Chapter 11

Westminster Abbey and Gunter’s that first afternoon, St. Paul’s, another day, the Tower on a third, visits to Madame Tussaud’s and to various galleries, several drives in Hyde Park, though it was nowhere near as busy as it always was during the spring—there always seemed to be somewhere to go. Occasionally they went alone. Often Harriet accompanied them. Sometimes Lord Archibald joined them.

His wife and Miss Pope were enjoying it all with such undisguised wonder, Frederick found, that he had not the heart to cut short their visit. Besides, he enjoyed it all too, his jaded eyes seeing the nation’s capital with fresh vision.

He always ordered around an open barouche instead of a closed carriage unless it was actually raining, even though the weather had turned cold and crisp. He did not know how his companions felt about this spartan treatment. None of them complained. Archie seemed even to enjoy it.

“Have you noticed, Freddie,” he asked one day when they were alone together, “how roses in female cheeks can rouse fires in a quite different part of the male anatomy?”

Archie was talking about Miss Pope, of course. But Frederick liked to see the flush of bright color in his wife’s cheeks and even on her nose, and the sparkle in her eyes.

He had decided to take his marriage as it came, a day at a time, not looking for too much, not rejecting what little there was. At present they seemed reasonably and cautiously contented with their life together. He had not said anything more to her about walking, and she had not referred to it either. It would be left at that. He had explained matters to her and told her that the choice was hers. He would now respect her decision. Or lack thereof. He was a little disappointed to find that she was not of such strong character as he had thought. But then, of course, he could not put himself in her place. He could not quite imagine what it must be like.

He spent time with her and took her about. He spent some nights with her. Not every night. Sometimes he was not at home. And some days he kept to himself. He was exercising and sparring at Jackson’s Boxing Saloon. He was enjoying male company at his clubs. He was gambling, alternately winning and losing, salving his conscience when he won by telling himself that there was no harm in it, mortally depressed when he lost, always convincing himself that he could give it up entirely whenever he wished, just as he had given up women and drinking. Clara was the only woman he was currently bedding.

He had never taken her out in the evening. He had made no effort to introduce her to society. But then the autumn was not a good time in which to do that. However, the season was growing late and more and more people were coming back to town. Evening activities were resuming.

“Would you like to go to the theater one evening?” he asked his wife early one morning after he had finished making love to her and they were lying close together, drowsy but still awake.

“Oh, Freddie.” She turned her head and even in the near darkness of the room he could see the glow in her eyes. “Could we? Could we really? Papa would never allow me out in the evenings, though I did go out a few times at Ebury Court after you left while the weather was still quite warm. Papa was afraid of the chill night air.”

“We will wrap you up warm,” he said, “so that the chills will not be able to find you.”

“The theater!” she said. “Is it very wonderful, Freddie? Oh, it must be.” Her tone changed suddenly. “But I have nothing to wear. Only the dresses I wear at home in the evenings.”

“An easily solved problem,” he said. I shall have a modiste summoned to the house tomorrow. You must have a whole range of new clothes made, Clara. Now that winter is coming on and everyone is returning to town, there will be evening entertainments for us to attend.”

There was a short silence. “I am to stay for a while, then?” she asked.

Was she? He had intended to keep her with him for only a week or two before taking her back home and resuming a life of greater freedom. More than two weeks had passed already.

“We will see how things go,” he said, “shall we?”

She nodded and nestled her cheek against his shoulder, and he settled for sleep. But she spoke again.

“Freddie,” she whispered, “when will we go to the theater? Soon?”

He turned onto his side, wriggled an arm beneath her neck so that her head could lie on his shoulder, and kissed her mouth. “Soon,” he said. “Or sooner. Satisfied?”

She chuckled. “As long as there is time for my dress to be made,” she said. “How am I supposed to sleep now?”

“By closing your eyes and relaxing,” he said. Good Lord, she was excited. Too excited to sleep. All because he had suggested taking her to the theater. He felt curiously like crying. He turned her onto her side, drew her against him, rubbed a soothing hand up and down her back, and kissed her warmly again.

She sighed, almost a purr of sound.

She could clench her toes. “Which is a dreadful whopper,” she told Harriet, “when I compare it with clenching my fist. There is no power in my toes.” With a great deal of concentrated effort she could move each foot from side to side. “Almost enough for the human eye to detect,” she said. She could even lift her foot an inch or so toward her leg, though the movement could hardly be called flexing the foot. Her knees would not obey her will at all.

“Did I say toes by the age of thirty?” she said to Harriet one morning, falling back against the pillows of her bed in a show of exhaustion that was only partly faked. “I believe I was overoptimistic. This will never do, Harriet. How can I hope ever to walk?”

“Perhaps if I massage your legs the blood will flow more vigorously and help them grow stronger,” Harriet said. “I used to massage Mama’s shoulders and back. She suffers from the rheumatics. She always said I have powerful hands.”

They were indeed powerful, rubbing and massaging with a firmness that was both painful and soothing.

“Ouch!” Clara said, wishing at one point that she could jerk her leg away from Harriet’s hands. “At least we know there is feeling there, Harriet. What an unpleasant task for you. Ugh, my legs are like sticks. How can I ever think of walking on them?”

The words struck them both as funny and they were off into gusts of laughter again. They had been doing a great deal of laughing, even giggling, since Clara had begun her “exercises.” Laughter was better than acknowledging pain and frustration and even despair, Clara had decided. And perhaps Harriet found it better than giving in to the pity she must be feeling.

Clara did her crying alone. Far too much of it for her own self-respect. She cried particularly during the nights when Freddie did not come home. Despicable tears of self-pity. For as long as she had thought she could never walk again, she had accepted her crippled state with a studied cheerfulness. Now she knew there was a chance, she was in despair. Progress was so very slow as to be almost nonexistent. It would never happen. No matter how hard she tried, it would not happen. And in the meantime there was effort, concentrated, bone-wearying effort for infinitesimal results. And pain.

She had not told Freddie. She was working in secret. If she failed, then he would never know that she had even tried. If she succeeded—but sometimes she thought she would never succeed—well, then, she would surprise him. She had a pleasant dream of herself walking into the library one day while he was busy at the desk at some task. She would watch his jaw drop to his chest and then hear the crash of his chair as he rose hastily and came around the desk to clasp her in his arms.

What a ridiculous dream, she thought, sniffing and drying her eyes and trying to laugh aloud at herself. As if it would matter that much to Freddie. Even if she could walk, she would still be thin and ugly. She hated her ugliness. She wanted beauty. Only the moon and stars, that was all. She would be content to leave the sun where it was. She blew her nose.

No, she would not. She wanted the sun too. And she saw something in a blinding flash, just as if she were looking into the heart of the sun. Oh, dear God, she thought. Oh, God. Oh, God. But she could repeat the phrase to kingdom come and not mask the other thought, which did not need the medium of words. She wanted his love too. All of it. Why? Because she loved him, of course. Foolish, stupid, ridiculous woman.

It was a truth not to be dwelled upon. He had not come home again on that particular night. He would be with her again. If there were one “her,” that was, and not a different one each time. Either way, he was with her rather than with his wife. She wondered, not even trying to shake the thought from her mind as she usually did, what they were doing. Sleeping? Or . . .

No, she would not tell him that she was trying to learn to walk. If she succeeded, then she would have greater freedom to make a life for herself independent of a faithless husband. Whom she just happened to love. It was an incidental point, not relevant to anything.

The sun would grow rather too bright on the eyes if one possessed it, anyway. It was as well to be philosophical about these things.

Sometimes she and Harriet talked about London, about what they had seen and what there was still to see. They could talk endlessly and with mutual enjoyment on the topic.

“Freddie is going to take us to the theater soon,” Clara said the morning after he had told her so, while Harriet was massaging her legs.

Harriet looked up, the sort of longing in her eyes that must have been in her own much earlier that morning, Clara thought. “The two of you?” she said. “How wonderful for you, Clara. You must tell me all about it afterward.”

“No, silly goose,” Clara said. “I said ‘us,’ did I not? He is going to invite Lord Archibald too.”

“Oh, Clara.” Harriet’s hands had stilled. “It would be altogether too wonderful. But I have nothing to wear.”

Clara laughed. “That was my objection too,” she said. “Freddie is sending a modiste here this afternoon, before our drive. He wants me to have several dresses made. You are going to be measured for one too.” She held up a staying hand when her friend would have interrupted her. “As a thank-you for all the help you have been giving me for the last couple of weeks, Harriet. No, don’t say no. It will give me such pleasure.”

“Thank you,” Harriet said softly, looking down sharply to resume her task, but not soon enough to hide the fact that tears were glistening in her eyes.

“Do you like Lord Archibald?” Clara asked. They had not spoken about him before, though he had been quite attentive.

“He likes to laugh at me,” Harriet said. “He likes to make me blush. He treats me like an amusing child.” 

“Hardly that,” Clara said, frowning. “Has he made any improper advances, Harriet?”

“Of course not.” Harriet looked up, startled. “Do you think I would allow it?”

“No,” Clara said. “But I think he is a dangerous man. He is used to getting his own way, I would guess. I believe he fancies you.”

Harriet blushed. “How foolish,” she said.

“You are very sensible,” Clara said. “Far more so than I am, Harriet. But I cannot resist one word of maternal advice. Be careful. Will you?”

“I am not sure about being sensible,” Harriet said, “but I am a realist. I know that to Lord Archibald Vinney I am merely an amusing interlude. Now, if I take your foot in my hand and flex it forward, do you think you can push it back against my hand? Perhaps we should try it that way first since you are not making great progress at flexing it yourself. Shall we try?”

Clara sighed. “Slave driver,” she said. “Yes, let’s try it, then.”

She fortified her spirits with thoughts of theaters and new evening gowns that would transform her into a beauty as she exerted every ounce of strength and willpower over the coming half hour.

The theater was unexpectedly crowded for the time of year. It seemed almost full when Frederick carried his wife into Lord Archibald’s private box and looked about him before lowering her into a chair. A large number of quizzing glasses and lorgnettes were undoubtedly trained their way. Perhaps many people had not heard either that he was married or that his wife was unable to walk, he thought.

He smiled reassuringly at her as he set her down. Her new blue gown really became her well, as he had told her earlier in her dressing room, when he had given her the gold chain with its sapphire pendant that she now wore about her neck—bought with his winnings of two nights previous. But she did not need reassurance, he saw. Like Miss Pope, she was gazing about her with wonder and awe, quite unaware of the fact that she was drawing a great deal of attention.

“There will be a play to watch too, you know,” he said, settling himself beside her and grinning at her. “Save some of your admiration for that, Clara.”

She laughed. “I am enjoying every single moment of the evening as it happens,” she said. “Don’t make fun of me and make me feel like a little child.”

He took her hand in his and squeezed it—and kept it in his. That feeling was creeping up on him again, the one that had so surprised him at the end of his honeymoon just before their first quarrel. The feeling that it would be altogether possible to fall in love with her. He liked to please her. He was always catching himself in the act of thinking up new ways of doing so. He liked making her happy.

“Happy?” he asked.

“Silly,” she said. “How could anyone be here and be anything but happy, Freddie? Go ahead, laugh at me.”

He laughed. Archie, he could see, was saying something to make Miss Pope blush. There was nothing particularly unusual about that. Archie had asked him if he could possibly delay carrying Clara out to the carriage after the play was over until everyone else had left.

“And leave you alone with Miss Pope?” Frederick had said. “Forget it, Archie.”

“For maybe ten minutes,” Lord Archibald had said. “Sometimes I can make haste and thereby deny myself a great deal of pleasure, Freddie, my boy, but I don’t believe even a marginally satisfying ravishment could be accomplished in ten minutes, could it? It would seem hardly worth the expenditure of energy. I merely want to talk to my little blushing beauty.”

“Merely talk?” Frederick had raised his eyebrows.

“Well, almost merely,” his friend had said, smiling engagingly. “You and Mrs. Sullivan make quite oppressive chaperons usually, my lad.”

“Well,” Frederick had said, “I will see what can be arranged, Archie. But I will not have the girl frightened or compromised.”

“You sound like a grandfather who has raised fifteen daughters and is now starting on his granddaughters, Freddie,” Lord Archibald had said. “It is most disconcerting.”

He hoped he had not agreed to something that would cause his wife’s companion any embarrassment or suffering. Damn Archie. Couldn’t he restrict his attentions to those women who were available, or at least to those who understood the game of dalliance? Miss Pope was a babe in the woods.

Clara gripped his hand with unconscious excitement when the play began and watched it with rapt wonder until the interval. If the theater had burned down around her, she would not have noticed, Frederick thought with a sort of tender amusement. He watched her more than he watched the play. He had never been much of a one for drama. He had always attended the theater in order to sit in the pit with the other unattached men and ogle the ladies. His wife was the only one he was ogling tonight, though he was not really doing that. He was merely watching her. A great deal of inner beauty came shining from her eyes, he thought.

Lord Archibald persuaded Harriet to step out into the corridor for some air and exercise during the interval, after having convinced her that it would be so crowded with people out there that they would scarcely be able to move. Frederick stayed to keep his wife company, still holding her hand and listening with a smile to her enthusiastic analysis of the play and the acting.

“Don’t you agree?” she asked, pausing at last.

“I agree, my l— I agree,” he said. “Everything you say is true and wise, Clara.”

She looked suspicious. “You are laughing at me,” she said. “I suppose it is not fashionable to show such enthusiasm for the theater, is it? I don’t care a fig for fashion.”

“And yet,” he said, “you chose a dress design that is the very height of fashion, Clara.”

“Merely because the modiste recommended it,” she said. “If it had been last decade’s design I would not have known the difference.”

He chuckled and turned his head to see who had opened the door and was coming into their box. Then he scrambled to his feet.

“Freddie,” his cousin, Camilla Wilkes, said, stretching out both hands to him and turning her cheek for his kiss. “One would think you were totally blind. We have been nodding and winking and doing everything to attract your attention but standing on our seats and waving our arms above our heads. All to no effect. Have we not, Malcolm?”

Malcolm Stacey, his sort-of cousin, Camilla’s betrothed, was standing behind her, tall and thin and blond, smiling. “Hello, Freddie,” he said, extending a hand. “We did not know you were in town. We arrived ourselves just last week.”

“We are marrying here just before Christmas,” Camilla said. “At St. George’s, of all places. Can you imagine, Freddie? Both Malcolm and I are quiet people and would have liked nothing better than a quiet country wedding. But families can become monsters. The least important people, it seems, when it comes to a wedding, are the bride and groom.”

Frederick felt acutely embarrassed. They had sought him out and they were being perfectly friendly, but they knew exactly what had happened at Primrose Park during the early summer. They and Dan and Jule and himself, of course. Just the five of them.

“Come and meet my wife,” he said. “Did you know I was married?”

Camilla flushed. “Yes, we had heard, Freddie,” she said, her voice subdued. It was perfectly obvious what family opinion about his marriage must be.

Clara smiled, quite at her ease while he made the introductions. “Forgive me for not rising,” she said. “I am unable to walk.”

It was unclear from their expressions if they had known that too. Camilla took Clara’s hand in hers and seated herself beside her. Malcolm stood looking gravely down at them, his hands clasped behind his back. Whatever they might think of him, Frederick thought in some relief, at least they were going to be civil to his wife.

“I know you,” Clara was saying, a slow smile of delight spreading across her face. “You are Freddie’s cousins who always spent the summers in Primrose Park with the rest of the family. He has told me about all the games you used to play and the mischief you always used to get into.”

“With himself as villain,” Camilla said with a laugh. “If ever there was a pirate or a bandit or a highwayman to be played, Freddie was always first to volunteer. The next family gathering will be for our wedding. You and Freddie will be there, of course, Clara. You will be able to meet the rest of us.”

Frederick’s discomfort grew. “I am going to go out in search of a drink for Clara,” he said, “if you will excuse me. I shall be only a few minutes.”

The devil, he thought when he was in the corridor and hurrying along in search of a drink. Of all the rotten luck. A family wedding—again—and in London, of all places. He and Clara would have to be gone. They would have to return to Ebury Court and make some excuse not to attend. Devil take it, Dan was Camilla’s brother. Jule was her sister-in-law.

He was walking too fast for the crowds. He collided with three separate people and had to stop each time to mutter apologies. The third time the words stuck in his throat. And the lady whose upper arms he had clasped appeared dumbfounded too.

“Jule,” he said at last, his voice sounding almost like a croak. Good Lord, of course, he might have expected that they would be at the theater with Camilla and Malcolm. But they would have rejected the pleasure of calling at his box.

“Hello, Freddie,” Julia Wilkes, Countess of Beaconswood, said. Her pretty, normally good-natured face did not smile.

He swallowed, released his hold of her arms, and looked over her shoulder. Of course. “Dan?” he said, inclining his head.

“Hello, Freddie,” the earl said. “Camilla and Malcolm called at your box? They have been trying to attract your attention all evening.”

“They are talking with my wife,” Frederick said. “You knew I was married?”

“Yes,” the earl said. His countess seemed to have become mute, a fact that was more than unusual with Jule.

“Well.” Frederick smiled and tried to look jovial. “I have not had a chance to congratulate the two of you, have I? I am sorry I was unable to attend your wedding. It was most annoying.”

The countess, he saw when he glanced at her, was gazing downward at the floor.

“We understood,” the earl said. He had one arm about Jule’s waist, Frederick noticed, as if he thought his cousin might be about to abduct her. A painful thought.

“May I present my wife to you?” he asked.

The earl hesitated. It was the countess who answered.

“Yes, please, Freddie,” she said, looking up to his neckcloth and taking her husband’s arm. “May we please, Daniel?”

And so he had landed himself with the painful task of escorting the two of them into his box and making the introductions. Dan made a formal bow to Clara, he noticed. Jule surprised him by taking one of Clara’s hands in both of hers and bending to kiss her cheek.

“Freddie has been telling Clara all about us,” Camilla said, laughing. “She knows all our sins in advance. Is not that a disconcerting thought?”

Clara laughed and looked up at the countess. “Did your husband tell you all about them too?” she asked. “They had a wonderfully wild childhood. I envy them more than I can say.”

“But I was one of them,” the countess said, chuckling. “And in many ways the worst of the lot. Ask Daniel. He spent his boyhood frowning at me and telling me that Grandpapa should have spanked me a few times when I was a child.”

“I am sorry.” Clara looked bewildered while Frederick wished he had some excuse for slipping from the box. “I don’t think Freddie mentioned you. Julia? No, I do not remember that name. Were you always there?”

“Yes,” the countess said quietly. She was biting her lower lip, Frederick could see. “From the time I was five. I was not strictly speaking a member of the family. Only the stepdaughter of the former earl’s daughter. A rather obscure relationship.”

Clara smiled. “Are you enjoying the play?” she asked. “I think it is wonderful, though Freddie has been laughing at my enthusiasm. It is my first visit to a theater, you see, so I am easily pleased.”

Conversation moved into safe channels for a few minutes until it was time for their visitors to return to their box and Harriet and Lord Archibald returned to theirs. The play was about to resume.

Clara turned her head to smile at Frederick. “How delightful that some of your family are in town,” she said. “Now I can put a face to some of the cousins you have been telling me about.”

He smiled at her and took her hand again.

“Freddie,” she said, “did I make a dreadful blunder? Had I forgotten about Julia? I felt so foolish when she said that she had always been with the rest of you at Primrose Park. She had even lived there. But I have no memory of your ever mentioning her.”

“I never did, Clara,” he said quietly. He looked up from their hands to gaze into her eyes, which were wide with inquiry. He hesitated. “I was there—at Primrose Park—earlier this summer, before I went to Bath. I asked her to marry me, but she chose Dan instead.”

“Oh,” she said.

But the play was beginning again. There was no time to say more. He had certainly bungled that, he thought. What would she make of that explanation? But he could hardly tell her the whole story. He hated even to think of the whole story.

The rapt look had gone from his wife’s face, though she looked steadily at the stage for the rest of the performance. He wondered if she saw as little of the action as he did.