morning; no doubt it would be delicious, but that didn’t matter either. Less and less did.
The under butler served dinner and then melted into the wallpaper. His discretion was exemplary, and Lydia, considering herself to be quite alone with her husband, brought Lawrence up to date.
‘So, in short, this doctor had nothing new to offer,’ she finished with a heavy sigh.
‘Did you expect him to have?’ Lawrence heartily pushed the tines of his fork into his mouth and hungrily swallowed the bloody roast beef. Lydia, by contrast, had spent the duration of the meal unenthusiastically chasing her food around her plate.
‘I’d hoped.’
Lawrence shot her a look which was a complicated mix of sympathy and frustration. Obviously he hoped for an heir too, very much so – hoped and prayed – but they had been married for eight years now. Eight years. One had to be realistic. Practical. Lydia wasn’t getting any younger; he didn’t really imagine their chance of producing an heir was at all robust now. It was unfortunate. Very much so but it was as it was, and there was no point in wasting energy wishing it was otherwise. He dearly wanted her to spend less time worrying and move towards accepting it. Once she did so, they could sort things out differently. They could travel abroad more often, perhaps spend more time with their numerous godchildren; they could even consider taking in a ward. People did accept such things and considerably worse. It wasn’t very British to be maudlin or obtuse. It was so much better to be sanguine.
‘What will we do?’ she asked, dropping her knife and folk with a clatter and clasping her hands on her lap.
‘We’ll do without, I suppose,’ he replied calmly. He regretted that he sounded brusquer than he wanted to appear – than he was, in fact – but he found it uncomfortable to talk about emotions or sex, and here she was hoping for a conversation about both, at the dinner table. It was awkward. Yes, he was sympathetic, and he fully understood that it was much harder for a woman to bear these things. Quite naturally she must blame herself; regret that she was in some way lacking and couldn’t fulfil her role and duty, yet he wasn’t a tyrant: he’d never once censored or charged her. She couldn’t complain on that count.
‘But I can’t do without,’ she murmured.
There had been a time when every word that dropped from Lydia’s lips had enthralled Lawrence Chatfield. They had only met seven or eight times before they married, and so novelty had no doubt bound him as part of the attraction, but there was more than that. She was a beautiful creature: innocent as her sort of girl was expected to be, but not giddy or tiresome, rather quietly assured of her own ability to captivate; she was always just the right side of flirtatiously encouraging. He thought her self-possession came from being the youngest of four children. She had watched her three older sisters make solid marriages and therefore she was confident that with her beauty and charm she would do equally well. If not better.
He’d been besotted by her.
The jut of her chin gripped him; her small white hands, whether at play or rest, fascinated him, and he could have stared into her eyes for hours in a row. Every thought, observation or piece of small talk that she let drip from her plump red lips he drank up, like a man marooned on a desert island. Now, sometimes, he thought she sounded whiny. Occasionally, when he returned after a particularly tricky day at the Home Office, she would drone on about clothes, or company, or cocktail parties, and he would shut out the noise the way one shut out the buzz of an insect at a picnic. Needless to say, he loved her. Dearly. She was still a beautiful woman, and he was very proud of her. Considering they had nearly a decade as a couple chalked up, there was enormous genuine affection between them, but he couldn’t sincerely say he remained besotted; that would be
The under butler served dinner and then melted into the wallpaper. His discretion was exemplary, and Lydia, considering herself to be quite alone with her husband, brought Lawrence up to date.
‘So, in short, this doctor had nothing new to offer,’ she finished with a heavy sigh.
‘Did you expect him to have?’ Lawrence heartily pushed the tines of his fork into his mouth and hungrily swallowed the bloody roast beef. Lydia, by contrast, had spent the duration of the meal unenthusiastically chasing her food around her plate.
‘I’d hoped.’
Lawrence shot her a look which was a complicated mix of sympathy and frustration. Obviously he hoped for an heir too, very much so – hoped and prayed – but they had been married for eight years now. Eight years. One had to be realistic. Practical. Lydia wasn’t getting any younger; he didn’t really imagine their chance of producing an heir was at all robust now. It was unfortunate. Very much so but it was as it was, and there was no point in wasting energy wishing it was otherwise. He dearly wanted her to spend less time worrying and move towards accepting it. Once she did so, they could sort things out differently. They could travel abroad more often, perhaps spend more time with their numerous godchildren; they could even consider taking in a ward. People did accept such things and considerably worse. It wasn’t very British to be maudlin or obtuse. It was so much better to be sanguine.
‘What will we do?’ she asked, dropping her knife and folk with a clatter and clasping her hands on her lap.
‘We’ll do without, I suppose,’ he replied calmly. He regretted that he sounded brusquer than he wanted to appear – than he was, in fact – but he found it uncomfortable to talk about emotions or sex, and here she was hoping for a conversation about both, at the dinner table. It was awkward. Yes, he was sympathetic, and he fully understood that it was much harder for a woman to bear these things. Quite naturally she must blame herself; regret that she was in some way lacking and couldn’t fulfil her role and duty, yet he wasn’t a tyrant: he’d never once censored or charged her. She couldn’t complain on that count.
‘But I can’t do without,’ she murmured.
There had been a time when every word that dropped from Lydia’s lips had enthralled Lawrence Chatfield. They had only met seven or eight times before they married, and so novelty had no doubt bound him as part of the attraction, but there was more than that. She was a beautiful creature: innocent as her sort of girl was expected to be, but not giddy or tiresome, rather quietly assured of her own ability to captivate; she was always just the right side of flirtatiously encouraging. He thought her self-possession came from being the youngest of four children. She had watched her three older sisters make solid marriages and therefore she was confident that with her beauty and charm she would do equally well. If not better.
He’d been besotted by her.
The jut of her chin gripped him; her small white hands, whether at play or rest, fascinated him, and he could have stared into her eyes for hours in a row. Every thought, observation or piece of small talk that she let drip from her plump red lips he drank up, like a man marooned on a desert island. Now, sometimes, he thought she sounded whiny. Occasionally, when he returned after a particularly tricky day at the Home Office, she would drone on about clothes, or company, or cocktail parties, and he would shut out the noise the way one shut out the buzz of an insect at a picnic. Needless to say, he loved her. Dearly. She was still a beautiful woman, and he was very proud of her. Considering they had nearly a decade as a couple chalked up, there was enormous genuine affection between them, but he couldn’t sincerely say he remained besotted; that would be
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