‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked, smiling nervously as she locked the door behind him.
He took his time answering, knowing how much it would matter to her, wanting to do at least this small thing to please her. He was determined to do everything in his power to make tonight a success, but he was already so terrified of betraying himself, it was like a self-fulfilling prophecy.
‘Owen?’
He started, swore viciously, then was immediately awash with guilt as he saw Phoebe flinch. ‘It’s lovely,’ he said, the first anodyne expression he could think of. Take deep breaths! Turning away from her sad, tragic gaze, he forced himself to look. ‘Cosy, welcoming. The dark panelling you chose was perfect, it will feel warm, even in the depths of winter. And the banquettes. Very Parisian. It’s the sort of place where you could easily picture your builder and his wife at that table, Wellington and a few of his cronies there, perhaps your sister and her husband, the Earl of Fearnoch, tête-à-tête there.’
He was wittering, but Phoebe was either fooled or pretending to be fooled. ‘And upstairs?’ she asked, leading the way.
‘The Procope,’ Owen said, a lump rising in his throat as he stood at the top of the stairs.
‘And here,’ Phoebe said, taking his hand and urging him gently towards the only table which had been set, where a jug of wine stood waiting with two glasses, ‘where Owen met Phoebe. There is no plaque, but I didn’t think we’d need reminding.’
The lighting up here was dim. Owen swiped at his eyes while Phoebe sat down. ‘I won’t ever forget,’ he said, taking his chair, pouring them both a glass of wine, spilling some of it on to the crisp starched linen which his wife, his precious lovely beloved wife, pretended not to notice. ‘To brief encounters that change lives,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘And to you, Phoebe. For being unique.’
‘To Owen, who has made all of this possible. The best and only husband,’ she said, touching his glass, her voice husky.
‘You’ve done this, Phoebe.’
‘I couldn’t have even begun without you.’ She clutched at his hand. ‘You know that, don’t you? In a few weeks, Le Pas à Pas will open, my dream come true, thanks to you. I won’t ever forget that.’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, tonight I am the chef and the sous-chef and the waitress all in one. Sit here, enjoy this lovely wine which, I hope you don’t mind, I purloined from your cellar, for our own supply has not been delivered yet.’
‘What is mine is yours. Purloin the whole lot if you want.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ She leaned over, as if she would kiss him, then changed her mind. ‘The first course will be served in fifteen minutes.’
She bustled away, disappearing down the stairs, her boots clattering on the polished wood. Then he heard her descend the next flight to the kitchen. Alone, Owen felt bereft. He poured himself another glass of wine, though he knew he’d drunk the first far too quickly.
I won’t ever forget that.
Her words sounded portentous. He knew he was hurting her. He was shielding her from his torment for her own good as well as his. But to be confronted with the evidence, to see her face, to witness her trying so hard to act as if he was behaving rationally, as if everything between them was normal—it was agony. She knew. She knew their marriage was over in all but name. That’s what she’d been telling him.
He downed the rest of his wine and pushed back his chair. If it must be over, let him please, please, please find the strength to get through tonight. He’d join her in the kitchen, watch her at the stove. It was something he’d done many times before at home, something he’d come to enjoy, seeing her skills with the knife, watching her face as she tasted something, that little frown she gave when the seasoning wasn’t quite right, the small smile of satisfaction when it was.
Making his way down the second flight of stairs, he was assailed with a medley of delicious smells. Phoebe, a huge apron enveloping her, was at the stove, using a wire brush on one of the burners on one of the two cast-iron, gas-fuelled stoves. Owen had been wary of this very recent innovation from the start, but she insisted they would prove much more efficient.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ he asked.
‘The pipe is blocked, I think. There, that’s it done.’
She put the brush down and lit the supply. A ball of flame exploded out of the pipe with a whoosh and a searing blast of heat. Owen was dimly aware of Phoebe leaping out of the way. He could hear her saying something. He could see she was unscathed. But he wasn’t. In that split second everything fell into place. Everything that had happened. Everything. The full horror of it all.
‘No!’ he cried out, tearing at his hair, squeezing his eyes tight shut. ‘Dear God, no!’ But it wouldn’t go away. He dropped to his knees, covering his face with his hands. He couldn’t breathe, his heart was pounding so fast.
‘Owen.’
‘Phoebe.’ She was kneeling on the floor beside him. ‘Phoebe.’ He clutched at her shoulders, begging her silently to save him, but the images were playing out again in his head, the whole dreadful scene from start to finish.
He struggled to his feet.
‘Where are you going?’
He made for the stairs.
‘Owen, you are not fit...’
‘You’re right. I’m not fit.’
‘Owen!’
He had to get away. He had to get out of this place, into the open air and he had to run, as fast as he could, run for his life. And never look back.
He heard her shouting his name from the door of the café, but he was already off. Not running the way he once had, he would never be able to do that again. But running, through the searing pain that now tore at his hip, he ran out into the fading light and into the streets of London, where he prayed he might lose himself. For ever.
Chapter Eleven
Phoebe waited for more than two hours at the café, at a loss to know what else to do, but Owen didn’t return. Stripping the table upstairs, putting what was salvageable of the dinner, which she hadn’t even finished cooking, away in the larder, she extinguished all the lights and locked up. She had sent the carriage home, expecting Owen to escort her back. Thinking to pick up a hackney nearby, she made her way out into the dark London streets, clutching her cloak around her, the hood covering her face. There were no hackney cabs at the stop. She knew her way to Covent Garden from here, but at this time of night, she didn’t think being on her own in Covent Garden was a good idea. So she walked, trying to keep a steady pace, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder, far more concerned about Owen than herself.
The front door of the town house was not locked. A sconce burned in the hall, but the servants had all retired as usual. Heart thumping, the acrid taste of fear in her mouth, Phoebe lit a candle and made for the door to Owen’s apartments. Thick silence greeted her. The main room was in complete darkness. Holding her candle high, she could see that the gymnastic equipment had been recently used, the polished bars covered in the chalk Owen rubbed into his hands to give him grip, now that he no longer wore gloves. But the room was desolate. So too was his study. And his bedchamber.
She perched on the edge of his bed, wondering if she dared wait here for him. Where was he? Though her instincts were to search the streets for him, she knew that was about the most foolish and dangerous thing she could do. If anything happened to her, Owen would add that to the burden of guilt that was already crushing him. She could have a note sent round to Jasper. Jasper knew Owen’s old haunts, but Owen didn’t look like a man in search of company. He had looked like a man in search of oblivion.
Where was he? He wouldn’t have harmed himself, surely? He must know how worried she would be. But when he’d run off, he was beyond reason.
Where was he? Phoebe, who never prayed, sent up a silent prayer to keep him safe. And then another. If he had not returned by daylight, she’d have
no option but to send for Jasper. Her isolation struck her for the first time since she’d left Paris. She didn’t have any friends. She had kept herself apart from her family. Without Owen...
She was going to have to live the rest of her life without Owen. Dear heavens though, it was one thing to live apart from him, but for him not to be in this world—no. She would not allow herself to go down that path. She must not linger here either, waiting for him, ready to confront him in whatever state he came home, when he would prefer her not to see him in his distressed state. And she mustn’t cry either. There was no point in feeling sorry for herself. Whatever help Owen needed, whatever he wanted or didn’t want from her, she had to be prepared to do it.
* * *
Phoebe was asleep, still fully dressed save for her boots, on top of the bedcovers, when Owen finally returned, but the creaking of her bedchamber door woke her. She leapt up, saw him, and threw herself at him.
‘You’re back.’ She pressed herself against him as if she was trying to burrow into his body. ‘I’ve been so worried.’
He wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her tousled hair, closing his eyes for just a moment to drink in the familiar scent of her, to enjoy the familiar shape of her. And then he let her go.
She stepped away from him, her eyes huge, her face pale and ghostly, determinedly set. ‘Before you say anything, I want to tell you that I understand. I won’t make a fuss.’
‘Phoebe, I don’t think you can possibly understand.’
‘You’re such an honourable man, and I—I’ve made it pretty obvious what I feel for you, but you can’t make yourself feel something you don’t, Owen. You can’t pretend that you—that you still care for me. I think I’ve known for a while that you don’t, but I didn’t want to face it. Today has proved to me that I can’t hide my head in the sand any longer. I have to set you free. I’m so sorry I didn’t act sooner. I was—well, it doesn’t matter what I was. You’re free now.’
Her words made him want to sob. They made him want to pull her back into his arms and tell her, finally, once and for all how much he loved her. ‘You think that I don’t love you,’ he said, feeling as if his heart was tearing apart inside his chest.
‘I know you don’t. Perhaps you thought you did for a while, perhaps you were trying to persuade yourself that you did...’
‘Phoebe! Oh, Phoebe, why on earth would I do that?’
‘Because you knew it was what I wanted. When you gave me this.’ She thrust out her left hand. ‘When you gave me this ring, I thought that—I hoped that it was because—that you were giving me your heart. For the next few days, after Christmas, I kept hoping that you’d say the words I was so sure you were about to say before you fainted.’
‘I fainted,’ he said fatalistically, as his fears were confirmed.
‘You simply couldn’t bring yourself to lie.’
‘I don’t remember.’ But he did, now. He remembered being so full of joy, so sure that the time was right to tell her. And then the joy turning to blackness.
Phoebe took the ring from her finger and held it out. ‘You can have it back, Owen. You’re free.’
He hesitated. Wouldn’t it be easier for both of them, to let her believe he didn’t love her? He could make up some story about tonight’s debacle, some sanitised version of the truth, spare himself the agony of recounting the harsh reality. And leave Phoebe imagining she wasn’t good enough for him, when it was he who was so unworthy of her.
‘No,’ Owen said, to himself and to Phoebe. ‘You’ve got it all wrong.’ His hip was burning from the amount of walking he’d done. And running. All to no avail. He couldn’t run from himself. He waved vaguely at the hearth where the fire smouldered and the chair Phoebe liked to sit in to read was pulled close. ‘Sit there. I’ll...’
He staggered, lurching like a drunk towards the hearth. ‘I’ll sit on a cushion.’
‘You’ll sit there. I’ll sit on a cushion.’ Phoebe pushed him on to the chair. He was too tired to resist. ‘Shall I order some coffee?’ she asked, stacking several pillows on the floor. ‘Brandy?’ she queried, when he shook his head.
‘Nothing. Just sit and hear me out, please.’
To his utter relief she did, sensing that he didn’t want her to touch him, tucking her legs under her out of reach of his. ‘Tonight, in the kitchen, when the stove exploded, I finally remembered,’ he began, launching quickly into the story before he could have second thoughts. ‘My accident, I mean, everything about it.’ He curled his fingers around the arms of the chair to stop himself shaking. ‘It’s been coming back to me in fits and starts but until tonight, I couldn’t—it made no sense.’
‘When did you start remembering?’
‘After Christmas.’
‘After you fainted, when you gave me the ring.’
‘Yes. Not straight after. It started with random episodes—that’s what I’ve been calling them, episodes.’
‘When you lose your temper?’
‘Or pass out. I’ve lost consciousness a few times.’
‘Oh, Owen! I had no idea. I’m so sorry...’
He held up his hand to silence her. ‘You had no idea because I didn’t want you to know. It was bad enough, pushing you away, seeing you so hurt when my temper snapped, seeing you trying so hard not to upset me. And besides, I didn’t remember after—when I fainted, I mean. If I’m honest—and after today, I have no option but to be honest—I was trying to fool myself.’
‘Oh, Owen, so was I. If only I’d spoken sooner, perhaps...’
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘You have to stop thinking like that. This is not your fault. It’s mine. Mine completely. I thought for a while I was going mad. The nightmares, and the memories, they jump out at me when I least expect it. I feel possessed. By grief. And by guilt. The guilt has been the worst. I didn’t understand until tonight. And now...’
He began to shake again, so hard that he had to dig his heels into the rug, clench his belly tight, just to hold himself steady on the chair. Deep breaths, remember. Stay still and take deep breaths.
Finally it passed. Phoebe hadn’t moved towards him, though he could see she was braced to leap into action at the least sign from him. ‘Thank you,’ Owen said gruffly. Another deep breath, and he was as ready as he’d ever be. Get it over with, he told himself. As quickly as possible.
‘There was a fire,’ he said. ‘You already know that. In Marseilles. In the Panier district, which is the oldest part of the city. The buildings there are tall, tightly packed, tiny windows, narrow alleyways, steep staircases, divided up into homes for heaven knows how many families. I was walking there. Just walking. Thinking. Then I saw the flames. The whole building was in flames, and there was a chain of people passing buckets of water which snaked around the side of the building. They were tackling it from the back. But it was futile. Anyone could see the fire had taken too strong a hold.’
He spoke quickly, urgently, desperate to get the words out, to reach the end. ‘I went to help regardless. I was about to join the chain when I saw her. A screaming woman, trying to get into the building. Another woman—her sister, a friend, a neighbour, it doesn’t matter—was trying to pull her back. But the first woman was frantic, and all the men were distracted, concentrating on trying to contain the fire. She got free, and she launched herself into the doorway and into the stairwell. I didn’t think. I simply acted instinctively. I went in after her.’
‘Owen! Oh, dear heavens, Owen.’
‘I got to her halfway up the first flight of stairs.’
‘You saved her!’
‘She was trying to get to her baby. The child was trapped in their second-floor apartment, left behind in the panic and confusion.’
Phoebe had her hand over her mouth. Her eyes were wide with horror. ‘You told her you would rescue it.’
‘I couldn’t let her attempt t
o.’
‘No. No, you wouldn’t. Of course you wouldn’t.’
‘The baby—I still don’t know if it was a boy or a girl—the baby was in the room at the front of the second floor. I wrapped my kerchief around my face. My one solitary act of self-preservation. I’m surprised I did that much. I got as far as the door. I could hear it crying. The fire had taken hold of the rafters. The ceiling was about to come down, there was plaster crumbling, smoke, flames—but I could hear the baby crying.’
‘The crying. “Make it stop”, that’s what you said in your nightmare. “Make it stop.” Was that what you were dreaming?’
‘Not exactly. In my dream there wasn’t a fire. It was a crèche. A hospital. I couldn’t get out, in my dream. What really happened is that I couldn’t get in. I could hear voices behind me, pleading with me to turn back. But I was so sure I could reach the child.’
The shaking possessed him again, but he ignored it. ‘I thought myself invincible, you see. I could run faster than anyone. I could perform acrobatics to a standard that would allow me to make a living on stage if I had chosen to. I had never been bested in the boxing ring or any sort of race or any sort of competition. I’d never even suffered more than the most superficial injury despite my many hair-raising escapades. It wasn’t that I was unaware of the risks, more that I thought myself impervious.’ He held up his hands. ‘I wasn’t. The lintel from the doorframe fell on me, trapping me under it when I was feet away from reaching the child.’
* * *
Owen was trembling violently. Phoebe watched him, numb with shock, his suffering unimaginable, unable to offer any comfort save to listen, to hear him out until the tragic end.
‘I could hear the poor little mite crying while I was lying there under the beam,’ he continued, ‘half in and half out of the apartment. I could hear it crying and I could see the fire creeping towards me.’ Tears were streaming down his face. His eyes were wide open, but he wasn’t seeing her, he was lost in the unfolding horror. ‘Before, before I could remember, before we were married, I had a nightmare. My reaching dream, I’d call it. I’d wake up knowing something terrible had happened, that it was my fault, but I didn’t know what or why. Now I know and I’ll never be able to forget it.
A Wife Worth Investing In Page 20