‘I don’t know. I want it to mean something, have significance. A Leap in the Dark! The Fresh Start Café! New Beginnings! No, I know what it should be. Small Steps. Because that’s what we’ve both taken on our journey to reach this point.’
‘I like that,’ Owen said touched, ‘but shouldn’t it have a French name, since it’s a Parisian-style café and not just a coffee shop?’
‘Petites etapes,’ Phoebe said, screwing up her nose. ‘Aux Petites Etapes doesn’t really sound right. Oh, I know! Pas à pas—that means quite literally step by step. One step at a time. Le Pas à Pas! What do you think? Will people understand what we mean?’
‘As long as we do, who cares? It’s unusual and therefore memorable. I love it!’
‘Le Pas à Pas! It’s silly, but it feels much more real, now it has a name. Only a few more weeks and we’ll be ready to open for business. Once the kitchen is complete, I’ll be able to start cooking.’
She was glowing again, his lovely Phoebe. He’d forgotten himself, talking to her. Looking at her, he was filled with hope. He could conquer this thing that was trying to take possession of him. He’d done it before. He could do it again, with Phoebe by his side. ‘We’ll toast the name tonight, before dinner.’
‘I look forward to it.’ She got to her feet, picking up her paint-stained cloak. ‘Le Pas à Pas is going to need a thorough clean-up before any cooking gets done there. I’d better go and get changed out of these things now. And you will be wanting to bathe after your exertions on the apparatus.’
‘Stay and bathe with me,’ he said impulsively.
‘What!’
‘I have a bathing chamber containing a bath, with hot running water. A very large bath.’
‘Owen, you’re surely not suggesting we share it?’
‘It would save water. And it would save your maid all the effort of carrying your bath water up the stairs.’
‘So it would be economical and thoughtful?’
‘It would be both economical and thoughtful,’ he agreed. A thick curl of her glorious hair had escaped its pins. Owen tucked it behind her ear, letting his fingers trail down the column of her neck, feathering over the skin at her nape, something that always made her shiver with pleasure. ‘But I think it might also be fun.’
‘Fun?’ She smiled at him. That smile. She hadn’t smiled that particular smile for weeks. ‘What kind of fun?’
‘Whatever kind we like.’ He kissed her gently, at the same time cupping her breast, his thumb slowly circling her nipple. He felt it bud, through her corsets and her gown. He kissed her again, feeling himself stiffen.
‘Owen, I have never—I can’t imagine...’
‘Phoebe, I have never and I can’t imagine, but I’d like to try, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ She placed her hand over his heart, a new and strange little habit of hers. Then she smiled up at him again. ‘Oh, yes.’
* * *
Owen was different. No, not different. He wasn’t different, he was the man she had fallen in love with, the smiling, teasing, irresistible Owen. Not that she’d been able to resist the darker version of him either, but Phoebe was immensely relieved to see that the real one was still there. She followed him, intrigued and excited, across the small hallway to his bedchamber. It was a very masculine room, the furniture dark, solid, the bed much lower to the ground than hers and without posts or curtains. There were books and papers everywhere, but nothing else by way of decoration, no pictures on the walls, only a set of silver-backed brushes on the dressing table.
He locked the door behind them. Needlessly, she knew. None of the servants came to these rooms unless summoned. Casting her cloak on to the bed, he led her towards another door. A huge bath dominated the square room, set into the corner and taking up most of one wall. The bath was enclosed in white-painted wood. Fascinated, she watched as Owen fitted a stopper to what was presumably the draining hole, and turned on the brass tap. Air clanked out, followed by a thin stream of piping hot water, which became a gush when he made some complicated adjustments.
‘Don’t imagine that it’s always this co-operative,’ he said, smiling at her astonished expression. ‘Half of the time, the water is no more than tepid.’
‘It’s wonderful. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
A porcelain sink was built into a marble-topped table which held Owen’s shaving soap, razor and strop, and this too had brass taps attached to it. A mirror hung on this wall, already beginning to mist over due to the steam rising from the bath water. The floor of the bathing chamber was covered with large black and white tiles, smaller tiles in the same monochrome design covering the walls. A selection of towels were laid out ready on a wooden rack. There was a dish of soaps set on a wash stand beside the bath, a large loofah, a scrubbing brush and several sponges sat in another dish.
‘Are we really going to get into that together?’ Phoebe asked, unable to decide whether the prospect was enticing or simply odd.
‘I won’t drown you, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
She giggled. ‘It does look almost big enough to swim in. Not that I can swim.’
‘I can. I used to swim around the Serpentine, in Hyde Park in the summer. In the early hours, obviously,’ Owen added, ‘lest my semi-naked state cause offence. Fortunately there’s no one here for us to offend, so we can bathe completely naked. If you want to, that is? I don’t want you to do anything...’
‘I want to,’ she said, because she didn’t really care whether they were in a bed or a bath or the back of a carriage, for that matter, as long as they were together. ‘I really do want to,’ she said, reaching up to kiss him.
It was a long, slow kiss, the kind of kiss that had been missing for weeks from their lovemaking. This kiss went on and on, breaking only when Owen cursed, and hurriedly switched off the tap to prevent the bath from overflowing. Then the kiss started again, and it carried on as they undressed each other, dropping their clothes heedlessly on to the damp tiles. She watched her own pleasure reflected in his eyes as he touched her, caressed her, stroked her, and she echoed every one of his movements. When they were naked, he helped her step into the bath, joining her with a fluidity that still astonished her, when she looked at the scarring at his hip.
He took one of the sponges from the dish and soaped it. And then he soaped her, slow sweeping strokes, first her back, down to her bottom, then her front, using the sponge to tease her nipples, until she was only just clinging to the edge of self-control. She lost it very quickly when he gently rubbed between her legs, the soft soapy sponge, the warm water, and Owen, watching her so intently, wrenching her climax from her. She clung to him, panting, conscious first of his erection pressing into her belly, then of the delicious sliding sensation of soapy skin on skin. Taking the sponge from him, she set out to tease him as he had done her, watching him, the sinful smile fading to sensual pleasure, his eyes darkening, his breath becoming shallow.
‘Phoebe, you have to stop or I’ll...’
‘I want you to.’
‘Inside you,’ he said. ‘Please, I want to be inside you.’
She dropped the sponge, bracing herself against the wall tiles. They felt cool on her hot skin. He entered her slowly, pushing higher inch by inch, his eyes on hers, and she instinctively angled herself to take him higher. And then he thrust. Slowly, so she wouldn’t over-balance. Slowly, because it was what they both wanted. She had never felt so close to him before as this, their bodies slick and sliding, their eyes locked. It seemed to go on for ever. She never wanted it to end. But then she tipped over to the point where she was desperate for it to end, to rush to the ending, and he sensed it, thrusting harder, faster, until she cried out, and he cried out only seconds later, pulling himself free of her, but holding her, their mouths clinging in one last utterly sated panting kiss.
* * *
Phoebe woke with a st
art, completely disoriented. She was in Owen’s room, lying on the very edge of the bed, with her husband splayed out beside her naked, the sheets a tangle around his legs. She shivered and was about to claim a share of the bedcoverings back when Owen muttered. He was dreaming. Tentatively, she put a hand on his shoulder to try to wake him, but he shuddered, cowering away from her.
Phoebe edged out of the bed, putting on his dressing gown. His breathing was fast and shallow, as if he had been running hard. There was a sudden stillness to him, then his arms shot out in front of him and he strained, as if he was trying to push away some invisible obstacle.
‘Owen.’
She touched his shoulder. He heaved again, then with a cry sat up, his eyes wide open, a blank look of abject horror on his face. ‘I can’t stop them.’
‘What can’t you stop?’ she whispered.
‘If I could get the door open, they would stop crying. I can’t get the door open. I can’t get them out. I can’t get them out.’
He dropped his head on to his hands and broke into wild sobs. Appalled and helpless, Phoebe tried to wrap her arms around him, but as soon as she touched him he pushed her away. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Owen, I...’
‘Get out.’
‘Owen, you were dreaming, I...’
‘Get out! Get out! Why can’t you leave me alone.’
March 1831
She had put it off long enough. It was almost a month since she had witnessed Owen’s nightmare, a month in which his behaviour had become more and more erratic, his moods more and more volatile. Phoebe was treading on eggshells all of the time, never knowing from one morning to the next how he would be, or if he would even remember how he had been the day before.
There were periods of calm, when she persuaded herself that he was improving, but they were getting further and further apart. She couldn’t pretend any more, but as she waited, sipping her tea in the breakfast parlour, she would have given almost anything to persuade herself that she could.
It was no use. She had to find the strength to confront him, no matter how painful, because they were already perilously close to the point of no return, a living nightmare where they both pretended that Owen was behaving perfectly normally, and that his ‘perfectly normal’ behaviour wasn’t breaking her heart. She had tried, a week ago, to talk to him, tried to tell him how upsetting she found his behaviour, but it had only made him worse—not angry, but stricken. Since then, he had retreated into himself, though his efforts to control his emotions at times made him shake visibly. She felt so utterly helpless, watching him suffering, so determined to deny that he was suffering. He had gone from being a man who felt nothing, to someone so full of conflicting emotions he could barely contain them all.
She had shied away from forcing a confrontation because she didn’t want to face the truth. If he no longer loved her—but she must not think that. She had to be strong. She had to be positive. If he loved her, then they could conquer whatever ailed him. She loved him so much, she would do anything she could to save their marriage. If he loved her.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve kept you waiting.’
Phoebe forced a smile. ‘I was up early,’ she said, though Owen was almost an hour later than usual. ‘Shall I pour your coffee?’
‘Please.’
He sat down without touching her, and her heart sank as he forced a smile.
‘Shall I get you some breakfast?’
‘I’ll get my own. I don’t want to keep you back. I know you’re eager to try out your new kitchen for the first time.’
‘I’m not in such a hurry that I can’t stay and have breakfast with my husband.’
‘I’m not hungry, Phoebe.’
‘Just an egg and some of this—’
‘I said I’m not hungry!’ Owen swore viciously. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but despite what you believe, food is not the cure for all ills. Forgive me, I didn’t sleep well. I have the headache.’
She could walk away. He clearly wanted to be left alone. Perhaps he did have a headache. But what if she was the cause? ‘Owen.’ She angled herself in her chair to reach for his hand. ‘Owen, won’t you please tell me what it is that ails you?’
‘I have the headache, I’ve just told you that.’
‘Is it—didn’t you sleep?’
He edged his hand away from her clasp. ‘I told you that too.’
‘Did you—did you have a nightmare again?’
He stilled. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘I saw you—don’t you remember?’ But judging from his blank look, he did not. Though she felt as if she was standing on the edge of an abyss, Phoebe forced herself to continue. ‘Last month—after we—it was the last time we made love. In your bathing room—we fell asleep in your bedchamber.’ He paled, but said nothing. ‘I woke—you woke me up, shouting,’ Phoebe said. ‘Something about crying. You wanted me to make them stop. I thought...’
He pushed his chair back, stumbling to his feet. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘But you do remember?’ Phoebe persisted. ‘The dream, I mean? And when you woke up, sending me away?’
‘No. Yes. I don’t want to talk about it, Phoebe.’
‘Owen, we have to talk about it. Something is wrong, and I can’t help you if I don’t know what it is.’
‘You can’t help me.’
He threw himself across the room to look out of the window. She could see his shoulders rising and falling in his effort to control himself. She knew he wanted her to leave, but she had come this far, she couldn’t back down now. ‘Owen, whatever it is, can’t you please tell me?’
‘I don’t know what the hell it is! I just need you to leave me alone.’
She went to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. ‘My love, please won’t you tell me? There’s nothing you can say that...’
‘Don’t, Phoebe.’ His voice broke. He turned around, pulling her into his arms. ‘I beg you, don’t say any more. There is nothing to be said. Nothing to be done.’
‘But, Owen...’
‘No!’ Tears tracked down his cheeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m so sorry, but it’s simply not possible.’
‘What? Owen, please...’
‘I can’t be with you like this. You have to understand...’
‘But I want...’
‘Phoebe,’ he said, ‘sometimes we simply can’t have what we want.’
It was the gentleness in his tone that told her all hope was lost. The way he put her from him, so carefully, as if he was afraid she would break. And indeed, her heart was breaking, had been breaking a little bit every day, for the worse he had become, the more desperately she loved him. But it was abundantly clear now that he didn’t love her. And it was destroying him, his not loving her. Though she couldn’t imagine life without him, for even this Owen was better than no Owen at all, she was going to have to let him go, for his sake.
She ought to have known it wouldn’t last. She had known. She recalled thinking here in this very room, that she wasn’t up to his weight. Why would a man like Owen want to be tied to a woman like her, whose only talent was cooking! But he had tied himself to her, and he was far too honourable a man to admit that he regretted it. Even when he so obviously did.
‘Go to the café,’ Owen said. ‘Go and cook. You’re so close to that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, Phoebe, don’t let me ruin it for you.’
She wanted to tell him she didn’t give a damn about the café, not compared to him. But the café was what had brought them together. The café had given him a purpose. If she told him she didn’t care, she’d only be adding to his guilt.
‘Will you still come—tonight, I mean?’ she asked, knowing she sounded pitiful, unable to stop herself. It was to be a private dinner for herself and Owen. He had suggested it weeks ago. It was supposed
to be a final treat before they both threw themselves headlong into the launch of the café, which was planned for next month. A celebratory meal to toast their future success. Now it was going to be a wake to mark the death of their marriage.
‘Of course,’ Owen said eventually, forcing another of his rigid smiles. ‘The first meal cooked in the kitchen at Le Pas à Pas. Of course I’ll come.’ He kissed the air a few inches from her lips. ‘Go on. I’ll see you there later.’
* * *
Owen spent the day trying to forget what had happened this morning, trying to eradicate the memory of his brave Phoebe’s misguided and doomed attempt to help him. He knew he was beyond help. It was simply a question of holding himself together as best he could until the launch of Le Pas à Pas was complete, and Phoebe’s future assured. By the time he arrived several hours later he had himself under control. Or as near as he ever came to that, these days, veering between the feeling that he was no longer part of this world, and the feeling that he could not bear to be part of it. Guilt for some undisclosed crime weighed him down. The wailing was never far away. But the vivid fragments of memory, the latest development in his illness, were the worst. Sudden blazes of light like the limelight they used in the theatre, and then the images would start to flash through his mind. Different each time, nothing seemingly connected, like pieces of a puzzle. They came to him in the night and in the day. He had tried to clutch at the images, to make sense of them, it was like trying to grasp smoke. There was only his palpitating heart, his gasping breath, and the tears streaming down his face. He would not allow them to happen tonight. He would not allow anything to interfere with tonight, for Phoebe’s sake.
The café was virtually complete. The tables and chairs were set up, the red-velvet curtains hung in the window, the banquettes upholstered. Phoebe had lit all the sconces and the central chandeliers for his arrival, and laid some of the tables, presumably to give him a sense of how it would look when they were open, simple settings with white crockery, plain glasses and one set of cutlery.
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