Spare Brides

by Parks, Adele

  He paused, stared at her for the longest time. Long enough to make her oddly ashamed; she looked away.

  ‘I bet when you were a debutante you were an accomplished flirt.’ Lydia had been. Some might even remember her as a bit of a tease, certainly an enormous giggle. ‘I bet you drove men mad,’ he added with some amusement.

  ‘Oh, yes, they fell for me like apples fall off a tree,’ she replied with a deft mix of irony and honesty.

  ‘Landing hard, getting bruised. I know how it happened for you.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes. Your husband. Solid sort. He came along and said he wouldn’t stand for any of your nonsense, as he liked to call it. He said you had to pack it all in and marry him. It was coming to the end of your season and you were rather relieved. You found it a little tedious being forever sparkling, didn’t you? I bet you did. I don’t imagine he was the first proposal; he might have been the fifth or sixth. But he was the first one you could take seriously. The other boys had all worshipped you a little too ardently, a little too quickly, and you insisted their heat was insincere.’

  Lydia nodded, fascinated by the accuracy of his account. ‘Mostly they were rather silly,’ she admitted.

  ‘Quite. But he saw potential in you. He thought you could be better. Better behaved. Under the correct guidance. He saw himself as just that. You believed the same to be true. Am I right?’

  He was. No one had ever taken the time to understand the exact reasoning behind Lydia’s acceptance of Lawrence’s proposal. They were simply pleased she had accepted him. After she had discouraged a number of chaps whom everyone considered totally appropriate, her parents had concerns she might turn out to be wilful. When she said yes to the Earl of Clarendale’s son, they had been so relieved. He was eminently eligible; if they’d wanted to be Victorian about the business, and had found her a match at birth, they could not have chosen better themselves.

  People talked of marriages of convenience and marriages that were love matches, as if the entire business was an either/or situation. In Lydia’s view things were rarely so clear cut. She had found Lawrence attractive, suitable, pleasant-tempered and moral; added together, she’d thought she was being offered a good deal. What she felt for him was a lot like love, as near to love as she’d ever known, and so she gave it that label. She had been keen to get on with it. The business of being married. She wanted to be more than a girl waiting for invitations; she wanted to be a woman dispensing them. Sure enough the parties and dancing were delicious to begin with, when the spring months first heated up and exploded into summer, but the entire business of what to wear, whom to talk to and wondering whether anyone might say a fresh word ever again meant things had become tedious and exhausting by the time the leaves on the trees were turning golden brown. Lawrence probably hadn’t given too much thought as to why Lydia had accepted his proposal after only four meetings. If he had thought about it, no doubt he’d have reasoned that she had settled down because he was masterful and insistent. He had no idea that she wanted to be off the merry-go-round, and that the timing of his attentions had been fortunate.

  Yet this man, this Edgar Trent – with whom she had swapped only a handful of sentences – seemed to know her soul. How could that be? No, it could not be. She would not allow herself to be fanciful. It was much more likely that her story was a predictable one. This was not a flattering thought, but it was more rational. No doubt there were countless other women out there with the same story. This man had probably met, seduced and ‘understood’ plenty of these other women in order for him to be so sure of her predictable story. The thought offended her but forced her on to be more frank.

  ‘Actually, he did not use the word better. He said I could be more.’

  ‘So ever since you’ve striven to be just that. You’re the perfect wife, mother and hostess. Am I right?’

  Lydia sipped her cocktail. ‘Don’t mock me.’

  ‘I’m not mocking you, Lid. I understand.’ Edgar Trent suddenly dropped his gaze and stared at his plate. ‘We both know that sometimes being more leaves you feeling as if you are less.’

  All around them jewels glittered, satin lapels shone; the servants approached and retreated as they served food, poured wine, removed dishes. Lydia became aware that a footman was standing by her shoulder waiting to retrieve her plate. She had not touched the salmon, but all the other guests were sitting, plates cleared, waiting for the roast course. Only her food and Edgar’s remained uneaten. She felt that every eye in the room bored into her. Swiftly she brought together her knife and fork. ‘You can take it.’

  She turned back to the old chap whom she knew she must talk to throughout the roast, but she willed away each laborious moment. The words he offered up drifted past her like dandelion seeds on the wind and she could do nothing to capture them and continue the conversation. All the while she strained to hear what Edgar was saying to his companion. It was agony. Now, if he laughed, she felt anxious; could the woman be more entertaining than Lydia? But if he fell quiet, she resented any intimacy they might be forging. She felt he was being wrenched from her and was desperate until the salad was served and she was able to turn to him once again.

  She did not flirt with him in the traditional sense. She felt that the skills that had been so perfectly honed before she married – but had been quenched and quashed for years now – could have sprung back into life if she’d wanted, and this time she would have been a thousand times more alluring than she’d ever been before. As a woman, not a girl, she had the ability to be polished – frank, elusive, candid and coy by turn – but she could not bring herself to flirt with him like that. She would not pick imaginary lint off his dinner jacket, she would not squeeze his arm and then appear surprised and delighted by his dense muscles, she would not laugh at his jokes even before she heard the punchline. She needed to give him something different. Something more.

  He was a seductive and challenging blast of ambiguities. He liked her. That much was transparent. There were moments when he was animated and amused, when he roared with laughter at something she had said, and moments when he let his gaze linger on her mouth for a moment longer than was comfortable. A moment longer than was acceptable. But this man stayed apart. This man was not for conquering. Even if she had been single and in a position to entice. There was something about him that suggested he would never fall under anyone’s spell. Charm was not a valid currency for him. He was separate, unreachable. Even when he placed his hand on her knee, an inappropriate, but welcome gesture, he was apart.

  14

  EDGAR TRENT ACCEPTED a cigar and, because he wasn’t familiar with anyone in particular, stood with a group of similarly aged men who were talking about the grouse-shooting last week and wondering whether it would be too cold for a drive in the morning; if not, they might take one. They were all – him included – at that pleasant stage of inebriation when the world is warm, fluid and accepting; the sharp bits have been blunted, if not smoothed away, and yet the hangover is too far over the horizon to be a concern.

  Edgar felt exhilarated the way he always did at this point in the evening. He had, as usual, identified the most attractive women in the vicinity. It was a primitive, unquashable routine. Wherever he was, whether he was at a party, or in a public house, at work or walking in town, he spotted them, noted them; if there was time he hunted them. It was a compulsive pattern. Sometimes, if he needed to be expedient, he did not bother with chasing the most attractive women; they often required wooing and charming, and it could eat time. Sometimes he simply identified the most cheerfully willing. Tonight he felt he had time; he felt it would take time.

  Ava Pondson-Callow had initially caught his eye. How could she not? Ava oozed confidence and experience. No one could ever pin an actual scandal on her, but somehow she wore her knowledge like her magnificent and numerous diamonds, boldly for all to see. He’d observed her this evening, before dinner, walking the drawing room, flashing her sharp and clever eyes at men a
nd women alike; eyes that pulsed between chilly indifference and warm invitation. Intriguing. Edgar Trent thought she was the sort of woman who might be compared to Helen who launched a thousand ships, or Godiva who rode naked to lower taxes: an exceptional and complex woman. A single woman. She ought to have been his goal tonight. But he found she was not.

  Lid was different from Ava. As beautiful, but not as sure. She was dark and petite, where Ava was blonde and elegantly lofty. Ava exuded intrinsic self-reliance. Lydia had an air of discontent about her that she largely concealed behind her fabulous dress, but he wondered what it was that provoked her restlessness and where it would take her; she didn’t seem to know. It was her uncertainty that absorbed him. Theoretically she was not available, not at all. But he had touched her knee twice; the first time she’d shivered but moved away, the second time she’d let his hand linger. He’d felt the firmness of her leg under the thin silk dress.

  He knew the power he had over women. It used to matter a lot to him. Since the war, it mattered less. Everything was less since the war. He knew how to get women to fall in love with him. He knew how to get women to fuck him, even when they didn’t really want to, even when they really shouldn’t want to. It passed the time. Time that should be so precious was in fact an aching gap, and so he sometimes filled it with fucking.

  Would he have Lady Lydia Chatfield? Should he pluck her or pass by? There were other woman here tonight he could have. There were always women aplenty. Lydia was delightful, posh, poised. These three things ought to add up to a safe bet, but there was a hint of something else that caused him to pause for thought. Vulnerability. Vulnerability was a menace. It made women messy and unreliable. He did not need or want that. He should pass her by.

  And yet. As he pulled on his cigar, drawing the delicious smoke and tobacco into his lungs and then out into the over-grand smoking room, he recalled the sudden gleam of her pale arms at dinner and her delicate, almost pearlescent skin draped around her collarbones. He found that details came back to him in a way that was more interesting than irksome. She had neat, tiny ears, shell-like, and she tucked her hair behind them whenever she was nervous; her lobes were pink and fleshy. He wondered what it would feel like to take her lobe in his mouth. Her eyes shone like fathomless lagoons. And she was amusing. Her conversation challenged. He noted her laugh.

  He would not pass. He would play.

  Having made this decision, Edgar was bitterly disappointed, on returning to the drawing room, to be informed that Lady Chatfield had retired to bed, complaining of a headache. He looked around at the bevy of sparkling beauties that remained, but felt suddenly and overwhelmingly bored. It was as though someone had turned out the lights.

  15

  AVA, AS HOSTESS, felt she had the right to visit Lydia’s room even before Lydia was dressed. She arrived with her maid, who was carrying an enormous breakfast tray, the post and the papers, and who had instructions to build a hearty fire in the hearth, as it was dwindling.

  ‘Budge over, darling. I’m chilly.’

  Lydia groaned but obediently threw back the satin bedclothes so that Ava could slip between the sheets. The mattress barely moved as Ava was so light, but she made her presence known when she put her icy feet on Lydia’s warm legs.

  Lydia jumped. ‘Your feet are cold.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I put them on you, to warm them up.’

  ‘You should have invited Lord Harrington this weekend. He’d have kept you warm,’ said Lydia. She was teasing and scolding at once. She didn’t approve of Ava’s liaisons with married men, but she accepted them as an intrinsic part of her friend’s lifestyle.

  ‘Charlie is becoming horribly clingy. I deliberately withheld an invitation. I can’t have him slobbering over me in front of Mummy and Daddy. So you’ll have to put up with my cold feet.’

  When they were debutantes, they’d often shared a bed early in the morning, as it was an expedient way to swap the previous evening’s gossip and secrets. Obviously, since Lydia had married, it wasn’t appropriate for Ava to rush into her bedroom, dive into her bed and chatter. Both women missed the intimacy intrinsic in time spent together before hair and teeth were brushed.

  ‘How are you so impossibly glamorous at this time of the day?’ asked Lydia as she turned and eyed Ava’s delicate cotton baby doll, which peeked out from behind her heavily embroidered peacock-coloured dressing gown.

  ‘Single girls don’t let themselves go the way married women do, you know.’

  ‘Charming.’

  Ava laughed. ‘I’m teasing. You look very beautiful too, darling. You haven’t become a slattern since you married. Thank God. Not like Ella Deramore – did you see her last night? Such a shame, she was last year’s hit at the deb balls, but she’s piled on the pounds. No one would guess she’s several years our junior. I’d say ten pounds in six months’ marriage.’

  ‘She may be pregnant.’

  ‘I hope so, for her sake. If you have to be one or the other, fertile is always preferable to fat. Either way, if she carries on at this rate, by the time they reach their silver anniversary she’ll have to be hoisted into bed like Henry the Eighth. I thought her dress was going to rip at the seams.’ Aware and appreciative of her own superior metabolism, Ava sat up in bed and drew the breakfast tray towards her. ‘Hungry?’

  Lydia sat up too and eyed the tray: fresh grapefruit, sardines on toast, soft-boiled eggs, and porridge made with cream and adorned with honey, nuts and slices of apple. It looked delicious, but she wasn’t hungry.

  ‘No, strangely, I’m not.’

  ‘You ought to be, you barely touched dinner last night. Cook is suicidal.’

  ‘It was delicious.’

  ‘I know, but I can hardly explain to Cook that you didn’t eat it because you were involved in an intensive flirtation, can I?’ Lydia glanced swiftly at Ava, wondering how she always knew everything. ‘But then you ran away. How very Cinderella of you. Did you leave a glass slipper? Are you hoping Sergeant Major Trent will search the kingdom for you?’ Ava was tucking into the sardines and giving the impression of teasing indifference, but Lydia knew her well enough to realise she wanted all the details.

  ‘He’s the chap I met in Lyons, actually.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You knew.’

  ‘No. Not at first. I had no idea who the duchess would bring as her cover, but now I understand it all perfectly.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘You know very well what I mean. You said you had a thing for him, and you certainly do. That much was clear to everyone at dinner.’

  ‘Was it?’ Lydia asked, horrified. She wasn’t used to attracting scandal and didn’t want to become so.

  ‘Quite certainly, but take comfort from the fact that no one cares about your little intrigue; most of us have our own to concentrate on.’

  ‘There is no intrigue.’

  ‘Isn’t there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you want there to be.’

  ‘I don’t. That’s why I went to bed early. It’s all becoming rather intense and …’

  ‘Exciting?’

  ‘I was going to say wrong. I’m glad I’m going home today, and so will he be. We’ll never see one another again.’

  ‘Ah, well, about that.’ Ava got out of bed and drew back the curtains. Snow was falling swiftly and had settled overnight. ‘Three or four inches. Stations closed. The roads are impossible. You won’t be going anywhere, darling. No one will.’

  Lydia felt a sharp spike of exhilaration. She would have run. She had planned to do so but fate had intervened and she couldn’t quite bring herself to regret it. She got out of bed and stood with Ava. The women slipped their arms around one another’s waists and stood, backs to the room, watching the world transform. The window framed them like a work of art. Outside, the snowflakes were falling swiftly; there was a white blanket as far as the eye could see, clean and glittering, stretching across the courtyard, the forma
l gardens and the fields. A couple of gardeners were already sweeping the paths. Lydia sighed at this. She knew other servants would be up on the roof shovelling the snow away too. She wished they could have left it alone a little longer. She delighted in clean, untouched snow the way an artist might delight in a clean, untouched canvas; it held promise and possibility. She resented the black trail they were leaving behind their heavy wooden brooms. Swish, swish: the brooms moved back and forth, the gardeners shuffling after them. The pliable powdery snow flew readily to mounds at the side, revealing the grey gravel of the path. The women watched as the men worked on, the path seeming to stretch endlessly. Lydia had a strange sense that they might keep clearing past Ava’s father’s borders, past the neighbouring farms, until the land ended and they arrived at the sea. She almost wished they would. More, she wished she could. Her life suddenly seemed to be one of tedious order, irrational rules and restrictions. Some limits were imposed by society; often times she reached for the brakes herself. If only she dared to just keep going and going and going until she had gone as far as she could and there was nowhere left to voyage.

  ‘Tell me, Ava, what do you know of him? Tell me everything.’

  16

  EDGAR FELT TRAPPED by the snow and also exhilarated by it. He was often confused by the two contradicting emotions: that of feeling trapped and that of relishing the challenge of disentangling himself. He didn’t understand it but knew it was to do with what had happened in France. The mud had trapped him; he’d trudged through it, sunk into it. Then he’d crawled through it, slept in it; the mud and the blood. It had rotted his boots, seeped into his skin, into his mouth, up his nose, but somehow he had not drowned in it. When he’d had to, he’d burrowed deeper into the mud, urinated, puked and bled into it, but he had not been smothered by it. He had been promoted and decorated, he had been a success. A success because he hadn’t been buried in the land; he had clambered, fought and clawed his way out of it. Edgar thought it was a miracle or luck that he hadn’t died in the war; his point of view wavered depending on his mood.