“Are you and Lucy joining us at the theatre tonight, Giles?”
Her brother, who had just taken a bite of toast and was washing it down with his coffee, mumbled and nodded his head.
“Was that a yes, dear?” his sister asked with exaggerated sweetness, in exactly the same tone their mother would have used, were she with them in London, rather than with their father in Paris, on what they considered a “second honeymoon.”
Giles swallowed. “Yes, it was a yes, Sabrina. Do you mind if we do?”
“Of course not. In fact, I have become quite resigned to your ... friendship with Lucy.”
Her brother grinned. “My ... friendship? Are you trying to oh so subtly ask something, Brina?”
“Are you going to make her an offer, Giles?”
“The wagers are three to one in favor, Sabrina. What do you think?”
“I think that you are being most annoying, Giles. Surely your twin sister should be kept informed of the state of your heart.”
“I have given very serious thought to it. Lucy and I have spent a great deal of time together, and she is very good company. I need a wife, and the Kirkman land runs with ours.”
“You have spent a great deal of time together because Lucy makes sure that you do, Giles.”
“Sabrina, I'm not obtuse. Of course I know Lucy sought me out. But perhaps that is what I need: a woman who wants me.”
“But do you love her?”
“I have a great deal of affection for Lucy. And we know each other’s foibles very well by now. I think we would get along quite comfortably.”
“Well, then?”
“I haven’t quite made up my mind. But if I were going to wager ...?”
“Yes?”
“Odds on, Sabrina,” he said, pushing away from the table. “Will you join me for a ride this afternoon?”
“Of course.”
“Then I will see you later. I am off to the Home Office.”
“Another diplomatic bungle to straighten out?”
“It seems that I am the only one they can find who can translate Persian and interpret a report’s deeper meaning.”
After her brother left, Sabrina sat staring into space. Lucy Kirkman as a sister-in-law. She had seen it coming, certainly, so she was almost prepared. But not entirely. She so wanted Giles to have love. He deserved it after losing Clare. Lucy wanted him, Lucy liked him. Lucy even had affection for him. But Lucy, as far as Sabrina could see, was incapable of any deeper feelings.
Of course, he wasn’t the only one who had lost Clare, she thought. Before Clare had arrived in London for the Season last spring, there had been talk of Sabrina coming for a summer visit. But during the Season, the visit had never even been mentioned, and Sabrina had received no answer to the two short notes she had sent Clare in August.
Lord and Lady Rainsborough had come up for the Little Season, but their attendance at social events had been sporadic. Sabrina had had one or two very short and unsatisfactory visits with Clare. It was as though her friend had retreated behind some wall. Yet she and Rainsborough seemed as close as ever and even left for Devon early, well before the holidays, and without even a good-bye to her old friend.
Although Sabrina had very much wanted her brother’s comfort and counsel, she had avoided talking about Clare. Giles seemed to be over her, at least from all outward appearance, and Sabrina did not want to reopen the old wound. As to whether the wound had ever truly healed, she was not sure. She suspected not, for if it had, she was sure her brother would have been looking for love again, and not settling for Lucy Kirkman.
* * * *
Lucy would certainly make an attractive wife, if nothing else, thought Sabrina that night, when Giles and Sabrina arrived at the theatre. She was dressed in primrose muslin, which was a wonderful color for someone with her dark brown hair. Her eyes were full of life and enjoyment. I have to give her that, thought Sabrina. She has energy enough for the two of them. When she is getting what she wants!
“Oh, look, there are the Rainsboroughs,” said Lucy. “I wondered whether they would come up for the whole Season. Or whether Lady Rainsborough was increasing yet. He is the most handsome man and so devoted, don’t you think, Sabrina?”
Sabrina looked across to the Rainsborough box. Justin’s tan had never faded completely, and his black hair and dark skin and cool gray eyes were still a powerful combination, even after all this time. She watched as he turned solicitously to Clare, pulling out her chair for her and getting her settled. Sabrina leaned forward and waved. She thought she saw a slight frown crease Rainsborough’s brow, but it was gone by the time he alerted Clare, and they both gave discreet waves over to the Whitton box.
“She looks as pale and thin as she did last spring after losing the baby. Do you think it has happened again, Sabrina?” remarked Lucy, who had no qualms about speaking what was on her mind.
Sabrina answered casually: “I don’t know, Lucy. I haven’t heard from Clare for an age.” Sabrina was very glad to see the curtain going up and the pantomime begin.
Clare stayed in the Rainsborough box during the interval, but Sabrina saw Rainsborough in the lobby procuring a glass of punch. Dragging Lucy with her, she approached him.
“Ah, good evening, Lady Sabrina, how lovely it is to see you here,” he said with a smile that held no real pleasure.
“Good evening. May I come back with you and say hello to Clare?”
“Of course.”
Sabrina dismissed Lucy, saying she would be safe in Lord Rainsborough’s company and that she would return shortly, and then followed him back to his box, chatting about the play.
“Here is Sabrina to see you, my dear,” Rainsborough announced.
Clare, who had seemingly not moved since the curtain came down, started and turned around. She blushed slightly when she saw Sabrina and gave her a hesitant smile.
Clare was as thin and as lacking in color as she had been at the beginning of last spring. And there was something about the way she held herself that worried Sabrina. There was both a tension and a fragility in her bearing that made Sabrina feel that if she should but touch her, Clare would shatter. So she did not give her a warm hug of welcome, but merely took her hand and squeezed it affectionately.
“I hope your holidays were as festive as ours, Clare. Did you have much snow in Devon?”
“We had some snow, Lady Sabrina, but we are so near the coast, you know, that it melts almost immediately.”
Sabrina wanted to say rudely: “I didn’t ask you, Rainsborough.” Instead she smiled down at her friend and said: “Will you be home tomorrow? I would love to catch up on the last few months, Clare.”
Clare’s eyes automatically glanced over at her husband, and Rainsborough smoothly answered Sabrina for her.
“We have only just arrived, Lady Sabrina. Perhaps you could give us a few days to get settled before you call?”
“Of course. Well, I had best get back to my seat, Clare. It is good to see you both.”
She was looking to him for permission, fumed Sabrina, as she walked back to their box. Permission to see her oldest friend! Well, I will make sure I call the beginning of next week whether Lord Rainsborough approves or not. Being solicitous about his wife’s health is one thing; keeping her friends away from her was quite another.
* * * *
Four days later, Clare watched her husband going through their cards and invitations. She had almost become resigned to the fact that he made all the decisions about their social life, even to the extent of telling her whom to see and whom to turn away on afternoon calls. She caught her breath when he lifted up a piece of vellum with Sabrina’s handwriting on it.
“Sabrina Whitton will never give up, will she,” said Rainsborough. “I should think it would have been obvious to her by now that you do not wish to continue an intimate friendship with either her or her brother.”
“I won’t see her if you don’t want me to, Justin,” said Clare, trying to keep her voice free of anything that may have been construed as desire to see her old friend.
“I appreciate your willingness to go along with my wishes, Clare,” said her husband, smiling his approval. “But you had better see her. If you completely ignore the Whittons, no doubt the gossips will seize upon it.”
“All right, Justin.”
“What were your plans for the day, Clare?”
“I need a new pair of gloves, Justin. I thought I would go to the Pantheon Bazaar and do a little shopping this morning. I will take Liza with me, of course. If that is all right with you,” she added timidly.
“Of course, my dear. And just make sure this afternoon, when Lady Sabrina calls, you see her on her way quickly.”
Clare lowered her eyes to hide her disappointment and nodded. After all Clare’s neglect of their friendship, Sabrina would hardly expect a long, cozy afternoon. But, oh how she missed her old friend’s company and counsel.
“Do we have plans for this evening, Justin?”
Rainsborough fanned out the invitations. “I think the Winstons’ ball, don’t you?”
Clare nodded. “Of course, my dear.”
“Wear your new gown for me, Clare.”
“I will, Justin.” It was a lovely gown, with an underslip of ivory and the palest gray gauze overslip lightly sprinkled with tiny rhinestones. Clare had felt she was dressed in gossamer thread spun by faeries when she had tried it on. “Are you riding this morning, Justin?”
“No, I am merely dressed in my buckskins for show,” he answered sarcastically. “I will see you later, Clare.”
“Yes, Justin.” She had never gotten used to the sarcasm that he employed more and more with her. But she tried to dismiss it from her mind, and getting up from the breakfast table, summoned Liza.
Every time she saw her abigail’s bland face she felt a surge of loneliness. Liza had been with her for a year now, but she still missed Martha. Martha had cared about her. Martha had defended Clare, better than Clare defended herself. Of course, Justin couldn’t tolerate her and had dismissed her, choosing the new maid himself. But Clare never felt so alone as when Liza was with her.
* * * *
She saw several women that she knew at the bazaar, and smiled and nodded and chatted away about the price of silk scarves. She knew, as she walked away from them that they were gossiping about her appearance. Had she been increasing again and lost another baby? Was she capable of giving Rainsborough an heir? No, she could have told them, she had not been with child this winter, for which she was profoundly grateful. Not that she could ever share her relief with anyone. And not that anyone really cared why she looked unwell.
She was alone and friendless in a bed of her own making, and she must lie in it until she died. At times over this past year, she had actually prayed for death, but most of the time, she just hoped there would be no more beatings, that this time, Justin would keep his promises never to drink again, never to touch her again except in love. Or at least, that his next beating would not be any harder than the last.
* * * *
“How was your visit with Clare this afternoon?” Giles asked as he helped his sister on with her cloak. Sabrina looked up in surprise. She had not mentioned her decision to visit Clare, as far as she recalled.
“No need to look surprised, Brina. I was looking for you this afternoon and a footman told me where you had gone. You don’t need to be so protective, although I appreciate it. I have long been resigned to the situation.”
“I know, Giles. But there doesn’t seem much point in talking about my worry when neither of us can do anything about it.”
Giles was silent until they reached the carriage and then asked quietly: “And what worries you, Sabrina?”
“It is not just that Clare looks unwell. I feel that there is an inner fragility that goes beyond any of her old diffidence. She initially seemed ...” Sabrina hesitated.
“Yes? Go ahead, say it, Sabrina.”
“So happy in her marriage. But now ... well, Rainsborough is always hovering over her and certainly seems affectionate enough ...”
“Has she said anything to lead you to believe their marriage has changed?”
“Nothing. She didn’t say much at all. We chatted about this and that. Anytime I approached anything personal, I could almost see a wall drop between us. And yet, at the same time, I have this strange feeling that our Clare is trapped behind that wall, waiting to ask for help. But help for what, I don’t know.”
“If she doesn’t ask, we certainly can’t give it to her. And neither of us has the right to interfere with what is, ultimately a private affair,” said Giles with such finality that Sabrina wondered if she had been wrong all along. Maybe Giles was completely heart-free where Clare was concerned.
* * * *
However he had sounded to Sabrina, Giles was unable to ignore what she had told him. He watched Clare carefully that evening, as unobtrusively as possible. She danced with her husband several times, and throughout the night they rarely had their eyes off each other, or so it seemed. But he could not make up his mind whether Clare’s glances over to Rainsborough were loving or something else ... something closer to watchfulness or fear.
Giles did not ask Clare to dance, but he noticed that the young Earl of Bewley was hovering around her and danced with her twice. Bewley was an amusing fellow, and Giles felt a pang when he saw Clare laughing up at him once or twice during their waltz. It was the happiest he had seen her look in a long time. Shortly thereafter, however, he noticed that Clare was gone and Rainsborough also. He was relieved to see that her husband was making sure she didn’t exhaust herself. He and Sabrina were likely worried for nothing. Even the oldest and closest of friends drifted away from one another. He just needed to accept that that was what was happening with Clare.
* * * *
Clare sat very still as the carriage carried them home. It was never a good sign when Justin gave their excuses to their hostess and took her home early. She was trying to review the evening: she had been with Justin for most of it, however unfashionable that appeared. She had not spoken with Sabrina and had barely acknowledged Giles when he bowed to her. She had not danced with Giles the past few nights, nor had he asked her. She had allowed young Bewley to get her a glass of punch after their second dance. Could that have been it? But surely Bewley would not threaten Justin? He was three years younger than she was, after all.
When they got home, Justin handed her down with exaggerated politeness and told her he would be up soon. She started up the stairs slowly and watched him go down the hall to the library. He had had Madeira to drink at supper and several glasses of champagne at the ball. And there was always a decanter of brandy in the library. When he went there before coming upstairs ...
Liza helped her out of her gown and into her night rail.
“Do you want me to brush your hair, my lady?”
“Please, Liza.” Clare said yes not because she liked the abigail’s company or the brisk way she brushed her mistress’s hair. She wanted to keep Liza there as long as possible. Sometimes it made a difference if her abigail was with her when Justin first came up.
Justin opened her door just as Liza was finishing.
“You can go, Liza,” he said. He was talking slowly, so as not to slur his words, and Clare trembled as he closed the door and came up behind her. He put a hand on each of her shoulders and dug into her flesh with his fingers.
“Who are you thinking of tonight, Clare? Whitton seems to have been avoiding you.”
“I am not thinking of anyone, Justin,” said Clare. It was hopeless to think she could get through to him, but she always quietly denied his charges.
“Perhaps it is the young Earl of Bewley? He is a very handsome young man, if you go for that sort of pretty face, isn’t he, Clare?”
If she said “no,” he would call her a liar. So she said: “Yes, Justin, he is very good-looking.”
“And you enjoyed your waltz with him, I could tell.”
His hands had moved so that they were resting on her throat, and as she swallowed, she could feel them tightening.
“It was a waltz like any other, Justin,” she whispered. She was looking down at her dressing table, staring at her brush and comb and hand mirror. She noticed a few grains of powder that had spilled, and thought, inconsequentially, that she would have to make sure that Liza cleaned it up. She could not lift her eyes and look in the pier glass. If she did, she would meet the hard, bloodshot eyes of her husband. She saw the face of the loving Justin less and less these days. This past year it was not months that went by, or weeks, but days before his transformation into the man who despised her and took pleasure in hurting her. He had to be too drunk to do much tonight, please, please God.
Of course, she didn’t really believe in God anymore. How could she? She had promised before Him to love, honor, and obey her husband. Under the laws of God and man, she was helpless. Once, last summer, she had tried to talk with their vicar. She had thought that maybe if he talked to Justin, it might help. But as soon as he realized what she was telling him, he only said in his Sunday-sermon voice that her husband knew far better what was best for their marriage than an outsider, all the while looking at her with distaste, as though she had dropped a squashed, but still wriggling snake on his desk.
But it helped to calm her fear to say, “Please God, please God,” even though she now expected no answer. If his representative on earth wouldn’t help her, was disgusted by her, then why should God help?
“You smiled up at him the way you used to smile at me, Clare. You are leading him on, just like you led me on. He thinks you love him, just like I did.”
It did no good to protest or to get angry. To cry. It only made him worse. So she just said, in the even, calm voice she had worked so hard to master: “No, Justin. I have only loved you. I still only love you.” Although she was not sure that was still true. But she would make it true, by constant repetition, or else what did her marriage or her life mean?
She felt his hands tighten again, and there was pressure against her windpipe.
“I could kill you very easily, right here, right now, Clare. And unlike Othello, I would have all the right in the world on my side if I choked the life out of my Desdemona.”
He had begun threatening her life in the last six months. At first she had thought he was only pushed by the brandy and his insane jealousy into making insane threats. But after he had choked her into unconsciousness twice, she began to fear not only for her sanity, but her life.
She couldn’t say anything now, because his hands were pressing so hard against her throat that her vision was beginning to cloud. Then the pressure released. She was alive. He had not choked her to death tonight. She would not be able to go out for a few nights because of her face. He would calm down. He would come in and apologize tomorrow or the next day and she would have a little time to feel safe.
* * * *
It took Justin three days this time. Clare had kept to her room, with Liza helping her climb stiffly into her bath and bringing her meals up on a tray. The maid’s face remained passive and expressionless on these occasions, and she never commented on Clare’s bruises. She never expressed any sympathy or anger, the way Martha had. And whenever she saw Justin, she greeted him as if he were exactly what everyone else thought him: an attentive husband. After watching her abigail during the first months of her employment, Clare had decided that Justin, who had dismissed Martha, was most likely paying Liza very well to ignore what was going on.
When her husband finally knocked on her door, Clare was sitting up in bed working on her embroidery. She wasn’t very good at needlework, but found the concentration it demanded of her kept her mind off everything else.
Justin’s face looked as it always did on these occasions: open, caring, grief-stricken at her appearance. And there was still a part of her that responded to him, who believed him. In fact, Clare knew he meant every word of his abject apology. He was sincere, he did intend never to drink again, he did need and depend upon her. She was certainly, in every way, the center of his life. That was what had been so difficult throughout their marriage: that she believed him. That he was the man she had married.
The trouble was, he was not only that man, but someone else. Both were real, she had come to understand. She had married a man who was two different men: one the tender lover, the other, an insanely jealous, abusive tyrant. And the more the latter showed his face, the more Clare wondered if soon the two Justins would become one, one who would keep his often-stated promise, and choke the life out of her one night.
“Your father called on you today, Clare,” her husband announced after the familiar ritual of a tearful apology.
Clare was surprised. Her parents rarely came up for the Season now, and when they did, it was later in the spring. “I wonder why they are here,” she said. “In Mama’s last letter, she wasn’t sure they were coming at all, much less this early.”
“Evidently your father has some business to take care of.” Justin hesitated. “I told him you were feeling ill, but would call on him in a few days.”
Without thinking, Clare felt her nose. The swelling had gone down, and her eye, which was also discolored, was almost back to normal. Justin flinched when she did this, and she reached out for his hand. “I think I will be fine by Wednesday.”
“Clare.”
“Yes, Justin?”
“I think I am going to make an appointment to see Dr. Shipton. I have heard he has had great success in helping people reduce their dependence on laudanum. Perhaps he can help me with brandy.”
This was the first time that Justin had ever admitted that his problem was beyond his own strength or resolve. Clare felt a stirring of hope. Maybe there was a God after all.
“Oh, Justin, I’m sure that he could help you. And I would do anything that you needed me to do to help.”
“I know that, Clare,” he said quietly.
That night, when he returned to her bed, Justin slowly and tenderly caressed and kissed her. At first, she could not help from shrinking back, and when he felt this, he groaned, and she stiffened in fear.
“I don’t blame you for being frightened, Clare. I won’t ask you for anything that you don’t want to give.”
And his restraint had the effect it always had: her fear subsided, and the old feeling of love and passionate response took over. This time, she thought, as they lay there in each other’s arms, this time he means it.