One Thread
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Bleak House
Copyright: Public Domain/BBC
In the master bedroom at the heart of Chesney Wold stood a massive oaken four-poster, wide enough for six people to sleep in, shrouded on all four sides by velvet curtains which utterly failed in keeping out the night chill. On the right side of it, Sir Leicester Dedlock was drifting towards sleep. On far left side, lying with her legs curled up and one hand over her mouth, the newlywed Lady Honoria was trying to stifle her sobs.
Tonight had dredged up all the darkest moments of her life, and she was drowning in them like a swimmer against the tide – but even if it killed her, her husband must never know.
You agreed to the conditions of your bargain from the start, her sister's sharp voice muttered in the back of her mind. Wealth and status in exchange for an heir. You made your bed, and now you must lie in it. It was simple, really, when you thought of it that way.
Except that there was nothing simple about it. She felt like a newspaper, smudged and smeared with fingerprints across the still-wet ink. Touched too soon and in all the wrong places, by a man of forty whose high principles had left him as inexperienced as a boy. Stained with the closeness of a man who was not James.
James. That night, the only night, just before he'd left with his regiment. His dark eyes smiling down at her; his young, strong body glowing by candlelight; the warmth of his hands … It still seemed impossible that such a night could be followed by the cold horror of reading about his death in a letter from his friend Sergeant George, the hot shame of knowing she carried an illegitimate child, and the sleepwalking numbness of the days and weeks after the baby's death. A nightmare she might wake up from at any moment, in the small, plain bed of her childhood home. The windows thrown open, the white lace curtains floating in the breeze.
What if she became pregnant after tonight, or any of the countless nights to follow? Could she dare to love that imaginary child, the long-awaited heir to Chesney Wold, and risk having that love torn away from her again? Could she survive that? Would she want to survive, or would Death lead her away as an eager companion?
She had never once held her daughter. Never even visited her grave …
"My dear, what is the matter?" The sleepy whisper from the other side of the bed jolted her like a thunderclap. "When we … did I I hurt you?"
"No … " Yes. But the slight soreness of her body was nothing to the ache of her soul. "No, it is nothing." Her voice was deep and hoarse as if from sickness, proving her a liar.
Sir Leicester (she could no more separate out the title, even now, than she could forget her own name) shifted closer, rustling the bedcovers like dry leaves in a storm. Though it was too dark to see his face, she still kept her back to him.
"Nothing? You are in distress." He touched her shoulder, so carefully his fingers slipped away from the watery silk of her nightgown. "Please. If there is anything … I cannot bear to see you unhappy."
Her first reaction shamed her. It was a shiver of added despair, a new weight to the cross she had to bear. She did not want compassion from her husband. She wanted him oblivious, content to have her on his arm at parties and in this bed at night, with no tie between them but duty and convenience. Why should she have to worry about his heart as well, added to the ruin that was her own?
Selfish girl. With all the stains already on your conscience, the least you can do is be considerate to your husband.
Considerate, but not honest. Telling him the truth would be a cruel way to repay his kindness.
She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, turned to face the warm, solid shadow lying next to her, and gave him as much truth as she could. "My life has changed so quickly, and in such a short time. I miss being the innocent child I once was. My parents, my elder sister … I wish they had been there to see me wed."
Let him assume her sister was as dead as their parents. After all, the young woman she remembered as her childhood teacher and defender – reserved but loving, severe but endlessly loyal – had effectively died the same day as that nameless little baby.
The child is dead, Honoria. Oh for heaven's sake, no need to carry on so about it!. Resign yourself to the will of Providence, as I have, and even you must know that it was the best thing that could have happened.
Would that woman, that stranger, feel any satisfaction if she read of her younger sister's splendid match in the papers? Or, if not that, would she at least no longer feel ashamed?
"You still grieve for those you have lost," said Sir Leicester, with a gentleness that none of his many acquaintances would have recognized. "I understand. I, too, was called to my inheritance at a young age."
She remembered. Growing up as the daughter of the village clergyman, she had seen the church draped in black for the funeral of the elder Sir Leicester. As a small child, she had found it all very picturesque, a blur of white lilies and elegant mourning clothes, with no idea of the harsh reality of death. She remembered the new baronet, standing by the grave with his hands locked behind him, motionless as a statue, blond hair already fading to silver at twenty-six. And then, a few months later, the vicious swirl of gossip about his broken engagement with a girl who had jilted him for a newer title and a richer estate. Had he, too, tried to suppress his tears that day?
Still, he understood nothing. She found herself wickedly disappointed that his conscience was so clean, that he had never suffered by any action of his own, only the hand of God and the vanity of a young girl. He had no idea what it meant to be disgraced. How could she tell him?
"I have been told," she said, making no effort to hide the weariness in her voice, which had little to do with a lack of sleep. "That it becomes easier with time. Does it, my lord?"
"I assure you, it does. One learns to … to bear the pain, in order to remember the joy that is past."
He was speaking of himself as much as her. She had never heard her husband say so many deeply personal things in all the months of their formal courtship as he was saying now. Even his offer of marriage had been a formality, not unlike an offer of employment to a housekeeper. Was this a consequence of the wedding night? Did a joining of minds, at least the beginning of it, always follow the joining of bodies?
Unexpectedly, she was moved. Hidden in the coal-dust of his aging body and pompous public demeanor, here was a diamond revealed to her alone.
"You are too good to me," she whispered into the heavy silence.
"No, my lady. Never that." She could hear a smile in his voice as he reached for her again, drawing his arm around her waist. This time, the touch was not an intrusion; in fact his warmth was almost pleasant against the thin silk she wore.
Being called 'my lady' was still foreign. The first time, just after the wedding ceremony, she had actually looked over her shoulder, thinking he was speaking to someone else. But there was something about the way he said it – not as a possessive, not like his property, even though legally she was just that. He made it sound like the opposite, a term of deep respect and sincere affection, giving her power over him.
It made her feel, for the first time in more than a year, a tiny flicker of hope. Perhaps life was, after all, more than a default state of not being dead. There was something to keep her alive, a thread as fragile as a child's kite string, but strong enough to hold her on this earth. A thread of loyalty and kindness between her and the man by her side.
"Speaking of things growing easier over time," she ventured to say, "I have heard that the same is true of marriage. Including the … physical side of it. It takes practice. Like riding a horse."
This brief flash of her former self made Sir Leicester chuckle awkwardly. "Since I know very little of the subject … as you must have observed … I'm afraid you shall have to hold the reins next time. So to speak."
She blushed in the darkness, determined not to give in to anxiety at the thought of a 'next time'. "I will try."
"There is another bedroom next to this, of course. If you prefer to sleep there … "
Only minutes ago, she would have seized on the chance to get away. Now, however, she thought with embarrassment of the trouble it would cause, calling for a maid to build a fire for the empty, cold room in the middle of the night. Besides, might not the waters close over her head again if she was left alone?
She curled in, spoon-fashion, as close to him as she dared. Forgive me, James. I hope you understand.
"The nights are cold at this time of year," she said. "I prefer to stay here."