“Yet — your pardon, but you bade me speak plainly — you have not, for want of a better way to say this, taken advantage of your rights.”
Impossible to answer. He could think of nothing to say, so he remained silent. No doubt Ottery would guess from it that he was perfectly right.
“Perhaps,” went on the lawyer, “the lady in the case may be wondering why this does not occur.”
Raith frowned in quick suspicion. “Did she say anything? No, she cannot have spoken of that.” He rubbed his forehead in painful concentration. “Ottery, there is some mystery. I felt it from the first and, from things she has let fall, I have become convinced that this is so.” He met the lawyer’s eyes. “She married me for a reason other than the one she gave.”
“So also did you,” Ottery pointed out.
“True, my friend. But I fear my wife’s reason is less palatable than my own.”
It was the first time he had put it into words and it was as far as he could go. He had left Rosina that night, driven by the depth of his own self-disgust as she struggled to free herself from his grasp. He had been unable to pursue his need of her, even though she had called out to him. Her revulsion, as he had then thought, was born purely of her recoil from the ugly blemish of his face. It was only later that he had, in calmer mood, become slowly convinced of his error. She had recoiled, but there had been more to it. He found himself going through the events of that night, in moment-by-moment detail. Rosina’s first inexplicable terror. The shivering limbs. The anguish of her utterance:It is not you, Raith.
Who, then, had it been? Whose presence in her bedchamber had been in her mind? What vile happening had she remembered that caused her to fight against his caresses even before her fingers felt his face? He had been recalled to his senses — as how could he not be when her fingers fatally touched his cheek? — and had retreated from her presence. But what if some other man had not retired? What if he had forced his entry, and sullied the purity of the future Lady Raith?
Rosina was glad to encounter Mr Ottery at the breakfast table on Tuesday morning, for she had been afraid he might leave before she had an opportunity to say farewell. She had met him at dinner, where, to her chagrin, he was seated opposite herself, and on Raith’s right hand. Her husband could tolerate his lawyer’s gaze without difficulty. But his wife was not permitted to look at that side of his face, for fear of her non-existent disgust.
No opportunity had offered for her to be private with Raith, despite the fact he had been home all day since Mr Ottery’s arrival. Perhaps it was as well, for her emotions towards him were so tangled she felt certain she would only destroy all hope of breaking down his reserve. He had been a trifle less remote at dinner, not quite thawed, but certainly not as formal. Not, she dared swear, for any other reason than the presence of his lawyer.
Rosina had chosen to wear the damask grey gown that had served for her wedding, realising only after she came down, and by Mr Ottery’s widening eyes, that it was scarcely appropriate. Her spouse had on a cloth suit of blue, while the lawyer’s usual black had been augmented only by fresh linen.
She had thought, from the way Raith suddenly shifted to the fire a moment after her entrance, that she had angered him. But his slightly softened manner towards her seemed not to bear it out. But perhaps Raith had changed only because Mr Ottery took pains to secure her participation in any conversation, an effort for which she had been grateful.
Ottery spoke of the estates as they had been in the time of Raith’s father, recalling his early association with the family. He had taken over the practice from his own parent, pleased to be honoured with the continued trust of most of his father’s clients.
“If he was anything like you, Ottery,” Raith said, smiling, “I am sure the honour was more on our side.”
Ottery disclaimed, and talked of another of his clients, and an acquaintance with Lord Brook of Warwick Castle. This led to a discussion on the history of Warwick, which lasted until it was time for Rosina to leave them. She had not gone to the saloon, saying that no doubt they had further business to discuss and she would only be in the way.
The fact that Raith was also at the breakfast table when she entered this morning was not entirely unexpected. He was dressed in his green riding frock and buckskins, but he would hardly go out before his lawyer had left. Rosina was instantly conscious of nervousness, for it seemed to her that he regarded her somewhat narrowly as she came to the table. It turned out both men had finished their meal, and Mr Ottery was upon the point of departure.
Recalling her letter to her nurse, and expecting that Raith would leave immediately after seeing him off, she stopped him as he made for the door.
“A moment, my lord.”
He halted, turning with a slight frown. “Yes, ma’am?”
She was daunted, but said with a little diffidence, “I only wished to ask if you will frank a letter for me, sir.”
“Ah.” He seemed to hesitate. “Certainly. If you will bring it to the saloon, I shall do so as soon as I have seen Ottery to the door.”
“Thank you, but there is no hurry.”
“When you have done with breakfast, then,” he said. There was a pause, then he added quickly, “I wished, in any event, for an interview with you.”
An interview! Dear Lord, for what purpose? The formality of his announcement chilled her and she sank into her chair.
Mr Ottery came up to her, and took her hand. She thought there was reassurance in his smile. “I will hope to see you very soon again, Lady Raith. Keep well.”
She was obliged to clamp down on a rise of emotion. Would that he could stay. He had brought a change to the atmosphere of Raith Manor, as well as that softening on her husband’s part. If only it might persist! The two men went out, and she took up her fork to address a plate of baked eggs. But the consciousness of the coming interview with Raith had destroyed her appetite, and she could only manage a mouthful or two. She drank a cup of coffee, and then rose with determination. If she must face it, she had better get it over with.
She went swiftly upstairs to fetch her letter. By the time she returned to the saloon, Raith was already there. He was standing at the window, looking out over the desecrated lawns. He turned as he heard her enter.
Rosina steadied herself, and walked boldly across to him, holding out the letter. He took it from her, and looked at it. Dully, she thought.
“I have not a pen to hand,” he said. “I will sign it later, and give it to Kirkham to send to the post office.”
He moved into the room, and laid the letter on the mantelpiece. Then he stood for a moment, silent, looking down into the fire.
