Always, My Lady
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Bleak House
Copyright: Charles Dickens' estate/BBC
Sir Leicester Dedlock had never been the most perceptive of men, but even he could recognize it when something had gone seriously wrong.
It began with a simple question which, despite his nerves, he had asked in quite a hopeful frame of mind, just after handing his bride up into their honeymoon carriage. Sitting opposite him in her deep blue travelling dress, her hat drawn charmingly low over her left eye, a mysterious smile on her face, she looked so adorable that he simply had to ask.
"Now that we are married, my dear, could we … perhaps … call each other by our Christian names?"
He finds himself blushing like a schoolboy, which at the age of forty-five is really quite absurd. Her own expression, however, does not change – except for the barest lift of her eyebrow, whose meaning he cannot begin to decipher.
"I was under the impression that you preferred to be called Sir Leicester," she says.
"By others, certainly. But since my title and position are also yours – since, in fact, everything I am and everything I have is at your disposal … " Dear God, he is beginning to sound like Tulkinghorn. It never occurred to him how awkward this would be, this business of declaring his feelings. It is not a Dedlock thing to do.
Her face softens as she watches him, perhaps with sympathy. He takes a breath.
"I had hoped," he continues, "That as husband and wife, we might come to relate to each other on somewhat more … intimate terms … than before."
Her blue eyes fly open like a hunted doe's, startling him; and yet half a second later, she is so cool and composed, he believes he must have imagined it. Of course she is uneasy, but never afraid. What can she possibly have to fear?
"I understand," she said, "All the same, Sir Leicester … I would rather not."
Sir Leicester. For the first time in his life, that ancient and noble prefix sounds as dry as dust to him. He turns to the window, pretending to watch the green hills rolling by, finding it impossible to meet her eyes. He knew from the beginning that she valued Sir Leicester Dedlock the baronet, and the wealth and position that belong to him. Was he deluding himself when he believed she would learn to value Leicester the man?
He is called out of his bitter thoughts by, of all things, his wife's hand on his knee. It is the first time she has ever touched him of her own volition. He starts; she draws back.
"I do not like my name," she says, all in a rush, for once sounding as young as she really was. "'Honoria' is so graceless, so cumbersome … and it reminds me of past associations I wish to forget. And if I called you 'Leicester', it would imply that I consider myself above you, which I certainly do not. These are my only reasons for refusing your request. I am sorry to disappoint you, indeed I am. Can you forgive me?"
She looks up at him from under her hat-brim, with a face more open and vulnerable than he has ever seen, and perhaps will never see again. He remembers that, orphaned and disowned by her only sister, she is all alone in the world except for him – and, despite his fears, she truly cares for him. Does it really matter how much of her past she chooses to reveal, as long as she trusts him with her future? Does it matter what they call each other, as long as she is cherished and protected as she deserves?
"Always, my lady. Always."
He catches her hand and raises it to his lips. She responds with a smile that, for once, reaches her eyes.