding his demure and tedious wife elegant.

They were directed to the room where the poetry reading was being held.
Mrs Fullfer was standing at the front, graciously awaiting her start. Smiling broadly with her head held high, she looking slightly nervous—adoring being the center of attention.

With her h
and, Mrs Callisfore patted the two spare seats next to her, indicating they should join her. Such a direct invitation couldn’t be ignored and Adele walked into the row ahead of Lysander, to take the seat next to the elderly woman.

“You look lovely this e
vening,” Mrs Callisfore said and they exchanged pleasantries. “It seems Mrs Fullfer is about to have the moment she has been preparing for. She lives in Brighton with her brother, did you know? Says the sea is soothing for her artistic temperament. There might be something to it. Perhaps some of our institutions should be moved to the seaside.”

Lysander diverted his eyes elsewhere and ignored the statement.
Mrs Callisfore could be cantankerous at times, as seemed to be the assumed right of ladies of her years in relation to women of similarly advanced age.

He watched as people entered the room.
There was the American couple, the Australian politician and his wife, the steam-boiler merchant and lastly the professor from New York. He knew all the persons traveling with them now—more than he’d ever wanted to, but it seemed to be the nature of these things. The distances between classes and peoples were thin or non-existent. He didn’t truly mind; he wasn’t a complete snob, but he also knew that the camaraderie that was felt in circumstances like this didn’t last once they’d reached port.

He noted that Adele’s eyes followed the American
professor, in his brown suit—one that offended Lysander in both its inelegance and inappropriateness for the occasion. But some Americans, particularly the men, didn’t seem to prescribe or understand the requirements for dress for certain occasions. The disturbing idea of what Adele saw in the American man entered his mind. He’d instantly assumed that she would see the same thing as him, but then she’d run off with a lowly lieutenant, cavorting across half the world. Perhaps it wasn’t the inappropriate attire she saw, but the strong jawline, the sprinkling if gray hair at his temples and the beaming smile as he took his seat and greeted his companion.

Lysander watched his wife;
saw where her gaze traveled. For all he knew, she could be looking for her next conquest. His mind traveled back to the room where she and her companion had lived in India, the large bed, where they’d slept. Likely where she’d given herself wantonly.

Looking down at his lap, he felt anger flare in him, at the inappropriateness of it all.
Perhaps there were inappropriate thoughts in her when she looked at men like the American professor. He would never call it jealousy, but something raged in him at the thought. Beneath her prim and demure mask, there might well be someone manipulative and grasping.

“Have you ever
traveled to Egypt?” Mrs Callisfore asked. He knew the question was directed to him, but he didn’t feel calm enough to answer at the moment. Keeping his face turned in the other direction, he forced himself to be calm, even if he didn’t really want to.

“No, but I
had an uncle who went a few years back, and he adored it,” Adele interceded, distracting and directing attention away from his rudeness. Lysander snapped his eyes back to her and watched as she conveyed her uncle’s anecdotes. Now she was acting the appropriate and conscientious wife. She couldn’t be both saint and harlot, but she was acting both.

She’d wanted to know what he was going to do with her when they returned.
He hadn’t answered. He didn’t know the answer. It was a question he’d been ignoring.

Mrs
Fullfer started reading, pronunciating each word in a melodramatically somber voice. She would intermittently speed up and slow down for dramatic effect, her voice too loud and disturbing to sleep through, Lysander determined, but he closed his eyes and cursed himself for agreeing to come to this evening. He wasn’t entirely sure why he had, maybe because Adele had tried to gloss over the fact that they’d been invited as a couple.

Intermission finally came around.

“I am parched,” Mrs Callisfore said. “Be a darling, my lord, and fetch us some glasses of punch.” It was an order and he had to comply, being at the mercy of matrons—irrespective of his position, he took orders from the matrons of society. Mrs Callisfore would likely order the Pope around if he were present. Lysander didn’t strictly mind, but it did sometimes amuse him how the fairer sex really had men under their thumbs, and if anyone thought otherwise, they were fools.

A table had been set up in the back, with a large crystal punch bowl.
A server stood behind it with white gloves, waiting to provide assistance. As Lysander only had two hands, he would bring two glasses for the women and forego one for himself—which was fine as punch was often too sweet for his tastes.

When he returned
with two glasses in his hands, the American professor was speaking animatedly to the women, his eyes on Adele. Lysander felt a frown cross his brow and he wondered again what Adele saw when he looked at the man, receiving his attention. She was listening intently to what the man was saying.

“Ah, Lord Warburton, you brought punch, you darling.”
Suddenly, he felt ridiculous standing there with two dainty glasses in his hands—a look which he could well imagine didn’t portray a great degree of masculinity. “This is Professor Smith, he has been telling us of the geology of Australia. Fascinating. Are you a Darwinian?”

“No,” he said.
He was, in principle, but for some reason, he felt like being obtuse. Adele turned her surprised gaze to him, before hiding it with a smile. She was playing the part of a wife, who would be fully cognizant of her husband’s beliefs and views.

The women received the glasses and he felt better being relieved of the
emasculating burden.

“Are you a geologist, Professor Smith?” he asked.

“I am, sir.”

“He travels the world looking for interesting rock formations
. Can you imagine?” Mrs Callisfore said.

Lysander smiled tightly
, finding the man extremely annoying, using the wrong title and the way the man’s eyes lingered on his wife—he couldn’t help but notice it. This man, with his gentle puppy-dog eyes—deceptive in their portrayal, was probably thinking lewd thoughts about his wife, while smiling congenially. An adventurer, an explorer, a man set on uncovering secrets and unknown ideas—the kind of man that women celebrated. Lysander, with his regimented life, surrounded by luxury and exacting standards, might be thought by some—when measured against the criteria of setting the imagination aflutter—to pale in comparison.

Lysander hated feeling inadequate.
He watched as Adele listened to the American, with his broad and mellow accent, wondering if she found him charming. She had in the past, found Samson Ellingwood charming, enough to abandon her station and run off with him, with all the man’s relative disadvantages, that had offered even less when you considered his quick death. It seemed illogical, but it only proved that he didn’t understand this woman well; he’d thought he had, but she was something other than what he’d thought. And men like this professor, found her charming, he thought with vexation. The wife whom he’d seen as exciting as a dishcloth was thought charming by others—charming enough that Samson Ellingwood would limit his prospects to be with her.

He couldn’t have her cuckolding him again, particularly here in closed confines, where everyone would notice.
He would have to guard to ensure that she wasn’t succumbing to this American man’s charms. He needed to say something about it—make sure she understood that such behavior wouldn’t be tolerated, but it was an uncomfortable discussion—one that may open the door to more than he intended. A further bell indicated that Mrs Fullfer was ready to start again.

“I believe I am coming down with a headache,” Adele said.
“I think I shall have to retreat to my cabin.”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs
Callisfore said, patting her hand. “You must go lie down—rest until you feel better.”

Adele bid goodbye to Mrs
Callisfore, and to the professor, who bowed to her, taking her hand in a slight touch. Lysander wondered if her gaze lingered a little longer on the man that was necessary.

“I will walk you back,” Lysander stated.

“It is alright, you stay. I know the way.”

“I will all the same.”

“As you please.”

As they walked out of the salon onto the exterior
promenade, the brisk sea air was strong that evening, and it was pitch black away from the deck, as if they were on a ship in the middle of nothingness.

Lysander envied women’s ability to claim a headache anytime they wanted, and were excused.
Men couldn’t claim a headache even if they were dying of typhoid. Because of this, he had to go back and sit through the torture of Mrs Fulfer’s recital until the bitter end.

Feeling the uncomfortable silence between him
self and the woman walking next to him, his wife, he wished there was some conversation they could embark on, but the truth was that he had more to say to a stranger. Light banter seemed disingenuous considering the chasm between them—a chasm filled with a large wasp nest, for which any attempt at discourse would only serve as a swift kick, sending all their crimes and recriminations into the open.

Lysander wa
sn’t stupid enough not to realize that he wasn’t an entirely innocent party in this mess. He couldn’t entirely claim victimhood there, because his inadequacies may well have contributed to the strained affairs between himself and his wife—another topic he wasn’t relishing dragging into the light.

“I think there are some things we need to discuss,” he said as they reached her cabin.

Adele agreed wholeheartedly, biting her cheek on the inside as she tried to think of how to broach the subject, but couldn’t think of any clever ways.  “What are you to do with me when we return?” she demanded.

He considered her for a moment, his eyes dark and unyielding, but he stepped over to open his cabin
door, giving her room to proceed before him.  The smell of him enveloped her, automatically recalling the excitement she used to feel when she caught his scent from his things abandoned in the Devon house—just like he’d done her.

His head shifted back slightly and he looked annoyed.  He had no right to be
annoyed, she felt, anger unfolding in her, which she quickly suppressed.

He wasn’t answering.  “Are you being deliberately cruel by not telling me?”