Laura Carroll Butler

by The Price of a Pearl

  There was silence in the carriage. Davis, always so careful with his words, had slipped. He knew it, but he didn’t care. Finally Michael said, “I’ll take you home Davis, and walk from there.” He placed Davis’ hand between them.

  Davis shook his head. “No, I’m fine. You go on.”

  Michael reluctantly left Davis. As he exited the vehicle, he slipped the coachman a note and told him to make sure Lord Edderle went directly home.

  But Davis did not want to go home and though his driver tried to protest, Davis reminded him of who paid whose wages. Instead, he drove Davis to another part of the city, to an area called Holborn, to a tavern that Davis had heard much about but had never been to. His heart was racing from fear of recognition, but he was outwardly calm from the whisky as he entered the place and sat down at a table. He looked at no one initially. A young man took his order. When he brought Davis his drink, Davis looked at the man then shook his head slightly. He took a sip and surveyed his neighbors. Though several tables were occupied, the place was quiet. At the bar were several young men, some dressed in women’s garments. He looked at their faces, his heart pounding so hard, that he thought it would leap out of his chest. Each young man tried to catch Davis’ eyes, but he kept looking until they remained on one. He was dark-haired and dressed casually. He saw Davis’ eyes stop on him and sauntered over to his table.

  Davis looked down at his drink as the young man sat down. He put his hand on Davis’ and started talking. His voice was soft and soothing, but Davis was so agitated that he heard nothing but the rumble of the noise of the tavern and in his mind. As though he’d suddenly sobered up, Davis quickly jerked his hand back. “I’m sorry”, he murmured, leapt up from the table, and quickly left.

  **************************

  His coachman and valet tried to settle Davis quietly in an empty bedroom, but Rebecca, in the half-sleep of a mother listening for her child, heard the noise and opened her bedroom door. Davis was dead weight, but the two men kept their bearings at the sight of their lady.

  “Is he sick?” she asked.

  “No, Lady Edderle; just a bit too much celebration, I fear,” the valet answered.

  She instructed the men to bring Davis into their bedroom. They laid him on the bed and took off his boots. “That will be all,” she said and the men left.

  Behind closed doors, Rebecca could minister to Davis better. His eyes were closed, but he was still awake. “Go to sleep, Davis,” she said soothingly.

  “Rebecca,” he whispered. He opened his eyes and tried to focus on her. “Oh God!” he said and started to cry.

  She put her arms around him and he buried his head in her lap. “Please don’t be upset, Davis; I’m not angry. We can talk in the morning when you are feeling better.”

  But he continued to sob; she suddenly wondered if this was more than a drunken crying jag. “Everything will be fine in the morning,” she reassured.

  “No,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “What for?” she asked tenderly.

  He paused then said in a voice barely audible from whisky and shame, “If you knew the truth, you would hate me forever.”

  *************************

  Davis slept soundly when he finally fell asleep. Rebecca was tired, but only dozed for a couple of hours. She watched the sunlight enter their bedroom while Davis snored beside her. When she heard activity downstairs, she got up out of bed and made herself ready for the day without her maid’s help.

  Before she dressed, she sent one of the servants to take a note to the Brooks’ home. When the servant returned, she instructed the staff on how to deal with Lord Edderle, should he rise, and how to care for Sarah.

  As she expected, Susanne was not awake when Rebecca arrived. Her pregnancy made her queasy the whole day, not just in the morning, and sleep was her only solace. But Michael was in the dining room and poured Rebecca a cup of coffee while she settled in.

  She didn’t touch the coffee, so shaky were her hands from fatigue. “I would like to know where you and Davis went last night,” she said in a straightforward tone.

  At least I can be honest, Michael thought, and answered, “The club. You knew that.”

  Rebecca tried to swallow the fear that was a hard lump in her throat and looked Michael directly in the eye, the better to detect deception. “After…did you go anywhere else?”

  Michael shook his head slowly. “No; his driver took me home and then took Davis home.” Rebecca’s lip started to tremble. She put her coffee down. “Did Davis say something to upset you?” he asked.

  She stood up quickly and walked to the window to become fully composed. When she had managed to keep back her tears, she said firmly and crisply, “Before Davis and I were married, was there someone else he loved? Was there another woman before me?”

  “No. That is there was no one he was in love with.”

  “And since we have been married? Have there been other women?”

  “Of course not!” How silly she’s being, he thought.

  “Not even last night?” She turned back to face Michael. He was smiling.

  “No, Rebecca. Not even last night. I don’t know what has upset you so, but all we did was play cards and drink. A lot.”

  “I want to believe you, Michael, but I know what kind of person you were. Or maybe still are.” Michael’s smile vanished. “I know how you can be with women. I hoped that you were different now that you are with my sister.”

  “What did he say to you, Rebecca?” Michael interrupted angrily. “Did he call you by another woman’s name?”

  Michael’s words stung as though they were a physical slap. “He is my husband now. I come before everyone else! Even you. Tell my sister that I will call on her tomorrow.” And Rebecca left.

  ************************

  It was late afternoon when Davis woke. His mouth was dry and fuzzy and when he lifted his head, it felt like little men were beating on it with hammers. He was still dressed, except for his boots. He tried to remember coming home, but everything was a jumble after he had left the molly house. That was one memory he could not shake and the hangover combined with his revulsion at himself made him want to vomit.

  When he dressed, heavily assisted by his valet, he went downstairs and found Rebecca and Sarah in the drawing room having tea. Rebecca’s face lit up when she saw him. “Darling! I hope you are feeling better.”

  He smiled painfully. “As well as can be expected.” He would rather have not seen Sarah before he had a chance to speak to Rebecca.

  “Come have some tea,” Rebecca said, pouring him a cup. “It’s mint; it will help settle your stomach.” She patted the seat next to her. He sat down and took the proffered cup.

  He wondered what had happened after he arrived home, but he could not ask. Rebecca and Sarah seemed perfectly normal. It was as though he had only overslept, not come home more intoxicated that he had ever been. He took a sip of tea and the pleasant warmth actually calmed him. “I am sorry if I woke you when I came in,” he said to the two women. Rebecca winced slightly, remembering his apology from the night before. Davis didn’t notice.

  “I didn’t hear you at all,” Sarah said.

  Rebecca laughed and lightly stroked her throat. “Oh Mother, he was so funny. I’m sorry, Davis, but you were! I had a devil of a time getting you to settle down.” She blushed at how revealing her words were, but they succeeded in ending any discussion of the night before.

  Davis relaxed in the cushion of his family. The confusion he felt from the previous evening was pushed aside. Rebecca was warmer than she had been in months, though strain still showed on her face. The conversation was light and superficial; even Sarah was affected by Rebecca’s good humor and seemed cheerier than she had been since arriving in London.

  “Mother and I have been talking, Davis. The Season was such a disappointment; I thought we should leave for St. Clare’s soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Next week.”

>   Davis looked back and forth between the two women. “Are you sure that it’s a good idea to leave London now? What about your doctor, Sarah?”

  “My doctor wants to cut me up. He talks of nothing else,” she answered.

  “It is so dirty here in London. I think a change would be healthier for Mother,” Rebecca added.

  “Well, I suppose the two of you could leave early, that is, if you are up to the trip, Sarah. But my work—“

  “Oh, Davis, surely Mr. Cavanaugh wouldn’t mind taking care of the day-to-day operations here. He has done such a wonderful job with Elysian Fields.”

  “I suppose,” he repeated though not convinced.

  “It would mean so much to me if you would join us down there. We have had such an overwhelming few months; we could use the time away.” Rebecca’s smile was sincere and pleading, and something else he couldn’t decipher; it was no match for Davis, especially in his condition.

  “Of course, Rebecca. We’ll leave for St. Clare’s immediately.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  After the Edderle’s left, London emptied fast. Martha traveled to Bath and then took her annual tour of the country. Michael spent much of his time at his old flat writing and Susanne was alone and bored.

  The Brooks’ house was nice, but small and not in a fashionable neighborhood. They could afford a maid, who acted as a butler, and a cook, but no other servants. Since Susanne had never bothered to learn how to run a household, the two servants would often make a show of consulting her about household and kitchen matters then decide for themselves what to do.

  Michael assumed Susanne was taking care of matters until the cook confronted him with unpaid bills from the grocer. When he asked Susanne why they were months overdue, her lower lip trembled and she burst into tears. He comforted her while she apologized between sobs for her poor showing as lady of the house. He suspected her pregnancy had much to do with her outburst and assured her that he would take care of everything. Later, he gave the cook something to appease the grocer and asked that she be gentle with Lady Brooks as she was overwhelmed by all her duties.

  Susanne toyed in her head with the idea of staying at the Mayfair or Belgravia homes. But they were unstaffed and she had enough trouble with two servants adequately keeping up with the tiny house they now occupied. Once she asked Michael if they could stay at Elysian Fields.

  “It doesn’t belong to me, Susanne,” he answered flatly.

  “I’m sure Davis wouldn’t care,” she coaxed. “Didn’t he once ask you to manage it for him?”

  Michael shook his head, surprised that she could forget how much he despised the place. “No, Susanne,” he stated firmly. “Our home is here in London.”

  “It’s so filthy here, Michael,” she protested, trying another tactic. “You’re hardly home and you could just as easily write at Elysian Fields in the fresh air.” She took his arm and looked at him coquettishly. “It could be like it was in the spring. Remember how lovely that was?”

  Michael’s heart pounded in anxiety. His flat was the only place he could be alone with his thoughts. Even shut up in that small room was less claustrophobic for him than the entire Elysian Fields estate. And though the Season was over, Michael could always find some entertainment in London. There was always someone to drink with, gamble with—at Elysian Fields, it would be only him and Susanne.

  He could not tell her that.

  “I have to stay close to my publisher right now, Susanne. You know with all the changes,” he explained.

  There were significant problems with his manuscript according to his new editor. When old Mr. Collins died, he left his publishing house to his son, Jackson, who had less fervor and courage than his father. Michael’s novel made heroes of the Irish rebels and young Mr. Collins worried that the politics were too controversial. Initially, Michael ignored his suggestions and they soon became demands. No amount of arguing about freedom of speech swayed Mr. Collins. Michael could either rewrite the necessary portions or find another publishing house. This would have been less of a problem if he didn’t also have to return the advance.

  He didn’t know that Susanne’s idea to move to Elysian Fields was championed by Rebecca. Her recent letter to Susanne suggested that she would be more effective at persuading Michael if the idea were all her own. Davis had also mentioned the idea to Susanne on a short visit to London, one that Michael missed.

  “You could visit St. Clare’s if you need to get out of the city,” he suggested in consolation.

  Susanne smiled sweetly. “Would you come with me?”

  “I told you already; I can’t leave London just yet,” he pleaded.

  Susanne’s eyes filled with tears. Michael put his arms around her and begged, “Don’t cry dear. We’ll go, just not yet. Please don’t cry.”

  But they did not go.

  Michael’s nights out became later and later. Susanne had always been a sound sleeper and her pregnancy didn’t change that. Many nights Michael crept up the stairs and into bed without her stirring.

  One night, he didn’t come home. He wondered sometimes if Susanne’s initial indifference had played some part in his desire to pursue her. He questioned this when he felt suffocated; but he would tell himself that he really loved her and he could breathe easily again. He blamed the pregnancy for his infidelity. It was a one-time event that he vowed never to repeat. He would never intentionally hurt Susanne, though Michael never intentionally hurt anyone. He just did.

  As her pregnancy progressed, their intimate moments declined. He would be celibate, he decided, as he had been (for the most part) during the months he courted Susanne. But one evening, fueled by brandy, anxiety and self-loathing at his inadequacy as a husband and provider, it happened after a play he had attended alone. He reacquainted himself with a former lover he hadn’t seen in several years. During the play, he built a fantasy in his mind of how wonderful she had been and how passionately they had loved. Afterward, he crept quietly from her bed and observed her as she slept; he saw how the years had not been as kind to her as he’d first thought.

  He walked the streets until dawn when he knew he had no choice but to go to his home. He slunk up the stairs and paused at the door to their bedroom. The maid found him asleep on the parlor sofa.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “July 8, 1774

  Dear Davis,

  I hope this letter finds you and your family well. The weather here is very warm and very humid; I am told that it will only get worse before it gets better. But Virginia is a lovely place and my new family continues to make me feel welcome.”

  Several letters from Johanna arrived at once, delayed on their trip from the colonies. It had taken three months for her to arrive at Somerlynn, somewhere on the James River. Davis still couldn’t believe that his sister was half a world away, living with a virtual stranger and his children. He consulted a map and traced the voyage, wondering if it was the same one his brother Colin had taken years before. Colin hadn’t returned and Davis wondered if he would ever see Johanna and the child she wrote that she was carrying.

  *************************

  Rebecca was not in the house when Davis returned from London. He walked to the drawing room window that overlooked the rose garden. She was there as he expected and he admired the view, his wife and her handiwork. Since returning to St. Clare’s, she had spent the time when she wasn’t caring for her mother in restoring the rose garden. It had been untended since his mother died. Her first task was to hire Alain Carlos, a brilliant young man who trained under Capability Brown. With his help, Rebecca had coaxed most of the old plants to a thriving state and introduced new varieties that she expected would take hold over the decades.

  The once barren orangery now contained trees filled with oranges, lemons, and limes. Their latest experiment was pomegranates and Carlos was optimistic they might have them the following year. Carlos had submitted plans to build intentional ruins about the estate beginning next spring. Despite the cost,
Davis approved all the expenditures. While she nurtured her plants, the worry lines on Rebecca’s face disappeared.

  He turned at the whisper of Sarah’s hobbling footsteps. He quickly went to her and helped her into a chair.

  “Montague said you had returned. Was your trip successful?” she asked.

  He handed her a glass of whisky. She took it gratefully, knowing that the drink would take the edge off her pain. He sat down and took a sip of his own before answering. “I suppose that’s relative. The American colonies remain stubborn with their boycott. They have assembled a “congress” that began meeting in September. We’ll see what comes of that.” Davis took another sip. “Susanne and Michael send their love.”

  “I wish they could have come here to stay for the summer.”

  “I do also. But Michael finds the city conducive to his writing.” He smiled wryly. “So he says.”

  Before Sarah could question his statement, Rebecca flew into the room and Davis stood to greet her. “Darling, you’re home!” she cried in excitement, falling into Davis’ waiting arms and kissing him. “Have you been back long? Why didn’t someone come and get me?” She pulled away and handed her mother a pink cabbage rose. “This is one of the bushes we planted this year, but Mr. Carlos expects a frost any day now, so this may be the last one.” She was uncharacteristically manic and acknowledged it saying, “I’m sorry, I’m in such a state, Davis. I’m just so happy to see you.” She pushed a dark curl off her forehead with a gloved hand.

  “You’re radiant, darling,” he replied honestly. She was distracted when he’d left for London the week before; now she was the Rebecca he’d courted the year before.

  “I’m a mess,” she laughed. “I’ll change and you can tell me about your trip when I return.” She left in the same whirl of energy as she entered with.

  In her room with only her maid, she chastised herself for not being more presentable for Davis. She hadn’t seen his carriage return; the only way she knew he was home was when she heard him talking to Sarah. For that matter, Sarah should have been resting. And she shouldn’t have been drinking whisky, though she knew that was Davis’ doing. “I should have been alerted the moment Lord Edderle arrived,” she crossly rebuked Mrs. Redstone, the housekeeper.