When they got home, Justin handed her down with exaggerated politeness and told her he would be up soon. She started up the stairs slowly and watched him go down the hall to the library. He had had Madeira to drink at supper and several glasses of champagne at the ball. And there was always a decanter of brandy in the library. When he went there before coming upstairs ...
Liza helped her out of her gown and into her night rail.
“Do you want me to brush your hair, my lady?”
“Please, Liza.” Clare said yes not because she liked the abigail’s company or the brisk way she brushed her mistress’s hair. She wanted to keep Liza there as long as possible. Sometimes it made a difference if her abigail was with her when Justin first came up.
Justin opened her door just as Liza was finishing.
“You can go, Liza,” he said. He was talking slowly, so as not to slur his words, and Clare trembled as he closed the door and came up behind her. He put a hand on each of her shoulders and dug into her flesh with his fingers.
“Who are you thinking of tonight, Clare? Whitton seems to have been avoiding you.”
“I am not thinking of anyone, Justin,” said Clare. It was hopeless to think she could get through to him, but she always quietly denied his charges.
“Perhaps it is the young Earl of Bewley? He is a very handsome young man, if you go for that sort of pretty face, isn’t he, Clare?”
If she said “no,” he would call her a liar. So she said: “Yes, Justin, he is very good-looking.”
“And you enjoyed your waltz with him, I could tell.”
His hands had moved so that they were resting on her throat, and as she swallowed, she could feel them tightening.
“It was a waltz like any other, Justin,” she whispered. She was looking down at her dressing table, staring at her brush and comb and hand mirror. She noticed a few grains of powder that had spilled, and thought, inconsequentially, that she would have to make sure that Liza cleaned it up. She could not lift her eyes and look in the pier glass. If she did, she would meet the hard, bloodshot eyes of her husband. She saw the face of the loving Justin less and less these days. This past year it was not months that went by, or weeks, but days before his transformation into the man who despised her and took pleasure in hurting her. He had to be too drunk to do much tonight, please, please God.
Of course, she didn’t really believe in God anymore. How could she? She had promised before Him to love, honor, and obey her husband. Under the laws of God and man, she was helpless. Once, last summer, she had tried to talk with their vicar. She had thought that maybe if he talked to Justin, it might help. But as soon as he realized what she was telling him, he only said in his Sunday-sermon voice that her husband knew far better what was best for their marriage than an outsider, all the while looking at her with distaste, as though she had dropped a squashed, but still wriggling snake on his desk.
But it helped to calm her fear to say, “Please God, please God,” even though she now expected no answer. If his representative on earth wouldn’t help her, was disgusted by her, then why should God help?
“You smiled up at him the way you used to smile at me, Clare. You are leading him on, just like you led me on.
He
thinks you love him, just like I did.”
It did no good to protest or to get angry. To cry. It only made him worse. So she just said, in the even, calm voice she had worked so hard to master: “No, Justin. I have only loved you. I still only love you.” Although she was not sure that was still true. But she would make it true, by constant repetition, or else what did her marriage or her life mean?
She felt his hands tighten again, and there was pressure against her windpipe.
“I could kill you very easily, right here, right now, Clare. And unlike Othello, I would have all the right in the world on my side if I choked the life out of my Desdemona.”
He had begun threatening her life in the last six months. At first she had thought he was only pushed by the brandy and his insane jealousy into making insane threats. But after he had choked her into unconsciousness twice, she began to fear not only for her sanity, but her life.
She couldn’t say anything now, because his hands were pressing so hard against her throat that her vision was beginning to cloud. Then the pressure released. She was alive. He had not choked her to death tonight. She would not be able to go out for a few nights because of her face. He would calm down. He would come in and apologize tomorrow or the next day and she would have a little time to feel safe.
* * * *
It took Justin three days this time. Clare had kept to her room, with Liza helping her climb stiffly into her bath and bringing her meals up on a tray. The maid’s face remained passive and expressionless on these occasions, and she never commented on Clare’s bruises. She never expressed any sympathy or anger, the way Martha had. And whenever she saw Justin, she greeted him as if he were exactly what everyone else thought him: an attentive husband. After watching her abigail during the first months of her employment, Clare had decided that Justin, who had dismissed Martha, was most likely paying Liza very well to ignore what was going on.
When her husband finally knocked on her door, Clare was sitting up in bed working on her embroidery. She wasn’t very good at needlework, but found the concentration it demanded of her kept her mind off everything else.
Justin’s face looked as it always did on these occasions: open, caring, grief-stricken at her appearance. And there was still a part of her that responded to him, who believed him. In fact, Clare knew he meant every word of his abject apology. He
was
sincere, he
did
intend never to drink again, he
did
need and depend upon her. She was certainly, in every way, the center of his life. That was what had been so difficult throughout their marriage: that she believed him. That he was the man she had married.
The trouble was, he was not only that man, but someone else. Both were real, she had come to understand. She had married a man who was two different men: one the tender lover, the other, an insanely jealous, abusive tyrant. And the more the latter showed his face, the more Clare wondered if soon the two Justins would become one, one who would keep his often-stated promise, and choke the life out of her one night.
“Your father called on you today, Clare,” her husband announced after the familiar ritual of a tearful apology.
Clare was surprised. Her parents rarely came up for the Season now, and when they did, it was later in the spring. “I wonder why they are here,” she said. “In Mama’s last letter, she wasn’t sure they were coming at all, much less this early.”
“Evidently your father has some business to take care of.” Justin hesitated. “I told him you were feeling ill, but would call on him in a few days.”
Without thinking, Clare felt her nose. The swelling had gone down, and her eye, which was also discolored, was almost back to normal. Justin flinched when she did this, and she reached out for his hand. “I think I will be fine by Wednesday.”
“Clare.”
“Yes, Justin?”
“I think I am going to make an appointment to see Dr. Shipton. I have heard he has had great success in helping people reduce their dependence on laudanum. Perhaps he can help me with brandy.”
This was the first time that Justin had ever admitted that his problem was beyond his own strength or resolve. Clare felt a stirring of hope. Maybe there was a God after all.
“Oh, Justin, I’m sure that he could help you. And I would do anything that you needed me to do to help.”
“I know that, Clare,” he said quietly.
That night, when he returned to her bed, Justin slowly and tenderly caressed and kissed her. At first, she could not help from shrinking back, and when he felt this, he groaned, and she stiffened in fear.
“I don’t blame you for being frightened, Clare. I won’t ask you for anything that you don’t want to give.”
And his restraint had the effect it always had: her fear subsided, and the old feeling of love and passionate response took over. This time, she thought, as they lay there in each other’s arms, this time he
means
it.
The Marquess of Howland
had
come up to London on business. But he had also come up because he and his wife were worried about his younger daughter. Although her marriage had disappointed them, it had started off well, and he and the marchioness, after seeing their daughter’s happiness, decided perhaps they had been wrong to push Giles Whitton. Justin Rainsborough seemed an excellent husband.
They had been concerned by her appearance last spring, but knew that recovery from a miscarriage could take time. The couple had visited them once and had seemed very happy together. But they had also been expected for the Christmas holidays and had canceled at the last minute in a note from Rainsborough, citing Clare’s need to recover from the Little Season and their desire to celebrate the holidays at home.
Clare had never been sickly as a child, and her mother wondered whether she had suffered another miscarriage. “Or perhaps she is increasing again,” she told her husband, “and doesn’t want to raise our hopes until she is farther along.”
But here it was April, and the gossip that had reached them about Clare’s appearance indicated she was still in poor health.
After his failed visit to his daughter, the marquess decided it was time to visit the Whittons and see if Clare had confided anything to her old friends.
“The Marquess of Howland, my lord. He is calling for Lady Sabrina, and when I told him she was out, he asked for you.”
Giles looked up from his translation in surprise. Since the Dysarts were old friends of the family, naturally they had seen each other over the past two years. But since the wedding, it had not been often, and Clare’s father had never called on Sabrina before.
“Show him in, Henley, and bring us some tea.”
“Yes, my lord.”
When the door opened to admit the marquess, Giles was surprised to see how he had aged. It was always easy to forget how much older Clare’s parents were than his.
“Please sit down, sir.”
“Thank you, Giles.”
“Would you like some tea? Or perhaps sherry?”
“Tea will be fine, Giles. It is too early for spirits. At least for me. But you go ahead, if you wish.”
“I never drink during the day,” Giles answered with a smile as the butler handed the marquess his tea. “That will be all, Henley,” said Giles, dismissing him.
“You must be wondering why I have come.”
Giles smiled. “I confess to some curiosity. You were looking for Sabrina first, I understand.”
“Yes. I was hoping that she might help me sort out my concerns about Clare.” The marquess hesitated. “It seemed more appropriate to start with Clare’s friend. Of course, you were also friends, but ...”
“But I am also a rejected suitor. Don’t worry, I understand, Howland. I don’t think either of us can tell you very much, however. Sabrina has not heard from Clare very often these past two years.”
“Wasn’t she to visit Devon last summer?”
“It never came off. Clare wrote a note saying she wished to postpone the visit, for she was feeling indisposed.”
“I called on my daughter the beginning of this week and was told the same thing. Do you think Clare is seriously ill, and they are both keeping it from us, Giles?”
“To tell you the truth, Howland, I don’t know what to think. Clare never seemed to recover the weight she lost after losing the baby. I had even wondered if she had lost another?”
“If so, her mother and I have not been told. But there is the source of our worry: we have been told so little. There she is, in Devon, and we only get occasional short notes telling us how happy she is. And then we see her or hear from the gossips how unwell she looks. Rainsborough is a very solicitous husband, however, so it seems she is lucky there,” he added, and then realizing to whom he was speaking, apologized immediately.
“It is water under the bridge, Howland,” Giles reassured him. “Rainsborough
is
very protective of Clare, and I have been hesitant to approach her too often. And she has made no effort to keep up her friendship with either me or Sabrina, although Sabrina has never quite given up on her.”
“I see. Perhaps it is just as well Sabrina wasn’t here, then. I shouldn’t have bothered either of you,” said the marquess, getting up from the sofa.
“Of course you should have,” replied Giles. “Perhaps we have held back too much when we shouldn’t have. Would you feel better if I sought Clare out and tried to determine whether your worries are groundless?”
The marquess turned toward Giles, his face brightening. “Would you, my boy? Her mother and I ... we never had the same closeness with Clare as with our older children. She came so late, you see. And her visits to Whitton were so important to her. I have always been sorry ...”
“So have I, Howland. But it has been two years, and I have moved on.”
“So I hear,” said the older man with a smile. “Lucy Kirkman has been after you for years, you know,” the marquess replied, happy to tease Giles and lighten the conversation.
“You sound just like my sister! Don’t worry, though. I am not the sort to let a woman catch me unless I want her to!”
* * * *
Giles knew that Rainsborough usually visited his club every afternoon, and decided to call on Clare when her husband was out. He was admitted by the Rainsboroughs’ butler the next afternoon and shown into the drawing room.
“I will send up your card, my lord, and see if Lady Rainsborough is able to see you.”
“Thank you.”
When the butler returned, however, he offered Giles an apology and explained that Lady Rainsborough was resting. “She has been unwell these past few days and needs her rest before attending Lady Petersham’s gala tonight.”
Giles frowned. He very much wanted to see Clare alone in her own home, for he felt that was the only way he would get her to open up to him. But he was hardly in a position to insist, so he took the butler’s message with good grace and bade him tell his mistress that he hoped for a waltz that evening.