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They sat without speaking until the hackney turned into King Street and passed Almack’s. They would be in Great Ryder Street at any moment.
‘I would not have married you. I never intended to,’ Phyllida said hurriedly. ‘I knew I could not because of what had happened, how it happened. I was wrong not to have been stronger right from the start, never to have allowed you to kiss me, never to have let this farce of a courtship go on as it has while I let myself dream.
‘You will not hear my story and I understand why not. You are very angry and I have put you to a great deal of trouble, let alone embarrassment and danger. But I want you to realise that I would never have compromised your honour by becoming your wife. I could never have married you and kept this a secret from you, even if your honour had not mattered to me.’
Her house key was in her hand now as the carriage drew to a halt. Phyllida pushed the door open and jumped down before Ashe could move. She stood on the pavement and took a last, long look at his face. ‘I love you, you see. Goodbye, Ashe.’ Then she turned and hurried up the steps, thrust the key in the lock and was inside before she heard his booted feet hit the pavement.
I love you, you see. The door slammed shut. Goodbye. That had been final.
‘You getting back in, guv’nor, or is this it?’ the cabby demanded.
Ashe gave him the address and climbed inside again. Is this it? the man had asked. Was it? He should be glad. Phyllida was safe, he was saved from a highly unsuitable marriage, the slums were free of Harry Buck, an unsavoury predator upon women who had met his just desserts.
I love you. She did not mean it, did she? He had not tried to attach her emotionally, she had made no attempt to cling to him, to plead with him. Her eyes as she said it had been dry.
Why had he not let her tell him her story? If she could bear to tell it, then he should have the patience to hear it. Then he realised that
it would have taken courage for him to sit and listen, that it mattered to him, more than an abstract story of an everyday outrage. It mattered because Phyllida mattered.
Sara was alone in the drawing room when he walked in. ‘Whatever have you been doing? You look as though you have been in a fight!’
‘That is because I have been in a fight.’ He sank down on the sofa beside her and leaned his aching head on the cushioned back. ‘And don’t worry Mata by telling her.’
‘Of course not. Did you win?’
‘I think so.’
‘Excellent.’ She picked up her embroidery and let him rest.
‘Sara, may I ask you something shocking? Something I should not even dream of speaking of to you?’
‘Is this something else I should not be telling Mata about? Of course you may.’
Ashe sat up, rested his elbows on his knees and studied his clasped hands. ‘What would drive you to sell yourself? To give your body to a stranger, a man who revolted you. Hunger?’
‘No!’ He felt the movement as she shook her head vehemently. ‘I would rather starve.’
‘Money?’
‘Well, the money would be a reason, otherwise why do it? But…’ She fell silent for a while, thinking. ‘I would do it if it would save Mata from some awful danger. Or for you or Papa. If one of you were sick and there was no money for a doctor and medicines, then nothing else would matter.’
She said it earnestly, obviously meaning it. After a moment she moved close to him and put her hand on his arm. ‘Is that why you were in a fight?’
‘Yes. She was very young.’
‘Oh, poor thing,’ Sara said compassionately. ‘Is there anything I can do to help her?’
‘No, she’s safe now.’ I have broken her heart, but she’s safe. Ashe got to his feet. ‘I’m going out, probably won’t be home for dinner.’
Fransham, when he finally ran him to earth, was at White’s, dozing over a newspaper in a quiet corner of the library. ‘Clere! Have a drink.’ He waved to the waiter and tossed the paper aside. ‘You’re looking uncommonly serious.’
Ashe had washed, changed, combed his hair, before he had left home, but it seemed he had not been able to scrub away the darkness in his mind. ‘I wanted to ask you something personal, something you probably don’t want to talk about. Only it affects Phyllida and I need to understand.’ Understand not only Phyllida, not only what had driven her to that desperate act, but himself. How he felt for her, why he ached inside, why he felt worse than he had when Reshmi had died.
‘All right.’ Gregory sat up and poured a couple of glasses of brandy. ‘Ask away, I can always punch you on the nose if you get too personal.’
‘Phyllida told me about your parents, why they didn’t marry until after she was born. But what happened when your mother died? She didn’t seem able to talk about it.’
Fransham’s face clouded. ‘God, that was an awful time. She told you how unreliable our father was? Well, the time he spent with us got less and less—and so did the money. And then Mama got sick. Consumption, the doctor said. We did the best we could. I was fifteen and I got a job with the local pharmacist, just a dogsbody, really, but he paid me in medicine. Phyllida was seventeen and she ran the house and nursed Mama and kept writing to Papa.
