It never had.
Her wedding night became the pattern for the rest of Alice’s married life. She never knew when Thaddeus would take it in his head to plant an heir in her—that’s what he called it. She was grateful not to have to think of it as “making love.”
He’d enter her bedchamber with no warning—sometimes in the middle of the night, often in the wee small hours, usually drunk—undo his breeches and pound into her. And leave as soon as he’d finished.
It got so that she would be wakeful half the night, waiting for him to come and get the business over with so that she could sleep. She’d doze off, but the slightest noise would startle her out of a sound sleep. It was exhausting.
The circles under her eyes were visible, but the few who ventured to comment on them did so as a sly joke, implying that her eager husband was keeping his pretty new bride awake far into the night. Alice never denied it. It was true after all. In a way.
One time, utterly exhausted and weary of waking through the night in imagined fear, she’d locked her door to ensure she’d get some sleep. Enraged, he’d kicked the door down, and when he left, she was badly bruised and aching for days afterward.
But no matter how often—or how hard—he did it, he never managed to get her with child. “Useless, barren, cold fish,” he’d called her.
She’d had nobody to confide in, to talk about how difficult—unbearable, actually—she’d found it. Just days after her wedding, her parents had departed for the Far East—her father’s dream, to bring “enlightenment to the heathens.” Then, not a month after their arrival, Mama became poorly and in a short time had sickened and died. Papa passed shortly afterward.
Grandmama, with her painful arthritis, had become a virtual recluse, and Alice hadn’t wanted to distress her with things she could do nothing about. What was the point anyway? Marriage was “ ’til death us do part.”
Besides, though she knew it wasn’t logical, she’d felt too ashamed. She was a failure as a wife: she couldn’t please her husband, and she couldn’t conceive a child.
So having no other choice, she endured it. And having no desire to feature in society as a victim, she worked hard to give the impression that she was content in her marriage—not that anyone would believe her if she told them the truth: in public, Thaddeus could turn on the charm.
Eighteen years. Half her life trying to please a man who wouldn’t be pleased.
Now Thaddeus was dead—and if the manner of his passing was another source of shame to be endured, at least her marriage was finally at an end. He’d left her nothing but debts—the entailed property went to his brother, and he’d made no provision for his widow, only his mistress and his illegitimate son. His heir, but for Alice.
And then Grandmama—God bless her—had died and left Alice this house. A home of her own. Security.
Alice glanced at the letter in her hand. The last shameful legacy from her loving husband.
She put the letter aside, blew out her candle and lay in the dark, thinking. She wasn’t feeling sick and frightened now; she was feeling angry.
She hadn’t endured eighteen years of marriage, hadn’t maintained a public air of serenity—and Lord knew, there were times she almost couldn’t manage it—for the truth about her marriage to come out now.
Bamber’s demand was ludicrous, but that wasn’t Alice’s concern. At all costs she had to prevent the publication of those letters.
If only she’d had the presence of mind to snatch them from him and hurl them into the fire when he’d first brought them out. But she’d been in shock and hadn’t thought quickly enough. There was nothing to do now but carry out his wishes, introduce his dreadful daughter to society and try to find her a lord to marry.
And then she would be free and her life could begin.
Chapter Two
Alice, having spent most of the night sleepless and trying in vain to think of a way out of the mess, had no appetite for breakfast.
“Oh, and Tweed,” she said as the butler turned to leave, taking her cold, untouched breakfast with him. “The young lady who visited us yesterday will be coming to stay for an indefinite period. Please have a bedchamber prepared. The blue room, I think.”
“Yes, m’lady.” Tweed bowed, his expression conveying the kind of blank imperturbability that told her—skilled as she was in the many nuanced Shades of Tweed—that he was dying to know but would rather burst than ask her why on earth she would consider bringing the daughter of such a man into her household. Let alone installing her in the blue bedchamber!
Bamber called promptly at ten. In a tight voice, Alice agreed to sponsor Lucy Bamber into society.
To her surprise, Bamber had booked a church that very morning for his daughter’s baptism. He’d obviously had no doubt that Alice would agree to his terms, because barely were the words out of her mouth than he was calling for his carriage and telling her to put on her coat and hat, that he’d booked a church for his daughter’s baptism and that the vicar would be waiting.
At the last minute she remembered that as a godmother—even a spurious one—she ought to give Lucy something to commemorate the event, and casting around for something suitable, she thought of the Bible Thaddeus had given her when they’d first become betrothed.
It was a beautiful thing, bound in white kidskin with a mother-of-pearl cover and virtually untouched. At the time she’d been entranced, but of course, once she was married, the associations with Thaddeus had soured her on it. Now it seemed a perfect gift, releasing her from the unhappy memories it evoked and entering a new beginning with a new owner.
She wrapped it in a pretty shawl and gave it to Lucy in the carriage on the way to the church. The girl muttered a grudging thank-you—prompted by her father—and stuffed it unexamined in her reticule. And for the rest of the journey, which took almost an hour, she had ignored Alice and said not another word. Sulking.
Alice was quietly simmering. Miss Lucy Bamber needed a lesson in manners.
* * *
* * *
It was strange being part of the baptism of an adult. Of course Alice knew adults were baptized—her father had been a vicar, after all—but it was usually only when someone converted from another religion. She was more used to babies being baptized.
Now, standing at the font of the small village church, listening to the minister’s words, she felt a little uncomfortable, but she could see no way around it. If she were to introduce the girl as her goddaughter, she had no option but to go through with the ceremony.
She’d been a godmother twice before, when holding the tiny warm bundle in her arms had made her ache with longing for a babe of her own. But it wasn’t to be.