Spare Brides (17 page)

‘It is very sad. You see, I rather think that without a baby, I don’t amount to much at all.’

‘What can you mean?’

‘It’s my job. I’m supposed to provide an heir.’ She didn’t know what made her confess this. She’d never stated the facts quite so baldly to anyone, not to Sarah or Ava. But then she didn’t have to; they understood how it worked in her world. Edgar might not.

‘You seem quite substantial enough to me as you are.’

His words soothed, a dock leaf applied to a nettle sting.

Last night they had flirted relentlessly. Today, things were different between them: initially austere and stark, she now sensed a softening. What they had was certainly more formal, and yet it seemed more sincere; these were not two things that necessarily went hand in hand. Lydia pondered as to why there was a change between them. Was it a deepening or a distancing? She felt icy panic at the thought of distance. Perhaps the change of mood could be put down to nothing more than the lack of intoxicating champagne, or maybe it was the fact that they were outside, surrounded by nature’s frosting rather than tiaras and cigar smoke. She considered the fact that he was aware that last night the intensity of their flirtation had filled her with guilt and fear and made her flee. He did not want her to flee again? The possibility that he wanted her near him thrilled her. Assured her. Whatever the reason for the shift between them, he saw to it that she felt safe rather than threatened. Excited rather than afraid.

They followed usual conventions, inasmuch as they scurried around for people they had in common. They found names they both recognised and then exchanged stories about the company they kept. They swapped views on films they’d seen at the cinema, plays they’d watched at the theatre and art that hung in London’s galleries. They found that they had both enjoyed a recent exhibition of Federico Barocci’s work and a Cubist exhibition showing the work of Picasso and Georges Braque. He saw more value in the Dada non-artists than she did. She knew little about them, but what she did know enabled her to dismiss their work as inferior to Leonardo da Vinci, who the Dada movement mocked. He seemed indifferent to whether she agreed or disagreed with his opinions, whereas she longed for their thoughts to fall into line.

He told her how he had been picked up by her set; whose house he had dined at, whose deer and pheasant he had shot. Every time he mentioned a woman’s name, she wondered what the exact nature of the relationship was. She frantically assessed the probability of the woman succumbing to his charms. She considered the woman’s beauty, history and marital harmony; she agonised over whether he might have … would have wanted to … After all, he was a self-confessed ladies’ man. What did that mean, exactly? Oh God, she knew what it meant. Thoughts of who he’d had assaulted her tranquillity. Was he linked to anyone now? How did those sorts of things begin?

And end?

Certainly, she knew that people had affairs – she was not an idiot – but as it had never been a route she’d wanted to pursue herself, she’d never thought about the detail. Now she wondered who made the first move, and how. Did the woman have to give some sort of signal? How did one know if a move had been made? It would be too awful if there was some sort of code and she failed to see the hint. She wanted him. Quite simply that. He had long, dark lashes that curled like a woman’s ought to. Lydia had heard women admire such lashes before, but personally she’d never thought much of them on a man. She’d thought they were effete. They seemed so greedy and unnecessary, but since the war she thought that men were entitled to everything. To jobs, to long eyelashes, to her body. The thought made her gasp. She wasn’t sure where it had come from. Where it was going.

It was so very different from the flirtations she’d had before she married, because then the rules were quite clearly understood by everyone. Nice girls, like Lydia, might smile and pout but they were never allowed to be alone with a chap. Back then, the gentlemen hadn’t expected anything from her beyond the promise of the last dance, and she had never harboured any ideas about the sexual possibilities – delightful or erroneous – that a liaison might offer. Lydia’s sort had hardly known anything about all that. It was only once a girl married that things became clear. And now everything was muddy again, because what she felt for him wasn’t girlish excitement. Her years of experience as a married woman meant that her ambition for him had gone long past securing a waltz. She ached for him; low, low between her legs, and in her breasts. She wanted to taste him. Put her lips and tongue on his skin. A snowflake settled on his right eyebrow and she wanted to kiss it into oblivion.

Edgar appeared cautious. She watched for a signal, a sign that he knew how she felt and that he felt the same, but none came. She wanted to believe they had both accepted the inevitability that they would be together and it was simply a case of them each working out how it would be accomplished, but she couldn’t be sure. It was possible he was thinking about something totally different, some
one
totally different. The thought was horrifying. She wanted to throw off her clothes, there in the snowy forest, naked and ready for him, but it was a ludicrous thought. She’d catch pneumonia.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘I think we’ll pick up the path to the village soon.’

They did, and she was grateful. In the village they’d have a chance of finding food and warmth. They passed the church; the snow on the path leading to it had been churned by more determined worshippers than those to be found at Ava’s house party, although the gates were shut now, service over, hymn books closed. They passed the war memorial and paused out of habitual respect, then Edgar said, ‘Come on, don’t linger. I imagine you are hungry, aren’t you? You must have skipped breakfast and it’s almost midday.’

The post office was the only place that was open; Lydia wondered whether Lawrence might have tried to send a cable to Ava’s, whether he was expecting news from her. She shoved the thought from her head. She couldn’t think about Lawrence right now. He was not of this world. This unrecognisably white world, devoid of familiar landmarks or routes. She was free and separate in it.

‘Let’s go to the pub,’ Edgar suggested.

Lydia was taken aback. She’d never been in a pub before. She didn’t know anyone who had, other than the servants. ‘It’s shuttered,’ she pointed out, stalling.

‘We’ll get them to shift. Everyone needs the trade.’ He banged on the door and was proved right: after a few moments, a rotund and pink-faced landlord opened up. Lydia followed Edgar over the threshold, feeling daring and dangerous.

The pub had been standing for over three hundred years; the walls were wonky and the ceiling low. Edgar had to stoop or else he would have banged his head on the cracked and compacted oak beams, worn and tired with the weight of the roof. The landlord said that Lydia could sit in the snug and he’d bring them soup.

‘The fire is in the bar,’ pointed out Edgar quietly. ‘We’ll be in there.’

The landlord wasn’t pleased, but he didn’t say anything more, and he served them both cider when Edgar asked for it. There was something about Edgar that would not be argued with.

The bar smelt of damp dogs and earth. Two large mongrels monopolised the best spot in front of the big fire that was housed in a dirty brick chimneypiece. They were curled around the legs of a small round wooden table; two high-backed chairs, boasting worn leather cushions, waited for Lydia and Edgar to complete the country tableau. They sat down and watched the flames leap. One of the dogs whimpered in its sleep; the other sniffed Lydia’s legs. On the table there was a pewter candlestick, with just an inch-long stub of candle protruding. The landlord was not prepared to give them the benefit of warmth or light, but Edgar lit it. The right side of Lydia’s body felt numb with the cold, whilst the left side, closest to the fire, was scorched. She tingled all over. She kept on her coat but slipped off his gloves and balanced them on the ends of the handles of the fire irons, in order to dry them out. Her wedding ring spun loose on her cold finger. Neither of them seemed in much of a hurry to talk now. The silence between them was peculiarly rousing. They both knew that if they said any more, it had to be significant. It had to stir and move.

The cider arrived in thick stoneware pots with off-white strap handles. Both the lip and the handle were chipped. It was very different from the crystal flutes, tulips and coupes that Lydia was used to drinking out of. Edgar watched her, gauging her reaction to the basic provisions.

‘Good health,’ she offered.

‘Cheers,’ he replied. They banged the pots together. The yeasty smell made Lydia feel drunk even before she tried the cider. She was thirsty from the walk, so she glugged rather than sipped.

‘I should have asked for tea,’ she commented. The dryness hit the back of her throat, bubbles bounced on her tongue. The poor man’s champagne. The soup came: salty leek and potato, served with coarse brown peasant bread. There were no place mats or napkins. The landlord breathed on the spoons and wiped them on his shirt before he handed them to Lydia and Edgar: a dare, a challenge, a protest that Lydia hadn’t obediently sat in the spot designated for women. She took the spoon, trying not to give any indication that she felt a bit queasy; Edgar seemed not to notice the landlord’s gesture or, if he did, he did not dignify the gripe with an acknowledgement. The soup was hot; it burned Lydia’s throat. She stopped drinking it but instead bent over it so she could get the benefit of its warmth. Edgar broke his bread and threw it into his soup as though he was feeding ducks. He dragged the spoon towards him and then put the entire bowl of the spoon in his mouth. Instead of despising his uncultured manners, Lydia was excited by the thought of his appetites; she’d always been taught to tip the bowl away from her and take slow, unsatisfactory sips. Her habit was inadequate in relation to her hunger.

Lydia simultaneously wilted and yet flourished in the proximity of his glorious confidence. He was just as valid and marvellous as she’d imagined when they first met in the café; more so. The way he held his head, the shape of his jaw, the bulk of his thighs fascinated her. She wanted to touch him. To reach out, and stroke and pet him. More. She wanted more.

Suddenly, a heinous possibility flung itself into Lydia’s head and she wondered how she could have failed to think of it until now. ‘Are you married?’ she blurted. It was an indiscreet question. The tone she used made it impossible to pretend it was a polite enquiry; it was desperate. She was begging. She was not sure what she was begging for, exactly. If he was married, maybe she would find it in her to step away. Maybe. She could stop this adventure before it became a scandal, or a disaster. But if he was married, she might die. Stop breathing. It was a ridiculous thought. Indulgent and exaggerated, and yet she felt it was so. She did not want this man to have one woman he placed above all others. Even if it was a woman he might betray or possibly despise. She did not want that woman to already exist, because she wanted to be that woman. A woman above all others.

Even a woman he might betray or despise.

She would take whatever was on offer. She was helpless. Hopeless.

He shook his head, and she breathed again.

‘I’m glad.’

‘Why, Lid? What does it matter to you?’ He cocked his head to one side.

‘You know why,’ she muttered. Exposed.

‘So what’s your husband like? Who is he?’

‘He’s a lord; when his father dies, he’ll be an earl. The Earl of Clarendale.’

‘I see.’

Lydia was appalled at herself for offering this up as an explanation as to who Lawrence was. There must be more to him than that, but what more need there be? She thought Edgar would think she had been an avaricious, ambitious deb, and so to disabuse him she added, ‘He wasn’t the heir apparent when I married him. That wasn’t why I picked him.’ Edgar didn’t ask why she had picked him, but she offered lamely, ‘He has lovely manners.’

‘That must be helpful.’

‘It is.’ She felt awkward. It was a stupid comment. Lawrence was sensible, dignified and confident too, but somehow none of that seemed enough. Edgar was magnificent, brave, beautiful. The reality of Lawrence temporarily evaded Lydia. She was doing him a disservice. Besides the fact that she was falling in love with another man, she was doing him a disservice because she couldn’t recall the essence of him. The point of him. ‘Of course, if I can’t produce a baby, the title that’s been in the family for hundreds of years will be futile.’

‘I’m sure everyone would be devastated.’ Edgar drained his pint and looked irritated. He signalled for a refill. Lydia had only drunk half of hers, which was just as well, because he didn’t offer her a second. It was strong stuff; her eyelids already felt heavy and her thoughts were woozy. Fuzzy. She was embarrassed that she hadn’t explained the situation clearly. It was not just concern over a baby or a title. It was not about a marriage and whether it thrived or even survived. Her fertility seemed to have much greater meaning. Frustrated, she stared out of the window. A lattice of lead framed the small, thick panes of glass, making a mosaic of light that distorted and obscured the reality of the outside world. Despite the awkwardness of trying to explain her soul and core, she felt cocooned; they were in their own world.

‘They kept him out.’

‘Who?’

‘His family. They’d already lost two sons. One in the war, another to a riding accident. His father knows people.’

‘How fortunate for him.’

‘Yes. I suppose.’

Edgar took another huge swig of his cider and then swiftly turned his head towards the fire, away from her, his black hair swishing over his left eye. His gestures were already becoming familiar to her. He was different, a thing of beauty; she almost gasped. She needed him to turn back to her. Desperately she blurted, ‘I think we’re being punished. Lawrence and I. Do you think that’s possible?’

‘I don’t believe in God.’

This didn’t answer the question as to whether he believed they ought to be punished. ‘He must seem like an awful coward to you,’ she sighed. Lost.