In the Flesh

by Portia Da Costa

Tracing her fingertip over her own form, she asked the questions, but she was aware now that they knew each other, it was more. So much more that the thought made it difficult to breathe.

  Setting down the source of her notoriety, she opened the second leather-bound album and found it could not have been more different. Or astonishing.

  These were family photographs…from a man who seemed to exist without family because all thought of the same clearly brought him pain.

  Several of the depictions were of an oval-faced young woman with an old-fashioned coiffeur and a plain but elegant dress. Her expression was mild, but her eyes seemed bright and happy, even in the indistinct image, and there was a warmth and humor there that Beatrice found instantly appealing. She knew the woman not at all, but somehow felt that she could be a friend if life had turned out very differently. Even though she was obviously Ritchie’s first spouse, Clara, from her name printed neatly beneath the image.

  When she turned the next page though, Beatrice experienced a pang. Here were Ritchie and Clara together, looking every inch a pair of excited newlyweds, despite their formal expression for the camera.

  Oh, you look so young, my darling! And so full of joy and love…

  Beatrice could not have estimated Ritchie’s age now. He seemed ageless. And yet here, in this small photograph, with his happy bride, he appeared little more than Beatrice’s own age now. A young man, in love with his wife. Just as much as Beatrice was with him, this very moment.

  Peculiar feelings surged through her bosom. Not exactly envy. No, not that. But a certain wistfulness and yearning that confused her.

  The next photograph almost made her gasp, but she stayed it in time to prevent her waking him.

  It was another image of Ritchie and Clara, taken a few years on, judging by the styling of their clothes, and in it the happy young woman had daringly posed whilst enceinte!

  A child? Was Ritchie a father? Did the child live? And if so, where was he? Or she?

  A cold hand seemed to clench in Beatrice’s chest. She couldn’t imagine Ritchie not being the fondest of fathers, even if his wife was lost to him, so it only remained that the child that had sprung from Clara’s belly must be dead.

  Oh, you poor man, you poor man.

  For a moment she turned to him, watching him while he slept so beautiful and at ease, and feeling glad that she’d given him some measure of contentment. The loss of a child and a wife, both loved, then the loss to insanity of a second wife, presumably also loved, was more than one person should ever have to endure.

  No wonder he’d shunned a pursuit of the more tender emotions, in favor of satisfying only his flesh.

  More pages only reinforced the sadness. The first was almost unbearable. It showed Ritchie, clad in the profoundest of mourning, holding a tiny babe in a lace christening gown. The pose was formal, and Ritchie’s face composed, but even so, every line of his body seemed to reveal a confused agony of fatherly love and unquenchable sorrow.

  Further photographs revealed the infant was a son. As he grew, the little lad appeared in a sailor suit, clutching a humongous toy yacht, then astride a plump pony, his small face beaming with pride at his achievement. His papa stood beside the placid mount, holding the leading rein, proud too, but still with the telltale shadows in his eyes.

  Beatrice touched the photograph, pondering the fate of the robust-looking little boy, so well favored with his mother’s thick dark hair and his father’s distinctive, handsome features. Where was he? Was he dead? If he still lived, she had a sudden fierce urge to meet this son of Ritchie’s and become a friend to him even though she could never be a substitute mother.

  “He’s dead.”

  The words were cold and flat, yet echoed with the same pain that informed Ritchie’s eyes in the photographs. Beatrice spun around to find the man himself sitting up in bed, watching her, his face hard and unreadable for one normally so full of expression.

  Words of her own seemed irrelevant, redundant, but quietly she said, “I’m so sorry, Ritchie. So very sorry. What happened to him? He looks such a strong little chap.” Carefully, she closed the album and crossed to the bed, settling onto the mattress, facing Ritchie, her chemise tucked around her thighs.

  She could see he wanted to look away from her, to hide his eyes, but tightening his jaw, and every muscle in his face, he held her gaze. “He…he was killed.” Moisture gleamed in his beautiful dark eyes, and she could see him gritting his teeth hard, fighting for control.

  “I’m so sorry,” she murmured again, feeling inadequate. “I shouldn’t have pried into your personal things. I’m sorry if I’ve caused you pain by reminding you of him.”

  Ritchie’s bare chest lifted as he drew in a deep breath. He pursed his lips. But still he faced her. “No, don’t be sorry, Bea. I’m glad you know about him. His name was Josiah, after my father, but I always called him Joe.”

  His face seemed to crumple. He dragged in breaths again, as if he were drowning, and then seemed to collapse whilst still remaining upright. Beatrice threw herself toward him and flung her arms around his bare, shaking shoulders.

  For several minutes, it was hard to tell whether he was weeping or simply gripped by some paroxysm of grief so profound that it made every muscle in his body jerk and tremble. He seemed unable to speak, so she clung on, holding him and rocking with him.

  Eventually, though, he calmed, and she backed off, giving him freedom. As they faced each other again, he grabbed her hand and held it hard.

  “He was a fine little fellow. Bold and brave and good-natured, and he could be unbelievably droll for one so young.” A smile leavened the pain in his eyes. “Of all the achievements in my life, he was the greatest. And I know that even though she only held him once before she died, Clara felt the same way.”

  “Oh, Ritchie…how…how… Oh Lord, I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything, my sweet girl. You’re here, and that’s what matters.” His fingers tightened and then suddenly relaxed as he obviously realized he was hurting her. He shrugged. “For all that Clara’s death devastated me, Joe was a comfort to me. He seemed to be a part of her I could keep with me and love.”

  “He looked a splendid little boy. So robust…” She caught her breath, not sure if she should ask, but feeling she had to know. “Was it an accident?”

  Ritchie remained quiet for a few moments.

  “The death certificate was marked asphyxia, due to the ingestion of fire smoke, but—” he paused, looked away for a moment, then stared at her, his eyes very level “—it was murder. A murder that will never be prosecuted. He was smothered to death in his sleep.”

  Sick horror engulfed Beatrice’s soul. She didn’t need him to say more. The explanation presented itself to her, stark and almost incomprehensible yet perfectly logical.

  Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie’s beautiful son by his first, dead wife had been suffocated by his insane, second one.

  “Oh, Ritchie…” was all she could say, and raise his hand, entwined with hers, to her lips.

  “I blame myself,” he said, his voice bleak, his skin strangely cool where she kissed his knuckles. “I should never have married Margarita, but I was lonely, and her father’s business had failed and she…she needed security. It seemed an agreeable solution to both our dilemmas, and Clara had made me promise, almost in her dying words, that I should not remain alone and that I should seek new love when she was gone.”

  “And did you care for her? For Margarita?” It seemed important to ask.

  “Yes. Yes, I did. I found her fey manner intriguing and she could be a witty companion. And of course, Margarita is very beautiful, and man that I am, I confess that swayed me.” He shrugged, and for a moment, looked shamefaced. “She was pleasant to Joe, and I thought…I hoped that they would become
friends.”

  “Was she…did she…um… Did she seem, though, to be in full possession of her wits?” Beatrice let out a nervous laugh. It sounded so absurd. “I’m sorry…I know she must have…obviously.”

  Ritchie gave her a sad smile. A resigned smile.

  “She seemed highly strung, perhaps, but my hope was that a settled family life in comfort and security would bring her peace and calm.” He shrugged again and sighed. “I suppose that will teach me never again to think of myself as an expert in the human psyche and afflictions of the nerves.”

  He fell silent again, and Beatrice waited.

  “Our problems began almost immediately we were wed,” he resumed, his voice low. “During our engagement, Margarita was flirtatious and sometimes a little forward. I was sorely tempted to precipitate matters, but I contained myself.” He smiled wryly. “Something I know you will find difficult to believe now.”

  “I do believe it. You’ve been kind and patient with me.” It was the perfect truth. For a man who’d paid so handsomely for her favors, he’d followed her pace and been astonishingly undemanding after their initial encounter.

  His answer was to kiss her fingers now, just as she’d kissed his, then his face grew solemn again and he continued his narrative.

  “In our marriage bed, she was reluctant and anxious. I didn’t press the matter. I knew not all women take to the conjugal role immediately, even though Clara had been as eager and delighted to try it as any husband could hope for. I was in no particular hurry and I didn’t want to force Margarita into my arms before she was ready to be there happily.

  “Then one night, she seemed to invite me, winding herself around me, raising her nightgown and rubbing herself against me…” His mouth quirked. “And beautiful as she was…is…I was happy to accept. But it was a disaster. When it was too late for me to stop, she began shrieking and struggling and striking at me. I tried to pull back, but my loins got the better of me. I had to finish. Afterward, I held her and gentled her as best I could, and promised I would not trouble her again until she was sure she wished to resume…” He sighed again, closed his eyes. “I believed all was well…I really did. I believed I could make her happy, both in our bed and out of it.”

  Ritchie fell silent again for a long, long time. Beatrice almost thought that he’d decided he simply could not go on any longer, but at length, he began to speak…revealing horror.

  He’d been woken in the small hours by shock and pain, and Margarita kneeling over him with his letter opener, an ornamental dagger he’d been given by a friend back from India. She’d struck him again and again, with crazed strength, her eyes blank and glazed as she’d repeatedly gashed his arms and back while he’d tried to turn over and restrain her. It’d only been when a pounding had come at the door and Jamie Brownlow had burst in that Ritchie had managed to grab his wife and wrest the dagger from her.

  But that hadn’t been the end of it. Even while he’d dripped blood so profusely he’d almost passed out on rising, Ritchie had heard the cries of servants out in the hall and smelt burning. His first thought had been Joe, and he’d rushed to the child’s room, the source of a small blaze.

  “I rushed to him. The fire wasn’t near him, just around the door. I was able to bash my way through…but he was dead.” Ritchie’s voice was as raw now as if he were still fighting the inferno, his throat choked with smoke. “Dead…but not from smoke or flame. She’d put a pillow over his face and smothered the life out of him.” Tears flowed freely down his face, and he seemed to sag. “Afterward, it seemed pointless to accuse her. She was fully raving by then, in a hell of her own making. All that was left to do was make sure that she was well cared for in a safe and comfortable place. A private sanatorium where she’d be treated kindly but kept securely, very securely away from society.”

  He lifted his head and looked again at Beatrice, his expression drained and weary.

  “And now you know the full, sad story, my love. The reason why I throw myself into affairs both business and amatory with such single-minded determination.” His blue eyes gleamed with a combination of utter exhaustion and wry sorrow. “I thought that I’d found a life that suited me at least, and was the best I could hope for, that I’d never want more. But now I know there is more that I want.” He reached out and slid his hand into her hair, cradling her head. “More that I need and love and yearn for…but can never really have. At least not in the open, public way that you deserve.” He leaned toward her, touched his forehead to hers, then touched his mouth to hers, in brief and tender sweetness. “To be married to you is my dearest wish, Bea, but alas I still have a wife that I cannot, in good conscience, divorce.”

  Beatrice’s heart fluttered furiously, and the urge to laugh hysterically bubbled up. This situation, and her love for Ritchie, was layered and layered up with irony.

  The last man she would ever have expected to want to marry was the man she now wanted to marry. But he couldn’t marry her, because he was married already.

  And yet…

  “Marriage isn’t everything, Ritchie. I’ve told you that I don’t need it and I don’t expect it. It’s only love that matters.” This time she was the one who brought her lips to his, offering tenderness, but also determination. “And as it seems that you love me as I love you, we have all we need.”

  His arms crushed her as he flung them around her and squeezed.

  “You are the most splendid woman, Beatrice Weatherly,” he proclaimed eventually, after he’d kissed her to within an inch of her life, and seriously disarranged her chemise in the process. “But you deserve the best, my love. You deserve your rightful place in society. Acceptance in the finest homes. The respect and admiration of all lesser mortals at every glittering ball and soiree.”

  “I don’t care one bit for society, Ritchie. You know that. And I don’t mind living quietly, out of the public eye, as your mistress. All I want is you, and to know that Charlie’s position is safe, and that my servants have a good place and security.”

  “We shall have to discuss this, Beatrice. And most stringently, if we’re to agree.” His voice was stern, but his eyes were glinting. Relief sluiced through Beatrice like a refreshing wave. Thank heavens, somehow, she had managed to alleviate the sorrow that memory had brought down on him. He seemed an altogether happier man now. The sadness over his lost son, and the terrible circumstances of that death, would probably linger with him to his dying day, but if she could at least distract him from it, in the main, her job was done.

  “Yes indeed, Mr. Ritchie. I’m prepared to negotiate.” And much more, she thought, as his warm, clever hands slid beneath her chemise and deftly whipped it off over her head.

  Sliding his fingertips down her throat and her chest and over the swell of her breast to her nipple, Ritchie surveyed her archly. “Oh, I think if we’re to find some kind of accommodation over our future together, Beatrice, you might like to start calling me ‘Edmund’…if that suits you?”

  “Very well, Edmund, I will!” She almost hiccupped over the name when he squeezed her nipple, inducing delicious darts of pleasure.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Déjà vu

  AFTER LOVE, they slept again, deeply and refreshingly, as if the awful revelations, once uncovered, had been cathartic.

  It was only the thumping on the door that roused Beatrice from her slumber, and Ritchie, at her side, snapped awake too.

  “Mr. Ritchie! Mr. Ritchie! There’s someone here. Please can you come.” The voice of the maid who’d admitted Beatrice earlier sounded anxious and confused, as if she were at the end of her tether.

  Turning up the lamp, Ritchie turned to Beatrice. “Wait here, my love. I’ll attend to this. Don’t worry.” His words were calming, but in the flickering light, his face belied his even voice, looking tense and rather pale as he was suddenly
gripped by some dread premonition. He sprang from the bed and pulled on trousers and a shirt, tugging the latter over his head and haphazardly shoving in the tails before slipping his braces into place.

  “Mr. Ritchie!” came the voice again, and he strode to the door, stepped out into the passage and pulled the door almost shut again behind him.

  Who could it be at this time of night? Whatever dread had gripped Ritchie seemed to take a hold on Beatrice, too. Was something wrong with Charlie? Had he slipped back into his bad ways again and been beaten up by a creditor? Surely not, now that he seemed to spend so much time cloistered with Jamie Brownlow.

  Voices drifted in through the small gap where the door was ajar. Low, indistinct, but intense. Ritchie sounded astonished. Horrified, even. More out of control than he’d ever seemed before. After a few moments, he stepped back inside the room, his usual confident demeanor shockingly adrift.

  His handsome face was like a mask, and as white as a sheet.

  “What is it?” Beatrice clutched the bedding closely around her. Somehow she felt she needed armor, yet all she had was cotton and linen and wool. “What’s happened?”

  Ritchie ran his hand through his hair, visibly thunderstruck yet fighting to regain his composure. It seemed that his thoughts were difficult to marshal.

  “We have a visitor. I don’t know how…or why…but Margarita is here. She says a messenger from the Lord called ‘Mr. Smith’ has liberated her from her jail.”

  Margarita?

  For a moment, Beatrice drew a blank. Awoken in the night, in a strange bed, her mind was still disorientated, but after a second, the full significance of that name came crashing down.

  “Your wife? She’s here?” The questions were redundant, as the anguish on Ritchie’s face told an eloquent tale. “How has she got here? I thought she was kept securely in the sanitarium?”

  “She was. But someone has released her…I don’t know how. Either by trickery, posing as an agent of mine, or by spiriting her out of there by subterfuge.” His frown deepened. “I have my suspicions as to who is responsible for this, but it seems she insists this angel Smith brought her here in a carriage.”