by Louise Allen
‘Goodnight, Callum,’ she said as the door opened and she saw him silhouetted against the landing candle-glow.
‘Goodnight.’ The door closed and left her in the darkness, confused and uncomfortable and bitterly disappointed.
She had hoped to spend the next day quietly drawing, which never failed to calm and cheer her, but instead, at two in the afternoon, she found herself sitting stiffly in a hired carriage, her new calling cards in her reticule and Chivers in her best outfit perched opposite.
‘I forgot to tell you, I had callers yesterday when I was out,’ she had said at breakfast. ‘Five cards—and none of them people I have heard of.’ She patted the oblongs of stiff pasteboard with their gilt edges and black printing into a pile and passed them to Callum as he pushed back his breakfast plate.
‘Mrs Sommerson, Lady Archbold, Lady Randolph,
Mrs Hickson and the Dowager Countess of Milverley,’ Callum read. ‘An impressive haul, and all in person too.’ He indicated the turned-down corners. ‘You had best pay some return visits speedily—and let it be known on which days you will be at home for morning calls yourself. Sommerson, Archbold and Randolph are Directors of the Company, Mrs Hickson is a distant cousin of mine and Lady Milverley was a friend of my mother. I let it be known at the office that we were receiving and doubtless the family have been writing to all their acquaintances in town and mentioning that we were coming up.’
‘You will come with me this afternoon?’ It was a plea, not a question, and she felt ashamed of her cowardice. ‘I did not think we would receive calls, not at this time of year. Why are they all in London? It is almost October.’
‘Not everyone flees to the country during the summer and, in any case, people are drifting back now. We will receive some invitations, too. It is good,’ Callum added encouragingly. ‘There won’t be too many people—no great crushes. You will be up to snuff by the time the Season starts.
‘The ladies called on you by themselves.’ Callum turned over the little pile of cards. ‘It will be expected that you return the call without me. I’ll have a carriage sent round from the stables this afternoon, you won’t want to use a hackney.’
‘No,’ Sophia agreed. ‘Thank you.’ She managed a brave smile. ‘What a good thing my new afternoon gown has been delivered.’
The knowledge that her gown was in the mode was a help now. At least she did not feel dowdy. And even if the ladies were at home, it would only be half an hour at most with each of them. It would be just as it had been in the country, only this time she was not with Mama and the ladies would be total strangers. Callum had said nothing about the need to make a good impression, but he had not needed to; she was acutely aware that four of them would be reporting back to men who held great sway in the Company. If they told their husbands that Callum Chatterton had made a mistake and married a gauche, socially inept young woman, it would damage his career.
‘Lady Randolph’s house, ma’am.’ Andrew, who had been riding with the coachman, opened the door, took the card she handed him and went up the steps to give an impressive ‘London knock’ on the dark green door. It opened, Sophia crossed her fingers in the hope that no one was in, but Andrew was coming back and the door stayed open. In she must go.
‘Mrs Chatterton, my lady.’
‘My dear Mrs Chatterton.’ A willowy lady rose and came forwards. ‘How kind of you to call.’
‘Lady Randolph.’ Sophia managed the slight curtsy that was required. There were three other women, all middle aged, all regarding her from the circle of chairs around the tea tray. ‘I am so sorry I was away from home yesterday.’
‘Not at all. You young things are all so busy these days,’ she said languidly. ‘Let me introduce you. Mrs Sommerson.’ Plump with a tight, mean mouth that seemed reluctant to smile. ‘Lady Archbold.’ Grey hair, grey eyes, large teeth. ‘Mrs Hickson.’ Snapping black eyes, a small terrier of a woman.
Sophia shook hands, slightly overwhelmed, but also grateful that this was the first house she had come to. It had cut the calls she needed to make to two. ‘Ladies, I had intended to call upon all of you. Thank you for calling yesterday.’
‘Not at all.’ Lady Archbold fixed her with a beady stare while her hostess poured tea. ‘We naturally wanted to make sure that Mr Chatterton’s new bride had every attention. Such a promising young man.’ It sounded like a threat or a warning of what she must live up to.
Sophia cast around for a neutral topic of conversation, then saw the picture that hung over the fireplace, a portrait of two young girls sitting on a bench in a flowery garden, a basket of puppies at their feet. The paint looked fresh and glistening and very new.
‘What a delightful double portrait, Lady Randolph.’
It was obviously the right thing to say. Her hostess beamed. ‘My granddaughters by Joshua Robertson.’
‘He must be very talented. He has caught their personalities, it seems. There are so many artists to select from, it must have been hard to choose.’
‘Well, we picked a coming man,’ Lady Randolph said. ‘I wished not to simply follow the fashion. These celebrity artists get above themselves, one feels.’
And charge so much more, too, Sophia thought wickedly. ‘And they are all men, I suppose?’ she said. ‘There are no Angelica Kauffmanns to be found in London these days?’
‘Certainly not! One could not patronise such a female even if there was.’
‘But she was very good—a fine artist?’
‘That has nothing to do with it,’ Mrs Hickson said with a sniff. ‘These famous men might pretend otherwise, but it is a trade, after all. A woman might as well take up cabinet making! And, of course, the environment is hardly decent—all those unclad models and hours spent in studios. One knows what goes on! Wild parties, louche behaviour—no female artist could be anything but one step from being a common harlot.’
‘She might as well go on the stage,’ Sophia said with a smile and gritted teeth. She had suspected that would be the attitude, but she had hoped that in the sophisticated climate of the capital the conservative attitudes of a country town would not prevail. She had been wrong.
Two hours later Sophia emerged from Lady Milverley’s Mayfair house, feeling she had spent the afternoon being pummelled and rung out in a box mangle. She had done her duty, she thought she had made a good impression and not let Callum down, but this collection of new acquaintances made her feel lonelier than ever. Certainly none of them was of an age to become a friend and all of them seemed to have been inspecting and assessing her. She only hoped she had passed muster.
As soon as she reached home she ran up to her sitting room and found her sketch book.
*
By the time Callum came home the five ladies had been consigned to paper along with the host of other portraits she scribbled down, almost compulsively. But it only partly soothed the knowledge that her work must remain unseen outside her circle of acquaintances, a mere genteel pastime.
There on the page were all the servants, the guests at the dinner party when Masterton had kissed her, people seen on their journey to London, shoppers and shop assistants. The likenesses seemed to flow from her pencil, taking with them all the little jabs at her nerves, her irritation over the curiosity, her fears about making the right impression, even her loneliness.
‘There were more calls this afternoon.’ She made a mental note to speak to Cook—the soup had too much pepper. ‘Two more ladies with Company connections, a Mrs Hooper with her daughters—she tells me she is a connection of Papa’s, although I cannot quite work it out—and Lady Constable, who says she was Daniel’s godmother.’
‘Excellent.’ Callum seemed to find the soup acceptable. ‘You see, I said you would manage perfectly well. We will be receiving invitations soon. The ladies have taken to you. Tell me, what have you done for the rest of the time?’
Every evening he would take an interest in the mild excitements of her day—what she had read, where she had shopped, the problems w
ith the kitchen maid and the discovery of mice in the drawing-room skirting. Sophia felt she was being judged, kindly, against an unspoken standard of Suitable Wife and, on the whole, being found acceptable. But she did not mention her drawings, or tell Callum about them; that, she sensed, would not be considered acceptable. Still lives and landscapes, yes. Sharp, unflattering little portraits of his acquaintance, no.
She did her best to reciprocate in these conversations. She studied the newspapers carefully, borrowed books from the circulating library on trade and India and China and asked about his work. It seemed a very responsible one, forming the medium-term strategy for the luxury goods that the company handled.
‘It is an uphill struggle to convince some of the members of the Company to make any changes, though,’ Callum confessed with a wry smile. ‘They have a pet supplier or a favourite kind of produce and that is that—to try to convince them that to load their ships with tea rather than silk at a particular time or to hold back on a certain product because the market will soon be amply supplied and the price will fall, is like pushing against a door that is jammed shut.’
‘So how do you do it?’ Sophia asked, her embroidery left untouched in her lap. This, to her, was far more interesting than what was in the newspapers, not for itself exactly, but for the way it gave her an insight into Callum’s thinking.
‘Like a military campaign. I plot the weakest points, see where the tactical advantage lies, decide where it is prudent to retreat—I seem to be doing a lot of tactical retreating just at the moment.’ But he smiled as he said it and she laughed and there was a moment when she wanted to reach out and touch his hand, link her fingers into his long brown ones and tease him a little and just be friends.
Then she saw Callum’s eyes darken and the amusement faded from his face and was replaced by something else that made her breath catch in her throat. Her mouth went dry and all she was conscious of was the urge to cross the narrow space between them, curl up on to his lap and kiss him. But he never kissed her, never caressed her, during the day. Would he think her wanton if she did? Would she be gauche and clumsy? ‘Callum?’
But the moment had passed. He was reaching for his glass of port and his face was once again back to its pleasant, neutral mask. ‘Nothing. Sorry, I must not bore you with this stuff, it can be of no interest to you.’
‘I asked because I am interested,’ Sophia said and bent to bundle her untouched embroidery into the basket at her feet. ‘But it must be tiresome for you to have to explain it to me after you have been immersed in it all day.’
She stood up and Callum got to his feet too. He moved, as always, with the ease that so attracted her and she felt that familiar tug of desire.
‘I think I will go to bed now. Thank you.’ He opened the door for her and she passed through with the sensation of having lost a precious moment of intimacy.
Chapter Thirteen
‘You are looking a trifle peaky, if I might say so, ma’am,’ Chivers remarked as Sophia got out of bed the next morning.
‘That is exactly how I feel, Chivers,’ she admitted as she rubbed the small of her back. ‘Oh, how foolish of me—it is the usual cause!’ She did some rapid mental arithmetic: yes, more or less on time.
At first, as she washed and dressed, she simply registered it as the routine discomfort, then the fact struck her that she was married now and her husband would want to know whether or not she was with child.
It was not a topic for discussion over the breakfast table. Sophia waited until Callum went to his study to gather his papers for work and followed him upstairs, straightening her back against the miserable low ache. He was standing at his desk, bent over the documents spread between his braced hands, but at the sound of the door closing behind her he looked up.
‘Sophia? Is something wrong?’ He was at her side in two long strides and caught her by the shoulders. ‘You are ill?’
She wondered what he saw to make him so concerned; she thought she had schooled her face not to show any discomfort and he had not noticed anything at breakfast, but then he had been engrossed in The Times for most of it. ‘Nothing—except nature taking its course. I thought I should tell you that I am not with child this month.’
‘Not—? Oh, I see. It is of no matter.’
‘Is it not? I thought you were anxious for children, for an heir. It is my duty—’
‘Duty?’ His brows drew together in a sharp, level line. ‘I hope it is more than that—no child deserves to be merely the product of duty.’
‘I did not say that! I would never look upon a child in that way—but I am your wife and you made it clear that you expected me to give you heirs.’
‘I am sorry if I put it so baldly.’ Callum swept the papers together and stuffed them into a folder. ‘I will, naturally, not trouble you until you tell me that it is … convenient for me to visit your chamber again.’
Convenient? Oh, yes, our marital relations are a matter of convenience for you now, not of passion. I suppose I am cheaper than a mistress.
‘How very considerate,’ she said, more sharply than she had intended, and turned to go.
Damn. He had blundered. He was disappointed that Sophia was not with child, but so, no doubt, was she. Cal came round and stood before her, blocking the door. He studied her set face. ‘Are you in discomfort? In pain? You are very pale.’
‘I am sorry, I had not meant to trouble you with it. It is just the usual cramps and backache.’
‘Usual?’ Of course, that feminine mystery that was simply an inconvenience for the men in their lives must be most uncomfortable. He had never thought of it. ‘You must remember I have no experience of these feminine matters—no sisters to grow up with,’ he offered in mitigation. Sophia visibly bit back a comment and Callum could not help but smile. ‘And, no, my mistresses would vanish discreetly for however long it took.’ He took her arm and gently urged her into a comfortable chair. He wanted to help her, but this was an intimate secret and he had done nothing to make such confidences easy, he knew that. He kept hold of her hand. ‘Tell me how it hurts.’
Blushing, she described the symptoms.
‘So how do you treat it?’
She shrugged. ‘Just put up with it. It will be better tomorrow.’
‘Nonsense.’ He hated the thought that she would uncomplainingly drag herself through the day if there was something to be done. ‘Why should you put up with that? It sounds most unpleasant.’ He began to shepherd her towards his bedchamber.
‘Callum? You will be late to the office.’
‘I can work from home. Wilkins!’
‘Sir?’ The valet emerged from the bedchamber, a hat in one hand, the brush in the other.
‘Please send a message to Leadenhall Street to say I am detained at home for the day. Then have Cook send up a hot brick from the kitchen when I ring. And we are not to be disturbed—Mrs Chatterton needs to rest.’
‘Callum! Whatever will he think?’ They were in the room now and the door was shut. He found he was anxious, as if she was ill or injured. He reminded himself that this was normal, that she was used to it. But it was strange having someone so intimately close to him to care about, to worry over. He had worried about Dan, but at least his twin had been a large, strong male.
His wife looked almost fragile today. He had tried to keep her at a distance, emotionally, it felt safer that way. But he couldn’t do it if she was hurting. He’d had no idea that marriage would be so … consuming.
‘I do not pay my valet to think,’ he said briskly. ‘Now then, let us get you comfortable.’ He began to unlace her gown, then her corset, then peeled her chemise and petticoat down to her waist as she stood there, passive under his hands. He had never undressed her, he realised. He had wanted to, often. Wanted to catch her in his arms and kiss her, fondle her, undress her slowly and see if he could break through the polite yielding with which she tolerated his lovemaking. But you did not behave like that with a wife, as though she must be ready for y
ou whenever you demanded it.
But if she wanted it too … Callum got a grip on his wandering thoughts and found Sophia’s skin cool under his hands that lay on her shoulders. ‘Off with your shoes and lie down on the bed. On your side with your back to me will be best, I imagine.’
He had stripped off his coat and was rolling up his shirtsleeves by the time she curled herself up on the bed. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked, her voice wary.
‘In India one learns to doctor almost everything from snake bite to fever. I refuse to believe that this cannot be alleviated.’ He sorted through bottles until he found the one he wanted. There was a clink of glass as he pulled out the stopper and the room filled with a warm, spicy smell that transported him straight back to the spice market in Calcutta.
Callum sat on the edge of the bed, his hip against the curve of her buttocks and poured oil into his right palm, letting it take the warmth from his skin. ‘Just relax. Is this the spot?’ He pressed his hand, warm and slippery with oil, gently into the small of her back, and let the other stroke lightly over the slight swell of her belly above the edge of her turned-down petticoats.
She sighed. ‘Oh, yes. Oh, Callum, that is bliss.’ He kept his hands gentle, kneading and stroking with just enough pressure to relax the knotted muscles. Sophia breathed deeply and closed her eyes. He knew how relaxing the smell was, he used this oil when he had a headache. He worked quietly, letting the scent fill her senses.
‘You are purring,’ he said, after perhaps five minutes.
‘You could make a tiger purr,’ she murmured, and he felt Sophia relax as she drifted into sleep.
When she woke Sophia found herself curled up on Callum’s bed, a cover over her and something bulky and warm snuggled into the small of her back. Cautious investigation revealed a hot brick, well wrapped in towels. She turned over and found that her aches and pains had almost gone and that the bedchamber door was open, as was the study door opposite.
