The Discarded Wife
By Camille Oster
Copyright ©2018 Camille Oster
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the work of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Camille Oster – Author
www.camilleoster.com
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Camille-Oster/489718877729579
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Chapter 1
London, 1853
GRIPPING HER SON'S hand tighter, Sophie guarded them against the rain that pelted down on her black umbrella. The vicar had no umbrella and stood in the rain as he read the burial sermon. Two men stood by, waiting for it to be over, so they could start their work of filling the grave of her husband.
Consumption had finally claimed him as she’d known it would. It had still been a shock when it had happened, as if she'd never truly been convinced it would. Doug was gone, and the emptiness of the thought ached in her heart. She'd loved her husband. He'd been kind.
How was it that the awful ones lived and the loved ones didn't? How was that fair? How was a gentle man like Doug taken when such an awful man like Lord Aberley lived and breathed every day?
Sophie shunted the thought of her ex-husband from her mind and held her son tighter. What was the point of being bitter? Lord Aberley had, for whatever else he was, given her the most precious gift at all, and the divorce had led her to a man who she had truly loved, and who had loved her in return.
Many had seen her second marriage as proof of how far she had fallen—marriage to a penniless and failed musician. Their marriage had been bought, but it had nonetheless been a successful one. With the money he had been paid to give her child a name, they had set up the music equipment and supplies store in Holborn, which had afforded them two rooms not far away and, as it turned out, quite a happy existence.
Her son, Alfie, had thrived with a childhood surrounded by music and gentle love. This was the first blow in his life and he looked up at her with those icy blue eyes she loved. "We will be alright," she said with a sad smile. "We knew this day was coming."
"Won't he be cold down there?"
"Your father is in heaven now. He will never be cold again."
Alfie wasn't aware that Doug was not his father, even though his dark hair and icy eyes showed there was no paternal link between the two. But she wasn't yet prepared to discuss his true heritage with the boy. It was better this way. Better a lost father who loved him than knowing he was the issue of a cruel, monstrous man.
"Come, my love, it is time to go," she said and stepped away. It did seem cruel to simply leave Doug behind, but they had to. Doug was gone and there was no point pretending that wasn't true. In a way, him gently slipping away had been merciful. The disease had been cruel in the end, so his suffering was over now.
The shop needed to be opened. It had remained closed too often in the last few weeks. Along with the funeral costs, their finances had been severely taxed.
The hack waited for them as instructed and took them away from the cemetery. It was a long ride back to Holborn and they sat in silence. The rain mostly hid the city away. The streets were clear and most of the noise was gone. The weather suited mourning. Almost as if the whole city also felt the loss of a lovely man.
With a sigh, Sophie held her son to her. They would be alright. They had the shop, their rooms and enough money for Alfie's schooling. There was nothing they particularly needed. They would simply go on.
The hack dropped them off in front of the shop and Sophie pulled the brass key from her reticule and unlocked it. Her black skirts dripped water on the wooden floorboards as she and Alfie walked in. Alfie ran into the back to the nook where he liked to be. Mourning left him uncertain and at times needing solitude.
Unpinning her hat, she placed it on the coat rack and returned to the door to turn over the 'Closed' sign. There wouldn't be a great number of customers today, but she ached for normalcy, and being in the shop was as normal as things were.
With a broom, she swept the floor and dusted the sheet music. Instruments hung from hooks along the windows. It was a bright shop, situated on a corner. In winter it was cold with the sheer number of windows—the price for the brightness, but Sophie preferred it that way.
*
"Everything is in order, Mrs Duthie," said Mr. Lawrence, who stood in his dark suit behind his mahogany desk in the large, dark office Sophie had never liked. She'd spent too many times in here doing unpleasant things. The solicitor had seen her through her father's death, her marriage and divorce, and now the death of her second husband. "You simply need to sign here."
Leaning over, the crinoline of her mourning dress shifting as she signed her name with the pen Mr. Lawrence held out to her.
"Everything is in order. The shop and all its content are yours, provided you pay the rent in a timely fashion."
Mr. Lawrence had a tendency to state the obvious, as if it would never occur to her to pay the rent—apparently, it had never occurred to him that she had been paying all the household bills for a good six years.
"Thank you, Mr. Lawrence," she said, still grateful to the man, because he offered his services at a discount rate due to the reduced nature of her circumstances. Lord Aberley divorcing her had drawn the man's pity and he had kept her as a client even when she had practically nothing to pay him with.
He smiled tightly as he withdrew the document. "You are free to marry again if you wish, and as per your instructions, your son is now the primary beneficiary of your will in case something lamentable were to happen." Her will also made provisions for his care. Her experience in life had taught her that she had to be proactive in caring for the people around her. Too often, she had been buffeted by other people's intentions for her.
"No, I think I am finished with husbands," she said with a tight smile.
Mr. Lawrence blinked. He didn't understand that a woman would choose reduced circumstances and limited means above what a husband would provide for her. "You are still very young."
"I don't feel so young just now."
"I am sure you will feel differently given time."
She doubted that, but there was no point telling Mr. Lawrence. To him, like most others, a husband was the only means to improving one's life, and to provide care. Unmarried women, and widows, were a sheer nuisance on society.
Things were different for her now. The stigma of her divorce wasn't gone, but she was now a widow rather than a divorcee.
"Thank you so much for your services, Mr. Lawrence. As always, you are invaluable."
The man smiled. As pompous and arrogant as he was, he did have a kind heart and she was the beneficiary of that charity.
"I had better get back to Alfie."
“Yes, of course.” Mr. Lawrence was also one of the few people who had known that Sophie had been with child prior to her marriage to Doug Duthie. And Doug being the lost and lonely soul he had been, had had no one to notice or comment that his wife's child had come rather early.
From being strangers, they had grown to enjoy being parents together. The marriage bed was increasingly a place for sleep only as Doug's illness developed. Sophie had accepted that. It did, however, distress Doug more, but there was little he could do to remedy it.
Saying goodbye to Mr. Lawrence, she left his office, hoping it would be quite some time before she needed to see him again. The man was still annoyed by Lord Aberley's flat refusal to provide any support to her after the divorce, but Sophie was adamant she didn't want any of his money—or anything else. It has been a period
of her life she would rather forget.
For a short time, she had had every means, every luxury in the world, but that did not make for happiness. She had been so young and hopeful at the time; she hadn't understood that Lord Aberley hadn't come like some prince in a fairy tale to whisk her away to a beautiful and luxurious life. The true nature of their marriage hadn't become clear to her until after the divorce. Lord Aberley had not been there by his own free will. His intense dislike for her had quickly become apparent. Most of the time, he flatly refused to acknowledge she was even there.
She still didn't know the details of what had happened, but Lord Aberley had entered the marriage under duress, but very shortly after his sister had died in childbirth, he'd filed for divorce. There was obviously some link.
Chapter 2
TAKING A SWIG OF THE Scottish single malt, Tristan considered the cards in his hand, and then his opponent—the tiresome Lord Haddock, who believed his luck was better than it really was.
"Four queens," Tristan said, laying his cards on the table of the gaming hell that didn't water down its drinks. Such a simple thing, but many couldn't see how he would make his decision of where he spent his time based on that. Utter logic that escaped many.
"Deuces, man," Haddock said. "You have ferocious luck."
Yes, well, he did have luck with cards—or the ability to see a set as a whole when he needed to. Bringing his eyes down, he considered his cards. The queens stared back at him. Not much luck with women when it came down to it. Women were only agreeable when you paid for them. That certainly wasn't a problem around here. Every form of tantalizing female was available—for a price.
And he had partaken in every form, but tonight, he simply couldn't be bothered. Basic politeness was beyond him—in most regards when it came to women. If he could do without that basic urge, he would. It had never served him well, and neither had women.
At home, chucked in a drawer was the engagement ring he'd claimed back. The striving cow had initially insisted on keeping it, even after he'd forced her to admit she'd seduced the Earl of Pilkerton in hopes he would offer for her. Even accepting the engagement, the grasping harlot had strived for a grander title. Last he’d heard, her gamble had succeeded.
Tristan couldn't bring himself to look past the indiscretion, even if he hadn't held high hopes for any great degree of loyalty. Maybe he should have just gone ahead with the marriage while he’d had the chance, so he could produce an heir, even if he had no assurance who's issue it was.
Women were grasping creatures and even as he guarded himself against them, he'd fallen victim—more than once. The first low creature he'd been blackmailed into marrying—by threat to his sister's reputation. The schemers had got him so he'd had no choice but to marry some lowly tart without means or breeding. It had been the most embarrassing thing he had ever experienced.
The death of his sister had ended the charade, and any hold the deviants had had over him. A brother and sister pair. Well, it hadn't served them at all in the end, and the drinks in this place were too steep to be affordable to either of their like. He hadn't seen hide nor hair of them since, which was a good thing, because he'd likely flog them.
No, he wouldn't. He'd never stoop so low as to publicly acknowledge his disdain for a woman he'd been bamboozled into marrying. In private, however, any misery that befell them had his hearty approval.
The problem was that a female was needed for an heir, but there had been worrying signs in that quarter too. None of the mistresses he’d at points in his life supported, had ever fallen pregnant. A mercy in many regards, but as opposed to other men in his position, who had fathered a whole brood of children, legitimate and otherwise, he had never produced a single issue in his thirty-eight years. Worryingly, Lord Forthworth had just dropped dead, and he was a mere four years older.
The situation of an heir was becoming vital. From being so deeply offended for initially being strongarmed into marrying a female well below his station, he would soon have to consider marrying any female simply so he could breed on her.
That was an over exaggeration, but eventually he would have to tie himself to some conniving creature in order to perform his most important and pressing duty. Saying that, he could contemplate not doing right by his family and simply letting the title sink into oblivion. Generations of Lord Aberleys would be turning in their graves.
Perhaps he hadn't ever realized exactly how much he despised women. They were perfectly agreeable on short acquaintance, when he was providing what they wanted—money. They say men with sisters were more amenable to the fairer sex, but his sister's vain and vapid manner hadn't left him with a great deal of sympathy. Still, his dearest acquaintance was a woman, Minette, and although he cared for her deeply, he knew full well how mercenary she was when there was something she wanted. She, however, was so upfront about her Machiavellian scheming, he couldn’t dismiss her. It was the lying and deceit that truly disgusted him. And she accepted him exactly how he was in return—which was rare. Sadly, Minette was one in a million and there were no others like her. He had searched high and low.
His sister’s death was a subject that was still evolving in his mind. To begin with, it had been a relief as he'd been unburdened with the consequences of her indiscretion. It wasn't as though he missed her, but perhaps in light of his friendship with Minette, there was something that regretted what could have been. On some level, he had loved her, even if he'd rolled his eyes at most of the things she'd said and done. Age was perhaps softening him as he now suspected there was the possibility to love someone even if you didn't respect them.
Even Minette would not argue that he was a hard man. It was a consequence of how he had been raised, and he'd never seen reason to argue with that. The loss of his sister, or perhaps the understanding that he'd never mourned her, was the only thing that gave him pause.
Women danced on the stage, lifting their skirts and showing their frilly stockings, garters and drawers. Familiar heat tempted him, but he refused to entertain it. Instead, he watched the young men salivating, viewing the women as creatures of wonder. It had been a long time since Tristan had felt wonder at anything.
Raising his hand, he ordered another whiskey.
"Care for a game?" a man said and drew Tristan's attention away from the prancing girls.
"Lord Torpington. It is a delight to see you."
Another man joined them. He looked familiar.
"You know my brother, Charles Lawrence."
"Of course," Tristan said and bowed his head. Now he placed the face. A solicitor who had been a part of his divorce proceedings. Someone had had to represent her, so Tristan didn't hold it against him. "It would be a pleasure."
A smiling girl dealt the cards for them and stacked up the game. Tristan had a moderate hand, but he knew that Torpington didn't have much tolerance for risk. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Unable to control his emotions, he really shouldn't try his hand at cards, but people couldn't be told what was best for them.
"I understand you are making some acquisitions in the Congo." Well, someone had obviously been talking.
"I have been looking at some interesting opportunities."
"I would love to hear your thoughts on investing in those regions."
And Tristan would rather not. Why share his knowledge and understanding with others? Wasn't making decisions on opportunities others didn't see the point of investing. Switching out some cards, Tristan didn't respond.
His whiskey arrived and he drew a mouthful. "And what of you, Mr. Lawrence, what is happening in the hallowed halls of justice these days?"
"The Public Health Act is bringing a slew of issues to the fore."
"Is that so?" Tristan said, completely uninterested. "Trying to get people to stop doing things that are harmful to them?"
"More complex than that," the man stated, giving him a hard look. "Often unscrupulous agents acting against people by sheer greed." This man didn't like him—not that it bo
thered Tristan in the least. He had been his dear ex-wife's man, and by the appearance of it, he still was. What had she done to earn such loyalty? She certainly hadn't had any means to retain such a man.
"You were retained by the former Lady Aberley, were you not?" Tristan queried, knowing full well that was true. He just wanted to see how he would react. There was a certain subversive humor referring to her as a lady.
"Still am."
Tristan's eyebrows rose. He hadn't been aware of this. "Still finding herself in hot water?"
"I don't know about hot water. Her husband passed away."
It didn't surprise Tristan she had managed to dupe some man into marrying her. He'd heard something the like. It certainly wasn't anyone of consequence. "Lucky fellow."
"Consumption," the solicitor said with tightness around his mouth.
Not an easy death on anyone. Tristan chose to remain silent. No doubt she was now penniless and destitute. Did that mean she would come knocking with cap in hand? He snorted. "I hope you are advising her that there is nothing to gain from her history."
"She has no ideas of the sort," the man said. "I believe her intention is to support herself."
"Pray tell," Tristan said with a grin. "How exactly is she intending on doing that?" Maybe she finally was devolving to the levels she had always belonged to—women who traded themselves for benefit.
"A music shop, I believe."
"A music shop?" That had not been what he'd expected to hear. Between her and her brother, he'd expected something illicit or downright illegal. Even being transported to Australia would have been less of a surprise than her owning a music shop.
"It provides sufficient means to support her and her son."
"Son?" Tristan repeated. He hadn't known that either, although he made it his business to know as little as possible about his ex-wife.
"Even his schooling."
Tristan placed the glass down without taking a sip. "Schooling. How old is he?"
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