Sweet Awakening

by Marjorie Farrell

  She did her best to keep away from the Whittons, but one could hardly turn down an old friend in public. So she just smiled and let Giles write his name on her card. She looked around for her husband, hoping she could catch him and explain, but he was deep in conversation on the other side of the room. And by the time she had danced a few sets and looked for him again, she was dismayed to see him accepting a glass of champagne. But one glass never set him off, she reassured herself, and when she saw him making his way into the card room, she was relieved. He wasn’t hovering over her tonight as much as usual, and if he stayed at the whist table long enough, she would have already finished her waltz with Giles.

  When Giles came to claim her hand, she gave him a nervous smile and let him lead her out.

  When Giles put his hand around Clare’s waist, he was appalled at how he could feel every rib through her gown. For a moment, a terrible fear seized him: perhaps she was seriously ill. But when he looked down, he saw a pale face, not the hectic flush that accompanied consumption, and so he made himself relax and pay attention to the music.

  After the music stopped, he kept Clare’s arm through his, and leaning down, asked if he could have a few minutes alone. Clare’s eyes darted desperately around, but Justin was nowhere in sight, and so she nodded her agreement. Clearly Giles was going to persist, no matter what, so she might as well get it over with.

  There were a few small rooms off each side of the ballroom, and Giles walked Clare over to one and let the door close behind them.

  He sat Clare down on a small sofa, but remained standing. She glanced nervously at the door, and her fingers began pleating the skirt of her gown.

  “Giles, did you have something particular you wanted to say to me?” Her voice was tight with tension.

  “You are not afraid to be alone with me, are you, Clare?” Giles asked, appalled at how far from the ease of their old friendship they were.

  “No, Giles, of course not. I just don’t want any gossip to start up.” She could hardly tell him it was her husband she feared. Why didn’t he get on with it, so she could be back in the ballroom before Justin noticed her absence?

  “Sabrina and I have been worried about you, Clare. I know that time changes things, even old friendships, and perhaps it is only that your marriage takes up most of your attention. But you have not looked well this past year, and Sabrina has found it difficult to find enough time with you to ask why.”

  Clare attempted a casual, almost dismissive tone. “I am of course grateful for your concern, Giles. I must confess that my marriage to Justin has been unfashionably time-consuming, and perhaps I have neglected my other relationships. I assure you, though, that I am quite well.”

  “Your father and mother do not think so.”

  Clare looked startled. “My parents?”

  “Your father called on me the other day to ask me if Sabrina and I knew if you had perhaps had ... another ...”

  “No, Giles, I have not lost another baby,” Clare answered quietly. “I am sorry my father dragged you into what is essentially a private matter.”

  “Your parents are worried about you, Clare. As are your old friends,” he added.

  “Their concern is touching, but a few years too late,” she answered bitterly. “You may assure my father that I am quite well and very happy, Giles. And now we had best be getting back.”

  Giles felt utterly frustrated. He had done his best, but Clare was clearly unwilling to open her heart to him or to anyone. He offered her his hand as she got up, and brought her back to a small group of mutual acquaintances where he stayed and chatted for a few minutes before excusing himself to seek out his next dance partner. Neither of them noticed Rainsborough, who had been standing in the doorway of the card room and seen them emerge.

  * * * *

  Clare felt her husband’s hot breath and smelled the brandy fumes as he leaned over her from behind.

  “I think I will get you home early tonight, my dear. You don’t want to tire yourself.” His hand gripped her arm like a vise, but she kept her face empty even though she could feel the pain of old bruises.

  “We ladies are always envious of your wife, Lord Rainsborough,” commented one of the group surrounding Clare. “She is very fortunate to have such an attentive and observant spouse. I hope she appreciates you as much as you deserve,” Lady Brett teased.

  Rainsborough smiled his most charming smile as Clare made her excuses to their hostess, but said nothing to his wife as he led her to the door and hailed their carriage. He took Clare’s cloak from the footman and draped it over her shoulders himself. When his hands brushed her throat, she shuddered. He must have been drinking the whole time he was in the card room, she thought. Had he seen her come out of the anteroom with Giles? Oh, God, she hoped not. But what other reason did he have to rush her off so early in the evening?

  Chapter Twelve

  “Get up.”

  Clare uncurled herself slowly and then pulled herself again into a fetal position as she felt Justin’s boot against her back.

  “Get up, slut.”

  Clare bit down on her hand as Justin kicked her again. There was nothing she could do to protect her back, nothing she could do at all except keep herself from screaming in pain by biting her own fingers to distract herself.

  Justin reached down and grasped her by the hair.

  “I said, get up, bitch.”

  Clare allowed herself to be pulled into a sitting position, and as Justin let go of her hair, she pushed herself up with her hands and stood on shaky legs with her back to the mantel. She hoped her ordeal was almost over. Usually Justin’s kicks meant that the beating was coming to an end. Although these past few weeks, he had started choking her. She shivered.

  “What were you and Whitton doing in the anteroom, my lady whore?”

  Clare said nothing. She had already given her usual calm explanation and denial in the carriage, which never convinced him anyway. He had pushed her into the library as soon as they arrived home and sent the butler up to bed.

  Here she was, Lady Rainsborough, being beaten senseless by her husband while their servants slept comfortably on the third floor. They all knew about it, of course, but it was none of their business after all.

  She watched fearfully as Justin clenched and unclenched his hands against his side as though he were fighting to keep them from going around her throat. She backed up against the mantel, and his hand reached out and grabbed her neck. All of a sudden, he let her go and walked over to the desk. Was it over at last? She was afraid to hope so.

  He was opening a polished wooden case, and she almost dropped where she stood when she saw it contained a pair of dueling pistols. Please God, he wasn’t going to challenge Giles. Oh, God, if she were responsible for Giles’s death, she would kill herself.

  “Lovely, aren’t they, Clare?” Justin lifted one of the pistols and sighted down the barrel. “I am an excellent shot, as you know.”

  She nodded.

  “And Whitton? Well, I have seen him at Manton’s. Would you like to have us fight over you, Clare. Is that what this is all about?”

  “No, Justin, no,” she answered in a low, shaking voice.

  “I think you are telling the truth. Because you would not wish me to kill your lover, would you, Clare?”

  “He is not my lover. You know that, Justin.”

  “What I know is that you are a sneaking, conniving woman, rank as a bitch in heat, Clare. But I will give you a chance. Admit that you have been Whitton’s lover and promise never to see him again, and I will not challenge him.”

  It would be hard, but there was obviously no choice. And she hadn’t really seen Giles much in the last year, so what would there be to miss?

  “I promise I will never speak to him or see him again, Justin.”

  Justin drew next to her and slowly ran the barrel of the pistol down her cheek. “That is only part of what I asked, Clare.”

  “I swear I will never see him again, Justin. B
ut how can I tell you we have been lovers when it is not the truth?”

  Rainsborough pressed the pistol against her temple. “Tell the truth, Clare, and I will let you and Whitton live. Lie to me again, and I will shoot you now and take the other pistol and kill him in the middle of a waltz, if needs be.”

  She knew he meant it. He had almost choked her to death twice already. She didn’t care about her own life anymore. In fact, she almost would have welcomed the release. But to let Giles die?

  “All right, Justin. But you must swear to me that if I tell you the truth and keep my promise, you will let Giles alone.”

  Rainsborough lowered the pistol and said in a quiet, almost tender voice, “I swear it, Clare. Once I am satisfied, this need never happen again,”

  Clare took a deep breath and said: “Yes, Justin, you are right. Giles and I have been lovers. But I swear, as God is my witness, that I will never see or speak to him again.” Forgive me, Giles, she thought, for damaging your name and for the hurt this may cause you.

  Rainsborough dropped the pistol on the rug. “So you have been lying to me all this time,” he whispered fiercely.

  “Yes, Justin.”

  He grabbed her by the neck, and her eyes widened in fear.

  “Justin, I did what you asked,” she said desperately. “You must keep your promise.”

  “I only promised this scene would never happen again, Clare. And it won’t,” he added as he tightened his hand around her throat.

  Clare backed away, but it was foolish to even imagine she could get away. She felt she was leading him on and could feel the pressure on her windpipe and her breath being cut off. He was leaning into her, and her back was now bent over the desk. He was going to kill her at last, she thought. Why not let him? Her legs buckled, and she began to sink down, down, toward death. It would be so easy ... she couldn’t fight him ... it was over ...

  As her knees gave way under her, she instinctively reached back to keep her balance, and her hand brushed the corner of something heavy and cold. Everything in her had been saying, “Yes, yes, just let go, Clare. Just sink down and it will be quickly over, and you will be free.”

  And then, from some place in her that she didn’t know existed, came a “No.” She couldn’t scream it, because his hands were choking off her voice and breath. But it rose and rose until she thought it would burst through the top of her head. “No, no, no.” Her hand closed around the neck of a brass candlestick and in the last moment before she lost consciousness, she raised it and brought it down on Justin’s head as hard as she could.

  He released her instantly and slumped to the floor. She stood there, gasping for breath, her whole being still silently shouting, “No!” Oh, my God, he was moving, he was getting up, he would come after her again, he would kill her this time. She didn’t think, she just moved. The case was open, the pistol was lying in it, she lifted it, and as he began to rise, arms open, she walked toward him, as though into his embrace, pressed the pistol against his chest, and fired. He fell back, eyes wide open in surprise. His left arm twitched, and Clare, terrified that he was going to come after her again, scrambled over to where the other pistol lay on the floor. He groaned, and seemed to be trying to pull himself up. Clare approached him slowly, and pressing the other pistol against his temple, fired. He slumped down in front of her and lay still.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, God, I don’t know how to reload them. What if he wakes up?” She looked around desperately and grabbed the poker from the fireplace. She stood over her husband, dress drenched in his blood, hands and body shaking, saying, “No, no,” over and over again. And when Peters, who had been awakened by the shots, came into the library, he saw his mistress standing over her husband’s body, brandishing the poker.

  “Lady Rainsborough?”

  Clare looked up for one minute and then back down, as though afraid her husband would attack her if she relaxed her vigilance even for one moment.

  “Did you see him move, Peters? He is going to kill me. Don’t let him get up again. I won’t let him kill me,” she added, gripping the poker more tightly.

  The butler looked at his mistress and down at Rainsborough. The master was not moving. The master would obviously never move again. The master was well and truly dead.

  He walked over to Clare and gently took the poker from her hand.

  “You will not need this, my lady. Lord Rainsborough is dead.”

  “No, no, he can’t be. I saw him move after I shot him.”

  “I think you must say nothing, my lady,” said the butler as he led her over to the sofa. “Until I summon a Runner.”

  “Yes, a Runner could stop him,” whispered Clare. Then her face crumpled. “But I can’t tell him what happened.”

  Peters patted her hand reassuringly. “Of course you can, my lady. You can tell him it was a dreadful accident. Will you be all right if I leave you alone for a few minutes?”

  Clare nodded, and the butler left to awaken a footman and send him off to Bow Street.

  Clare pulled at her dress. It was wet and sticky and uncomfortable. And red. Surely she had been wearing her green silk this evening? She looked down at Justin and shuddered. He was lying very still, and his clothes were stained the same red as her own. How strange. She swallowed and winced. Why was her throat so sore? They had come home early from the ball. Justin had pulled her into the library ... Her head was pounding and all after that was a blank. All she knew was the terror. Justin was going to kill her. But Justin wasn’t moving, so maybe she was safe until Peters returned.

  * * * *

  She had no idea how long she sat there watching her husband closely for any movement at all. She heard voices in the hallway and then the butler was back, accompanied by a Bow Street Runner.

  “I found her standing over him with the poker,” Peters said in a low voice.

  The Runner surveyed the scene. Lord Rainsborough lay on a red and blue Turkey carpet with a hole in his left temple and another through his chest. Lady Rainsborough sat on the leather sofa in a bloodstained silk gown, looking up at him in confusion and fear.

  “You will not let him kill me, will you?” she asked fearfully.

  She was either in a state of shock or she was a damned good actress, thought the Runner.

  “No, no, of course not, Lady Rainsborough. Please watch your master for a moment, Peters,” said the runner in order to reassure her. “May I ask you a few questions about tonight?”

  Clare nodded.

  “It appears from your evening dress that you and your husband were out tonight?”

  Clare nodded again.

  “May I ask where, my lady?”

  “We attended the Petershams ball.”

  “I see. And when did you leave the ball?”

  Clare frowned. “I think it was about one. We left early, you see.”

  “And you came straight home?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then what happened, Lady Rainsborough?”

  Clare twisted her fingers together and plucked at the blood-soaked bodice of her gown. “I ... I can’t remember.”

  “You are afraid your husband wants to kill you, my lady?” The Runner looked at her for a long moment. “You have bruises on your throat, and your face is swollen. Was it your husband who did that?”

  Clare only looked at him blankly.

  “Has he done this before, Lady Rainsborough?”

  “Done what?” she whispered.

  “Beaten you.”

  “Justin? Justin is a most loving and affectionate husband,” she said in a calm, detached voice. “He would never hurt me.”

  The Runner rose and addressed the butler. “Clearly your mistress is in a state of shock, Peters. Wake her abigail so she can see her up to bed. I’ll summon another Runner and make sure the house is guarded all night.”

  “Is my lady under arrest, then?” asked the butler, horrified to be employed in a household with such a scandal breaking around him.

&
nbsp; “Of a sort. It certainly looks as though she killed Lord Rainsborough. But she is in no condition to be brought before anyone tonight. And I wouldn’t want to see a lady like that in Newgate anyway. I will just make sure she stays here safe and sound, until a coroner’s inquest. Does your mistress have family in London? Or a close friend? Someone who could be here when she awakes?”

  “Her father and mother just arrived in town,” said Peters, “but they are both quite old, and it would be a dreadful shock ...”

  “Surely she has some woman friend?”

  “Lady Sabrina Whitton,” the butler answered hesitantly. “But Lady Rainsborough has kept very much to herself this last year or so.”

  “But they were once close?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Well, summon Lady Sabrina in the morning. Your mistress needs someone with her to help her out of the state of shock she is in. I will get clearer answers out of her when that happens.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Has Lord Rainsborough any relations who should be notified?”

  “Just a distant cousin in Lancashire, sir.”

  “Well, best let the family man of business take care of notifying him. I will have the body removed in the morning.”

  Peters blanched. “Yes, sir.”

  * * * *

  Sabrina, who was an early riser, was just getting dressed when their head footman knocked on her door. She looked over at her abigail questioningly and motioned for her to answer it.

  “Whatever is it, William,” said the maid, opening the door less than halfway. “My lady is just getting ready for breakfast.”

  William cleared his throat nervously. “I have a note from the Rainsborough household,” he said. “Their butler delivered it himself and said it is urgent.”

  The abigail put out her hand. “All right. I will give it to her.”

  “The Rainsborough’s butler delivered this?” asked Sabrina, looking at the folded square of paper in her hand. She was almost afraid to open it. Something must have happened to Clare.