The Wedding Game

by Jane Feather

  Chastity awoke about half an hour later. The room was quiet, except for the slight crackle of the fire. The space in the bed beside her was empty. She struggled onto an elbow. Douglas, in his dressing gown, was sitting in an armchair by the fire, watching her, and she felt a stab of fear as those charcoal eyes rested impassively on her countenance.

  “It was you,” he said. “The Go-Between . . . in the National Gallery. It was you.”

  “Yes,” she said dully, resignation sweeping through her. There was nothing to be done now, and nothing to be salvaged. “It was me.”

  He said nothing, merely looked at her. His anger was an almost palpable force and she wondered if perhaps that was what had awakened her. But there was more than anger in his eyes. There was sorrow and, even worse, disappointment. It made her feel crumpled and dried out like a shriveled leaf.

  “How did you know?” she asked, not that it mattered.

  He gave a short laugh. “That absurd accent. Your sister used it . . . as a joke, I assume.”

  “I didn't notice,” Chastity said in the same dull tone. “It's just a useful way of disguising our voices. It's not meant to sound authentic.”

  “I imagine in your business one needs a bag of such deceitful tricks,” he said, getting to his feet. “How else would you get your clients, if that's what you call them, to reveal themselves so completely? People you rub shoulders with on a daily basis . . . social acquaintances . . . people who assume you're something you're not. People who trust you.” He walked to the door as he spoke. He set his hand on the latch and looked across at her. “Good-bye, Chastity.”

  The door closed quietly as he left her, the slight breeze sending a sharp spurt of flame rising from the dying fire.

  Oh, God. Chastity lay on her back, her arm covering her eyes, where tears stung behind her closed lids. She understood now that he had loved her. The bitterness of his hurt told her that. This had not been a light fling, a casual loving interlude for Douglas any more than it had been for her. And she could not for the life of her think how she could have changed anything.

  She lay wakeful throughout the rest of a night that seemed eternal, and fell into an uneasy sleep just before dawn. She awoke to a brilliant day of clear blue skies, cold sunlight sparking off the snow, and dragged herself out of bed. Douglas had said he would be taking the first train back to London, so he would be long gone by now.

  Chastity dressed and went downstairs. Jenkins was crossing the hall from the breakfast room, an empty coffeepot in his hand. “Morning, Miss Chas.”

  “Good morning, Jenkins. Did Dr. Farrell get off all right?” She tried to ask the question lightly, as if it was the mere casual inquiry of a thoughtful hostess.

  “Fred took him to the station in the gig about an hour ago,” Jenkins said. He regarded her closely. “Everything all right, Miss Chas?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said airily. “I daresay we'll see him when we return to London.” She smiled and made her way to the breakfast room, where everyone was gathered but the contessa, who always took breakfast in bed, and Sarah and Mary Winston, who had already breakfasted and were out exploring the winter wonderland.

  Lord Duncan looked up from his plate of kidneys and bacon. “Morning, my dear. Beautiful, isn't it. Perfect hunting day.” He sighed.

  Chastity nodded absently and sat down between her sisters.

  “Pity we had to lose that Dr. Farrell. A decent chap.”

  “What kind of medical emergency was it, Chas?” Constance asked. “Did he say?”

  Chastity shook her head, tried a laugh. “Patient confidentiality,” she said, taking a piece of toast from the rack. She saw that her fingers were quivering and put it down quickly, contemplated picking up the coffeepot to fill her cup and decided against it.

  Constance took up the coffeepot and filled her youngest sister's cup for her. “Drink it,” she said softly. “You look as if you need it, love.”

  Chastity's smile was wan, but she picked up the cup and managed to drink from it without spilling, conscious of her sisters' anxious and rather puzzled looks. They had known last evening that Douglas would be leaving this morning, he had made his farewells before bedtime, so there was no explanation for Chastity's clear and present distress.

  “What plans do we have for today?” Constance asked brightly, reaching for the butter.

  “Fresh air,” Max said. “And plenty of it.”

  “I told Jenkins we'll take the guns out,” Lord Duncan said eagerly. “Try for a few ducks on the lake . . . a goose or two. What d'you say?”

  “Well, you men can do that,” Prudence said. “The women are going ice-skating. I promised Sarah.”

  Gideon looked alarmed. “How do you know the ice is safe?”

  “Gideon, my love, the water in the horse pond is only a foot deep,” Prudence said with a smile that managed to be both patronizing and affectionate. “You didn't think I'd let Sarah on the lake, surely?”

  “How was I to know there was a horse pond?” he asked. “I don't know anything about country life. I've only ever seen the lake.”

  Chastity nibbled her toast, thankful that for the moment no one was paying her any attention.

  “Will you come skating, Laura? Or do you have other plans?” Constance asked.

  Laura bridled, then blushed a little. “I believe Lord Berenger suggested that if the weather was clement we might walk over to his house. He has some splendid Italian artifacts from his stay in Firenze. I am most interested in seeing them.”

  “That's splendid,” Constance said. “And your mother?”

  “Oh, the dear lady is going to come in the gig and watch the shooting,” Lord Duncan said. “I suggested it to her last night, if the weather made it possible, and she seemed most anxious to have a taste of fresh air. Jenkins will bring a luncheon to the pavilion on the lake.”

  “Well, that all seems highly satisfactory,” Max said, getting to his feet. He touched his wife's hair fleetingly. “We'll see you three later this afternoon, then.”

  Constance reached up and stroked his wrist. “Yes. Teatime probably.”

  Chastity stood. “I'm not really properly dressed yet. I'll see you all shortly.” She made for the door and her sisters let her go, knowing that she would be waiting for them upstairs.

  In her bedroom, Chastity sat at the dresser, her steepled hands to her mouth as she tried to absorb what had happened. It had been so fast, as if a freak whirlwind had entered her life, turned it upside down, and then swept out again, leaving chaos in its wake. Her eyes looked curiously hollow in the mirror, blank, as if they were no longer reflecting thought or light. She didn't move even when the tap at the door she had been expecting brought her sisters into the room.

  Prudence closed the door behind her. Constance came over to the dresser and put her hands on her baby sister's shoulders. “What happened, Chas?”

  Chastity took a deep, shuddering breath and told them.

  “Oh, God,” Prudence said. “I never thought for one minute, up in the attic, when I used that stupid accent . . . Gideon and I often play around like that . . . since the trial, when I first used it. I'm so sorry, Chas.” She looked worriedly at her sister's reflection in the mirror. “I'm so sorry,” she repeated helplessly.

  “It wasn't your fault, Prue,” Chastity said. “I thought it was over anyway, only . . .”

  “But you love him,” Constance said, with barely a question mark.

  “Yes,” Chastity said flatly. “And now I know that he loves—loved—me. He wouldn't have reacted with such hurt, such pain and disappointment, if it had been only a fling. He would have been angry at the manipulation, yes. And embarrassed at what he'd revealed. But it was much more than that . . . much more.” She propped her elbows on the dresser and buried her face in her palms. “How could I have made such a mess of things?”

  “You didn't make a mess of anything,” Constance declared. “Circumstances got everything muddled.”

  “Quite,” Prue agre
ed. “And what we have to decide now is, what we do to untangle this mess.”

  “Nothing,” Chastity said. “Nothing at all.”

  Chapter 17

  Douglas shoveled more coal onto the miserable fire in the grate at St. Mary Abbot's. It did little to warm the waiting room, with the wind howling outside. He'd seen at least three cases of frostbite that morning, many of his patients coming in with old newspaper and rags wrapped around their bare feet. It was too cold in his office to examine a patient properly. He really needed better premises, but better premises, even if he could find something in this area, drew higher rents.

  He was back to square one, he thought dourly. Actually, it was worse than that. He had come to London with a clear plan of action. A rich wife, a substantial establishment practice, and a thriving clinic in the slums. And now the first two aspects of that plan filled him with acute distaste. He still wanted the last, wanted it with the same passionate fervor and commitment as ever, but he no longer knew how to go about getting it. He had thought he could have a pragmatic marriage, a civilized union that suited the needs of both partners. He had thought he would be happy with that.

  And now he knew that he couldn't possibly settle for anything less than he had glimpsed with Chastity Duncan.

  He realized he was still squatting on his ankles in front of the fire, still holding the empty coal scuttle. He set it down and stood up stiffly. The cold dampness of the room seemed to have seeped into his bones, certainly into his spirit. Perhaps it was time to abandon this plan, leave this city and go home. There at least he could plunge himself into the work of his slum clinic. It was already thriving but there was always more work to be done. It could be expanded into other parts of the city. He could establish other branches.

  But that would be running from failure. And he knew he could not do that. It was not in his nature and never had been. And he wouldn't just be running from failure. He'd be running from Chastity. From the deeply personal failure she represented. He loved her. Still loved her. He was angry with her, but he was angry with himself too. Whenever he thought of that meeting in the Rubens gallery he went cold with embarrassment and self-contempt. He heard his words, so callous and mercenary. The only essential quality in a wife was that she should be rich.

  He had been so annoyed that the supercilious, veiled Go-Between had made no attempt to hide her contempt. He had thought then only that she had no right to pass judgment on a situation of which she knew nothing at all. But it was pure arrogance on his part. He couldn't be bothered to explain himself to someone whose services he required and was prepared to pay for. If he had explained himself, then perhaps she would have explained herself. He thought of the sisters' apparently gratuitous efforts to inform him that there was no family money, and mortification swamped him anew. Could they possibly have thought he was pursuing Chastity for her money? Thought that he had decided she answered his needs for social position and wealth? It didn't bear thinking of.

  He took his greatcoat from a peg by the door, looked back at the fire, hoping it would stay lit for a good few hours in case any poor soul needed a little shelter, however inadequate, on a bitter January day. He blew out the oil lamps, and went out to the freezing street. It was time to assume his other persona. He was expecting a certain Lady Sydney, an obstetric patient who said she had been referred to him by Lord Brigham's sister.

  He had not been to his Harley Street offices for several days. The city was still largely deserted and his patients were thin on the ground, although he expected that to change when the London Season was in full swing. As he turned onto Harley Street, he saw a large, covered dray drawn up outside his building, two massive cart horses tossing their heads, breath steaming in the icy air. Two men appeared from the house, burly men in baize aprons, wrestling with a massive oak desk. His oak desk, Douglas realized in a sort of horrified trance. He watched as they hefted the desk into the back of the dray and then turned to go back inside. Other men appeared, this time carrying leather armchairs, the old cracked leather armchairs from his waiting room. They too went into the back of the dray and the men returned inside.

  Was he being evicted? Of course not, he'd taken a year's lease on the suite. Signed and paid for. He broke into a run. When he reached the dray he stared inside at the contents of his suite piled any which way in the dusty interior. His downstairs neighbor emerged from the door as he turned in bemusement towards it.

  “Afternoon, Farrell.” Dr. Talgarth lifted his pince-nez on the gold chain and peered amiably at Douglas. “Doing a bit of refurbishment? Always good to see the tenants doing improvements. Raises the tone of the building.” He waved a hand in farewell and marched off down the street, his belly leading the way.

  Douglas raced into the hall, dodging a man carrying a large oil painting. A particularly gloomy hunting scene that had hung between the windows in the waiting room. He took the stairs two at a time and burst through the open door to his waiting room. It was warm, a good fire in the grate, the gas lamps lit. And it bore absolutely no relation to the room he had been in two days earlier.

  “Dottore, Dottore, I had hoped to be finished before you arrived.” Laura emerged from his office holding up an ornate gilded lamp with a crimson tasseled shade. “I will just put this here . . .” She set the lamp on a gilded table beside a chintz sofa and turned to him with a triumphant smile. “Is it not beautiful . . . is it not perfection, Dottore?” She gestured expansively at the country tearoom that had once been a doctor's waiting room. “So welcoming . . . so comforting for the sick.”

  Douglas looked around. She had done exactly what she had threatened. The walls were eggshell blue with pale pink moldings. Flower paintings caught the eye at every turn. Chintz and lace at the windows, chintz on chairs and sofas. The carpet beneath his feet was a field of cabbage roses. He blinked, feeling dizzy at the riot of color. In a daze he walked into his office. Brocade, tapestry, more cabbage roses, more lace. An ornate screen concealed the examining table in the corner.

  Laura was behind him. “The screen,” she said. “Such a perfect touch. So charmingly reassuring.”

  Douglas peered at the screen's three gilded panels. They seemed to represent some kind of Roman orgy, or was it the sacrifice of a vestal virgin? He thought of Lady Sydney's imminent arrival and shuddered. He was at a loss, he had no idea what to say. He turned slowly to Laura, his mouth half open as he tried to find words.

  She seized his hands, pumping them vigorously. “I know, Dottore, I know. You don't know what to say . . . but there is no need to say anything. I promised I would do this for you and I always keep my promises. It has been a pleasure, a true pleasure to put my talents to such good use.” She gave him a bridling smile. “You know, perhaps, that Lord Berenger and I are affianced.”

  “Congratulations,” Douglas managed to say. “Um . . .” He looked helplessly around, his hands waving in the air as if they had nothing to do with him. “All this . . .”

  “Not a word, Dottore,” Laura said, seizing his hands again. “Not a word of thanks. It has been my pleasure.” Her smile grew more coy. “And it gave me a little practice . . . a little preparation . . . for refurbishing dear Lord Berenger's house. My next project, of course.”

  “Of course,” Douglas said.

  “Well, I must be on my way.” Laura gathered up a fur stole with a glassy-eyed fox's head that dangled over her shoulder, a handbag, and gloves from one of the chintz sofas. “You'll find the bills on the little table over there, Dottore.” She waved airily in their direction. “You will see how well I negotiated on your behalf.” She moved to the door, pausing for a moment to indicate a gilded palm tree beside the door. “Isn't that the most perfect hat stand? I was delighted when I found it. I knew it would be exactly right.” And she was gone.

  Douglas felt as if he'd been run over by a steam train. He didn't dare look at the bills. Dazed, he took off his overcoat and reached automatically to hang it up on the hat stand, then he stopped, his eyes glazing as
he stared at the palm tree, the coat hanging from his hand. He turned his back on the abomination and went into his office, throwing his overcoat over a chair and slinging his bowler hat onto the windowsill. Desperately, he realized he had a patient coming at any moment. He couldn't think about any of this. He had to exude confidence and control. He was in control. He smoothed down his black suit coat and gray waistcoat and walked back into the waiting room.

  “Dr. Farrell, is there anything—oh, my!” The woman who managed Dr. Talgarth's office downstairs appeared in the open doorway of his office. She stared around. “Oh, my,” she said again, rather faintly.

  “It's only temporary, Miss Gray,” Douglas said, trying to sound confident and in control. He was in control, he told himself again.

  “Yes . . . yes, of course,” she said, her eyes still wide as platters. She cleared her throat. “Is there anything I can get you before your patient arrives?”

  “No, nothing, thank you, Miss Gray. It's good of you to work through your lunch hour.” He offered what he hoped was his usual suave, employer's smile.

  “My neighbor makes Mother a sandwich on a Friday,” the woman said somewhat distractedly, her head still swiveling from side to side like a fascinated marionette. “I always pick up some fish and chips for supper on the way home as a special treat to make up for it.”

  Douglas forced himself to concentrate on the matter at hand. He could hardly redecorate his suite before the arrival of his patient. “I'm very grateful for your help,” he said truthfully. Miss Gray was a real stroke of luck. The practice couldn't support a full-time receptionist, and when Miss Gray had offered to fill in when she wasn't working for Dr. Talgarth he had jumped at the prospect. He guessed she needed the extra money and was probably not that keen to spend the free time afforded by Dr. Talgarth's less than arduous office hours alone with her mother in the small flat they shared on the Bayswater Road. And she was very good at her job.