Susan Johnson - Again and Again

“No. I’m fine.”

The clipped, crisp words were considerably less than fine, but he did have to go. This wasn’t an occasion where an excuse would suffice. “I’ll see if Bessie and Rose need anything.”

“Maybe Daphne needs something.”

A small silence fell.

“What the hell does that mean?” he asked very softly.

“Exactly what I said. I’ve seen you looking bored.”

“Jesus, Caro. Sometimes it’s quiet here. That doesn’t mean I’m bored.”

“You mean too quiet-say it.”

“No I don’t,” he replied, curbing his temper with effort. “And I’m not going to fight over something ridiculous.”

“My concerns are ridiculous?”

“If they’re about Daphne, they sure as hell are.”

“I suppose she bores you too.”

He pushed away from the table. “I’m not taking part in this stupid conversation.” He came to his feet. “I’m going for a ride.”

“Because I can’t go riding.”

“Fine.” He sat down again. “I won’t go riding. Would you like to play cards?”

“Don’t talk to me in that tolerant, long-suffering tone. And, no, I don’t want to play cards.”

He slid down in his chair and shut his eyes.

“And don’t shut your eyes on me!”

His eyes came open. “I give up. What the hell do you want?”

Don’t go to London; stay with me; want to stay with me . “Why don’t you go to London right now!” she said, petulantly.

He came to his feet, his face a mask. ‘Thank you for your permission,“ he said with cutting sarcasm. ”I’ll give your fond greetings to the king.“

The door closed on him brief seconds later and she burst into tears.

The dinner for Wellington was the usual affair with all the usual crowd-people Simon had known and amused himself with all his life. It was easy to fall into the familiar patterns of entertainment and association. He didn’t openly flirt, but women surrounded him as they always did and he was charming as he always was… and hospitable. When the orchestra began to play after dinner, he refused the first few invitations to dance, but it was impossible to refuse them all and eventually he succumbed to the pressure of his admirers.

But he didn’t dance with Daphne. Even in these most casual of circumstances, he knew better than that.

Afterward, when the party was over and he was being cajoled by his friends to join them in their revelry, he had no trouble declining their invitations. He was content to go home.

And were it not for Dalhousie, he would have gotten there.

It was a pleasant night for a stroll. Simon was only a block from Hargreave House when Dalhousie’s carriage stopped at the curb and several of Simon’s friends manhandled him into the carriage.

He could have resisted. He knew how to say no as well as anyone.

Perhaps he was tired of being the brunt of their jokes, or maybe he was tired of saying no to amusements when he seldom had, or perhaps he was wondering if it was worth the effort when no matter how dutiful he was, it wasn’t good enough for his wife.

He accompanied his friends to a small house on Half Moon Street where he’d spent considerable time in the past. Although, on principle, he still remained aloof from the intimacies of the private rooms, restricting his entertainments to gambling and drink. It took considerable willpower, however, to withstand the persistent invitations of the ladies of the house who had sorely missed Simon’s talents in bed.

But he did.

It was daylight when he found his way back to Hargreave House.

And when he came awake late that afternoon, he was greeted by Dalhousie and several other of his friends who had made themselves at home in his rooms.

His head hurt; he shouldn’t have drunk so much the previous night. Compensation perhaps.

When Dalhousie handed Simon a brandy-laced coffee-another familiar ritual from the past-his headache was soon gone. His scruples were considerably compromised by the third brandy and coffee. And in time, Simon and his friends moved on to Brookes.

He won at the tables-another familiar ritual.

As was the later excursion to a smaller club known for its excellent chef, discreet staff, and luxurious private rooms.

He was at ease in the unconstrained world of male pleasures and merrymaking. All his friends were delighted to have him back in the fold and he smoothly slipped back into the habits of a lifetime. He had no one to please but himself. Self-indulgence was not only permitted, but encouraged. There were no expectations or obligations beyond purely selfish ones. And there wasn’t an unreasonable woman in sight.

Simon was still in London three days later when a groom from Monkshood arrived at Hargreave House.

The man had ridden hard. He was out of breath, muddy, soaked through from the rain and clearly indifferent to the fact that the duke was still abed. Shoving past the footmen without so much as a word of explanation, he raced up the stairs and entered Simon’s darkened bedroom without knocking. Jerking open the draperies, he shook Simon awake roughly, gasped, “You’d best come home,” and thrust a note in his face.

Simon came awake instantly, realizing nothing but the most tragic of circumstances would bring this man so unceremoniously to his bed. Quickly reading the few lines Bessie had written, he immediately understood what everyone at Monkshood knew-including this groom. “I’ll be out in five minutes,” he said, throwing back the covers. “Have Templar saddled.”

“They already be doin‘ that… sar.”

Simon took note of the grudging courtesy. He waved the man out, needing a moment alone. But he saw the look the groom gave him before he turned away. They all blamed him.

It was all her fault, Caroline silently bemoaned as she lay in bed at Monkshood. She should never have fought with Simon over something so nonsensical. She shouldn’t have let herself become angry. Hadn’t Bessie and Rose constantly warned her against becoming upset? Hadn’t they insisted she be serene and even-tempered for the sake of the child? Hadn’t they told her all the gruesome stories about babies being harmed by their mothers? looking at something grotesque or thinking bad thoughts?

She never should have pressed Simon over some silly invitation. He’d been like a saint since their marriage. Couldn’t she have been more grateful? More understanding? Less quick to take offense?

Had she been, perhaps God wouldn’t be punishing her now for her stupid jealousy.

The spotting had started almost the moment Simon left, as though it was divine retribution for her ingratitude.

Like an implacable eye for an eye.

Why couldn’t she have been satisfied with her life?

She had a husband who had been kind and gracious and obliging. Hadn’t he brought her home to Monkshood because she wished it and stayed with her even when he was obviously chafing at his confinement?

And even without Simon’s benevolence, wouldn’t the glorious hope of a child have been more than enough to bring her happiness? Hadn’t she wanted a child with Simon for as long as she could remember?

Why had she pressed him on such a ridiculous issue when she knew Simon was the last person in the world who was likely to acquiesce to a demanding wife?

Oh, please God, please let the bleeding stop , and she’d never be ungrateful again.

In her dizzying grief, she promised a thousand good faith promises, and a thousand more abject penances if only her plea would be granted.

She was frantic with fear, desperate for hope. She hadn’t moved since the morning disaster had struck. She’d lain completely still as directed by Bessie and Rose. She’d drunk the restoratives they brought to her, vile concoctions of herbs and roots. She’d drunk every drop without once complaining.