The Iron Road

by Jane Jackson

  ‘How serious is it?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She made a gesture of helplessness. ‘Dr Treloar says he’s as well as can be expected. But what does that mean? They treat me as if I were a half-wit.’

  James felt anger stir like a slumbering beast. ‘Who does?’

  ‘All of them. The doctor, Hawkins, Mrs Mudie. I may be naive, but I’m not stupid. I know there’s something they’re not telling me.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I’m probably being ridiculous. It’s just … I haven’t slept properly for weeks. And the last few nights –’

  ‘I do understand,’ he reminded her gently.

  She held his gaze for a moment. ‘Yes. You do, don’t you.’ She glanced towards the door. ‘James, there’s something –’ She sat straighter as a rattle of china was followed immediately by the door opening to reveal Polly with a tray.

  ‘Thank you, Polly,’ Chloe said as she set it down on the low table.

  The maid bobbed a curtsey and started for the door. Just before she reached it she turned. James saw her glance flit from Chloe to himself and back.

  ‘Beg pardon, ma’am, but will you be wanting fresh tea for the doctor when he comes down?’

  Chloe shook her head wearily. ‘No, thank you, Polly. He prefers a glass of sherry or Madeira.’

  With another bob the maid went out, closing the door behind her.

  James spoke quietly. ‘Do you have a confidante? A close friend? Your maid perhaps?’ Before he had finished she was shaking her head.

  ‘I do not have close friends.’ Though it was a simple statement, not a plea for sympathy, it still wrenched him.

  But Polly knew just the same. He fiddled with his cuff links, fighting an overwhelming urge to touch her. ‘For pity’s sake, Chloe, pour the tea.’

  She blinked, caught her breath, and quickly lowered her eyes as a tide of colour surged from her throat to her hairline. Leaning forward she picked up a bone-china milk jug decorated in crimson and gold. It rattled against the edge of the cup.

  ‘Chloe, what did you mean, about the valet?’

  ‘I don’t understand why he was there. Gerald had retired for the night. He was in bed.’ She replaced the jug and lifted the teapot. ‘And Henry wasn’t dressed. Well, not properly. It was the middle of the night.’ She shook her head again. ‘The way he looked … it frightened me.’

  ‘The valet?’

  ‘No, Gerald. He was almost blue, and making this dreadful noise as he tried to breathe. Henry looked ghastly too. He had the most awful shakes. He kept saying it wasn’t his fault.’ She shook her head in bewilderment. ‘Why would he think we’d blame him? When the noises woke me –’ She broke off, and James saw her forehead wrinkle.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’d forgotten …’

  ‘Forgotten what?’

  ‘The smell. I noticed it when I first went in. There was a peculiar smell, like yeast … or sour milk.’

  As realization stabbed, for the first time James’s iron self-control threatened to desert him. He had to be wrong. There must be another explanation. But he knew there wasn’t. How did he tell her the appalling truth? For she had to be told.

  ‘Anyway,’ she drew a shaky breath. ‘Henry said he’d been about to come and fetch me. I told him to wake Nathan – the groom – and send him for the doctor straight away. Then Hawkins and Mrs Mudie arrived and took over. Doctor Treloar has visited every day. He is most attentive.’

  As she looked up he saw the strain and exhaustion in her face echoed in the line of her shoulders. ‘James? What’s wrong?’ Her eyes widened, filling with alarm.

  ‘Chloe,’ he hesitated, trying to phrase the question as tactfully as possible while fighting a cold bitter rage against the baronet. ‘Why do you think your husband did not … behave towards you as a husband should?’

  ‘Oh but he –’ she began, and stopped just quickly, flinching as she realized what he meant.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She gave a helpless shrug. ‘I can only assume he did not find me’ – her voice dropped to a whisper – ‘desirable. I’ve thought so hard, tried to understand …’

  He saw how doubt had insidiously undermined her self-esteem. Yet she had bravely hidden her anguish and, with heart-breaking stoicism, played to perfection the role Sir Gerald had assigned her.

  ‘It wasn’t that I was particularly anxious to experience … I had never thought of him in that way. He was kind and generous and … but naturally one hears … and I know that to have children it is necessary to …’ Unable to sit still any longer, she rose and turned away, her wide skirts swaying as she crossed to the window and gazed out. ‘He never actually said I’d done anything to displease him.’

  James watched as she clasped her elbows, holding her arms tightly across her stomach as if in pain.

  ‘But there must be something about me … I didn’t realize at first … the business trips to Truro and to London …’ She glanced at James. ‘He was always different when he returned. I suppose I must be stupid, but it didn’t occur to me at first.’

  ‘What didn’t?’ he prompted.

  ‘That Gerald was seeing other women,’ She turned back to the window, lifting her chin. ‘After all, he’s so much older and more sophisticated than I am, I suppose it would be perfectly natural for him to –’

  ‘Chloe, there’s nothing natural –’ He stopped himself. ‘Please, come and sit down.’ He waited, furious that he, who loved her, was about to cause her more suffering. Yet he had no choice. Until she knew the truth she could not begin to heal. ‘My dear,’ he leaned forward, reaching for her hand, ‘it is not other women your husband prefers; his desire is for men.’

  He watched her face reflect shock, disbelief and horror as she absorbed what he’d said. Her hand clenched and her entire body grew rigid as she rejected it.

  ‘No! No, you’re wrong. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t – the risk – his position – No.’ But it was a plea, not a denial.

  Suffering for her, he sweated. ‘Long before he married you there were rumours. Believe me, Chloe, I’m not wrong.’ And, God help him, how could he wish he were, when the truth so helped his own cause? ‘Do you remember what you told me? That you may be naive, but you’re not stupid. Think back, not just to the night he was taken ill, but before that, all the years you’ve been married.’

  She stood up. ‘You have to go.’

  He shot to his feet, his knee catching the edge of the table. The china clattered and the untouched tea, now cold and filmed with scum, spilled into the saucers. ‘Chloe, I’m so sorry, but there was no easy way to –’

  ‘No, no.’ Agitated she shook her head. ‘It’s not – you weren’t – Oh, God in Heaven.’ Turning away she covered her face and he could only watch, agonized and powerless. She swung round. ‘I never even imagined – how could I? What would I know of such –’ Her voice broke, and she steepled her fingers against her lips to hide their quivering. ‘I must … I need time to –’ She clasped her arms across her stomach again. ‘The doctor will be down soon. Please, James, you must go.’

  He started towards the door, reluctant to leave her, but not wanting to add to her distress. Then he stopped. ‘I’ll come back later.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We have to talk.’ He was determined.

  ‘But what about –’

  ‘The servants?’ His mouth twisted in grim irony. ‘Chloe, you are the mistress of this house. Besides, under the circumstances, they are hardly likely to gossip about us, are they?’

  Her eyes darkened. ‘You mean … all the time … they’ve known?’

  James knew he would never forget the look on her face, the depth of hurt and betrayal.

  She heaved a shuddering sigh. ‘All right. But it’s such a long way, and you’ve already –’

  He brushed her cheek with his fingertips. ‘I’d ride to Hell and back for you. Stop worrying about me and start thinking about yourself for a change.’ He felt a tightening in his chest as she tried to
smile.

  ‘I’ve been told I do too much of that.’

  ‘Not by anyone who matters,’ he said softly.

  Chapter Fifteen

  After James had gone Chloe was unable to keep still. She paced the drawing-room, gnawing at the torn skin around her nails as she re-examined events, conversations, and her husband’s manner towards her, in the light of James’s shocking revelation. She didn’t want to believe it. Gerald and Henry? She had not the knowledge or experience even to imagine … Yet she knew James would not have lied.

  Horrified, she was also suffused with anguish. What did it say about her that he could be that way? Was it worse to be rejected by one’s husband for a man rather than another woman? Such activity was against all Christian teaching, yet every Sunday that he wasn’t in London Gerald had escorted her to church and taken his place in the family pew. While all the time …

  Had she been the only person of his close acquaintance not to know? How could she have been so blind? Yet how could she have known, given her ignorance and the fact that he had been protected by a conspiracy of silence?

  Her awareness of such matters had been limited to vehement but coded thundering from the pulpit by a visiting preacher. Occasionally at a dinner party she would overhear some luckless public figure being discussed in the shocked undertones reserved for serious scandal. But as the subject was instantly changed as soon as her presence was noticed, etiquette demanded she did not enquire further.

  On the rare occasions she had accompanied Gerald to London she had glimpsed flamboyantly dressed gentlemen with extravagantly foppish manners. Steering her away, Gerald had declined to explain, declaring such people of no interest to a young woman.

  Now she had to accept that he was one of them? And that, knowing he was, and professing fondness and admiration for her, he had still married her. How could he have done that? Why had he done it? Because her father had asked him to.

  All her life she had been conditioned to accept without question that men were superior to women, simply because they were men. Now, for the first time, she recognized the breathtaking arrogance of this claim.

  Her father had abandoned her, preferring to die rather than face the consequences of his own recklessness, and bequeathing her as if she were a piece of furniture to his friend. Had her father known of Gerald’s inclinations? She recoiled inwardly, the thought too painful to pursue.

  Still recovering from the shock of his death, she had found herself, at sixteen, married to a man more than thirty years her senior: a man who went to great lengths to win her admiration and affection, and her trust. It hadn’t been difficult.

  He had installed her in luxury and treated her with kindly indulgence while exercising total control over every aspect of her life, even to the selection of her personal maid. And he had become her mentor. Under his tutelage she had immersed herself in the study of art, antiques, architecture and history; and through it – through him – had discovered a wondrous world of beauty.

  This increased her desire to repay his kindness and to please him – for was he not her husband? His delight at her progress gave her a sense of pride and achievement. This was further enhanced by the satisfaction she derived from her charity work.

  At one level her life had been deeply satisfying. Yet as time passed she found it ever more difficult to ignore the suspicion that all was not as it should be. But she had always believed – and she realized now, had been subtly encouraged in this belief – that if she was not entirely content then, in some way she didn’t understand, the fault lay with her. That was the cruellest cut of all.

  Hearing footsteps and voices in the hall, she quickly wiped her eyes, took a deep breath to steady herself, and slipped into the role to which she had been so well trained: Lady Radclyff, mistress of Trewan.

  ‘Come in,’ she called, resuming her seat and arranging the folds of her gown. ‘Ah, Dr Treloar. No doubt you are ready for your glass. Which is it to be? Sherry or Madeira?’

  The doctor came forward, his hands making a dry, papery sound as he rubbed them briskly. ‘Most kind. A glass of Madeira would go down very well, thank you.’

  ‘See to it, will you, Hawkins? And remove the tea tray, please?’ Neither man appeared to notice the slight edge to her voice. Perhaps they had, but were attributing it to concern about her husband.

  Taking the crystal glass proffered by the butler on a small silver salver, the doctor came towards the fireplace and lowered himself into the chair Chloe indicated as Hawkins picked up the tea tray.

  ‘Will there be anything else, madam?’

  ‘No thank you, Hawkins.’ Chloe waited until the door closed behind him before she spoke. ‘How do you find Sir Gerald today?’

  ‘One hesitates to be too bold, Lady Radclyff, but I think I can safely say that steady progress is being made. Each day I see small signs of improvement. I have left some more pills on his night-table. They will ease any pain and help him to sleep.’

  Chloe looked at the self-satisfied, patronizing smile, and nodded. Her hands were neatly folded on her lap, concealing the raw, torn skin. Her back was ramrod straight.

  ‘Tell me, Dr Treloar,’ she enquired with a calm that astonished her and boosted her courage, ‘how long have you known of my husband’s sexual preference for men? Oh dear. Never mind, I’m sure the stain will come out.’

  Whipping a pristine handkerchief from his pocket, the doctor dabbed with clumsy haste at the dark patch on the padded brocade chair arm made by the spilt wine. ‘Really, madam,’ he blustered, crimson-faced, and avoiding her gaze. ‘That is not the sort of language one expects to hear from the lips of a lady.’

  ‘It is not a question any wife should be called upon to ask,’ Chloe responded. ‘But of necessity I have asked it, and I should be obliged to receive an answer.’

  ‘I cannot possibly discuss such matters with you,’ the doctor huffed, shifting to make further ineffectual swipes at his trousers. ‘Quite apart from the impropriety of such a conversation, I must remind you that the doctor-patient relationship is built on utter confidentiality.’

  ‘What about me?’ Chloe’s tight control slipped, pierced by hurt and anger. ‘I was your patient too. When I consulted you about my nervous troubles and being unable to sleep, you acted as though the fault was mine. Yet all the time you knew that my marriage was – that my husband could not, or would not – What made you think that prescribing fresh air and tonics for me would change anything? Was I not entitled to know that my husband had no interest in’ – her face flamed but she held his gaze – ‘in married love?’

  ‘That was not my responsibility.’

  ‘Whose was it then?’ she cried. ‘I trusted you. You knew I had no mother to tell me what a young woman is supposed to know about married life. And that the governesses my father employed were all single women.’

  Tossing the wine down his throat with no regard for its flavour or pedigree, he placed the glass over-firmly on the low table. ‘I know women who would be grateful to be in your position. Many find their husband’s attentions a burden from which they would willingly be freed were it not for their sense of duty. In fact’ – his voice grew stronger, more censorious – ‘there is some-thing less than wholesome about your attitude. Instead of wallowing in emotions which, I have to say I find unhealthy and quite improper, you should be counting your blessings. You have a beautiful home, servants to attend your every wish, and a life many would envy.’

  ‘But no babies,’ she reminded him. ‘Are children not the purpose for which marriage was ordained? Are they not the cornerstone of the family? A woman’s reason for being?’ His eyes slid away as his face reddened. You, sir, you have betrayed your calling.’

  The doctor stiffened and his mouth grew thin and tight. ‘I did what I believed was best. In marrying you, Sir Gerald was clearly trying to overcome his … weakness … and lead a normal life.’

  Chloe gazed at him in disbelief. ‘How can you say that? You, of all people, know our life
together wasn’t normal.’

  ‘As his wife,’ the doctor persisted with lofty arrogance, ‘you owe him loyalty and understanding.’

  Rising to her feet, unable to take any more, Chloe tugged sharply at the braided silk bell pull. ‘Dr Treloar, you are the very last person to lecture me on duty, or anything else. Hawkins will show you out.’

  Nauseated by the very thought of food, but knowing the pains in her stomach would grow worse if she didn’t eat, Chloe forced down some dinner. Then she sat quietly with her husband, watching him as he slept.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ James asked when he returned later that evening. He had brought a leather case of papers with him as camouflage.

  She gestured helplessly. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I love you, Chloe. You do believe that?’

  She nodded. ‘I –’ Her mouth was dry, and she had to wet her lips. ‘I – I’m –’ She turned away, unable to speak.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said gently. ‘Talk to me. Tell me what you’ve been thinking about.’

  Smiling gratefully, she shook her head to dash away tears. ‘My father. He was a very handsome man, warm and witty and impulsively generous when fortune smiled on him, laughing to cover his despair when it didn’t.’

  ‘What about your mother?’

  ‘I don’t remember her. All I can remember is that from the time she died until my wedding, life for me was a constant swoop of highs and lows. I remember my father coming home in the early hours, waking me with his singing. I’d come downstairs and see a pouch full of gold coins poured out onto the table. On other days we would have to hide and pretend to be out when the bailiffs came hammering on the door. He made it a game, an adventure. But it was exhausting, James. When I married Gerald, for the first time in my life I felt safe. No one was going to burst in and take away the furniture.’

  ‘But it’s not a real marriage.’ James’s frustration showed in his frown. ‘Chloe, it’s just pretence, a charade for his benefit.’

  ‘I know. But despite his deception I still owe Gerald a debt of gratitude. After my father … after he … died and the lawyers took over, I was left with nothing. I had no money and no home. No one to turn to for help. What would have become of me if Gerald had not honoured my father’s dying wish? He has always been kind to me, and I have lacked for nothing.’