A Wife Worth Investing In

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘When it stopped, when the crying stopped, it was worse. All I could hear then was the fire roaring, see it licking its way towards me. I couldn’t move. I didn’t feel anything, I didn’t know that my hip had been crushed, all I wanted—all I wanted was to crawl forward, even though I knew it was too late.’ Owen lifted his head to look straight at her. ‘You have no idea how that felt. Knowing how close I was and that I’d never get any closer.’

  ‘Owen...’

  He shook his head violently to silence her. ‘They pulled me out just in time. Two men took their lives in their hands to rescue me. They should have left me.’

  This was too much for her. Phoebe closed the space between them, kneeling in front of him to wrap her arms around him. He let her hold him, but she had the impression it was for her benefit, not his. He had stopped shaking, stopped sobbing, sat rigid in her arms, silent. ‘You tried, Owen,’ she said. ‘That’s so much more than most would have done.’

  ‘I failed. That’s all that matters.’

  ‘No! You spared that poor woman the agony of heaven knows what.’

  ‘I delayed her. Time was of the essence. If I’d let her go, she might have...’

  ‘You can’t think like that. She might well have perished herself, as well as her child. You probably saved her life.’

  He disengaged himself from her hold, getting up from the chair. ‘We’ll never know. All I know is that I failed to save the baby and my recklessness cost me dearly. Don’t tell me what I can and can’t think, Phoebe, you weren’t there.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t. I’m sorry, I...’

  ‘I told you so that you’d understand—not what happened then but the impact it’s having on me now.’

  She stared up at him, dazed. ‘But now you have remembered...’

  ‘It makes no difference.’ He helped her to her feet, putting his arms around her, but the gesture was wooden, forced. ‘Now I have remembered, it will never leave me. What you have seen these last few weeks is who I am now.’ He took a step back from her, holding her at arm’s reach. ‘I’ve had time to think tonight, you haven’t, but when you have, you’ll see.’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘I thought I was getting better.’

  ‘You were,’ she said fiercely.

  ‘No, Phoebe. I was getting worse.’ He was focusing on her now, and the expression on his face filled her with a sense of dread for what she saw there was a firm resolve. ‘I wanted to believe I was getting better. I wanted so very much to believe that, because I love you.’

  ‘Oh, Owen.’

  ‘No, don’t cry. Please, don’t cry. You have to be brave, Phoebe.’

  ‘I didn’t understand. I thought you didn’t love me. But if you do...’

  ‘I do. Please don’t look like that.’ He shuddered, pulling her close once more, holding her tightly, smoothing her hair. ‘I love you with all my heart, but it’s no good, my darling.’

  ‘You got better once, you can get better again.’

  ‘No. I didn’t get better, that’s what you don’t understand. I blocked it all out for a while, that’s all. But I think that loving you, being so happy, I think it—’ He broke off, swearing. ‘This is so difficult to say. I got by before by blocking out the truth, by somehow hiding it from myself because I wasn’t able to deal with it. Then you came along, and I fell in love with you, and thanks to you, thanks to the hope you gave me, the reason for living you gave me, I grew stronger. Strong enough to let my defences down. Strong enough to remember.’

  ‘But then if it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t have remembered and...’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly, giving her a tiny shake. ‘What I’m trying to say is that you helped me. The dam had to be breached, Phoebe, sooner or later. Tonight it burst completely, and the genie is well and truly out of the bottle. I can’t put it back. I don’t want to. In a way, it’s a relief, don’t you see, understanding the grief and the guilt, knowing why I’ve had all those other symptoms—the tears, the fainting, the nightmares, the temper. At least I know I’m not mad, even though I also know I’m no fit husband for you.’

  There was a sense of inevitability in his words, a horrible logic, but she didn’t want to hear it. ‘You’re the only husband I want.’

  ‘Please don’t say that,’ he said, looking quite wretched. ‘Please, I beg you, try to understand. It’s going to be hard enough coming to terms with what I’ve done, trying to find a way to live with myself, without inflicting all my suffering on you.’

  ‘I don’t care, Owen, I’d gladly suffer with you.’

  ‘I know, but I couldn’t bear that.’ He smoothed her hair back from her face. ‘Look at you, so lovely and so brave and so defiant. Look at how much you’ve changed these last five months.’

  ‘Because of you.’

  ‘No. I gave you the means, that’s all.’

  ‘You didn’t just give me money, Owen. You’ve made me believe in myself.’

  ‘Then that’s one good thing to come of our marriage. I want you to succeed, Phoebe. Do you remember, back in October when you first came to me, I told you that if you succeeded, if I could help you realise your dream, then it would make up for having lost mine?’ He let her go. ‘I need you to see it through for both our sakes. I deserve to suffer, that’s the price I have to pay for having failed. But I cannot—I will not—make you suffer too.’

  ‘You don’t deserve to suffer. You tried everything humanly possible...’

  ‘And still failed. As I said, I’ve had time to think about this, you have not. I told you because I didn’t want you to think I didn’t love you. But it’s not good enough. I don’t deserve you. You said you were willing to release me...’

  ‘Because I thought you didn’t love me, but you do, and I love you—I’m sorry, I know you don’t want me to say it, but I love you so much.’

  But he simply shook his head, his lips set. ‘I will do my best to support you until the launch, but after that—it’s over. I will have my lawyer sort out an agreement.’

  ‘I don’t want an agreement! I want you, Owen.’

  ‘When you’ve had time to think it over, to reflect, you’ll realise that is impossible. We would both be miserable.’ His mouth quivered. His shoulders shook. ‘Let me go, Phoebe. If you love me that much, do as I ask. I beg you.’

  There was nothing more to be said. She loved him too much to care about her own suffering. ‘You don’t need to beg,’ Phoebe said. ‘You’re free.’

  April 1831

  The special celebration menu for the grand opening of Le Pas à Pas was displayed at the entrance on a lectern, with a copy on printed cards placed on each of the tables. The crisp table linen gleamed white in the soft candlelight. The glasses had been polished to a spotless sparkle. Accompanied by her head waiter, Phoebe made a final tour of both the upstairs and the downstairs dining rooms before returning to the kitchens for a last-minute check that all was ready for their first proper service. They had practised endlessly, she and her small team, over the last few weeks, so there was no reason for her to be anxious, but she was sick with nerves. Not that anyone would know, from her demeanour. One of the many skills she had perfected since she had agreed to put an end to their marriage, was the ability to hide her feelings. She hoped that in time practice would make perfect to the point where she fooled herself, but she was a very long way from reaching that goal.

  She had been unable to prevent herself from begging Owen to change his mind, trying to persuade him that time would heal his illness. To no avail. Very quickly she realised that the only outcome of her outburst was to increase his suffering. And his suffering continued. He grew hollow-eyed, thinner and paler as the weeks passed. Dinner became an endurance test, with her talking bright inanities, and Owen sitting silently, closed in on himself. He drank too much. He ate too little. She came upon him once, glassy-eyed, muttering, wa
ndering in the garden in the early hours of the morning, when she had been unable to sleep, and smelled opium on his breath. She recognised the drug at once, for there had been a kitchen porter in La Grande Taverne, a veteran of Napoleon’s army, who took it on the days, he used to say, when the past overwhelmed him. It was a turning point for her, seeing that her presence had reduced Owen to seeking oblivion in such a manner. She extracted a promise from him that he wouldn’t use it again, and in return, she promised not to try to change his mind again. So tonight, she would launch her restaurant. And tomorrow, she and her husband would part for ever.

  She left the heat of the kitchen to snatch a brief moment of solitude in her tiny office, with the door ajar so that she would be able to hear the head waiter greet the first of their invited guests. Owen wouldn’t be here for the launch. He didn’t want to risk suffering an episode in front of her diners. She understood, but understanding wasn’t the same as accepting. This should have been their night. Le Pas à Pas wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for him. The guest list had been compiled by him, a carefully constructed mixture of friends with influence and friends who enjoyed food, all friends he had long ago abandoned and had no plans to see again either, cultivated and cajoled into sampling a taste of Paris in London for her sake. Jasper would be here with Miss Braidwood, to whom he had recently become betrothed, and so too would the reporter from the Town Crier, for it was better to keep your enemies close, Owen had said. But the guest list was not confined to the upper classes, for Phoebe was determined that Le Pas à Pas would not be the province of the rich, but open to all. So Mr Gilligan, the foreman, and his wife would have pride of place. She wouldn’t be meeting any of the diners, distinguished or otherwise, for she would be confining herself to the kitchens. If any of them actually showed up, that is.

  Above her, she heard the door open and her head waiter’s dulcet tones wishing the new arrivals a very good evening. It was starting. Hearing the sound of footsteps on the stairs, thinking it would be one of the waiting staff, she was about to return to the kitchen when a voice halted her in her tracks.

  ‘Phoebe.’

  ‘Owen!’

  He was in evening dress, freshly shaved, and trying to smile. ‘Your first night. I couldn’t let you endure it on your own.’

  ‘Owen!’ Without thinking, she threw her arms around his neck. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’ll have London at your feet, trust me.’ He held her briefly, all too briefly, before disentangling himself. ‘I know you wanted to wait until you’d made a success of this place before telling them, but I also know how much their support means to you, so I took the liberty of writing to your sisters,’ he said, handing her two letters. ‘It was presumptuous of me, I have no right—but I hope I did the right thing.’

  Both letters were short, loving and full of exclamations marks. Eloise and Estelle were unreservedly delighted and proud. Neither thought she needed luck, but they wished it anyway, and hoped that they’d be privileged enough to dine at what was certain to be the top restaurant in London very soon.

  Tears smarted in Phoebe’s eyes. ‘Oh, Owen, what a lovely surprise. Thank you. For these. For all this. And most especially for our time together.’ She caught his hand, rubbing her cheek against it, the longing to tell him how much she loved him almost overwhelming. But it would hurt him, and he’d been so brave coming here, and she loved him so very much. ‘Thank you,’ she said instead, turning his hand around to kiss his palm.

  The café door opened again, and this time there was the unmistakable clump of several pairs of feet. ‘Your first diners,’ Owen said. ‘Go on, get into that kitchen and work your magic.’

  ‘You’re not staying?’

  ‘Le Pas à Pas is your creation. Your very own establishment, with your very own menus, your own dishes. A place where men and women can dine together, as they can in Paris. Just imagine!’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘Your very own words. I’ve never forgotten them. Enjoy it.’

  ‘Won’t you stay, just for a short while?’

  His smile faded. ‘Not a good idea. You want the Town Crier to report on your delicious food, not your lunatic husband.’

  * * *

  The front door opened. Owen heard Phoebe call goodnight to the coachman, heard the clatter of hooves as the town coach headed round to the mews, and the door closed. He had been in two minds all night as to whether to wait up for her, but aside from the sick, jittery feeling in his gut which was his personal countdown to his wife’s departure, he could detect no signs of any imminent episode. Not that there were always signs.

  He opened the parlour door just as she was putting her foot on the first stair, and called her name. ‘If you’re not too tired, I’m desperate to hear about your triumphant debut.’

  ‘You seem very confident that it was a triumph.’

  ‘And?’

  She edged past him to her usual sofa. ‘I am pleased to tell you that your confidence was not misplaced.’

  ‘I knew it!’ He resisted the urge to hug her, and resisted the desire to share the sofa with her as he used to do. Phoebe, in the process of taking off her boots, noticed his hesitation before he took the chair, but made no comment. There should be champagne to celebrate a night like this, but champagne was too reminiscent of the halcyon days of their marriage. Besides, he was trying to cut down on his drinking. ‘Tell me all about it.’

  ‘Everyone turned up. Every table was filled. The food went out on time. The plates came back empty,’ she answered, sounding deflated.

  ‘You’re tired. And I’ve no right—I should have been there. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, Owen, I’m sorry. I’m not tired, I’m weary, that’s all. My head hurts and my feet hurt.’ She tucked them up under her.

  Owen moved to the other end of the sofa. ‘Let me see if I can help.’

  She stretched out cautiously, putting her stockinged feet in his lap, but as soon as he began to knead her toes he felt her relax.

  ‘That is so good. Those stone floors are the one thing I’d change about Le Pas à Pas. That, and the staircase from the kitchens. Our waiters had a couple of narrow escapes with the soup tureens.’

  ‘How did they cope? You were worried about one of them.’

  ‘John. I spoke to him yesterday. He was fine. The terrine was very popular. And the confit egg with the smoked fish—that went down very well too. I’m thinking I might try it with asparagus when it comes into season next month, and a little toast.’

  ‘How was the venison received?’

  ‘I think they might have loved it almost as much as you do, judging by the empty plates.’

  ‘Not possible.’ Owen kissed the tip of her big toe, the usual sign that she should swap feet. Phoebe’s eyes flew open, but he simply continued with the massage, pretending the intimacy hadn’t happened. ‘Did you speak to Jasper? What did you think of Olivia?’

  ‘I didn’t venture out of the kitchens. There were any number of compliments sent down, but I—well, you know I’ve always believed my food should speak for itself.’

  And he’d been adamant that it would be good publicity if people could see the beauty who presided over the pots, but he had no right to say so now. Le Pas à Pas was in Phoebe’s very capable hands.

  ‘I know you don’t agree,’ she said, reading his thoughts.

  ‘I can be wrong. It’s not unknown.’

  ‘But you don’t think you’re wrong about us?’

  There was a break in her voice that pierced his heart. ‘Nor do you, Phoebe.’

  ‘No, I don’t. I don’t want you to suffer any more than you have to.’

  ‘I’ve decided to go abroad. It will be easier for both of us, to resist the temptation to see one another, and I think it will be good for me, to travel.’

  ‘To experience what you missed out on, two years ago?’

&n
bsp; ‘Not exactly. A little. To try to discover if a change of scene will change how I feel, too.’

  ‘You mean you think you might get better? That distance will—’

  ‘I don’t know, Phoebe,’ Owen interrupted hastily. ‘I dare not hope, but I have to act. I won’t let myself become what I was when you walked back into my life. I won’t undo all the good you’ve done for me.’

  ‘I could come with you?’ But before he could answer, Phoebe was already shaking her head. ‘You don’t want me to. You don’t need to say it.’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want you to, it’s that I need to do this myself.’

  ‘Will you come back, Owen?’

  He wanted to say yes, more than anything else in the world. ‘Eventually. But I don’t want you to wait. Don’t wait. Don’t hope. Don’t do what I did, and live in limbo. It’s such a cliché, but it’s true, my darling. Life’s too short. Promise me you’ll make the most of it.’

  Her eyes were bright with tears, but she held them back. ‘You ask so much of me.’

  ‘Never anything I know you can’t do.’

  She closed her eyes, laying her head back. He had ceased kneading, but now she wiggled her toes. ‘Don’t stop.’

  He closed his eyes too, working his way up to her calf, giving himself over to the familiar sensation of her silk stocking sliding over her skin, his fingers working into the muscle until the tension was relieved, and then the sweeping, soothing strokes she liked when he finished. He changed his attention to the other leg, and she rested her foot at the top of his thigh. He started kneading, and she began to stroke his groin with her toe.

  Owen groaned. His hands slid up her leg, to the top of her thigh, to cup the heat between her legs. He ached for her. He already missed her, as if a part of him had been severed. If they could just make love one last time—he was trying to close the thought down when she reached for him.