As Giles reached up to lift her down, she realized she wanted nothing more than to smack the protective, solicitous look off his face, and was immediately horrified by the violence of her thoughts. She let him help her down, but turned to face him, saying in a shaking voice: “The ride was my idea, Giles. And both Sabrina and I are grown women who can read the weather very well. We turned around in time. It will be a good ten minutes before the storm reaches here. Nor did we have to run the horses to get back ahead of it. I know that you and Sabrina have a free and easy relationship, but that does not warrant blaming her for everything. Nor assuming that I never have an idea of my own.”
Bravo, Clare, thought Sabrina, surprised and touched by her friend’s defense. She watched Clare pull away from Giles and walk into the house without looking back.
Giles stood there, completely dumbfounded. When he regained his composure, he turned to his sister and tendered her an apology. “I am sorry for accusing you without reason, Brina. If you will excuse me, I will go and make my apologies to my wife.”
* * * *
Clare was still shaking when she reached her bedroom. She dismissed Martha and sank into the chair by the window, lacing and unlacing her fingers as she tried to calm herself down. What had Giles done, after all, but treat Sabrina like a well-loved sister. The two had always spoken freely to one another and never shied away from a quarrel. It was just that Clare was very conscious about Sabrina’s vulnerability around the aftermath of the thunderstorm. And Giles hadn’t been fair. He had assumed, as always, that little Clare Dysart couldn’t do anything on her own.
The breeze that had been blowing had turned into a wind, and the branches of the holly tree on the side of the house were scraping and rustling against Clare’s window. The room was becoming darker as the clouds covered the sun, and Clare knew the rain could not be far behind. Her window was half-open, she realized, and she stood to close it. But the wood had swollen in the humidity of the last weeks, and although she leaned all her weight down against it, she could not get it shut.
“Here, Clare, let me help you,” said Giles from behind her, and he reached around her shoulders to help her push it down.
She felt smothered by him and pulled herself away, going to stand by the fireplace. Giles turned and gave her an apologetic smile. “I am sorry if I startled you. And I am sorry for jumping on Sabrina. But it was only natural that I thought your ride her idea. And you did only make it back by a very few minutes,” he added, looking at the windowpane where the first few drops were hitting. He moved over to her and lifted her hair back from her face. “I love the way your hair curls in this weather,” he whispered.
He had touched her gently and with consideration, as usual. That was the problem. He was always so careful with her, as though she were a porcelain woman like the shepherdess on the mantel.
“Don’t, Giles,” she responded.
“I am sorry, Clare,” he replied, immediately lowering his hand. “You are still upset with me?”
“Don’t be sorry, Giles. What have you got to be sorry about?”
“Why, losing my temper at the two of you.”
“No, Giles. You did not lose your temper at me. You never lose your temper at me. You are always the perfect, gentle knight.” Clare was as surprised as Giles by her reaction. She was furious with him for being what for years she had wanted him to be: her Galahad. Oh, but Galahad would have been so difficult to live with, she thought suddenly.
Giles blanched at her tone. “I don’t know what you mean, Clare. Of course I am rarely angry at you. I am hardly perfect, but I think all I need to confess to this time is wanting to keep you safe. After all, I love you.”
“Do you, Giles? Do you love me or do you love some memory that you hold from your childhood.”
Giles was stung. “How can you doubt my love, Clare? I have always loved you. I asked you to marry me as soon as it was possible. And surely, if nothing else, my behavior in our bed should convince you.”
“Sometimes I think you only see Clare Dysart, Giles. The Clare Dysart you knew before she fell in love with Justin Rainsborough. Not the Clare Dysart who jilted you.”
“We were never formally engaged,” Giles interjected.
“Not Lady Rainsborough, Giles,” Clare continued as though he had not spoken. “Lady Rainsborough gave her husband all of herself in the marriage bed, Giles. She gave him all that she cannot seem to give you. And when he beat her ...”
“Don’t talk to me of this, Clare. I don’t want to hear it. And there is no need for you to torture yourself again.”
“And even when he beat her and kicked her and killed their baby, she returned to his bed,” Clare continued inexorably. “You cannot tell me, Giles, that you never wondered at that even a little? For surely I have,” she added with a bitter laugh that became a sob.
Giles looked over at the window, as though by focusing on the storm outside he could escape the inside tempest that was drawing him in. He turned back and said carefully: “I confess that there were times, particularly during the inquest when I wondered that, Clare. But I understand, truly I do.” He reached out to assure her, putting his hand protectively on her shoulder.
She shook him off. “Do you, Giles? Do you? I am glad one of us does, for I most certainly do not. Do you not wonder in bed, as I do, why a woman could give herself completely to the man who treated her so horribly and cannot to the man who has loved her more than half his life?”
Tears were running down Clare’s cheeks almost as fast as the rain running down the windowpane. “Doesn’t it ever make you angry, that Clare Dysart was such a foolish young woman. She could have been happy with you, Giles, and instead she chose a brute. A charming brute, I admit. And a handsome one. But a cruel man, all the same.”
“I ... if I felt any anger, Clare ... I don’t know, I loved you. I love you now. I tried to understand. He was deceptively charming. No one could have guessed what he would be like, let alone you.”
“But didn’t you nevertheless get angry, Giles?” Clare would not let him off.
“I suppose so,” he admitted reluctantly.
“And do you now? Doesn’t it infuriate you when I am unable to respond to you past a certain point? When I keep myself from you?”
“But I know you can’t help it, Clare. If we are patient ...”
“You are too damned patient, Giles. That is the problem.”
“Would you rather I raped you?" Giles responded, finally moved to anger. “Would you prefer I slap you? Black your eye? Is that what arouses you, Clare?”
“No, Giles,” she answered, her voice steady, but her tears still flowing. “Justin’s cruelty was never what aroused me. It was his tenderness. I want so much to respond fully to you, to give you what you deserve for your faithfulness.”
“I don’t want your gratitude, Clare.”
“I know. And I don’t want your everlasting understanding, Giles. I don’t want cruelty, but you have every reason in the world to be angry, to be disappointed in this marriage, and yet you have never expressed any of that.”
“I have not wanted to hurt you, Clare. You have been hurt enough. We have a lifetime together to work this out.”
“Life is never certain, Giles. Perhaps we have years. Perhaps not. But we will never work out our difficulties if you cannot see me as I am, not as I was. I am a grown woman now, Giles. Once I married a man who loved me in a very destructive way. Who stopped loving me and only sought to destroy me. I felt helpless with him, Giles. I had no one to protect me, no one to turn to then. I did the best I could to keep myself from being hurt. And when that wasn’t enough, I killed him.”
“No, Clare.”
“Yes, Giles. Even though you heard it at the inquest, you don’t want to believe it, do you? Sabrina saw Justin. Ask her.”
“I know you killed Rainsborough, Clare, but you didn’t really know what you were doing. And it was self-defense.”
“I know all that, Giles. Who better. Nevert
heless, I killed my husband. They found me with my dress soaked with his blood.” The tears had stopped, and Clare’s voice was calm. “At first, I couldn’t remember it. Then, when I did, I tortured myself as much as Justin ever tortured me. Did I need to do it? How could I have done it? But do you know something, Giles? I have remembered it all, and one moment stands out for me. Just as I thought I was dying, just as my whole body was giving in to him, saying ‘yes, yes, this is it, the ending I should have foreseen,’ something in me, some part of me, very deep, that I hadn’t even known existed, screamed ‘no,’ and that ‘no’ saved my life. And yours. The woman who said ‘no’ is who I am, Giles. Not the timid Clare Dysart, who let Lucy Kirkman dump those worms on her years ago. Nor the innocent Clare who fell in love with a madman. For that is what Justin was, I think. Oh, I am still quiet and rather shy, Giles. But for the first time in my life, I know myself and like myself despite all my mistakes. And until you hear that woman, until you see her, Giles, our marriage will never become what we both wish it to be.”
* * * *
Giles stood there in silence as the room had become darker and the branches and rain beat against Clare’s window. He could hardly believe it was Clare who had spoken to him so. But there she stood, the same small woman he had known for so long. Or thought he had known.
“I don’t know what to say, Clare. It seems you want some sort of angry response from me that I can’t give you. Perhaps I have been guilty of loving a memory rather than a real woman. I apologize for that.” He hesitated. “I think, for a while at least, it is best if I do not share your bed. It is obviously becoming a burden for both of us. And if things need to change, the change will not come from there,” he added.
“I agree with you, Giles,” said Clare wearily.
“All I can promise is to think about what you have said. To see if I can come to understand it.”
“That is all anyone can ask,” said Clare with a sad smile.
“I will see you at supper, then?”
“Yes, Giles.”
After he left, Clare sat by the window again watching the storm play itself out. It was over within an hour and when the clouds had broken, the late afternoon sunlight revealed the whole world as clean and sparkling. The leaves of the holly tree, which had seemed to fade in the heat and humidity had lifted, and Clare felt a faint stirring of hope. Perhaps her outburst would serve to disperse the tension between her husband and herself and allow them the same sort of new beginning.
* * * *
Over the next few weeks, however, the relationship between husband and wife remained static. Giles was as kind and considerate as ever, but now the reserve was on his side as much as on Clare’s. He never touched her unless it would have looked strange not to: dancing at a local assembly or handing her over a stile on one of their rambles with Sabrina. He would give her a polite kiss on the cheek at the door in the evening when they retired at the same time, but the door between their rooms remained closed.
It took all his self-control to restrain himself. When they were dancing, the smell of her perfume would only remind him of their physical intimacy. Many nights after his cool good-night kiss, he would lie awake remembering how it felt to lose himself in her body. Aroused and frustrated, he wondered if his wife was wanting him, if any of the passion between them had been real.
* * * *
Clare did miss his kisses and waking up curled against him in the morning. She missed the way he had gently but effectively aroused her and readied her for his love-making. She didn’t miss, however, those awful moments after his release when he would attempt to bring her to hers. And surely, it would not have done their marriage any good for them to have gone on pretending?
They had talked about the possibility of attending the Little Season in the beginning of the summer, but had come to no clear decision. Clare was relieved one morning at breakfast, when Giles raised the possibility again.
“I think it is time to think about returning to London, Clare. Sabrina? I hope you are both in agreement with me?”
Sabrina was of two minds. She wasn’t sure she could stand seeing Andrew More socially. It would be painful to maintain her friendly facade now that the truth between them had been spoken. Although surely during Michaelmas Term, he would have a busy schedule? Yet as painful as it might be to return to London, at least there would be a variety of activities to distract her. And Giles and Clare. The careful politeness between them was hard to watch, and she was well aware that something had happened that was keeping Giles from his wife’s bed. All in all, London seemed the better choice.
“I have enjoyed the summer, Giles,” she replied. Well, she had, up until Andrew’s visit. “But I think some time in the city would be good for all of us.”
Clare smiled and nodded her agreement. Surely a change of scene could not hurt their marriage. Might even help it. And she would have a chance to speak with Andrew in London. If she couldn’t bring Giles happiness, then perhaps she could help Andrew and Sabrina find it.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The first few days Andrew was back in London, his rooms seemed very cramped and dingy after the spacious elegance of Whitton, and for the first time in his life, he wished he were his brother. Well, not precisely, he thought humorously. He would never want to be as priggish, responsible, and boring as Jonathan. But had he been born the elder, he would have asked Sabrina to marry him years ago.
He would just have to put her out of his mind. Banish the memory of how soft her cheek felt, how well she fit against him when he pulled her close.
He had no reason to be in court for the next few weeks, but on his first day back, instead of going straight to his office, he had decided to distract himself at the Old Bailey for a few hours. Although the practice was by no means universal, it was becoming more common for victims and criminals alike to be represented by counsel, and Andrew enjoyed watching other barristers putting witnesses through their paces.
After watching two young men sentenced to the hulks for burglary, one older woman transported for stealing from her mistress, Andrew felt better. Not that he enjoyed feeding off human misery as did some court spectators. He felt sympathy for those victimized by poverty who then, in turn, victimized others. Oh, he prosecuted them, but he also sympathized. And this morning he had certainly needed to feel sorry for someone other than himself.
He spied Thomas Ruthven, one of the better-known Bow Street Runners and after the morning session, sought him out. He enjoyed socializing with Runners as much or perhaps more than with his social equals. Most of them were men of great natural intelligence, albeit uneducated, and most important of all, were not hypocrites as were so many of his own class. They knew firsthand what was important: life and death, not who was the latest cuckold. After an enjoyable dinner with Ruthven at the Garrick Head over which he caught up on the latest criminal gossip, Andrew strolled to his office, mellowed by the ale and good company, and distracted at least from his thoughts of Sabrina. All a man really needed, he decided, the ale working on him, was work, meaningful work.
When he entered his chambers, his clerk greeted him and then motioned to a young man sitting in the corner.
“He’s been waiting three hours to see you, Mr. More.”
Andrew glanced over. His visitor and he assumed, prospective client, was a young man, not older than twenty-four, Andrew would have guessed. He was dressed respectably and looked considerably different from many of Andrew’s usual clients. He had lank, dirty-blond hair, which fell over his forehead, and a sallow complexion.
“You would like to see me, Mr. ...?”
The young man’s face brightened. “Yes, sir. Oh, I am John Grantham.”
“Come in to my office, Mr. Grantham.”
The young man unfolded himself and stood up. He was at least two inches taller than Andrew, and very thin. Not a particularly healthy-looking specimen, thought Andrew, as he led him into the office and motioned him to sit down.
“Now, wha
t is it you wanted to see me about?”
The young man cleared his throat and shifted nervously in his chair. He didn’t look like a criminal, thought Andrew, but then, quite often appearances were deceiving.
“I wish you to help me prosecute someone. Er, actually, four men.”
Robbery, thought Andrew. “Do you know the identity of these men, Mr. Grantham? Or will I have to call in a Runner?”
The young man smiled bleakly. “Oh, I know them very well, Mr. More. They are Richard Bennett, Frederick Oldfield, John Phillips, and Thomas Carolus. They are the proprietors of a gaming hell at 75 St. James Street.”
“You wish to prosecute the proprietors of a gaming house?” Andrew was flabbergasted. No one ever brought charges against such men.
“Yes,” said Grantham, his fidgeting hands still now that he had spoken. “Yes, I do. I am, or I was,” he said bitterly, “a student at Inner Temple. I have learned something of the law. It says that ‘Any person who shall at any one sitting lose the sum of ten pounds or more and pays, he is at liberty for three months to recover it.’ ”
Andrew lifted his eyebrows. “You are correct, Mr. Grantham. The law does say that. But I know of hardly any precedents.”
“Oh, I know,” said Grantham bitterly. “A gentleman pays his gaming debts. A gentleman does not complain and certainly does not attempt to get his money back. A gentleman values his honor above all things. Well, I am not a gentleman, Mr. More. Which is why I am here. Your solicitor told me you take on clients whose cases interest you. He told me to talk to you directly in the hope that mine also would.”
“Tell me your story, Mr. Grantham,” said Andrew, leaning back in his chair.
“I was born in India. My father is a minor official with the East India Company. His dream and also my mother’s was that I would come back to England and become something a little more successful than my father. My parents scraped and saved for years, and when they finally had enough for my journey and fees, they sent me off with their lifesavings in my pockets.”
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