* * * *
Although Clare had told herself that Justin’s jealousy was a thing of the past, that the incident was closed, that she had convinced him she felt nothing for Giles, she had made sure to fill her dance card quickly and only had a country-dance available for her old friend. She had been relaxed for their fateful waltz, but for this dance she was still and unresponsive, always wondering whether Justin was somewhere on the sidelines watching. Her smile was forced, and after the music stopped and Giles led her off the floor, she thanked him breathlessly and asked him to take her over to where Lucy Kirkman and a few friends were chatting. It was clear to Giles that she was dismissing him, but he only smiled a polite good-bye, as though nothing had changed between them.
Clare was relieved that her husband had not been hovering at the edge of the dance floor, but engrossed in conversation with a group of acquaintances. Since she had no more dances with Giles, she was able to relax and enjoy the rest of the evening. Her waltzes with her husband were delightful, and they left early, each eager for the passionate lovemaking they knew was to come.
And when Clare awoke the next morning and looked over at her sleeping husband, she knew that difficult as it was to pull back from Giles, it was well worth it if it kept her husband happy and their marriage as solid as it had every indication of being. There was only one thing that would make her happier, she decided, running her hands across her belly. That was to satisfy all the gossips and give Justin the son he and she wanted.
Chapter Eight
The rest of the Little Season passed by quickly and uneventfully. Clare felt she did a subtle balancing act between avoiding Giles whenever she decently could and at the same time, not making it noticeable, either to the gossips, or she hoped, to him. It had been worth the effort, however, for Justin had been true to his word and not only avoided strong drink, but went out of his way to prove he trusted her. In fact, one evening, he even commented that he wouldn’t like to think she was slighting Whitton on his account, nor would he want any gossip to that effect, and hadn’t she better save at least one dance for him this week?
* * * *
They left for Devon before most of the ton in order to avoid the worst of the early winter weather. Clare was delighted to be home again and threw herself into holiday preparations with the enthusiasm of a child. And, indeed, she felt like one and intended to have the Christmas she always wanted. When she missed her monthly course in the beginning of December, she hugged her secret to herself, not wanting to tell Justin until she was absolutely sure she was increasing. But what a lovely secret to carry during the Christmas season.
Invitations came to the house as thick and fast as snowflakes. It seemed to Clare that all their neighbors, both those that had gone up to London and those who had remained in Devon, were planning something in the two weeks before Christmas. They accepted most of them, but not all, for Justin put his foot down when he saw the shadows under Clare’s eyes after a particularly busy few days. But the Viscount Ware’s St. Lucy’s Day ball was one that no one in the neighborhood would miss. Ware Hall was always hung with decorations early, and redolent of evergreens. The viscount and his wife were excellent hosts, and the food was always better from one year to the next, or so everyone always exclaimed.
* * * *
Clare was surprised and felt a moment of concern when she thought she caught a whiff of spirits as Justin handed her into their carriage. She told herself she was being foolish. If Justin had had a drink, surely he had a right to celebrate the holidays with a taste of brandy.
“Lady Rainsborough. It is delightful to have you with us your first Christmas in Devon.” The viscount, who was a hearty man with a great booming voice, looked over at his wife. “Aren’t we, my dear?” His viscountess, who was comfortable with her husband’s enthusiastic personality and lack of self-consequence, merely took Clare by the hand and said: “Come, my dear, let me introduce you around. You have met most of the neighbors, but there are a few you have missed.”
One of those she had missed was Sir Percival Blake, who had been in Canada and the United States and had only returned in November. He was a handsome gentleman, quite different from Justin, with pale blond hair and equally pale blue eyes and a prominent nose, who looked to be five years older than her husband. He obtained both a cotillion and the privilege of taking Clare into supper, and she had to admit that she found herself looking forward to supper, for she had always wanted to travel and was particularly interested in America.
Sir Percival was as delightful a supper companion as she had expected, and had her laughing and shivering in turn at his stories, which went from humorous to dramatic in minutes. She was enjoying herself so much that she actually forgot Justin’s presence, which was the first time that had happened since they met. When they finally left the Wares’, Clare was bubbling over in the carriage: “Can you imagine, Justin, the city of Boston was actually constructed around cow paths? And Sir Percival told me he spent many weeks living with a native tribe and learning their ways.”
Justin was silent while Clare chattered, and it wasn’t until he requested a footman to see Lady Rainsborough into the house, that she smelled the liquor on his breath.
“Go on, Clare, go in,” he waved impatiently. “I am just going to take a turn around the drive to clear my head.”
It was all right then, she thought. Well, why shouldn’t it be all right? It was the holiday season, her husband was in the mood to celebrate with his neighbors, and he intended to clear his head by a short walk on a clear, cold evening.
She was in her night rail and wrapper with Martha brushing her hair out when Justin came to her room. He took the brush from the maid and dismissed her, saying, “I will finish getting Lady Rainsborough ready for bed, my girl.” Martha glanced over and met Clare’s eyes in the mirror. “Yes.” Clare nodded. “You must be tired from waiting up for us. Go to bed, and I will see you in the morning.”
“Yes, my lady.” Martha had smelled the liquor on Lord Rainsborough’s breath and wasn’t sure she wanted to leave her mistress alone with him, but she didn’t have a choice. And his tone had been calm enough. He didn’t seem overset. As far as she knew, he had been nothing but gentle and loving with his wife after that first incident.
After Martha shut the door behind her, Justin began drawing the brush through Clare’s curls, gently at first, which lulled her into a state of relaxation, and then suddenly harder.
“Justin, that hurt, my dear. I think my hair has been brushed enough anyway,” she said with a laugh, and reached up her hand to take the brush.
Rainsborough put the brush in her hand, and closing his over it, twisted her wrist until she winced with pain. “There, there is your brush, my dear. And there you sit, admiring yourself in your glass like the whore you are.”
Clare sat speechless. It came out of nowhere, this attack, and all she could do was look aghast at her husband’s face in the glass. His eyes were icy and opaque, his face flushed with drink.
“Justin, I think you have had too much brandy again,” she said as calmly as she could.
“Don’t talk to me about what I have or haven’t been drinking. Who wouldn’t drink if he had to watch his wife fawning over a blowhard like Percy Blake.”
Oh, God, it is the same thing all over again, thought Clare. Lynton, Giles, and now Sir Percival. “I wasn’t fawning, my dearest,” she replied sweetly and evenly, as though he wasn’t accusing her of almost-adultery. “It was only that Sir Percival is a good storyteller. Why, I even told you one of his most amusing tales on the way home.” Clare was sure if she was quiet, if she didn’t raise her voice, if she inhaled and exhaled slowly, imperceptibly, if she didn’t move, didn’t disturb anything further, Justin would surely stop.
“You should know a good storyteller, my dear, for you are one, too, so meek and mild and sweetly humoring your drunken husband.” Rainsborough ran his hand up her back and then her head, and grasping a handful of hair he suddenly stood up and d
ragged her with him.
Clare gave a low whimper. “It hurts, does it, my so treacherous wife?” Rainsborough wrapped his hand even more tightly and pulling her face back, began slapping it, at first softly and then harder.
* * * *
Martha always knocked twice in the morning, for Lord Rainsborough always spent the night and sometimes sent her away, saying his wife was not ready to get up yet. She knew what that meant. Most likely that he was up again and at her. Although she had to admit, her mistress always looked like a contented cat in the morning.
Today, however, there was no answer at all. She was about to go in, but hesitated. If they were right in the middle of it, she wouldn’t want to be the one who walked in on them. And so she sought out Lord Rainsborough’s valet.
“Is his lordship up yet, Price?”
“No, and not likely to be for a while, Martha,” said the valet, making a repeated tippling motion with his hand.
“Did he spend the night in his own room, then?”
“Yes, although it is the rare night that he does that, Martha,” said Price with a wink.
Martha hurried back to Lady Rainsborough’s room. She knocked once more, but this time didn’t wait for an answer.
Her mistress lay curled up like a child, still asleep. Martha was smiling as she watched her until she saw the bowl of dirty water and bloodstained cloth. She was very aware of when Lady Rainsborough’s monthly course was due. She knew it was three weeks overdue and had been secretly happy for Clare. Perhaps her mistress had had a sudden onset last night? She could have been increasing and lost the child in this early stage. She leaned over Clare and shook her gently, worried that Clare’s deep sleep was perhaps a sort of faint from loss of blood.
Clare groaned at Martha’s touch and turned over to see who was pulling her up out of oblivion. She could only see out of one eye, and it was hard to say Martha’s name with her swollen lip.
“My God, what happened to your face, my lady?” Martha whispered and then answering herself said: “Never mind, I know just what happened to your face. That bastard. That stinking bullying bastard,” she muttered.
“No, no, Martha,” Clare protested.
“Don’t you try to tell me no more stories about doorjambs, Lady Rainsborough. I didn’t believe the first one, and I won’t believe it now. Come now, sit up and let me see what he’s done to your pretty face.”
Clare let herself be supported by Martha’s arm, while the maid gently probed her nose and eye.
“Your nose is not broken, no thanks to him. And the eye looks to be all right. Why ever didn’t you call out for me, my lady?”
Because I had no voice, Martha, thought Clare. Because I wasn’t really there. Because it was only a dream. No, an eternal nightmare.
“Oh, I know it is none of my business and what could I have done anyway against him? Well, you are certainly not getting out of bed today or anytime this week.” Martha hesitated and then decided she had to ask. “The blood on the cloth, my lady. That was only from your nose? You don’t need any cloths do you?”
Clare blushed crimson and instinctively put her hand on her belly. “No, Martha, if I am right, I will not need any for the next eight months. I don’t think last night will have an effect, do you?” she asked anxiously.
“Not if you stay in bed and let yourself sleep and heal. I will bring you some porridge and tea, and get some witch hazel from the stillroom.”
“Thank you, Martha. Can you tell Mrs. Clarke that I am not feeling well. That I can’t help her today with the holiday preparations.”
“Of course.”
“And Martha? Can you keep Lord Rainsborough away for a few hours? I don’t want to see him like this.”
“I will do what I can, my lady.”
* * * *
But Lord Rainsborough did not try to see his wife that morning. He slept late and then after a light breakfast in his room, called for his horse and rode away “as though demons were after him,” said his valet to Martha.
“And I hope they are,” she answered. “Well, at least he will be away from my mistress.”
Clare stayed in her room, eating very little and dozing off for most of the day. She slept so much, she was afraid she would be awake all night, but sleep was evidently what her body and spirit needed, and she slept through the night with no problem.
She awoke early the next day and got herself out of bed and over to her glass. Her face looked even worse today, if that were possible, as the bruises began to show.
She was standing by her window watching the early morning mist lift and blow away when she heard the door open and shut behind her.
“I am feeling much better this morning, Martha,” she announced, but when she turned, she saw her husband standing by the door and quickly moved back behind the armchair that sat in front of her window. Her eyes were wide with fear, and her hands gripped the back of the chair convulsively.
Justin stood there silently, gazing at the damage he had done.
“It is far worse this time, isn’t it, Clare?” he said in a tone that held both disbelief and despair.
Clare nodded.
“I don’t know what to say? What is there to say? I ... I don’t know what happens to me, Clare. I think it is because I love you so much. The drink brings out the dark side of that love.”
Clare stood silent, still wide-eyed and fearful.
“I went for a long ride yesterday, Clare. I know what I have to do. I know I promised this before, but this time, I mean it. I will not touch a drop of wine or brandy again; I swear it on my life. I know you will not want me near you for a while, but I hope you will regain your trust in time. I hope ...” Justin’s voice broke on the words. “I only hope I haven’t killed your love for me.”
The face was her beloved Justin’s face. The eyes were his, no longer the hard, shuttered eyes of a violent stranger. And the gray eyes were full of tears, as were hers all of a sudden. Healing tears.
“I have loved you from the first time I saw you, Justin, and I have never stopped. I just don’t know how to convince you of it. To make you see that no other man could ever replace you in my heart. Not Giles, certainly not Lynton or Sir Percival,” added Clare with a watery smile.
“I know that now, Clare,” said her husband fervently. “It is the alcohol that takes over, and I become ... I don’t even know who I become ... someone who is terrified that he might lose the most precious thing he owns.”
Justin took a step closer, and without thinking, Clare came from behind the chair and walked slowly over to him.
“I must be sure that you mean it, Justin. You swear that you will not drink again?”
“I swear it on my immortal soul, Clare.”
She shuddered as she stepped closer and his arms gently enfolded her. “I hope so, Justin, for I am not only thinking of myself. I am also thinking of the safety of our child.”
Justin put his hands on her shoulders and stepped back. “Child, Clare? You are increasing?” The look of happiness on his face was everything she had hoped for.
“I wasn’t going to tell you until after the new year. Until I was quite sure. But yes, although it is early yet, I am quite certain.”
“This is a new beginning for us, Clare. I will let you rest now ... I will not ... bother you with my presence at night. Until you want me.”
“Oh, Justin ... I will rest today. And I fear I won’t be fit for any public appearances all week. But please don’t leave me alone at night, my dear.”
When Martha brought her breakfast up, Clare was seated in the armchair by the window.
“I see you are feeling better this morning, my lady.”
“Yes, Martha, much, much better.”
Martha looked at her inquiringly.
“No one must know what happened, Martha. In or out of the household.”
“I am sure no gossip would ever escape my lips, my lady.”
“Let the servants know that I believe I am increasing and am su
ffering from fatigue and morning sickness.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And Martha ... Lord Rainsborough will be joining me here for supper this evening.”
“I see, my lady.” Martha’s tone was noncommittal, but Clare was sure that she disapproved.
“It is only that he cannot deal with strong spirits that this happened, Martha. He has given me his word that this will never happen again.”
“Of course not, my lady.”
“And Martha?”
“Yes, my lady?”
“Thank you very much for taking care of me last night,” said Clare, reaching her hands out to her maid’s and clasping them. “I very much appreciate your loyalty and affection.”
“Thank you, my lady.” And you will always have it, my poor, innocent young lamb. Martha was only a few years older than Clare, but she felt almost ancient in experience as she left her mistress happily drinking her tea and dreaming, no doubt, of her husband’s visit that night. He must be an expert at making love, this Lord Rainsborough, to make a woman so easily forget the blows those same hands could deal out.
Chapter Nine
February, 1817
“I see you are dressed for Aston’s riding party, Sabrina. He seems to be becoming more marked in his attentions. Are you taking them seriously?” Giles’s tone was light, but the intent behind the question was serious.
Sabrina sat down at the breakfast table and motioned the footman to make her up a plate.
“If you mean to ask do I intend to encourage him, why, no, Giles, I don’t.”
“You have been out for ...”
“Four years. I know I am almost on the shelf,” she said humorously.
“Hardly. But you have never lacked for eligible suitors. Has not one touched your heart?”
“Not one, Giles,” she answered with a rueful smile. It was the truth, as far as it went. Not one of her admirers had ever made her heart skip a beat. It was only Andrew More who had that effect on her. And he had certainly never presented himself as anything but an old friend of her brother’s.
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