Cressida's Dilemma

by Beverley Oakley

“Have you ever suspected there might be someone else, Justin?”

  When he shook his head, she countered, gently, “I was married to Lord Grainger for many years. I thought I knew him better than I knew myself. It was only in the final year of our marriage that I discovered I did not know him at all.”

  This was not the time to question Mariah about her husband. Justin rose and went to the window. “As I have already made plain, Mariah, nothing stands between Cressida and me except”—holding back the curtain, he stared into the moonless night—“the children.” It was the first time he’d put it into words. A vision of their young, happy faces blurred in his mind. Unhappily, he added, “They are everything to her.”

  “Children play an essential part in the success of a marriage, as I well know”—her voice wavered—“but they cannot provide her with everything she needs, Justin.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mariah, it was thoughtless of me—”

  “You are too sensitive if you thought your words implied that, just as your many children may be the reason for your troubles, the lack of children was the entire reason for my divorce and current situation.”

  He no longer wanted to pursue this line. Mariah was quite likely to prize from him deeper pain and grievances than he wished to articulate.

  “Cressida has given me four healthy daughters and a son, yet I am as drawn by her beguiling charm as I was the day we met.” He realized the words sounded trite and rehearsed. Forcing himself to cast aside his despondency, he began to pace. “She is an extraordinary woman and, just as she is devoted to family life, I am devoted to her.”

  Mariah gave a desultory little clap. “Bravo, Justin. I wish all husbands were as loyal to their wives as you are to your Cressida. I hope she may yet prove she deserves you.”

  From the window embrasure, Justin turned. “She does so every day. Cressida is kind and gentle, and it is only natural that with the arrival of so many in the nursery, she is less driven by the carnal desires which curse we men.” With a restless sigh, he returned to the sofa, giving Mariah a rueful smile. “You sought my services in the hope I might put an end to your pain and suffering by at least supplying you with an answer to the one question that has haunted you for eighteen years—the identity and location of your daughter.” Taking her hand, he squeezed it lightly. “Though so different from my wife, you are a woman, Mariah, who craves the same things Cressida does, the joy of seeing one’s children grow. Ironically, Cressida has this in such abundance she no longer needs me as much as she once did. I have her love and affection, and I tell myself it should be enough.” He shrugged, as if it didn’t hurt. “I’m following your investigation for you as a friend and, as discussed, I refuse payment for these services. But…” He dissembled, unsure where his thoughts were taking him. Deciding there was no need to censor the activity of his brain, he proceeded with unusual recklessness, his throat suddenly dry as he realized how much he wanted advice. “But, Mariah, as a friend, and a woman experienced in life’s sorrows and disappointments, perhaps I could ask from you some small payment? Perhaps you could tell me plainly if you believe all hope is lost.” He hesitated. “And, if not, suggest how I might rekindle my wife’s desire?”

  Mariah’s look was kind. In the manner of her countrywomen, she gave an expressive shrug. “Have you tried talking to her? That’s always a good beginning.”

  “I hear the irony in your tone, and I concede that words are the obvious, but sometimes the hardest, way to begin.” Frustrated, he added, “Cressida knew nothing about relations between men and women when I married her, though she seemed to have no aversion to her…bedroom duties.” With a pang of remembered longing, he reflected upon her unexpected enthusiasm and the heights of passion that had quickly elevated their relationship beyond the early kindling of their love.

  Until Thomas’ birth. No… He frowned, thinking. She had withdrawn before that. With three children in the nursery, her wifely devotions had swung definitely in favor of motherly duties, though it was only in the past ten months she had developed the regular megrims that seemed to coincide with his visits to her bedchamber.

  “Cressida was obviously born to be a mother.” He raked his hand through his hair. The evening had been most unsatisfactory. He could tell Mariah nothing that would give her comfort with regard to her search for her lost child, meanwhile, Mariah’s mild criticism of Cressida needled him, though he’d pressed on to discuss the marital problems that neither he nor his wife seemed able to broach.

  He picked up his demi-mask as he prepared to leave, returning to the subject of the business that had first brought them together. Briskly, he said, “I have been stringing out your anticipation by talking of my marital concerns when I intended merely to tell you that I have found not one, but two, likely avenues to pursue. Next time I visit, I shall have the list of the children who were admitted to and removed from the Sedleywich Home for Orphans in the years in which you are interested, Mariah. My report is begun, and I am following your lead, though I must tell you now, if your suspicion is correct, great effort has gone into muddying the trail that might reveal your daughter’s new identity.”

  Mariah sent him a grateful look. “You are a good man, Justin, and you have always been kind to me. If I can do anything in return, it would be to suggest that when you get home, take your wife into your arms, and ask her what is troubling her. Words may be the hardest way to broach the subject, but you have to give her the opportunity to say what’s in her heart before you reveal the state of yours.”

  Chapter Four

  Lady Belton’s masquerade seemed a distant memory, but the pain of what Cressida had learned the previous Saturday—four long days ago—was like a niggling boil that tonight, must be lanced.

  Regardless of the truth, people were talking. Catherine had said so. Cressida must resign herself to being an object of gossip, her cousin had said.

  Her hands felt cold and clammy in their York tan gloves as she fought for the courage to raise the polished brass door knocker in front of her. Everything seemed so alien, so frightening, without her husband or the children, or even a maid, beside her.

  But Cressida was not going to become an object of gossip or remain a miserable wife without first trying to discover the truth for herself. Initially, she’d thought to confront her husband directly. However, when she’d opened her mouth to ask Justin if it were true that—

  She closed her eyes and shuddered at the horror of ending that sentence. If she couldn’t even think it, then how could she say it to Justin? No, it couldn’t be true. And she did not have the fortitude for how disappointed Justin would be in her if he knew she seriously doubted his constancy.

  That was what she’d come to verify tonight—and didn’t it make her feel a thief in the night? Justin’s love, she knew she had in abundance, but his constancy…? If he had strayed, she had only herself to blame.

  Staring up at the unassuming, three-story residence in a part of town where no self- respecting woman would be seen dead, she reflected on a boldness she’d not dreamed she possessed. After first exhorting Cressida to learn the truth for herself, Catherine’s attitude had become sneering and disdainful as she’d gone on to advise Cressida to accept the inevitable as she had done years ago. It was true that Cressida was timid by nature, and certainly compared with Cousin Catherine, but she could not allow Catherine to brand Justin complacently as no better than any other man.

  The ring of the horses’ hooves as the hackney disappeared around the corner was the loneliest, most frightening noise she had ever heard. In her whole life, she’d never been alone or unaccompanied after dark. Nannies, governesses, Justin and then children had accompanied her everywhere.

  Adjusting the thick gauze veil over her face, Cressida took three deep breaths for courage as she picked up the brass door knocker. She was trembling so much she thought she’d crumple upon the spot.

  She took a shaky breath. She had to do this. Succumbing to her usual fear
was not an option. She had to be able to inform Catherine that her husband had never set foot within the notorious—as she’d now learned Mrs. Plumb’s salon definitely was—den of vice and iniquity. Regardless of what she discovered, she’d tell Catherine that, anyway. No, Cressida had to know for herself.

  Within seconds of her knock, she was admitted into a dim, quiet passage lined with paintings of women in various states of undress, the heavy atmosphere overlaid by a strong scent of musk. She felt the thickness of her veil for reassurance as she battled to combat the nausea caused by the sudden surge of fear before pressing her hands briefly against the passage wall to steady herself.

  She could do this. She had to do this.

  Her courage was bolstered by the sound of a confident contralto issuing through the door that had been opened for her by a slip of a parlor maid. Italian opera… Excitement mingled with trepidation as the girl took her cloak. She trembled at the distant sound of clapping.

  However, by the time Cressida had settled herself on a blue brocade chair, she was dismayed to find a tall, balding young man offering the company—of about thirty, altogether—a passionate recitation of a passage from Ivanhoe. If only she had timed her arrival a few minutes earlier, but Thomas had been fractious, and— She stopped mid-thought. The truth was that, although Justin was out, she had searched for just about every excuse not to come this evening and face her terrors.

  Now her usual prevarication, if not cowardice, had resulted in the loss of her prime opportunity for seeing for herself this Madame Zirelli, whom Catherine claimed had ensnared her husband, before deciding how best to act.

  Casting around the room for a woman who fitted the vague description Catherine had given her of a dark-haired woman nearing forty, she decided Madame Zirelli had quit the scene of her rousing performance.

  Of course, no one with pretensions to respectability would be seen dead at Mrs. Plumb’s, which was why more than half those assembled were in masquerade while another handful were, like herself, heavily veiled.

  Smoothing the skirts of her black silk gown, Cressida tried to swallow down her nervousness at seeing several gentlemen whom she knew were acquaintances of Justin. Of Justin, however, there was no sign, which made her vague, desperate plan seem all the more ill-conceived and not properly thought out. Was it any wonder her husband had grown tired of a wife who seemed capable of little more than nursing his children?

  Clapping dutifully as the current performer, the dome-headed orator, came to the end of his repertoire, her mind focused on her next move. What if someone addressed her? Asked her name? She had no idea how matters were conducted in a place like this, or indeed what went on other than music and conversation, though she could not plead complete ignorance. Catherine had taken such delight in telling Cressida about what kind of salon Mrs. Plumb ran. Cressida knew most wives would believe they had no choice but to turn a blind eye. They certainly wouldn’t venture out to visit such a salon as Cressida was doing right now. Perhaps most wives would consider Mrs. Plumb was doing a service, providing a meeting place for nefarious assignations in the dim chambers beyond if their husbands considered their amatory needs were not being met by their wives. Perhaps most wives considered that such discretion shown by their husbands, in avoiding bawdy houses or more public carte blanches, was acceptable. The idea sickened Cressida. It made her feel physically ill to think of what Catherine had said. That people like Justin—and even apparently well-connected, irreproachable women like herself—came here to meet a lover. If Catherine were with her, her cousin would no doubt claim that Justin and the Italian warbler she had heard on her arrival were closeted together at this moment, engaged in the very activities Cressida had once enjoyed so greatly but that now terrified her.

  Covering her face with her hands, she recalled Catherine’s gleeful revelations. She must not dwell on them. After all, it was only gossip, and Catherine thrived on gossip. It was to settle her doubts that she had come here.

  Even as she tried to bolster herself with this, she acknowledged that as Justin was rarely home these days, she must assume he was seeking company more diverting than her own.

  She was only half aware of the emptying of the drawing room—the withdrawal of patrons into chambers beyond while those remaining made small talk around a table of glazed ham and plover’s eggs.

  Her misery enveloped her like a cloak of heavy, green slime. Could it be true? Could Justin be amongst those who’d silently slid into the shadows? Oh, she was certain she retained her husband’s heart and his regard, but what was a man to do when denied his physical needs? Cressida had barely let him do more than caress her in ten months.

  “Would you care for some refreshment, madam?”

  It was Mrs. Plumb, judging by the description Catherine had given her. Coarse, plump Mrs. Plumb, dressed like Cressida in respectable widow’s weeds, smiling unctuously at her as she offered her a fizzing champagne coupe. Glancing about her, Cressida realized she was alone amidst a sea of empty blue brocade chairs.

  The women leaned closer, and her smile was conspiratorial. “Or perhaps there is a certain gentleman, known or otherwise, to whom you seek an introduction. Madame Plumb prides herself on ensuring the pleasure of her patrons.” She thrust out her hand and gripped Cressida’s wrist. “Madam, are you all right?”

  The woman’s vulgar words brought the bile rushing up Cressida’s throat. Pushing away, she hurried toward the door, past a knot of people gathered near the supper table, to find herself in a darkened passage. What on earth had possessed her to come to such a place? She was out of her mind. Without doubt, she was out of her depth.

  In the gloom, she observed a gentleman walking down the corridor, head bent, but when he raised it, as he drew almost level, he was smiling at her. And there was invitation implicit in the sweep of his speculative gaze.

  Fear and horror spiraled through Cressida as she gripped the first doorknob that came to hand, hoping wildly it would yield escape. She had to get as far away as she could from Mrs. Plumb, her patrons and their odious assumptions. Who knew what the woman was going to suggest for Cressida’s entertainment? A quick fumble with that man who looked like he was treading the corridors in search of conquest? He’d been young and handsome enough, so surely he had someone at home waiting for him?

  Mrs. Plumb’s establishment was not a place for a gently reared female, and the sooner Cressida was back home where she belonged, the better. It was time to admit defeat. And this was definitely a place Justin would never visit.

  Slipping into the room, she closed her eyes as she sank against the door on the other side. Blessed relief it was to be alone, though she wouldn’t rest until she’d found her way onto the street and freedom. Her heart was racing and her mouth was dry, but a calming scent of rosewater dissipated her nausea. After a moment, she became conscious of a faint singing in the background—soft, gentle, harmonious voices.

  Disoriented, Cressida opened her eyes and gazed upon the countenance of the most angelic creature she’d ever seen.

  “Would you like to join us?” asked the young woman, who smiled when Cressida jerked back in fear.

  Dressed in flowing, diaphanous robes, her long, fair hair rippled from a high Madonna forehead, and her eyes were blue and guileless. “My name is Ariane.” There was something mesmerizing about her gaze. As if she had no will of her own, Cressida stretched out her hands as Ariane whispered, “You look as if you have lost your way and don’t know how to find it again. I think I understand, for I was once like you—fearful. But there’s nothing to be afraid of in this house. Not if you are looking for love.”

  Everyone Cressida had seen tonight had been dressed in masquerade or heavily in disguise, but this young woman looked as if she had nothing to hide, as if she’d stepped straight from a mythical painting, adding to Cressida’s sense of unreality that she should be in such a place. Ariane was the most beautiful woman Cressida had ever laid eyes upon. She was also the most undressed, with her gossamer rob
es leaving little to the imagination.

  Blushing, Cressida looked down at their hands, now linked, and courage flowed through her. This young woman, Ariane, was one of four similarly dressed ‘goddesses’ in the room who all smiled kindly at her with understanding in their eyes. Suddenly, she felt emboldened. “I heard men and women,” Cressida swallowed, “meet lovers in this house. That’s not why I came. I haven’t come to meet a lover.” Pulling away her hands as she backed toward the door, she tried to steady her breathing. “I’m not like that. I saw a man in the corridor just now who looked at me as if I were like—”

  “Like one of us?” Ariane supplied with a gentle smile. She’d followed and now began to stroke Cressida’s arm, her soft, ungloved touch searing sensation through her. “A Vestal Virgin? That’s what we’re called, you know.” Ariane laughed softly. “If he was dark and handsome with a piratical leer, then he was probably my husband.”

  “Your husband?”

  Ariane nodded. “No need to sound so shocked. Mrs. Plumb’s Salon of Sin is for people like us—star-crossed lovers or those burdened by unhappy marriages. My husband and I eloped five years ago, but it’s a secret we must keep until he turns five-and-twenty and can therefore claim his inheritance.” A great sorrow seemed to weigh upon her shoulders, and her face pinched with pain. “So we meet here, where I survive by dancing for the entertainment of others. We all have a different story, and I have told you, a stranger, mine within a moment of meeting you. Unburdening oneself can be great catharsis, as my friends will attest.” She indicated the three other young women, whose mouths all turned up in a sympathy that shone from their eyes.

  Cressida stared. In harmony, they’d seemed as one, but now that they’d drawn closer and the candlelight flickered across their features, she saw the tallest was crowned with a cascade of jet black hair as glossy as a raven’s wing, her sharp, pretty little face viewing Cressida with fixed interest. The other two were fair, the youngest of them rubbing swollen eyes, suggesting she’d just been crying.