The Flawed Mistress (The Summerville Journals) by Margaret Brazear

to her then with a sigh, but also a gentle
smile, like a kind uncle to a child.  “Will that be acceptable,
Rosemary?”  He asked gently.  “You would prefer to talk to Lady
Rachel alone, would you not?”
       
She nodded but still did not raise her eyes, at least not until she heard her
husband depart the house.  Then she looked at me, and there was a
discernible though silent sigh of relief.  She was a lovely girl, dark
auburn hair and beautiful green eyes, but she did not seem to ever smile. She
was staring across the room at a porcelain doll I had rescued from my short
lived childhood.
       
She got to her feet and walked over to the doll, then picked it up and held it
against her as though it were a child.  Then she came back to her seat,
keeping the doll in her arms.
       
I asked her what sort of things she liked to do with herself and had to lean
forward to hear her reply.
       
“I paint a little,” she said.  “Not very well though.”
       
“I am sure your paintings are beautiful,” I tried to assure her, but she only
shook her head.
       
“How long have you been married?”  I persevered, wondering what I would
say next once that question was answered.
       
“Two years I think, My Lady,” she said quietly.
       
Think?  Did she not know?
       
“And children?  Do you have children?”
       
Suddenly her eyes widened and she looked alarmed.
       
“I do not think I would like that,” she said quickly.  “It is not nice.”
       
Not nice.  What a very odd thing to say, and was she talking about the act
that led to childbirth or the birth itself?  I could well understand her
reluctance for the former, though I had believed that was my own special
burden.
       
A noise outside made her jump slightly but she relaxed again when she realised
what it was.  I reluctantly decided that the only way to find the answer
to the Earl's question was to ask her outright.
       
“My Lady,” I said softly, “ are you afraid of your
husband?”
       
She looked up at me briefly, then nodded.
       
“Why?  Is he unkind to you?”
       
I had a vivid memory of the terrible beatings my mother had endured at the
hands of my father, but although I asked the question, I could hardly believe
that any woman would be afraid of Lord Summerville.  He had always been
kindness itself to me and I could not accept that to be merely a facade for my
benefit.  And if it was, what did he hope to gain from it?  I would
not be his mistress, that would never be my role in
life, as a mistress would have needs and desires that were stolen from me.
       
Rosemary was shaking her head.
       
“No, My Lady,” she said firmly.  “He is anything but unkind.  It is
not how he treats me but what he might want from me that I fear.”
       
“Want from you?”
       
This conversation was getting very personal, not subjects that should be
discussed between strangers, not even two women, but I somehow felt a kinship
with her fears if they were what I suspected them to be.
       
“Yes, My Lady,” she was saying.  “I know enough to know what men want from
a wife and I cannot face it.  I am scared that if I do not keep him away,
he might try that again."
       
I did not want to pursue this line of conversation.  I knew precisely what
Rosemary meant but I did not know if he suffered from some sort of brutal
perversion or if she was inhibited.  I guessed the latter, as talking to
this girl I felt that I was talking to a child.  The wedding night must
have been an unparalleled disaster if it had been two years and she still
feared a repeat of it but from the looks that followed him everywhere he went,
I was quite sure that His Lordship was getting satisfaction elsewhere.
       
It was then that the door opened and he entered.  I watched his wife
freeze, as though she wanted somewhere to run away and hide, but there was
nowhere.
       
“Forgive me for keeping you