Chapter 8

Frederick immersed himself in the pleasures of town as soon as he arrived there, picked up his old life exactly where he had left it. Except that it had lost some of its luster. There was something missing but he did not know what. It was the rather grand town house, he thought, instead of the usual cramped bachelor rooms. And yet the house only added to his comfort. It was the fact that it was late summer and not the fashionable time to be in town. But he had always spent most of his time in London, regardless of the season. It had never made any difference to him before.

He became an enthusiastic contributor to the betting books at the clubs, as he had always been. He found out all the more interesting card games—at the clubs and in private homes. An interesting card game to Frederick meant that the stakes were high. And he bedded a few willing women of ton and a far larger number of willing courtesans. He even took to frequenting a brothel of high repute once or twice a week. He discarded the idea of employing a regular mistress after spending a second night with one particularly luscious courtesan only to find that she wanted to talk. As if her second time with him gave her the right to probe his soul. The last thing he wanted to do with women was talk.

The magic was no longer there. It was eluding him, no matter how frantically he tried to pile one pleasure on another. And he was losing at the tables and in the books. Not drastically so. Sometimes he won and sometimes he lost, as one expected when one was an experienced gamer. But the losses were always higher and a little more frequent than the gains. After a few weeks he became uneasily aware that he owed a substantial sum.

Nothing he could not handle. His income was quite sufficient to cover his losses.

He began to drink in order to counter the flat feeling his days and his nights were bringing him. Never too much. He knew his limits and had always worked sensibly within them. He had done so ever since a drunken orgy when he was eighteen had left him sick for days and wishing he were dead. He had learned a lesson then. Never again would he drink more than two drinks on one occasion, he had resolved. Surprisingly, considering his other excesses, he had kept the resolve—until now. He started taking three and four drinks each night, just enough to brighten his mood but not enough to make him drunk. But he began to wake in the mornings, as often as not in a strange bed with the nauseating smell of some perfume in his nostrils, with a headache and a foul taste in his mouth.

He thought of Clara almost constantly. He had done a shameful thing and she had known about it and confronted him with it just at a time when he was making an ass of himself, telling her that he loved her, almost meaning it. He hated her. He wished in his heart that he had not taken the mad step of marrying her. Debtors’ prison would have been better. Not that his father would have allowed him to languish long there. Debtors’ prison would have been better than his father’s sorrow too.

He never wanted to see his wife again. He would avoid doing so if he possibly could. He would have to think of some excuse to give his mother about Christmas. He did not need to look into Clara’s eyes and see the contempt there. He had a looking glass that served the same purpose quite adequately.

And yet he worried about her. He had felt the essential tedium and loneliness of her life, and felt almost vicious with anger against a father who had smothered her with love and made her life almost unbearably dull. She had enjoyed their short rides more than another woman would have enjoyed a tour of the gayest European capitals. She had been happier sitting and lying on the grass outside the summerhouse than she would have been if he had presented her with a bed of priceless jewels and laid her down on it. Her open barouche, she had written to tell him, was the most wonderful gift she had ever been given.

She needed air and sunshine and company. She had Harriet Pope for company and a good number of attentive neighbors. He took to writing to her, commanding her to take the air and the sunshine. And he read her weekly letters and noted with satisfaction that she was obeying him. Obeying him! Someone like Clara was obeying someone like him? Because he was her husband. She had always obeyed her father too, and the man had let her live in a hothouse atmosphere. Her letters were always short and formal. He looked for something even remotely personal in them but found nothing, except that remark she had made about the barouche.

He tried not to think about her. They had their separate lives to lead, happily apart. He had got the money he had so desperately needed while she had got the respectability she had wanted. They owed each other nothing now.

Lord Archibald Vinney returned to London at the end of September and called on his friend the day after his return.

“Come up in the world, haven’t you, Freddie, my boy?” he said in the languid voice he liked sometimes to affect. He looked about the salon, his quizzing glass to his eye. “It pays to marry a rich wife, I see.”

“The house is a wedding present from my father,” Frederick said.

Lord Archibald chuckled and lowered himself gracefully into a chair. “And how is the blissful bridegroom?” he asked. “Living apart from the bonnie bride? Marital bliss was too sweet, Freddie?”

“I had business in town,” Frederick said, “and Clara is more comfortable in the country.”

His friend threw back his head and laughed. “Business!” he said. “Making money, old chap? Are you?”

“I have had some luck,” Frederick said.

He found Lord Archibald’s quizzing glass trained on him. “Those words always mean that there has also been a great deal of bad luck,” he said. “Another occasion when a rich wife comes in handy, Freddie. I envy you.” Lord Archibald was as rich as Croesus and the heir to a dukedom to boot. Rumor had it that his grandfather had been teetering on the brink of death for a year or more.

Frederick poured his friend a brandy and himself a glass of water.

“Ah, silence,” Lord Archibald said, raising his brandy glass to his eye before sipping from it. “Are my remarks tasteless, Freddie, my boy? Do you consider yourself a married man?”

“I am a married man,” Frederick said.

“Then my lips are forever sealed on the subject,” his friend said. “Have you had at the delectable companion at all?”

“Had? Miss Pope?” Frederick frowned. “Of course I have not, Archie. What do you think I am?”

The quizzing glass was directed his way again. “Don’t tell me,” Lord Archibald said. “A married man. Never tell me you have been celibate since returning to London, Freddie. The very thought is excruciatingly horrible.” He shuddered.

Frederick grinned for the first time. “Not exactly,” he said. “Have you tried the girls at Annette’s, Archie? They are something superior.”

“You must recommend the loveliest and liveliest,” his friend said, “and I shall sample her charms and see if I agree.”

They resumed their friendship and Lord Archibald was as good as his word. He did not refer to the marriage again. But Frederick had been annoyed. His friend had seemed to take for granted the fact that there was nothing in the marriage to hold Frederick at home. It was a veiled and perhaps quite unintentional insult to Clara.

He did not like her to be insulted, indirectly or not. She deserved better than she had got. Ten times better.

He got drunk one night when luck was with him but even the pleasure of winning a small fortune could bring with it no great exhilaration. He got rowdily and finally morosely drunk and had to be carried home. He did not even know until well into the next day that he had lost the fortune and more besides. He felt so vilely sick all day that he got drunk again during the evening. And the next. He found that the only way to keep feeling marginally well was to continue drinking. Finally he drank himself into total oblivion.

Three days of hell followed, and then a depression so deep that it seemed pointless to drag himself from bed in the morning. The thought of liquor or cards—or women—nauseated him. There seemed no pleasure in life worth going after any longer.

Lord Archibald dragged him out for a ride in the park one raw and gray day that perfectly matched Frederick’s mood. There was almost no one else in sight.

“Everyone else is wise enough to stay indoors by a fire,” he grumbled.

“Trouble with the marriage, Freddie?” his friend asked after a minute or two of silence, a note of unusual sympathy in his voice. “You are regretting it?”

Frederick laughed shortly.

“You cannot just pretend it does not exist?” his friend asked.

“It exists,” Frederick said. “Be warned, Archie. Not one word about my wife. I am not in the mood to answer in any other way than with my fists.”

“Hm,” his friend said. “It exists, but it does not exist. If it cannot be ignored, Freddie, my boy, perhaps it should be confronted. That is the only alternative, is it not?”

“Since when have you turned wise man and counselor?” Frederick asked.

His friend lifted his quizzing glass to his eye and watched a shapely and self-conscious maid walking a dog as she passed close to them. He pursed his lips with appreciation and touched his hat to her though she peeped up only once, briefly. “Since feeling a hankering to see a certain little blond companion again,” he said. “If you decide to make a visit into Kent, Freddie, I will come with you. As moral support.”

“All I would need,” Frederick said, “is to have a lecherous aristocrat seducing my wife’s companion under my very nose. She is a virtuous woman, if you had not noticed, Archie, and does not have the highest of opinions of our class.”

“All the better,” his friend said. “The pleasure of bedding willing wenches sometimes palls, Freddie. Not that one would contemplate bedding unwilling ones, of course. But there is a certain challenge in melting virtue and softening opposition. Are you going into Kent?” 

“No,” Frederick said.

“A pity.” His friend sighed and turned his attention and his quizzing glass to a female rider who was approaching from a distance, a groom a short way behind her. “A beauty or an antidote do you think, Freddie? Five pounds on it that she is a beauty.”

“Done,” Frederick said. “My five pounds say she is an antidote. Who is to be the judge?”

“Honor,” his friend said. “I will not pretend to see beauty as you will not pretend to see ugliness.”

Frederick lost five pounds and Lord Archibald won a dark frown from the elderly groom for touching his hat and holding the girl’s eyes rather too long with his own.

No, Frederick thought, he would not go back to Ebury Court. He had no reason to go. He did not wish to see her again. And she certainly would not wish to see him. And how would he behave if he went? As autocratic husband? Contrite husband? He grimaced at the thought. Charming husband? She had seen through his charm. He could not use it on her again. No, he was not going back there.

And yet his friend’s words kept coming back to him over the following days. He could not ignore the marriage, it seemed. Was the only alternative, then, to confront it? And something else kept running through his head too. A name. Dr. Graham. The physician who had been Sir Douglas Danford’s friend and had been taken out to Ebury Court to examine Clara. And had left after a loud quarrel.

Frederick had never heard of Dr. Graham. But then he was not much in the habit of consulting physicians. When he made inquiries he found out very quickly that Dr. Henry Graham was one of London’s most prominent and expensive physicians. But then, of course, nothing but the best would have been good enough for Sir Douglas Danford. Frederick made an appointment to see the man in his rooms.

Dr. Graham was reluctant at first to discuss a former patient with someone who was not involved.

“I should have explained,” Frederick said. “Miss Danford is now Mrs. Sullivan. My wife.”

That made all the difference, of course. Frederick was offered a chair and a drink. He accepted the former and declined the latter. “I had not heard that she was married,” Dr. Graham said. “I am glad for her.” Though his eyes, passing over his visitor, indicated that he was not quite sure that he was.

“You examined my wife once at Ebury Court?” Frederick said. “I would be interested to know what your findings were.”

“It was a long time ago,” the doctor said.

“Even so,” Frederick said, “I would like to know. Exactly what is her condition?”

The doctor’s lips tightened with remembered anger. “You did not know Danford?” he said. “He was a stubborn fool, Sullivan, even though he was once my friend. I felt sorry for his daughter, poor girl.”

“Why?” Frederick asked.

“Pale and thin and frail,” the doctor said. “Is she still the same? Danford would have breathed for her too if he could. He did everything else for her.”

“From what she has said,” Frederick said, “I gather that he loved her, sir.”

“There is a certain type of love,” the doctor said, “that kills, Mr. Sullivan. It is amazing that Mrs. Sullivan is still alive. She must have a remarkably strong constitution.”

“Are you telling me that there is nothing wrong with her?” Frederick asked.

“I have not seen her for several years,” Dr. Graham said, “She was undoubtedly ill when in India. Gravely ill, I believe. The months and even years she was forced to spend in bed weakened her. It would have taken time and considerable effort and some discomfort and even pain to get her back on her feet by the time she was brought back to England. It was criminal that she was not sent home a great deal sooner, but I gather that Danford could not bear to be without her.”

“She might have walked again?” Frederick asked.

The doctor shrugged. “If she had wanted to,” he said. “If her will had been strong enough. There was no paralysis, Mr. Sullivan. Only the weakness of having been an invalid for most of her life.”

“And now?” Frederick looked intently at the physician. “Might she still walk?”

“She has lost more years to the weakness,” the doctor said. “She must be closer to thirty than twenty in age.” 

“Twenty-six,” Frederick said.

“Who is to say?” the doctor said. “I cannot make a diagnosis from a patient I have not seen in years.”

“Will you see her?” Frederick asked.

“At Ebury Court?” Dr. Graham frowned. “I am a busy man, Mr. Sullivan, and I do not have happy memories of that place. I was insulted. I was told that I wanted to kill my friend’s daughter, that I wanted to cause her unnecessary pain and suffering. A doctor does not like to be told such things.”

“I will bring her to town,” Frederick said. “Will you see her, sir?”

The doctor shrugged. “If it is your wish,” he said. “Provided you do not already know what you wish me to say, Mr. Sullivan. I get mortally tired of fashionable patients wanting me to tell them how fashionably weak their health is. Ladies mostly, wanting an excuse to lie about on sofas looking delicate.”

“I want you to tell me that my wife can walk again,” Frederick said. “I will accept whatever you say. If she cannot walk, then so be it. She has learned to live patiently and courageously with her handicap.”

“Oh, yes,” the doctor said. “I can remember that, Mr. Sullivan. I thought it a pity that there was not also some spirit of rebellion in the poor girl.”

“There is none,” Frederick said. “She was an obedient daughter and is an obedient wife, sir. You will see her?”

Dr. Graham got to his feet and extended his right hand. “Let me know when she is in town,” he said. “It is gratifying to know that she has a husband who seems more concerned for her well-being than his own comfort.”

Frederick did not feel particularly pleased by the compliment. It seemed sometimes that his life was one great deceit. He deceived even when he did not try to do so.

He wrote a letter to his wife the same afternoon, announcing his intention of returning to Ebury Court the following week and bringing her and her companion back to town the following day.

He looked almost unbearably handsome and virile. She had remembered that he was handsome, of course. She had thought she remembered him perfectly. But there was something of a shock to notice again the dark intensity of his eyes, the lock of dark hair that would fall across his forehead, the breadth of his shoulders and chest, the length of his legs. And a certain breathless disbelief to know that this was the man with whom she had enjoyed such intimacies both in the flesh and in her dreams.

He was unsmiling, abrupt, courteous. Charmingly and quite formally courteous after bowing over her hand and raising it to his lips, bowing to Harriet, taking a seat, and accepting a cup of tea. He talked about London and the dismal autumn weather they had been having there. He talked about his journey and the accident of a farmer’s cart overturning and sending the driver of a mail coach into paroxysms of wrath and frustration. It was an amusing account. Both Clara and Harriet laughed at it.

The old charming Freddie. But not trying to impress this time, only to fill in the silence. He had not once looked into her eyes. He glanced at Harriet more than he did at her. He was still angry with her, then. Or still shamed and embarrassed.

She wished that after all she had allowed Harriet to leave the room when her companion had observed his arrival from the drawing room window. Perhaps it would be easier if they were alone. Or perhaps not. She had not been able to bear the thought of being alone with him and had begged Harriet to stay.

“We were fortunate enough to have a drive in the barouche this morning before the rain came down again,” she said. “We were out for almost a whole hour. Weren’t we, Harriet?”

Harriet dutifully attested to the fact that it must have been very close to an hour.

Clara looked at him to find his eyes focused on her mouth or perhaps her chin. “I am glad to hear it, ma’am,” he said.

He had not forgiven her. He had not come back from inclination. Why, then?

“You are looking well,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “I am feeling well.” She wondered if he had noticed the greater fullness of her face, the lesser paleness. She wondered if she looked one whit less plain to him than she had. As if it mattered.

“I am taking you back to town to consult a physician,” he said. “Dr. Graham.”

“Dr. Graham?” she said. “But I feel well, Freddie. And last time all he could tell Papa was that I must be kept quiet, away from all chills and exertion. I don’t want him telling you the same thing once more. I enjoy going outside every day.”

“Nevertheless,” he said, “you will see him, ma’am. As soon as possible. You are ready to leave tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “You wrote to say that we should be.”

“Perhaps you would prefer it if I did not go, sir,” Harriet said. Clara knew that she wanted to go above all things.

“On the contrary, Miss Pope,” he said. “My wife will need your companionship there as much as she does here.”

Harriet nodded a quiet acquiescence. Clara was wrestling with a new realization that had just come to her. Of course. He wanted Dr. Graham to examine her to see if she could bear a child. Freddie was, after all, to be a baron one day and would want to have a son of his own to succeed. Perhaps she could not give him one. She had been bitterly disappointed, even though she had not known that she was hoping, when she had discovered that she had not conceived in almost two weeks of marital relations after her wedding.

She did not think she would be able to bear being told in cold words that there never could be hope. She could not bear the thought of Freddie knowing it.

“Harriet,” she said, “would you pull the bell rope, if you please? I shall have Robin take me up to my room. It is time to be changing for dinner—unless you would like it set back for half an hour or so, Freddie.”

He got to his feet. “No,” he said. “Leave the bell pull alone, Miss Pope.” And he stooped down and lifted his wife up into his arms.

She had not expected it, though he had always carried her from place to place when he was at Ebury Court before. She had not expected it and had not steeled herself for the sensations caused by his arms and the touch of his body. She set an arm about his neck. His hair was longer than it had been. It looked even more attractive this way.

He said nothing and did not look at her as he climbed the stairs with her, quickly as he had used to do. She wanted to set her cheek on her arm, as she had used to do, but she did not do so. She kept her head away from him, as she always did with Robin.

He set her down on a chair in her dressing room and rang the bell for her maid. He hesitated, perhaps feeling that it would be too abrupt to leave the room without a word.

“Freddie,” she said. Welcome home, she wanted to say. It is good to see you. Forgive me. You have not forgiven me yet, have you? She wanted some sort of peace and ease between them. But she could not find just the right words.

His eyes touched on hers for a moment. Then he bent his head and kissed her firmly and briefly and with closed lips on the mouth. He left the room without waiting for her maid to arrive.

Dinner and the couple of hours in the drawing room afterward passed with greater ease than Clara had feared. He set himself to be entertaining and charming, and succeeded admirably. Even Harriet responded. And yet it was all so very impersonal. Clara thought back with some nostalgia to the week of their honeymoon when he had entertained her in very similar manner but with her hand in his or with an arm about her shoulders. And there had been smiles and kisses and the endearments she had found so irritating.

If only she had swallowed her irritation and said nothing. But perhaps nothing would have been different. He would have tired of charming her after a few weeks anyway and taken himself off to London just as he had. A little later than it had actually happened, perhaps. But it would have come. Nothing would be different. Except that perhaps he would be able to look into her eyes and call her by name.

He carried her to her room at bedtime and summoned her maid. He said nothing about returning later. But she stayed awake waiting for him, hoping that he would come, doubting that he would. She wanted him with a terrible ache. She wanted him next to her. She wanted to feel his weight, the warm of his mouth, the deep and intimate joining of his body to hers.

After a few long and lonely hours she fell asleep.

Frederick paced his room for more than an hour before lying down and remaining awake for another one or two.

She was his wife. He had a right to go to her, to take her. It was not as if she had ever shown reluctance about receiving him. Quite the contrary. Even on their wedding night she had been eager. Her enjoyment of their couplings had only grown after that. She had never failed to come to climax, even during those middle-of-the-night encounters when she had sometimes lain sleepy and only gradually awaking as he had mounted her.

It was easy to bring pleasure to Clara because she anticipated pleasure and never showed anything but delight no matter where he chose to put his hands or his mouth. She was totally without the ladylike shrinking from sexual titillation that he would have expected of her or of any other lady he had chosen to marry.

There was nothing to stop him from going to her. He wanted her, surprisingly enough. Even looking back on the experienced girls he had had in the past two months did not dim the fact that tonight he wanted his wife.

And yet the very thought of all those girls and women he had enjoyed with such vigorous enthusiasm gave him pause. He was not diseased. He chose his women with far too great a care to risk that. But even so, he had only a sullied body to take to his wife. He would be putting inside her what had been in another woman just two nights before. And another the night before that. And so on back over two months.

Clara deserved better.

Besides, she despised him. She knew him for the fortune hunter that he was and the deceiver that he was. She must hate him even while she treated him with quiet courtesy—so quiet and so courteous and so impersonal since his return just that afternoon. And even while she obeyed his every command without question.

She must hate him. How could she not? He hated himself badly enough, heaven knew.

He fought desire, something he was not accustomed to doing and did not do easily at all. He fought it and won. At the expense of several hours of sleep.