by Mary Balogh
How long should he play? he wondered with an inward chuckle when he guessed that he must have won back everything he had lost since his marriage. Until his luck turned, as it inevitably must? What had come easily would go even more easily, he knew. And yet the compulsion to continue when he was winning was every bit as strong as that he always felt when he was losing. One more hand, he always thought, to see if his run of luck was still with him. If it was not, then he would stop. Or if he was losing, he would tell himself one more hand to see if his luck had changed. If it did, then he would play another hand again. Either way, he was always staring into a bottomless pit, or into a whirlpool that forever sucked him inexorably inward to its vortex.
Word of his extreme good fortune had spread about the two rooms in use, with the result that a silent throng gathered about his table. He wanted to laugh with exultation, but it was bad form to show any sort of emotion at all at the tables. He sat outwardly impassive. Everyone gathered to witness his luck.
And then Lord Archibald Vinney touched him on the shoulder. An impersonal touch with no pressure and no accompanying words. Yet a message passed. And the scales fell from Frederick’s eyes. The gathering was not there to witness his good fortune. Did crowds ever gather to share in someone's happiness? Always the reverse was true. They were not there to witness his winnings but to witness Hancock’s losses.
Sir Peter Hancock, young, handsome, and rash, was about to be stripped of his moderate fortune. No, there was nothing future about it. He had already been divested of his fortune and was playing on vouchers, on expectations of future winnings. Another candidate for debtors’ prison. A man whose father had died two years before, leaving him with a mother and three younger sisters to care for. A responsibility too heavy for his young shoulders.
Frederick glanced at his opponent’s bet, looked down at his unbeatable hand, bet everything he had on it, felt the almost silent sigh of sympathy for poor Hancock, looked at the man’s inferior hand when he laid it down on the table, and tossed his own cards into the pack facedown, rising with an exclamation of disgust.
“Your win, Hancock,” he said with a yawn as the spectators looked on, stunned, and his adversary gazed at him as if a noose was being lifted from his neck. “I’ll see you downstairs now before I leave, my dear fellow.” Sir Peter Hancock was looking dazed with victory when Frederick led him into a salon downstairs, a room he had found by the simple expedient of opening a few closed doors. It was a reception room, with the chairs arranged about the walls. There was a great deal of empty space in the center of the room.
“How many women depend upon you, Hancock?” Frederick asked. He had not heard of any of the sisters marrying.
“Four,” Hancock replied. “Mother and three sisters.”
“Only you stand between them and destitution?” Frederick asked.
Hancock shrugged. “That was bad luck, Sullivan,” he said. “Betting all your winnings on one hand, I mean. Good luck for me, of course.”
The last word had scarcely left his mouth before he hit the floor, hardly realizing for a moment as he stared up at the ceiling that it was a fist that had put him there. Frederick leaned over him, grabbed him by the collar of his coat, and hoisted him to his feet.
“You and I are two peas in a pod, Hancock,” he said through his teeth. “Perhaps I can punish myself by pounding your face to pulp. Perhaps you can teach yourself a lesson by skinning your knuckles against my person. Now get those fists up because by God, when I fight, I expect to have a worthy opponent.”
Hancock, furious with the humiliation that had already been dealt out to him, put up his fists and they fought fiercely, doggedly, and almost silently for long minutes.
Hancock lay on the floor eventually, not unconscious, but winded and bruised and defeated. He held up a hand as Frederick loomed menacingly over him, fists still clenched, waiting for him to get up and put up his defenses again. Frederick reached down a hand and helped him to his feet.
“You are handy with your fives,” he said, straightening his clothes, touching his fingertips gingerly to one sore cheek. “Why have I never seen you at Jackson’s, Hancock?”
Sir Peter chuckled. “I promised my mother two years ago that I would never engage in anything rough or dangerous,” he said. “Poor mother. She never did know what promises to extract. She always thought more of my safety than of her own. You are lucky, Sullivan. If I had been in practice, you would be watching stars whirling about your head from a position on the carpet by now. What was the hand you threw in, by the way?”
“Nothing at all,” Frederick said. “A mere bluff in the hope that you were bluffing even more recklessly. Are you walking my way?”
Sir Peter nodded, made some adjustments to his clothing, and left the house with Frederick.
“I call it my devil within,” he said. “Fortunately, it has never run up against an opponent on such an incredible run of raw luck—until tonight. I wonder how long the streak would have lasted.”
“It ran out in rather a spectacular manner,” Frederick said. “It was most enjoyable while it lasted. The devil within, eh? Yes, an apt description. One’s only hope, perhaps, is to replace it with an angel.”
“An angel within.” Hancock laughed. “Female, I presume?”
Except that he had spurned his angel, Frederick thought, and hurt her and wronged her in the process. And he had not even had the decency or the courtesy to face her or to apologize to her. Or to try to set her free. Angels should be free to fly.
* * *
Harriet was out riding. Clara was sitting before the fire in her sitting room, not reading or embroidering. It was the sleepy time of the afternoon, and yet she did not feel like ringing the bell so that she could be carried in to her bed either. She sat and gazed into the flames, one hand spread over her abdomen as it so often was these days, a faraway look in her eyes.
She had had a vigorous session with Robin, as she had every day. Her legs were feeling strong and muscled. Deceptively so. For the second time that morning he had drawn her to her feet, one strong arm so tightly about her that he had in fact been supporting all her weight. She must not try it alone for a while yet, he had warned. Perhaps for a week or two. He did not want her falling and discouraging herself.
But it had felt wonderful beyond description. To be upright. To feel her feet on the floor, her ankles supporting her legs and her knees too, to feel her legs supporting her body. It felt wonderful even though she knew they were still very weak.
“I want to dance for Christmas, Robin,” she had said. “Will you dance with me?”
“A Highland fling, Mrs. Sullivan?” he had said. “It is the only dance I know.”
They had chuckled together. Robin was not much given to joking or to laughing. But Clara guessed that teaching her to walk and seeing her close to a minimal success at least was giving Robin too a sense of achievement. Giving up his life’s dream of becoming a prizefighter must have been hard on him. Doubtless he was looking forward to being able to leave her employment. It must be dull at best.
Clara smiled into the fire. She would not be greedy. Just to be able to walk would be wonderful. To be able to move from room to room without having to call for assistance. To be able to stroll out on the terrace. To be able to walk to the summerhouse. Ah, the summerhouse. And to be able to ride a horse the length of the park. But she would not be greedy.
She did not know that she had slept. And yet there was a feeling suddenly of not being alone and she turned her head slowly to find that the door to her room was open and he was standing in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame. And then she was not sure that she was awake. He had come to her silently, as he came often in her dreams. She flexed her fingers, found them still spread over her abdomen. She smiled slowly.
“I have come to set you free,” he said.
They were strange words, the sort of words one heard in dreams. But she knew now that she was awake, that he was really there standing in
her doorway. That he had come home.
“Hello, Freddie,” she said.
“Unfortunately, it cannot be done literally,” he said. “You are bound to me for life. But I will do the next best thing. I am going to take you to London with me for Camilla and Malcolm’s wedding. You will meet my family, every last one of them. They are warm people, Clara. They will be a family for you. They will take you to their collective bosom for the rest of your life and never let you go. You will not need to be lonely again. After the wedding I will take myself off to America or perhaps to Canada. You will not need to see me ever again.”
“You can’t do that, Freddie,” she said, still smiling at him, though there was sadness in her eyes. “I am going to have a baby. The two of us are going to need you.”
If she had ever visualized herself telling him, it had never been quite as baldly as she was doing it in actuality. She watched him, her head against the back of the chair, where it must have fallen when she fell sleep. He did not move. But he was biting on his upper lip and his eyes filling with tears. And then he jerked his head back to look up at the ceiling, and he was crying in noisy, awkward gulps.
“Oh, Lord, Clara,” he said when he could, “what have I done to you? I am so sorry. I am so very sorry.”
“For what?” she asked him softly, her heart aching for him. “For making a child with me, Freddie? I am going to swell with child and give birth. I am going to hold my own son or daughter to my breast. Even just a few months ago it would have seemed such an impossibility and now it is reality. You have filled me with contentment. Don’t be sorry.”
“How can I be a father to a child?” he asked. “I have nothing to offer. There is nothing in me for a child to look up to. It will be better if I am not here, Clara. Better if I go away as planned.”
“Freddie.” She stretched out a hand to him, though she did not expect him to take it. “Tell me about your pain. When I met you in Bath, you were vibrant with life and charm. And with roguery too. I did not feel then that you hated yourself. That has grown since. Tell me what happened at Primrose Park.”
He laughed and folded his arms. “Why not?” he said. “You might as well know it all. You will be buying my passage to America yourself before you know it, Clara. My uncle’s will left Primrose Park to whichever of his five nephews could win Jule’s hand. Primrose Park is a prosperous estate.”
“Ah,” she said quietly.
“I used all the charm I could muster to win her,” he said. “But of course Jule knows me too well, and besides she was falling in love with Dan without realizing it. And he with her. When I finally realized that Jule was not going to marry me, I abducted her.”
She looked at him, waiting for him to finish the story.
“I took her to Gloucester,” he said, “tricking her into getting into my carriage alone with me. I thought just the fact that a day’s outing would compromise her reputation would be enough to win her consent, but of course Jule is made of sterner stuff. The ultimate plan was to keep her away from home for a night and give her no choice. Though there would still have been choice with Jule. I was going to rape her.”
Clara swallowed. “Daniel caught up to you in time?” she asked.
“Only because we were heading back toward home,” he said. “I could not go through with it, you see. A villain without backbone.”
“A would-be villain with a heart and a conscience,” she said.
He laughed again.
“If you had no conscience you would not be suffering, Freddie,” she said.
“So then I dashed off to Bath, suitably chastened,” he said, “sought out the rich unmarried women, narrowed the choice down to you, and laid determined siege to your heart and hand with my charm again, Clara. A man of heart and conscience, indeed.”
“You did not deceive me, as I have told you before,” she said. “I married you because I wanted to, Freddie. I did not marry for love any more than you did. I did not love you when I married you.”
“It is as well,” he said. “You would have discovered your mistake soon enough.”
“Love grew later,” she said. “During the week we had together here, I think, and every day since. You are far more lovable than you know.”
“I have been told that I am a handsome man,” he said. “My glass tells me that it is not conceited to believe what I have been told. You have been seduced by looks, Clara. You love a handsome nothing.”
“You were unfailingly good to me during that week‚” she said. “It was without any doubt the most wonderful week of my life. If there were never anything more to match it, my life would have been worth living. I would consider that I had known happiness. I know you were pretending to a love that you did not feel, Freddie, but you lived that pretended love. You spent your time with me. You gave me the delirious pleasure of those horseback rides and that wonderful afternoon at the summerhouse. You talked and talked to me and smiled at me. You made me feel almost beautiful. And you made love to me. I cannot describe how wonderful that has been— to know physical love after all the years that have gone before.”
“Clara,” he said, “don’t make a saint of me. I abandoned you. I have lived a life of horrible debauchery in town while you have been here.”
“But you wrote to me,” she said, “because you wanted to ensure that I stayed healthy. And you sought out Dr. Graham and came for me to take me to him. You wanted to give me a chance to walk again. Without you, Freddie, I would never have known that it was possible. I’ll not have you convince yourself that you have been a force of destruction in my life when quite the opposite is true. You have been all that is wonderful and life-giving to me. Best of all, you have caused me to know what love is. Not just physical love, but all of it. And perhaps best of the best, you have put life in me. You have made it possible for me to be fully and in every way a woman.”
He stood silently, still propped against the doorframe, his eyes opaque. She had not got through to him.
“I know I am but a sorry creature,” she said, “but you have brought me happiness, Freddie. Don’t think of yourself as a total failure.”
“A sorry creature!” he said softly. “You are the one touch of beauty in my life, Clara. You have grown beautiful in my eyes. If it were not for you, I think I might have taken my life by now.”
Her own eyes blurred with tears. “Oh, Freddie,” she said. “I love you. I need you.”
“I can’t seem to change,” he said. “Willpower will not seem to do it, Clara. I seek out card games with a sort of sick dread. And I seek out other women when the only one I want is my wife. How can I offer myself to you? How can I commit myself to you?”
“Do you want to, Freddie?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Why?” She blinked to try to clear her sight.
“Because I love you,” he said.
“Let me tell you something, then,” she said. “Something that is not really important except that I think you must need to hear it. If you have ever wronged me in any way, Freddie—as I suppose you did by trying to deceive me at the start, and as you have by committing adultery against me over and over again. Yes, you have wronged me. But I forgive you. And I will keep on forgiving you as many times as you wrong me. For I love you and I know you will always be sorry if you stray. Don’t punish yourself any longer. By punishing yourself you will be punishing me.”
“Can it be done, then,” he asked, “by just trying and trying and trying? Failing and trying again? And so on?”
“I don’t think there is any easier way, Freddie,” she said. “Just a day-by-day effort. I want to show you that it can bring results. Promise me not to move?”
He did not answer, but she did not press the point. Her heart began to thump painfully and she wanted suddenly to change her mind. If she failed now, all might be lost. She would merely have proved that long hard effort brought only failure and humiliation.
She set her hands on the arms of the chair and gripp
ed them tightly. She positioned her feet firmly and slightly apart on the floor and moved herself closer to the edge of the chair. She watched the floor a few feet in front of her and concentrated fully. She tried to forget that there was anyone else in the room. She tried to forget that success now was so important. She put from her mind Robin’s warnings. She pushed herself slowly upward, all her weight on her arms. And then, when her arms were fully extended, she had to let the muscles of her legs and ankles do the work.
And finally she was standing. Upright and still. She was not even swaying. She turned her head slowly so that she would not lose her balance, and smiled brilliantly at him.
“I cannot walk yet,” she said. “I am not even supposed to stand yet. Robin will be very cross with me. And I have no idea how I am to sit down again. Come to me now, please, Freddie. I need you.”
He moved for the first time since she had woken up. He was across the room even before she had finished speaking and caught her up against him in such a bruising hug that she was no longer supporting herself.
“Oh, my love,” he was saying against her hair. “My love, my love, my love.”
“And it is all your fault,” she said, laughing. “It is all your fault that I am on my feet, Freddie. And that I am increasing. And loved. And happy. All your fault. Say it again. Please say it again.”
“That I love you?” he said.
“Yes, please.” She tipped back her head to gaze up into his dark eyes.
“I love you,” he said. “Does it make you happy to hear it, Clara? Is it so easy to make someone happy?”
“Tell me you are happy about the baby.” She had got her arms up about his neck and was hanging on for dear life. “I want so badly to be able to bear you a son. Or a daughter. A healthy child, Freddie. Tell me you are happy.”
“I turn weak at the knees at the very thought,” he said. “Is it so easy to make a child, then?”
“And so very pleasurable.” She laughed again. She was beginning to feel almost delirious with happiness. “Don’t go weak at the knees, Freddie. They are the only reliable pair we have between us.”
