by Dawn Harris
Yet, how could he think of work with Christabel’s note scorching a hole in his pocket? He thrust a hand through his thick sandy hair and studied himself in the mirror. What on earth did Christabel see in him? He was so ordinary. Average in every way; height, build, looks, with hazel eyes and good teeth. Jeannie said she’d fallen in love with his smile.
Jeannie. He tried to picture her bright, elfin face and slim, boyish figure, but couldn’t. Panicking, he took her photo from his wallet and her loving grey eyes smiled trustingly back at him. Childhood sweethearts they had been, and married at twenty-one. Much too young; he saw that now. And here he was, thirty next year, with sons of seven and five. Too much responsibility too soon. Jeannie was the only girl-friend he’d ever had. He’d never sown any wild oats, and surely a man was entitled to one lapse. His colleagues were right, only a fool would pass up a chance like this.
When Christabel opened her bedroom door, Stuart stood awkwardly in the open doorway. He’d never been unfaithful to Jeannie. Yes, they had married young, but he’d loved her then, and he loved her now. The others had said Jeannie would never know about Christabel. But he would know, and he realised the moment Christabel opened the door that he didn’t want to live with that.
Christabel smiled at him invitingly. ‘Are you going to stand in the doorway all night?’ She wore the same figure hugging dress she’d had on at dinner, and Stuart nervously fingered his collar. ‘Yes......no....er, I mean....’
Striding purposefully towards him, Christabel removed the hand tightly clutching the door handle, shut the door and locked it. Stuart broke out into a sweat. ‘Look ....I can’t....I’m happily married.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed complacently. ‘That’s exactly why I chose you.’
‘Ch—ose?’ he choked, wide-eyed and trembling.
She nodded. ‘Let me explain. I wangled my way into this job shortly after my husband had his accident.’ She raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘You do know about that, I suppose?’
‘Yes,’ he admitted in a hoarse whisper. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She sat on the edge of her bed, absently smoothing the duvet cover. ‘My husband’s situation causes me certain.....um.....shall we say, difficulties.’ Looking up, she fixed her eyes on his. ‘I don’t have to spell it out, do I?’
In a strangled voice he replied. ‘No—oo, of course not.’ It was true, then. Christabel was a raving nymphomaniac. The key was still in the lock; perhaps he could make a run for it.
‘So on the first day of each course, I make an assignation with someone like you. Someone kind, generous and thoughtful. A man who understands my predicament. It’s worked very well, so far.’ Stuart opened his mouth, but no sound came out. ‘No-one believes the truth,’ she went on. ‘That I love my husband and only took the job to be near the hospital. Luckily, I find that happily married men rarely want to cheat on their wives. We spend an hour together every evening, watching TV, and hey presto, the men who think I’m fair game leave me alone.’
Stunned, Stuart managed to gasp, ‘But, how did you know I.........’
‘Happiness and contentment show in the face,’ she said gently. ‘Now, which channel shall we watch?’
Eagerly he blurted out, ‘Blow the telly. There’s something else I’d much rather do.’
Christabel glanced up quickly and warned in icy tones, ‘Now look.....’
‘Please,’ he begged. ‘I desperately need some help with this wretched IT course.’
An Offer of Marriage
The two occupants of the luxurious chaise travelling back to London were unusually silent. Mrs Henrietta Wetton, the wealthy widow to whom the chaise belonged, was leaning back resting her eyes. While her young goddaughter, Miss Sophie Cunningham, whose willowy elegant beauty had taken London society by storm this season, was forcefully reminding herself that beggars can’t be choosers.
She had come to London to find a suitable husband. And if an offer of marriage from an immensely likeable young man like Lord Duffield wasn’t suitable, she didn’t know what was. She had no right to feel miserable. And no right whatsoever to long, with every fibre of her being, that the offer had come from Adam. For Adam Wetton, the elder of her godmother’s two sons, had made it mortifyingly plain that he had no intention of marrying her.
Despite her distress, Sophie suddenly began to giggle. For the large feather on her godmother’s hat had slithered over the end of her nose, and was now wafting up and down in time with her breathing. Before her stay in London, Sophie had only ever communicated with her godmother by the occasional letter. Since her arrival, however, she had quickly become enormously fond of the rather indolent Mrs Wetton, whom she’d always known as Aunt Hetty.
Most of Sophie’s life had been spent on the Continent, where her father’s artistic talents had, unfortunately, remained largely unrecognised. Her parents had nine children to establish in the world and very little money with which to achieve it, thus the future of them all depended on Sophie making a good marriage. Aunt Hetty had put her situation in a nutshell.
‘Your lack of fortune is a handicap, my dear, but you don’t want for sense. Should a man of comfortable means make you an offer -- one whom you do not find repulsive, of course, then I need not tell you where your duty lies.’
Her aunt had chaperoned her on an endless round of balls, routs, assemblies, visits to museums, theatres and the opera; she had been presented at court, and met “Prinny,” as Aunt Hetty called the corpulent Prince Regent. All of which they had both enjoyed enormously.
Now they were returning from a short visit to the country, where the party had included both Adam and Lord Duffield. A visit which had terminated in this morning’s humiliating interview with Adam. The memory of which was so past bearing that tears filled her eyes and threatened to spill over. But she forced them back as Aunt Hetty opened her eyes, sat up straight, carefully adjusted her hat and glanced out of the window.
‘Hounslow Heath,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘We’ll be home in good time for dinner.’ Observing the pinched look on Sophie’s face, she asked solicitously, ‘Is there anything wrong, my dear?’
Sophie raised a pair of desolate, misty eyes. ‘Last night I received an offer from Lord Duffield.’
Aunt Hetty’s heart sank. ‘Did you accept?’
‘I....I asked for time to consider the matter.’
‘Quite right. Most proper.’
Duffield was a wealthy and universally liked young man, and Hetty believed he would make Sophie an excellent husband. It was just that, with her younger son already happily married, was it wrong to want the same for Adam? And if he wasn’t in love with Sophie, then she was the Archbishop of Canterbury.
‘I don’t suppose Adam has....’ she began tentatively. Sophie shook her head vigorously, not trusting herself to speak. For Adam had given her no choice now but to forget those expressive dark eyes, smooth aristocratic features and that disarming smile which made people forgive his impatient nature. ‘Oh dear,’ sighed Aunt Hetty. ‘I did so hope that he’d forgotten all that other nonsense.’
Until this morning, Sophie hadn’t known there was any nonsense to forget. Nor had she known why Adam had taken to avoiding her lately. When a small sob escaped her, Aunt Hetty patted her hand. ‘All is not yet lost, my dear. Besides, there is no doubt in my mind that you would be the perfect wife for my son.’
‘But Aunt, if Adam doesn’t wish to marry me.....’
‘Of course he wishes to marry you. He just doesn’t realise it yet! So we must use a little subterfuge, something to push him in the right direction.’ Nevertheless she added prudently, ‘Don’t let Duffield off the hook yet ----- just in case.’
She had just begun to regale Sophie with the story of her own stormy courtship, when the chaise suddenly lurched to an abrupt halt. ‘What on earth....’ Aunt Hetty blurted out, just as the door was torn open to reveal a rough looking man with a scarf over the lower half of his face, pointing a pistol at them.
Aunt Hetty
screamed and promptly fainted. But Sophie’s steady gaze held a hint of steel and in a voice that barely trembled, she warned, ‘Our escort is but a short distance behind...’
‘Well, ‘e ain’t ‘ere now, is ‘e,’ the ruffian sniggered. And rapidly removed Aunt Hetty’s vast array of rings, bracelets, brooches and her valuable necklace.
Sophie’s only adornment was a pretty locket, a much-treasured present from her father. She tried to cover it up, but the highwayman hissed, ‘Give that ‘ere, or I’ll shoot.’
Adam, riding back to London alone, heard two shots ring out as he approached Hounslow Heath. Instantly spurring his horse into action, his heart almost stopped when he saw two inert figures on the ground by his mother’s stationary chaise. For there was no mistaking Sophie’s sky blue pelisse, which so enhanced the colour of her enchanting soft grey eyes.
She had been wearing it this morning when she had deliberately waylaid him on his way to the stables, remarking in her direct way, ‘Mr Wetton, would you care to walk in our host’s splendid walled garden before we leave?’
Startled, he bowed slightly and acquiesced, her nearness playing such havoc with his senses, he’d almost given way to the overwhelming urge to throw caution to the winds, crush her in her arms and kiss her in a decidedly thorough manner. Only the sure knowledge that he would deeply regret it later had stopped him.
He’d listened gravely as she told him of Duffield’s offer and asked his advice. Adam understood her meaning perfectly. She was giving him his chance, and if he didn’t take it, Sophie’s circumstances would compel her to accept Duffield. He’d muttered hoarsely that Duffield was an excellent fellow, expecting her to then drop the subject. But Sophie was made of stronger stuff than that. Indeed, her bluntness had taken his breath away. With scarlet cheeks, she had whispered, ‘Have.....have you never thought of marriage, Mr Wetton?’
‘Once,’ he admitted in a harsh, cynical voice. ‘When I was twenty, I nearly eloped with the most beautiful, gazelle-like creature I’d ever set eyes on. Fortunately, our plans were discovered in time.’
‘Fortunately?’
‘She was sent to relatives in Scotland for six months. Sadly, I’d completely forgotten her in two.’ A small gasp escaped Sophie’s lips, and he commented with rueful irony, ‘Exactly, Miss Cunningham. She is now the happy mother of several children, her figure has enlarged accordingly, and I really cannot imagine what I ever saw in her.’
Sophie met his eyes frankly. ‘Undoubtedly a lucky escape.’
‘Indeed it was.’ Having reached the garden, he held the gate open for her. ‘Unfortunately, my interest in any other woman has also been of a similar short duration.’ His eyes darkened. ‘As I obviously do not have the constancy essential for a happy marriage, I prefer to remain a bachelor.’
Sophie hesitated. She had already said far more than was proper, yet life without Adam was too bleak to contemplate. ‘Forgive me, Mr Wetton, but these experiences you speak of---perhaps you simply had not yet met the right person. Your brother, for instance, has been luckier in that respect, has he not?’
‘My brother? Perhaps.’ Adam shrugged. ‘I’m thankful he has sons to whom I may safely leave my fortune, but his happy marriage is tempered by his being saddled with an intolerable collection of his wife’s grasping relatives?’ His lip curled with contempt. ‘I can imagine nothing worse.....’
Sophie had never been more mortified. Her chin shot up in defiance, her eyes blazed with outraged fury, and in a voice that vibrated with barely controlled anger, she burst out, ‘You have said quite enough, Mr Wetton.’ And with a swirl of her skirts, she turned and swept abruptly back towards the house.
Adam gasped. How could he have forgotten Sophie’s large and penniless family? Cursing his crass stupidity, he called after her, ‘I didn’t mean.....’
But it was too late. Sophie, too proud to let him see she was crying, refused to look back. Yet, if she had, all might have changed, for Adam’s eyes were filled with a longing no woman could misunderstand.
Desperately, Adam tried to convince himself it was all for the best. In a few weeks, when his interest inevitably palled, she would thank him. Sophie deserved to be happy, and Duffield would never give her a moment’s heartache or pain. Yet, unaccountably, that thought caused him to put such pressure on the riding crop in his hands that it snapped in half.
The whole of that disastrous episode flashed through Adam’s mind as he rode hell for leather towards Sophie, who lay motionless on the ground with her head slumped on the coachman’s chest.
Adam felt as if the world had come to an end. What a fool he’d been to imagine he could give Sophie up. He needed her as much as he needed air to breathe.
He caught sight of her blue bonnet, discarded by her side. If only she was alive, he would shower her with bonnets. Grey ones to match her eyes, chestnut concoctions for her hair, and pink for those lips he’d never kissed. He would grovel at her feet, settle money on her pesky family, and house them all if that would make her happy. If only she wasn’t dead.....
Adam leapt off his horse and fell to his knees beside Sophie. Having ascertained, with unutterable relief, that she was still breathing, he murmured distractedly, ‘Sophie, my darling girl.....’ And continued to whisper endearments with the fervour of a man passionately and hopelessly in love. At the precise moment Sophie opened her eyes, a piercing scream emanated from the chaise. Mrs Wetton had come round.
‘I must go to her,’ Sophie insisted shakily and, despite Adam’s protests, she stood up. ‘I’m not injured, Mr Wetton,’ she assured him, fingering her locket. ‘I...I think I must have fainted.’
‘Miss Cunningham,’ Adam began, taking her hands in his, and looking at her in a manner that sent a delicious shiver up and down her spine, ‘there is something of importance I wish to say to you....’
It took all of Sophie’s iron will to remove his hands, to reproachfully remind him, ‘Mr. Wetton, the coachman is still unconscious and requires a doctor at once. In grappling with the thief he collected a bullet in the shoulder. Another shot grazed his head.’ And she added gently, ‘Besides, your mother needs me.....’
Flushing slightly, Adam bowed. ‘I beg your pardon. You are quite right, of course.’
He drove them home, and sent for his own doctor, who attended to the coachman and made him comfortable. The doctor then prescribed sleeping draughts for the two ladies, thus further thwarting Adam’s urgent desire to speak to Sophie.
Unable to present himself at his mother’s house again until morning, he spent half the night pacing up and down his bedchamber like a caged lion. He had to reach Sophie before she gave Duffield his answer. But what if she refused to see him? What if his thoughtless remark about her grasping relatives had put him beyond the pale?
Thus, it was a very impatient and tense Adam whom the butler ushered into the parlour where his mother was partaking of a leisurely, and solitary, breakfast. ‘Where’s Sophie,’ he demanded, without ceremony.
Mrs Wetton put an agitated hand to her temple. ‘Please Adam, do not shout. My nerves are still shot to pieces after yesterday.’
‘I’m sorry, Mama, but I must see Sophie before she speaks to Duffield. She thinks I don’t mean marriage and....’
‘Why would she think that?’ his mother queried artlessly, her nerves not preventing her from buttering a third piece of toast.
‘I told her so,’ he growled, and put his head in his hands. ‘Mama, I have made a proper mull of it all.’
‘So it would appear.’ Her lips twitched, but she asked with commendable gravity, ‘Am I to assume you have changed your mind?’
‘Yes,’ he replied fiercely. He stood looking out of the window at the busy street below, his hands clenched behind him. ‘Mama, I thought my lack of constancy in love was a flaw in my character. That it would be the same with any woman, no matter how strong my initial feelings were. But when I thought she was dead,’ his voice shook at the recollection, ‘that was the leveller. I kne
w I simply couldn’t live without her. She is so far above any woman I’ve ever known.’
He stopped, recognising the man now calmly walking down the front steps of the house. Adam swung round, his eyes flashing with anger. ‘Duffield was here all the time. And you knew.....’
‘He called to see how Sophie was after yesterday’s adventure,’ she responded impassively. ‘I thought it wiser not to mention it in your present agitated state, in case you felt it necessary to run him through. However.....’ She broke off as the door opened, and looking up, she smiled with pleasure. ‘Ah, Sophie, my dear....’
Adam reached Sophie in three purposeful strides, caught her hands in his and threatened, ‘If you have accepted that eminently suitable young man’s proposal, I shall be forced to cut out his heart.’
Sophie gazed fearlessly into those dark smouldering eyes that she loved and gurgled with delight. ‘How very fortunate then that I refused him. To save Lord Duffield from certain death, and you from the scaffold, all in one day is surely......’ At this point, Adam took her hands in his, before crushing her into his arms and kissing her in a manner that prevented all speech for some considerable time.
With a satisfied smile on her lips, Hetty quietly left the room. She’d known what the outcome would be ever since Sophie had revealed Adam’s reaction to finding her lying motionless with her head on the coachman’s chest.
‘The truth is,’ Sophie had explained, her eyes alight with mischief, ‘I was listening for the poor man’s heartbeat. Thankfully it was very strong, so when I saw Adam riding towards us like a madman, I decided to try the kind of subterfuge you suggested. I simply shut my eyes, lay still and pretended I was, at the very least, unconscious.’
Women Like Us
I burst into my mother’s house like a tornado. ‘Mum, I’ve got to borrow-----‘
