Jack Chiltern's Wife (1999) (18 page)

Instead of telling him that he meant far more than an escort to her, which would have defused the situation, she seized on his last unflattering statement. ‘That was your idea, not mine. I would have continued as we were.’

‘And I could not. The world would never believe we had not become lovers in the months we have been together. For your sake …’

‘For my sake! Are you sure you are not thinking of your own reputation?’

‘You are surely not suggesting I coerced you into marriage in order to—’ He stopped. He hadn’t done that, had he? ‘Oh, no, my dear, nothing was further from my thoughts. You cannot annul a marriage that has been consummated, you know.’

‘And you think it makes me feel better to know that I am so unattractive I cannot compete with a dead wife.’ It was not her speaking, she told herself, it was the little green god of jealousy and she hated herself for it.

‘Leave my wife out of it.’ He did not want to talk about Gabrielle; she had no part to play in the present situation.

‘Why should I? You evidently cannot.’

‘God, woman, what do you want from me? You are the most trying, the most provoking, the most …’ He grabbed hold of her shoulders. ‘I am not a saint. I cannot stand much more of this. Look at me, damn you.’

She tilted her head to look at him. His dark eyes were pinpoints of steel flashing in the light from the candle flame. His jaw was rigid, his mouth grim. For the first time ever, she began to feel a little afraid of him. ‘Let me go, you’re hurting me.’

Her mouth was slightly open, almost inviting him to do his worst. ‘Heaven help me,’ he said, lowering his mouth to hers in a bruising kiss.

It went on a long time. She beat her hands on his chest but he simply wrapped his arms about her, imprisoning her and taking the breath from her body. His mouth explored hers, setting up sensations in her belly she could not control. Every fibre of her was shouting its own needs, making her respond, making her lean in to him, to feel his heartbeat, his strength subjugating hers; she wanted him. She stopped struggling.

He picked her up and carried her to the bed, flinging himself down on top of her. Holding her down with the weight of his own body, he lifted her skirt and parted her legs. ‘You want proof I am not made of stone, do you? You shall have it.’ He undid the buttons on the flap of his pantaloons and began to thrust into her. He did not look into her face, did not see the pain and horror there; he was too intent on releasing months of frustration and anger.

Afterwards came the remorse, the burning shame, the knowledge that he had spoiled everything that had been good about their relationship, the trust they had always had in each other. He would never forgive himself, so how could he expect her to forgive him? He turned towards her, not knowing how to make amends.

She was lying on her back looking at the ceiling, silent tears streaming down her face. How tiny she was; small pointed breasts, slim thighs, little feet. He had great strength and he had used it to subdue her. He had taken something which was precious as life to him and crushed it savagely.

‘Oh, God, what have I done? I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was out of my mind.’ He reached out to wipe the tears away, but she knocked his hand from her.

‘Kitty, I am truly sorry.’

‘For what? For acting like the tyrant you are?’ She gave a cracked laugh. ‘Am I supposed to complain when my husband takes only what is his by right?’

‘But I had no right to hurt you. I beg you to forgive me. It will never happen again, I promise you.’ He tried again to reach out to her.

She turned her back on him. ‘Go away.’

After a moment, he left the bed and she heard him fumbling with his clothes, then he was gone, taking the guttering candle with him.

She pulled off the ring and flung it into the darkness in the corner of the room and sobbed in total despair. There was no love in him, there never would be for her and she had made the greatest mistake of a life already over-full of mistakes. She had thought she could make him love her. How conceited, how foolish she had been!

She had wanted him to make love to her, would have given herself happily and willingly if he had asked it of her. He did not need to be cruel. It was the mention of his wife that had triggered it and that was her fault. And now she must live with his contempt.

She rose next morning, her eyes, heart and feet as heavy as lead, and sat looking in the cracked mirror above the dressing table, then smiled crookedly at her reflection. She had not slept and she looked terrible. Would James guess what had happened? Would Nanette notice? She could not bear the thought of their pity.

Turning her basket upside down, she began flinging clothes this way and that. Judith would have packed some rouge and powder, she was sure of it; she could not have known they would not need these essential requisites to a lady’s toilette. Grabbing the little pot, she returned to the mirror and coloured her cheeks and lips. It made her look a little less wan, but could not disguise the misery in her eyes.

Five minutes later, dressed in her blue muslin, she made her way downstairs. James and Nanette were sitting at the breakfast
table, gazing into each other’s eyes and smiling dreamily. Their night had obviously been all they had hoped for.

‘Kitty, good morning,’ James said, rising. ‘Come and have some breakfast. I just saw Jack, he said you wouldn’t be long. He’s gone to give orders about the horse.’

‘Yes, he told me,’ she lied.

She sat down but she could not eat. Her mouth was too dry to swallow. She gulped coffee. She must behave normally. She must not let them see that her wedding night had been a disaster. She smiled. ‘Well, you two seemed pleased with the world this morning.’

‘Why shouldn’t we be?’ James said, smiling at Nanette. ‘We are as happy as two lovebirds can be. We can face anything so long as we are together, rain, wind, rough seas, even Madame Guillotine, it doesn’t matter. Don’t tell me you don’t feel the same.’

‘Of course I do,’ she said, just as Jack came into the room to join them.

He walked over to Kitty and bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Good morning, sweetheart. You looked so peaceful, I let you sleep, but we must not be long before we move off.’ His voice was perfectly normal—he was much better at playacting than she was, she decided.

‘I am ready when you are,’ she said, surprised that he had not suggested she should change into the peasant costume. After all, that’s how he liked to have her. Well beneath him, under his control. ‘My basket is packed and only needs fetching from the bedchamber.’

‘I’ll get it, my love,’ Jack said. ‘You go and get in the cart. It’s ready at the door.’

James had already brought Nanette’s bag and his own valise downstairs. He picked them up and led the way into the street. Unwilling to be parted even by a couple of feet, he settled himself in the cart beside Nanette, leaving Kitty to climb up on to
the crossbench to wait for Jack. He joined them five minutes later, put Kitty’s basket and his own small bag into the cart and jumped nimbly up beside his wife.

‘Right,’ he said with false cheerfulness as he picked up the reins. ‘Let’s be off.’

She noticed he was wearing his signet ring. It was why he had been gone so long; he had noticed she was not wearing it and had been searching the room for it. He would take that as a sign that the marriage was over before it had ever begun. He was too proud to ask her forgiveness again and the future looked bleak indeed.

The horse was younger and stronger than old Samson, and they were able to cover many more miles a day than they had from Paris to Haute Saint-Gilbert. And, as they were so far from the capital and in pro-Royalist country, there was less danger too. But Kitty could not appreciate that; she was so overcome with misery, she could think of nothing else.

Jack treated her with the utmost courtesy, worrying about her comfort, running little errands for her, speaking gently, doing everything a considerate husband should do for a wife. Except love her. At night, he slept in a chair or huddled on the floor of whatever hotel, inn or deserted cottage they chose for their night’s lodging, while she occupied the bed alone. He had said it would not happen again and he meant to keep his word.

Each morning he rose, apparently refreshed, and went to see to the horse, to pay the innkeeper, to shop for food for the day, leaving her to her toilette. James and Nanette, immersed in each other, knew nothing of the anguish they both suffered. Life for them was good and, now that they were out of the district of Lyons, they did not even worry about the danger or the Reign of Terror beginning far to the north.

They followed the river bank to Tournon, with its granite hills and steep vineyards, and from there climbed a tortuous road with
breathtaking views. At its highest point they could see Mont Blanc in the east and Mont Ventoux to the south.

On they went, through Valence and then Montelimar, where they were caught in a violent rainstorm which turned the tiny stream which ran through it into a torrent of swirling water. They stopped here, earlier than they might, in order to take shelter and dry their clothes.

Sitting in the porch of an empty villa, looking out at the brilliant flashes of lightning, listening to the thunder reverberating through the hills, they chatted of other storms in other places. And that led on to tales of home, summers in England. Kitty, listening to Jack speaking of his home, was filled with longing. Would it ever be her home too? Would his father and mother welcome her? Did she even want to go there under the circumstances?

She did not know, was not sure of anything any more. Her high-flown plans to make her marriage work, to make Jack forget his dead wife and learn to love the one who was alive and wanted and needed him, would come to nothing. Vanity, that’s what it had been. Conceit. Pride. And now she must pay the price.

She must live with the tyrant love. She did not know whether she wanted this journey to end, so that she might know what fate he had in store for her, or whether she wanted it to go on and on, that she might never have to face it.

Their progress southwards continued in brilliant sunshine the next day and James sang snatches of
The Beggar’s Opera
as they went. Nanette joined in, trying to learn the English words, making him laugh. They were so happy, it hurt Kitty to watch them. She dare not look at Jack for fear he could read the envy in her eyes, and he would not look at her, for the guilt was still with him.

Why had she provoked him on their wedding night, taunted him about his wife? That had been the crack which had burst the dam. All his hurt and frustration, all his iron self-control, had come spilling out. It was not Kitty, he had wanted to hurt, but Gabrielle. Gabrielle who had spurned him, who had wanted him dead so that she could impress her lover, had injured his pride. His pride had retaliated, had punished Kitty whom he loved beyond reason.

How could he explain that to her, when she would not even speak to him, except in the day-to-day polite discourse of passing acquaintances? And at night, when they should have been opening their hearts to each other, they did not talk at all. Nights were silent torment. But he could not blame her. He had brought it on himself and must pay the penalty: her contempt.

When they moved into Provence they felt a distinct rise in temperature. As the old cart with its single plodding horse took them through the little town of Orange with its ancient Roman theatre and steep terraces, the north was left behind. The days were hot and even the nights too warm for comfortable sleep.

The sky was a deep blue, the light very clear, putting the white houses with their red roofs into sharp focus. Oleander and bougainvillea climbed over walls. Cicadas screeched, a hawk swooped and rose with a tiny mouse in its claws; and they could smell the wild thyme, the rosemary and lavender growing on the roadside verges.

After a night spent in yet another country inn, they continued through a rocky countryside dotted with vineyards and olive groves and on to Avignon, which had been Papal property until two years before when the Revolutionary government had appropriated it.

James, who was sitting in the back of the cart with Nanette, began to sing again.

—Sur le pont d’ Avignon,

—L’on y danse, l’on y danse;

—Sur le pont d’Avignon

—L’on y danse tous en rond.

Laughing, Nanette joined in and then Jack, who was driving, accompanied then in a surprisingly good tenor voice. Kitty stole a glance at him. Was he as relaxed as he seemed? Had that dreadful night left no mark upon him at all?

They turned away from the river and, at the end of a long day, came to Aix-en-Provence with its narrow medieval streets. Soon they would reach the sea and then would come the difficult part of their escape, moving from land to water and persuading Admiral Hood to take them on board. After that, their return to England was in his hands. Not even Jack could influence it.

Wanting them to have a good view of the bay and its shipping before going down into the town of Toulon, he took them through a spectacular gorge overshadowed by huge rock formations and up a steep hill at the top of which he stopped. They climbed out and stood looking down at the bay of Toulon sparkling beneath them. It was crowded with shipping, none of it able to move because of the British ships that blocked the entrance to the bay. They could just make them out on the horizon.

‘What a sight!’ James said.

‘Let’s hope they don’t decide to lift the blockade before we get out to them,’ Jack said.

‘How are we going to do it?’ Kitty asked. ‘All those ships. There must be hundreds of French sailors in the town with nothing more to do than catch spies and traitors.’

‘Then we shall have to avoid them,’ Jack said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. ‘Come on, back in the cart. In a few hours we shall have no more need of it.’

They rumbled into the town and Jack, who seemed to know where he was going, drove the cart along the twisting old streets
and stopped at a blacksmith’s forge. ‘This tired old nag needs new shoes,’ he said to the farrier, a big burly man in a leather apron, who came out to meet them.