by Mary Balogh
“How is it to be done, Harriet?” she asked. “To know that it can be done is one thing. To know how it can be done is another. If I cannot just get up and walk, what am I to do?”
Harriet sat down, clasped her hands in her lap, and thought. “Exercises,” she said after a while. “We will have to devise exercises for each part of your legs and feet to strengthen them and teach them to move. That will have to be accomplished before you try putting any weight on them. Starting with your toes, I think. And then your ankles and then your knees.”
“It sounds like a long, long process,” Clara said. “Toes by the time I am thirty, ankles by forty, knees by fifty, stand by sixty, walk by seventy. Dance on my eightieth birthday.”
She laughed without humor at first until Harriet joined her. Suddenly, they were both rocking with uncontrolled mirth.
“At least,” Harriet said, “we can see the funny side.”
“Oh, dear,” Clara said, wiping the tears from her eyes with a handkerchief, “is there a funny side, Harriet? Do you suppose I should start with the toes now? Two hours a day? Instead of embroidery?”
They were laughing again when a tap sounded at the door and Frederick opened it. Clara sobered instantly. It seemed that her reaction to his words the afternoon before had amounted to a quarrel. He had left with Lord Archibald after tea and had not returned for dinner, though she had had it held back half an hour. Nor had he returned all night. She had lain awake until almost dawn but had not heard either his footsteps or the click of his bedchamber door. She had lain awake wanting him and imagining all the places he might be and despising herself as a jealous wife. She had never expected him to be either a devoted or a faithful husband. She had tried to imagine what the woman looked like, what type of woman he most favored. She had wondered if it was a casual encounter or if she was a mistress of long standing. Perhaps there was a home and a woman and family of his somewhere in town.
“You are both sounding very merry,” he said, bowing to each of them. “How would you like to see Westminster Abbey and perhaps St. Paul’s too today?”
If he had come from a night of debauchery, Clara thought, it did not show. As usual, he was dressed with impeccable good taste and looked quite impossibly handsome. She would accept their relationship for what it was, she decided, as she had always intended. When he was not there, she would live her own life and make the most of it. Perhaps she would even learn to walk.
“That would be wonderful, Freddie,” she said, smiling at him.
“I shall stay here,” Harriet said. “I shall be quite happy.”
“I don’t believe Lord Archibald Vinney would enjoy an afternoon spent with me and my wife,” Frederick said. “You must come to make up numbers, Miss Pope, if you will.”
Harriet blushed deeply, Clara noticed with interest and some alarm. She would hate to see her friend get hurt. Although she was a gentlewoman, Harriet was impoverished and her family was of no great social significance. She had only beauty and good nature and practicality to recommend her to the heir to a dukedom. Especially one as suave and worldly as Lord Archibald Vinney appeared to be.
“Very well, then, sir,” Harriet said quietly. “Thank you.”
They were to have an early luncheon and then be on their way. The sun was shining, Clara saw, looking toward the window. It was a lovely day, though probably chilly. She loved the crisp air of autumn, something she had scarcely experienced before since she had never been allowed out in it. She hoped they would be taking an open carriage to Westminster Abbey.
“I feel as excited as a child,” she said to Harriet after Frederick had left the room. “Is that not foolish in the extreme?”
“I would be jumping up and down if it were not quite undignified to do so,” Harriet said.
“Shall we dance?” Clara said. And they both dissolved into laughter again.
A pair of children, Clara thought, starved of treats and now having a plum dangled before their eyes and mouths.
Chapter 11
Westminster Abbey and Gunter’s that first afternoon, St. Paul’s, another day, the Tower on a third, visits to Madame Tussaud’s and to various galleries, several drives in Hyde Park, though it was nowhere near as busy as it always was during the spring—there always seemed to be somewhere to go. Occasionally they went alone. Often Harriet accompanied them. Sometimes Lord Archibald joined them.
His wife and Miss Pope were enjoying it all with such undisguised wonder, Frederick found, that he had not the heart to cut short their visit. Besides, he enjoyed it all too, his jaded eyes seeing the nation’s capital with fresh vision.
He always ordered around an open barouche instead of a closed carriage unless it was actually raining, even though the weather had turned cold and crisp. He did not know how his companions felt about this spartan treatment. None of them complained. Archie seemed even to enjoy it.
“Have you noticed, Freddie,” he asked one day when they were alone together, “how roses in female cheeks can rouse fires in a quite different part of the male anatomy?”
Archie was talking about Miss Pope, of course. But Frederick liked to see the flush of bright color in his wife’s cheeks and even on her nose, and the sparkle in her eyes.
He had decided to take his marriage as it came, a day at a time, not looking for too much, not rejecting what little there was. At present they seemed reasonably and cautiously contented with their life together. He had not said anything more to her about walking, and she had not referred to it either. It would be left at that. He had explained matters to her and told her that the choice was hers. He would now respect her decision. Or lack thereof. He was a little disappointed to find that she was not of such strong character as he had thought. But then, of course, he could not put himself in her place. He could not quite imagine what it must be like.
He spent time with her and took her about. He spent some nights with her. Not every night. Sometimes he was not at home. And some days he kept to himself. He was exercising and sparring at Jackson’s Boxing Saloon. He was enjoying male company at his clubs. He was gambling, alternately winning and losing, salving his conscience when he won by telling himself that there was no harm in it, mortally depressed when he lost, always convincing himself that he could give it up entirely whenever he wished, just as he had given up women and drinking. Clara was the only woman he was currently bedding.
He had never taken her out in the evening. He had made no effort to introduce her to society. But then the autumn was not a good time in which to do that. However, the season was growing late and more and more people were coming back to town. Evening activities were resuming.
“Would you like to go to the theater one evening?” he asked his wife early one morning after he had finished making love to her and they were lying close together, drowsy but still awake.
“Oh, Freddie.” She turned her head and even in the near darkness of the room he could see the glow in her eyes. “Could we? Could we really? Papa would never allow me out in the evenings, though I did go out a few times at Ebury Court after you left while the weather was still quite warm. Papa was afraid of the chill night air.”
“We will wrap you up warm,” he said, “so that the chills will not be able to find you.”
“The theater!” she said. “Is it very wonderful, Freddie? Oh, it must be.” Her tone changed suddenly. “But I have nothing to wear. Only the dresses I wear at home in the evenings.”
“An easily solved problem,” he said. I shall have a modiste summoned to the house tomorrow. You must have a whole range of new clothes made, Clara. Now that winter is coming on and everyone is returning to town, there will be evening entertainments for us to attend.”
There was a short silence. “I am to stay for a while, then?” she asked.
Was she? He had intended to keep her with him for only a week or two before taking her back home and resuming a life of greater freedom. More than two weeks had passed already.
“We will see how things go
,” he said, “shall we?”
She nodded and nestled her cheek against his shoulder, and he settled for sleep. But she spoke again.
“Freddie,” she whispered, “when will we go to the theater? Soon?”
He turned onto his side, wriggled an arm beneath her neck so that her head could lie on his shoulder, and kissed her mouth. “Soon,” he said. “Or sooner. Satisfied?”
She chuckled. “As long as there is time for my dress to be made,” she said. “How am I supposed to sleep now?”
“By closing your eyes and relaxing,” he said. Good Lord, she was excited. Too excited to sleep. All because he had suggested taking her to the theater. He felt curiously like crying. He turned her onto her side, drew her against him, rubbed a soothing hand up and down her back, and kissed her warmly again.
She sighed, almost a purr of sound.
She could clench her toes. “Which is a dreadful whopper,” she told Harriet, “when I compare it with clenching my fist. There is no power in my toes.” With a great deal of concentrated effort she could move each foot from side to side. “Almost enough for the human eye to detect,” she said. She could even lift her foot an inch or so toward her leg, though the movement could hardly be called flexing the foot. Her knees would not obey her will at all.
“Did I say toes by the age of thirty?” she said to Harriet one morning, falling back against the pillows of her bed in a show of exhaustion that was only partly faked. “I believe I was overoptimistic. This will never do, Harriet. How can I hope ever to walk?”
“Perhaps if I massage your legs the blood will flow more vigorously and help them grow stronger,” Harriet said. “I used to massage Mama’s shoulders and back. She suffers from the rheumatics. She always said I have powerful hands.”
They were indeed powerful, rubbing and massaging with a firmness that was both painful and soothing.
“Ouch!” Clara said, wishing at one point that she could jerk her leg away from Harriet’s hands. “At least we know there is feeling there, Harriet. What an unpleasant task for you. Ugh, my legs are like sticks. How can I ever think of walking on them?”
The words struck them both as funny and they were off into gusts of laughter again. They had been doing a great deal of laughing, even giggling, since Clara had begun her “exercises.” Laughter was better than acknowledging pain and frustration and even despair, Clara had decided. And perhaps Harriet found it better than giving in to the pity she must be feeling.
Clara did her crying alone. Far too much of it for her own self-respect. She cried particularly during the nights when Freddie did not come home. Despicable tears of self-pity. For as long as she had thought she could never walk again, she had accepted her crippled state with a studied cheerfulness. Now she knew there was a chance, she was in despair. Progress was so very slow as to be almost nonexistent. It would never happen. No matter how hard she tried, it would not happen. And in the meantime there was effort, concentrated, bone-wearying effort for infinitesimal results. And pain.
She had not told Freddie. She was working in secret. If she failed, then he would never know that she had even tried. If she succeeded—but sometimes she thought she would never succeed—well, then, she would surprise him. She had a pleasant dream of herself walking into the library one day while he was busy at the desk at some task. She would watch his jaw drop to his chest and then hear the crash of his chair as he rose hastily and came around the desk to clasp her in his arms.
What a ridiculous dream, she thought, sniffing and drying her eyes and trying to laugh aloud at herself. As if it would matter that much to Freddie. Even if she could walk, she would still be thin and ugly. She hated her ugliness. She wanted beauty. Only the moon and stars, that was all. She would be content to leave the sun where it was. She blew her nose.
No, she would not. She wanted the sun too. And she saw something in a blinding flash, just as if she were looking into the heart of the sun. Oh, dear God, she thought. Oh, God. Oh, God. But she could repeat the phrase to kingdom come and not mask the other thought, which did not need the medium of words. She wanted his love too. All of it. Why? Because she loved him, of course. Foolish, stupid, ridiculous woman.
It was a truth not to be dwelled upon. He had not come home again on that particular night. He would be with her again. If there were one “her,” that was, and not a different one each time. Either way, he was with her rather than with his wife. She wondered, not even trying to shake the thought from her mind as she usually did, what they were doing. Sleeping? Or . . .
No, she would not tell him that she was trying to learn to walk. If she succeeded, then she would have greater freedom to make a life for herself independent of a faithless husband. Whom she just happened to love. It was an incidental point, not relevant to anything.
The sun would grow rather too bright on the eyes if one possessed it, anyway. It was as well to be philosophical about these things.
Sometimes she and Harriet talked about London, about what they had seen and what there was still to see. They could talk endlessly and with mutual enjoyment on the topic.
“Freddie is going to take us to the theater soon,” Clara said the morning after he had told her so, while Harriet was massaging her legs.
Harriet looked up, the sort of longing in her eyes that must have been in her own much earlier that morning, Clara thought. “The two of you?” she said. “How wonderful for you, Clara. You must tell me all about it afterward.”
“No, silly goose,” Clara said. “I said ‘us,’ did I not? He is going to invite Lord Archibald too.”
“Oh, Clara.” Harriet’s hands had stilled. “It would be altogether too wonderful. But I have nothing to wear.”
Clara laughed. “That was my objection too,” she said. “Freddie is sending a modiste here this afternoon, before our drive. He wants me to have several dresses made. You are going to be measured for one too.” She held up a staying hand when her friend would have interrupted her. “As a thank-you for all the help you have been giving me for the last couple of weeks, Harriet. No, don’t say no. It will give me such pleasure.”
“Thank you,” Harriet said softly, looking down sharply to resume her task, but not soon enough to hide the fact that tears were glistening in her eyes.
“Do you like Lord Archibald?” Clara asked. They had not spoken about him before, though he had been quite attentive.
“He likes to laugh at me,” Harriet said. “He likes to make me blush. He treats me like an amusing child.”
“Hardly that,” Clara said, frowning. “Has he made any improper advances, Harriet?”
“Of course not.” Harriet looked up, startled. “Do you think I would allow it?”
“No,” Clara said. “But I think he is a dangerous man. He is used to getting his own way, I would guess. I believe he fancies you.”
Harriet blushed. “How foolish,” she said.
“You are very sensible,” Clara said. “Far more so than I am, Harriet. But I cannot resist one word of maternal advice. Be careful. Will you?”
“I am not sure about being sensible,” Harriet said, “but I am a realist. I know that to Lord Archibald Vinney I am merely an amusing interlude. Now, if I take your foot in my hand and flex it forward, do you think you can push it back against my hand? Perhaps we should try it that way first since you are not making great progress at flexing it yourself. Shall we try?”
Clara sighed. “Slave driver,” she said. “Yes, let’s try it, then.”
She fortified her spirits with thoughts of theaters and new evening gowns that would transform her into a beauty as she exerted every ounce of strength and willpower over the coming half hour.
The theater was unexpectedly crowded for the time of year. It seemed almost full when Frederick carried his wife into Lord Archibald’s private box and looked about him before lowering her into a chair. A large number of quizzing glasses and lorgnettes were undoubtedly trained their way. Perhaps many people had not heard either that he was mar
ried or that his wife was unable to walk, he thought.
He smiled reassuringly at her as he set her down. Her new blue gown really became her well, as he had told her earlier in her dressing room, when he had given her the gold chain with its sapphire pendant that she now wore about her neck—bought with his winnings of two nights previous. But she did not need reassurance, he saw. Like Miss Pope, she was gazing about her with wonder and awe, quite unaware of the fact that she was drawing a great deal of attention.
“There will be a play to watch too, you know,” he said, settling himself beside her and grinning at her. “Save some of your admiration for that, Clara.”
She laughed. “I am enjoying every single moment of the evening as it happens,” she said. “Don’t make fun of me and make me feel like a little child.”
He took her hand in his and squeezed it—and kept it in his. That feeling was creeping up on him again, the one that had so surprised him at the end of his honeymoon just before their first quarrel. The feeling that it would be altogether possible to fall in love with her. He liked to please her. He was always catching himself in the act of thinking up new ways of doing so. He liked making her happy.
“Happy?” he asked.
“Silly,” she said. “How could anyone be here and be anything but happy, Freddie? Go ahead, laugh at me.”
He laughed. Archie, he could see, was saying something to make Miss Pope blush. There was nothing particularly unusual about that. Archie had asked him if he could possibly delay carrying Clara out to the carriage after the play was over until everyone else had left.
“And leave you alone with Miss Pope?” Frederick had said. “Forget it, Archie.”
“For maybe ten minutes,” Lord Archibald had said. “Sometimes I can make haste and thereby deny myself a great deal of pleasure, Freddie, my boy, but I don’t believe even a marginally satisfying ravishment could be accomplished in ten minutes, could it? It would seem hardly worth the expenditure of energy. I merely want to talk to my little blushing beauty.”
