“Because he is so much older than you?” Lucy enquired.
“Oh, no. He is older, but not that much. Fifteen years. It’s just…I can’t. I have never thought of him in that way. Or any man, in fact. I have no desire to marry.”
“He is ugly, then?”
“Of course not. He is very handsome, in fact. I have always thought so.”
“You do not love him?”
“I do. Of course I do, he is my cousin.”
Mary-Belle squeezed her hand again and frowned. Clarissa fancied she mouthed the word ‘liar’.
“Very well, then. Perhaps I do love him, or I could. In a husbandly way rather than as a cousin. But it is so sudden, so quick. I need to think. And I have other responsibilities, to the cause.”
So, let us be clear,” Lucy began. “Your James is not repulsive, and neither is he too old. He is kind, generous, wealthy, and titled. Add to all of this his willingness and ability to support you in pursuing the cause so close to your heart. And you believe you might even love him, or come to. Yet still you hesitate and find reasons not to wed this man. Forgive me, my dear, as I have only just met you and you have not thus far struck me as a fool. But I find this difficult to comprehend. Were I in your position, I believe might have taken your James’ arm off at the elbow for such an offer.”
Clarissa could find no answer. When her situation was laid out like that, it all sounded so easy, so obvious. Eventually, she settled for something innocuous.
“He is not my James.”
“He could be. Does he love you?” Lucy prompted gently
“He has said so, but that makes no sense. He scarcely knows me.”
“From what you have said, he behaves as though he loves you. I gather you set great store by Mrs Pankhurst’s mantra, and it could apply here. If you cannot believe his words, then judge him by his deeds. Mary-Belle agrees with me, do you not, dear?”
The other woman nodded again, though her eyelids were already drooping.
“Oh, you are tired. We have exhausted you with our chatter.” Clarissa bent to kiss her friend’s forehead, glad of the opportunity to put an end to this disconcerting line of questioning. She was uncomfortable and confused, and badly needed time to gather her thoughts. Not to mention the urgent requirement to get the peculiar clenching in her lower abdomen under control. “I should go and let you rest. May I come back and visit again?”
Lucy rose to her feet and took a moment to straighten the covers and plump her sister’s pillows. “You will be welcome. And please, write to us if you have another article in The Times. I shall buy a copy.”
“I will. I surely will.”
Chapter 5
James gazed, unseeing, at the frost-covered Hertfordshire countryside. It was unseasonably cold, even for December, and snow was forecast in the coming days. His thoughts were not of the weather, though, but rather of the young lady who, he imagined, would be working diligently on her latest article. Once again, she was exposing the brutality of the regime in Holloway, this time including illustrations provided by one of the ex-inmates with an artistic bent. The message was powerful and compelling. James could not but think that legislation outlawing force-feeding had to be just around the corner.
One last push…
His own more private and personal campaign was going well, too, he fancied. He and Clarissa were getting on well enough. It had been over a fortnight since he had brought her home from Holloway, and she appeared happy and content at Smallwood, and utterly thrilled at seeing her words in print in some of the most prestigious publications in England. He had kept his promise regarding accessing the press, and she had done likewise as far as her previous lawless antics were concerned. He dared to hope her arson phase was behind her. It was a good enough arrangement and one he was eager to build upon.
Perhaps it was time to raise the question of marriage again, maybe this evening. He would gauge Clarissa’s mood, play it by ear. He told himself he was in no hurry, though that was not strictly true. Having at last spoken of his long-held intention, he was keen to act on it. Perhaps it was his military training that demanded he take action, or maybe he was naturally impatient, but for James, this uncertainty had gone on long enough. He resolved to talk to Clarissa tonight, over one of Mrs Crabbe’s fine dinners.
He took his front steps at a brisk pace and strode though the door which Mr Thompson opened as he approached.
“Good evening, Mr Thompson. Is Miss Bellamy in the sitting room?”
“No, my lord. I believe she is in the gardens.” The butler relieved him of his jacket.
“The gardens? But it’s freezing outside.”
“Quite so, my lord. She borrowed a warm coat from Trudy, and one of your scarves.”
Borrowing clothing from the servants. I really must take her shopping for suitable attire.
James shrugged back into his jacket and headed for the rear door which opened onto Smallwood Manor’s private gardens. He emerged onto the terrace and gazed over the rather sorry-looking rose beds and carefully manicured shrubs. His mother had entertained a passion for rare roses and topiary. His father had maintained the tradition following her death, and James, too, employed gardeners to tend the plants she had loved. The gardens were not at their best at this time of year. The rose bushes had been pruned back for the winter, reduced to mere sticks piercing the frost-dusted soil. The intricately carved box hedges, holly bushes, and yew trees provided evergreen structure, and it was among these that he caught sight of the slender figure walking slowly away from the main house.
James soon caught up with her. Clarissa was somewhat swamped by the borrowed wool coat, and his scarf bearing the MacDonald tartan pattern was wrapped around her head and neck to ward off the frigid temperatures.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked, rubbing his hands together. He really should have asked Mr Thompson for a pair of gloves.
“Thinking,” she replied.
“Can you not do that inside? In front of a roaring fire?”
“The cold helps to clear the mind, I always find.”
“Really.” He gazed longingly at the house. “Has it worked?”
“To some extent. I am considering a series of interviews, with leading suffragettes. I would start with Mrs Pankhurst, of course. What do you think?”
“Interesting, and a fresh slant, though from what I know of Mrs Pankhurst, she can be rather strident. We would need to edit the interview, I daresay.”
“Maybe, but the message will be so much more powerful in her own words.”
He slung an arm across her shoulders. “Do the interviews. We’ll see how it looks. Now, please can we go inside, give Trudy her best outdoor coat back, and get her to bring us some tea? I believe I am getting frostbite in my fingers.”
Clarissa smiled up at him, leaning in against his side. “Viscount Smallwood, I believe you are getting soft in your old age.”
“That’s as may be, but I reckon I could still beat you in a race back to the terrace.”
“You wish,” she laughed, at once breaking into a sprint.
James was alongside her within three long strides and kept pace with her until they reached the house. At the door, he caught her by the waist and swung her around. Clarissa shrieked with laughter and flung her hands around his neck to hold on.
James’ world slipped into slow motion. He completed another spin, then lowered her back to the ground. When her toes touched, he dipped his head and without further preamble, covered her mouth with his.
The kiss was slow, tentative. He broke it, briefly, to allow her to back away. She did not, so he took her lips again and deepened the contact. He framed her jaw between his palms, slanted his head to meld his mouth to hers, and ran his tongue over her lower lip. Still, she did not demur. Encouraged, bolder, he licked the inside of her lips, then slid his tongue over hers.
Clarissa gasped, stiffened, then relaxed and twisted her tongue around his. The dance was leisurely, intimate, exploring.
He slid his fingers under the scarf which she had tied loosely over her head. It fell back to reveal her silky, brown hair. He tunnelled his fingers through the loose curls as a low groan escaped him. He broke the kiss at last, only to bury his face in the crook of her neck.
“Marry me,” he breathed. “Please.”
“James…don’t. I can’t…”
“You can.” He nipped the delicate skin of her neck between his lips. “We can.”
“It’s too soon,” she insisted. “I need to think.”
Not an outright refusal. This is progress.
“I’m going to continue to ask you. You will say yes, eventually.”
“I’m not cut out to be a viscountess. You need someone more…grand.”
“You’re perfect. I’ve always thought so.”
Her hands were on his chest. She pushed, timidly at first, then more boldly. She stepped back, out of his embrace. “We can’t. I’m sorry, we just…can’t. This shouldn’t have happened.”
“What?”
“This kiss. This…us. We shouldn’t be doing this. It’s not right.”
“It feels exactly right to me.”
“It can’t happen again.”
“I make no promises.”
“We…we should go inside, out of the cold.”
“I can agree to that.” He reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers, then led her back into the house.
For all her protests, she did not pull her hand from his until they met Mr Thompson in the vestibule. If the butler noticed he was far too well-trained and unflappable to comment. He took their coats and the scarf, bowed politely, and informed them that tea was waiting for them in the sitting room.
Clarissa was quiet during dinner, though not unfriendly. He would better describe her mood as pensive and he suspected, hoped, that for once he might be the object of her thoughts rather than her work for the campaign.
“The duck is very good,” he ventured. “Mrs Crabbe’s plum sauce is famous across three counties.”
“What? Oh, yes. Delicious.” She took another forkful and chewed absently.
“Would you like some more wine?” He picked up the decanter and tilted it above her glass.
“Thank you. Just a drop, please.”
It was a fine claret, and the drop he poured was on the generous side. He topped off his own glass, then propped both elbows on the table to regard her.
“What are you thinking about, sweetheart?”
“Oh, nothing much. I was just enjoying the meal.”
Mrs Crabbe had done them proud, but he was not buying that.
“Are you thinking of all the excuses you can come up with not to marry me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“List them. I can deal with all of them. Everything you can come up with, I can answer.”
She set her knife and fork down and matched his pose. “Very well, if you insist. It would never work. The whole notion is out of the question. I don’t want to get married, not now. I’m far too busy.”
“We are both busy, but we still have time to spend on each other. Times like now…”
“This is just dinner. A meal…”
“We enjoy each other’s company. At least, I enjoy yours.”
“And I like being with you, obviously. You make me laugh.”
“And you make me hard. Essential ingredients in a good marriage.”
James!” She coloured up, the flush rising from her neck to heat her cheeks. “You can’t say things like that.”
He shrugged. “I think I just did. We’re good together, you and I. We work well together, and I’m reasonably certain we’d be good in bed, too, though if you have doubts, I’m happy to try that out, just to be certain.”
She afforded him a prim scowl. “Trudy would be shocked to find you in my bedroom in the morning.”
He grinned. “I doubt it. She’d survive. If you prefer, we could use my room.”
She arched an eyebrow. “James, just shut up and eat your duck.”
He grinned and picked up his utensils again.
So far, so good.
Clarissa was thoughtful as she padded about her room preparing for bed. She had sent Trudy away, insisting she could manage for herself, which of course she could, but the real reason was that she wanted to be alone to think.
First Lucy and Mary-Belle had upset her equilibrium, now James. She was thoroughly confused. What had seemed so simple a few days ago was now anything but. Her feelings for James were complex and contradictory, and she didn’t trust herself to arrive at a rational decision.
She was grateful to him, certainly, and she owed him a great deal. He had rescued her from Holloway and brought her home. He had used his good offices to assist her in promoting the cause she loved, and he had been sympathetic to the plight of her friend. He was generous, considerate, good-humoured and, yes, fun to be around.
But she had seen for herself how overbearing he could be. He liked to get his own way, and even though he had offered much in return, she was now living her life as he wanted. Marriage would mean relinquishing her independence entirely, and she was not sure she could do that. Not yet…
So, when?
And if not James, who else might she marry?
There really was no one she preferred, and she could not even imagine being so drawn to another man. And that kiss…
Where had that come from? Why had she permitted it? And would her lower abdomen ever stop clenching? Her undergarments had become quite damp, so much so that she had squirmed in her seat as she tried to drink her tea. Had he noticed? She believed she might become similarly afflicted once more if she continued to think of it.
She had tried to appear affronted, but his blunt words during dinner had not truly offended her. If anything, she was intrigued. If it were not for the cloud of marriage hovering over all their conversations, the prospect of sharing her bed with James was really rather appealing. Perhaps he would settle for one and not the other.
If—when—he brought the subject up again, she would suggest that. Let him be the one to be shocked this time.
Satisfied, she climbed into bed and extinguished the electric light.
“Would you like to take a bath this morning, Miss Clarissa? I can quickly run one, if you wish?” Trudy set a tray of tea and some buttered crumpets on the bedside table. “I can be making up the fire while it fills.”
“That sounds wonderful. Thank you. And please thank Mrs Crabbe for the crumpets. I always loved these.”
“So she says. She tells tales of you running down to the kitchens in search of crumpets and her blueberry muffins when you were little. You and William used to hang around all the time, she says.”
“We did. She used to let us lick out the bowls when she baked cakes. I particularly liked the chocolate, but I usually had to fight Will for it. Most of the time he let me win because I was a girl, but not always.”
“No, miss, I imagine not. After all, chocolate…”
Trudy bent to attend to the fire while Clarissa munched on a crumpet. Soon there was a cheerful blaze dancing in the grate, and just crumbs left on the tray. Trudy poured her a cup of tea before disappearing into the bathroom.
There was still a morning chill in the room, so Clarissa took her cup and saucer over to the fire and sat in the chair closest. She stretched her bare toes out to soak up the heat as the room warmed around her. She sipped her tea and began to plan her day. She would spend the morning on correspondence, writing to the women she had in mind for her series of interviews. She would need to plan several trips to London to meet with them. Her afternoon would be devoted to completing her current article, and perhaps a bit of reading, too. She had several journals which James had kindly obtained and brought back for her, and she had not yet had the time to peruse them properly. She might even start now…
At the sound of a soft footstep behind her, she called over her shoulder, “Trudy, please could you pass me the co
py of The Church League for Women’s Suffrage? It’s on the floor beside my bed.”
“Here, though what the church can possibly be doing publishing such a thing I cannot begin to imagine.”
Clarissa spun around in her chair. “Victorine! What are you doing in here? I don’t remember hearing you knock.”
“Decent Christians should concern themselves with more suitable subject matter.” The other woman tossed the magazine into her lap. “Godless rubbish. I shall write to the bishop.”
“Please feel free to do so. In your own room.” Clarissa got to her feet. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must get ready.”
Victorine ignored her. She glared down her narrow nose at Clarissa and sniffed. “I saw you, the pair of you, yesterday. Out there, on the back terrace.”
“I have no interest in what you may or may not have seen.”
“Shameless, you’re nothing but. If you can’t bring disgrace on this house one way, you will find another. You disgust me.”
“And you bore me, Victorine. Please, get out of my room.”
“Your room?” Victorine pursed her lips. “You really do think you can get your feet under the table here, don’t you? Fool. He wouldn’t be interested in a nobody like you, not for a moment, if Miss Hastings was still alive. He misses her terribly, the poor soul.”
“What on earth are you babbling about? And who is Miss Hastings?”
“I knew he wouldn’t have told you. Probably because it’s still too painful, too raw. It has only been a few months, after all.”
“Victorine, I think you’d better leave. You’re talking in riddles, and I’m not interested in listening to anything you have to say.”
“Then you’re an even bigger fool than you are a slut. James fancies you might be the next viscountess, but only because poor Miss Hastings lost her life when the Titanic went down. Such a tragedy. I doubt my brother will ever truly recover.”
“Miss Hastings? The Titanic? None of this makes sense…”
“You must know about the Titanic. It was in all the newspapers at the time.”
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