13

Title: "Just Desserts"

Author: Darkover, a.k.a. TheQueenly1

Characters: Soames Forsyte, Irene, OCs

Rating: K+

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters created by John Galsworthy for "The Forsyte Saga," nor did I create any of the miniseries made from his books. No infringement of copyright is intended or should be inferred. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so please do not sue.

Summary: What if Bosinney and Irene had succeeded in running away together? And what if, as a result of Irene's open adultery and abandonment, Soames filed for divorce at the time? This story shows how things might have been very different, just because a few details changed.

"Go to bed, darling. I shall join you soon," Soames Forsyte told his wife, before descending the stairs to check and see that all the ground-floor windows and doors were securely locked. Prior to his marriage to Cecily and her subsequent pregnancy, Soames had been content to leave such matters to the servants, but his love for his second wife had made him protective, particularly in view of her present condition.

It was difficult to believe, Soames reflected as he checked to see that the fires had been damped and the window shutters fastened, that barely five years ago, he had been so miserable that he had almost given up on life. Certainly he had not believed that he could ever be happy again—not at that time, when his first wife Irene had left him for Philip Bosinney, the architect Soames had hired to build a country house for himself and Irene—the same man who had been the fiancé of Soames' cousin and Irene's best friend, June Forsyte. But it had happened. Thanks to the relentless efforts of his mother and his sister Winifred, who not only nursed him through that dreadful time but who had refused to allow him to give up, Soames had eventually met and married Cecily, and in so doing had found happiness once more.

Cecily was a very pretty young woman—not as strikingly beautiful as Irene, perhaps, but lovely to behold. Her hair was red-gold, her stature a bit shorter and her figure slightly fuller than that of Soames' first wife; and if her skin was not the flawless ivory of Irene's, it had a peaches and cream complexion that was more than attractive. Her eyes were a bright, intelligent blue, her face animated, and if she was sometimes more emotional than Soames would have preferred, he had come to rationalize that in so being she was perhaps offsetting his own rigid self-control. At first, he had privately compared her to Irene—as, at that point in his life, he had compared every woman—but he had soon found Cecily was everything he wished for in a wife, and more.

At first he had assumed that Cecily wanted him for his money. Irene's coldness, her frigid disdain of him, the way she had almost shuddered at his touch—and that had been how she behaved even before the dreadful night when, after drinking too much and ruminating too long on how she and her lover had openly humiliated him, Soames had taken her violently—all that had done a consistently insidious job on his opinion of himself. All of his efforts to understand her, to please her, had been for naught. Her tendency to ignore his very existence as much as possible, her refusal to allow him into her heart, her body, or her life, had worn away his manhood as completely and relentlessly as water upon stone. It had culminated in her abandonment of him for Philip Bosinney.

Therefore, by the time Soames was introduced to Cecily at a dinner party given by Winifred, his self-esteem was in tatters. If his own wife, a woman as wonderful as he had believed Irene to be, had never wanted him, why would any woman want him, save for his money? The pain and disgrace of his divorce, gained on grounds of adultery, had almost been enough to make him swear off women—even though he longed for married domesticity, a happy, loving wife, and healthy children, as much as he ever had.

Granted, his reputation as a successful solicitor, a good investor, and a "man of property" had probably worked to influence Cecily's decision. She was the youngest of five children and the second daughter of the vicar of a country church. Her dowry, not surprisingly, had been a very modest one. But if no one in her family was wealthy, at least they were eminently respectable—a fact which gratified Soames, after enduring the humiliation of a divorce in which it was made clear that his wife had left him for another man. Cecily's oldest brother was a professor of ancient history at Oxford and a confirmed bachelor; if his income was not great, it was at least enough to suit his needs. Cecily's second brother was an officer in the army, and was presently serving in India, where he was likely to remain. Her third brother, following their father's example and the usual precedent of third sons in respectable English families, was also a clergyman. He alone of the three sons was married, and was sufficiently content, or so Cecily had confided to Soames, save that his wife could not have children. Privately, Soames, while not unsympathetic, was relieved by this. He had inwardly shuddered at the thought of a brother-in-law who was an underpaid cleric with a wife and a houseful of children to support—a man who might have looked to the wealthy husband of his sister to supplement his own income. Montague Dartie, the husband of Soames' sister Winifred, was enough of a drain on the family finances. At least he need have no concern about Cecily's sister, Martha; she had married an eminent and most successful Harley Street physician, who supported her and their four children to a quite respectable degree.

Cecily was ten years younger than Soames. He was undoubtedly the wealthiest man she had ever met up until that time, but that had not been his only attraction for her. Winifred had decided to invite her to dinner after learning from a mutual acquaintance that Cecily had innocently asked who was "…that red-haired man I saw at Mrs. Dartie's. I believe he was *quite* the handsomest man I have ever seen—although he did have the saddest eyes! Has he suffered some misfortune?" Soames had succumbed to his sister's badgering and attended her dinner, where he had been polite to this new, pretty girl of Winifred's acquaintance, even though at the time he had not been interested in pursuing her. Perhaps for that reason, she became enthralled with him. Her liveliness, sweet nature, good looks, love of children, respectability of her family, and above all, her obvious interest in him had given him the courage to try again. He had approached her father for permission to court the man's daughter with a view to marrying her. Cecily's father and mother had made discreet inquiries. Both had apparently decided that Soames Forsyte's considerable fortune was enough to compensate for the residue of scandal caused by his divorce. Soames' father James, upon learning that the father of his son's fiancée was a clergyman, reacted predictably by grunting; "There's no money in that," but in the end he and his wife had been as charmed by Cecily as their son was. Now that Cecily was seven months pregnant, their attitude toward their daughter-in-law was one of delight, and James in particular was fond of remarking to everyone who would listen that he had known from the start that "…she was just the thing for Soames, I said so at the time!" Ironically, James did not know how true this was. Cecily had been a virgin until her wedding night, but once married she had taken to the pleasures of the nuptial bed with considerable enthusiasm. This had done much to reawaken Soames both physically and emotionally. Moreover, in spite of her comparative youth and exuberant nature, there was nothing feckless about her. She had sense, which her husband admired, and she was a good housekeeper, for which he was grateful. Most importantly, unlike Irene, Cecily wanted to have Soames' children. He had never before been a deeply religious man, but more than once Soames had thanked God for sending him such a wonderful wife.

There was a knock at the front door.

Soames paused. This was an impossible hour for anyone to come calling, and it was too late for deliveries or tradesmen. Even if it had been the latter, they would have come to the servants' entrance at the rear, not the door leading out onto the street.

There was more knocking, sounding oddly desperate.

Well, there was no help for it; if he was to see who it was, he must open the door. He would have to be the one to do it, as he had long since given Billson and the other servants leave to go to bed. Nevertheless, Soames, deciding it would be wise to have something useful for protection, silently lifted the iron poker from the fireplace before crossing to the door and opening it.

A woman stood there: a poorly, shabbily dressed woman, as pale and thin as if she had been ill, a small, cheap hat set atop her disheveled dark hair. There was no one else in sight, although Soames knew the constable would soon appear as he walked his evening route. Soames lowered the poker, feeling a little foolish, although that soon gave way to annoyance. Who was this woman, a beggar? What was she playing at, knocking at the doors of respectable people at this hour of the night? If she didn't explain herself quickly, he would summon the constable, and then she could explain herself to a magistrate.

"Oh, Soames! Thank God!"

He started so violently that he almost dropped the poker. There was no mistaking that soft, albeit agitated, voice; it was Irene.

"Let me in, Soames. Please!"

Automatically, he took a step back. She seemed to take this as an invitation, because she hurried past him, into the house. He closed the door behind her, returned the poker to the hearth, and lighted the candles on the mantel so that he might take a better look at her.

She had not aged well. Even though Soames knew her to be seven years younger than he was, tonight she appeared to be at least ten years older. She had lost enough weight to be unpleasantly thin. He was shocked, and a bit revolted, by the fact that she was missing a tooth. Her once-flawless skin was now red and splotchy, and she appeared to have been crying. She said without preamble, "Soames, I need your help."

"Irene?" He still could hardly believe it. There were only traces of her former beauty. He recognized her more by her voice than by her face, although certainly in the years that she was married to him, Irene's voice had never sounded so imploring.

"May I sit down?"

He nodded mutely. She sat in a chair that had been 'hers' when they had lived together as husband and wife. Cecily used it now, and for that reason Soames had to control an extraordinarily strong urge to tell Irene to get out of it and seat herself elsewhere. He seated himself as well, in his own easy chair across from her.

Irene, continually wringing her hands, leaned forward slightly, looking urgent. "Soames, please forgive me, but I have nowhere else to turn."

"Why not turn to Bosinney?" Soames asked coolly. Now that the initial shock was wearing off, he could assume control of himself, and of the situation. "He is the man you love above all things, after all."

"I can't," she said softly. "Phil is dead."

Soames was startled anew. "Recently?"

"No." Irene took a deep breath. "We went to Paris together—after." She did not elaborate on that; she did not have to. "He tried to get work, found that he couldn't. No one would hire him, not because of the scandal of having been named in a divorce case—the French didn't really care about that—but because of the scandal that he had not satisfactorily and legitimately completed his contract. The only work he could get was that of a journeyman builder, implementing the designs of other architects—the dreadful, unoriginal designs, but they could get work and he could not. It was so terribly frustrating for poor Phil. It beat him down in the end. I awoke one day to find him gone. He had left a note. Just one word: 'Sorry.' That was all it said." She took another, sobbing breath. "Later that day, a French policeman fished his body out of the Seine."

Soames knew that politeness required him to say "I'm sorry," or express some indication of sympathy, but he could not bring himself to do so. He simply sat and stared at the weeping woman, a woman whom he had once loved dearly, but for whom now he felt no emotion at all, except perhaps for a sort of dull embarrassment.

"What do you wish me to do?" he said, at last.

Irene wiped her eyes on the edge of her sleeve; she had no handkerchief. "I—I've come back to you, Soames. You said once that we should start again. I…I am willing to do that."

He looked at her, rendered as speechless by her effrontery as she had, in the past, been rendered by his lack of emotional perception. There was a time when he would have welcomed her back with open arms and no questions asked. There was a time when he had been so furious with her and heartbroken by her actions that he would have spurned her. Now, though, even the embarrassment of a moment ago was gone, replaced with an enormous weariness. Beyond that, he felt nothing at all. His love for her, his need of her had once been intense, burning like a fever in his blood; but the fever had long since broken, and he wanted her back now no more than a once chronically ill person wants to lose his newfound good health and resume his old, illness-stricken life.

"Irene, I've remarried."

She flinched back in her chair as if he had struck her, a stunned look on her face. Clearly, she had never anticipated this. "You…how…?"

Her astonishment was so apparent that Soames felt a flare of anger, and could not resist adding; "And my wife and I are expecting a child." He stood up. "I am sorry, Irene, but we are no longer married. I am afraid you must go."

"No!" She rose from the chair, clutching at him wildly; he drew back quickly, but she followed, grasping at him beseechingly. "Please, Soames—"

"I'm sorry, Irene. There is nothing for you here." His hand was on the doorknob; he turned it quickly, opening the door. "You should leave now."

"Please, Soames!" She tried to smile at him seductively, but her lips trembled and her eyes were wild. She grasped at his lapels, and he shuddered away from her touch, as she had once shuddered away from his. "Don't you understand!" she screamed. "I have nowhere else to go!"

A large figure, walking by on the pavement, paused before the house to take in the scene being played out in the open doorway. "'Ere, wot's goin' on?" The constable who walked his beat each night past the Forsyte residence drew closer to Soames and Irene, looking from one to the other. "Somethin' wrong, Mr. Forsyte?"

Soames looked at Irene. "This woman came begging at my door, Constable. I have told her that she must leave."

"'Ere, then, you 'eard the gennelmun," the Constable told Irene. "No beggin' 'ere, this is a respectable neighb'rhud. Move along, naow."

"Soames, I'M YOUR WIFE!" Irene screamed.

The Constable's expression changed, and he seized Irene's arm, dragging her bodily through the doorway and back onto the pavement. "That'll be enough a' that, you! I know Mrs. Forsyte, an' you aint she!" He turned back to Soames, long enough to touch his hand to his helmet. "Sorry 'bout this, sir. I'll take care 'a' this."

"Thank you, Constable." Soames closed the door firmly in the face of Irene's stark expression and renewed screaming. He heard her cries and the Constable's harsh voice as the latter put her under arrest and dragged her off to a cell for the night. Soames locked the door, and then leaned against it momentarily, his eyes closed and his breathing ragged.

"Soames?"

Opening his eyes, he straightened and turned around. His wife stood at the head of the stairs, clad in nightgown and bathrobe, her hair down, her eyes sleepy. "Is something wrong, dearest? I thought I heard a commotion."

He summoned up a smile for her. "Nothing we need be concerned about, my love. A woman came begging." He started up the stairs toward her. Cecily held out her hand to him, which he took when he reached the top.

"At this hour? And in our neighborhood?" His young wife appeared troubled.

Soames kissed her forehead, slipping his arm around Cecily's shoulders. "Yes, but she is gone now, my dear. The Constable came and took her away."

"I'm glad, Soames. I don't feel safe at the thought of such people coming to our door, and begging is a crime, after all. Could you not speak to Justice Brougham about it in the morning, and see to it that she receives the sentence she deserves? That might keep her from coming back."

"Yes, I suppose it would," Soames said quietly. He looked down at the anxious face of his young, lovely, pregnant wife, and kissed her again, on the mouth this time. "I shall attend to it in the morning, my dearest." Cecily smiled, and the two of them retired together to their bedroom.

Soames kept his word to his wife. The following morning, he spoke with Justice Brougham, who had been long acquainted with both Soames and his father James. With the statements both of Soames and of the constable, Irene was convicted not just of begging, but of prostitution, and sentenced to transportation to Australia. Neither Soames, nor Cecily, nor any of the children they had in later years, ever heard from her again.