He gave Ottery a curt account of Rosina’s given story, and of his dealings with Forteviot, ending with a brief summary of the diagnosis of Dr Barcliffe.
“I cannot rid myself of the suspicion that she sought the marriage because she saw a means whereby she might hide her condition.”
“And pass off this fictitious infant upon you? Fie, my lord!”
Raith eyed him wearily. “It is possible, Ottery.”
“Yet you profess to love her? Think shame to yourself!” The lawyer rose from his seat. “Even I would take an oath to know her ladyship better than that.”
“Love, Ottery, has a way, for it matters so desperately, of increasing suspicion and doubt.”
“Then rely on my judgement, my lord, for I have no doubts. If I must place Lady Raith’s word against the evidence of two persons whose stories agree in every particular, I prefer to believe in your wife. You look at me with amazement, but think, my lord. Two witnesses, two different pairs of eyes: there must always be variance.”
Raith shook his head painfully. “I don’t understand you.”
“It smacks of collusion, sir.”
“What of the doctor’s evidence?”
“He said himself he could be wrong. I had far rather trust Lady Raith.”
Raith heaved a sigh, in which desolation sounded. “So had I, Ottery. Which is exactly why I am unable to do so. I would never be free of the notion I had deceived myself.”
The lawyer was eyeing him with a trifle of suspicion. “My lord, I hesitate to say this, but I do not believe this is all your reason.”
“How well you know me.” Despair engulfed Raith, and he sank back against the table. “She will not even speak to me. What is the use of continuing? She wants to be released as much as I, for she cannot endure the sight of me.”
Ottery laid a hand upon his shoulder, saying in a more moderate tone, “My lord, you are making assumptions based upon nothing more than your observation of her distress.”
This reminder only served to make Raith writhe the more. “If you had only seen her. I can never forgive myself, why should she? There is no point in discussing the matter. We must separate.”
“You say so only because you think there is no hope, sir.” His lawyer looked upset. “You are making a grave error, I am convinced of it.”
Raith expelled a despairing sigh. “There is more of my brother in me than I knew. Just as his obsession of jealousy ruined my life, so will mine affect Rosina’s. I am not fit to be the keeper of so delicate a soul.”
“You do yourself an injustice, my lord. I venture to think Lady Raith might take a different view.”
“You are mistaken.”
“Besides which,” pursued the lawyer, ignoring the interjection, “there is a deal of difficulty about the whole matter. If you were looking to divorce, you must know how problematic is that path. If you intend only to separate, you will be tied.” He waved a dismissive hand. “But this is nothing to the purpose.” Abruptly, he laid his hands on Raith’s shoulders. “I cannot approve this course, my lord. Do not, I counsel you, put yourself out of the way of a future which may well prove to be your salvation.”
Raith took the hands from his shoulders, holding them hard. “You are a true and loyal friend, Ottery. If I could take your advice, I would do so.”
“But—?”
Raith let him go. “But Rosina does not want me. I do not blame her for that, but it is beyond my endurance. I had rather live without her.”
Rosina stood quiescent while Joan unlaced the bodice of her chintz gown, and dipped her arms for its removal. As if she had been used all her life to being waited upon, she shifted her limbs as required, almost without thought.
Thought was too painful a luxury. Better this deadness of mind wherein no stray memory was permitted to stir the fringes of that well of sensation that hungered deep within her heart. She had schooled herself to suppress every vestige of feeling. Or she had tried to. Particularly in his presence, when each nuance of expression was a livelier goad than any amount of concentrated imagery.
Memory was an intrusive thing. A dangerous indulgence. But it could be controlled. Reality, in which Raith’s charged passion smouldered, reaching out to her despite the shelled protection of her heart, was more potentially explosive. Rosina could only be thankful that her spouse had avoided her as assiduously as she avoided him.
She lifted her arms for Joan to slip the nightgown over her head, wondering why she was still here, being dressed for her bed. She had expected every day that Mr Ottery would have come to instruct her to pack her belongings in preparation for her journey to Withibrooke. It was not possible her guardian had not supplied fuel to add to the flame of unappeasable envy that had poisoned her husband’s mind against her. Rosina knew her case to be hopeless, and had spent these several days in a mood of dull acceptance of the inevitable.
“Will your ladyship sit for me to brush your hair?”
Rosina sat. The feel of the bristles stroking over her head was soothing. She closed her eyes. It was almost like being once again a little girl, with the caress of the brush in Mama’s gentle hand, and the crooning voice lulling her closer to sleep. It was how Gatty had comforted her, too, the night she had finally arrived at the cottage and collapsed into a sobbing heap. How would Gatty manage this time? There was no comfort that could soothe the void opening up before her.
