Sweet Awakening (11 page)

It was three days before Clare’s face was back to normal and when the Rainsborough’s finally reappeared at the next rout, the glances down at her waistline and the inquiries after her health were not subtle at all.

Sabrina was at Clare’s side almost immediately, solicitous and concerned. “I was getting really worried, Clare, when Peters sent me away again yesterday.”

“I hated to do it, Sabrina, but I was still not feeling quite myself,” apologized Clare.

“I don’t mean to pry, but I hope it wasn’t anything serious?”

“No, just fatigue and a cold. And
no,
I am
not
increasing,” added Clare, with a twinkle in her eyes, answering Sabrina’s unspoken question. “And don’t you start inspecting my waist. I promise you will be one of the first to know, after Justin, of course,” she added.

Giles had seen their arrival from across the room. Clare was dressed in lavender sarcenet and had violets threaded through her hair. There was a flash of purple at her throat as she walked by a candelabra and he realized it was something new, obviously a gift from her husband. When he saw her with Sabrina, he made his way over.

“Clare, I am very happy to see you here,” he said after they greeted one another. “When I came back with your punch the other night and you had gone, I was afraid you had been taken ill. And then Sabrina told me I was right. You are recovered, I hope?”

“Lady Rainsborough is completely recovered, Whitton,” said a voice behind Giles as Justin joined them. “Thank you for your concern.”

“Clare is an old friend, and I will always be concerned for her welfare,” Giles said easily.

“Ah, but that is not at all necessary, Whitton, for she now has a loving husband to care for her. Come, my dear, I wish to introduce you to someone who has just returned from the West Indies. I want him to meet my beautiful wife.” He took Clare’s arm and they were gone very quickly, leaving Giles and his sister looking at one another in consternation.

“Well, Rainsborough certainly is making his feelings clear, Sabrina.”

“Oh, Giles, I am sorry. I am sure it is none of Clare’s doing. She still has all the old affection for you. And though I am loathe to say it, were I Rainsborough, I would be tempted to keep my wife away from old friends and suitors.”

“Oh, I can understand it,” said Giles. “Although what he thinks he has to worry about, I don’t know. Clare was clearly besotted from the first time they met. He has no rival in me,” he added bitterly. “Did you see her necklace?”

“Yes. Isn’t it the one you gave her, Giles? I thought it was a pretty gesture on her part to wear it again.”

“No. It is enough like mine to remind you of it and different enough to give the clear message that if anyone is going to bring out the purple lights in my wife’s eyes, it will be me, thank you very much. It is an odd gift, don’t you think, Brina?”

“Perhaps you are just overly sensitive because it is Clare, Giles.”

“I suppose so. Well, message received, but I’ll be goddamned if I do not claim a dance with her tonight and whenever I will.”

* * * *

Although Clare had told herself that Justin’s jealousy was a thing of the past, that the incident was closed, that she had convinced him she felt nothing for Giles, she had made sure to fill her dance card quickly and only had a country-dance available for her old friend. She had been relaxed for their fateful waltz, but for this dance she was still and unresponsive, always wondering whether Justin was somewhere on the sidelines watching. Her smile was forced, and after the music stopped and Giles led her off the floor, she thanked him breathlessly and asked him to take her over to where Lucy Kirkman and a few friends were chatting. It was clear to Giles that she was dismissing him, but he only smiled a polite good-bye, as though nothing had changed between them.

Clare was relieved that her husband had not been hovering at the edge of the dance floor, but engrossed in conversation with a group of acquaintances. Since she had no more dances with Giles, she was able to relax and enjoy the rest of the evening. Her waltzes with her husband were delightful, and they left early, each eager for the passionate lovemaking they knew was to come.

And when Clare awoke the next morning and looked over at her sleeping husband, she knew that difficult as it was to pull back from Giles, it was well worth it if it kept her husband happy and their marriage as solid as it had every indication of being. There was only one thing that would make her happier, she decided, running her hands across her belly. That was to satisfy all the gossips and give Justin the son he and she wanted.

The rest of the Little Season passed by quickly and uneventfully. Clare felt she did a subtle balancing act between avoiding Giles whenever she decently could and at the same time, not making it noticeable, either to the gossips, or she hoped, to him. It had been worth the effort, however, for Justin had been true to his word and not only avoided strong drink, but went out of his way to prove he trusted her. In fact, one evening, he even commented that he wouldn’t like to think she was slighting Whitton on his account, nor would he want any gossip to that effect, and hadn’t she better save at least one dance for him this week?

* * * *

They left for Devon before most of the ton in order to avoid the worst of the early winter weather. Clare was delighted to be home again and threw herself into holiday preparations with the enthusiasm of a child. And, indeed, she felt like one and intended to have the Christmas she always wanted. When she missed her monthly course in the beginning of December, she hugged her secret to herself, not wanting to tell Justin until she was absolutely sure she was increasing. But what a lovely secret to carry during the Christmas season.

Invitations came to the house as thick and fast as snowflakes. It seemed to Clare that all their neighbors, both those that had gone up to London and those who had remained in Devon, were planning something in the two weeks before Christmas. They accepted most of them, but not all, for Justin put his foot down when he saw the shadows under Clare’s eyes after a particularly busy few days. But the Viscount Ware’s St. Lucy’s Day ball was one that no one in the neighborhood would miss. Ware Hall was always hung with decorations early, and redolent of evergreens. The viscount and his wife were excellent hosts, and the food was always better from one year to the next, or so everyone always exclaimed.

* * * *

Clare was surprised and felt a moment of concern when she thought she caught a whiff of spirits as Justin handed her into their carriage. She told herself she was being foolish. If Justin had had a drink, surely he had a right to celebrate the holidays with a taste of brandy.

“Lady Rainsborough. It is delightful to have you with us your first Christmas in Devon.” The viscount, who was a hearty man with a great booming voice, looked over at his wife. “Aren’t we, my dear?” His viscountess, who was comfortable with her husband’s enthusiastic personality and lack of self-consequence, merely took Clare by the hand and said: “Come, my dear, let me introduce you around. You have met most of the neighbors, but there are a few you have missed.”

One of those she had missed was Sir Percival Blake, who had been in Canada and the United States and had only returned in November. He was a handsome gentleman, quite different from Justin, with pale blond hair and equally pale blue eyes and a prominent nose, who looked to be five years older than her husband. He obtained both a cotillion and the privilege of taking Clare into supper, and she had to admit that she found herself looking forward to supper, for she had always wanted to travel and was particularly interested in America.

Sir Percival was as delightful a supper companion as she had expected, and had her laughing and shivering in turn at his stories, which went from humorous to dramatic in minutes. She was enjoying herself so much that she actually forgot Justin’s presence, which was the first time that had happened since they met. When they finally left the Wares’, Clare was bubbling over in the carriage: “Can you imagine, Justin, the city of Boston was actually constructed around cow paths? And Sir Percival told me he spent many weeks living with a native tribe and learning their ways.”

Justin was silent while Clare chattered, and it wasn’t until he requested a footman to see Lady Rainsborough into the house, that she smelled the liquor on his breath.

“Go on, Clare, go in,” he waved impatiently. “I am just going to take a turn around the drive to clear my head.”

It was all right then, she thought. Well, why shouldn’t it be all right? It was the holiday season, her husband was in the mood to celebrate with his neighbors, and he intended to clear his head by a short walk on a clear, cold evening.

She was in her night rail and wrapper with Martha brushing her hair out when Justin came to her room. He took the brush from the maid and dismissed her, saying, “I will finish getting Lady Rainsborough ready for bed, my girl.” Martha glanced over and met Clare’s eyes in the mirror. “Yes.” Clare nodded. “You must be tired from waiting up for us. Go to bed, and I will see you in the morning.”

“Yes, my lady.” Martha had smelled the liquor on Lord Rainsborough’s breath and wasn’t sure she wanted to leave her mistress alone with him, but she didn’t have a choice. And his tone had been calm enough. He didn’t seem overset. As far as she knew, he had been nothing but gentle and loving with his wife after that first incident.

After Martha shut the door behind her, Justin began drawing the brush through Clare’s curls, gently at first, which lulled her into a state of relaxation, and then suddenly harder.

“Justin, that hurt, my dear. I think my hair has been brushed enough anyway,” she said with a laugh, and reached up her hand to take the brush.

Rainsborough put the brush in her hand, and closing his over it, twisted her wrist until she winced with pain. “There, there is your brush, my dear. And there you sit, admiring yourself in your glass like the whore you are.”

Clare sat speechless. It came out of nowhere, this attack, and all she could do was look aghast at her husband’s face in the glass. His eyes were icy and opaque, his face flushed with drink.

“Justin, I think you have had too much brandy again,” she said as calmly as she could.

“Don’t talk to me about what I have or haven’t been drinking. Who wouldn’t drink if he had to watch his wife fawning over a blowhard like Percy Blake.”

Oh, God, it is the same thing all over again, thought Clare. Lynton, Giles, and now Sir Percival. “I wasn’t fawning, my dearest,” she replied sweetly and evenly, as though he wasn’t accusing her of almost-adultery. “It was only that Sir Percival is a good storyteller. Why, I even told you one of his most amusing tales on the way home.” Clare was sure if she was quiet, if she didn’t raise her voice, if she inhaled and exhaled slowly, imperceptibly, if she didn’t move, didn’t disturb anything further, Justin would surely stop.

“You should know a good storyteller, my dear, for you are one, too, so meek and mild and sweetly humoring your drunken husband.” Rainsborough ran his hand up her back and then her head, and grasping a handful of hair he suddenly stood up and dragged her with him.

Clare gave a low whimper. “It hurts, does it, my so treacherous wife?” Rainsborough wrapped his hand even more tightly and pulling her face back, began slapping it, at first softly and then harder.

* * * *

Martha always knocked twice in the morning, for Lord Rainsborough always spent the night and sometimes sent her away, saying his wife was not ready to get up yet. She knew what
that
meant. Most likely that he was up again and at her. Although she had to admit, her mistress always looked like a contented cat in the morning.

Today, however, there was no answer at all. She was about to go in, but hesitated. If they were right in the middle of it,
she
wouldn’t want to be the one who walked in on them. And so she sought out Lord Rainsborough’s valet.

“Is his lordship up yet, Price?”

“No, and not likely to be for a while, Martha,” said the valet, making a repeated tippling motion with his hand.

“Did he spend the night in his own room, then?”

“Yes, although it is the rare night that he does that, Martha,” said Price with a wink.

Martha hurried back to Lady Rainsborough’s room. She knocked once more, but this time didn’t wait for an answer.

Her mistress lay curled up like a child, still asleep. Martha was smiling as she watched her until she saw the bowl of dirty water and bloodstained cloth. She was very aware of when Lady Rainsborough’s monthly course was due. She knew it was three weeks overdue and had been secretly happy for Clare. Perhaps her mistress had had a sudden onset last night? She could have been increasing and lost the child in this early stage. She leaned over Clare and shook her gently, worried that Clare’s deep sleep was perhaps a sort of faint from loss of blood.

Clare groaned at Martha’s touch and turned over to see who was pulling her up out of oblivion. She could only see out of one eye, and it was hard to say Martha’s name with her swollen lip.

“My God, what happened to your face, my lady?” Martha whispered and then answering herself said: “Never mind, I know just what happened to your face. That bastard. That stinking bullying bastard,” she muttered.

“No, no, Martha,” Clare protested.

“Don’t you try to tell me no more stories about doorjambs, Lady Rainsborough. I didn’t believe the first one, and I won’t believe it now. Come now, sit up and let me see what he’s done to your pretty face.”

Clare let herself be supported by Martha’s arm, while the maid gently probed her nose and eye.

“Your nose is not broken, no thanks to him. And the eye looks to be all right. Why ever didn’t you call out for me, my lady?”

Because I had no voice, Martha, thought Clare. Because I wasn’t really there. Because it was only a dream. No, an eternal nightmare.

“Oh, I know it is none of my business and what could I have done anyway against him? Well, you are certainly not getting out of bed today or anytime this week.” Martha hesitated and then decided she had to ask. “The blood on the cloth, my lady. That was only from your nose? You don’t need any cloths do you?”