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Simon set off in pursuit of his wife. He followed her at a safe distance, keeping well back and behind several of the other pedestrians strolling happily down Charing Cross Road. However, he was still close enough to make a few acute observations. Marion was alone. It was customary for a lady of her standing to take a lady’s maid with her when they shopped, to carry all their purchases. But Loretta was nowhere to be seen, and whilst it was possible Marion had not felt the need for her lady’s maid on this trip, she did not carry any parcels or packages, the way that ladies who shopped in London usually did.
Marion did not look like a lady who was in London to shop. In fact, they passed some of the best haberdasheries and fabric stores in London as they moved along the pavement, and Marion’s head never wavered. She never stopped to look in the windows, to peruse the beautiful gowns or shining lengths of ribbons. She kept her face straight ahead, marching on as if she was on a mission.
Simon wondered as he followed that perhaps she was looking for a particular store, that perhaps she had come into London for a certain errand of some kind. The not knowing began to drive him a little mad. As Marion turned off the main road and diverted down some of the smaller London streets, Simon’s heart jolted every time he thought they were reaching their final destination. When they came close to the apothecary, Simon felt suddenly breathless in panic, imagining horrible situations in which Marion was keeping from him the truth of some deadly illness. He felt a sudden breathless relief when she passed on without going in.
Then there was the moment they passed the address of the family lawyer, and Simon was overwhelmed with a crippling fear that she intended to march inside and demand to dissolve their marriage on some fabricated impediment. He trembled with gratitude when she marched on. He tried to tell himself that nothing serious could be going on—after all, his wife was simply out for a walk in the streets of London. What could be strange about that?
However, he did notice lightly the way that Marion checked over her shoulder frequently, as if she was worried people might see her. Then Simon noticed that he was not the only person paying close attention to his wife. An older, shabby looking gentleman with the identifiers of a veteran was watching Marion with a look of lust in his eyes. Simon felt a swell of rage against the man, looking at his wife with such wanton desire as she walked innocently down the streets of London. He also felt an overwhelming need to protect her, to make sure she was safe.
He was actually quite glad he had followed her now; he could make sure nothing bad happened to her. Then, just as he was thinking that, Marion turned down a more deserted alley towards one of the smaller London parks. He watched as the horrible old soldier lurched forward, as if he was going to pursue Marion and corner her in the alley. Simon sprang into action.
“No you bloody don’t!” Simon growled, grabbing the man by the scruff of his neck and shoving him, bodily, into the alley wall before he could reach Marion.
“Eh, governor, what’s this?” the man slurred, belching smoky vile breath onto Simon, who wrinkled his nose in disgust. Simon quickly looked over his shoulder to check Marion hadn’t seen him, but luckily she hadn’t noticed and was heading into the park.
“You were about to assault that lady. I saw it in your eyes,” Simon hissed, glaring down at the man’s dirty face.
“Oh, who’s to stop a man following a pretty face?” The old drunk chuckled. “She’s got some figure, governor, no hurt in looking!”
“She is not a pretty face, she’s my wife.” Simon enjoyed the way the drunkard’s face paled under its ruddy, blotchy complexion. The feeling of righteousness, of anger, of wanting to tear the man limb from limb for looking at Marion persisted, and his fists were tight on his lapels. “And if you follow her, or look at her, or come near her, then I will have no choice but to beat you senseless, you old rogue!”
“No offence meant, governor, no offence meant!” the old man gabbled, but his eyes still slid to the park, following the emerald green dress through the park. Simon’s rage ignited.
“What did I just say?” he growled, pushing the hard end of his cane into the man’s throat so that he gasped. “What did I just say about looking?”
“Not looking, governor,” the drunk gasped. “Just - I’m not the only one who’s got a taste for finery.”
Simon followed his gaze to where Marion stood in the park. She was standing by one of the benches and another man had approached her. He was tall and thin and older than Simon, but fairly well dressed—though clearly not a gentleman. Simon expected Marion to give him a curt word and send him on his way, but she didn’t. She sat on the bench, and he sat beside her. Simon’s stomach cramped. He realized she hadn’t run into this man by accident—she had arranged to meet him.
“Looks like your wife likes it a bit on the rough side, eh governor?” The drunk cackled, and Simon pulled him away from the wall, pushing him down into the dirt with an angry growl.
“Be on your way! Don’t let me see you near her again!”
The drunk scrambled away, happy to be out of the range of Simon’s fists, and Simon turned his attention back to the park. He crept a little closer down the alley, making sure he was still hidden by the shadow of the wall so that Marion wouldn’t look up and notice her husband staring at her from the edge of the park. He watched the way his wife sat with the man, noticed the flickers of interest in her eyes, the way she held her shoulders stiffly as if she was frightened of touching the man.
It was hard for Simon not to compare those looks and body language to the way that she had behaved around him lately, when before they were sexually intimate. With a surge of brutal anxiety, he suddenly wondered if this man, whoever he was, was somehow important to Marion. He recalled their conversation when he had given her the engagement ring he had bought, her words tumbling through his mind as he looked at this older gentleman who might well have been her acquaintance from her life before.
No one is rushing to ‘make a match’ with a governess. I imagine that would be all I could hope forin the future. That perhaps another servant might want to get married, have a family …
Had she been speaking of a prior attachment? Of someone in the household or her circle of life, another servant or labourer perhaps, who had expressed intentions toward her? Had this man perhaps been distressed when she had married Simon, and reached out to declare his own love, his own disappointment? Had Marion harboured some kind of lingering feeling and had, therefore, not hesitated in hurrying to meet him?
Was it possible, Simon thought with a horrible turning of his stomach, that Marion regretted their marriage due to her feelings towards another man? Was that why she had become so distant and cold with him? With horror in his eyes, he watched as the older man reached out and, as if it were the most natural thing, took his wife’s hand.
It was too much. It was unbearable, and Simon’s own hands clenched into fists as he tried to control his overwhelming urge to stride across the park and strike the man down. He couldn’t stay here, not when his emotions were overriding any sense of rationality he usually laid claim to. He knew that if he stayed he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from intervening, and he wanted to maintain his dignity.
He turned and fled the situation, marching back down the street with the image of the older man reaching for Marion’s hand etched on his mind.
Chapter Eighteen
Marion’s plan with Loretta had worked perfectly. Mrs Bolton’s suspicions were quickly placated with the cover story of the gloves, allowing Loretta to receive Marion’s private post without anyone knowing. Her father responded very rapidly to her message of assent with a small note, scribbled on paper than smelled strongly of beer:
Meet me tomorrow in the Green Acres park, near Charing Cross Road. Come at noon. Do not tell your husband.
Marion had instantly felt panic at the thought of meeting this dreadful man. Her hand shook as she read the note and Loretta’s eyes widened in fear as she noticed her mistress’s shaking hands.
“Milady, are you well?” Loretta asked, instinctively reaching out to clutch Marion’s hand despite the inappropriateness of the gesture between a maid and her mistress. “Can I get you anything?”
“I - I - perhaps a small glass of wine,” Marion said shakily, sitting down heavily at her bedroom desk. “Thank you, Loretta.”
