Page 35 of A Secure Marriage

Tomorrow, after she'd slept, she would think of what was best to do; emulate her husband and try to cut her losses, or try to go on.

* * *

But no amount of sleep or concentrated hard work helped her to reach a decision over her future. Her days fell into a pattern she hadn't the will to break. Always, after a solitary breakfast, Thornwood, drove her to Eastcheap and collected her at six. An evening working, her papers spread out on the table in the drawing-room, followed a lonely dinner which she forced herself to eat for the sake of her child. Sometimes Jude joined her for the meal and then shut himself away in his study for the rest of the evening, but more often than not he stayed away. He didn't say where he went, or what he was doing, and Cleo didn't ask. She didn't think she cared. There was no communication between them now, not even anger, and one day soon Cleo was going to have to answer the questions she could see building up behind Meg's eyes. The housek

eeper was fond of them both, particularly of Jude, and even if she hadn't sensed the frigid atmosphere—and she would have to be blind and deaf not to—she was well aware that they used separate bedrooms, that Jude left the house before eight each morning and was rarely back before midnight.

So sooner or later the questions would come, Meg wouldn't be able to help herself. And what could she answer? Cleo wondered tiredly. She could hardly tell Meg the truth, tell her that Jude had seen her sprawled out on the floor, semi-naked, with Robert Fenton, that he believed the child she carried was Fenton's!

It was the thought of the child that finally woke senses that had been entombed in a dull, unfeeling limbo. She had hoped to make her marriage a good thing, to teach him, eventually, to love her as she had loved him. But that hope had died and she'd be a fool if she ever thought of trying to bring it to life. And there was her unborn child to consider. No child could be expected to thrive in a house where its parents rarely met, hardly exchanged two words from one week to the next!

There would have to be a separation, or a divorce. Cleo didn't care which.

And if Jude wouldn't agree then she would just have to take matters into her own hands.- Move out, and soon.

Thus decided, she settled herself to wait for him. He had, apparently, told Meg he wouldn't be in for dinner, and as far as Cleo knew he hadn't yet spent the entire night away from home. But when the clock struck two in the morning she began to think there was a first time for everything, and it was then she heard the sound of the hall door closing, his footsteps, dragging, as if he were bone weary—or drunk.

Twenty-four hours ago she would have been able to face him with a dreary kind of equanimity. But her emergence from the limbo she had inhabited meant that her emotions were alive and kicking again, torturing her. All through the long waiting hours he had prowled through her mind. A silent, mistrustful, austere image. And, she had to face it, a much-loved image.

Despite everything, her love for him survived. He couldn't murder that.

Now, her legs shook weakly as she went to intercept him in the hall, and a hand went up to push tiredly at her hair as she told him, 'I must talk to you.'

'Now?' The hall was dimly lit at this hour, but she could see the lines of strain around his eyes, his mouth, the shadow of stubble that darkened his tautly fleshed jaw.

'I'm afraid so. It won't wait.' She turned back into the drawing-room, her heart beating heavily.' She half expected him to ignore her request, to carry on upstairs. He looked exhausted enough to fall into bed and sleep for twenty-four hours.

But he wasn't far behind her and she turned, watching him as he hooked a thumb under his tie, loosening it. And as he slopped brandy into a glass she wondered, for the first time, how he spent the evenings he stayed away from home, where he spent them, and with whom.

She wished she hadn't. Her mind conjured images she didn't want to begin to consider. And the surge of jealousy was painful, frightening.

'Well?' The question was put without any real interest, and that hurt. It was as if she were of no importance at all, something not to be considered, unless absolutely necessary.

She saw him empty his glass in one long swallow and snapped shrewishly,

'Do you need to drink like a fish?'

One dark eyebrow came up at that, but only slightly, as if her presence had registered, just a little, but was of no consequence. He turned to refill his glass, his voice cool. 'Need? Do you begin to know what I need?'

'No!' The response was pushed out of her on a gasp. 'I don't know. Not any more! But I do know this--'

She dragged in a deep, ragged breath, getting hold of herself again. She couldn't get through to him on any emotional level, not any more. And, having accepted that, the only sane thing to do was to keep cool, not allow him to know how her heart was beginning the painful process of breaking up again. If she could keep her dignity, and her pride, it would at least be something. JI know we can't go on like this,' she went on, her voice flat. 'The sort of marriage we have doesn't make any sense. The house is full of silence; you rarely speak. You're rarely at home—and your absences are unexplained. It's no atmosphere to bring up a child in.'

She sat down, too weary to stand now, her eyes pools of fatigue in the pale oval of her face, and Jude said slowly, 'Of course. The child.' His eyes drifted over her as if to find evidence of the new life. 'We mustn't forget the child.' He went to stand in front of the empty fireplace and the dry bitterness in his voice made her throat tighten. 'I am willing to accept the child, give it my name—regardless of whether it is mine or Fenton's. But' in exchange, I would prefer it if you didn't instigate divorce proceedings in the near future.

We can review the situation in a few years' time.'

Cleo became very still, If she moved now, or tried to speak, she knew she would go to pieces. That he wanted her to remain, legally, as his wife for a few more years meant only that he would prefer to keep up appearances.

How she felt, trapped in this bitter travesty of a marriage, was neither here nor there. Then he said, as if he had previously given the matter a great deal of thought, 'However, for the sake of sanity, it would be best if we lived largely apart. The absence of the inevitable tension would obviously be better for the child, too. There would be speculation, naturally,' he continued in the same judicial tone. 'But it would seem feasible that we might have decided it to be in the child's best interests to be brought up in the country. If you'll leave it in my hands I'll arrange everything. As it happens,' his eyes flickered to her stony face, 'Fiona mentioned a property for sale a mile or so away from her weekend cottage. I'll look into the possibilities.'

'Do that,' she choked, shocked by the way she was feeling—as if she had just received a death sentence! And she knew that, although she couldn't live with him, she couldn't live without him.

In a moment she might cry. But she wouldn't shed tears in front of him—in front of the remote, cold-eyed stranger he had become. And she pushed herself to her feet, her legs distinctly unsteady as they carried her to the door.

The expanse of carpeting had never seemed so wide, the privacy of her room so far away. But he was at the door before her, holding it open, telling her,

'I'll get something settled as quickly as possible. I'll keep you informed, of course, and you can vet any property 1 find that's suitable.'

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