Phineas’ beautiful wife straightened her shoulders, looked away from him, and walked out of the room, her dog following behind her.
As soon as he was alone, his fury dissolved into agonizing regret. He had never before been struck by such a powerful and hateful feeling as the jealousy that had come over him when he had seen William holding Caro as his wife stared into his friend’s bespectacled eyes.
Every little bit of worry he had ever had over the fact that he wasn’t his wife’s ideal husband had risen up like an enormous swell and he had let himself be overturned and dashed to pieces by it.
He knew his wife hadn’t really wanted to marry him. He knew he had failed her in the most important job of a husband, creating prosperity and giving her a good, safe home to raise children with no worries.
And he knew how his wife felt about men in spectacles. Tall bespectacled men who could recite poetry.
As his derangement ebbed, he hit his own forehead with his fist because of course, of course, of course, Caro wasn’t promiscuous. She had been a virgin at twenty-nine, for Christ’s sake, when she had given herself to him. She had never acted the way he had—bedding dairymaids and whores and countless widows, happy for any warm, female body next to his.
Seized by a crazed jealousy, he had muddled her behavior with his own. And the same for William. Phineas was the one who had seduced his friends’ women in the past, not Will.
He caught William in the front hall, going out the door, bag in hand. The man stiffened and stepped back as Phineas approached him.
“I’m sorry, Will. Please, I’m sorry. I lost my head. I can’t explain it, but I did. Please stay.”
William shifted his bag from his right hand to his left and stuck his right hand out.
Phineas shook it. “Does this mean you forgive me?”
“You had a fit of temporary madness. Nothing I haven’t had a thousand times myself.”
“So you’ll stay?”
William shook his head. “No. You better keep your attention where it’s needed. I’ll make myself scarce.”
“My attention?”
“Your wife. It’s one thing to talk to me that way, Phin. We’re men. We can walk away from this with our friendship intact. We understand each other. But you clearly do not understand your wife.”
Despite his resolution to stay calm, Phineas bristled. Who was William Dagenham to tell him he didn’t understand his wife?
“Listen for a moment, Phin. For once in your goddamned life, listen. That woman is made of honorable stuff. Can you think of any other woman you know—forget woman—can you think of any other person you know who would come into a situation like the one you placed her in and put her head down and start trying to fix it, immediately? Has she complained to you once about how poor you are? What a rundown wreck this house was? I come here and the whole place is changed and I know that’s down to her. I go to the morning room my first day here, expecting her to be perhaps writing some ladylike letter and instead she’s hunched over a ledger like a clerk.”
“I know my wife is a hard worker.”
“Hard worker? She’s a saint. And she loves you, Phin.”
Phineas shook his head.
“Don’t shake your head. She may not say it. Hell, she may not know it. But she does. And you’ve taken advantage of that in your own way. But I’ll leave you two to sort this out. I’m sure you’ll be able to charm her back into a good temper. Charm is what you do best, after all.”
William saluted and walked out the door, into the spring sunshine.
Phineas climbed the stairs and knocked on the door between their two bedchambers.
“Caro. May I come in? I’m awfully sorry, darling. I’m so stupid. And rash.”
There was no answer.
“Caro?” He opened the door, thankful she had not locked him out.
She stood at the window. Lavinia was next to her, but Caro was not touching the dog. Lavinia turned her head to look at Phineas and whined. Caro did not move.
“I’ve apologized to William already for what I said. I don’t know what happened, darling. You know I’m not the type to lose my temper.”
She did not move.
