Memory's Bride

by Decca Price

  Hearing her husband’s tread on the stairs snapped her out of her reverie. “Hurry, Annie,” she whispered as she shoved paper, pencils and charcoals into the girl’s hands and sent her into the adjacent dressing room.

  Claire was washing charcoal dust off her hands when Edward knocked and entered on her reply.

  He took the room in at a glance. “I’d rather you’d called for the carriage and gone to visit your friends in the village than put more notions into Parsons’s head,” he remarked. “You haven’t seen your Miss Simms since we’ve been back.”

  “But you said you didn’t want me to go out without you! And it’s not wasted time. It’s a shame to waste any person’s abilities.” Claire dried her hands on the linen towel hanging on the washstand. “At any rate, Simmie is away visiting the parents of some prospective students near Bristol. I couldn’t have.”

  “But you would have, knowing my wishes?”

  “No, Edward. Please don’t put words in my mouth.” She approached him and made as if to straighten his cravat, but he grasped her wrist and stopped her.

  Startled, lips half-parted, Claire forgot what she had planned to say. His grip was light but firm and she was afraid to move. Her pulse accelerated as he looked at her face curiously.

  “Claire,” he said softly, “do you love me? Do you trust that I would never do anything intentionally to hurt you if I could avoid it?”

  “Edward, of course! I wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t!”

  He embraced her, planting a series of kisses on her hair.

  “It’s all right then, it’s all right,” he murmured.

  Hair brushed and Annie sent off to her room, Claire climbed into bed more weary than she ever had been after a long day out on horseback. She extinguished the lamp on the night table, pulled the bed clothes up to her chin and lay on her back watching shadows cast from the fireplace chase across the ceiling as she waited for sleep to come.

  A weight on the bed roused her from a light slumber, and she sensed more than saw in the dim light a dark solid bulk on the bed beside her. She struggled to free her arms from the heavy quilt.

  “Don’t be alarmed, dearest.” Edward’s voice. He had come at last.

  “Edward,” she sighed.

  “Hush. Don’t say anything. Lie still.” His voice in the darkness, so close in her ear now that he loomed over her, sounded thick and alien. She felt his warm breath against the skin of her face as he pulled the bedclothes back and exposed her nightgown-clad form supine on the canopied bed. The sudden chill brought gooseflesh up on her body and, less sleepy now, she raised her arms to embrace him.

  Gently, he pushed her arms back to her sides. “Be still.” His voice dropped a register. “I will hurt you as little as possible. “

  He pushed her nightdress up around her waist, exposing her nakedness, and slipped his left hand between the deep pillow where her head rested and her nape. Burying his fingers in her silky hair, he turned her head up slightly and began kissing her urgently. She tried to respond, but his kisses were sloppy and aimless as he alternately pressed his lips against her mouth and bit at her lips.

  With his other hand, he squeezed and rubbed her right breast hard through the thin fabric until she wanted to push him away. Pinioned under his weight now, she squirmed ever so slightly. He shifted his weight over her and pushed his knee between her legs until she made space for him. He moved his hand from her breast and reached down to clutch his penis. She felt him fumbling between her legs and then a pressure against her closed softness.

  His first thrust caught her by surprise and she cried out in pain as he forced himself up into her against her dryness. He grunted and paused.

  “Oh, my darling, oh, my darling,” he said raggedly.

  He drew a breath deep into his chest and began grinding his hips against her slowly. Once, twice, three times, then a final deep push that Claire feared tore her flesh. Their mutual cries at that climax—his of release, hers of pain—were a cruel counterfeit of a passion neither had enjoyed.

  Claire stifled another cry as he pulled out of her abruptly. They lay silently together in the darkness, and for no reason she could explain to herself afterward, she reached up and placed a hand on his cheek. It was wet with tears. A moment later, he stood, pulled her nightdress down over her legs, drew the coverlet back over her, and left the room.

  Chapter 17

  Her husband was finishing his coffee when Claire came into the breakfast room the next morning.

  “I hope you slept well,” was his greeting to her.

  “Yes,” she said tersely as she seated herself and he poured her a cup of tea.

  Coming around the table, he placed the steaming cup by her hand, slid the cream pitcher closer and helped her arrange her serviette. Leaning over the back of her chair, he spoke low into her ear.

  “My darling, I want you to know from the bottom of my heart that if I could have spared you last night’s experience, I would have.”

  She spun around, forcing him to step back and meet her eyes. He pulled out the chair next to her at the table and turned it so her could sit facing her.

  “My dear,” he began, taking her hands in his. “My dearest Claire, my wife, marriage is the greatest glory in a woman’s life, next to motherhood, and a man is not a true man in the single state. But marriage is also duty and for a woman especially, it necessitates some obligations that are unpleasant and that she would avoid if possible. Our conjoining last night is one of those things. I know I hurt you, and I am sorry.”

  She flushed and averted her head. Predisposed for such a response and not understanding its origins, he continued more earnestly.

  “I am pledging to you, here and now, my dear, that I will not importune you in that way more than necessary. I pray to God daily for the strength to control myself, so that the animal aspects of our relationship do not coarsen our spiritual bond—“

  “You aren’t making any sense, Edward,” Claire managed to interrupt. “Stop preaching and talk to me like an actual human being. Last night...” She floundered for a word. “We, last night... kissing. Kissing is nice. Surely God wouldn’t have created us to kiss if it weren’t to be pleasurable? We show our love for one another in kissing.”

  “Don’t be coarse. Like all pleasures in life, kissing in the right circumstances is enjoyable but should be moderated. Men and women are not beasts, we have souls and, as such, are called to subdue the flesh, not indulge it. The procreative act—you understand that is what we did last night? “

  Claire felt bile rising in her throat.

  “—the procreative act above all is one of those behaviors. It has a specific ordained purpose, but wicked men and women pervert it, and degrade themselves by it. It may seem unfortunate that the Creator fashioned men differently, so that they find more physical pleasure in the act than women, but I sometimes think if God had not been so wise, decent men who respect their wives would find it difficult—”

  Edward stammered to a halt. In the awkward silence, Claire observed, he was blushing hotly. A surge of spite prompted her to say with as much sweetness as she could put into her voice, “Would find it difficult to do what, Edward?”

  “Not to do what we did last night more frequently.” The words tumbled out. “Again, I apologize, but it had to be. You can’t deny I delayed for as long as possible. Too many husbands ravish their unsuspecting brides on their wedding nights and use them with abandon thereafter. They have only themselves to blame if their wives later become unbalanced from the strain of it.”

  He bowed his head so low it was nearly in her lap. She stared into the thick blond waves and compared their boyish softness to the man’s hard eyes and expression. “I would not let myself be one of those brutes, because I love you!”

  “It’s all right, my darling,” Claire said after a moment, stroking his head the way she would a child’s. “You think too much of it. If this is the worst marriage has to offer, I will count myself fortunate indeed.�
�

  Claire calculated that she had a perfect opportunity now to visit Simmie in Abbot Pyon without strong objection from her husband. After breakfast, Latimer, as usual, had retreated to the library, leaving Claire to occupy herself until late afternoon. The curricle was waiting in the drive and she was in her bonnet and cloak when she tapped at the library door.

  “Edward,” she called softly.

  She heard the key turn in the lock. He stood in the half-open door, his hand braced on the broad vertical edge, blocking her view of the interior while she told him of her plans.

  “You’re taking a boy with you?”

  “Yes, since you wish it.”

  “You’ll not tire yourself?”

  “No, Edward.”

  “Very well. My regards to Miss Simms.” As he stepped back to shut the door, he tripped and caught himself on the door. His weight swung it wide, giving Claire an unobstructed view of the vast room.

  “Oh, Edward,” she gasped. “Whatever are you doing?”

  Books lay in uneven piles all around the room, on the floor, on chairs, some even stacked crookedly on their sides on the mostly bare shelves. A stray volume on the floor by the door had caused Latimer’s near fall. A light patch on the paneling shown where Josiah’s portrait once hung.

  “Surely you’re not still looking for that manuscript?” she added. “I thought it was clear from Josiah’s papers that it doesn’t exist?”

  “It’s none of your business what I do in the privacy of my study,” Edward snapped. He passed his hand over his eyes. “Forgive me. That was uncalled for. I’m taking an inventory, and the books were never properly shelved after the fire.”

  He shut the door so abruptly it would have caught her skirts if she hadn’t reacted quickly. The lock snapped to like a slap in the face.

  Claire gave the reins an emphatic slap and the horse leapt against the harness. The tug of the leather in her hands, the vibration of wheels on gravel and the animal’s lively motion felt right. To be in control of something again was a fine thing. It wasn’t as good as being up on a spirited mount galloping across the fields, but it was as close as she would be for some time to come. She would miss the hunt season for the first time since she was 10, she realized with regret.

  The horse gradually slowed as the full force of her predicament descended and her hold on the reins slackened. She wanted nothing more, short of being free of her troubles entirely, than to unburden herself to Simmie.

  Claire wasn’t showing yet. Annie assured her it would be well after Michaelmas and the apple harvest before she would. Her breasts were swelling, though, and Annie couldn’t lace her corset as tight as she could have even a week ago. Already the girl was spending her afternoons letting the seams out on Claire’s bodices.

  At some point, Latimer would notice her changing body. She needed Simmie’s advice, if not collusion, on when she could reasonably tell her husband she was pregnant and how best to approach the subject.

  But how would Simmie react to her news? Her friend had been tolerant of Claire’s willful flouting of convention so far—too tolerant?—but she had put herself beyond the pale this time. In fact, Beatrice Simms would be more than justified in cutting herself off from any association with Claire, for the sake of her fledgling school.

  Claire urged the horse back to a brisk trot, and the village soon sprang into view around a curve in the road. While the boy (another Tressel lad) secured the horse, she drew her wraps around her and tried to quell the fluttering in her stomach. She hadn’t seen Simmie since her wedding day and feared, against reason, that she would be different somehow. Yet it was she who had changed.

  Claire lifted the heavy doorknocker, and a small girl led Claire to a sitting room at the back of the house. “Mrs. Latimer, miss,” the girl announced barely above a whisper, standing aside to let Claire pass.

  “Just a moment, Lane!” Simmie said brusquely as she rose and enfolded Claire in her arms. “Claire, dear, how good to see you!” She released her and turned to the maid. “Now, Lane, what did I tell you?”

  “To speak up, miss.”

  “And what else?”

  “If you please, miss, to announce visitors in the room, not from the hall.”

  “And what else?” There was a pause. The girl’s hand flew to her mouth.

  “Oh, miss!” She turned to Claire and curtsied. “Pardon, missus. May I take your cloak, missus?”

  Claire handed over her things and followed Simmie toward the small settee by the bright fire. The day outside was warm, but because the houses in town were built wall to wall, practically supporting each other, no sunlight penetrated to the back rooms to warm them.

  A young man rose as Claire approached.

  “Oh,” Claire said without inflection. “I’m sorry, Simmie. I should have sent a note ahead to see if you were free.”

  “This is Mr. Morton, Claire.” Seeing the blank look on Claire’s face, she added, “Mr. Latimer’s curate.”

  He bowed. “I hope you are well, Mrs. Latimer. My best wishes on your recent marriage.”

  “Thank you. I do hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “I was just leaving,” he said, then broke into a smile that made his plain face handsome. “Really, Mrs. Latimer. I’m not just being polite. Miss Simms and I were discussing Latin texts that would be suitable for young ladies. And there’s my sermon for Sunday still only half-written.”

  “Mr. Morton is a Cambridge man,” Simmie broke in. “So you see, he is up on the latest teaching practices at the women’s colleges.”

  Claire raised an eyebrow.

  “Both of my sisters are at Girton,” he explained. “I will write directly and ask for their recommendations, Miss Simms.” He retrieved his hat from the sofa. “Thank you for the excellent tea—and don’t bother poor Lane.” He smiled again. “I’m sure she’s had enough sorrow for one day, forgetting to ask for my hat and then Mrs. Latimer’s cloak.

  When the door had closed behind him, Claire sank with a sigh onto the chair he had vacated and peeled off her gloves. “Do you mind ringing for more tea? And is this a good time for me to call, really?”

  “It is, but even if it weren’t, I would make it so. I’ve longed to see you and, frankly, I’ve been a little worried.”

  “But Simmie! Why didn’t you call at Oak Grove? I’ve missed you so much and the days are so tedious. Edward won’t let me do anything.”

  “I thought you knew,” Simmie said. “The day you returned, your husband wrote asking me not to call. He said you were unwell in Cumberland and that you preferred not to be disturbed for the time being. He hinted—well, he left me with the impression that you didn’t want anyone intruding on the two of you. He wrote, he said, because you were too shy about it to make your feelings known to even such an old friend.”

  Lane brought in a laden tea tray, and Claire reached eagerly for the cup Simmie handed her. It rattled so loudly in its saucer she had to set it down. Her words burst forth.

  “Not want to be disturbed! Intrude!”

  “It made sense to me, Claire. When a man and a woman love each other and want to be together, a honeymoon away from their friends is usually when they have the opportunity to explore themselves and each other in their new relationship. Yours was cut short—”

  Now Claire couldn’t sit still.

  “He cut it short, Simmie. He couldn’t stand being there alone with me. He made Annie sleep in my room every night. He didn’t—we didn’t even—” She clutched at her skirt, the dampness of her hands creasing the fine silk “He didn’t even come to me until last night. And it was horrible. This morning he apologized so much it made me sick.”

  She covered her face and wailed. “I’m lost, Simmie! I never should have married him. I don’t know what I’m going to do!”

  Simmie threw her arms around Claire in an effort to calm her.

  “The wedding night can be a terrible shock,” she said. “It will get better with time, I promise you. Few men are a
bsolute brutes. As you get to know each other, he’ll learn to be more tender. You’ll teach him.”

  “No, no, no!” Claire sobbed as she pulled away. “You don’t understand. I’m going to have a baby!”

  “Claire, that’s impossible. Even if you had had relations on your wedding night, you’d have no way of telling this soon. You’ve been listening to old wives’ tales if you think so.”

  Claire clasped Simmie’s head in her hands and forced her to look at her. One clipped word at a time, she repeated, “I’m going to have a baby.” She released her and fell back on her heels. “About Lady Day, Annie says.”

  “But—” Simmie did a silent calculation. “That’s March. Oh, Claire.”

  Claire pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Yes. I’ve been a fool, insisting on my own way and not taking anyone’s advice, and now I’m going to pay for it. The only question is how dearly.”

  “Did you know—well, of course you couldn’t have known when you accepted Mr. Latimer’s offer.”

  “No. I’ve only just known myself for about two weeks. Annie recognized my symptoms. I was sick every morning at breakfast.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s humiliating to be so ignorant.” Claire sniffed and Simmie pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket.

  “Let’s sit down—over here I mean—and discuss this rationally,” Simmie said, rising and offering Claire her hand. “We’ll figure something out. Pour out your tea and I’ll give you a fresh cup.”

  Claire wiped her eyes. “I should never have married him,” she said again. “He’ll turn me out of the house without a penny, and I can’t blame him. If I hadn’t lost my head after Dickon, at least I’d still be able to support my child and have a roof over my head. I’ve lost everything—my self-respect, Oak Grove, any reputation I had left. There’s no chance Papa will ever reconcile with me now.” She took a gulped of tea. “I won’t be able to help you anymore.”