Obsession (25 page)

‘Thank you so much for being such a good friend, Felicity. Where would I have been without you?’ Harriet had said quietly.

She took Felicity’s advice. Brook did not leave the house after breakfast, as was his custom, and she would put on a warm cloak and seek the privacy of the summerhouse where she knew she would not be seen. It was there she gave way to the tears that inevitably followed her morning visit to Charlie. As often as not, she would find him kneeling on the nursery window seat staring down to the driveway below, and when she went to see what was interesting him, her heart would plunge. It was Brook, the man he called Papa, standing beside his favourite black stallion, Shamrock, who, saddled and harnessed, was pawing the gravel impatiently as Brook talked to Thomas, the head groom. Hoping to catch his father’s attention, Charlie would wave both small hands, hoping Brook would look up and wave back to him as he had so often done in the past. His little face would look so crestfallen when Brook finally leapt into the saddle and rode off at a smart trot without so much as a glance at the nursery window.

‘Papa gone!’ he would say sadly. ‘Papa’s got busy work.’

She always tried to distract him by offering to read a story or allowing him to play with his toy castle which, being quite fragile, was usually kept out of harm’s way. It was one of the very expensive presents Felicity had given him and never failed to divert him.

How could Brook be so cruel to the innocent child he had once loved so dearly? she asked herself tearfully. That he should wish to punish her for the lies she’d told him was understandable, but Charlie … Charlie who loved him almost as much as she did.

Harriet longed to go to Brook and beg him to tell her if he did intend to divorce her; and if not, would a time come when he would forgive her? When he could love her and Charlie again? Her pride which forbade such action might well have weakened were it not for Felicity’s persuasions that he was far more likely to relent if he thought
she
was contemplating leaving
him
and would do so if he did not come to his senses.

Although her instinct was to follow her heart, Harriet was very conscious of the fact that Felicity was not only older but undoubtedly more experienced in the ways of men than she was, having grown up with a brother. Brook, Felicity said, knew better than anyone in the world how much Harriet loved him. He must know already that she had only ever wanted his happiness. If he had any compassion, any understanding, he would not go on treating her in such an unrelenting fashion.

January gave way to February, and Harriet could bear the situation no longer. For once, she did not consult Felicity about the action she was about to take. Tonight, St Valentine’s Day, she resolved she would not allow Brook to sit at the opposite end of the dining table almost totally silent, answering her questions with no more than the minimum courtesy required of him. Tonight she would make him see that if he was not prepared for them to be reconciled and start to behave differently towards her, she might cease to care whether he divorced her or not.

Dry-eyed, she went to her dressing room and rang the bell impatiently for Ellen. When the maid came in, she instructed her to find in her wardrobe Brook’s favourite evening gown – a lovely dark rose silk dress which she had worn on her honeymoon. It had a tight-fitting bodice, its décolletage trimmed with lace, and the billowing skirt was decorated with pink and lime-green flowers. Although it was by now somewhat dated, he always loved to see her in it.

‘I shall want my gold and pearl locket, and the gold filigree earrings with the pearl drops,’ she instructed Ellen. ‘As for my hair, I will have it smooth on top, plaited, and folded into a chignon.’

Her final request was for plenty of hot water brought up by five o’clock so that she could take a bath before Ellen dressed her.

Looking at Ellen’s expressionless face, she added: ‘One more thing, please – my bracelet with the cameo and the eternity ring my husband gave me to celebrate Charlie’s birth.’

Had she imagined it, she wondered as she went back downstairs to consult Cook about changes she wished her to make to the dinner menu, or had Ellen’s customary expressionless face looked surprised? Disapproving? Uneasy?

Harriet had never quite made up her mind whether it had indeed been Ellen who had found her letter to Mrs Bates, and still less that having done so she would have shown it to Brook. Felicity, too, was adamant in her belief that it was the very last thing Ellen would have done; that, uncharismatic though the maid might be, she was at heart a very kind, selfless woman whose sole purpose was to improve her sister’s life.

When Harriet pointed out that there would have been no one else in her room that morning but Ellen, Felicity had argued that the woman would have had nothing to gain and would have been certain of dismissal without a reference had Harriet found her guilty.

Since then, Harriet had tried even harder to overcome her antipathy to her maid, telling herself that the poor woman worked well and toiled long hours to support her disabled sister. It was unfair of her to compare Ellen with her dear Bessie. She still thanked God in her prayers every night for Bessie’s survival and safe return home.

To her relief, Hastings had been surprisingly understanding about Bessie’s situation in the Far East when he finally insisted upon her telling him all the facts about the months of her abduction. Now the pair were planning to marry when Charlie was seven years old and sent away to boarding school, at which point he would no longer need a nanny.

Sending Charlie away to school was a prospect Harriet dreaded but, she decided, need not be faced until the time came for him to follow in Brook’s footsteps – if Brook still wished him to go to his old school. That evening, looking with unashamed satisfaction at her reflection in the cheval-glass mirror, Harriet’s face lit up with a rare smile. Tonight she was just as she had hoped – at the loveliest she could be. She was going to seduce her husband: make him want her – want to kiss her, make love to her, come to her bed once again.

She had found out from Hastings that Brook was not – as happened so often – intending to absent himself from the house and, although he’d ridden off with his groom after breakfast, he had returned in time for luncheon and not left the house again.

Tonight she had instructed Cook to produce a cheese soufflé and eels
en-matelote
, followed by duckling roasted with chestnuts, Brook’s favourite dishes. She had instructed Fletcher to bring up one of the mature clarets from the cellar, confident that he would not forget to remove the cork a half hour before the meal to let it breathe. It was a repast just right for Brook’s discerning taste – one he would most definitely enjoy, and if her hopes and plans materialized, he would set aside his anger and take her to his heart again.

B
rook opened his eyes and promptly raised his hand to shield them against the sunlight streaming through the curtains. He was instantly aware of a throbbing headache, and its cause. Last night he had done something he had sworn to himself he would not do: he had followed Harriet into the bedroom and …

At this point, Brook tried not to think further, but as his brain began partially to clear from the alcohol he imbibed the previous evening, he had all too clear a memory of what he had done. He had assaulted his wife.

Momentarily Brook’s eyes closed, as if to blot out the vision of himself staggering upstairs behind Harriet aware of only one thing – he wanted her: he wanted to possess her. Starved of her beauty these past three months, and with her alluring appearance throughout the evening, her voice soft and enticing, his body craved release and the zenith of satisfaction he had only ever reached in her arms. Throughout the evening she had made it equally clear that she wanted him to desire her; that she was hoping he would return to her bed.

Brook was now painfully aware of Harriet’s warm body as she slept beside him. He tried desperately to banish his recollections but they would not go away. He had drunk two bottles of claret, and afterwards made heavy inroads into the decanter of port left for him by Fletcher on the sofa table in the drawing room. Harriet, he recalled, had come to sit beside him and chattered about a party she and Felicity were planning. But then, after he had ordered Fletcher to bring him a brandy and leave the bottle on the table, he became aware that Harriet was no longer smiling. When she saw him refilling his glass a second time she’d stood up abruptly, saying she had a headache and was going to retire.

Brook now called to mind the hazy memory of enjoying the evening and Harriet’s company hugely, so it angered him when she had, despite his protest, suddenly ceased to smile. She’d moved quickly away when he’d tried to touch her, and left him even more angry when she announced she was going to retire.

Brook’s head was thrumming painfully and he wished he felt less giddy and could get up out of bed. Most of all, he wished his memories of the previous night would not keep surfacing. He must at some point have forgotten about Charlie; about Harriet’s shocking deception and his resolve never to forgive her for it. He must, too, have forgotten that on several occasions he had contemplated – albeit without much conviction – taking Felicity’s advice to put an end to what had become a sterile marriage: to divorce his wife.
He’d forgotten everything but his need to hold her in his arms, feel her kisses, her touch: his hungry need to possess her.

Beside him, Harriet stirred. Almost immediately, and without speaking, she got out of bed, pulled on her négligée and disappeared into her dressing room.

Brook was momentarily overcome by a deep feeling of shame. He had forced himself on her. Drunk as he’d been, he’d ignored her protestations and taken her fiercely, hungrily, thrusting himself into her again and again until at last he had found release. Within minutes he had fallen asleep, only faintly aware that his face as well as hers was wet with the tears she had shed.

Hastily, Brook now rang for Hastings. He needed coffee to clear his head. He would have liked a drink but knew he must not have one.

There was a knock at the door and Hastings came into the room. He settled a large breakfast tray on Brook’s lap and would have removed the silver covering the top of the breakfast dishes but before he could do so Brook pushed the heavy tray away.

Having seen his master drunk on many occasions since his rift with his wife, Hastings duly removed the tray and poured Brook a steaming cup of black coffee. When his master, considerably the worse for wear, had not come to his room last night, he had known that Brook had gone to his wife’s bedroom for the first time in months. Now, seeing his condition, he wished he could have persuaded him to go to his own dressing room where he now usually slept.

Brook, too, was silently wishing the same thing. The coffee was helping to clear his thoughts, and he remembered with shocking clarity how Harriet had protested violently when he had ripped the clothes from her body, forced his kisses on her and used his own weight to push her backwards on the bed. All the time he had ignored her protests, her tears, her pleas to him not to take her in anger, only in love.

Brook now felt bitterly ashamed of himself, but it was only a matter of minutes before he began to find excuses for what he had done. Not only had Harriet been overtly seductive, it had been she who had destroyed their marriage: destroyed the trust they’d had in each other with her lies and deceit. Her perfidy left him with no alternative than to deny the loving, satisfying, intimate side of their marriage. It was Harriet who had virtually left him without a wife.

Telling Hastings to leave him alone, he lay back on the pillows and closed his eyes. How could he stoop so low as to rape his wife – because that was what he had done. Being drunk did not excuse him, nor did the fact that he’d had to lead a monastic existence ever since the day that wretched maid of Harriet’s had shown him the letter.

Retrospectively, he asked himself now, would he rather not have known the truth about the boy? He had been so proud of him, so … yes, so devoted to him. Even now he found it hard when Charlie came running to him calling him ‘Papa’, a big smile on his little face. He’d been the child he believed to be a replica of himself, and his and Harriet’s love for one another.

Men did not cry, he’d told himself on such occasions when he’d felt like weeping because he had lost not only the son he’d thought he had, but the unbelievably happy married life he’d once taken for granted. Not only was he now bereft of all he cared about, but he had totally debased himself.
Why had he done it?
It wasn’t simply that he’d wanted a woman, any woman: he’d wanted Harriet. However much he might wish it otherwise, he still loved her. It was because he loved her so much that her deception had wounded him so irrevocably.

Once again, Brook now found himself questioning whether it might not be better for him to divorce Harriet. She was a constant reminder of what had once been and could never be again. As Felicity had said, he could provide Harriet and the child with a house, with money for her needs; he could provide for the child whose presence was invariably a painful reminder of what he had lost. As Felicity had pointed out, he was still a young man – handsome, according to her, financially well off and more than well able to find another wife who, this time, would be able to give him the family he wanted.

Felicity, Brook thought as he walked unsteadily back to his own dressing room, had been a tower of strength to him. What else were good friends for? she had replied when he had expressed his thanks for her welcome. She would continue to be a good friend to Harriet, she’d told him, despite her disapproval of the way Harriet had deceived him, because she was a very unhappy woman. Would he and Harriet not be happier living apart? Harriet most certainly would be so long as she had the child she doted on with her. He, too, would surely find life less stressful if they were not there as a constant reminder of the damage Harriet had done to him and their happy marriage.