by Mary Balogh
“Freddie.” She stared at him and laughed. And yet there was a great welling of unexpected longing at this mad, make-believe scheme. “I could not ride on a horse. I would fall. It is a mad idea.”
“You should talk to my cousins,” he said. “I have never been at a loss for mad ideas, most of which I have put into practice.” He grinned at her. “Are you chicken-hearted, Clara? Are you afraid to try it? I would not let you fall, you know. You have my word on it.”
She was afraid. Terrified. Her heart pounded with fear—and with excitement. It could not be possible, surely. It was beyond the bounds of imagining. Her father had never allowed her to ride even in an open carriage. But Freddie’s eyes were smiling at her, daring her. “It will probably rain,” she said.
He laughed. “But if it does not, you will ride?” he asked.
She had no riding habit. “I have nothing to wear,” she said.
“A carriage dress will be just the thing,” he said. “You can throw excuses at me for the rest of the evening, my love. I shall have an answer for each. I have a resourceful mind.”
Why was he being so insistent? Why had he even thought of it in the first place? Would he not welcome the thought of a few hours away from her, riding out alone? She had not expected him to spend a great deal of his time with her even during this honeymoon week. Even her father, who had loved her more dearly than his own life, she had sometimes thought, had not spent much of his time with her. It was too dull to sit for long hours with a crippled woman. Often she felt sorry for Harriet and invented errands for her to run.
“What are you thinking?” Frederick asked, setting down his cup and saucer and coming to sit close to her so that he could take one of her hands in his. “You want to ride, don’t you?”
“Oh, Freddie,” she said in a rush, “I want it more than anything.” She bit her lip, alarmed by the rush of tears to her eyes. Perhaps it had not been a good idea after all to try to add a little bit of life to her existence. Perhaps she would come to crave more and more and would no longer be satisfied with what she was and what she had.
But then, she had never been satisfied. She had cultivated patience, but she had never been happy. Never. Not really happy.
“Then you shall ride, my love,” he said. “And we shall have an open barouche for you to drive in. And you shall sit out in the fresh air whenever you wish, even when the wind is blowing. Whenever you take a chill, or whenever I do, well then, we will summon a physician.”
“Oh, Freddie,” she said, laughing, “that is such a careless attitude to life. It sounds wonderful.”
He got to his feet, leaned over her, and kissed her. “I love you,” he said. “Are you ready for bed? Shall I carry you up to your room?”
She nodded. “Yes, please, Freddie.” But she wished he would not spoil the amity between them by speaking falsehoods. They were quite unnecessary.
“May I join you there later?” He was doing that thing with his eyes that she knew was deliberate and must surely have most women weak at the knees. It made even her breath catch in her throat. “Or would you rather be left alone after such a long journey?”
There was a throbbing deep in her womb just at the thought of what might be happening between them in a short while. She touched a hand to his cheek. “I would rather not be alone, Freddie,” she said.
His eyes smiled into hers. “My feeling exactly,” he said, stooping down to pick her up.
She set an arm about his neck and laid her cheek on her upper arm. She wondered how strongly he had hoped for a different answer. And yet his eyes had deliberately wooed her. And he had stayed with her all last night and made love to her a second time. It was not so easy after all, she thought, to understand Freddie. She had expected it to be, but it was not. And why did he want to take her riding with him tomorrow?
He took the stairs much more quickly than Robin ever did.
Frederick was not quite sure himself why he had persuaded his wife to ride this morning. It would be difficult for her. Perhaps painful. And it would certainly be more convenient for him to ride alone, to be free to explore the park and the surrounding countryside at his leisure.
He felt sorry for her, he supposed. He was beginning to have glimpses into a life that had been unbearably restricted and dull and lonely. Her father, he suspected, had made her life worse by being overprotective. And her love and respect for her father had prevented her from rebelling or asserting herself while he lived or even after he died. And so she had developed a quiet and patient self-discipline, an armor about her feelings.
She needed a little happiness in her life. A little adventure. And fresh air. He was beginning to understand why she was always so very pale. It was the least he could do to take her out occasionally, to coax her into doing things that she had always wanted to do.
Besides, he had something to prove to his parents. And to himself. He had always contended that he could put his wildness behind him and settle down whenever he chose. Now was the time, it seemed—to a certain extent anyway. Clara might not be the wife he would have chosen for himself if he could have made a free choice, but the deed was done now and he must make the best of it.
And really, she was not as much an antidote as he had expected her to be on first acquaintance and even when he had made her his offer. She was an interesting, even amusing, companion. And surprisingly satisfying in bed. He had spent the whole night with her again and had had her twice again. Perhaps the very stillness of her body as he made love to her and yet her responsiveness to his caresses was a novelty. His women were almost always energetic and experienced at faking sexual ecstasy.
He had rather enjoyed the first two nights with his new wife.
He selected a powerful black stallion at the stables with the assistance of the head groom and saddled it himself with a sidesaddle before leading it up onto the terrace before the marble steps. Clara was nervous, he knew. She had made another excuse at breakfast. Her neighbors would begin to call once they knew she was at home. In the morning? he had asked her, and she had not been able to think of a reply. He ran into the house now and up the stairs to fetch her.
It took two of them. Her manservant, Robin, held her while Frederick mounted to the bare back of the horse behind the saddle and then stooped down and lifted her up to the saddle. He settled her there, keeping an arm firmly about her and smiling at the look of stark terror in her eyes.
“I’ll not let you fall, my love,” he said after nodding his dismissal to Robin. “I shall keep my arm about you like this. You may lean sideways against me whenever you wish.”
“It is such a long way to the ground,” she said.
He took the reins in his hand and nudged the horse into motion with his knees. He felt her tense.
“Relax,” he said, “and enjoy the ride.” He turned the horse’s head so that they would leave the terrace to cross the park.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh.”
It was like giving a child a treat, he thought over the next several minutes. She sat very still and very stiff at first, and very silent, afraid even to turn her head. And then she gradually relaxed and he could see her begin to look about her at lawns and trees that she had only ever seen from the terrace or her window or the window of a closed carriage on the driveway. He could feel and hear her drawing in deep lungfuls of the verdant air. Once, when they rode close to a tree, she reached out a hand to let the leaves brush against it, but she drew the hand in sharply again, realizing perhaps that balance could very easily be lost when one was on horseback.
And then he became aware that she was crying. Silently, her head turned sharply away from him to face front. She made no sound, but he could see the glisten of tears on one half-turned cheek. He said nothing but let her cope with the rush of emotion in her own way. She reached into a pocket, withdrew a small handkerchief, and blew her nose into it after a few minutes.
God, he thought, holding her and pretending that he had not seen the tears, she was a woman bri
mming over with repressed feelings. She was a person. Someone he had married for the basest of reasons.
They had ridden almost the length of the park. Very slowly. He had not taken the horse even to a canter.
“Are you tired, my love?” he asked, bending toward her. “I shall take you back now.”
“Oh, Freddie.” She turned her head to look at him. Her eyes, slightly red-rimmed, were glowing. “I wish we never had to go back. I wish this could go on forever. How foolish you will think me. This is the most mundane thing in the world to you, is it not? And it must seem to you that we are moving at a snail’s pace.”
“We will come again,” he said. “And again and again, Clara. You are no longer going to be housebound. You are going to go out and breathe in fresh air. That is an order. I will demand obedience of you, you see.”
There was perhaps wistfulness in her eyes for a moment before she lowered them and then looked away. “I hope I will never be disobedient to you, Freddie,” she said. “I never was to Papa.”
He turned the horse’s head and began the ride back to the house. He hoped she was not in love with him. God, he hoped it. He meant to be kind to her and he was going to bring some happiness and some activity into her life. But he did not believe he could live up to the expectations of love. Indeed, he knew he could not.
She was tired, though she would not admit it. After a couple of minutes she leaned sideways to rest a shoulder against his chest. When he tightened his arm about her, she undid the ribbons of her bonnet and took it off so that she could nestle her head against his shoulder.
“The outdoor world is a magical place,” she said. “I wonder if people who have always had their health realize that fully.”
“Probably not,” he said, resting his cheek against the top of her head. “We take a great deal for granted.”
He was, he realized suddenly and quite unexpectedly, feeling happy. It was a beautiful day and the surroundings were rather idyllic and the house magnificent. It was his home and the woman in his arms, still looking quietly about her at the wonders of nature, was his wife. Perhaps after all it would be possible to settle down. Perhaps after all he would not have to start looking for snow in July as evidence that the impossible did sometimes happen.
Clara found herself wishing sometimes over the next week that Harriet and Lord and Lady Bellamy were not coming quite so soon. And yet she caught herself up on the thought whenever it became conscious. Harriet had proved herself to be a dear and steady friend more than a paid companion, and her parents-in-law had been very kind to her in Bath. She should be looking forward to seeing them all again. She was looking forward to it.
But she did not want the honeymoon to end. She had a feeling that it would, abruptly and completely, as soon as the others came. It could not possibly last. It was too wonderfully and unexpectedly perfect.
Her husband spent all day and every day with her. He sat with her through the numerous visits paid by neighbors when they heard she had returned and especially when news began to spread that she was newly married. She had cultivated friendships over the years since they had always been one of the few real pleasures of her life. Freddie showed no signs of boredom but set himself to be agreeable to the gentlemen and charming to the ladies. He won over all the latter, without exception. One could almost watch them being awed by his good looks at first, flattered by his attention after a short while, and warmed by his charm at last. One could almost watch them all fall a little in love with him during their very first visit.
Once he took her visiting, carrying her to the carriage and into the three homes they called at, and sitting cheerfully through three sessions of tea-drinking. It was an afternoon she enjoyed immensely. She was used to being visited. She did not often visit. Soon, Freddie had promised, they would go into London and choose an open barouche. In the meantime they drove with the windows wide open, a novelty in itself. Her father had always shielded her from any possibility of drafts.
They went riding once more.
She was even taken to church on Sunday and made much of by parishioners who had already called upon her at home and by the vicar and his wife, who expressed their intention of calling within the coming few days.
“That must be the first time I have been inside a church since last Christmas,” Frederick said when they were driving home again. “Do you think my soul is saved again, Clara?”
“Oh, Freddie,” she said, laughing, “how foolishly you talk. At least you did not sleep through the sermon as Mr. Soames did. Did you see Mrs. Soames dig him with her elbow when he snored?”
“It is amazing he did not scream,” he said. “It looked to be a sharp enough elbow.”
They both laughed. Something they seemed to do a great deal of that week.
On the Sunday afternoon he took her out onto the terrace in her chair and refused to allow her to take a shawl, warning that she would melt in the heat if she did so. She sighed with contentment as he wheeled her along the terrace, turning up her face to the light and warmth of the sun.
“Autumn is going to be here any day,” she said. “Are we not fortunate to be having such lovely summer weather at this stage of August, Freddie?”
“That summerhouse we have seen when riding is not far off,” he said. “Let’s go there.”
She had known the summerhouse was there. It had been described to her before. But she had seen it for the first time during her second ride with Freddie. It was an octagonal stone structure with a dome and large glass windows on all eight sides. Her father had liked to go there to read on sunny days, even when the weather was quite cold. The glass trapped the heat, he had explained to her.
“My chair will not move on grass,” she said rather sadly. “You go, Freddie. I shall sit here and relax. Or you can take me back inside first if you wish. I shall read.” But he grinned at her and leaned down to scoop her up into his arms. “My feet will move on grass,” he said, striding away with her in the direction of the trees that hid the summerhouse from view from the terrace.
“But it is too far,” she said. “I am too heavy.”
“A feather would weigh more,” he said. “Though you have been eating more in the last couple of days, I have noticed, Clara. Enough for yourself and a horse.”
“Horrid!” she said. “I think it is the fresh air that has given me appetite, Freddie. I am too thin, aren’t I?” She was not fishing for a compliment. She had always been aware of her ugliness. She just wished sometimes that she could be at least passably pretty. Especially now. She wished she could be beautiful for him. A foolish, foolish thought.
“You are as you are,” he said. “Beautiful to me, my love. But I like to see you with more appetite and will not frown at a few more pounds of weight. Though I may puff and blow at having to carry them around to summerhouses and the Lord knows where.”
“It is your own fault if you are out of breath,” she said. “I did not ask to be brought.”
The summerhouse was too hot. It felt like an oven inside. They looked at each other and laughed after he had set her down on the seat that circled the outer wall of the interior.
“Baked flesh for dinner tonight?” he asked. “Do you fancy it?”
“Not particularly,” she said. “My increased appetite does not extend quite so far.”
And so he carried her outside, set her down on the grass, and sat beside her. Grass felt wonderful, she discovered, soft and cool and sweet-smelling.
“Papa would never let me sit on the grass,” she said, lying back and closing her eyes and setting her hands palm down on either side of her. She brushed them lightly over the surface of the grass. “He was afraid of dampness.”
“It has not rained for days,” he said, propping himself on one elbow and looking down at her. “Or is it weeks? Dr. Frederick Sullivan prescribes plenty of grass and fresh air and sunshine and food. It will all do you the world of good. My reputation as a man of medicine on it.”
She laughed and then laughed
again as she wrinkled her nose against a tickle there and opened her eyes to find him stroking a blade of grass across it.
“This is lovely,” she said. “So very lovely.” She lay still and could hear birds singing. And insects droning. And an unfelt breeze rustling through the upper branches of the trees. She could feel the sun hot on her face. She could smell the grass.
It was all alive, she thought. That was what was so very different about the outdoors. Everything was alive, even the grass beneath her. She was surrounded by life. And she was alive. She breathed in life and felt it fill her lungs and her body. She felt almost as if she would be able to get up and walk or even run if she tried. She tried to flex her feet at the ankles. Her legs were not without feeling. Just weak and useless. Her ankles would not respond to the urging of her will.
She opened her eyes and gazed upward at the few clouds that were floating by. “A kitten,” she said. “Look at it, Freddie. That cloud there.”
He looked, a blade of grass between his teeth. “A kitten?” he said. “A sailing ship.”
“No, that one there,” she said. “And oh, look. A rose in full bloom next to it.”
“A rearing horse,” he said.
She closed her eyes again and smiled. “It pleases you to make fun of me,” she said.
The sun was blocked out suddenly and his mouth covered hers. “Clouds can be whatever one wants them to be, my love,” he said. “That is the wonder of clouds.”
“I have never looked at them before,” she said, opening her eyes again. “What a vast and wonderful universe this is, Freddie, and we are a part of it. The earth is spinning beneath us.”
“I feel dizzy,” he said, kissing her again, sliding his tongue into her mouth. “You will have to hold me to steady me, Clara.”
“Oh, silly,” she said, but she set her arms about him anyway and they kissed warmly and lazily for several minutes. It was one of the mysteries of Freddie that she was accepting gratefully for this week. Why did he feel compelled to keep up the charade? Did he get any enjoyment out of this? Why had he brought her here when he could have come alone or gone somewhere else? Why had he slept in her bed every night since their wedding and made love to her twice on each of those nights?