by Mary Balogh
“A receiving salon,” he said. “My mother supervised the furnishing of the entire house, Clara. If you wish to change anything, then you must do so.”
But she did not live there. It would make no difference to her how it was furnished. Would it? Did he intend that she spend some time living there? Living in London? Being able to attend the theater and some concerts? How wonderful it would be.
“What are you thinking?” he asked. “You do not like it?”
“Very well,” she said. “I am thinking that I am too heavy for you, Freddie.”
“A mere feather,” he said. “Perhaps a feather and a half. You have put on some weight.”
“Spending time outdoors makes me hungry,” she said. “I will have to be careful not to grow fat.”
“You have a long way to go before there is any danger of that,” he said. “You look good.”
The compliment warmed her. Two months ago he would have told her that she looked beautiful and he would have said that he loved her. She would not have been warmed at all. This muted praise sounded far more sincere.
“And your face has some color,” he said.
“I have never felt more healthy,” she said. “Are you sure we should bother Dr. Graham, Freddie? I find it embarrassing to be poked and prodded and pulled.”
“Nevertheless,” he said, leaving the salon and carrying her into a study and library, “you will see him, Clara.”
He was calling her by name, she noticed, looking about her. It was a room of masculine comfort, all wood and leather, it seemed. And very few books.
“A library,” she said, “with almost no books.”
He grinned. “Books are not quite my forte,” he said. “You will have to stock the shelves, Clara. You are the reader, the one with impeccable reading taste.”
But if she was to buy books and have time to read them, she would have to live here for a while.
He showed her a formal dining room before taking her upstairs and setting her down finally on a chair in the drawing room. She looked about her. It was all green and golden.
“We will have a cup of tea,” he said, “before I take you up to your room. You will be ready for a rest.” Harriet did not come downstairs. They sat alone, glancing at each other, looking away again. They talked about the room, about the house, about the quality of the tea they drank and the currant cakes they ate.
“Freddie,” she said at last, raising her eyes resolutely and looking into his, “have you forgiven me?”
“Forgiven?” His eyes were deliberately blank. “There is nothing to forgive, Clara. The truth was spoken between us finally. The truth is always better than falsehood.”
She nodded and looked down into her cup. “You went away,” she said. “I thought you were angry.”
“Our marriage is no different from thousands of others, Clara,” he said. “It was a marriage of convenience for both of us. There need not be hostility just because there is no love. An enforced closeness might lead to hostility, and that would be a pity. We each need room to live our own lives. What we had together was a honeymoon. Honeymoons do not last. We would have been foolish to expect it to and equally foolish to believe that our marriage has failed merely because it did not.”
Calm and sensible words. He did not sound like Freddie the charmer. He had just said exactly what she had thought before her marriage. And since too. Because there is no love. It would be foolish in the extreme to let the words hurt. They were the simple truth. There was no love. They needed room to live their own lives, she at Ebury Court, he in London. Yes, it was what she had expected at the start. If she could have him just occasionally, she had told herself then, she would be content.
Nothing had changed. Had it?
“You do not agree with me?” he asked. “You find me too contemptible even for a marriage of convenience?”
“No.” She looked up at him again. “You are my husband, Freddie. And yes, I agree with you. It is what I expected and wanted of our marriage. I did not need what you seemed to think I needed.”
“Well, then,” he said, setting down his cup and saucer and getting to his feet. There was a note of finality in his voice. “That point is cleared up to our mutual satisfaction. We might as well deal with the remaining point, I suppose. Is it to be a real marriage again on those occasions when we are occupying the same house? Or would you rather not? What is your preference?”
“It is a marriage, Freddie,” she said. “I am your wife.”
He leaned over to pick her up. “Very well, then,” he said. “That is my preference too.”
She leaned her head on the arm that was about his neck and closed her eyes. She was chilled and comforted all at the same time. Their marriage, then, was to be exactly as she had always wanted it to be. There would be times when they would be together, together in every way a husband and wife were meant to be. And there would be times, long dreary stretches of time, when they would be apart. When perhaps they would continue to communicate with each other through brief and impersonal weekly letters.
It would be enough. It would have to be enough.
“Tired?” he asked.
“Mmm, a little,” she admitted, opening her eyes again.
“You must rest for a while, then,” he said, opening a door that led directly into her bedchamber, a cozy room decorated in varying shades of blue. He set her down on the bed, removed her slippers, and doubled the comforter back over her. “I shall leave instructions that you are not to be disturbed for an hour.”
“I will be late for dinner,” she said, smiling at him.
“Dinner can wait,” he said.
She was fond of him, she realized suddenly, reaching up a hand towards him. And she had missed him far more than she had admitted to herself—his company and his concern for her well-being. It was good to be with him again. She hoped it would be for longer than just a day or two. “Thank you, Freddie,” she said.
He raised her hands to his lips, kissed the palm, and closed her fingers over it, a gesture she found strangely touching. He set her arm down at her side and covered her to the chin with the comforter.
“Sleep well, my l—” He smiled ruefully. “Sleep well, Clara.”
He was gone, leaving her smiling as she closed her eyes. And swallowing against an ache in her throat.
Dr. Graham came promptly the following afternoon, far sooner than Frederick had expected of such a prominent physician. Frederick sent word to Lord Archibald Vinney that he would not be able to join him for an afternoon ride, as planned.
Clara was rather upset at having to see the doctor, he knew, though she said very little about it. He supposed it was not easy for a woman of virtue to allow herself to be touched and examined by a male doctor. He kept her company in her private sitting room until the doctor arrived, telling both her and Miss Pope about the sights of London he intended to show them over the coming days. But his wife did not smile much. He guessed that she did not hear a great deal of what he said.
He carried her through to her bedchamber when the doctor’s arrival was announced and left her there, looking tense and unhappy, attended by her companion.
“I’ll be downstairs in the library,” he said before he left, bending over her and grinning. “At least it will not take me a great long time to choose a book.”
She half smiled and turned to look anxiously at Dr. Graham, who was opening his black leather bag on the table beside the bed.
Poor Clara, Frederick thought when he reached the library and seated himself behind the desk without even attempting to choose a book. She had looked as pale as she had ever looked. He was strangely pleased to be back with her again. She was not lovely by any stretch of the imagination. Even with the improvements of a few pounds of extra weight and a slight flush of color in her cheeks she had not been suddenly transformed into a beauty. He had tried to look at her objectively in the last day or so and had seen that. And there was no great vitality in her to mask her lack of beauty. Just
a quiet good sense and a quiet cheerfulness.
He did not know quite why it was good to be with her again. Even being in bed with her the night before had been good, though why it should have been so he did not know either. He compared it rather unwillingly in his mind with some of the more satisfactory of the beddings he had enjoyed during the past two months. The slow, careful lovemakings with Clara should have been far inferior but were not. Perhaps it was, he thought, that with Clara he always made sure that he gave her maximum pleasure, whereas with other women he concentrated more on his own.
Freddie the unselfish giver? He chuckled at the unfamiliar and surely inaccurate image of himself. He was merely trying to assuage his guilt. Please her in bed and perhaps she would forget the great injustice he had done her. He was glad at least that they had had a chance for that private talk the day before and that there was some peace between them again. Everything was thoroughly satisfactory, in fact. They would live apart most of the time but come together for brief amicable interludes. What more could he ask of a marriage?
This particular interlude he would prolong for a while. It pleased him to show his wife something of London. Taking her about would make something of a change from the tedium of the past two months. Though when he thought of it that way, he frowned. Tedium? His chosen way of life? Anyway, he would enjoy driving Clara about, showing her the sights. And he would enjoy sharing her bed again for a short while. One could grow mortally tired of strange rooms and strong perfumes and practiced sexual arts. There was some appeal about virtuous innocence.
He had expected to be summoned back upstairs as soon as the doctor had finished his examination. He was surprised when the physician appeared in the library. He got to his feet and raised his eyebrows.
“Mrs. Sullivan seems not to be a great lover of physicians,” Dr. Graham said. “I had the distinct impression that she wished me in Hades. Most ladies of fashion adore me, especially if I can diagnose some nonfatal ailment and prescribe some impressive sounding medicine.”
“Could you make such a diagnosis for my wife?” Frederick asked.
“Not at all,” the doctor said, taking a seat and accepting the offered drink. Frederick poured water for himself. “I can find no more wrong with her now than I could the last time I saw her. As I said to you the other day, she must be a remarkably strong woman. She appears to have recovered completely from a childhood sickness that would have killed most women or permanently damaged their health. Indeed, it did kill her mother.”
Frederick found himself feeling almost breathless. “And her legs?” he asked. “Is there any possibility that she can walk?”
“Oh, absolutely,” the doctor said. “It will be a long and slow process after so many years. Possibly painful. Definitely frustrating. But in short, Mr. Sullivan, if your wife wishes strongly enough to walk, then there is nothing except her will to stop her.”
“How did she react to that news?” Frederick asked.
The doctor raised his eyebrows. “I told her nothing,” he said. “The decision of what to tell her is yours, sir. Is she to be told that she is of delicate health as her father decided? Or is she to be told that she can fight for normal health if she wishes?”
“The choice is mine?” Frederick said, frowning, his glass of water stranded halfway to his mouth. “Devil take it, man, is it possible that we can have such power over women?”
“In short, yes,” Dr. Graham said. “Danford chose his course and his daughter is as she is as a consequence.”
“Perhaps,” Frederick said, “women should be given more control over their own destiny. Or perhaps at least the woman under my absolute control should. I shall tell my wife exactly what you have told me.”
Dr. Graham drained his glass and got to his feet. “If there were more men like you, Mr. Sullivan,” he said, “perhaps women would find it less fashionable to be of delicate health and perhaps men like me could devote our time and skill to those who are indisputably sick. I do not know of anyone who is an expert at teaching someone who has not walked since childhood to walk again. I am afraid that if your wife decides that she wishes to do so, common sense and determination will have to be her teachers.”
Frederick nodded and showed the doctor on his way. “I appreciate your coming,” he said, “especially to a woman who is in perfect health. I hope I will not have cause to summon you to her ever again.”
The doctor shook his hand and smiled. “Fortunes are not made in that way,” he said.
Frederick grinned back at him.
Clara took a glass of water from Harriet’s hand, her own slightly shaking. “Thank heaven that is over,” she said. “What a strange, silent man. I remember thinking so when he came to Ebury Court and Papa quarreled with him. Will Freddie be satisfied now? I wonder. And I wonder what put such an idea into his head anyway?”
It was the thought that had been circling her brain for a few days. Did he believe her ill just because she could not walk? Did he think perhaps that she faked her crippled state? Her favorite theory that he had wanted to know if she was capable of bearing him an heir could not have been the right one after all. The doctor had made no examination that might have determined that.
Was he ashamed of the fact that she could not walk? she wondered. Was he ashamed to have a crippled wife? But it was a foolish idea. There was nothing in her to inspire pride in her husband anyway. It could make no difference to him that she was unable to walk.
The doctor had said nothing and she had asked nothing. “Do you think there is something wrong with me after all?” she asked Harriet. “I mean, apart from the obvious.”
Harriet clucked her tongue. “Dr. Graham will merely look grave and report to Mr. Sullivan what you already know and draw his fat fee,” she said. “Don’t go making yourself ill over such goings-on, Clara.”
Clara laughed. “What would I do without your common sense?” she said.
But the door opened at that moment and her smile disappeared to be replaced by a look of anxiety. Freddie’s face was very serious.
“You may go down to the drawing room if you wish, Miss Pope,” he said, “and relax for a while. We will join you for tea shortly.”
Harriet left and Clara’s anxiety grew. She watched her husband with wary eyes as he seated himself on the side of the bed and took one of her hands in his.
“What is it?” she asked. “Is something left over from that long illness, Freddie? Is it going to come back? But I have been feeling so well.”
“And no wonder,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Dr. Graham reports that you are in perfect health, Clara.”
“I could have told you that free of charge if you had asked,” she said.
“I mean perfect,” he said, emphasizing the word. “There is a great weakness in your legs, Clara, because you have not used them since childhood. There is no other reason why you cannot walk again.”
Oh, no. She had taught herself a long time ago to give up hope. She had learned to live with her disability, to accept it, to adjust her life to it. She did not need this. Not from Freddie, who knew nothing about her, nothing about her hopes and dreams and the ones she had had to abandon for the sake of her common sense and sanity.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“You can walk again,” he said, possessing himself of her other hand and squeezing both. “It will be a long and slow and difficult process, but it can be done. If you want it.”
“Papa said I was never to exert myself,” she said. “He said I would weaken myself and bring the sickness back if I did. Dr. Graham said those things, Freddie. Why has he changed his mind now?”
He hesitated before answering. “That was a few years ago,” he said. “The doctor has seen since then that your health has improved to the point at which a relapse is not even a realistic danger. You can walk if you really want to do so.”
She closed her eyes. And dance. That was the first absurd thought that leapt to her mind. She had watched her neighbors dancing at t
he assembly a few weeks before and had wished it were possible to step outside her body just for a few minutes and dance too. It must be the most wonderful feeling in the world to dance.
“Don’t cry,” he said softly.
Was she crying? Her eyes were wet when she opened them. “I can’t, Freddie,” she said. “I cannot even move my legs.”
“It will take time,” he said, “and effort.”
“And perhaps all be in vain,” she said. “Is this why you brought me here, Freddie? Is this what you hoped to discover?”
“Yes,” he said.
“But why?” she asked. “What difference does it make to you whether I walk or not?” She listened to herself in some surprise. Why had she not simply said thank you? She should be grateful. Without him she might never have discovered that her condition had changed and improved since her father’s time.
“You are my wife,” he said.
And less than whole? Less than a real person? An affront to his own beauty and strength? Beauty and the beast in reverse? She knew she was being unfair. But she was panicking.
“Is it to salve your conscience?” she asked. “Does it make you feel better to do me a favor that might not turn out to be a favor after all?”
She could have bitten out her tongue. She could hear the echo of her words in the silent room long after they were spoken. Why had she said them? She had not thought them. They seemed to have issued from her mouth without first passing through her brain. Could she do this to him a second time without cause this time?
He got to his feet. “The decision is yours, ma’am,” he said. “The doctor was quite adamant on the fact that only your will can make it happen. Not mine. This is something I cannot command. It is up to you. It is all the same to me. My life will not change either way.”
Well. So he had hurt her back. They were even. Thank you for caring enough to arrange for the doctor to see me, she wanted to say to him. But she could not force the words out.
“Time to go down for tea,” he said, bending over her.
