Читать книгу The Woman In The Lake: Can she escape the shadows of the past? - Nicola Cornick, Nicola Cornick - Страница 10

Chapter 2

Isabella

London, Late Spring 1763

‘Dr Baird is here, milady.’

Constance, my maid, held the bedchamber door wide for the physician to come in. Her gaze was averted. I knew she did not care for doctors, viewing them as akin to magicians. She would not meet Dr Baird’s gaze in case he cast a spell on her. Nor could she look at me that morning. She could not bear to see the effects of Eustace’s beatings. I did not mind for I had no desire to see pity in the eyes of a maidservant.

‘Good morning, Lady Gerard.’ Dr Baird, in contrast, had no difficulty in greeting me as though everything was quite normal. Perhaps this was his normality, tending to the battered wives of violent and syphilitic peers across London. I had no notion. It was not a matter I discussed with my acquaintance.

Only once had my cousin Maria confided that her husband had beaten her and then she had looked so mortified to be so indiscreet that she begged me to forget she had spoken.

‘Dr Baird.’ I did not try to smile. It hurt my face too much.

‘I was sorry to hear of your indisposition.’ He was sympathetic but brisk, placing his bag on the upright chair, crossing the room to come to my side. Dr Baird and I shared many secrets but he was not a man with whom I felt comfortable. He was too urbane, too accommodating. Often when he had been to visit me he took a glass of wine with Eustace in the library. Eustace was the one who paid his bills. I often wondered what they talked about, the viscount and the doctor. They were of an age, but their lives were so very different. Dr Baird was from a good family, I seemed to recollect, but they were poor.

He turned my face gently to the light that streamed in through the window so that he could see my injuries more clearly. His hand was warm against my cheek. It was quite pleasant and I forgot for a moment why he was there. Then I saw Constance flinch at the sight of my face and immediately I felt ashamed of how I looked and of people knowing.

‘Another fall?’ Dr Baird asked.

‘As you see.’

This was the fourth time he had been called to see me. On one occasion I had severe bruising to my arms, necessitating the wearing of unseasonably warm clothing all through a very hot June. On another I had been pregnant but thankfully had not lost the child.

‘Do you have any other injuries?’ His tone was bland, revealing no emotion. I studied his face, so close to mine, wanting to see a hint of something. Shock, perhaps. But Dr Baird had, I imagined, seen far worse sights than the one I presented and there was nothing to see there but professional concern.

‘Fortunately not this time,’ I said.

He nodded, opening his bag to take out a jar of ointment.

‘This should help you heal. It will take a few weeks.’

I did not reply. The scent of beeswax reached me, not quite strong enough to conceal the smell of something more rancid beneath. Dr Baird approached me, pot in one hand. As he leaned over me I could smell the scent of his body beneath the elegant clothes. It was not unpleasant but it felt too intimate being so close to him. It seemed my senses were too sharp today, as though my skin was too thin, my body vulnerable to a bombardment of sensation as a result of Eustace’s assault. The call of the birds outside was too loud, as was the rustle of cloth as Constance moved over to the window so that she did not have to watch the doctor ministering to me.

‘Lady Gerard. I feel you should…’ Dr Baird hesitated. In the waiting silence I thought: Do not let him say that I should be more careful, or I may have to break my teapot over his head, thereby requiring the physician to treat himself. But perhaps he would be right. Perhaps I should tread more quietly, turn a softer answer to Eustace’s fury, placate him. Yet if I did he would probably hit all the harder. He was perpetually angry and everything I did only served to feed his fury.

‘You should, perhaps, spend some time in the country.’ Dr Baird was not looking at me but was concentrating on delicately applying the ointment to the bruises and abrasions. I forced myself to keep quite still though it stung horribly. ‘It would be good for you, the fresh air, the change of scene.’ He stopped, his hand upraised for the next dab. It reminded me unpleasantly of Eustace and I recoiled instinctively.

‘Your pardon.’ Dr Baird resumed the dabbing. ‘Your husband…’ He paused again. ‘Is he away?’

‘Lord Gerard left for Paris this morning.’ With his latest mistress. Last night he beat me and forced himself on me, and today he takes his doxy abroad. I wondered about her sometimes; who she was, whether he treated her as he did me. I hoped he did for it would be intolerable to think there were women he cherished.

‘Then this is an ideal time in which to take some rest.’ Dr Baird smiled at me encouragingly. ‘Perhaps a family visit—’

‘No.’ I did not want to go to Moresby Hall, with its huge dark rooms cluttered with the spoils of war. I had hated Moresby as a child and even now as an adult, that dislike persisted. It was a vast, echoing barn of a house that was no home, only a mausoleum to my grandfather, a dead war hero. My brother lived there now but he had changed nothing and the house offered no comfort.

‘Perhaps not.’ Dr Baird had misunderstood me. ‘I appreciate that you might not wish to see anyone at the moment. But some time in the country might be restorative after the bustle of London.’

I glanced towards the window. Constance had pulled back the drapes and was looking out over the gardens now in order to avoid having to look at me. The window was open and a light summer breeze stirred the air. It was very quiet. I could hear no carriage wheels, nor voices; nothing to connect me to the world outside. London was light of company in the summer, of course, when most people were at their estates, and what company there was I could not be seen in, not with a face like this. Dr Baird was correct. The heaviest veil would not conceal Eustace’s handiwork and the most convincing story could not account for it.

I felt so tired all of a sudden. To go anywhere, to do anything, would be the most monstrous effort. Merely to think of it made me want to close my eyes and sleep.

‘Lady Gerard.’ Dr Baird’s voice prompted me. I wished he would cease nagging.

‘I will consider it.’

There was a crease of concern between his eyes. They were hazel in colour with very thick, dark lashes. I had not noticed before but now that I did I realised that he was a good-looking man.

‘I do feel,’ he said slowly, ‘that for the sake of your health you should consider speaking to your brother.’

I knew at once what he meant. When my sister Betty had left her husband it was George who had given her shelter and helped to effect a reconciliation between her and Lord Pembroke. I knew George would be prepared to do the same for me, but my situation was very different. Eustace and Jack Pembroke were both philanderers but Jack had never raised a hand against my sister. If I left Eustace I would not want to go back.

‘I will consider speaking to the Duke,’ I said. Then, with an effort: ‘Thank you for your concern, Dr Baird.’

The frown remained in his eyes. He knew I would not approach George for help.

‘Is there anything else I can assist you with, Lady Gerard?’ His tone was bland again but his gaze dropped lower, making his meaning precise. It was all I could do not to squirm in my chair with the power of suggestion.

‘No thank you,’ I said. ‘I am well at present.’

‘You have no need for a further dose of mercury?’

I repressed a shudder. ‘No, I do not.’ Regrettably, that had been the other occasion on which Dr Baird had had to treat me: when Eustace gave me a dose of the pox passed on from some whore he had bedded.

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Dr Baird snapped his case shut. It was his custom to leave at that point, and briskly, his task accomplished. This time, though, he lingered.

‘Please consider my advice,’ he said. His tone had changed. He sounded almost diffident. ‘For the sake of your health – for your safety, Lady Gerard, I do counsel you to leave.’

I looked up, startled. This was too close to plain-speaking. If he continued in this vein we could no longer pretend.

‘Dr Baird—’

He swept my words aside, reaching for my hand. ‘I have watched for too long in silence. Now I must speak. If you need assistance, Lady Gerard, if I can help you in any way, you need only ask. It would be an honour. I appreciate that you might not have financial means of your own and so may need money or some other support—’

I heard Constance gasp. So did Dr Baird; he looked over at her quickly, nervously, as though he had forgotten she was in the room. It was too late for concealment now. His words, his touch, had given him away. In my preoccupation I had been very slow to realise how he felt about me. Dr Baird liked to save people. I suppose it was laudable in a man of his profession. Unfortunately he wanted to save me from my husband and that was impossible.

‘You are very kind.’ I moved to extricate him from his mistake, releasing myself gently from his grasp and releasing him from his unspoken pledge. ‘I am grateful to you for your advice and I will consider it.’ Then, as he opened his mouth to speak again: ‘Good day to you, Dr Baird. Pray, send your bill to my husband as usual.’

I saw the withdrawal come into his eyes. He bowed stiffly. ‘Lady Gerard.’ The door closed behind him with a reproachful click. Constance turned towards me.

‘Oh, ma’am!’ she said. ‘That poor man. He is smitten by you.’

‘You have too soft a heart,’ I said. ‘What would you have me do? Accept his attentions?’ I could just imagine my great-grandmother, the Duchess, ‘A physician? My dear, if you must dally, at the very least you should choose a gentleman.’

‘He only wanted to help you.’ Her chin had set obstinately. Constance, so well named, saw the world in very simple terms.

‘There is always a price.’ I picked up my cup. The tea was cold.

‘I’ll call for more.’ With a practical task to perform, Constance was restored to good spirits. I watched her busy about my chambers. I could not have moved if I had tried. My body felt weighted with lead.

She rang the bell, then started folding and tidying away my clothes. Over the back of a chair I saw the golden gown that Eustace had given me the previous night. It was exceedingly pretty, with silver thread woven through the silk, and a soft, shimmering appearance. I had seen it as a peace offering, which had been foolish of me. It was not peace Eustace wanted, except perhaps from the torment of both hating and desiring me.

He had presented the gown to me with a great flourish, just as Constance had been dressing me for dinner. It had been an odd business, for Eustace never normally gave me clothes, having a very masculine inability to judge my size. I could see at once, simply looking at it, that the gown was too large for me. Not only that, but the silk weave was of too thick and heavy a style for the summer.

‘How beautiful it is, my dear,’ I said. ‘But tonight is so very hot, don’t you think? I would rather save such an elegant gown for the winter balls—’

I got no further, for Eustace swept every item from the surface of my dressing table. Powder clouded the air, brushes and combs flew, my pearls clattered to the floor. Constance hurried forward to try to pick them up and he turned on her.

‘Get out, girl!’

She ran.

But not I. Eustace never let me run. He smiled at me, that madman’s smile, and then he struck me. I had learned not to try to defend myself. It only made him more determined. I stood and waited. I absented myself from my body.

‘Ungrateful jade,’ my husband said. My petticoats were flimsy and they ripped all too easily beneath his grasp. One careless swipe of his hand and I fell like a broken marionette.

I watched with detachment as he raped me. It was over very quickly. Small mercies.

Eustace heaved himself up and stood panting over me. I thought he might kick me as I lay there. I wanted to close my eyes against the threat but I did not, and after a moment he walked away, weaving across the room like a drunkard, leaving the door swinging wide so the entire household might see the fate of an unappreciative wife.

‘My lady?’

Constance was watching me. She had seen me staring at the gown, reliving the memory.

‘I’ll take it away, milady.’ She seemed eager. ‘You won’t be wanting to look at it again, I daresay, after what happened.’

I disliked her imagining that she knew how I felt, but for all that, she was right; I did not want to look on it and be reminded of Eustace’s cruelty.

‘By all means,’ I said. Then, reminding her that it was my decision alone: ‘Wrap it up and put it away. I may want to have it altered someday.’

Constance looked taken aback. ‘You wouldn’t wear it, surely? Not now!’

I wondered if she had thought I would give it to her. I had given her small items before: gloves, shawls, articles for which I had no further use, even an old cloak once, and a worn out spencer. It was the prerogative of a lady’s maid, after all, to take her mistress’s cast-offs. A gown was a different matter, however, especially one as costly as this. I had seen the look in her eyes as she had watched me unwrap it. There had been envy there and wistfulness. Well, she would not gain by my injuries.

‘Who knows?’ I said. ‘Perhaps I may, one day.’

‘Very well, milady.’ Her lips pursed and she looked censorious. It amused me, little Constance Lawrence disapproving of me. She waited for me to give her direction on whether I would get dressed, take breakfast in my room or call for paper and ink to write to my brother as Dr Baird had suggested. I could not decide. The shades were down in my mind, shuttering me in, trapping me. I was too tired to move, too tired to think.

‘Cover the mirrors,’ I said abruptly. I did not want to see my reflection and the devastation that Eustace had wrought on me.

She opened a drawer and took out the drapes, moving from one gilt mirror to the next, arranging them over the glass as though the house had suffered a bereavement. I stood up, moving stiffly, and crossed to the chair where the golden gown lay. Like me it looked crumpled and disjointed.

I took it up in my hands. The silk felt very soft. I wanted to hold it close to me.

The strangest thing happened then. It felt as though a spark had been lit deep inside me and started to burn. I clutched the gown tightly and it fostered the light, feeding it, stoking it to a blaze. It gave me strength and cleared my mind. I knew then that there was nothing to be gained from writing to George or seeking reconciliation with Eustace, nothing but further grief and pain.

‘Eustace must die…’

The words rippled through my mind like a gentle wave over sand. My fingers tightened on the golden cloth and the idea took root immovably in my mind. It happened so quickly, so easily. One moment I was standing there broken, at a loss, and the next I was fired with determination.

A widow had by far a better deal than a wife. Therefore Eustace must die. It was as simple as that. I might wait for providence to assist me, I supposed, but that was an uncertain business. It might take years. Eustace might drink himself to death or be trampled by one of his racehorses, but I could not wait. I needed to take action.

I had no idea how my husband’s murder might be achieved but I knew I would think of something.