The Iron Road

by Jane Jackson

  Chloe turned reluctantly from the window. She dreaded saying the things that had to be said. She wished she were outside in the sunshine, breathing the fresh scents of spring. The drawing-room was over-warm and stuffy. Though he had refused to remain in bed, ‘playing the invalid’ as he’d put it, Gerald had heeded the doctor’s warning against taking a chill, and a fire burned in every room.

  ‘I am glad you are so much better.’ She meant it. ‘Everyone is amazed at the speed of your recovery.’

  Her husband grunted. ‘I can’t imagine why. I’m not old, and I’m rarely ill.’

  Chloe sat down carefully. It was the chair the doctor had occupied less than an hour ago. Greeting him with frosty politeness she had left the two men together, not returning until he’d gone.

  ‘A seizure is not quite the same as ordinary illness. Under the circumstances –’

  ‘I know you heard me, Chloe, and I know I made myself quite clear: the matter is closed.’

  ‘No, Gerald. It’s not.’ Her throat was tight, and she felt her heart thump against her ribs. ‘I knew our marriage was different from others, but I never realized –’

  ‘Have I not always treated you well?’ he demanded.

  ‘Indeed you have. Very well. And I have always appreciated your generosity.’ Chloe swallowed. ‘But that is not the point. You used me, Gerald. I was a disguise to secure your own safety. In doing that you deliberately denied me the love –’

  ‘Love?’ he barked. ‘What else would you call what I have done for you? I have cared for you and protected you. We have shared a companionship and happiness few couples could match. I have ensured your feminine delicacy was never burdened with the demands to which other, less fortunate, women are forced to submit.

  ‘Are you saying I should be grateful?’

  ‘Indeed I am. This is real life, my dear. Not some fatuous and overheated romantic novel that bears no resemblance to the way real men and women behave.’

  Forcing herself to remain seated, though every muscle craved the release of movement, she held herself stiff and straight, hands clasped tightly in her lap.

  ‘Is our marriage typical of the way real men and women behave?’ Watching his face, she wondered which had surprised him more: her directness, or the fact that for the first time in their life together she was challenging him.

  He studied her thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, my dear, what has brought about this sudden dissatisfaction?’

  Sudden dissatisfaction? A swift rush of anger made her skin prickle. ‘Gerald, you have in the past paid tribute to my intelligence. Did it never occur to you that sooner or later I would start to wonder about … about the lack of … of intimacy between us? Of course, there was no one in the household I could ask. Their loyalty to you is unswerving. Even my personal maid. Even Polly.’ After a moment’s fight for control, she lifted her head again.

  ‘However, the married ladies of our social circle are not so reticent. They are not in the least reluctant to talk of intimate matters, though their opinion of their husbands’ behaviour in the bedroom is anything but flattering. Their curiosity about us, and about the fact that after four years of marriage I am still childless, has caused me considerable discomfort. But my fear of appearing ignorant, and of their ridicule, ensured I always presented our marriage as happy in every respect.’ She couldn’t hide the depth of her hurt.

  ‘Chloe, it should not be necessary to remind you that, as my wife, you have access to the highest levels of society, and a lifestyle to match. I have not changed. I am the same man to whom you made your wedding vows. The only difference is that, through unfortunate circumstances, you have become aware of a certain situation. As for children: if it means so much to you I will arrange an adoption.’ He regarded her with an indulgent smile. ‘Have I not always granted your every wish?’

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. He would buy her a child, in the same way that he had bought her a horse, or a new wardrobe of dresses? ‘No, Gerald, you don’t un–’

  ‘In return,’ he continued with a steely smoothness designed to crush any hint of resistance, ‘I shall expect you to continue your portrayal of a loving and dutiful wife.’ He looked intently at her. ‘Do you hate me, Chloe?’

  ‘No. I don’t hate you.’ The discovery of her husband’s true nature had shaken her to the core. But that deceit did not erase his kindness and generosity over the years.

  ‘Then what you have learned need make no difference.’

  ‘But it does, Gerald,’ she blurted. ‘You say you have not changed. But I have. It’s not just because of – the other evening. Gerald, I’m not a child any longer.’

  ‘I see.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘Then I must make myself absolutely clear. As my wife, certain standards of behaviour are expected of you. Thus far you have proved yourself equal to them, and to the honour of being Lady Radclyff. I have taken enormous pleasure in your achievements. However …’ – the word hung on the air and seemed to resound with dark threat – ‘should you even contemplate any action that might jeopardize your spotless reputation I will divorce you. Divorcees are not received in society. You would lose wealth, position, friends, in fact everything to which you have become so happily accustomed. This time there would be no rescue. For any young man having the temerity to challenge the proper order would very quickly find himself without friends or career.’

  Chloe knew a moment’s icy terror. Did he know about James? Sitting frozen and silent, she forced herself to stay calm. What was there to know? All they had actually done, apart from one exquisite, breathtaking kiss, was to talk. If Gerald had suspected anything untoward he would surely have said so sooner. Therefore his threats had been made in response to her declaration that she had changed. He was warning her about the future, not threatening her over the past.

  Nothing he had said was new to her. She had already made these same points to James. But hearing the threats – for there was no doubt that was what they were – from Gerald himself brought home the terrible truth. She was trapped.

  ‘Don’t look so stricken, Chloe.’ Her husband’s smile was gentle. ‘You have a life many would envy.’ She flinched as he unwittingly repeated what the doctor had said. ‘You say you are no longer a child. Then show you are a woman of strength and fortitude. Put this behind you. Look to the future. As soon as I am well enough I will begin making enquiries about a suitable child. I want you to be happy, my dear. You do know that, don’t you?’

  A cold, smothering blanket of despair settled over her. ‘Yes, Gerald.’

  * * *

  The following day as he rode up the drive towards Trewan, James hoped, prayed, willed that Sir Gerald Radclyff was still confined, if not to his bed, then at least to his room. But the instant Hawkins opened the door James’s hopes were dashed.

  Following the butler across the hall he pushed his disappointment deep. If the baronet was already well enough to receive visitors, James knew he could not afford – for Chloe’s sake – to relax his guard for an instant.

  ‘Mr Santana,’ Sir Gerald smiled, but there was an acerbic edge to his voice. ‘To what do we owe this pleasure? No, sit down, Chloe.’

  ‘I – I thought, if you had business to discuss –’

  ‘I want you to stay.’ He smiled, but it was an order. James felt a chill creep along his veins.

  ‘Good morning, Sir Gerald, Lady Radclyff.’ He inclined his head politely at Chloe, who looked down at the needlework lying in her lap. ‘The directors asked me to invite you both to be their special guests on the train which will make the inaugural journey from Penryn to the mid-point of the line, which will be followed by a champagne lunch.’

  ‘How very kind of them,’ Sir Gerald said drily. ‘Don’t you think so, my dear?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  Though he didn’t dare look at her, afraid he might not be able to maintain the impassive veneer of which he had always been so proud, James knew something was terribly wrong.

  ‘I mu
st say I’m rather surprised you have come to issue the invitation in person,’ the baronet said. ‘I would have thought you had more important matters to attend to.’

  ‘You’re right, sir, I do. But the directors considered the importance of the occasion warranted both prompt delivery and my personal attention.’ Taking the thick creamy envelope containing the deckle-edged card from his pocket, James laid it on the nearest side-table, noting that he had not been invited to sit down.

  ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me on my swift recovery?’

  ‘Indeed, sir, I was about to do so.’

  The baronet’s smile reminded James of a shark. It contained many more teeth than he remembered. ‘It is all due to excellent care and loving attention.’ Leaning across he patted Chloe’s hand.

  ‘It has made me appreciate even more my good fortune in having such a devoted wife.’ His gaze snapped up at James who, acutely aware of undercurrents in the room and on his guard, met it evenly. ‘You should marry. A young man of ambition needs the comfort of a wife and the prospect of sons to follow him. In fact,’ – his smile was slow and lizard-like – ‘my own dear Chloe and I hope to add to our family in the near future.’

  Feeling as if he’d been punched hard in the stomach, James’s glance flicked involuntarily to Chloe. He glimpsed wretched despair before she bent her head once more.

  ‘C – congratulations to you both.’ He forced the words past stiff lips. What was going on?

  ‘Thank you.’ Reaching out, the baronet tugged the braided bell-pull. ‘Well,’ he sighed briskly, ‘we mustn’t detain you any longer. Hawkins will show you out.’

  James swallowed his fury. ‘Your reply, sir? May I tell the directors you will be joining them?’

  ‘I suppose so. Yes, why not? It will be most interesting. Tell them we accept with pleasure. Ah, Hawkins, Mr Santana is leaving now.’

  Thus dismissed, James was left with no alternative. With a brief bow, he preceded the butler into the hall and heard him close the door, shutting Chloe in and himself out.

  ‘Mr Santana seemed somewhat on edge. Did you not think so, my dear?’

  It was like walking on ice, Chloe thought. Very thin ice: all that lay between her and drowning. She made a stitch, pricking her finger as she pushed the needle through the fine cloth, too nervous even to flinch.

  ‘He did say he is very busy, particularly so since the contractor’s sudden departure.’

  ‘You could be right. Yet my impression was that he seemed somewhat startled by our good news. Why would that be do you think?’

  Was this some sort of test? Or was he simply playing? Like a cat with a mouse. Chloe adjusted her needlework so the tiny bright crimson patch was hidden in a fold. ‘Mr Santana came on a business matter. The topics of marriage and a family are very personal. Perhaps they came as a surprise.’

  ‘Really? Oh well.’ Sir Gerald Radclyff’s eyes were half-closed, his mouth satisfied. ‘It does no harm to shake people’s expectations occasionally. It ensures they talk. I would not want my business acquaintances thinking my illness has left me incapacitated in any way. Shall we have some tea?’

  ‘There we are, ma’am. All done.’ Polly stood back, wiping the residue of scented pomade from her hands onto a small towel kept for the purpose.

  Opening her eyes, Chloe looked at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. She turned her head and the morning sunlight gilded her hair, drawn back from a centre parting into a complicated chignon.

  ‘Thank you, Polly.’

  ‘You decided which it’s to be then, ma’am?’ Neatly replacing the silver-backed brushes and comb, Polly held the padded velvet boudoir chair as Chloe discarded her lacy peignoir.

  She could feel a pulse throbbing in her temples. ‘The blue.’ Beneath her chemise, corset and petticoats, her skin was damp with perspiration yet her arms as she hugged them across her aching stomach felt icy. She stood still while Polly fastened the ties of her crinoline and ensured the hoops hung correctly. Then a silk scarf was laid lightly over her face and hair before Polly lifted the silk and taffeta dress carefully over her head. The band around her skull tightened.

  ‘I can’t,’ she whispered.

  Polly paused in her buttoning. ‘Beg pardon, ma’am?’

  ‘I can’t go on the train.’

  The maid’s eyes met hers. ‘I know, ma’am,’ she said softly. ‘Do you want me to tell the master?’

  Chloe swallowed the tightness in her throat. ‘No, Polly. I’ll tell him myself.’ After all, what could he actually do?

  ‘Anyone could see you aren’t well, ma’am.’

  Chloe looked quickly at her maid, not sure whether to laugh or cry. Outside the breakfast-room she paused for a moment to flex painfully stiff shoulders. Then, steadying herself with a deep breath, she went in.

  He was still at the table. The plates containing the remains of his breakfast had been pushed aside. A cup half full of coffee sat close to hand. But a wrinkled skin on the surface suggested it had been forgotten. Two newspapers lay to one side folded with a carelessness alien to her fastidious husband. He was still intent on the third.

  She cleared her throat. ‘Good morning, Gerald.’

  Turning a page he gave the paper a quick shake and resumed reading without even glancing in her direction. His only response a preoccupied, ‘Morning, my dear.’

  She sat down and shook her head as Hawkins approached with the coffee pot.

  ‘Would you care for tea instead, madam?’

  ‘No – yes. Yes, I would, Hawkins. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll fetch it directly, madam.’

  As the door closed behind him, Chloe leaned forward. ‘Gerald? I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to go with you on the train. I have a terrible headache.’ She waited, rigid with tension, for the questions.

  He lowered the newspaper and studied her silently.

  Her lips were paper dry. ‘I’m very disappointed. But to attend the celebrations feeling as I do would be selfish and unfair, and I have no desire to spoil the party. I shall spend the day in my room.’

  He nodded. ‘You do not look your usual self. Perhaps a rest will restore the roses to your cheeks, and refresh your spirits.’ Folding the paper he picked up the others and rose from the table. ‘Naturally, I’m sorry you are unwell, but it is not the inconvenience it might otherwise have been. Some matters have arisen which require my urgent attention: business matters. So I shall be leaving earlier than planned.’ He took out his watch. ‘In fact …’ He glanced round as the butler came in with fresh tea. ‘Hawkins, tell Robbins to bring the carriage at once, please.’

  Ten minutes later, the clop of hooves and crunch of wheels had receded into the distance. Chloe sat alone in the breakfast-room sipping hot sweet tea. Gradually the knots in her stomach started to loosen.

  * * *

  The dining-room of the Royal Hotel was noisy and busy as people came and went. Waiters moved among the tables with loaded trays for those catching early coaches. Conversations ranged from excited arguments over various places of interest to be explored by those on holiday, to more intense discussions by men with important business to transact.

  James sat alone at a small table in one corner toying with a spoon. He had spent a restless night: the little sleep he’d had filled with vivid fragments of dreams from which he had woken sweating and anxious. He had washed and shaved, barely conscious of doing so. Coming down to the bustle of the dining-room he had eaten knowing he needed fuel, but he’d tasted nothing.

  Thinking of the day ahead he visualized the train ride. He had no idea if the directors had worked out a seating plan. But the arrangement of the carriage – which was really a combination of three wooden stagecoach bodies resting on an iron framework riding on eight iron-spoked wheels – meant that each pair of padded and but-toned seats facing one another would hold six to eight people.

  If he were seated near Chloe there would be no opportunity for them to talk, and he desper
ately needed to find out what had happened. If they were separated it would be even worse. To be in such close proximity and have to watch Sic Gerald claim ownership, when all three of them knew the marriage was a tissue of lies and deceit, would be intolerable. As if that were not enough, he would be expected to make polite conversation, to join in the jollity and self-congratulation. How could he when he was utterly opposed to the whole idea?

  He picked up the letter lying beside his plate. The thick creamy envelope was addressed to Miss Veryan Polmear, c/o Mr James Santana. Obviously from Edward Lumby, he hoped it confirmed her entitlement to the legacy. He would take it out to her. Then, while in the village, he would make sure the tally shop had sufficient food. He also needed to see the gangers, and to check all the materials had arrived on-site. Together with a growing pile of paperwork there was more than enough to keep him busy, but never enough to drive Chloe out of his thoughts.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Will you be requiring anything else, ma’am!’

  Glancing up, Chloe replaced her cup carefully on the saucer. ‘No, thank you, Hawkins, I’m not hungry.’ She pushed back her chair and stood up. Her head still throbbed, but the crushing pressure had eased.

  She had the day to herself, but what to do with it? Under Mrs Mudie’s expert management the house ran like a well-oiled machine. In a couple of weeks’ time it would crank up a gear for the annual spring-clean. Mattresses and carpets would be taken out and beaten, winter curtains changed for lighter summer ones, blankets and counterpanes would be washed, linen bleached, cupboards turned out, and furs and woollen clothes carefully laid by until required again in the autumn.

  Claiming cleanliness, punctuality, order and method to be essential in a well-run house, Mrs Mudie was invaluable. Towards her mistress her manner was one of punctilious respect, but no warmth. Chloe had realized very quickly that in relation to the house her position resembled that of a ship’s figurehead: decorative, but not really necessary.