She picked up her discarded clothes and began to dress, at a loss for what to do. It wasn’t in her nature not to insist on having her way, but she couldn’t chase Jasper down and demand he speak with her. She didn’t want to drive him off more than she already had and risk losing the warmth of his touch or the joy of his company. Assuming it wasn’t fading already, or perhaps something she’d never really possessed.
She clutched her chemise to her chest, Mrs Fairley’s words about her not really knowing him coming back to her. The modiste was right—after nine years apart, there were aspects of Jasper still hidden from her, including his full life in Savannah. He might have come home, but it didn’t mean his heart wasn’t with someone there. He’d done nothing before to make her suspect another woman, but catching cheaters wasn’t her strength.
She shimmied into her stays, reached around behind her and began to lace them up, pulling so hard on the laces she feared they might snap. She refused to be left alone and forgotten by the one man who’d pledged before their family and friends to cherish her, but if his heart lay elsewhere, there was little she could do to secure it. If she pestered him too much for affection and confidences he didn’t want to give, then one day she might awake to discover him gone, the way his brother had disappeared to Scotland.
She let go of the laces and slumped down on the edge of the bed. They might be married, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t leave her. Not even a ring or a ceremony could bind him to her if he didn’t want to be bound. He must still have friends in America. He could go back and make a new life for himself while leaving her here to wonder when and if he might ever return. Being abandoned would be a bigger embarrassment than never having married.
She rose and jerked on her dress. Let him leave me. The marriage gave her the freedom to engage in trade without censure. Except it was no longer an occupation she wanted without Jasper. He did care about her, he always had. His kiss had been as honest as his caresses, but something had changed between them over the last couple of days and she wasn’t sure what it was or why.
Sadly, she had no idea how to cross this new barrier or bring out the man she’d met at the altar, and there was no one she could discuss it with. He’d sworn her to secrecy about their life together so she could hardly have tea with Laura and ask for advice. She’d have to figure this out on her own. She rose to finish dressing, trying to keep her chin and her spirits up. She would be sensible about this. They were married and would be together every day. She’d find a way to pry his troubles from him and banish them so they never came between them again, despite the sickening feeling this was darker and deeper than she was prepared to face. Give her contracts or loans any day. She could handle those, but things like emotions and marital relations left her baffled.
* * *
Hearty laughter drifted in from the gaming room, making Jasper look up from signing debts. Jasper couldn’t share in his clients’ joy, not with his missteps with Jane and the unopened letter staring at him. After he’d left her, he’d paid a call on the solicitor, treating the man to a fine dinner while enticing him to work for the club. When Jasper had ordered a second bottle of wine, he’d tried to convince himself it was to woo the man, but it wasn’t the real reason he’d chosen to dine out. It was to avoid Jane.
Facing her before dawn after Lord Fenton’s visit had been difficult. He hadn’t meant to be short with her, but he’d needed peace and a chance to ponder things. It was difficult to do with her so close and insistent on asking him what was wrong. Better she remain ignorant of the workings of the hell in case real trouble descended on them.
Then, when all had been well this afternoon, and he’d held her in his arms thinking their early morning troubles were over, the letter had reared its ugly head. He should’ve been more cordial in addressing her concerns, but his mind had turn to brick when she’d handed him the letter. The more sleep he lost, the harder it was for him to maintain control, the way it had been impossible for Uncle Patrick to remain calm when Jasper had demanded he do right by Mr Robillard.
Jasper closed his eyes, still able to see Uncle Patrick standing across from him in the old Savannah gaming room, his full face as red as his ruby ring.
‘You’re choosing that spineless planter over me after everything I’ve done for you?’
‘What you’re doing isn’t right and you know it.’
‘Now you’re the moralist? You didn’t mind taking his money before and spending it on your fancy house and fine things, did you?’
The anguish of facing the man he’d once admired, his image of him warped like a bad mirror by his experiences, still burned. Everything he’d believed and cultivated about himself and his life in Savannah had died in that moment.
He opened his eyes. The letter sat before him on the blotter. He couldn’t ignore it any longer.
He tore it open and unfolded the paper to read Mrs Robillard’s words.
Dear Mr Charton,
I am writing to inform you my eldest son, Jackson, has decided to apprentice with a doctor in Boston. As you might imagine, the cost is beyond what I am able to afford.
I am grateful for the assistance you continue to provide to me and my children. I appeal to you to forward these additional funds to allow Jackson to set himself up in the world, as you are the one who helped pull his father down. I have included the amount and where it should be sent.
I look forward to your prompt reply.
Mrs Robillard
Jasper set the missive on the blotter. Despite everything Jasper had done for her and her children, her hate showed in every word. Unlike his uncle, he recognised how much he deserved it.
He wrote a note to Mr Steed to send the requested money and a little more for Jackson’s living expenses. It was the right thing to do, even if no amount could ever undo the damage he and Uncle Patrick had wrought or the way it still haunted him.
Mr Bronson knocked once, then entered, less jovial than usual. ‘Not a very lucrative night for us.’
Jasper’s pen stilled over the paper. He glanced at the paintings adorning the walls. They weren’t reproductions, his uncle having acquired most of them in payment for debts. They were a safeguard against too many losses. Most men might come here for business connections instead of cards, but it didn’t mean Jasper’s fortunes couldn’t change the same way Mr Robillard’s had. He’d made rules against how much a client could lose, but not the amount they could win. ‘Anything I should be concerned about?’
‘No, just Mr Portland enjoying a good run of luck. They never last. I don’t expect his to.’
‘Let’s hope not.’ Jasper sealed the note to his solicitor, not as cavalier about Mr Portland’s winning streak as Mr Bronson, especially when a cheer rattled the paintings behind him. Part of him hoped Mr Portland’s good fortune held. If he won enough to bankrupt this place it might be a godsend, forcing Jasper out of this life and all contact with it for good. Except without the income from the hell he couldn’t pay for Jackson Robillard’s future, his employees’ or Jane’s.
‘Something wrong?’ Mr Bronson asked.
‘I received a letter from Mrs Robillard.’
Mr Bronson nodded, needing no explanation. He’d been there and seen everything.
Jasper sat back and laced his hands over his stomach. ‘Tell me, if the quarantine hadn’t been imposed and Uncle Patrick hadn’t fallen ill, could I have convinced him to return Mr Robillard’s plantation?’
Mr Bronson took his pipe out of his pocket and tapped the bowl against his palm. ‘I like to think regaining your good opinion meant more to him than being king of