Chapter 37

Rufus returned from London with rope burns on his wrists, a promise of gardeners from Valentine, and—having stopped by the post office in Lapworth—a letter from Peggy, which, in the absence of a butler, he brought up to the library himself.

“What does it say?” he asked as Belle tore into it immediately.

She scanned the page, clicked her tongue, and passed it back. “Why don’t you read it.”

“‘Dear Lady Comewithers’”—he smoothed the page—“then ‘HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA’ for the whole sheet.”

“Cross-written too.” She hid a smile behind her hand. “Why are one’s dearest friends always the absolute worst people?”

Flipping the page over, Rufus skimmed the continuing HAHAHAHAHAs. “Oh, wait, there’s something in this corner. ‘Congrats on wedd. bliss. Do me a favour even my breathing will communicate resignation and despair.”

This sounded quite specifically familiar. “Was Bonny upset when you visited?”

“Something to do with a cerulean dressing gown? I think he and Valentine occasionally like to argue over nothing so they can indulge in all the pleasures of making up.”

Belle wanted to ask how it felt for Rufus, seeing Bonny again, with Bonny perpetually oblivious and unendingly in love, and Rufus now married to Belle, of all people. Unfortunately, she was afraid of the answer. “Did he say anything about ... you know ...”

“Our marriage?”

She nodded.

“He’s trying, Bellflower. He wants the best for both of us. He just can’t quite understand why that might look like this.”

She sighed, also perhaps paying slightly more attention to ?thelfl?d than one small pig merited. “We don’t all need a happy ending.”

“Oh, we do.” Rising from the table, Rufus crossed the room and stood before her, his hands resting lightly upon her hips. “It’s just that not every happy ending has to look like Bonny’s. In any case, apart from sparing me the occasional tragic glance, he was mostly too concerned with the catastrophe of the dressing gown to pay much heed to me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, not quite sure what she was apologising for.

“About Bonaventure? Please. Having a world that begins and ends with Valentine is his modus operandi and always will be.” He nudged the tip of her nose with his. “What would you like to do about Peggy’s letter? Is it time for Mr. and Mrs. Tarleton to make their first public appearance?”

Belle thought about it. “In all honesty, I might be content to never go back to London again. But I owe Peggy approximately sixty-seven thousand and ninety-three favours—”

“Is that all?”

“And,” she went on, ignoring his teasing, “I do love to hear Orfeo perform.”

“As do I, even if the price one must pay is one of Lady Farrow’s musical events.”

She smiled up at him. “If nothing else, we have had a lot of practice in surviving tedious social occasions.”

“We are practically experts at it.”

“And,” she added excitedly, “we can play the ga—”

He put his hand over her mouth. “Under no circumstances, Mrs. Tarleton.”

Lady Farrow had learned precisely zero lessons from her previous endeavours in hosting musical evenings, or soirées , as she insisted upon calling them. She still provided uncomfortable chairs and insufficient refreshments, the guests still were somewhat unpleasant—Belle even thought she caught a glimpse of Orfeo’s former patron, the Marquess de Montcorbier, amongst them—and the majority of the performances were still, if not actively painful, at least somewhat dreary. As upon the last occasion, Lady Farrow took several moments to passionately impress upon them the wonders of Art before introducing Orfeo. And, like last time, they entered without ceremony, dressed simply in sober black, and, accompanied only by some strings and a harpsichord, casually obliterated Belle with their voice.

She wasn’t, as ever, quite sure what they were singing about, but it didn’t matter because she felt it. The music was spare and bittersweet, and Orfeo, eschewing more flamboyant embellishments, soared instead through shades of pure, sharp longing that left Belle aching and breathless. There was a lightness, too, an airy expansiveness, a kind of freedom, but alongside it a sense of something not quite complete, suffering just a little.

Her eyes were burning, pressure building in her nose, but she would have stabbed herself with a chair before she shed tears in public. Was it any wonder she had briefly entertained the notion of trying to fall in love with them? Of course it had been a ridiculous plan. Even then she’d known love didn’t work that way—that it wasn’t something she could force upon herself or others—but listening to Orfeo sing was the closest she’d ever felt to what other people claimed to feel for each other: an emotion of such strength and profundity it was capable of transfiguring your whole internal landscape.

Then it had occurred to her she just liked music.

And she didn’t want her internal landscape transfigured. When the aria was done, Orfeo bowed into the hush, then departed to dazed and rapturous applause. Belle took a moment to blink the tears from her eyes.

“That was ‘Vedrò con mio diletto,’” Rufus told her, “from Vivaldi’s Giustino .”

She tried to smile. Normally she appreciated opportunities to experience Orfeo’s art. Tonight, however, it had prised her open, made her too aware of otherness and emptiness, and left her like that, an oyster without a pearl. “Is it about a tree?”

“Not this time. It’s sung by the Emperor of Byzantium as he rides forth to battle a rebel army. He’s thinking about his wife, and the opening lines are something like ‘I will meet with joy the soul of my soul.’”

“Ah,” said Belle, “but this is opera. Will he, in fact, meet with joy the soul of his soul? Or will he be immediately killed, or will she have proven false, or will most of his duets be with his closest male companion?”

Rufus laughed. “No, the imperial general turns out to be the villain and everyone ends up reconciled and/or married and/or punished as appropriate. There’s a sea monster, though. And a bear. And a bit in a tomb with a ghost.”

“I do like a sea monster,” Belle admitted.

“Who doesn’t?” He fell silent for a moment or two, looking down at her with that soft and particular look of his. “You do realise, my dear, that I am currently perpetrating the worst of all possible social sins.”

“You are?”

“Indeed. I’m monopolising my wife.” Taking her hand, Rufus bowed over it elegantly. “I should go and politely bore myself with others for a while.”

“We could set a trend.”

His eyes widened comically. “Of liking one’s spouse? Bellflower, the world is not ready for such depravity.”

With that, he vanished into the uncomfortable, underfed, and fractious guests. Before Belle had even had a moment to orientate herself, Lady Farrow—who must have been lurking, awaiting the opportunity—pounced on her.

“Buonasera,” she cried, seizing Belle’s arm and physically propelling her into a turn about the room. “Buonasera. Buonasera, Signora Comewithers.”

“Good evening,” returned Belle, a little startled, for she had never considered herself especially close to Lady Farrow, and here she was being treated as an intimate. “Thank you so much for another ... unforgettable occasion.”

Lady Farrow waved her thanks aside with a “Prego. It’s my pleasure, my honour, as always, to be the humble vessel that delivers Art unto the world.”

“Er,” said Belle, already exhausted. “Yes.” And then, with a desperate effort at civility, “How have you been, Lady Farrow?”

“I’ve been wonderful. Sto benissimo. Do you know, I’ve been learning Italian?”

“Really? I could never have guessed.”

“Si si. La bella lingua. Il linguaggio dell’arte. Ci sono delle rane nel bagno.”

“Are there?” asked Belle.

“Pardon?”

“Frogs?”

“Where?”

Over the years, Belle had just about learned the art of letting go. “It doesn’t matter. It’s lovely to see you so well.”

“Oh, same, cara, same. Married life suits you, I think?”

“It might,” Belle agreed.

“Isn’t it wonderful”—Lady Farrow dropped her voice to a whisper as she leaned in close—“how much time one has when one is not obliged to fuck one’s husband?”

This was not how Belle had seen this conversation going. Despite being rarely lost for words, she found herself stammering out something non-committal.

“I mean,” Lady Farrow went on easily, “I assume you don’t? Given what is said about his ... leanings .”

Belle frowned. “I don’t think that’s something it’s right for me to talk about on his behalf.”

“Oh. Oh God. Forgive me.” Visibly mortified, Lady Farrow drew back. “But please don’t misunderstand, I am fully supportive of men who dally with other men. I wish there were more such, in all honesty. It would save women a great deal of trouble.”

“I mean, there are some women who might prefer to be with a man whose interests lay with them.”

“No, of course. I still enjoy my husband’s attentions myself, but sometimes ... sometimes, is it not true that one wants to read a book?”

“That is indeed true,” agreed Belle.

“Or not have to be interested in his poetry.”

“Quite.”

“Or just focus upon oneself.” She took Belle’s arm again. “I love Clement with all my heart, but Algy has been an absolute boon for our marriage.”

“I’m very happy for you all.”

If it had been up to Belle, she would have been extricating herself with some urgency, but Lady Farrow still had her in a social stranglehold and clearly had no intention of letting her go anytime soon. “Lady Comewithers?”

“Yes.”

“Or Arabella; may I call you Arabella?”

Saying no did not seem as though it would achieve anything. “Yes, of course.”

“May I ask you something?”

Saying no did not seem as though it was an option here either. “You may.”

“It is on behalf of my husband, actually. My husband and Algy.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You see, of late Algy has taken rather a fancy to the notion of ...” Lady Farrow broke off. “I’m not sure how to explain.”

Some corner—possibly more than a corner—of Belle’s mind was far away. In the home that was her own, watching its shape emerge daily from beneath a shroud of ivy, catching the echo of her husband’s laughter, the occasional heated glance from her cold-eyed steward ... “Directly,” she said, “would be ideal.”

Lady Farrow nodded. “Very well. Algy would like to be fucked from both ends.”

As the seconds ticked by, the window in which it was possible to construct a reasonable answer was closing rapidly. “Good for him.”

“And,” Lady Farrow went on, apparently having exceeded the limits of her Italian, “I’m sure you’re wondering what that has to do with you.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“Well, you see, my husband, and Algy of course, thought perhaps that your husband might be ... might be willing to oblige them.”

“And it didn’t occur to them to ask him?”

“They thought it might be better if it came from me. To you.”

“So”—Belle reached for the most moderate tone she was capable of—“let me get this straight. You want me to ask my husband on behalf of your husband if he’s interested in fucking one of your husband’s lover’s orifices while your husband fucks the other?”

“Mmm,” said Lady Farrow. “Mm-hmm.” And then, with a hopeful glance, “He’s their first choice.”

“How flattering for him.”

“That was my idea,” added Lady Farrow.

“That he should be their first choice?”

“No, that they should make a list, weigh up pros, cons, must-haves, no-thank-yous, attractiveness, compatibility, that kind of thing. After all, it must be someone they both desire. Someone trustworthy, communicative, understanding, and, one would hope, skilled.”

What Belle had thought to be a piece of typical Farrovian whimsy was turning out to be fairly considered. She was—unexpectedly—impressed and pleased on Rufus’s behalf that others would see in him what she saw herself. Or else she had lost whatever judgement she had ever possessed. “What an excellent wife you are, Lady Farrow,” she said, wanting to share a compliment in return.

The other woman blushed. “Ah, thank you. I do try. So, would you mind putting this to your husband? I’m sure you’ll know just how to do it. And, of course, if it is of no interest to him, they will both respect that completely.”

“I can mention it to him.” Probably Rufus would be amused. Maybe intrigued. He would certainly prefer it to either gentleman’s poetry.

“Thank you.” Lady Farrow kissed her, continental-style, on both cheeks. “They’ll be delighted.”

Belle was just about to make her excuses, there being few directions a conversation could go once double-ended fuckery had been introduced to it, when a thought occurred to her. “Ah, which ... how ... are matters to be arranged?”

Lady Farrow looked blank.

“Physically?”

Lady Farrow continued to look blank.

“In which part of Algy will Sir Horley partake?”

Lady Farrow’s expression cleared. “Oh, they’re both happy to accommodate his preferences, though—all things being equal—Clement would prefer to take Algy’s mouth so he can watch his face. Ciao.”