Chapter 1: Humbled and Bowed Down

"Jealousy is not at all low, but it catches us humbled and bowed down, at first sight."

— Colette

It had been six blissful months since Lady Edith had made Sir Anthony Strallan the happiest man on earth by becoming his wife. Their honeymoon had taken them to France, Italy, and Greece, as well as some of the Mediterranean islands. Locksley had become a different place on their return. The staff, content but quiet in serving their master, now fairly hummed with joy in serving a master and a mistress. There were dinner parties and musical evenings, and life was so much more exciting now the new Lady Strallan was arranging things. Anthony felt it too. Truly she had given him back his life. Both the house and he were blossoming. He could feel his sap rising with each new day. He'd begun to drive again since Edith had forced him to get the local blacksmith to make some adjustments to the Rolls, and that gave Anthony so much pleasure and renewed confidence.

Edith seemed more at ease with herself, and with her family. When they came to tea or dinner she made sure that things were as she wanted them, not as she thought her family would expect them. Strangely, this seemed to make her family, and in particular, Violet and Mary, respect her more.

One afternoon, Anthony came back from a drive to be told that Lady Strallan was taking tea with her sister, Lady Sybil, in the Library. Anthony walked over to the door which was ajar, and hearing Edith and Sybil talking, he hesitated.

"So, what's he like, this marvellous man of yours?" Sybil asked.

"Oh, he's wonderful!"

Anthony smiled to himself, taken aback but rather flattered. Does she really think I'm wonderful? Gosh! Guiltily, he continued to listen.

Edith had replied shyly at first, then unable to contain her excitement, she described her wonderful man with more and more vehemence: "He's handsome, tall, with light hair and blue eyes, is brilliantly clever and cultured, worked for the Intelligence Corps during the War, and now lives on private means."

"Just like Anthony, in fact" said Sybil, obviously enjoying herself.

What does she mean 'just like me'? Anthony thought, but he was about to hear the dreadful truth.

"Except that he's only about 30 years of age. And he's sad and lonely and looking for love in a puppy-dog sort of way that melts the hearts of all the women he meets. But he never found true love and real passion until…"

Sybil interrupted "…until he met you!" They both broke down into fits of giggles.

"And he makes love like a lion!"

"God, really? How daring! What's his name?"

Anthony quickly walked away. He didn't want to know the name of this man. He didn't truly believe what he had just heard but the pain was growing red hot in his chest and he had to run away. He was finding breathing difficult. Over and over, he heard in his head the words that had torn down his world and broken his heart.

Of course he had known that she wouldn't remain physically attracted to him for very long; he was too old for that. One day he had expected her to find his aging body less than alluring and begin to look elsewhere for male beauty to admire. But he had hoped the idyll would last for a little longer than this. He walked outside and headed out over the gardens to the fields beyond where he finally allowed the tears to cloud his eyes with sorrow, and the pain to find a release in great heaving cries. She had given him back his life. Now, it felt like his life was over.

After an hour of wandering the fields, Anthony felt that his tears were spent for now, although the pain felt it would never go away. But at least he thought he could safely return to the house without losing control of himself. His first instinct had been to challenge Edith, discover who her…her…(God, he couldn't say the word 'lover' even in his head)…who her man was, now that he felt he could bear it slightly more, and then to confront the blackguard. But he realised that, if she really thought this man was 'wonderful' – her word – Anthony's anger would only serve to force her further into his arms, and make Anthony look totally ridiculous: the older, cuckolded husband.

He stopped himself capitulating to the pain and weeping once again.

No, he had to stop thinking of his own hurt and think about her. She was so young; and he loved her so much. He couldn't bear it if she got hurt by this man. And she was putting herself in a position where he would have total control over her. Anthony had to find out who he was and make sure he understood that if he hurt Edith in any way, Anthony would stop at nothing to make sure his life was made a misery.

He slipped in through the front door silently, or so he thought. She immediately came from the Library.

"Oh there you are! Have you been out for a drive?"

"Yes." Well, this was true, he had half an afternoon, and half a lifetime, earlier been out driving. "Have I missed anything?" he replied as lightly as he could.

"Oh, Sybil came for tea and that was nice."

The rest of the day was spent in an agony for Anthony. Just looking at her was painful. This is what I have lost he thought my beautiful wife of only half a year, whom I adore. When it came to bedtime, he tried to retire to his dressing room, but Edith was not happy about that, so he got no solitude to think or to weep until the next day after breakfast.

"I'm going upstairs to write some letters" she said. "I've neglected my correspondence shamefully since the honeymoon."

He didn't see her around the house until dinner. How many letters did she have to write? And to whom? Or maybe it was only one letter. To him.

This became the pattern of their next few days: breakfast, her claiming to write letters, pay bills, or have other business to complete; he pacing his Library or the fields in an anguished torture; then dinner and bed. They ceased to share jokes or endearments, and physical intimacy was impossible. But she never attempted to leave the house without him. He had given her opportunities, but she didn't take them. He didn't understand why. Surely she would want to meet this man she thought so wonderful? But whenever he went up to her dayroom she was there, writing at her desk, just as she said. She had never been absent, or tried to sneak off.

Finally, he forced himself to sit with the Army Lists for 1914–18 and went through all the officers he'd met in the Intelligence Corps during the War. He identified anyone who he remembered as tall, fair haired, blue-eyed, and well off. If they were about 30 now that would have put them in their mid-twenties when he would have known them. Of all the Corps, there was only one man who fitted the description completely: Percy Wilbye, and that sickened him to his stomach, because Percy and Anthony had been best friends during the War. He had told Percy all about Edith, about the trips to York attending concerts, driving around Yorkshire. He'd waxed lyrical about how beautiful she was, and confessed how hurt he'd been by Mary's words at the Garden Party the day war was declared. He'd confided how he'd joined up hoping to forget about Edith but instead had found himself longing for her ever more. He'd lost touch with Percy after the mission that ended with him in the mud with a bullet in his shoulder. And now, it seemed, Percy had stolen his wife.

At dinner that evening he dropped into the conversation, quite casually he thought, that he would be going down to London on business for a day. In fact he thought he might look up an old friend called Percy Wilbye. Did she want to come with him?

"No thank you. I'm a bit tired, I don't know why. I'd prefer to stay here if you don't mind."

She had shown no reaction at all. No recognition of the name. Nothing. He was more confused than ever.

"As you wish, my dear."

"If I'm not with you, you can get everything done more quickly and get home sooner." She looked at him shyly, expectantly. He hated himself for it, but he ignored her eyes and carried on eating. Does she know I know? Is she trying to make up for it? Is this a red herring? Am I imagining her affection? He looked back at her, and knew he wasn't imagining the plain fact that there were tears on her cheeks.