An Unsuitable Match

by Sasha Cottman

  The oversized gown fell back into place.

  It was so large on her slender frame that no visible outline of her figure was discernible. No breasts and no hips. Dressed, Clarice was completely invisible. She gave her reflection a nod. Things were exactly as they should be.

  With such a dowdy wardrobe she was never asked by any society matrons as to when she was going to be married. The few men who asked her to dance at balls were usually business associates of her father’s, or those who owed him money.

  She smiled, thinking of how close she had come to dancing with David. The scent of his cologne when he stood close to her had filled her senses with heady delight.

  His imaginary presence stole into her room, took hold of her hand and spun her into a dance. She hummed the music of the invisible orchestra to keep in time as she moved with him around the room. Memories of his witty dinner remarks came readily to mind and she laughed out loud.

  ‘Oh, David, what a naughty man you are,’ she murmured to her imaginary dance partner. She batted her eyelids. Mrs Chaplin was not the only one who could capture a man’s eye. The solitary thing missing was the powerful but gentle grip of his hand holding hers.

  She turned one last time and caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror. She stopped. The laughter died on her lips and she was alone again.

  A chill rippled through the room.

  She closed her eyes, fighting another, more painful memory as it surfaced yet again. Laughter and love had no place in her life; they were only given to those deserving of such wonderful gifts.

  She slipped the oversized gown over her head and draped it on a chair. Returning to the mirror, she considered her reflection. Looking back at her from the glass was a shy young woman, with muslin bindings wrapped tightly around her body. Beneath the bindings her curves were kept hidden.

  Kept secret.

  Under her dowdy, dull clothing Clarice wore her armour. Her body cocooned within, she remained hidden from the rest of the world. Safe and protected.

  She looked down and found the pin that held the bindings together at her cleavage. She opened it, removed it, and then slowly, meticulously, began to unwrap the bindings.

  No-one could tell that she possessed feminine curves. No man could be attracted to her; even David’s words of desire were for a woman who lived only in his imagination. He did not see the real her. Clarice Langham did not exist.

  Long ago she had accepted that being a nobody with few friends was a suitable punishment. David’s declaration of devotion now threatened her cloistered, safe world.

  She pursed her lips, remembering his life-saving thump on her back. Even her hero of the evening had not felt the thick wad of bindings under her dress. Or if he had, David had masked his surprise well.

  As her skin began to appear from under the bindings, she saw the red marks that crisscrossed her body. She traced a gentle finger over the angry lines and bit back tears. Would she ever be free of the shame and the guilt?

  Unlocking the top drawer of her dresser, she slipped the bundle of bindings inside a small calico bag. Next to the bag sat several other bundles of new muslin strips. She had donned a fresh coat of armour every day since her mother’s death.

  Tomorrow, as with every other day, Clarice would hide the small bag in her reticule and once she was far from the house, she would remove the bindings and throw them away. Her secret was her own, too shameful to share.

  She locked the drawer once more and removed the key.

  David had written a powerful and passionate love letter to her, or so she had foolishly allowed herself to think. After seeing him with Mrs Chaplin, she wondered if the truth was somewhat less pure.

  She opened the second drawer and took out a nightgown. Long and unadorned with any kind of ribbon or pattern, it fit the shroud-like manner in which she dressed herself. She turned and started for the bed, but stopped and went back to the chest of drawers.

  Unlocking the top drawer once more, she took out a small box. She frowned at it, briefly pondering the fact that her life was like a series of locked boxes. All of which contained her most precious secrets.

  She unlocked the box and withdrew two letters.

  The first was from a firm of solicitors; she glanced at her name written on the outside of it, before putting it aside. She had read it only once and constantly asked herself why she still kept it.

  The second letter was a copy of the love letter David had penned. Before giving the original back to Alex, she had made her own copy. As with the first letter, she questioned her judgement in keeping it. She could recite it by heart.

  She opened the love letter and stared at it.

  She now understood that David had written the letter on behalf of Alex, using his own love for Clarice as his muse. Alex had intended to send it to Millie, but it had gone to the wrong address and Clarice had received it instead.

  Knowing Alex to be of an impetuous nature, it had come as no surprise that he had not bothered to check the details on the front of the sealed letter before posting it.

  All of London society had then waited for the announcement of Alex Radley and Clarice Langham’s betrothal, only to watch as a very public jilting ended all hope of their future union.

  How much more upheaval would those words of devotion create? Alex, having mistakenly sent the letter to Clarice, had nearly lost Millie forever over them; and now they threatened to fracture Clarice’s own fragile existence. To expose her to the world.

  She had known David as the older brother of her childhood friend, Lucy. The few times she had seen him while she was growing up had been during his visits home from school. While Alex had always been the first one to ruffle Lucy’s hair and give Clarice a cheery greeting, David had remained distant and aloof.

  When Clarice was twelve, Lucy confided in her that David wasn’t her full brother. Later she had questioned her mother about it and the countess had quietly explained the circumstances of David’s birth and what the word bastard actually meant. Elizabeth Langham’s hands had been shaking as she made Clarice promise never to speak of such matters again.

  At the time Clarice couldn’t see the reason for her mother’s emotional response, but years later, when she unexpectedly received the solicitor’s letter, the truth of her own birth finally made her understand.

  A burning log split in half and fell in the bedroom fireplace. Clarice stirred from her thoughts and scowled at David’s letter.

  ‘Why now? Why suddenly declare that you love me?’

  Her dowry was significant and would enable a natural-born son like David to establish himself in the world. Was his sudden display of charm and interest in her just a ploy to find himself a wealthy wife? If she had been prepared to accept that Alex had chosen her as a wife of convenience, why could she not accept the same for his brother?

  She wiped away a tear, but a second one soon followed. Disappointment was a bitter pill to swallow.

  Everything made perfect sense. No man in his right mind would find her attractive; no-one would want Clarice for herself. The gods were determined to continue their punishment of her. She looked down at her hands and clasped them tightly together.

  ‘‘Tis no wonder he would continue with a mistress even if he did marry me. My dowry and an heir is all that he could truly want from me. How could anyone possibly love me, when I killed my own mother?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Clarice came downstairs late the following morning, not so much due to the hour at which she had finally fallen asleep, but as a ploy to avoid her father.

  As soon as she entered the breakfast room, she knew her plans had been for naught.

  Seated at the head of the breakfast table sat her father, Henry, Sixth Earl of Langham. He was a man renowned within the ton for his uncanny ability to make vast sums of money out of nothing. Those foolish enough to cross Lord Langham quickly discovered he also possessed a fearsome temper.

  The one person who seemed able to avoid the full wrath
of Lord Langham was his only child, Clarice.

  ‘Good morning, Clarice,’ the earl said as he snapped the spine of his newspaper and turned a page over.

  ‘You are breakfasting late,’ she replied.

  ‘I went for an early ride in Hyde Park and then decided to wait for you,’ he replied, continuing to look at the paper.

  She sat down and watched silently as a footman poured her a cup of coffee. Unlike many of her social peers, Clarice couldn’t stand the taste of tea. The footman brought over a plate laden with eggs, bacon and roast potato. With the memory of her near-death experience still fresh in her mind, she left the potato well alone.

  Silence reigned for several minutes, broken only by her father dismissing the servants.

  She swallowed a piece of well-chewed bacon and waited.

  ‘So what are your plans for today? Will you be walking in the park with Lady Susan and her cousins this afternoon?’ he asked.

  She looked at her father. Was there any doubt as to what she would be doing today? The same as every other day during the season. Hiding at home until late afternoon and then going out with Susan and the Winchester sisters for their daily ramble in Hyde Park.

  She began to count slowly from one to ten. Was today the day she got past three?

  ‘You should go out and do a spot of shopping with them this morning. I’m sure you could find some new things to buy,’ her father added.

  Two.

  She gave her father a smile as she stabbed another piece of bacon with her fork. Every morning came with the same questions. And every morning she gave him the same answer.

  ‘Yes, Papa. I shall see if I feel up to it.’

  He held her gaze for a moment. And as with every other day, Clarice thought her father was going to say something more. That he was going to plead with her to come out of mourning. But every day he would simply look at her, and then give a resigned nod of his head.

  Once, when rumours of a possible betrothal between Clarice and the Marquess of Brooke had been circulating, her father had risen from his chair and come to her side. With a hand placed gently on her shoulder, he had mentioned that Wilding and Kent was having a sale and that he had arranged a new account with them.

  She’d agreed to visit the shop, but had not actually managed to set foot inside it yet.

  ‘I might go and spend some time at the drapers; I understand they have some lovely new fabrics,’ she said.

  Clarice picked up a piece of toast and crushed some orange marmalade on to it. With any luck, that answer would placate her father. The earl stood and walked over to her chair. He handed her a note, which she read briefly.

  It was from Lady Alice, her paternal grandmother. When she got to the part where the dowager Countess Langham announced her intention to arrive in London within a matter of days, Clarice gritted her teeth. Her life was complicated enough at present; the prospect of Lady Alice joining them for the rest of the season only added to her list of woes.

  ‘Perhaps you could wait a day or two before you go shopping, and take your grandmother with you. I am sure she will have an opinion on the type of cloth you should purchase.’

  Clarice folded up the paper and handed it back to her father.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Lady Alice Langham had an opinion on every subject.

  ‘Good,’ he replied before placing a fatherly kiss on her forehead.

  As he turned and headed toward the door, Clarice let out the breath she had been holding. Her father stopped just before his hand reached the door handle.

  ‘My diary is rather full, and since your grandmother is due to arrive sometime soon I shall ask her to chaperone you to most social events for the rest of the season. I hope that meets with your approval. She will keep a careful watch over you.’

  ‘Yes, Papa.’

  He closed the door behind him.

  She picked up the rapidly cooling piece of toast and licked the marmalade off the top before putting it back on the plate. The mixture of sweet and tangy citrus sat in the middle of her tongue as she sucked it to the roof of her mouth.

  With no-one to correct her manners, she leaned forward and placed her elbows on the table, cupping her chin in her hands.

  ‘I just need sleep,’ she murmured.

  Tired from the late night, she had hoped to drift off as soon as she went to bed. But last night, as with most others, she lay awake in the dark. When sleep finally arrived, it gave her little rest.

  Somewhere in the hour just after dawn, she had woken, chilled by the damp sweat on her skin. Sitting up in bed, she wiped away the dream-induced tears.

  It was always the same dream. Her mother falling and Clarice racing to catch her before she hit the ground. Every time, she would get her fingertips to her mother’s outstretched hand, and every time, she failed to save her. The punishment for her crime, it would seem, was for her to relive that moment over and over again each night.

  She yawned and, putting her fingers to her face, felt the puffy bags under her eyes.

  ‘Another good reason to stay indoors today.’

  She sat back in the chair and surveyed the table. Since it was now only the two of them at home, she and her father used the breakfast room for all their meals at Langham House.

  The earl had not held a dinner party in the house since his wife’s death. With his mother resident in the country for most of the year and Clarice still effectively in half-mourning, he lacked the services of a society hostess.

  ‘And no-one in their right mind would think me a suitable alternative,’ she muttered to the empty room. Susan’s unkind words still echoed in her mind.

  She winced, recalling the single time her grandmother had dared suggest her son remarry. The blistering row had continued unabated for hours, at the end of which Lady Alice summoned her travel coach and left for the family estate in Norfolk. Mother and son had spent the best part of a year barely speaking to one another. Christmas 1816 was not a happy one for the Langham family.

  ‘Perhaps this year will be different; who knows?’ she said and rose from her chair.

  She opened the door and her heart gave a start when she discovered someone was on the other side.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Lady Susan Kirk gave Clarice her customary tired, put-upon look and sighed. She waved her hand, languidly pointing further down the hallway. Clarice stepped into the hallway and saw the reason for her friend’s expression. Susan’s two cousins were there, staring at a large oil painting of a horse.

  The Winchester sisters. To say they were a little dim would be kind. Nature had blessed Heather Winchester with startling beauty, but the contents of her brain consisted mainly of lace and frippery. Having been promised since birth to a much older but titled man didn’t seem to faze her the least. She would be married by the end of the season, and her intended husband would simply be a new source of money.

  The other Winchester sister, or ‘Screech’ as Susan called her behind her back, was the most untalented of budding violin players in the whole of London.

  ‘I didn’t realise we had arranged to go out this morning,’ Clarice said.

  Susan shook her head. ‘We hadn’t, but if I had to stay and listen to Daisy strangle one more cat, I would have committed murder. Sorry, Clarice, but you were the only person I could count on being out of bed at this hour of the day. Besides, it gives you an opportunity to make things up to me after last night.’

  Clarice was in two minds. Should she take offence at being used as an excuse to escape Daisy’s violin practice, or be glad that Susan had thought to repair their friendship?

  Heather Winchester pointed toward the painting and whispered hurriedly in her sister’s ear. They both put a hand over their mouths and giggled.

  ‘Oh Lord; they have seen the male part of the horse’s anatomy; we shall never get out of here now,’ Susan moaned.

  Clarice stifled a chuckle. ‘So do you have plans for the four of us today, or are we just g
oing to leave those two to their own devices and slip out through the rear mews?’ she asked.

  Susan clicked her fingers and when the Winchester sisters turned their heads, she pointed to a spot on the hall carpet a foot or so in front of her. Heather and Daisy exchanged one last insipid giggle before making their way toward her.

  ‘It really is like having two small children with me at times. We don’t need a footman to chaperone us, we need a nursemaid,’ Susan said.

  She turned and looked at Clarice, her gaze taking in her pallid complexion. ‘Another bad night?’

  Clarice nodded. ‘Overtired again and then couldn’t get to sleep. Papa decided to stay to the bitter end.’

  The surface reasons for her insomnia were simple enough. Since her mother’s death, Clarice’s nerves had been on edge and she found it difficult to sleep. Knowing that whatever confidences she shared with Susan would find their way back to her father, she kept to this socially acceptable story. The truth of her constant, guilt-ridden nightmares was hers alone.

  ‘So where are we off to?’ the Winchester sisters asked in unison. They looked at one another before dissolving into another fit of giggles.

  ‘Tattersall’s! We can go and see the horses!’ Heather exclaimed. She clapped her hands together in appreciation of her own cleverness.

  ‘Would you please go and get your things, Clarice?’ Susan said through gritted teeth.

  Clarice groaned.

  It was going to be a long day.

  After so many hours spent with Susan and the Winchester sisters, Clarice decided they would test the patience of all the saints.

  Endless hours in the gloves section of several different shops in Cranbourn Alley, during which Daisy tried on no fewer than twenty pairs of almost identical white gloves, and Clarice was ready to help Susan murder the sisters and hide the bodies. In the last shop, Daisy and Heather finally both chose matching pairs of kidskin leather gloves and headed to the counter to pay for their purchases.

  ‘You do realise that apart from the tiny blue button on the wrist they are exactly the same gloves as they are both already wearing,’ she murmured to Susan.