pockmark!”
“I told you, you’re as beautiful as ever,” he said softly. “No one will ever know you were afflicted.”
“Not a mark,” I whispered, tears of joy in my eyes as I ran my fingers across my smooth cheeks. I know it must sound as if I were the vainest creature in the world, concerned with my own face and no more. Yet like many women, I was known only by my beauty, even famous for it, and to have that taken from me at so young an age would have left me bereft and lost as to whom I might truly be.
Roger smiled, watching me, and I smiled in return, believing he understood my joy, and shared it.
He understood me, yes, but not the way I’d thought.
“At least my prayers were answered, Barbara,” he said slowly, “if not your own.”
Still giddy with relief, I looked at him over the glass in my hand. “Oh, Roger, you make no sense! Of course I prayed for my deliverance, just as now I’ll make my prayers of thanks for having been restored.”
“So many prayers, Barbara,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “It’s a wonder you can recall them all.”
He pulled out a folded sheet, and to my dismay I recognized it as the second letter I’d written to Philip when I’d been so ill.
The seal was broken, and I could be sure that he’d read the contents. Yet even then my first thought was not of my sworn husband, Roger, but of my lover Philip, and how he’d not come to me because he’d never received my letter. Ah, how willingly I made excuses for Philip, no matter how unworthy he was of my love, and how little in turn I’d spare for Roger!
Now I stared at the letter in his hand, my cheeks no longer flushed with smallpox, but guilt. “How did you come by that letter?”
“Your servants were mine first, and still answer to me,” he said, not so much angry as sad. “So you do recall writing to Lord Chesterfield? You don’t deny it, or blame it on a feverish delirium?”
“Of course I don’t deny it, Roger,” I said uneasily. “How can I, when you’re holding the proof in your hand?”
He tossed the letter onto the bed beside me, as if he didn’t want to touch it any longer. “I suppose I must grant you credit for honesty, if for nothing else.”
I glanced down at the letter without gathering it up. Why should I, when I recalled every fervent word I’d written?
“You knew me before we wed,” I said defensively. “You knew what manner of woman I was.”
“I did,” he said. “But that was before you swore before God to be my wife, and all that entailed. Or have you forgotten that in your lust for Chesterfield’s bed?”
“I didn’t forget.” The letter on the bed now seemed doubly damning, yet still I was too foolishly enraptured of Philip to throw myself on Roger’s mercy, as I should. “How could I, with you to remind me?”
Roger’s lips pressed tightly together, and too late I realized my tart words had cost me whatever tender kindness my illness had inspired in him.
“That is good,” he said. “I’ll see that you’ll have sufficient time to act upon those vows in the coming months.”
I frowned, not liking the sound of that. “What are you saying, Roger?”
“That you are still my wife, Barbara. Not even the drivel you write to Chesterfield will change that.” He bowed curtly. “I’ll send your maid to pack your things. We leave London for Dorney Court in the morning.”
As long as I’d known Roger, he’d praised his family’s home at Dorney Court, in Berkshire near Windsor: how felicitous its air, how sweet its flowers, the elegance of the ancient timbers and bricks and the boundless warmth of the hospitality to be found therein. Anyone who heard his rhapsodies would believe it was a woman that inspired him, certainly not a creaking pile of plaster and wood, and I soon realized that I could never hold a candle to the sentimental brilliance of Dorney Court.
I had put off visiting this inanimate rival as long as I could. It was not only the
“I told you, you’re as beautiful as ever,” he said softly. “No one will ever know you were afflicted.”
“Not a mark,” I whispered, tears of joy in my eyes as I ran my fingers across my smooth cheeks. I know it must sound as if I were the vainest creature in the world, concerned with my own face and no more. Yet like many women, I was known only by my beauty, even famous for it, and to have that taken from me at so young an age would have left me bereft and lost as to whom I might truly be.
Roger smiled, watching me, and I smiled in return, believing he understood my joy, and shared it.
He understood me, yes, but not the way I’d thought.
“At least my prayers were answered, Barbara,” he said slowly, “if not your own.”
Still giddy with relief, I looked at him over the glass in my hand. “Oh, Roger, you make no sense! Of course I prayed for my deliverance, just as now I’ll make my prayers of thanks for having been restored.”
“So many prayers, Barbara,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “It’s a wonder you can recall them all.”
He pulled out a folded sheet, and to my dismay I recognized it as the second letter I’d written to Philip when I’d been so ill.
The seal was broken, and I could be sure that he’d read the contents. Yet even then my first thought was not of my sworn husband, Roger, but of my lover Philip, and how he’d not come to me because he’d never received my letter. Ah, how willingly I made excuses for Philip, no matter how unworthy he was of my love, and how little in turn I’d spare for Roger!
Now I stared at the letter in his hand, my cheeks no longer flushed with smallpox, but guilt. “How did you come by that letter?”
“Your servants were mine first, and still answer to me,” he said, not so much angry as sad. “So you do recall writing to Lord Chesterfield? You don’t deny it, or blame it on a feverish delirium?”
“Of course I don’t deny it, Roger,” I said uneasily. “How can I, when you’re holding the proof in your hand?”
He tossed the letter onto the bed beside me, as if he didn’t want to touch it any longer. “I suppose I must grant you credit for honesty, if for nothing else.”
I glanced down at the letter without gathering it up. Why should I, when I recalled every fervent word I’d written?
“You knew me before we wed,” I said defensively. “You knew what manner of woman I was.”
“I did,” he said. “But that was before you swore before God to be my wife, and all that entailed. Or have you forgotten that in your lust for Chesterfield’s bed?”
“I didn’t forget.” The letter on the bed now seemed doubly damning, yet still I was too foolishly enraptured of Philip to throw myself on Roger’s mercy, as I should. “How could I, with you to remind me?”
Roger’s lips pressed tightly together, and too late I realized my tart words had cost me whatever tender kindness my illness had inspired in him.
“That is good,” he said. “I’ll see that you’ll have sufficient time to act upon those vows in the coming months.”
I frowned, not liking the sound of that. “What are you saying, Roger?”
“That you are still my wife, Barbara. Not even the drivel you write to Chesterfield will change that.” He bowed curtly. “I’ll send your maid to pack your things. We leave London for Dorney Court in the morning.”
As long as I’d known Roger, he’d praised his family’s home at Dorney Court, in Berkshire near Windsor: how felicitous its air, how sweet its flowers, the elegance of the ancient timbers and bricks and the boundless warmth of the hospitality to be found therein. Anyone who heard his rhapsodies would believe it was a woman that inspired him, certainly not a creaking pile of plaster and wood, and I soon realized that I could never hold a candle to the sentimental brilliance of Dorney Court.
I had put off visiting this inanimate rival as long as I could. It was not only the
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