Married to a Stranger

by Louise Allen

  Sophia was confused and he did not blame her. It would be easier, surely, when they were wed? He would care for her, protect her. It was strangely comforting to imagine domesticity, a wife at home when he returned, a hostess at his table.

  He would look after her materially, better than Dan could have done. He would, he hoped, get her with child soon and provide for his family too. He would try, very hard, not to hurt her, although he was not too certain how successful he would be in that. He suspected she wanted affection and he would do his best—she was easy to like. Despite her denials she might even expect to be loved, though she did not love him. But that was impossible because to love you had to lay open your soul and your mind for the other person and he did not think he could, not again. He had not even had to think about loving his twin. If either of them had been asked about their feelings they would have been embarrassed, very British and repressed about admitting such an emotion. How they felt had not depended on words, it had simply been the natural state of being.

  But a woman needed the words. And Sophia deserved the truth, not hollow, comfortable lies.

  Two days after being kissed by Donald Masterton in the gazebo Sophia sat next to her husband in the post chaise and tried to think about almost anything other than the fact she was now, irretrievably, married. That morning’s service had been very quiet, very private. After an early luncheon they had set out for London and her new home. She had never felt so alone.

  ‘This is positively luxurious. I have never travelled by post chaise before,’ she said with determined brightness.

  ‘It doesn’t make you queasy, then?’ Callum must have noticed that she was clutching tight to the leather loop that hung beside her. Better that he should think she found the action uneasy than that she was gripping it tight out of nerves.

  ‘Not unless I stare at one fixed spot,’ she said as the chaise swung round a tight bend. It threw her against his shoulder and he put out a hand to steady her, withdrawing it the moment she was upright again. ‘Thank you.’ Alone again.

  Another mile passed in silence, then Callum said, ‘You do not have to wear half-mourning, you know. I had no idea you would feel you must wear grey to your own wedding.’

  ‘Not wear mourning?’ She had thought he would expect it, insist upon it. ‘I cannot leave it off; people would be shocked, they would think I did not care about Daniel.’

  ‘When of course you do,’ he said flatly. ‘And you can leave it off. It won’t bring Daniel back, it’s depressing and it doesn’t—’ He broke off, the sentence unfinished.

  ‘Suit me? No, it does not,’ she agreed, perfectly aware that black and greys and mauve made her skin sallow and washed the colour out of her eyes. Callum noticed, of course. At that first traumatic meeting in March, when he had broken the news to her, he could hardly have been in any fit state to notice whether she wore sackcloth or full court dress. Since he had come back she had been wearing half-mourning whenever he had seen her.

  Perhaps he thought that leaving it off would make a significant difference to her looks. If that was the case, then her husband was due a disappointment. She had catalogued her appearance in all honesty, that night when she had received Daniel’s letter; she was not plain, but neither was she a beauty. Perhaps she could try for interesting, but she doubted it.

  ‘Other than my mourning, I only have whites and pale pastels,’ she said. ‘Those would be quite unsuitable.’

  ‘And not right for a married woman in any case,’ he agreed. ‘You must shop as soon as possible.’ He shifted in his seat to look at her. ‘Clear jewel colours,’ he said. ‘Deep blue, amber, ruby. Even violet.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she agreed, surprised to find Callum not only taking an interest in such things, but being so perceptive about what would suit her. ‘You have a very good eye for colour.’

  ‘I used to try to paint in watercolour,’ he admitted. ‘Not very well!’

  ‘But no more?’ He shook his head and she sensed it was not a good topic to pursue just now. ‘Where should I shop?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Callum said. ‘London is a mystery that I am beginning to explore as I would an Indian jungle. I asked Will where to go for a tailor and hatter and bootmaker, and I am learning my way around masculine St James’s, but it did not occur to me to ask about ladies’ clothes. Aunt Clarissa will help, but she’s not back in town for at least a month—her middle daughter is about to be confined with her first child.’ He frowned at her, obviously taking in for the first time just how provincial she was.

  ‘Never mind,’ Sophia said, seized with a determination that she was not going to be a nuisance to him. Men were not interested in shopping, she understood. ‘I am sure the lady’s maid the butler has engaged for me will know.’

  ‘A good idea.’

  ‘What is his name? The butler?’

  ‘Hawksley. Had I not told you?’

  She shook her head. ‘Perhaps if I know the details of the house, it would help … I mean, I should be thinking about the housekeeping.’

  ‘I told you none of this? I am sorry, Sophia.’

  ‘You were preoccupied,’ she said after a moment. ‘Callum, I do want to make you a good wife, to make sure that things in your homes are as well run and comfortable as possible for you.’

  ‘And you are not helped by a husband who does not brief you with the information you require?’ he observed with more perception than she had hoped for. ‘I am not used to having a wife—you must tell me when there is something you need.’

  Some affection? More than a tenth of your attention? ‘I will,’ she promised. ‘The house?’

  ‘A drawing room and a dining room at street level, with the kitchens and domestic offices in the basement,’ he said. ‘I must admit I did not look at those. On the first floor there is the room I use as a study, a room you could have as a sitting room and a bedchamber. Above that, the main bedroom with a dressing room and a third chamber. The servants’ rooms are in the attic.’

  ‘That all sounds positively cosy.’ For a moment Sophia toyed with a vision of domestic bliss. ‘You will be busy in your study, I will be in my sitting room deciding menus or curled up with the latest novel. Then we will meet to exchange the news of the day in the dining room over a perfectly prepared dinner, or entertain modishly in the drawing room. Is that how it is done?’

  ‘Absolutely. That seems to be the domestic model. And after dinner we will retire upstairs.’

  At this point her desire to speculate aloud faltered. Would Callum expect them to share a bedchamber?

  ‘Which bed do you …? I mean, which would …?’ She could feel the colour heating her cheeks.

  ‘I thought you would prefer the main bedchamber because of the dressing room,’ Callum said as easily as if they were discussing the front hall. ‘I can use the one on the first floor. It will be convenient for when I am working late; I would not wish to disturb you.’

  ‘How considerate.’ Sophia heard the edge in the words even as she said them.

  Callum looked at her: a long, steady scrutiny from those enigmatic hazel eyes. He looked out of the window. ‘I am not always an easy sleeper.’

  Sophia cast around for another topic. ‘We have not discussed housekeeping, or my dress allowance.’

  ‘How much do you need?’

  ‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ Sophia said. ‘I do not know the house, I do not know London prices, I have no idea how adequately equipped it is or how much entertaining you wish to do.’

  ‘Then I suggest we wait until we see what a normal pattern of expenditure is and extrapolate from that.’

  ‘I am not one of your counting-house clerks, Mr Chatterton. Extrapolate indeed!’

  ‘If you can think of a better method, Mrs Chatterton, then please, let us employ it.’ There was a long silence while he watched her face and then Callum remarked, ‘You may not be one of the clerks, Sophia, but I would wager a significant sum that you are counting.’

  ‘In Fre
nch, backwards,’ she agreed. His lips twitched, just a fraction, but the laughter he was suppressing was plain to see in his eyes. It was shocking in the lean, dark, controlled face. Shocking and irresistible. She smiled back. ‘You are teasing me again.’

  ‘I did not intend to. Really, there is no need to worry about such things yet.’ Almost imperceptibly Callum relaxed into the corner and it was only as he did so that Sophia realised that he had been wound as tight as a spring, as tense as she was, if not more so. However many things there were in this marriage to worry about, for her it was the answer to a problem. For him it meant a profound change in his way of life, undertaken out of duty.

  ‘I might be a spendthrift and squander all your money,’ she warned him, keeping her tone light, but with serious intent.

  ‘You would have to work quite hard at it and, in my estimation, you are too prudent for that.’

  Sophia wrinkled her nose, not entirely certain she liked being described as prudent. There were so many other adjectives that one’s husband of less than a day might more flatteringly apply. ‘Are you wealthy, then?’

  ‘Were you paying no attention to the settlements?’

  ‘No.’ The smile was still there, so she added, ‘I did not marry you for your money.’

  One eyebrow lifted and the smile became quizzical and less amused.

  ‘Not like that. Yes, of course I was so grateful we could pay off the debts and that Mama will be comfortable. I did not want to become a governess! There were other things—it is a relief that Mark will have influential connections when he finishes his studies and is looking for a parish. If he can establish himself well, then he will be able to support Mama. But I did not seek a life of luxury.’

  ‘Will your brother make a good clergyman, do you think?’ Callum asked. As he had when she told him about the debts, he did not refer to them again.

  ‘I am sure he will,’ Sophia said loyally, trying to repress the truth, which was that she thought Mark was becoming insufferably pompous. Her brother had descended for the wedding, patronised the amiable and unassuming vicar, lectured her on her own good fortune and announced his intention of pleasing their mother with a week’s visit at no notice. Sophia, her nerves on edge, had never been so out of sympathy with him.

  ‘He favoured me with a most enlightening lecture on the Christian duties of marriage yesterday evening,’ Callum said, straight-faced.

  ‘Oh no!’ Sophia stared at him, aghast. ‘Of all the preposterous things to do—Mark isn’t even ordained yet, and he’s so much younger than you and—’

  But Callum was laughing now, a deep, wicked chuckle that made her smile back, even as she cringed at Mark’s effrontery. ‘What did you say? You snubbed him, I hope.’

  ‘I listened with great attention and then asked him a number of very frank questions about a husband’s duties in the marital bed. How I kept a straight face I will never know. It was very wrong of me, considering that I was about to marry his sister and I suspect he is a virgin.’ Sophia clapped her hand over her mouth to suppress the gasp of shocked laughter. ‘He became mired in the procreation of children, at which point I thanked him earnestly and told him he had given me a great deal to think about.’

  ‘That was very wicked. I’m surprised at you.’ But the reproof was ruined by the unladylike snort of laugher that escaped her. Thank goodness, he does have a sense of humour after all.

  ‘Wicked? Oh, no, not me. I was always the responsible twin,’ Callum remarked. For a moment she thought she had said the wrong thing, but he was still smiling. Then he turned from her; the moment of shared amusement was lost. ‘Try to get some sleep. I will, if you do not object.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Sophia was not at all tired, but if Callum was not sleeping well then she should encourage him to get all the rest she could. She closed her eyes and waited until she heard his breathing become slow. After a cautious peek she pulled her small sketching block from her reticule and began to draw his profile. It was not easy as the chaise lurched and swayed, but it was engrossing and she soon lost consciousness of everything but the battle to translate her husband’s face into lines and shading.

  She had almost finished when he jerked, his eyes still closed. ‘Sophia. No, don’t—’

  The pencil skidded across the page. She stuffed it and the block away and caught at his hands that had clenched into fists. ‘Callum?

  ‘What?’ He came awake in an instant, his pupils wide as he stared at her. ‘I’m sorry. A dream. Look—we have reached Kilburn Wells. Not long to London now.’

  Chapter Eight

  Cal pushed away the lingering traces of the nightmare, of Sophia vanishing into a dark mist, not looking back. He made himself think of her laughter as the chaise drew up in Half Moon Street. Her uninhibited snort of amusement, the transformation of her face at the shared joke, the naughty twinkle in her eye at his most improper teasing of her brother were all delightful. To share laughter like that, to share a joke without it having to be spelled out—a simple joy, but a precious one he thought he had lost.

  He looked at her as he helped her down, but she was once more serious and slightly wan in her sombre grey carriage dress. Marriage had not brought colour to her cheeks. But why should it? Her family was secure, but at the price of her marrying the wrong man and being plunged into a strange new life.

  ‘Another house to explore. It looks delightful,’ she said politely. Cal took her arm as they went up the steps and through the door that Hawksley was holding open. Under his fingers he felt her slenderness and measured the almost imperceptible distance she kept between them. How very ladylike, he thought, his body stirring at the thought of how unladylike he might be able to coax her to be that night. She’s a virgin who doesn’t love you, he reminded himself. Take care.

  ‘Good afternoon, madam. Sir.’

  ‘You must be Hawksley,’ Sophia said. From somewhere she conjured up a warm smile.

  ‘Yes, madam. Would you wish me to assemble the staff now or should I send for your maid, ma’am?’

  Cal saw her cut him a fleeting glance, but she replied to the butler without waiting for his approval, ‘It would be best to meet everyone now, if you please, Hawksley.’

  They must have been waiting, poised behind the baize door under the curve of the steps, for it opened the moment Hawksley clapped his hands. ‘Mrs Datchett, the cook-housekeeper, ma’am. Chivers, your maid. Andrew and Michael, the footmen, Prunella and Jane, the maids. Millie, kitchen maid.’ There were bows and curtsies. Cal had worked hard to commit the names to memory in the same automatic way he had done when dealing with the dozens of clerks and servants and merchants who filled his working days, but Sophia smiled and exchanged a few words with each of the staff in turn, repeated names, made a little ceremony of it.

  They beamed back at her. She obviously had the knack with staff, he thought as Michael took his hat and gloves and Sophia went towards the stairs with Chivers. ‘Tea in the drawing room in fifteen minutes, please, Hawksley,’ she said decisively. ‘At what time would you wish dinner, Mr Chatterton? Or do you dine out this evening?’

  He looked at her poised, one hand on the banister, her willowy figure half-turned to look back at him, expecting him to leave her alone on their wedding night and apparently quite composed about it. What did that say about her expectations of him? ‘I shall dine at home. Seven-thirty, my dear, if that would suit.’

  Sophia coloured a little at the endearment, but nodded to Mrs Datchett and Hawksley and followed the maid upstairs. Cal stood and watched until she vanished around the turn of the stair. His wife in his house. It was curiously, and unexpectedly, pleasant. And he would have neither, he realised, if it had not been for the shipwreck and Daniel’s death. This charming, gentle young woman would be his sister-in-law.

  ‘Sir?’

  Cal hauled himself out of the deep pit of his thoughts. ‘Yes, Hawksley?’

  To his credit the other man did not flinch at the tone. ‘Wilkins is above stairs, sir.�
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  His new English valet of a few months was a pernickety little man, much given to tutting under his breath at outrages such as a creased cuff or a loose button. Cal had not asked his body servant Ardash to leave his home and family to travel with him to England, and thank God he had not, or the poor devil would likely be dead by now. On the ship he had got used to looking after himself, but one of his first acts on arriving in London had been to find a man to maintain the standards of appearance and dress the Company’s Court of Directors would expect.

  ‘You moved my things down from the main bedroom and organised the room on the first floor for my use? Excellent. Then send hot water up, if you please.’ He climbed the stairs to his new chamber, a safe one floor below the one that was now his wife’s. He had every intention of visiting her bedchamber regularly, but he would choose his time, not succumb to the urge to make love to her just because she was next door. And with a floor between them there was no risk he would disturb her when the nightmares seized him.

  Wilkins put down a pile of linens and bowed. He seemed to feel that his master’s new status as a married man required some formality. Cal looked around the room to distract himself. It would do, although it seemed dark and rather bland.

  ‘The valises are here, sir. I will have madam’s heavy trunk carried up whilst you are at tea. Do you require a change of linen now?’

  What he would like was a cold bath, Cal thought with an inward grimace. He shrugged out of his coat and surveyed the state of his cuffs. ‘No, this will do until I change for dinner.’ He rolled up his sleeves as Andrew the footman came in with a jug of water. ‘For later, the swallowtail coat and evening breeches and the striped silk stockings.’ He must signal the importance of their first dinner as man and wife with suitable attention. ‘And I want flowers for the dining room and my wife’s bedchamber. Andrew, will you organise that as soon as possible?’