He would never admit, not to another living soul, that he had indeed felt quite relieved when it was all over.
Over the course of several nights, he was to learn much more, such as why Claudia thought him a rake. At the end of that discussion, he was rather convinced he was a rake. And much to his great surprise, he learned how the beastly little girl Claudia had been adored him. Amazingly, he had never even sensed it. That, Claudia huffed, was his greatest fault—he was obviously rather thickheaded when it came to a woman's affections. Later that evening, however, she begrudgingly admitted-while she lay naked in his arms—that he might have improved a tad bit on that front.
The most miraculous thing of all was that Phillip was finally beginning to fade away, and for that, Julian was eternally grateful. It did not happen easily-—Julian had never been able to shake the sense that Phillip was watching him with Claudia. He must have said enough for her to gather what bothered him, because she had finally forced him to sit one night and listen to what had gone on with Phillip. Julian did not want to hear it_.__ . ._ but neither could he say no. He had listened with morbid fascination as she spoke of the increasing distance between her and Phillip, the drunkenness, the knowledge of his mistress. All of it surprised him—but she shocked him to his core when she told him of the last time she had ever seen Phillip, the assault on her person . . . and how that memory had overwhelmed her when she had seen Sophie's bruises, pushing her to act.
But Phillip's ghost did not truly begin to fade until she assured him with her words, and then with her body, that she never really loved him, not like this, and kissed away any lingering doubts.
Slowly but surely, Julian realized she was leading them through the maze of their past, putting events and perceptions in their proper place before locking them away forever, away from the living. With each passing day, they chiseled away a little more at the fear and doubts between them, growing more secure in one another. Julian reveled in it—for the first time in his life, he felt as if God was truly smiling on him, granting him the one thing that could make him ecstatically happy.
If only he could make her as happy.
For all her confessions to the contrary, Claudia did not sparkle as she once had. No matter how much she tried to convince him she was quite all right, there was something in her eyes that had been dulled, as if a light had gone out that could not be rekindled. No matter what he did, or how hard he loved her, he could not put the light back in her eyes.
He would die trying, he decided.
Having successfully petitioned the Doctor's Commons in Sophie's suit, the first step of an arduous journey to divorce, Julian returned home one afternoon in a state of elation—at last, he could see an end to this drama. No one blocked his petition—Stanwood had left London with his fifty thousand pounds, apparently convinced Julian could ruin him as he had threatened. Eugenie reported that Sophie grew stronger every day, that an inner peace had taken hold of her, and that she followed Claudia's example by spending her time in the villages, working with children and women less fortunate than she.
The sun was shining when Julian arrived home; anxious to write Eugenie with the latest news, he passed his butler asleep on a bench in the foyer, patting his shoulder as he walked briskly to his study. As he strode past the morning sunroom, he caught a glimpse of someone inside, and paused. Seated beside his wife on a settee was a woman Julian had never seen before. Claudia had her arm around her as the woman dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief. The woman wore a drab brown gown that had been patched along the hem. Her hands were rough and red; and although most of her hair was stuffed under a cap, limp gray strands of it fell around her ears. Claudia looked at her with great concern, seemingly oblivious to the difference in their rank, as if they were of equal class. As if they were sisters.
And in a rare moment of absolute brilliance, Julian instantly realized what he had to do and absently wondered why he had not thought of it before. With a faint smile, he continued his brisk walk to the study.
Claudia awakened Tinley sometime later, waiting patiently for him to rouse himself before she asked that a carriage be brought round. She returned to the little sitting room where Bernice Collier sat, her hands in a tight ball on her lap. The poor woman, who had the terrible misfortune of being penniless and with child, had rather miraculously found her way to St. James Square—the friend or sister of a servant somewhere, she had mumbled. It had taken her a quarter of an hour before she could swallow her shame and finally admit why she had come looking for Claudia. Having been abandoned by the child's father, she had no work, no funds, and no place to turn. Frightened to death by her predicament, she had sought Claudia in desperation, only to be turned away by Tinley and a footman. By chance, Claudia had seen her through the window, and had come out on the drive, beckoning her inside.
Now, she helped Miss Collier to her feet, put a comforting arm around her shoulders. "You will very much like the house on Upper Moreland Street," she said as she guided Miss Collier to the door of the sitting room. They paused in the foyer and Claudia asked a footman to fetch her blue cloak. When he returned, she wrapped the garment around Miss Collier's shoulders, smiling at the woman's round-eyed look of surprise.
"Oh, no, I can't mu'um—"
"You must have a warm cloak, Miss Collier," Claudia responded firmly. "I will not allow you to refuse it."
The woman's eyes brimmed with tears then. "It's true what they say about you, milady. You are an angel."
Claudia laughed wholeheartedly. "I am hardly that, you may trust me!" She pressed a small, folded piece of paper in the woman's palm. "Give this to Mrs. Conner when you arrive. You won't find a greater friend, I assure you."
"The carriage, madam," a footman said from somewhere behind her, and Miss Collier very timidly went out onto the drive, her mouth gaping open as she looked into the interior of the plush carriage.
Claudia stood on the stoop and watched the carriage pull out onto the Square, feeling an overwhelming sadness. She so longed to do more for women like Miss Collier, but could scarcely manage to keep the little town house on Upper Moreland Street afloat as it was—the folly in her personal life had seen to that.
Damn it, but she could no longer garner enough in donations to keep a pig afloat. What little had trickled in had dragged to a complete halt two weeks ago when that black-hearted Dillbey had written a letter to the editor of the Times in response to a raging debate on women's suffrage. He argued that women who touted the same rights as men meant no good by them.
". . . Witness, then, our own Lord Redbourne's daughter, Lady Kettering. If granted, her call for the right to organize labor to protect women and
children in the factories would undoubtedly lead to a call for more rights that, in Lady Kettering's mind, perhaps, would include promiscuity in hothouses and defying a husband's legal rule. Gentlemen, we cannot allow feminine wailing and gnashing of teeth to cloud our sound reasoning. The platform is too radical. . ."
Since that article had appeared, even her most ardent supporters had ceased their contributions. She could hardly blame them; the threat of censure was quite real. Unfortunately, the ton had a memory like an elephant.
When Miss Collier's conveyance disappeared from sight, Claudia sighed wearily and retreated inside the house in which she had lived like a virtual prisoner since the news about Sophie had spread.
Her misery did not abate in the next few weeks.
Ann gave birth to a son just before the Christmas season, and Claudia had never seen Julian quite so jubilant. He held the baby in one arm, beaming at him, reluctantly giving him over to Victor when he asked, then shifting his beaming smile to her. Claudia had inwardly cringed—the whole cheery scene only made her sadder. Everything seemed broken to her; she felt useless, as if she could not do something even as simple as conceive.
For the first time in her life, she felt aimless, as if she was drifting through every day with no particular destination. The only bright spot in her dreary world was, of course, Julian. And as grateful as she was for that—she thanked God for him every day—she had been so certain his love would buoy her up in the worst of times. But strangely, the more she felt his love, the more she felt her own loss of purpose. She had nothing to offer him, could only seem to cling to him like a child. She had lost her bearings and she did not know how to get them back. Every day, she sank a little farther into the black hole of futility, struggling to find a lifeline.
The afternoon of Christmas Eve was dark; gray fog hovered just above the streets of London. Claudia stood at the long bank of windows in the gold salon, staring out into the Square. She had invited her father for supper but he had declined, said he was quite content to make a feast of it at his club. Ann and Victor, too, had declined, as Ann was understandably fearful of taking little Victor out into the cold. They would call in the morning after church services, thereby leaving Claudia and Julian alone on Christmas Eve. Completely alone, it seemed, as Julian had granted the servants at both Kettering House and Kettering Hall the evening free, as well as Christmas Day.
She glanced up at the leaden sky, then closed her eyes. I will not allow melancholia to ruin this occasion for Julian. At the very least, he deserved her spirit during the most festive of seasons. If she could only summon it! Julian had been very patient with her, accepting of her excuses lately for her lack of spirit. He deserved so much more than she was able to give him. Claudia glanced at the package resting on a small table next to his favorite chair. It was her Christmas gift for him, the one thing she had managed to do recently, and even that had required the help of her father.
"Ah, here you are." Julian's voice wrapped around her like a warm blanket, and Claudia smiled, turning to the door where he stood. Leaning against the frame, one leg crossed over the other, his arms folded across his chest. He was grinning; from across the room, she could see the glitter in his raven eyes. "Beautiful as always," he remarked.
Claudia glanced down at her gown of green and gold brocade.
"I am the most fortunate man on earth, I think," he said, shoving away from the door and strolling toward her. "My heart can scarcely bear it."
"You are a ruthless charmer, sir," she said, laughing softly as he slipped an arm around her waist. He smothered her laugh with a fierce kiss that left her feeling almost weightless, and when he at last lifted his head, he chuckled at her look of pure intoxication.
"I've a gift for you," she muttered dreamily.
"You, my darling, are the perfect Christmas gift."
Blushing, she pushed away from his embrace. "And you, my lord, are far too easy to please. Come." Taking him by the hand, Claudia led him to sit in the well-worn leather chair, then handed him the box wrapped in gold and silver ribbons. "Merry Christmas."
Grinning like a child, Julian eagerly accepted the box. "Shall I guess at it?" he asked, holding it up to shake it. "It's too heavy for a waistcoat, isn't it? Ah, I've got it. Cheroots rolled with American tobacco. I'm quite out, you know," he said, and lowered the box to his lap. "I've rather wondered if someone has been partaking of them when I'm not looking," he added with a playful frown.
"As a matter of fact, Tinley has taken quite a fancy to them."
Julian laughed as he untied the ribbon. "I swear it, the man will retire to his cottage this year if I have to carry him there myself," he said cheerfully, and lifted the lid to the box. He peered curiously at the contents, rooted around inside, and withdrew another, smaller box. "What have we here?" he muttered, and pulled off the lid. The smile faded from his face as he stared down at the ruby cuff links. The size of a farthing, they were cut to perfection and nestled in gold. "They are extraordinary," he mumbled, holding them up to the light.
"Do you like them?" Claudia asked anxiously.
His eyes flicked to her, then to the links, a smile creasing his face. "Like them? Darling, they are marvelous!"
A small surge of elation waved through her, and eagerly, she perched on the edge of the ottoman. "There is a shirt pin inside, too."
Julian rummaged through the box, extracting another, smaller box, and opened it. A shirt pin, topped with a ruby cut smaller but just as brilliantly as the links, winked back at him. "Oh, my," he said, clearly pleased. "Pin it on, will you?"
She affixed the pin very artfully in his black neckcloth as she had seen her father do, and Julian immediately stood, crossing to a small mirror near the sideboard to admire it. "Rather puts your father's to shame," he remarked with a chuckle. "Thank you, my love," he said, kissing the top of her head before resuming his seat. He turned his attention to one cuff and fastened the ruby link. When he started on the second cuff, he asked, "What would you like for Christmas, darling?"
You. Nothing more. Claudia shook her head. "I have everything I could want."
"Indeed? Everything? You are quite certain?"
Oh, she was certain. The greatest gift in her life was he—he was everything to her. "Very certain," she said, smiling.
"Come now. Surely there is something you would like to have." He fastened the second link and straightened his cuff, admiring the rubies at his wrist. "Something you have wanted and never received?"
No. She had more gowns than she could wear, more jewels, more shoes and hats and gloves and dressing gowns than a woman ought to have a right to own. If she wanted anything, it wouldn't come in a box, because it did not exist.
She wanted her life back.
She wanted to be Claudia Whitney again, capable of moving mountains for the less fortunate, able to extract pounds from families that were too wealthy by half and give to women and children who were in desperate need. She wanted to be the earl's favored daughter again, to have his respect and his support. Julian was her life, but she desperately wanted her own identity, too. "No," she repeated.