Cressida's Dilemma

by Beverley Oakley

  Cressida had experienced Catherine’s propensity to lash out when she was feeling vulnerable. Not that this lessened her own devastation. “On whose good authority?” she whispered. “One of your snake-tongued society friends, or someone serving on the Home for Orphans committee?”

  Catherine glared at the inherent criticism before saying, “If you must know, it was Annabelle Luscombe—”

  “Annabelle!” Cressida’s hands flew to her face, and she had to force her knuckles into her mouth to stop the sob. “Annabelle wouldn’t say a word to injure anyone. What did she say about Justin?” With an effort, she pushed back her shoulders and directed a challenging look at her cousin. “That Justin had taken a mistress?”

  Catherine had the grace to look ashamed. “Annabelle wasn’t gossiping, Cressida, and no, of course she didn’t say that.” She cleared her throat. “Well, not in so many words.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  Catherine sighed. “I’d really rather not elaborate, Cressy. Clearly, you’ll just get upset and—”

  “You’ve said too much already, Catherine. And I can see you’re dying to tell me.”

  Catherine appeared to consider the situation. Then she shrugged. “Actually, the information came as quite a shock. I was in conversation with Annabelle, who was waxing lyrical over Rossini’s opera The Barber of Seville when her husband, who is not known for his tact after three champagnes, joined us, saying he’d just left Justin, who was marveling over Madame Zirelli’s excellent rendering of Rosina’s part. When Reggie had gone, Annabelle looked shocked, asking if Justin hadn’t been known for his high regard for Madame Zirelli in the days before his marriage.”

  Cressida was beginning to feel marginally better. Catherine was simply making wild suppositions. Relaxing, she managed a smile. “And that is the only basis for these cruel rumors and gossip? The fact that Justin has been praising another woman? For her singing?” Relief surged through her.

  That was, until Catherine’s viper-direct response, “Surely you must know that Madame Zirelli was Justin’s mistress until five minutes before he married you?” Catherine’s shock was apparently unfeigned. For a moment, she simply stared at Cressida, as if she couldn’t believe her cousin could be so ignorant. Then a sly look crossed her face. “Oh, my poor Cressida,” she whispered. “How awful to be the last to know what is common knowledge. And how I wish it had not fallen to me to tell you the sordid details.”

  Cressida put up at hand, as if to ward off the evil she knew was about to pour from Catherine’s insincere lips. She didn’t need to know. Didn’t want to know. “What Justin did before we were married is of no account—”

  “But don’t you see? Justin all but admitted that once again, he’s been consorting with Madame Zirelli through his remark about having so recently enjoyed her voice.” Catherine cleared her throat as she settled back against the squabs, the self-satisfaction upon her face a look with which Cressida was painfully familiar. Catherine not only liked to deliver her barbs like a skilled marksman, she savored the kill. She clicked her tongue, adding in an undertone, “And let us hope that’s all he was enjoying when he paid a visit to Mrs. Plumb’s notorious salon.”

  “That’s…that’s just cruel,” Cressida managed faintly, her mind consumed with images too dreadful to dwell on for more than a moment. But she couldn’t help herself for all that she’d promised herself only seconds before to turn a blind eye. “Who is this Madame Plumb? Why would Justin visit such an establishment?”

  Catherine fanned herself and adopted an air of nonchalance, as if what she was about to say was of no account. “You really don’t know? Well, I am surprised, for Madame Plumb was notorious in her day and continued to cause scandal when most scarlet women would have been content to fade into obscurity.” She leaned forward, locking her eyes upon Cressida’s. “My poor cousin, it pains me to say it, but Mrs. Plumb was an opera singer and actress before Lord Layton set her up. She and Madame Zirelli are great friends, and after Lord Layton moved on, and with Mrs. Plumb’s looks too faded to snare another of his ilk, she’s now set up a house, where she’s invited Madame Zirelli to live, and which has become famous for its Wednesday salons. People attend in masquerade, supposedly to listen to the music, but really it’s just a meeting place for—” She stopped at Cressida’s gasp, saying instead, in gentler tones, “It seems Justin has been a regular patron of Madame Plumb’s, and in view of his…close relationship…with Madame Zirelli, one can only assume the reason for his visits.”

  “Justin loves music,” Cressida said, dully, trying to equate Justin sneaking off in masquerade to some house of ill repute after bidding her his standard, tender farewell for the evening. She forced herself to remain calm, her fingernails biting into her palms as she whispered, “I can’t believe, though, that Annabelle would condone anything that suggested that Justin were being”—she gulped the word—“unfaithful. Annabelle is so—”

  “Kind?” Catherine supplied, her tone sharp at Cressida’s implication that she was not. “Perhaps she was distracted, for she has had much to occupy her with organizing her sister- in-law’s wedding—Madeleine Hardwicke, if you recall…the dark, Castilian-looking creature who looked so down in the mouth when you congratulated her on her impending marriage to Lord Slitherton this evening. You remarked upon her unusual looks when she came out last year.”

  “Yes, a handsome girl. Poor Miss Hardwicke,” Cressida murmured, distracted for the moment. “Lord Slitherton is old enough to be her grandfather.”

  “Well, her father, at any rate. But he’s rich and titled, and that’s all that counts. All men—even those who are handsome or loving at the start—” Catherine added, pointedly, “—stray. Oh my goodness, Cressy, you’ve snapped your fan!”

  It was all Cressida could do not to slap her cousin with the poor, destroyed ivory accessory Justin had given her for her last birthday. Instead, she muttered, ignoring the feigned concern over her fan, “Not Justin.”

  “Oh, he’ll deny it.” Catherine sounded as if she had much experience of such exchanges. “You must make the most of his discomfort, though. I suggest you order three fine, expensive gowns, confront him with everything you’ve heard, then present him with the bill. I promise you, he’ll pay up like a lamb.”

  Cressida said nothing. That was not how she intended approaching matters. Though just exactly what she planned to do, she wasn’t quite sure. Quitting the carriage and putting as much distance as she could between herself and her poisonous cousin was a good start, though.

  Changing the subject was the second best alternative. “I’m sorry for Miss Hardwicke. She and Mr. Pendleton looked so in love, and Justin was saying only the other day that he’d marked Mr. Pendleton out for great things. That is, once the young man’s a little older and less circumspect about putting himself forward. Apparently, he’s very clever.”

  “That might be, but he has no money.” Catherine sniffed as if that sealed the matter. “Lord Slitherton has more than ten thousand a year and, as Miss Hardwicke’s mother is very ill and wants to see her only daughter settled, she’s obviously prepared to overlook Lord Slitherton’s age, just as she’s overlooked Mr. Pendleton’s candidacy on account of his impecuniousness. You forget how lucky you were, Cressy, that you were able to follow your heart, marry money and that you retained your husband’s interest for so long.” Her tone dripped false sympathy. “Just because Justin has taken a mistress doesn’t mean you are less to him than you ever were. He just wants more. Like most men.”

  Cressida glared at her cousin while nevertheless resorting to her handkerchief to dab her eyes. There were still another few minutes to endure in the carriage together, so she might as well be as armed with as much information as Catherine knew or suspected. Surely the more Catherine said, the greater the chance Cressida had of finding a hole in her theory. Justin would never take a mistress. Not if he loved Cressida. “Tell me about this Madame Zirelli. I’ve never heard of her.” She was encou
raged by the skepticism with which she managed to lace the command, disappointed when Catherine responded in a matter-of-fact tone as the carriage negotiated a bend in competition with a cooper’s wagon. “Neither had I, until Annabelle told me the curious story of Miss Hardwicke’s uncle’s determination that Madame Zirelli sing at his niece’s wedding.”

  “Miss Hardwicke’s uncle? Sir Robert, do you mean?” Cressida frowned. She’d heard Annabelle mention this illustrious member of the family who’d made a great fortune across the seas and had never been back to England.

  “That’s right. Well, he’s coming back for Miss Hardwicke’s wedding, and of course Annabelle is doing all the organizing as Miss Hardwicke’s poor mother is on her deathbed—”

  “But what’s Sir Robert got to do with Madame Zirelli?” What did this have to do with Justin? Cressida leaned forward to quiz her. Catherine was wrong.

  “Well, Sir Robert has lived abroad the past sixteen years, in case you didn’t know, and he’s returning for the wedding but with the oddest request. He charged Annabelle with the task of hunting down the finest soprano in all England and has especially instructed Annabelle to seek out this Madame Zirelli.” Catherine leaned back and her voice took on an edge of scorn. “Of course, Annabelle’s husband took over the search after Annabelle learned of Madame Zirelli’s…well, unsavory past…and it led him to Mrs. Plumb’s house of ill repute.”

  “Then perhaps Justin was merely helping to locate this Madame Zirelli.”

  Catherine raised an eyebrow. “And it would seem Justin knew just where to look.” She sighed as if her cousin were displaying the greatest ignorance.

  “Surely, Cressida, you can’t imagine your husband led a blameless life before he whisked you down the aisle? Be glad his name is associated with only this one woman. Why, James—”

  But Cressida wasn’t interested in James. James was a whoremonger. Innocent though she was, she’d heard the label used in association with her cousin’s husband, and for that reason alone, she must try and feel some sympathy for Catherine, who’d never known the love and loyalty Cressida had taken for granted all these years.

  Forcing out the words while trying to keep the tears in check, she whispered, “I don’t believe you. Justin is deeply loyal. I have never found fault with him as either a husband or a father.” Her thoughts trailed away. It was true, though, that she knew nothing of Justin’s female associations before she’d married him.

  She gulped, stricken, as a thought occurred. “This Madame Zirelli…if indeed he did have an association with her… Perhaps she was not someone he could marry—” The idea of Justin losing his heart to someone else before her time but being unable to follow his inclinations was a terrible one and put their entire marriage in a new light.

  “Without wishing to sound unkind, you were hardly a glittering prospect, Cressy.” With some slight consideration for the bluntness of this assessment, Catherine hurried on at her cousin’s injured look, reminding her of what Cressida had always taken comfort in. “Justin lost his heart to you the moment he saw you, and, despite all the persuasion that could be exerted, he married you, penniless though you were. This Madame Zirelli was married to Lord Grainger, though I believe their divorce was being finalized when she and Justin— Well, anyway, suffice to say you must forget this foolish idea that Justin is returning to some long-lost love.”

  “I must speak to Justin,” Cressida muttered as the carriage lurched before coming to a halt outside Catherine’s Mayfair address. “What else can I do?”

  In the lamplight that filtered in as the footman opened the door and put down the step, Catherine’s look was scornful. “The only sensible thing you can do,” she said with a toss of her head and a look to suggest Cressida’s remark bordered on the imbecilic, “is to get to the root of the rumors.” She gathered her skirts in one hand as she prepared to quit the equipage, turning to add, “If they are nothing but rumors, as you’re so sure is the case, you’ll not want to wound darling Justin’s sensibilities by suggesting you believe ill of him.” After gracefully descending the steps, she leaned into the carriage space to add in parting, “Discover the truth for yourself and make the most of the power you have over him, Cressy. We women have little enough of it.”

  Chapter Two

  Two hours later, Cressida stared at her image in her dressing table mirror, forcing away the niggling doubts that had, she was now sure, no foundation. Justin loved her—of that she had no doubt. But what about the other ‘thing’? The ‘thing’ they never spoke about because she didn’t know how to? Every time Justin even looked as if he was going to broach the subject, she quickly deflected him.

  Cressida shifted on her dressing table stool. She’d sent away the maid sometime earlier, and now she’d simply been staring. She didn’t know how long she’d been there, though her thoughts had been taking some convoluted twists and turns. First she remembered how bolstered she’d been by her husband’s praise earlier that evening.

  She’d felt strong and convinced Catherine was wrong. Now, perhaps twenty minutes later, the insipid shepherdess had been replaced by a lackluster creature with red-rimmed eyes and sagging shoulders. Was she really just a willfully blind and brainless wife with her head in the sand, completely unaware of her husband’s desires? She shifted uncomfortably. Well, she knew about those, and that was more than half the problem—or what he might be doing about them.

  That was what this was about, after all, wasn’t it? A man had needs, and Cressida certainly hadn’t been doing what she’d happily done in the early years of their marriage to satisfy them.

  But little Thomas was teething. He needed her. He was such a delicate child and their only son. The girls were far more robust and self-sufficient, but Thomas needed his mother. Cressida slept in his nursery every night. Justin would be surprised to find her here, perhaps. But she must speak to him. Her nerves were nearly at snapping point when she heard his faint footstep upon the stair. Her ears strained and her heart pounded as she registered his pause as he turned in the corridor, not toward his own chamber but toward hers.

  Cressida squeezed shut her eyes. Justin was coming to her. She must play the good wife. He loved her—and dear God, she loved him—but she was panicked. What if he—

  The door opened after a discreet knock, cutting off the thought.

  “Cressy, love, Annabelle Luscombe told me you’d left the ball early. I hope you weren’t feeling unwell?”

  How handsome he looked, his Roman robes still crisp and immaculate after a night of revelry, concern in his voice and tenderness in his expression as he crossed the room. His lean, muscular body cast shadows across the walls. Cressida remembered how, in the past, she’d focused her attention on his flickering shadow as she’d waited with such anticipation for him to come to her. How she’d welcomed him in those early days.

  Now she looked down at her lap. She’d regained her figure quickly, even after her fifth child, and was proud of the fact. But misery banished any good feeling she might have felt about the fact she’d retained her youthfulness, or even that Justin might still genuinely desire her. No, there was nothing to be proud of now when that same body that should provide for the needs of a loving husband was tense and resistant. Not when her mind silently screamed its fear that somehow Justin would unleash the gates of her latent desire and she’d succumb to—

  She turned her face away as Justin lowered his head to kiss her ear, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders.

  Breathing in his special scent of sandalwood, which signified safety and wonderful familiarity, she fought to remain calm.

  Justin would always be the loving husband, and she would always enjoy comfort and security beyond her dreams. But now, after what Catherine had told her, it seemed entirely possible that Justin had done what so many of her friends’ husbands had after a certain number of years of marriage, and she must find the courage to confront him then come up with the words to explain what lay behind her own withdrawal these past lon
g months.

  Unable to respond to his greeting, Cressida did what she’d done for nearly a year, since Thomas’ difficult birth.

  She tensed at his touch. She knew he registered it too, though his expression in the looking glass was as fond as ever.

  Finally, she managed a smile. Not a convincing one—she could see that as much as feel it as she watched their exchange like a third person in a drama. Her hand went to the neck of her nightgown, the other fiddled with the silver-backed hairbrush that sat on the edge of the dressing table.

  “I feel perfectly well, thank you,” she managed, lowering her eyes. “Just a little tired.”

  Slowly, he began to massage her back and shoulders, and she forced herself to lean into him, nevertheless reveling in the cathartic, rhythmic strokes. If only she could be guaranteed that this was where the sensory pleasure would begin and end, then she could enjoy it.

  When he began working his way down from her collarbones, his touch easing as he gently stroked the skin above the drawstring of her nightgown, it was an effort to pretend that she embraced, as she once had, the promise of where this may lead.

  She closed her eyes and miserably went through her options, brief rage having long ago given way to despair. Though what choice was there, if indeed she had to win him back from another woman?

  Could it be true, or was Catherine taunting her, playing on her insecurities?

  Cressida kept her eyes tightly closed so she didn’t have to face the loving warmth of Justin’s expression.

  He wanted her and she should be drowning in joy that he still felt the same way she felt about him. She should be doing what every good wife must do. It was her duty.

  But the familiar voices were screaming in her head. Do you think, Cressida, that the rapture of a night in your husband’s arms is worth the fear and pain of yet another child?