Spare Brides (23 page)

Arthur had been dead for over four years, and every night she still sprinkled Colgate shaving powder on to her pillow because it smelt of him. Everyone agreed – many had said it – that four years should be long enough. And maybe it should be, especially when each hour often felt like a week, but time refused to be linear and logical for her. Sometimes she couldn’t remember being anything other than a dreary and heartbroken surplus woman; her married life was a distant memory, almost another life. At other times, four years seemed to vanish in a frantic instant and she’d forget, yes, forget, that Arthur was dead. She’d see a man in the distance who walked as Arthur had walked, or wore his hat at a similar dashing angle and she’d believe – just for a moment – that Arthur had come back to her, believe he was alive. The four years would vanish then; time would reverse. It was madness, of course. But madness she couldn’t resist.

The sex she’d just witnessed had been such an instant. Suddenly time crashed and collided, imploded. She now remembered what it felt like to be touched, to be taken. But this time it was different; her memory wasn’t intrinsically linked to Arthur. She couldn’t remember Arthur’s touch. It was agony. Hateful.

About two years ago, she’d allowed a man to kiss her at a dance simply because he’d smelt like Arthur, of pipe smoke and deciduous forests in autumn. At least she’d thought he had, but this man had smoked a different brand of tobacco, and the smell of deciduous forests was manufactured, a cologne rather than the true aroma earned by striding through a wood. The man on the dance floor was a poor shadow, a ghoulish imitation. His teeth had clashed with hers and his mouth had not fitted correctly at all; it was slack and somewhat off-centre, whereas Arthur had had neat, warm lips. The terrible, shaming thing was that the man was married. Sarah had felt instantly horrified with herself; horrified that she’d kissed a married man, disgusted that she’d erased Arthur’s last kiss. She did not want to become one of those women who settled for being a mistress, just because there weren’t enough chaps to go around. It was dishonourable.

But then loneliness was relentless, and a poor opponent to honour.

She felt lonely now, in this cold spare room. She wished for and dreaded Bea’s return. Bea would at least be company, a distraction, but how would Sarah be able to chatter about Beatrice’s night now that she harboured this immense secret? Because a secret it must be. Sarah felt dirty and disappointed. She shouldn’t have lingered, but then she shouldn’t have had to see it in the first place. She assumed her disappointment was towards Lydia. How could she be so thoughtless, so selfish, so reckless? There was every chance that right now someone else was discovering them. Not someone who scurried away, aghast and ashamed; someone ruinous, who might expose them or blackmail them. Sarah knew that people had affairs. She wasn’t an idiot or an innocent. But she had never imagined Lydia might count amongst that number; she would not have believed it if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes. The light in which she viewed her friend shifted slightly as though someone had placed a scarf over a table lamp. Poor Lawrence.

But, for all that, Sarah felt most disappointed with herself because – as she slipped out of her evening clothes, tugged on her heavy flannel nightgown and then settled between the cold sheets – she was forced to admit that her greatest concern wasn’t Lydia. She felt the springs of the mattress poking her. She was surprised; she had imagined everything in the Pondson-Callow household would be brand new, but apparently even their wealth didn’t stretch to indulge widows and spinsters. Her friend was no doubt hurtling towards a calamity, but Sarah didn’t care right now. She was dealing with a deeper, more profound and alarming dissatisfaction. She was frustrated with herself because she’d thought she had it all sewn up. She’d believed she had a foolproof, failsafe, infallible plan. She wasn’t over Arthur, she’d known that and, despite how often people told her she ought to be, she knew how it was for her. So she’d planned to keep her head down; her children, her invalid brother, her crocheting and church visits were to be enough. She’d wanted a quiet, careful and useful life. She had not allowed herself to consider anything more. To hope for abundance again seemed selfish and disloyal. So she was deeply disappointed to discover that she was not as oblivious and closed off as she’d hoped. Seeing the pale buttocks in the moonlit room, smelling the sex, a heavy scent on the air, folded in among the dust and woody logs, she realised she didn’t want to creep towards middle age, inconsequential and contained. She didn’t want to end like that.

It wasn’t over for her. She wanted to live. She wanted more. But what more could there possibly be for a woman like her? She had capped her expectations because it was safest. She’d always thought wanting too much, having too much, led to heartache; loving Arthur had taught her that. Yet she’d found that her spirit had crept, like a determined moss, out of the cracks between the hard paving slabs of life, and was unwavering in its resolution to flourish. She wanted more. Still.

B
Y TUESDAY AFTERNOON
the snow had thawed sufficiently to allow a group of the young men to take themselves off to the station and catch a train to London. They did so because they were aware that it would be rude to burden their hosts for a moment longer than necessary with their presence. It was rumoured that the cook had already had a tantrum because she’d been reduced to serving a cheese and bread buffet lunch that day. An extra forty guests, even for a house as sumptuous and wealthy as this, was a strain. The laundry and wood chopping alone must be an inconvenience.

The party was over. It was time to say goodbye. Lydia was unsure whether she had the strength to do so. They had not found a way to be alone together since Sunday night, despite it being all and everything she wanted. Sarah had become inexplicably clingy and had practically refused to leave her side from dawn to dusk yesterday. Lydia had felt her friend’s presence as constraining and primitive as a metal cage. She wanted to shake her, scream at her or run from her; instead she played the piano with her, embroidered with her and took a walk in the snow with her and Beatrice. She couldn’t find a way to make a different choice.

Edgar too had been made unavailable. For the greatest part of yesterday he, along with all the other able-bodied men, had been recruited to help shovel the snow off the paths and driveways. The servants couldn’t manage on their own; his refusal to help would have been impossible, beyond rude. Since Sunday Lydia had existed in a severe state of agitation. She found it difficult to follow other people’s conversations; she couldn’t eat, or sit still. When she tried to read music, the notes jumped about the page; when she went for a walk, she got lost and retraced the footpaths a few times, as though she was trapped in a maze. The table arrangement at meals had not been kind to them either; it seemed everything and everyone was conspiring to keep them apart. After that first evening, Lady Pondson-Callow was too aware of the value of both the handsome sergeant major and the beautiful socialite to allow them to be paired more than once. She separated them, shared out their company, lavishing treats on all her guests.

Lydia had longed for yesterday’s dinner to finish and the socialising to begin; she was sure that then they would carve out a little space, an iridescent light where not only their consciousnesses could come together but their bodies too. However, by the time the evening came it was apparent that most people had become weary of the party and each other’s company. No one suggested dancing, which afforded opportunity to flirt and chat, as it required too much energy. Instead the guests divided into groups of four and played bridge, where minimal conversation or effort was required. Lydia was given to Kitty Hatfield, Lord Feversham and Sir Peter. Edgar was seated with others. She felt his gaze on her all the time. It was heavy, like a damp blanket. It sat on her neck, her breast, her hips.

She had begun to think she’d almost imagined it. Lying on the desk in the study, him thrusting into her, having her, owning her. When he’d pulled out, wiped himself with a handkerchief, she hadn’t moved. Still and wide open, she’d allowed the ecstasy to flow through her; moving, even an inch, would break the spell. She was satisfied and starving all at once. She wanted to do it again. Again and again.

‘You should get back to the party. Your husband will be looking for you.’

‘No, he won’t be.’ She’d sounded heartless which was odd, because she had never been as aware of her heart as she was in that moment.

He’d said, ‘You are quite unaware of the effect you have.’

‘I wish I did understand it more.’ She wanted to hold on to it. What if this was to be their last time? The first and last, all at once. She would not be able to endure that. She had felt the blood move around her body. She had felt a current in her brain. It was like someone had turned on the electricity and now she could see and hear and feel everything so much more clearly, so much more deeply. He’d pulled her off the desk, kissed her forehead and walked out of the room.

The silence and separation since were leading her to believe the entire encounter hadn’t really happened, yet she had a small bruise on her right buttock, the buttock that had scratched up against the corner of an open book on Sir Peter’s desk as Edgar had pushed her backwards and forwards, over and over. She looked at the small purple bruise, the size of a strawberry, in the long gilt mirror in her room, and caressed it like a lover might.

Lydia had thought about scribbling a note, having Dickenson deliver it; she was almost certain that she could rely on her maid’s discretion, and in these circumstances almost certain would have to be enough. But when it had come to it, she didn’t know what to write. What to say. She’d sat at the desk in her bedroom, stroking the thick, creamy paper, repeatedly picking up her pen only to put it down again. She thought of a lady she’d heard of, who once had an affair discovered because her suspicious husband had found the words she’d written to her lover recorded on the blotting paper. Lydia could not imagine Lawrence being as distrustful, or as resourceful. It wasn’t that that was stopping her. For a moment she tried to imagine what it would be like to be discovered. She could not decide whether it would be horrific or wonderful. She’d picked up the pen again but didn’t know how to address him.
Darling
?
My love
?
Edgar
? What should she say?
Meet me
?
Take me
?
Take me away
? She’d given up.

So, despite longing for him, dreaming of him, feeling giddy or sick whenever she saw him, she had not touched him since Sunday night. They’d behaved towards one another with the utmost decorum and restraint. On only one occasion had they managed to exchange a handful of words.

This morning, after breakfast, Lydia had tried to slip into the library alone, but Sarah had clung to her like a limpet, insisting on joining her. Further, she’d been adamant that Bea come too. Beatrice had been mooning around after Mr Oaksley for the entire weekend; Sarah had commented that it was becoming a little obvious (she meant embarrassing) and she was resolute that Bea give him some space.

‘But I barely spoke to him yesterday,’ protested Bea.

‘He knows where to find you,’ pointed out Sarah.

Lydia found the exchange uncomfortable, as it could so easily have applied to her situation too. The sisters bickered all morning. Bea was frustrated and resentful, Sarah was unusually short-tempered and sarcastic; at one point she muttered that it was like escorting a bunch of children to a sweet shop. Lydia didn’t quite get what she was on about but was irritated by the enforced company. Her irritation turned to something bordering on fury when Edgar finally entered the library; she recognised the moment for what it was: the one where he had come to find her, the one where they might have been alone but weren’t. Their exchange, by necessity, was brief and impersonal. A sense of urgent desperation hung over it.

‘Ladies.’ He nodded towards them and then turned to the shelves. Lydia watched as he placed his finger on the spine of a book and then walked the length of the room. His trailing finger became mesmerising. She felt the sound of his shoes, clomping on the floorboards, reverberate through her body. Like a silly schoolgirl she jumped in.

‘Sergeant Major Trent, how unexpected.’

‘I do read, Lady Chatfield.’

‘Well, absolutely.’ She blushed. It was hard to judge what the others must make of his abruptness. They couldn’t imagine it was a challenging, enticing exchange between lovers; it must sound caustic to them.

‘I’m not a scholar. I didn’t study these books and plays at school, so when I’m in this sort of house I always try to pick up some volume or other.’ Lydia’s eyes widened; although he wasn’t looking at her, he seemed to understand how she might misinterpret what he’d said. ‘I don’t mean I steal them, although thank you for the vote of confidence, Lady Chatfield, and the impertinent assumption; I mean to read whilst I’m here.’ She wanted to giggle; he was playing with her. ‘I’m leaving today, so I’m just returning this volume to its rightful place.’

‘What have you been reading?’

‘Joyce’s
Ulysses
.’

‘How did you find it?’

‘Unfathomable. What are you reading?’

She held up the slim volume of Rupert Brooke war poems. He sighed, almost bored with the predictability of her choice.

‘You don’t approve.’

‘I’ve never read it. I was there. I don’t need to be burdened with another man’s account. Especially a dead man. Why would you want to get embroiled in all of that? You’d be better sticking with Edith Wharton’s
The Age of Innocence
.’

And then he left the room.

She could not resist reading deeper meaning into every word he’d uttered. What had he meant? Was it anything more than a book recommendation? She thought it had to be. Over and over again she played the words through her head. He’d warned her to ignore the edition of poems that was generally agreed to be the zeitgeist of their generation’s feeling on the war; instead he’d pointed her towards a masterful portrait of desire and betrayal among society people who ‘dreaded scandal more than disease’. Lydia knew the book. She thought it ended tragically. Was he warning her off? Stepping away?