But Lady Marchwell was eyeing him thoughtfully. He had, she decided, become a little too attached to drink, which could not, in the long run, be very good for him. A New Year’s resolution was necessary to return him to a desirable state of decorum and sobriety.
7
Charles and Juliet walked side by side through the snow, following the path that led around the island at the very edge of the Thames, although from time to time the swollen river covered it completely and they had to make their way through the trees instead. The path was one they had walked countless times in the past, always hand in hand, always pausing to kiss, always in love. Today, although their hands occasionally brushed, there was a yawning chasm between them. Could it be bridged? Charles prayed so with all his heart.
Such a morning was perfect for Christmas Day, with the distant bells of Windsor ringing across the countryside, children building a snowman outside a cottage on the far bank, and bright red berries shining on all the holly bushes that flourished on the island. Magpies chattered in the pines, their black-and-white plumage sharp against the blue of the sky, and now that he was with Juliet again, Charles found that he no longer found the birds’ noise quite so abhorrent.
They talked of this and that, harmless topics that were nevertheless reminders of how things had once been between them. Mannerisms, occasional smiles, and even an occasional sprinkling of laughter served to arouse shades of the happier past, before hearts and vows had been broken. It was when Juliet asked about Bengal that the hitherto tentative conversation became more serious, for although she was clearly fascinated by the wonderful things he had seen there, and put many questions to him, it was the questions she didn’t put that lingered in the crisp air.
He knew she was wondering what women he had known during his years in Madras, and how intimately, but she was too proud to ask. It was up to him to tell her, if only so that he could in turn ask her about the men in her life during the past six years. Truth to tell, it did not matter how reassuring Lady Marchwell had been on that score, he needed to hear it from Juliet herself.
If he had but known, Juliet was at that same moment struggling to put her unasked question into words. A fear lurked within her that there had been another Sally Monckton in Madras. It was something that had preyed upon her mind since they parted, for if he had taken a mistress while their marriage was happy, then surely he had no reason not to take another when bitterness and thousands of miles separated him from his wife.
As these private anxieties become harder and harder to subdue, they suddenly halted and turned at the same time.
“Juliet, I—”
“Charles, I—”
They both broke off, their eyes meeting self-consciously, then they both demurred.
“After you,” he said.
“You first,” she said.
This time they both laughed, and for a second her glance brushed his with the playfulness of old. “All right, I’ll ask first, although . . .”
“Yes?”
“Although I am embarrassed to mention such a thing to you.”
“Ask what you will,” he urged.
Her cheeks filled with color, and she cleared her throat as she looked down the Thames toward Windsor. “Did you meet anyone in Madras? I . . . I mean, was there someone you loved?” For a moment she could not meet his gaze, but then looked him full in the eyes. “The truth, Charles. I must know the truth.”
“My days of lying to you are at an end, Juliet. Yes, I met many women in Madras, some of whom made their availability quite plain, but I did not take any of them to my bed. Nor indeed, should you think that an ambiguous answer, did I go to anyone else’s bed. I made love to no one, desired no one, because all I could think of was you.”
“You haven’t been with anyone at all?” Astonishment lit her eyes.
“That’s right.”
She didn’t know what to think, for the Charles Neville she knew was a passionate man who had proved his ardor for her both on going to bed and on awakening again the next morning. For him to be celibate for six long years . . .
“Juliet, guilt and heartbreak are sovereign cures for lust, unless it be for the one for whom one feels the guilt and heartbreak. I have made love to you a thousand times over in my imagination.”
The color on her cheeks deepened, and she had to look away, for in her dreams she had made love to him too. A thousand times over.
“Do you believe me, Juliet?” he pressed.
She nodded. Of course she believed him, because she had been the same.
“Juliet, I must ask you . . . ?”
“If I have taken a lover? Or lovers, maybe?” Her glance swung back to him. “Like you, I have not been without offers, but also like you, I have not desired any of them.”