by Clare Flynn
Algernon whispered explanations to Lavinia about the different types of bets and the relative odds. She nodded as she listened, then slid one of her chips onto the intersection of four squares on the table, turning to smile uncertainly at her tutor.
‘Have I got it right, Algie? A corner bet isn’t it?’ Her face was animated as she watched the wheel spinning and she groaned loudly when the ball predictably failed to land in any of her chosen slots.
‘Lavinia, the only winner at roulette is the house,’ said Christopher.
‘I thought you said you didn’t know anything about gambling.’ Her tone was dismissive.
‘I know that much. It’s all you need to know.’
Losing her first bet seemed to do nothing to dampen Lavinia’s enthusiasm and, as soon as the croupier cleared the table, she placed two more tokens down. The wheel spun again and this time the little ball landed in one of Lavinia’s slots.
‘There you are! That just shows you. I’ve jolly well won.’
The croupier placed the marker and cleared the table, then slid a pile of chips over to a delighted Lavinia.
‘There’s one other thing you need to know about gambling,’ said Christopher.
‘And what might that be, Mr Spoilsport?’
‘Walk away as soon as you win.’
Lavinia glared at him then turned back to Belford-Webb. ‘You’re not ready to walk away yet, are you, Algie?’
‘Certainly not.’ He winked at Christopher.
Christopher decided to leave Lavinia and her new-found friend to get on with it. They didn’t even look up when he wandered off.
He walked through the tall glass doors at the end of the room onto a stone-flagged terrace. The Atlantic breakers crashed onto the beach below. He moved towards the balustrade and leaned against it, watching the white peaks of waves bright in the darkness, riding in on a swell until they hit the shore and dissipated. A faint hint of mimosa reached him on the breeze, a sweet, warm, powdery scent that reminded him of his mother. Acacia dealbata he murmured to himself as he saw the heavy yellow blossoms trailing over the wall at the end of the terrace. He sat down on a stone bench. There was no one else out here, the lure of the gaming tables proving irresistible to all but him. He settled back against the balustrade and thought about the future.
Was this to be his life from now on? Saddled to a dim-witted, shallow wife, who had as little interest in him as he had in her. Lacking any sense of purpose in life, he was now cut off from the career as a botanist and explorer that he had wanted to pursue. Moving papers around a desk every morning, to keep Newlands running smoothly, was his fate now, when all he wanted was to be as far away from the place as possible. And worst of all – a life without Martha in it, knowing that she was out of his reach for ever.
* * *
Lavinia continued to accompany Belford-Webb to the casino every night, not returning until after Christopher had gone to sleep. He went along with them to the Bellevue for the first two nights, but found the atmosphere oppressive and the gambling boring. While money meant little to him, he didn’t enjoy watching Lavinia throwing it away, night after night. Instead, he had taken to retiring to one of the public rooms in the Hotel du Palais, with a book, while listening to the string quartet that played there most evenings.
They had two more days left of their honeymoon. Christopher couldn’t wait for it to be over, even though Biarritz was a pleasant enough place. He had enjoyed his walks along the beaches and the clifftops. He walked alone, as Lavinia had taken to lying in bed until luncheon, after coming in late every night from the casino with Belford-Webb. Christopher rarely saw her in the afternoons either. Mrs Belford-Webb, the large, matronly and loudly-spoken mother of Algernon, had taken Lavinia under her wing – a place Lavinia was only too happy to occupy, once she met her new friend’s pug dog.
‘Look, darling,’ she said excitedly to Christopher, when he walked into the grand salon after one of his walks. ‘Mrs Belford-Webb has the darlingest little pug. His name is Punch. Isn’t that the cutest name?’
Christopher ignored his wife’s lack of politeness in introducing the dog rather than its owner, and introduced himself to the lady.
Mrs Belford-Webb frowned at him. ‘Your delightful wife has told me you travelled here by ship and she was dreadfully seasick.’
‘It was rather a rough crossing.’
‘It’s always a rough crossing through the Bay of Biscay. Surely you know that?’ Without waiting for an answer, she added, ‘I’ve told Lady Lavinia she must travel back to England with Algernon and me. We are leaving the day before you, but we should be back in London around the same time. I’ve invited Lady Lavinia to spend a night with us in Paris and then to stay with us in Berkeley Square until you arrive in London. You’re welcome to join us for another night or two when you return. Then you can travel home to Newlands together.’
It was happening to him again – another woman wanting to run his life for him. He bristled and started to speak, but Lavinia interrupted.
‘Isn’t it marvellous? I couldn’t face that horrible ship pitching about again. The train is a much better way to travel. And we’re going to spend a night in Paris. Isn’t that wonderful, darling? You don’t mind, do you?’
Algernon threw him an expression that indicated he’d had nothing to do with the new arrangements. He shrugged and rolled his eyes at Christopher as if to say they were both powerless in the face of the women’s casting votes.
Christopher had mixed emotions. A journey home without Lavinia’s prattle was appealing, but it was bizarre for a husband and wife to return from their honeymoon separately. What would his mother say? But he didn’t give a damn what she’d say. And anyway, she didn’t have to know.
In their suite, dressing for dinner that evening, he raised the subject again with Lavinia.
She said, ‘It makes perfect sense. You don’t want to travel through northern France and I don’t want a long boat trip. It will be bad enough for me crossing the Channel.’ She formed her lips into her familiar pout. ‘And it’s all above board as Mrs Belford-Webb will be with us.’
She smiled at Christopher, then said, ‘Don’t get dressed yet.’ She pushed him onto the bed and climbed on top of him. This had become a daily ritual.
If Lavinia found Algie’s company more congenial than his, it didn’t stop her appetite for marital relations. Contrary to Christopher’s expectations, once Lavinia had got over her scruples about making love with a one-legged man, she had demonstrated a healthy enthusiasm for it. With a bit of luck she might fall pregnant before too long and Christopher told himself he would have fulfilled the Bourne family’s expectations and the bargain he had made with his mother. He was already mentally planning his escape to Borneo on a long expedition.
Chapter 24
Martha had to admit that her husband was a devoted and attentive father. Over the six months since David’s birth, he had given no indication that David was anything other than his blood son, always keen to hold the baby, and constantly enquiring of Martha as to his welfare.
David was a healthy baby, pleasing his father with rapid progress in all the frequent checks he made of weight, feeding patterns and general development. Dr Henderson gave Martha a notebook and asked her to keep a record of each breast feeding, the time it occurred and its duration and he checked her entries every evening. The attention he paid to the child was close to obsessional, and Martha had to suppress her irritation when Reggie questioned or corrected virtually everything she did. She kept reminding herself that he had rescued her and her child from a likely penurious future and she owed him so much. It seemed ungrateful that her only complaint was her husband’s solicitude. The kindness he had shown to Jane had also touched Martha. And he was full of affection and generosity bringing her posies of flowers, enquiring as to her well-being and eloquent in his gratitude for everything she did for him. Reggie Henderson was a model husband in so many ways.
Since marrying, they had maintaine
d separate bedrooms and he had never ventured across the landing to visit her at night. His assertion, when he had asked her to marry him, that he had been rendered impotent by war injuries, had been a relief to Martha and a major factor in her agreeing to marry him – the thought of making love with anyone other than Kit was abhorrent.
One night, in August 1920, when David was seven months old, Reggie came to her bed. The baby was sleeping quietly in his cot on the other side of the room. Martha jumped in fright as her husband climbed onto the bed beside her and curled his body against her back. He placed one arm around her waist and drew her tighter against him. To her alarm she felt his erection pressing against her and his breath was hot against her neck.
She twisted away from him. ‘What are you doing?’
He ignored her question and whispered, ‘I love you, Martha. You’re my wife and I want you.’
She jerked upright and sat up in the bed, astonished. ‘You told me… you said you couldn’t… said that you were…’
‘Impotent?’
She couldn’t see his face in the dark and was glad he couldn’t see hers, as it was burning with embarrassment and mortification. This couldn’t be happening.
‘I was impotent. At least I thought I was. But it seems not to be the case any longer. I owe that to you, Martha. You have given me a son. You have been my companion and friend. Now I would like you to be my wife.’
‘But you said…’ She struggled to find the right words. She was unprepared for this, embarrassed and shocked. Until this moment, he had shown no inkling of any sexual desire. Affection, yes – he kissed her every day, but always a chaste kiss on the cheek in the morning and the same before retiring at night.
He pulled her down beside him on the bed and his hands began to move over her body, cupping her breasts and stroking her stomach through her linen nightgown.
‘Stop!’
‘I’ve asked so little of you until now.’
‘I know. But you told me it was all you expected. You led me to believe that ours would be a marriage based on friendship and support.’
‘I didn’t know then that my feelings for you would change.’
‘It’s not your feelings,’ she gasped, still seeking the right words. ‘You told me ours could not be a physical marriage.’
Henderson continued to run his hands over her body, trying to work her nightdress up her legs. She pushed his hand away.
‘I thought it wouldn’t be,’ he said. ‘I had had no feelings at all in that way. I believed my body incapable… the war… my injuries… but you… you changed all that and I am so grateful, my darling. You’ve made me feel desire again. You’ve awakened me.’ His hands tugged at her nightgown.
She pushed him away again, clamping her legs together and drawing her nightdress down over her legs.
‘You made vows. You stood beside me in church and promised to obey me, to worship me with your body, to be my wife. I have waited patiently until you were delivered of David. I’ve waited for your body to recover.’ Henderson’s was now peevish. ‘I have been an honourable man and a dutiful husband. Now I want to make love to you. That is all I ask. I don’t expect you to love me. All I want is for you to do your duty as a wife. That is what every husband expects and has a right to. It is so little to ask of you.’
Martha shuddered. ‘It may seem little – but it’s more than I can give. And it’s more than you told me I would need to give. You led me to believe you were incapable of fulfilling that aspect of marriage. Did you only say that so I’d agree to marry you? Because you knew I wouldn’t consent otherwise?’
Reggie was silent. All she could hear was his breathing in the dark. For a moment she thought he was acknowledging the truth in what she was saying.
The blow across her face happened so suddenly she didn’t see it coming, had no time to duck to avoid it. His palm hit her cheek with force. Face burning, she raised her hands to protect herself against another blow. Eyes streaming. Heart pounding. Nerves screaming in pain and shock.
The next blow didn’t come. Martha only realised David was crying after she felt the mattress shift under her as Henderson got off the bed and went across to the cot. He bent down and lifted the wailing child into his arms. Suddenly she was filled with a greater alarm – this time for the welfare of her baby. Crawling to the end of the bed, she reached out for the child. Her husband took a step backwards, holding the boy tightly in his arms. By now, David was howling.
‘Please, please!’ she begged. ‘Please, give him to me. He needs a feed.’
She couldn’t see Henderson’s face in the darkness of the room, but she saw the shape of his body, heard his breathing and sensed his hesitation. Then he moved towards her, placed her child in her arms and went across to the door.
Martha put the baby to her breast, afraid that the pounding of her heart would further unsettle the child and put him off feeding, but he immediately began to suckle hungrily.
Reggie opened the door and stood in the frame, illuminated by the landing light. ‘We will speak of this tomorrow,’ he said, and closed the door quietly behind him.
* * *
While Martha was preparing breakfast, she kept running over the events of the previous night. Reggie’s behaviour had been so out of character that she asked herself if she had dreamt the incident. But the smarting of her cheek and the burgeoning blueness under her left eye was proof that she hadn’t.
It was so uncharacteristic of the usually gentle and jovial Dr Henderson that Martha wondered if it were a hangover from his experiences in the war. Had he mistaken her for the enemy and lashed out? But the words he’d spoken were clearly directed at her alone. He had meant what he said.
He arrived in the room and sat down at the table as she finished cooking his bacon and eggs. Instead of his customary good morning kiss on the cheek, he unfolded his newspaper and began to read.
Martha placed the food in front of him and he said nothing. She returned to the kitchen to make his pot of tea, standing nervously in front of the stove waiting for the whistle of the boiling kettle.
Was he going to maintain this stony silence? Should she say something? Ask him to talk about what happened? Had he forgotten what he had done to her? Maybe it had been some kind of waking dream that he had acted out and now forgotten.
When she returned with his tea, Reggie had set aside his newspaper and was tucking into his breakfast. He asked her to sit down.
She pulled out her chair, opposite his, and sat with her hands twitching in her lap under the tablecloth.
‘Not eating?’
‘I’m not hungry now. I’ll eat later.’
He cut a piece off his bacon, dipping it into the egg and put it in his mouth. Chewing slowly, he studied her face across the table. She lowered her eyes.
‘I prefer you to eat when I do. And you need to eat regularly for the sake of the baby.’
Martha said nothing, her heart pounding inside her chest. She was afraid of this man, this cold stranger who had struck her and tried to force himself upon her.
‘I will maintain my bedroom as a dressing room but, as of tonight, I intend to share your bed. I’ll send one of the porters over to move David’s cot into my room. It’s time he started to sleep in his own bedroom.’
‘But he needs feeding throughout the night.’
‘Then you will go to him. There is a nursing chair that you can move in there. You can feed him then return to bed.’
She started to speak but there was something in his eyes that stopped her. His stare was penetrating, as if he held her in contempt. It was as though a different man were seated on the other side of the table.
Henderson took another mouthful of his fried breakfast, his eyes fixed on her face. He chewed, swallowed, then took a drink of tea and wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘Perhaps I owe you an explanation as to what happened last night, what has changed.’
Martha waited.
He pushed his plate aside. ‘Last week, I read an ar
ticle in The Lancet. Since the war I have been taking medication. It was intended to help with certain symptoms, to help me feel calmer. The medication helped restore me to a state of equilibrium. I believed that my injuries had resulted in my inability to achieve and sustain an erection.’
Martha shuddered, embarrassed at the nature of what he was saying. Henderson’s medical background meant he showed none of the restraint in his choice of words that a layman would have done.
He continued, his tone brisk and matter-of-fact, no trace of embarrassment on his face. ‘The Lancet article posited that this particular medication contraindicates impotence. I had in any event been considering ceasing to take it, as I no longer have the symptoms for which I needed it, so I decided to stop altogether. As a result, after some weeks, I find I am able to function fully once again. That is why I intend to consummate our marriage at last and to live a normal married life.’ He leaned back in his chair, arms folded.
Martha noticed a fleck of egg yolk adhering to his moustache. She felt a shiver of loathing for him.
‘But if you stop the medication, your symptoms will surely return?’ She was thinking of the violence with which he had struck her face.
‘No. It’s six years since I was injured and last saw action. Plenty of time to heal. Now it’s time to live a normal life. And part of that is living a normal married life. Sexual intercourse is an essential means of the mind and body being healthy. I have been reading a lot of journals and papers on the subject. Any slight increase in nervous tension as a result of stopping the pills will soon be offset by the benefits of enjoying full marital relations.’
‘And the fact that you told me you would not expect to have a normal marriage when you asked me to marry you?’
‘Is immaterial.’ He glanced at his watch and pushed back his chair. ‘If I had known that my impotence was not permanent I would not have said that. I can assure you, my dear, it was not said to mislead. It was a statement of the facts as they were at the time.’