by Jane Jackson
‘Don’t stop.’ Her voice was both plea and husky command, her features tight with frowning concentration.
As he looked down, for an instant Lowell saw not Henry’s wife but his own. Dear God, if only –
‘I do love you, Lowell. You must believe that.’ How many times had he heard those words, heard the desperation in Marjorie’s voice as tears spilled over her thick lashes. How many times had he seen her pale, drawn face contort with anguish at her failure. ‘I want to be a dutiful wife to you.’
Dutiful? Was that what it meant to her? ‘I know.’ How many times had he said it; trying to hide his despair. Trying to reassure her. He did believe she loved him. But what kind of love was it? How could she love him yet recoil when he reached for her? How could she love him yet tremble when he kissed her – not from desire or even shyness, but from fear and loathing? And how could he prove to her that she had nothing to fear when the lightest brush of his fingers or lips made her flinch?
She had tried. He gave her credit for that. ‘Go on,’ she had whispered the last night of their disastrous honeymoon, forcing the words between bloodless lips as she lay, rigid as a corpse, against him. She had closed her eyes in an effort to hide her terror and disgust. But they had screamed silently at him from her shrinking flesh. ‘I want to please you, Lowell,’ she had murmured, her voice catching on a sob quickly – valiantly – suppressed. ‘Do whatever you wish. I am your wife now.’ Tears had slid from the corners of her eyes and soaked the hair at her temples.
For a moment he had considered taking her at her word so great was his disappointment and frustration. It was no crime to rape your own wife. Instead, clamping his jaws tight, not trusting himself to speak, he had flung on his clothes and slammed out into the night. With a seaman’s instinct he had found a crowded noisy tavern and drunk himself steadily into a stupor.
One compensation for the demands of life aboard a tea-clipper had been the esteem and approval lavished by women from all levels of society on the crews braving wind and storm as they raced home across the world’s oceans with their precious cargo. Like the other junior officers he had taken full advantage of this admiration. In contrast to some of his shipmates who simply used women he discovered that he liked them, which meant his experiences had neither jaded nor coarsened him. Instead he had learned. He had begun to understand what women enjoyed and wanted. And their pleasure increased his.
He had been attracted to Marjorie from the first moment he met her. Beneath her natural shyness lurked a sense of playfulness and fun. She was intelligent yet possessed the same soft womanly qualities he remembered in his mother.
His father had tried to dissuade him. ‘Not that one, boy. Something wrong there.’ But he was so used to his father arguing against or disapproving of everything he did he dismissed the warning as just more of the same. Marjorie was always so warm and affectionate towards him that he did not question the physical limits she imposed on their courtship; convincing himself that her refusal to allow him more than a chaste kiss or two was a sensible refusal to play with fire, a reluctance to defy the convention that a bride should go to her marriage bed a virgin. She told him as much, promising that once they were married things would be different, her anxiety arousing his protective instincts.
Self-control had not been easy but the depth of her gratitude for his restraint had surprised and touched him. When frustration grew unbearable he quietly sought release elsewhere, ashamed of his weakness but reassuring himself that once he and Marjorie were married he would never again cross the threshold of such places.
It never occurred to him that Marjorie’s behaviour was governed by anything other than social convention. Why should it? She told him often how much she loved him and looked forward to being his wife. His own father might not have welcomed the match but Marjorie’s parents were clearly delighted.
‘Of course they are,’ Joseph had exploded. ‘Marjorie is twenty-three, the same age as you. She’s not a bad looker and she’s never been short of suitors. So why have none of them married her? Eh? Tell me that.’
Lowell had hung onto his temper. ‘I have no idea. Perhaps they proposed and she turned them down. In any case that is no one else’s business but hers. Stay out of it, Father. Don’t meddle in things that don’t concern you.’
‘Don’t concern me? Despite all the grief you’ve caused you’re still my son. That’s what makes it my business. I’ll tell you why she’s still single and you’d do well to listen. It’s because there’s something not right about that girl. You’d see it for yourself if you were thinking with your brain instead of your balls.’
Fighting the urge to hit his father, Lowell had strode towards the door. Joseph’s voice followed him.
‘It’s in the family. Look at her mother. I’m all for a wife respecting her husband. That’s as it should be. But the way that woman behaves isn’t natural.’
Lowell had noticed how Helen Hill always deferred to her husband, her eyes nervously seeking him out before she responded to even the most innocuous of remarks. Her mother was shy, Marjorie explained.
‘I’m telling you, Lowell,’ Joseph warned. ‘Something’s wrong. Wed that girl and you’ll regret it.’
Lowell had refused to listen. He needed a wife and Marjorie loved him.
So they were married, Marjorie ethereal in her white gown, her cheeks pale as she pledged herself body and soul to him. One flesh.
That had been five and a half years ago. Two thousand nights. And Marjorie was still a virgin.
Silent laughter, mocking, agonised, ate like acid into his soul. He wanted to hurt her, to make her suffer as he had. His mother and sisters had died because of him. He was married but had no wife.
He tightened his arm around the figure beneath him. He would take pleasure where and when he felt the need. And he would give it. Fair exchange was no robbery. But no involvement. No emotion. That was for fools. He began to move again, slowly.
She writhed against him. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Oh yes.’
At first restrained, carefully controlled, his movements gradually became faster and more forceful. Lust, loneliness, rage and lacerating hurt spiralled into a vortex that drew him to its core. Damn you, bitch. Damn you to hell. Henry’s wife, or his own? At that moment he could not have said. Nor did he care.
As he thrust deeper he felt his control begin to slip. He closed his eyes and his head arched back. Oh God it felt good, so good. No more anger, no more pain, just hunger and excitement. His heartbeat thundered in his ears and his breathing was ragged and shallow. Conscious thought began to fade. He was vaguely aware of her head thrashing on the pillow as her nails dug into his shoulders. Then she gave a strangled cry and her body convulsed, shuddering in wild spasms.
Panting, he drove deeply into her again and again, seeking, reaching … With an explosive groan he dissolved, melting into the sweet oblivion of total physical release.
As soon as the pulsing faded he rolled away, collapsing on his back one arm across his eyes, his chest heaving.
Beside him Henry’s wife lay spent and languorous, her legs tangled in the rumpled sheets.
There was a smile in her husky voice as she sighed with contentment. ‘That was …’ she paused, concluding thoughtfully, ‘a revelation. Tell me, Captain, how long do you expect to remain in London? Perhaps we might –’
‘I think not.’ Sitting up he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and with his back to her pushed both hands through his tousled hair.
‘Why not?’ Though her tone was level he detected surprise and pique.
He glanced over his shoulder. ‘My dear, think of the risk to your reputation.’ He had long-since ceased to be astonished at the number of women whose husbands knew little and cared even less about affording their wives pleasure in the marital bed. Having for the first time enjoyed what they ordinarily endured a few were loath to let him go. Usually this tactful reminder was sufficient to prompt a sigh and a reluctant nod of agreement. She, h
owever, was of a different calibre. She simply gazed at him, her tangled hair spread over the pillow, her eyes heavy-lidded.
‘That is my concern, Captain,’ she reproved lightly, ‘not yours. A gentleman would surely humour me?’ She raised her brows, smiling.
Lowell smiled back. She had spirit and intelligence and he admired both. But she was Henry’s wife. ‘No doubt. But as a mere seafarer I cannot claim such distinction.’
She sat up tossing her hair back and linking her hands loosely about her raised knees. ‘A seaman you may be, Captain, but describing yourself as a mere anything is humbug as you very well know. Do me the courtesy of being honest. You owe me that.’
Lowell inclined his head briefly. ‘Of course. Forgive me. This …’ looking at the rumpled bedclothes he toyed with the idea of using seaman’s language to describe the afternoon’s activity. From her abandoned hungry response to him he knew the words would not shock her. But he knew too her desire for honesty was not that strong. ‘This was truly a delightful interlude and I will treasure the memory. But one cannot repeat something unique.’
She met his gaze, her face hardening imperceptibly. ‘You express yourself with great precision, Captain. Do I take it you are declining my invitation? An invitation, may I say, frequently sought but rarely extended.’
‘I appreciate the honour you do me. And were circumstances different …’
‘Spare me your excuses, Captain,’ she snapped. ‘I see I was mistaken. Indeed you are no gentleman. I suggest you leave.’ Her tone was icy. ‘At once.’
‘As you wish.’ With a lithe movement Lowell scooped up his scattered garments from the floor and padded naked across the room. He saw her lips part in astonishment as he bowed gravely. ‘Your servant, ma’am.’ Closing the door behind him he allowed himself a weary smile. She had thought to avenge his slight by watching him struggle, awkward and embarrassed, into his clothes. Only once had he done that. There wouldn’t be a second time.
Ignoring the muffled thud of a pillow hurled against the door he dressed quickly in the dark and within minutes was letting himself out of the house into the dusk of early evening. Turning up the collar of his greatcoat he looked up and down the road. Gas lamps shed pools of yellow light onto the pavement. In the distance he heard the brisk clop of horses’ hooves as a cab crossed the junction. He turned towards it.
A bath would wash off the sweat and smell of illicit love and a stiff drink would take away the bitter taste. But what would wipe out the shame and self-disgust? Anger burned in him. But it was shot through with a terrible pity for his damaged wife. He lifted his face to the cold sky, wanting to howl like a dog.
Reaching the junction and the busy, well lit main road he hailed a cab. Using a technique perfected over five long wretched years he shut his blighted marriage out of his mind and focused his thoughts on Sir Andrew Cathcart’s invitation to dine with him at the Traveller’s Club.
He had met the baronet briefly on his last trip to England three years ago. It had been at a party marking the retirement of the captain with whom he had served his apprenticeship. James Mackenzie had introduced them with the cryptic remark that Lowell’s career might bear watching.
Cathcart had smiled politely but made no comment and, after a few moments’ bland conversation, moved on. Lowell had shrugged inwardly and forgotten the incident, until this morning, when the hotel manager had handed him the note. What could Cathcart want?
Chapter Eleven
Sitting at her father’s massive oak desk Susanna finished translating the letters he had drafted. The final one of the four was addressed to a Spanish wine shipper who was worried about collection and delivery of his cargo should the squabble over who should succeed Queen Isabella – a conflict lurching towards rebellion and civil war – result in a blockade of the northern ports of Gijon, Santander, and Bilbao.
Her concentration had shut out the rumble of male voices from the large main office just beyond the half open door. It was here that the captains, shipowners, shareholders and merchants came, all relying on Samuel Elliot’s expertise to find cargoes for their ships and organise the most suitable ship to transport their cargoes.
Slotting the metal-nibbed dipping pen into its holder beside the inkwell Susanna straightened up, flexing shoulders grown stiff from absorption in her task.
She loved coming to the office. It was the hub of a business that reached to the farthest corners of the world. Sending mining machinery to South Africa and bringing back fruit and gold; taking salt to Newfoundland then delivering cod to Tuscany; and carrying machinery and steam coal to Brazil, returning with sugar, hides, mahogany and coffee. Occasionally, when the value of the cargo made it worthwhile, her father still sent a ship to China.
She was entranced by the thought of schooners, barques, and brigantines whose names she knew – ships she had seen tied up alongside the quays and wharves or anchored in the harbour – crossing the world’s oceans to places where exotic peoples in colourful dress observed strange customs.
Making sure each letter was slotted into the flap of its corresponding envelope Susanna sighed. Now she had finished she would have to leave. It was pure good fortune she had been able to come in at all. But with the morning room taken over by Frances’ trousseau, Agnes in the dining room turning out all the china in preparation for the wedding breakfast, and a meeting of the committee for the rehabilitation of fallen women taking place in the drawing room, there had been nowhere else for her to work.
Crossing to the open door she held up the letters. ‘Father?’
Samuel glanced over the shoulder of his Chief clerk – a rotund little man of middle age whose hunched shoulders, pale complexion, and pince-nez suggested a life spent poring over books with only rare excursions into sunshine. ‘Thank you, my dear. I’ll be with you directly.’
He turned back to the clerk. ‘We can undercut Lashbrook by five percent and still make a profit. Isn’t the Lady Anne sailing for Italy tomorrow?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The Chief clerk consulted the ledger in front of him. ‘She’s carrying pilchard oil, and will load marble to deliver to Bristol. There would be space in her hold for Mr Ames’s cotton goods.’
‘If I am still engaged with Captain Stuart when Mr Ames returns, tell him we can offer both a lower price and an earlier delivery date. If he accepts impress on him the necessity of having the goods on the quay ready for stowing by four this afternoon.’
The clerk nodded. ‘What do you wish to do about Captain Styles, sir? He is claiming the conditions under which you purchased the Sarah permitted him to remain as master for her next voyage.’
‘He is wrong. I made no such concession. Kindly inform him that he is to be off the ship by noon tomorrow. In case he should be tempted to delay his departure make sure he understands the penalty for trespass. Now, regarding Mr Mabey’s cargo of woollens for Spain. I think the extra premium he’s prepared to pay makes it worth the risk.’ The clerk made a note on his pad. ‘Have my share certificates in the Natal Steamship Company arrived yet?’
‘Not yet, sir. But I believe there was a delay on the mail this morning. It is possible they will be delivered this afternoon.’
Half-hidden by the door Susanna listened, awed and amazed at the contrast between her father’s ruthlessness and ambition in business and his agonising over the Quaker principles which governed every aspect of domestic life. Yet how could she condemn him for hypocrisy when the family’s high standard of living and generous donations to the many charities they supported were a direct result of his success?
She should be proud of him. She was. But if he could accept the dichotomy between his puritan conscience and his desire for social prominence and the admiration of his peers in the commercial world then why could he not accept that she wanted to achieve something? That she had ambitions beyond the normal charity work expected of someone of her class and background?
William pushed the door wide making her jump. ‘Father says I am to escort you home.’
‘Whatever for? I’m hardly likely to get lost. Anyway, haven’t you got work to do?’
William pulled a wry face. ‘Father says you need me more than he does.’
Susanna’s grin was full of sympathy. ‘Oh Will, what have you done?’
‘It’s what I haven’t done.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘It’s those ledgers. I really thought … I mean you explained it so well … and I did try …’ he shrugged. Then, like the sun emerging from behind a cloud, his good-natured optimism reasserted itself. ‘I’ll get the hang of it, I know I will, if I can persuade someone – perhaps a kind intelligent sister – to go through it with me again.’
Susanna patted his arm. ‘Of course I will. Don’t worry. It’s not always possible to take everything in first time.’
‘Come on, Su, let’s not pretend.’ He scuffed the toe of one shoe against a knot in the wood floor. ‘This will be the third time.’
‘So what if it is?’ She took her cloak from the hook on the back of the door. ‘I don’t mind, honestly. I said I’d teach you how to do accounts. And I will.’
‘Or perish in the attempt,’ he grinned. ‘Father says to leave the letters on his desk. He’ll sign them later.’
‘It really makes me cross,’ Susanna said as they emerged onto the busy street. ‘If married women are allowed the freedom to walk about the town by themselves, why can’t I? Oh I know I do, but only on very rare occasions. Usually on an errand for mother. Anyway, how do people know whether or not a woman is married? Wedding rings are not visible beneath a glove. It might be different if they were worn through the nose. It’s so stifling.’
‘How is Colin coming along?’ William enquired, taking her arm as they crossed the road and started up the hill.
Susanna looked at him quickly then let go of her anger. No one understood her better than Will. He was her best friend. ‘Progressing well. The dressing was changed for the first time last week. Edward allowed me to watch. He’s delighted as the wound shows no sign of putrefaction at all.’