gold brocade sofa and started to read.
A half hour later she was still engrossed when Joanna came in accompanied by a footman with the tea tray.
“What is that you are reading?” Joanna asked, seating herself beside Tess. “The Lady’s Magazine?”
“No.” Tess felt a little shiver of apprehension. Joanna’s disapproval was not something she sought. She tilted the cover of her book towards her sister so that Joanna could see the title. “It is the new edition of The Gazetteer.”
As Tess had anticipated, vivid disappointment registered on Joanna’s face. “Oh, Tess, no!” Joanna exclaimed. “Tell me you are not planning on marrying again! When you came to stay here you promised—” Joanna broke off, biting her lip. Her tone changed. It was cool now, though still indicative of her feelings. “It is your decision, I suppose,” she said.
“I have a natural affinity with marriage,” Tess said. She could hear the apology in her tone. She did not want to remind Joanna just how insecure her situation was. Her sister knew nothing of her life, least of all her secret political affiliation to the reformers. Nor did she want to tell Joanna of Lord Corwen’s threats. Such a discussion would hold too many painful parallels with her marriage to Brokeby. She set her lips stubbornly and tried to ride down Joanna’s disapproval.
“On the contrary,” her elder sister corrected her sharply, clearly unable to keep quiet for more than a couple of seconds. “There is nothing natural about it. Your marriages have all without exception been most unnatural.”
Tess could not really dispute that. She knew that Joanna was one of the few people who had realised that she was afraid—terrified—of true intimacy, though her sister did not know the reason. Joanna had tried to discuss it with her in the past, but Tess had always refused to talk. Clothes, shoes, hats, gloves, scarves … They could chat about fashion for hours and it gave their relationship a veneer of closeness, but when Joanna tried to get Tess to talk about her marriages, Tess would feel the familiar cold horror spread through her veins like poison and she would turn Joanna’s questions away with trivial answers. She knew Joanna was asking not out of prurient curiosity but out of a real concern, and that made her feel even sadder. But there was nothing Joanna could do to help her. The damage wrought by Charles Brokeby had been done years ago and could not be undone now.
“Not everyone has the sort of marriage that you share with Alex,” she said. The words came out more harshly than she had intended, perhaps because whilst she was terrified by any thought of intimacy herself, she did at times feel a fierce jealousy of both the physical and emotional bond that Joanna and Alex shared. In public she might scorn such an unfashionable concept as a happy marriage but in reality the warmth and intimacy and shared experience was something she craved.
“Most people,” she added, “want no more than a position in society, enough money to sustain it and the promise that they will not need to see their spouse above half a dozen times a year and, if they do, that they need not speak with them above once.”
Joanna’s pretty face wrinkled into a grimace of distaste. She put down her teacup with a crack that made the delicate china shiver. “Very amusing, Tess. You forget you are talking to your sister and not to one of your casual acquaintances.” She flicked The Gazetteer with a contemptuous finger. “You hope to find such a husband in here?”
“It is the most marvellous book,” Tess said, pressing on although she could feel Joanna’s fearsome disapproval. “It gives the rank, fortune and address of every bachelor and widower in the country. It is the perfect husband-hunting guide.”
“It does not record whether or not the men are impotent,” Joanna said very drily. “That, surely, is your most important criteria.”
There was a painful silence. “It gives their ages,” Tess said at last, almost managing to conceal the crack in her voice. “That should be a fair guide.”
“But not an infallible one.” Joanna’s voice had softened into pity. She put a hand on Tess’s tensely clasped ones and Tess tried not to shudder, not from Joanna’s offered comfort but from the cold pain she felt inside.
“Tess,” Joanna said. “What happened to you? What is it that you are afraid of?”
“Nothing!” Tess said. The word seemed to come out slightly too loud. The pain twisted within her like the turn of a screw.
“Then why do you only marry sickly boys and old men?” Joanna persisted. “Robert Barstow, James Darent—”
“There was only one of each,” Tess protested, “and to be fair I did not know that Robert was going to die so young.”
“With Robert you married your best friend,” Joanna said. “There was as little passion there as in your last marriage.”
Once again the silence was taut and painful. Neither of them had mentioned her marriage to Brokeby but Tess could see the question in Joanna’s eyes. Her sister had guessed that Brokeby had hurt her; she wanted Tess to confide. Tess knew Joanna’s concern was only to help her but she did not want that help. There was nothing Joanna could do to set right the past or undo the horrific experiences she had suffered at Brokeby’s hands. There was nothing that she could do except blot out those memories and make sure that such horrors never happened again.
“If you have a fear of physical intimacy,” Joanna said suddenly, “I do not understand this obsession you have with marrying.”
“You refine too much upon it,” Tess snapped, her patience breaking under the strain. “I find myself short of funds, that is all. Marriage is the easiest way to address the deficit.” She spread her hands wide in a gesture of exasperation. “For me, marriage is a business option only, preferable to a trip to the moneylenders.”
“So you are in debt?” Joanna’s exquisitely plucked brows rose disbelievingly. “I don’t believe you. You have a fortune to eclipse every other widow in society.”
“Clothes,” Tess said vaguely. “They are so monstrously expensive.”
“That is one matter on which you cannot gammon me,” Joanna said robustly. “I know all there is to know about the cost of fashion and not even you could spend all your substance on it!”
They stared at one another defiantly. Tess wondered what on earth Joanna would say if she confessed that her money was in fact mainly spent on charitable causes and radical politics. No doubt she would be more shocked than if Tess had confessed to spending it all on sex with handsome young men. There were political hostesses, of course, formidable matrons who supported the Whig or the Tory cause and gave smart dinners to promote their husbands’ careers. Reforming politics was a different matter, too extreme, dangerous and inappropriate, with its emphasis on improving the conditions of the working classes. No one in society should concern themselves with such matters. Charity was one thing; political reform quite another.
“My gambling debts are enormous,” Tess said, reaching for an excuse that never failed, “and perhaps I may catch myself a rich duke this time. I have no wish to go down the social scale rather than up.”
“Then you truly are limiting your options,” Joanna said sarcastically. To Tess’s relief she seemed to have swallowed this explanation. “Let me see,” her sister continued. “We need to find you a duke or a prince, old enough to die within a year or two so that his continued existence does not inconvenience you, sickly enough not to be interested in his marital rights and
