Page 113 of A Contracted Spouse for the Prizefighter

“Perhaps he feels about music hall as you do about the theatre,” Clem had suggested when Felix opened his mouth and looked about to utter something scathing.

He could see his brother-in-law wanted to scoff at this but did not quite dare. “Thought Henrietta looked a little better when I caught sight of her this morning,” Fields said, changing the subject.

“Yes,” agreed Allsop quickly. “Clearly coming home has done her much good.”

Clem made his escape not long after as the two men discussed Henrietta’s improved health. He could not listen to it. Ever since Henrietta had returned to the bosom of her family, Clem’s feeling of impending disaster had been almost overwhelming. Even a chance remark falling from Dora’s sister’s lips could betray the role he had played in pulling the wool over his wife’s eyes.

He just did not know what to do for the best. Should he confront Henrietta and cajole or bribe her into holding her peace? What would be the point when it would all come to light eventually? Whenever that happened, whether it was sooner or later, he would appear as the villain of the piece. The vile deceiver who had been stringing Dora along from the very beginning.

Fuck, he should have told her from the very start. But if he had done that, she would never have married him in the first fucking place. He wished to God that Henrietta had never come back from the continent. If only that bastard Hillingdon had married her as he had promised, then he, Clem, would not be in this position.

No, that was not true. Even if she had stayed in France for five years, at some point she would have written to her siblings and disclosed that she had sold her shares. He could not have gotten away with his perfidy forever. Still, it was a bitter pill to swallow. He struggled to look sympathetic when Dora gave him updates on how Henrietta was doing.

Luckily, Dora had not noticed his attitude for she was so busy of late, distracted by her preoccupation with her sister and the increasing demand for her at work. Already her stage time had been officially increased from thirty to forty minutes and he was starting to think he should just give her and Lil a full hour. Once they had performed their encores they were on the stage for that amount of time in any case. Give the punters whatthey want had always been his philosophy and it was clear they wanted her.

Dora had already penned two more sketches and a whole bunch of adapted song lyrics. The amount of time she spent scribbling in her notebook, he would not be surprised if she had enough material already for a new sketch every week. He knew she would leap at the chance of more stage time. She seemed to blossom in front of an audience. She thrived there.

Dora Dabney the performer was not the one keeping him awake at night with strange anxieties. No, that was Dora Dabney, his wife. His wife who might not be able to find it in her heart to forgive him when she found out what a scheming swine he was. What a viper she had nurtured in her bosom.

He paused a moment outside the sitting room, bracing himself before he opened the door and walked in. He found Dora sat bolt upright and frowning heavily over a pile of fabric scraps. “What are you doing?” he asked, crossing to the cabinet, and reaching for a fresh box of sweets.

When at her leisure, he liked to see his wife curled up on a velvet couch, enthusiastically scribbling away and eating luxurious bonbons, not plying a needle and thread over some murky colored garment.

“Trying to put this gown together,” she admitted sounding defeated. “I could almost cry with frustration! It’s my own fault of course for I started it over two months ago and then abandoned it. Now I can scarcely fathom how it is supposed to even fit together.”

Clem removed the lid and set a box of marzipan fruits before her. “Why should you?” he asked coolly. “You have better ways of employing your time these days. Let me hire a professional seamstress to work up your patterns. There are hundreds of them about this city.”

Dora’s eyes flashed with surprise and Clem returned to the cabinet to fix some drinks. “I suppose that is an option,” she said slowly. “I confess I never considered such a thing before, because, well the expense involved, but now I am earning such a high wage …”

Dora had been overjoyed and incredulous on receiving her first pay packet. Clem had been forced to point out that he currently paid Florrie Foss ten percent more before she would accept the payment could be correct.

“You should let me buy you some new bolts of fabrics too, while you’re at it,” Clem commented, replacing the stopper on a bottle of blackcurrant liqueur. “I’ve never understood why you always wear such dull shades, the browns and greens. They don’t suit your personality at all.”

He carried one of the delicate glasses and set it down before her. “You should be clothed in bold, dazzling color, Dora … emerald greens, ruby reds, and sapphire blues.” He had no idea where all this was coming from, but as he uttered the words, he realized every single one was true.

Dora’s lips parted. “Clem …” she breathed.

“Why don’t you let me? You can keep your patterns and your principles, just bring some color into the picture.”

“But that’s just it,” Dora answered looking sincere. “There is a reason I only wear those kinds of colors. Vegetable dyes just do not come in those bold shades.”

Clem braced himself. “And just why is it that you limit yourself to fabrics dyed with vegetables?” he asked, preparing himself for whatever involved reason Dora undoubtedly had.

“Well, I have heard there are health benefits for wearing only naturally dyed fibers against your skin,” she said earnestly, “but mostly because I am not sure that all these factories and new manufacturing methods are better than the traditional ways.”

Clem’s eyebrows shot up. “This is the way the world is headed, Dora. A few woolly-headed idealists won’t halt the progress of industrialization.”

She caught her breath and regarded him a moment with an oddly frozen look in her expressive eyes. “Do you think me woolly-headed, then?” she asked abruptly.

To his annoyance, Clem felt uncomfortable answering her straight. He knew damn well she wasn’t supposed to call him out like that. Ladies were hampered by all kinds of unspoken social rules. They were supposed to tiptoe around conversational subjects when it came to engaging in them with men, using words like perhaps and might and would you mind terribly.”

Theo might be unconventional, but she was still gently reared at the end of the day. She knew social convention better than the likes of him. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps a little naive,” he admitted and saw her grow very still. She didn’t like that, but damn it all, what was he supposed to do, lie about it?

“I see,” she said quietly and, to his discomfort, just withdrew into herself in front of him. He didn’t know how else to describe it. He watched her covertly as she gathered up her cut outs and folded them into a neat pile. Carrying his own drink to the opposite couch, he sat down and tried to ignore her.

She had turned her face toward the fire and was gazing into it now in perfect abstraction. It was the damnedest thing. Her expression was not stony in the least; she did not harangue him or argue or protest her cause. He almost wished she would, for he would know how to react to that. Instead, she simply retired from the field with a vague air of … yes, disappointment. For fucks sake.

It should not bother him, he told himself, frowning as he took a swig of whiskey. It did not bother him, he corrected himself testily. What kind of fool would prefer his wife to fly into a temper then clam up whenever they had a difference of opinion?