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Edmund opened his mouth and then shut it quickly. His rocking feet appeared to want to take flight after her. She wondered what had caused the sudden change in his demeanour, but before she could ask, a jovial, pot-bellied man appeared at Edmund’s side and interrupted.
“Colonel Seymour, what a pleasure to have you amongst us once again and this must be your most delightful wife,” boomed the bald man.
It took some time for the ingratiating man to leave them be and then before Alice could ask her questions, Edmund spoke rapidly in her ear. “Stay at my side from now on. We will speak further on this matter when we are in private.”
The longer she remained on his arm, as Edmund circulated, the more she suspected she was in some kind of trouble. He barely gave her any attention. Hunting around she could not see his black-haired companion. She appeared to have left.
Alice tapped his arm during one lull in conversation. “Please may I speak to my new friends again?” She desperately wanted to hear more gossip, perhaps ask about Edmund’s companion.
“No. Remain with me.” He turned to speak to a tall gentleman, giving Alice no chance to plead again. Somehow, she didn’t think it would do her any good. She felt tense and uncertain about the evening’s events.
The late hour called for numerous departures and the arrival of several carriages. Alice, still attached to Edmund’s arm, said good-bye to many news faces and names, some she would remember, others she could happily forget. With mid-summer approaching, the sky still held the afterglow of the setting sun. A mute Edmund assisted Alice into his carriage and signalled to the coachman, seated at the front of the carriage, to depart with a thump on the roof.
The wheels jerked and rumbled on the uneven street, forcing Alice to cling to the carriage drapes.
“I am ashamed of your behaviour this evening,” said Edmund abruptly.
His words confirmed Alice’s suspicions. “I did nothing unbecoming, I believe,” she said with conviction.
“You engaged in gossip—malicious rumours—about a friend of mine,” he said.
“Whom?” asked Alice.
“Miss Fanshawe,” said Edmund. “Not only did you repeat the falsehoods, you did so in her presence and caused her much embarrassment and hurt.”
Alice swallowed hard. It hadn’t crossed her mind that the black-haired lady was the very Miss Fanshawe accused of liaisons with a Frenchman.
“I didn’t know. Most unfortunate,” she said half-heartedly, her fingers tightening their grip on the drape. “I didn’t initiate or create these accusations. I merely repeated them as they were told to me.”
“Then you revelled in telling me,” pointed out Edmund. “Alice, you barely know anyone in these parts and you misjudged the situation appallingly. You must learn who is to be trusted and who is nothing but a spiteful scandalmonger. You will write a letter of apology to Miss Fanshawe and aid in the quashing of this terrible rumour.”
The thought of contradicting her newly discovered friends didn’t appeal to Alice. Her pride held strong and it blinkered any sense of guilt she might have at Miss Fanshawe’s predicament.
“I shall not. You are being unreasonable, Edmund. How do you know these love letters do not exist?”
Edmund shook his head slowly. A grimace of displeasure fell upon his face. “You will write this letter, Alice, and that will be the end of the matter. I shouldn’t have to defend my decisions to you.”
“Shouldn’t? Or cannot? This only confirms my opinion that it is you who might have misjudged the lady,” snapped Alice.
“You go too far, Mrs Seymour, with your suppositions. Will you or will you not write this letter?” asked Edmund will finality.
“No, I shall not, Mr Seymour!” retorted Alice.
Edmund looked out of the window. Dusk had cast shadows about the landscape. No longer in town, they had moved off the turnpike on to the long winding estate road. Trees lined the track and in the distance, owls began the night-time chorus of hoots.
Raising his hand, Edmund thumped hard on the roof, and the carriage drew to a halt. Before the coachman could climb down, Edmund exited the vehicle and strode over to a nearby tree.
Alice, peering at his outline, surmised her husband was relieving himself against a tree. She sat back in her seat and wondered if he would punish her for refusing to write a letter—it seemed a little harsh until she pictured Miss Fanshawe in her plain gown and her face as she left the room: it wasn’t an expression of guilt or shame, but sadness and regret.
Edmund returned and sitting opposite Alice, she caught sight of what he held in his gloved hands: three stems of nettles, freshly picked and broad in leaf.
The carriage moved, the wheels bumping on the uneven track. The only light came from an oil lamp hung in the corner. It cast a shadow across half of Edmund’s face, leaving one solitary eye staring at Alice. She blinked back at him, looking at the nettles lying across his lap.
“This punishment will be swift and quiet,” said Edmund. “You’ll feel its effects for a while longer.”
“Edmund, no, please!” said Alice.
“You will lift your skirts, turn and show me your bare bottom.” His tone soft exuded the authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed. Alice, though magnetised by its intonation, hesitated, fearful of his intentions.
