where the imitation of pleasure was sold by the hour. She wore a new dress she had purchased for herself with the money he had paid her, a pale grey silk that flattered her dark hair and pale skin, and on her finger his grandmother’s sapphire ring. When she removed her gloves she set her hand on his, admiring the flash of the stone, hardly daring to believe that, from this day and for the rest of their lives, neither of them would ever again have anything to do with those kind of establishments and, at the same time, unable to shake off the fear that the squalid circumstances of their meeting could not be so easily dismissed, that the disgrace of it would leak like a slow poison into the flesh of their marriage. That he would, in time, find himself ashamed of her.
On both counts, it seemed, she had been mistaken. In all the years of their marriage he had never once alluded to the Señora or to the Calle de León. He had never, in anger or in spite, used the shame of her past against her, never attached any judgement to her situation or to those of other women in similar predicaments. In Parliament, during the debates about the Crimes Bill, he had shown both compassion and practical concern for the safety of girls obliged to work in brothels. Nor was his interest limited to the legislation. She was aware that, since they had been married, he had continued, with more or less regularity, to avail himself of the services such women took it upon themselves to provide.
Edward was discreet but she always knew. The act lifted his mood, much as riding one of his horses did, sharpening his appetite and invigorating his spirits. In the beginning, she had tortured herself with imagining him there, summoning precise pictures in her head of the padded silk headboard, the shaded lamps, the silver-stoppered decanter of whisky on a tray on the dressing table. He would frequent the kind of establishment that prided itself upon its discretion, a place that, insofar as such things were possible, might almost be thought of as respectable.
Edward would be a favoured client, of course, as he had been at the house on the Calle de León, because he was both courte ous and appreciative. He would treat the girls as he treated his horses, with consideration and a connoisseur’s eye, delighting in the line of a limb, a particular freshness of spirit. Edward might excoriate the failings of his fellow Members in the House but he was not a hypocrite. From boyhood he had determined to make a joyful business of life, to embrace its pleasures as willingly as its responsibilities. He did not censure or condemn the private conduct of others, nor did he speak as other men spoke of the high standard set by his own conscience. He had no wish to play Moses.
Maribel had found that, as long as she was careful not to think about it, it did not matter so very much. Edward was a good husband. She had not had to endure, as William Morris had endured, while his wife conducted an impassioned affair with his dearest friend in the house the Morrises had rented as a summer retreat, or come home, like Jennie Churchill, to find naked girls in her bathtub. She knew she was fortunate. For all their disdain of the ordinary conventions of marriage their friends longed to be happy. They envied Edward and Maribel their ease and affection, the evident pleasure they took in one another’s company, the freedom of their lives unencumbered by children. Everyone knew that the Campbell Lowes were devoted to one another. If Maribel had a rival it was only the Houses of Parliament, who proved too frequently a demanding and ill-tempered mistress. As for the other – well, such places were not so very different from the Reform Club or the Athenaeum, private clubs where gentlemen might seek some relief from the heavy responsibilities of work and family. The wife that refused her husband the freedom of such establishments was either a duchess or a damned fool.
5
O N THE DAY THAT they
On both counts, it seemed, she had been mistaken. In all the years of their marriage he had never once alluded to the Señora or to the Calle de León. He had never, in anger or in spite, used the shame of her past against her, never attached any judgement to her situation or to those of other women in similar predicaments. In Parliament, during the debates about the Crimes Bill, he had shown both compassion and practical concern for the safety of girls obliged to work in brothels. Nor was his interest limited to the legislation. She was aware that, since they had been married, he had continued, with more or less regularity, to avail himself of the services such women took it upon themselves to provide.
Edward was discreet but she always knew. The act lifted his mood, much as riding one of his horses did, sharpening his appetite and invigorating his spirits. In the beginning, she had tortured herself with imagining him there, summoning precise pictures in her head of the padded silk headboard, the shaded lamps, the silver-stoppered decanter of whisky on a tray on the dressing table. He would frequent the kind of establishment that prided itself upon its discretion, a place that, insofar as such things were possible, might almost be thought of as respectable.
Edward would be a favoured client, of course, as he had been at the house on the Calle de León, because he was both courte ous and appreciative. He would treat the girls as he treated his horses, with consideration and a connoisseur’s eye, delighting in the line of a limb, a particular freshness of spirit. Edward might excoriate the failings of his fellow Members in the House but he was not a hypocrite. From boyhood he had determined to make a joyful business of life, to embrace its pleasures as willingly as its responsibilities. He did not censure or condemn the private conduct of others, nor did he speak as other men spoke of the high standard set by his own conscience. He had no wish to play Moses.
Maribel had found that, as long as she was careful not to think about it, it did not matter so very much. Edward was a good husband. She had not had to endure, as William Morris had endured, while his wife conducted an impassioned affair with his dearest friend in the house the Morrises had rented as a summer retreat, or come home, like Jennie Churchill, to find naked girls in her bathtub. She knew she was fortunate. For all their disdain of the ordinary conventions of marriage their friends longed to be happy. They envied Edward and Maribel their ease and affection, the evident pleasure they took in one another’s company, the freedom of their lives unencumbered by children. Everyone knew that the Campbell Lowes were devoted to one another. If Maribel had a rival it was only the Houses of Parliament, who proved too frequently a demanding and ill-tempered mistress. As for the other – well, such places were not so very different from the Reform Club or the Athenaeum, private clubs where gentlemen might seek some relief from the heavy responsibilities of work and family. The wife that refused her husband the freedom of such establishments was either a duchess or a damned fool.
5
O N THE DAY THAT they
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