by Mary Balogh
She was afraid that she was going to become dependent on having him there next to her whenever she woke during the nights. She was afraid she was going to become dependent on his lovemaking. She had no one with whom to compare him, but she knew that he was an expert and that he was using his expertise on her at night. She loved making love even more than she had expected to do. With Freddie. Perhaps it would not be as good with another man. She could not even imagine doing those very intimate things with another man.
“If you fall asleep,” he said, and she felt the blade of grass feathering across her nose again, “you are going to wake up with a face like a lobster, Clara. And a nose like a beacon. I am going to have to take you out of the sunshine pretty soon.”
She sighed. She was too sleepy to answer.
“Who is your physician?” he asked. “Did you father consult more than one?”
“He called them all fools and quacks,” she said. “He never did meet Dr. Frederick Sullivan, of course. I think he would have disapproved of your methods, though, Freddie.”
“Was there one in particular?” he asked.
“Dr. Graham,” she said. “He used to be Papa’s friend. But they had a loud quarrel when he came out here to see me a few years ago. We never saw him again.”
“What was the quarrel about?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “Papa would not say. All he would say was that no one was going to take his little girl from him as Mama was taken, or cause her pain and suffering. I was always a little girl to Papa. Silly, was it not?”
“No,” he said. “It must be hard to lose one’s woman and to see the child that one has begotten and she has borne fall sick and lie near to death too.”
She opened her eyes and smiled at him. Could Freddie imagine what love and fatherhood were like, then? She wondered, as she had done from the start, if she was capable of bearing his child. She would like that—more than anything. But she would not hope too hard. She had learned never to hope too much.
But she was growing too happy. And too reluctant to see the honeymoon at an end. Perhaps, she thought, a little happiness for one brief week of her life was better than none at all. Or perhaps it was worse than anything. Perhaps all it would do was give her a brief and tantalizing glimpse of what life could be like.
She felt his lips on hers again. “Come on,” he said. “Time to go back before I get ideas about making love to you out here on the grass. The gardeners do not work on Sunday, do they?”
“No,” she said, chuckling and raising her arms to set about his neck as he got to his feet and bent to pick her up. “But the birds would see and the insects.”
It would be a wonderful and heady experience, she thought as he began to stride back through the trees in the direction of the terrace and the house, to make love on the grass. In the outdoors. Surrounded by life.
She was going to have to be very careful, she thought with sudden clarity, not to fall in love. Perhaps it was as well after all that Harriet and her parents-in-law would be there within a few days.
Time could not, after all, stand still. Though she wished it could. How she wished it could!
Chapter 7
Frederick was surprised to find that he was almost sorry when the honeymoon came to an end. He had deliberately devoted a week of his life to bringing his wife some happiness and found that he had brought himself a small measure too. There was something rather pleasant and relaxing and—comfortable, he found, about having both a sexual relationship and a companionship with a woman. He had had plenty of the former, though even they could hardly be termed relationships, he supposed. He had had almost none of the latter. Except perhaps with Jule, though they had never revealed their inner selves to each other.
He and Clara had not done that either yet. But perhaps it would come in time. They found it easy to talk to each other, and they were interested in each other’s lives. If he did not reveal all of himself to her during that week it was because all of himself was not a particularly attractive person. And he was not sure that he even knew himself entirely.
What did he want from life? Pleasure, he would have said a mere week or so before without any hesitation at all. He wanted his debts paid so that he could show his face in town again and carry on where he had left off. His clubs, the races, gaming, women—he had always loved them all. He still did. But for all the rest of his life? Would those pleasures never bring boredom? Did they now? Did he want more from life? A family of his own, perhaps? A home where he spent most of his days? A wife to replace all the women of his past and with whom to share a relationship?
Did he? The thought made him shudder and brought to mind all the old cliches to which he had long subscribed—a leg shackle, parson’s mousetrap, a tenant for life, and so on. He had no wish to lose his freedom, to take on responsibilities.
And yet there was Clara. And the fact that she was his wife, that already a large part of his freedom was gone, that already he had responsibilities. He even began to wonder after a few days if she was capable of bearing children, and could see no reason why not. If she could, then he was certainly going the right way about seeing to it that she did so.
A child! The very thought was enough to make him feel panic. And a not altogether unpleasant curiosity to know what it would be like to know himself a father. A father. Papa.
He wanted to escape. He wanted to be back in London in the familiar haunts and about the familiar tasks. He wanted to be safe. And yet he was reluctant to see the week come to an end. It had been a pleasant interlude in his life. He would not dread coming back to her occasionally, showing her the occasional kindness.
His parents came after eight days, bringing Harriet Pope with them. There was a great deal of hugging and kissing and handshaking, and there were some tears— mainly from his mother. They were both looking so very well, his mother said. And what a magnificent place Ebury Court was. She had not seen it before.
The honeymoon was over. Frederick spent most of the next two days with his father—riding, walking, inspecting the stables, playing billiards. The ladies sat together in the drawing room, nattering together, stitching away at their embroidery, entertaining neighbors. On the second afternoon they took the carriage out to call on the Soameses. The newly married couple spent little time alone together except at night. Frederick found himself somewhat nostalgic for the week of their honeymoon.
His mother was delighted with him and told him so on the first evening, when the two of them were strolling along the terrace after dinner. “You must be doing something right, Freddie,” she said, “Dear Clara is quite transformed.”
Was she? The idea both alarmed and intrigued him. He looked at her with new eyes when he and his mother went back inside. Had she changed? He tried to compare her appearance now with the way she had looked when he first met her. Was she different?
No, of course she was not. Except perhaps her face. There was a tinge of color in it, caused perhaps by the fresh air he had insisted on every day since their arrival at Ebury Court. He could almost imagine that her face was not quite as thin, but that must be imagination. Although her appetite had improved, she could not possibly have put on weight yet. Her eyes were large and luminous. But then he had always conceded that her eyes were her best feature.
Of course she was no different. She was still the plain, thin woman he had decided with the greatest reluctance to woo. It was just that after one had known a person for a while, one could no longer see that person objectively. He looked at Clara now and saw—Clara. His wife. The woman he had been getting to know during the past week. The woman with whom he had been pleasantly contented. His bedfellow. The thinness, the plainness, the too-heavy dark hair no longer repelled him. They were just Clara.
Perhaps Harriet Pope saw a difference in her mistress too. Tight-lipped when she arrived, she seemed to have relaxed by the evening. She kept her distance from him, though. She probably expected him to pounce on her if he ever saw
her in a dark corner, he thought with something bordering on amusement. Under different circumstances he would undoubtedly flirt with her, since she was excessively pretty. But he had never been one whit interested in seducing innocents. He impatiently thrust aside the thought of Jule.
“You are going to spend the autumn here, Freddie?” his father asked with studied casualness when they were playing billiards one morning. “Your mother wants you to come to us for Christmas. Will Clara be able to travel? You had better come if you can. Les is determined to be off to Italy within the month and your mother will be lonely without either of you.”
“We will come,” Frederick said. “I haven't decided about the autumn. I’ll probably stay here.”
And he would too, he decided quite on the spur of the moment. There was nothing really to go back to in London. He would only start gambling again if he went there, and he had sworn off gambling after the recent crisis. Besides, it would be interesting to work on his marriage and see what came of it. He was growing fond of Clara, he had to admit. Perhaps he was even a little bit in love with her, though the idea seemed absurd when verbalized in his mind. He was fond of her. He would stay for a while at least, see how things went.`
And yet within a few days his plans changed abruptly. His parents had left. Harriet was in the way, always sitting beside his wife, making his presence awkward. And yet he did not like to suggest that they get rid of the woman. She and Clara were friends, and she was doubtless impoverished and would have nowhere else to go if she were dismissed. Besides, she would be needed if and when he decided to take himself off to town for a few weeks or months.
He contrived private meetings with his wife. He took her riding one cloudy and chill afternoon. It was unwise, though they both enjoyed the outing. Rain began to drip and then pelt down on them before they could get back to the stables. He turned the horse toward the summerhouse, lifted Clara down hastily, and nudged the horse sharply on the rump to send it galloping home. He rushed inside the summerhouse.
They were both laughing.
“Papa would not have allowed me to have even a window open on a day like this,” she said.
“In some ways,” he said, sitting down on the seat and holding her on his lap, “I am beginning to realize that Papa was a wise man.”
“Your shoulder is damp,” she said, brushing at the rain drops with one hand before settling her cheek there. “I thought we would fall for sure, Freddie. We were moving very fast. Don’t laugh.”
He had taken the horse to a canter in order to avoid the rain.
He kissed her. “It is warm in here at least,” he said. “This morning’s sunshine is still trapped inside.”
“Mmm,” she said. “It is cozy.”
Several minutes passed in warm, lazy kissing.
“I have been missing you,” he said, “with my parents here. And with Harriet here all the time.”
“You will not feel obliged to spend so much time with me now,” she said. “You will have greater freedom.”
“Who says I want greater freedom?” he asked.
She did not answer and he kissed her again.
“Happy, my love?” he asked her after several more minutes.
“Mmm,“ she said.
“Which I can interpret any way I want, I suppose,” he said, chuckling. “Well, I am happy.”
“It was a lovely ride,” she said, “despite the rain.”
“Because of the rain,” he said. “Without it I would not have thought of bringing you here and being cozy with you.” He nipped her earlobe with his teeth and spoke into her ear. “Are you glad it rained too?”
He felt her swallow. “Yes, Freddie,” she said.
“Have you missed me too?” he asked.
There was a long pause. “Yes,” she said.
“Yes this time, not just mmm?” he said, shrugging his shoulder so that he could smile down into her eyes. “We are getting close to a serious declaration here, my love.”
“Don’t Freddie,” she said.
“Don’t what?” He touched his forehead to hers and kissed the end of her nose. “Don’t fish? I would like to hear you say the words. I can say them. I love you. There. They are quite easy to say. A great deal easier than one expects. I love you, Clara.”
“Don’t.” She turned her face in to his neck. “It is so unnecessary. Don’t spoil things.”
He frowned and touched a hand to the back of her head. “Spoil things?” he said. “By telling my own wife that I love her? Don’t you want me to love you, Clara? Or is it that you cannot return my feelings? That is all right. I can wait.”
She raised her head and he could see that she was both upset and angry. “There is no need for the charade, Freddie,” she said. “I think we are dealing surprisingly well together. Can we not be contented with that? Must there be all the lies?”
“Lies?” The heat seemed to be disappearing from the summerhouse. He felt rather cold.
“This claiming to love me,” she said. “Calling me your love and sometimes even your darling. You do not need to do it, Freddie. Do you think I am a fool just because I am a cripple? Do you think I do not know the truth and have not known it all along? The only thing I do not know is the extent of your debts. Did the dowry cover them?”
If she had been capable of walking, he would have left her and gone out into the rain. He did not want to have to look into her eyes. But he would be damned if he would drop his own before hers.
“Yes,” he said. “If you knew, Clara, why did you marry me?”
“I am twenty-six years old,” she said, “and crippled and ugly. Need I say more?”
“You are not ugly.” His lips felt as if they did not quite belong to him.
“It is kinder to use the word plain?” she said. “I am plain, then. We both married to satisfy a need, Freddie. And it has not been quite disastrous so far, has it? Let us be satisfied with that. I do not need to be told that you love me when I know the words to be lies. I am not a child.”
“My apologies, ma’am,” he said.
She looked at him, the anger gone from her face suddenly, and sighed. “And I have just done an unpardonably foolish thing,” she said. “It was a minor annoyance. I should have continued to say nothing. It would have been better so. I have embarrassed you, have I not?”
“On the contrary,” he said. “It is always better for two people to have the truth in the open between them. Yes, my debts are paid, ma’am. There will be no others to be a drain on your fortune.”
She looked at him for a few silent moments before sighing again and returning her head to his shoulder.
“I am a fool,” she said. “Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” he said.
He held her stiffly and silently for longer than half an hour until the rain stopped and then picked her up and walked in silence back to the house with her through sodden grass. Embarrassment, humiliation, he found, were a heavier burden than the woman he carried in his arms. She knew the truth. Of course she knew. He had never really believed that she did not. She must have had earlier experiences with fortune hunters. But having accepted him, decency dictated that they both keep up the charade.
Perhaps the words he had spoken to her were false. But he had acted on them. Everything he had done with her and to her in the past two weeks had been designed to show her a love he did not fully feel. He had tried to be kind to her and grateful to her.
He carried her into the house and straight upstairs to her dressing room. He reached a hand to the bell pull after setting her down on a chair.
“I shall order a hot bath,” he said. “I don’t want you catching a chill. And a hot drink afterward and at least an hour in bed.”
She attempted a smile and a light tone. “Is that an order, sir?” she asked. But it was too late to play charades.
“That is an order, ma’am,” he said, turning to her maid, who had answered the summons with admirable speed. After sending her to the kit
chens to arrange for hot water to be sent up, he left his wife’s room without a backward glance.
He did not enter it again—or her bedchamber—before leaving for London the following morning. He took a formal leave of his wife after breakfast—her companion was with her—and told her that he would be away for a month. He fully expected that it would be considerably longer than that.
She did a great deal of crying, all of it in private, though there was no hiding the telltale signs about her eyes and in her face. Not at least from a close friend. Harriet was tight-lipped about it at first.
“You have forbidden me to say anything against him,” she blurted after luncheon one afternoon, several days after Frederick had left. “But I cannot bear this any longer, Clara. I hate to see you unhappy like this. I hate him.”
“It is entirely my own fault,” Clara said. “I’ll not have Freddie blamed, Harriet.” And the whole story of that wretched afternoon came pouring out. For a few days before that she had been planning to say something to him. Something quite calm and rational. They had known each other long enough, she had thought, and liked each other well enough that they could speak the truth. It would be better if the pretense was dropped. They would be able to concentrate on building a friendship.
“There was a possibility of friendship,” she said to her skeptical friend. “We talked and talked during that week after our wedding, Harriet. And laughed. I have never laughed so much over such a short period of time. I wanted to get rid of the awkwardness of the other. It did not seem to matter that we did not love each other. I thought we could be agreed to that. But I made a mistake.”