Dancing with Clara

by Mary Balogh

  She had seen him for the last time. The last time ever.

  The weeks following Clara’s removal to Ebury Court were not good ones for Frederick. His first instinct was to go after her, to make the apology that he so desperately needed to make. To try to explain to her—but explain what? To try to persuade her that he was going to turn over a new leaf? But it was such an easy cliche to mouth. Would he be able to do it? And did he want to commit himself exclusively to Clara? He had grown fond of her, he had grown to value her. But was there that extra something in his feelings for her? Did he want there to be? There was something terrifying about the thought of total commitment.

  He would wait for a while, he decided. He would clean up his life, turn it around, and then try to pick up the threads of his marriage again. There would be no more drinking. That was the easy one. Drinking had never been a real problem for him. It was just something he fell into occasionally when everything else was going bad. He would give it up. And women. Apart from the momentary sensory pleasure that came from coupling, he had never gained any real enjoyment from womanizing since his marriage. He always felt dirty afterward and unpleasantly lethargic. And guilty. He would give up women entirely for a while and then make a rational decision about whether to resume his marriage—if Clara would have him back—or to employ a mistress. But no more promiscuity.

  And gambling. That was the hard one. Playing cards was such good, sociable recreation, and accepting bets and placing money on the betting books were enjoyable activities that he indulged in with friends. Yet it seemed that a fiend sometimes got into him. Once into a game, he could not draw himself out. He did not know when to stop, when to cut his losses or conserve his gains. He did not know how to think cautiously or rationally once the fever of a game was in his blood. The only thing was to give it up altogether.

  He gave up all three of his vices for the day and night his wife left and the day following that. And then, home alone, loneliness gnawed at him and the wretchedness of guilt and self-loathing over what he had done to his life. All in one year. Less. Until the early spring he had been a gay and carefree bachelor about town just like dozens of other men of his acquaintance. It was the life he had lived for years, the life he loved, the life he intended to live until the time came, somewhere in the vaguely distant future, when it would be necessary to settle down and take a wife and begin a family. Life had seemed uncomplicated and very pleasant.

  And then suddenly and without any real warning he was more severely dipped than he had ever been and his desperate efforts to bring himself out of the mess had plunged him farther in. His father had rescued him several times in the past from embarrassing situations. This was far worse than embarrassing. And then had come his uncle’s death and all that ghastly business with Jule. And the terrible deceit of Clara. Suddenly his vices, which had seemed the harmless excesses of youth until very recently—a young man sowing his wild oats—were affecting other people. Hurting other people. Jule. Clara.

  Jule had escaped from him and was happy with Dan. Clara was stuck with him. He remembered suddenly telling her during that ghastly drive in the park that she must wish she could wake up in Bath to find the past few months all a bad dream. She had replied with a simple affirmative.

  Clara. He closed his eyes. Her father had hurt her all his life with a selfish, overprotective love. And now her husband, who did not even have the excuse of love.

  Clara.

  He could not bear to be alone. Too much crowded into his head when he was alone. He needed the company of others. The most obvious place to find that company, of course, was one of his clubs. But then there was always the danger of being drawn into a game if he went there. He would just have to use willpower, he decided, getting up. He could not stay home any longer.

  He did not return home for two days and then he came back only to bath and to sleep and change his clothes. In the coming days and weeks he often forgot even to do those things, but immersed himself in a frantic orgy of carousing, gaming, and doing the rounds of all the more respectable brothels and even one or two of the other type. His companions became lesser acquaintances rather than friends. His way of life became too hectic and too wild and debauched for even his closest friends, like Lord Archibald Vinney, to keep up to him.

  But his pace was not frantic enough for his own peace of mind. Thought kept intruding, insinuating itself into his conscious mind whenever he relaxed his guard over it, and sometimes even when he did not. He could not even keep his own simple resolution to clean up his life, he thought sometimes. Though he could if he really wanted to, he told himself defiantly. He was married, he thought at other times. His wife was in the country, not so very far away. He should write to her. He should instruct her to look after her health, to take the air whenever the winter weather would allow. But who was he to talk about looking after health and taking the air? Who was he to send any instructions to his wife? Instructions she would almost certainly obey. Who was he to demand obedience?

  He hated sleeping. He dreamed of her. He awoke reaching for her, only to find either an empty bed beside him and a foul aching inside his head, or—worse—a naked stranger at his side. He took to instructing the whores he hired not on any account and on pain of his wrath to allow him to sleep.

  He lost count of the days and the weeks. He did not know how many of either had passed between Clara’s leaving and the visit of the Earl and Countess of Beaconswood. They called early one afternoon when by the purest chance he was at home, immersed in a bath of hot suds.

  “Tell them I am not at home,” he told the butler, whose knock his valet had answered. “Tell them I am not expected home,” He ran a hand over a jaw that was rough with three or four days’ growth of beard—he could not remember exactly how many—and closed his eyes, which were stinging with weariness,

  “Yes, sir,” the butler said, and his valet made to close the door.

  “Wait,” Frederick said. Lord, he should have called on his aunt weeks ago. Doubtless more of the family would be arriving soon, or had already done so, for that infernal wedding that was coming up—how soon? Lord, he had made a mess of this. He had made a mess of everything. “Put them in the drawing room if they want to wait half an hour or so until I am decent.”

  “Yes, sir,” the butler said.

  A charming picture he would make for guests. Frederick thought ten minutes later, standing naked in front of a looking glass before reaching for his clothes. Hair that must have needed cutting two or three weeks ago, face as pale as his wife’s had used to look, eyes that were ringed with dark shadows and that were most attractively bloodshot. Even his shave, which came next, would not be able to improve the picture a great deal. He looked as if he needed to sleep without interruption for a week or so. He looked thoroughly dissipated, in fact.

  Sometimes, he thought wryly, turning away from the rather painful contemplation of his own image, looks did not lie.

  It did not seem quite the occasion on which to make small talk about the weather, but that was what Frederick did after greeting his guests with a heartiness that made him wince inwardly and wish that he could make a second entrance. And they responded in kind. The weather was indeed chilly, the Early of Beaconswood agreed. But most invigorating, the countess added. Lovely for walking.

  “Freddie,” she said finally, sounding rather as if she were fit to burst, the first of them to admit that the reason for this call was not purely or even in any way social. “Freddie, I cannot stand this any longer. I told Daniel so, and he agreed with me and offered to bring me here. This will just not do. It is unbearable.”

  Frederick, who had seated his guests and then himself before beginning to talk about the weather, got to his feet and crossed to the window. He stood with his back to the room.

  “I think we are even, Jule,” he said. “I didn’t think much worse than what I did to you could be done. But it could. I can understand your need for revenge. I can even concede the point that I needed more punishment
than was meted out at the time. One poke on the chin from Dan was hardly a just chastisement. But at least your revenge could have been directed fully at me. Not at an innocent who had already done more suffering in her life than anyone should be asked to endure. You have told me that you can never forgive me, Jule. Well, I am compelled to return the favor. I can’t forgive you for hurting Clara. So we are even, and I would ask you to leave.”

  “Freddie!” She sounded like the old Jule, indignant and ready to fight. “What on earth are you talking about? What is he talking about, Daniel? But of course, I know the answer. Clara made it clear when we went to Ebury Court a few days ago. You think I told her everything, don’t you, Freddie? You really think I am capable of doing such a thing. You must be mad. If I wanted revenge on you, I would come and punch you in the nose. You must know that has always been my way.”

  Spite had never been Jule’s way. He had not thought of that before. “She said you had told her everything that had happened at Primrose Park.” he said.

  “She believed that I had,” the countess said, exasperated. “Camilla and I knew that she had sensed a certain atmosphere between us at the theater, Freddie. We liked her and wanted to make her our friend. We did not want her hurt. So we came here to tell her that you had offered for me out of gallantry after Grandpapa’s death, because you thought me destitute. We told her that you were embarrassed when I married Daniel instead and that was why you rushed away to Bath and found it awkward to meet me again. That is all we told her, Freddie.”

  Frederick leaned forward so that his forehead was resting against the cool glass of the window. He closed his eyes.

  “A partial truth can sometimes be as bad as a lie,” the earl said. “I wish Camilla and Julia had discussed it with me first, Freddie, but then it is always easy to know after the event what should have been said or done. They thought they were acting for the best. They did not intend for it to lead to a misunderstanding between you and your wife.”

  Clara. He had lashed out at her in the park in an orgy of self-loathing turned against her.

  “I knew something must have gone wrong when Clara went into the country so soon after our visit,” the countess said, “when she had said she would be calling on Daniel’s mama. We went out there to see her a few days ago, Freddie.”

  A thousand questions crowded into the forefront of his mind. How was she? How happy was she? How miserable? He kept his eyes closed.

  “She realizes that she does not know everything,” the countess said. “We did not add to the story at all, except to assure her yet again that you did not love me. I know that has always been her greatest fear.”

  Lord. Oh, good Lord, why did they not just go away?

  “She is looking well, Freddie,” the earl added quietly.

  That was something at least. He had not destroyed her, then. And yet even now there was a horrifying selfishness, almost as if there would have been some satisfaction in hearing that she was thin and pale and desperate with unhappiness.

  “Freddie.” The countess touched his arm. “Forgive me for being the cause of misunderstanding.”

  Frederick laughed and kept his forehead where it was and his eyes shut. “You apologizing to me, Jule?” he said.

  “Yes,” she said, “and offering forgiveness. I think you need it, Freddie. I forgive you for everything. Of course I do. You were not vicious enough to carry through with your plan, anyway. You were taking me back home, if you will remember, when Daniel and Camilla and Malcolm caught up to us. No real harm was done, and you were probably a means of bringing Daniel and me together sooner than it would otherwise have happened. I forgave you as soon as my temper had cooled and would have told you so, you idiot, if you had not run away so ignominiously. I have never known you to run away from having to face the music, Freddie. I only said a few weeks ago, that I could never forgive you because of your marrying Clara. But that is really none of my business, as Daniel has been at pains to point out to me.”

  He swallowed. Twice, Lord, he wished they would go away. He was going to disgrace himself if they did not.

  “It was just another foolish escapade at Primrose Park,” the countess said. “Heaven knows there have been enough of them over the years, Freddie. Let’s forget about it. Let’s be friends again. Oh, you silly idiot, how can we not be when we have been friends forever?”

  “I think we had better leave, Julia,” the earl said. “We will call again, Freddie. Better still, come and see Mama. She is wondering what is going on. And Aunt Roberta and Uncle Henry have arrived with Stella to give Malcolm some support with the wedding getting closer. Come on, my love.”

  But Frederick turned sharply suddenly and grabbed her before she could take a step away from him. He wrapped his arms tightly about her and buried his face against the hair at the top of her head.

  “Silly idiot!” she said against his neckcloth after several silent moments. “Oh, Freddie, you are so foolish. I could kill you.”

  “Keep up the words of endearment,” he said a little unsteadily, “and Dan will do it for you, Jule.”

  “You had better not hug me much harder,” she said. “There is a four-month baby squashed between us, Freddie. Aren’t we clever, Daniel and I? Is he blushing? Are you?” She turned up a laughing face to peer into his. “You had better congratulate us.”

  He kissed her forehead. “Congratulations, Jule,” he said. “I always knew you were a clever girl. Congratulations, Dan.” He looked up to find his cousin standing close by, regarding him gravely and extending his right hand. Frederick took it in a firm clasp, keeping one arm about the countess’s shoulders.

  “You look dreadful, Freddie,” she said. “When did you last sleep? I suppose you have been—”

  “Hush, love,” the earl said. “Freddie, we are on our way. Call on Mama, will you? And on the rest of the family? I am head of the family, after all, and I don’t want any rifts. Bring Clara to the wedding?”

  “I’ll have to see,” he said.

  “Bring her,” the countess said. She laughed and kissed his cheek before taking her husband’s arm. “You heard Daniel. It was an order. I tremble in my shoes whenever he directs one at me.”

  The two men exchanged grins.

  “For the record, Jule,” Frederick said when they had already taken their leave and were on their way out the door, “I love her, you know.”

  “Idiot!” she said, smiling back over her shoulder at him. “I don’t need to be told that. You have been telling me so in everything but words since we arrived here, Freddie.”

  God help him, he thought, despair washing over him and obliterating all the ease of mind their forgiveness had brought—God help him, it was true.

  Chapter 16

  Frederick gave himself two days in which to recover enough to look human again before taking himself off to pay a call on his Aunt Sarah, Viscountess Yorke, the earl’s mother. He called too on Malcolm’s parents. Aunt Sylvia and Uncle Paul were due to arrive any day with Gussie and Viola, and his own parents wrote to say they would be returning to town within the week, bringing Aunt Millie with them. The clan was gathering as surely as they had gathered every summer at Primrose Park for as long as Frederick could remember.

  Everyone, of course, showed a great interest in his wife and wondered when they were to meet her. Was dear Freddie waiting until the very last moment to bring her up to town for the wedding, provoking boy? His wife was more comfortable in the country, he explained, due to her crippled state. He hoped he could persuade her to come to town for the wedding, of course, but he could not be sure she would agree. She was somewhat shy. That last lie was spoken within earshot of the earl and countess and made him feel uncomfortable and ashamed.

  His father was certainly going to want an explanation if Clara did not come, Frederick thought. And he was conscious of a familiar sinking of the heart as he thought so. His heart did nothing but sink these days. It was amazing that it had any further descent to make. His father would be
disappointed in him—again. He had failed yet again to prove that he had grown up, that he could settle to a worthy life, that he could take a man’s responsibilities.

  He had failed. Oh, it was true that he could now put behind him the episode with Jule. Forgiveness could do wonders to lift heavy burdens from the conscience, he had discovered. But what had happened with her was after all just a minor sin in comparison with what he had done to Clara. He had failed with his marriage. Failed miserably. He had done irreparable harm to someone who had come to mean more to him than anyone else in his life, himself included.

  It was his overwhelming sense of failure that sent him to a private party one evening, knowing very well that it was to be a card party and that the play was to be deep. There was really no point in avoiding it, he thought. If he missed this one, he would go to the next one or the next one after that. He just did not have the willpower to change his way of life. Or the sense of purpose. Perhaps that was what was missing. There seemed no particular point to anything.

  He would try at least to impose some control over himself, he decided. He would limit his losses. Once he had lost a certain sum, then he would go home. Not that he could afford to lose anything. He had lost an appalling amount since his marriage. If he was not very careful, he was going to be in dun territory again before long and would have to be begging from his father or from Clara—though he would rather die than beg from either—or facing the possibility of debtors’ prison again.

  It was rather ironic, he thought as the evening progressed, that he had not set any limits on the winnings he would allow himself to earn before going home. It was one of those charmed evenings. He felt it from the first. He could do no wrong. Even if he had tried to lose, he would not have been able to do so. Or so it almost seemed. He was not drinking. He could enjoy his triumph to the full.