Regency Innocents (61 page)

It was the best he could do for her.

‘How are you feeling today?' Heloise chirruped brightly, coming in behind the maid who bore her breakfast tray.

Numb. She felt numb. She just could not dredge up any sort of emotion at all. It was as if all her capacity to feel had frozen solid.

She assayed a polite smile and replied, ‘Oh, much better, thank you. I slept so well.'

It had seemed unreal, when she had woken earlier, to find herself in this beautifully soft bed, with its crisp, clean sheets and velvet hangings, in a room that smelled of flowers. And to be wearing another of the Countess's scandalous nightgowns.

She had reached out for Robert, during the night, but of course, he wasn't there. And then she remembered that she would never wake up next to him again. For a while, she had found it hard to breathe. It felt as though a great weight was crushing her. But slowly, slowly, as
she had lain on her back, gazing up at the pleated velvet canopy, listening to her breath going in and out, in and out, the numbness returned. And she welcomed it.

She endured the day as well as she could, replying with politeness to all the Countess's attempts to draw her into conversation, meekly eating what food was set before her and then getting dressed, when a selection of clothing was brought upstairs for her from Robert's rooms. She refused the offer of a visit from a doctor. She was sure her physical injuries were only superficial. Bruises always faded in a day or so.

The Countess finally left her alone when she claimed she still felt exhausted, but, though she lay down on the bed, sleep was far from her.

Why had Robert not come? She knew he did not care for her, but could he not at least have pretended? Just this once?

Though why should he, when he had warned her, from the very start, that he would not pretend anything he did not feel, or use soft words when blunt ones would serve his purpose much better?

The day dragged interminably on, the one maid who had been granted the task of caring for her tiptoeing around her, wide-eyed, as though she was some sort of bomb that might explode upon the least provocation.

And Robert did not come to see how she was.

She ate, and slept another night, in her own nightgown this time. One that she'd brought up to London with her, which had remained among her things during the moves from The Dovecote to Robert's rooms. It had
worn almost transparent from washing, and had a patch near the hem where she'd put her foot through.

As she lay in the solitary comfort of the Countess of Walton's bed, it seemed symbolic of her state. Once, she had slept naked in her husband's arms. Now, she slept alone, in the nightgown she had worn as a single woman.

Single.

Alone.

She found it harder to rouse herself from bed the next morning. She had tossed and turned all night, replaying every single minute of her relationship with Robert, trying to see if there was anything she could have done differently, any way she could have made him love her, just a little.

And the harder she thought about it, the more she began to see that she had made excuses for him every time he had been rude or unkind. She had built him up in her imagination into something he was not, then clung to this image of him, when all the evidence was to the contrary.

The imaginary Captain Fawley, the hero of the Peninsula War with whom she had fallen in love, would have come to her, sat with her holding her hand lest she have nightmares, kissed her bruises and told her she was beautiful in his eyes, not flinched from her appearance as though it turned his stomach.

The real Captain Fawley was a hypocrite. He knew what it felt like to have people turn their eyes from his injuries, and yet he had done just that, to her!

He had only married her to spite Percy Lampton. He had wanted to hurt the other man, and did not care whom
he used to achieve his aims. He had urges, and had used her to satisfy them. And because she had been a romantic fool, and had responded with love, he had called her a slut. And had then carried on pursuing Susannah.

She had been such a fool! She had fallen headlong in love with a schoolgirl's vision of a wounded hero, not the real man at all.

By the time he did come up to the Countess's sitting room, after dinner on the second day, she was having trouble remembering what she had ever seen in him. And it was all she could do to keep her resentment reined back when he walked in. How could he have done this to her? Made her love him, then made her fall out of love just as fast?

She could feel the ice round her heart melting under a scorching blast of anger. Which was swiftly followed by the most agonising pain. Oh, how she wished she were still frozen in shock. Falling out of love hurt far, far worse than falling into it. For when she had fallen, she had at least had hope. Now there was none.

‘What do you want?' she shot at him, as he hesitated upon the threshold.

‘I have only come to inform you that arrangements have been made for you to accompany Lord and Lady Walton to Wycke, when they remove there at the end of the week. I will not be going with you. I thought it would be for the best.'

Yes, he would want to stay in London with Susannah while the Season lasted. Sending her to the family estate, to be a companion to the Countess during her
lying-in, would cause no undue comment in society at all. He would be rid of her, well rid of her.

And she of him!

Lifting her chin a notch, she said, ‘I could not agree more. Is that all?'

‘No. I thought you would wish to know there will not be a trial, as a result of your … ordeal. Nobody need know if you do not tell them.'

So, he did not think it worth prosecuting the men who had dragged her off the street, beaten and starved her and held her captive? What further proof did she need of his total lack of compassion? He just wanted the whole incident swept under the carpet.

Just as he wanted her to disappear from his life.

She was only surprised he had bothered to come and rescue her at all. If he had left her, he would probably be without a wife at all now. The will only said he had to marry, after all, not that he had to stay married for any specific length of time. As a widower, he would have been free ….

No, she could not pursue that line of thought. It was one thing to accept his nature for what it was, quite another to think he would connive at her death. Shakily she raised one hand to her brow, waving the other towards him in a dismissive gesture. She was not thinking clearly. She was still overwrought, that was what her mother would say.

When she raised her head, to give him some kind of reply, she found she was alone in the room once more.

Well, what had she expected?

He had come to tell her what his plans were for her
future. He had no reason to stay once he had delivered that message.

No reason at all.

Quite suddenly, it felt as though a black pit had opened up before her. She was falling, falling into it, and there was nobody to help her, nothing to cling to. She reached out and grabbed at the arms of the chair, reminding herself that she was in a pretty sitting room, on a comfortably upholstered chair, and soon she would be travelling into the country to stay at what was, by all accounts, a magnificent estate.

Her world was not really coming to an end.

So why did she start to weep? Why did the sobs rack her body, driving her to her knees on that soft, blue carpet? Why did she curl up into a tight ball, her fists clenched?

She did not know.

She did not love Robert any more, so it was foolish to cry because they were going their separate ways.

She thanked God she had fallen out of love with him, she really did.

Or being sent away from him would have broken her heart.

T
hey were going to travel to Wycke on Friday. She would be glad to go. She was beginning to feel as much a prisoner in this pretty suite of rooms in Walton House as she had been in that filthy cell. After the first couple of days, when she had felt too weak and battered to do more than eat and sleep by turns, she spent longer and longer pacing up and down like a caged tiger she had once seen in the Tower menagerie.

At least at Wycke, she could take long walks in the grounds and burn off some of her anger in the exercise. Or ride. The Earl had come in, and spoken to her quite kindly one evening, telling her he would make sure there would be a suitable horse for her use in his stables.

But Robert had not come with him.

She'd had enough! Turning on her heel, she marched to the fireplace, and tugged on the bell pull.

When Sukey came in answer to her summons, she said, ‘Can you please send one of the footmen to summon a cab for me?' She wished she had taken that
precaution the last time she had decided to go out. Those men, she had realised, a shiver sliding down her spine, must have been watching her movements for some time, looking for an opportunity to take her. She had frequently hailed cabs to take her to visit her mother. She would never be so careless again.

If Lord Walton did not mind, she thought she might even take one of the footmen with her.

She went to the armoire Lady Walton had given over to her use, and took out her blue merino spencer and the bonnet that went with it. It took a matter of seconds to attach a veil to its brim. For some reason, Robert did not want anyone to see her face, though she did not see why he was making such a fuss. Her bruises were fading now, and much of the swelling had gone down. Arnica was wonderfully soothing—much more effective than ale, she grimaced as she twitched the veil into position.

A few minutes later, Sukey came to tell her a cab was waiting. She had got part way down the stairs, before noticing Robert bristling at the foot of them.

‘Where are you going?'

She lifted her chin.

‘To visit my mother.'

‘That would be ill advised.' The expression on his face was forbidding.

But she had had enough of his high-handed edicts. ‘I am not going to leave town without bidding her farewell. She will think it most odd.' Deborah descended the last stair and made as though she would have stalked past him. But he reached out, taking her arm, saying,

‘If you insist on going, I will go with you.'

‘There is no need.'

‘There is every need!'

She locked glares with him for a few seconds, puzzled as to why he would want to go with her, when he had made it so plain that he was sick and tired of the very thought of her. It only took a few moments' reflection to work it out. He would not want her to say anything that might upset his precious Susannah, who was still living with her mother. The only reason he was insisting on going with her was to make sure she behaved herself.

She felt the insult keenly.

‘If you insist, I suppose I cannot stop you.' She sighed, turning her head away from him, to gaze longingly at the open door.

It took him only a minute or two to fetch his own hat and coat. Then they walked to the cab together, he handing her in as correctly as though they were any normal married couple, going visiting together.

But his face was grim, and neither of them spoke for the duration of the short journey.

Mrs Gillies was delighted to see them. She rose to embrace her daughter as the butler showed them into the sitting room, where she had been writing some letters. Though her face puckered with concern the moment Deborah lifted her veil to return her kiss.

‘Oh, my word! Whatever has happened to your face?'

‘I …'

She had not thought of an excuse. She had not thought beyond getting out and seeing her mother. All
she had wanted was to kneel at her feet, lay her head in her lap and sob her heart out.

But at that moment, Susannah bounced into the room.

‘Debs!' she cried, going to hug her. ‘I have missed you so much these last few days. I am so glad you are come, for I have such news! Oh, good morning, Captain Fawley,' she checked herself, dropping a polite curtsy, before turning back to Deborah.

Robert glowered at her before crossing the room to take a seat beside Mrs Gillies, who had subsided on to a sofa, anxiously plucking at the strings to her lace cap.

It was then that Susannah looked at Deborah properly.

‘Whatever has happened?' Impulsively, she reached out to touch the bruises that were leaking from Deborah's eyebrow, down the left side of her face.

‘I fell out of a coach,' Deborah said. It was almost the truth—the only part that she felt ready to share on this occasion. ‘So silly of me,' she said, settling on to a chair by the fireplace and smoothing down her skirts. ‘I would really rather not speak of it.' She raised her head to look directly at Susannah. ‘Let me hear your news, instead.'

While Susannah went to her favourite chair by the window, Deborah caught her mother's eye, and gave a tiny shake of her head. Then she shot a meaningful look towards Susannah, who was positioning her chair in the exact spot where the early morning sun would paint highlights in her hair.