Love Is Blind (34 page)

Clarissa waved her to silence. She had no desire to discuss her spectacles. She was suddenly too depressed to be bothered with explanations, and certainly didn't wish to hear any lame claims that they looked "nice" after the maid's initial response.

Joan hesitated, then remained silent on the subject as she took Clarissa's hand to steady her as she got into the bath. However, she caught the maid repeatedly peeking at the spectacles as she did.

With the truth of her spectacles no longer a secret, at least with Joan, Clarissa didn't insist on being left

alone to bathe, but allowed the maid to help her wash her hair. Once finished, Joan moved off to deal with what clothes she'd wear while Clarissa tried to relax in the water and read for a bit. It was difficult to relax, however. She was terribly aware the entire time that Joan continued to cast surreptitious glances her bespectacled way.

"Are they so ugly?" Clarissa asked finally, and Joan stiffened guiltily.

"What, my lady?" the maid asked.

"Am I so ugly in the spectacles?" Clarissa clarified. 'You looked horrified at first, and now keep staring at them."

"Oh, no, my lady," Joan assured her quickly. "I was not horrified. They look fine. I was just surprised. I did not realize that Lord Adrian had sent for a new pair. What you saw was surprise, not horror."

"Hmmm." Clarissa murmured doubtfully, then peered close at the maid. She'd seen the blond woman every day for the last few months, and her face was familiar, but still Clarissa was seeing new aspects now with the spectacles on. Joan was quite lovely— surprisingly so for a maid. But then, Clarissa supposed there was no reason a maid could not be beautiful. It just seemed to her that the prettier women tended to get better jobs, such as shop assistants. Shrugging, Clarissa set the matter aside and returned to her book, but found herself now too restless to enjoy it. She was made more self-conscious by her spectacles than she'd ever been about her nudity in front of the maid.

Setting her book aside with a sigh, Clarissa turned her attention to bathing, her mind worrying over what to do. The plan had been to wear the spectacles in front of Joan, and if that went well, wear them in front

of others. Unfortunately, it didn't seem to her that this had gone at all well.

Still, she would have to wear them in front of Adrian at some point, or spend the rest of her life mostly blind, with stolen moments here and there where she sneaked off to her room to wear them.

Clarissa grimaced at the idea. It sounded almost like being unfaithful. Besides, if her mother-in-law and Kibble were to be believed, Adrian was afraid she would find him unattractive if she saw him properly, and it seemed unkind to leave him with that opinion. She was going to have to wear them in front of him eventually. She'd always known that, of course, but would really rather delay a little bit longer.

Not much longer, Clarissa assured herself. It seemed to her that Adrian was actually growing attached to her. He'd certainly seemed worried about her, and relieved that she was recovering yesterday. But still...

"Coward," she muttered under her breath, and stood in the tub. Leaning forward to reach for the linen Joan had laid nearby, she paused when the maid rushed over to hand it to her. "Thank you," she said. Using the soft linen to quickly dry her upper body, Clarissa stepped out of the tub to dry her legs and feet before following Joan to the clothes the maid had set out for her.

Half an hour later, Clarissa was dressed and headed below; her hair still a tad damp and her spectacles still perched on her nose. She was trying to be brave about it, but wasn't at all sure she wouldn't snatch them off and hide them should she run into her husband.

One step at a time,
she told herself. Everything would be fine.

Lydia was alone in the breakfast room when she en-

tered
, but there were empty plates suggesting that her father and Adrian and possibly even Lady
Mowbray
had been in and gone. One look at her stepmother's face was enough to tell her why. Lydia had a face like thunder this morning. Clarissa sighed to herself, knowing it meant her stepmother was going to be difficult. She almost turned and slipped back out of the room, but Lydia had seen her, and escaping now would have been rude.

"I see you have spectacles." Lydia smiled unkindly as Clarissa walked to the sideboard to fill a plate with food from the offerings there. "They must have arrived this morning. Have you seen your husband with them yet? Do you now realize what you have cursed yourself to with your
oudandish
behavior? Are you miserable now?"

Clarissa allowed the questions to wash over her as she filled her plate. It wasn't until after she'd made her way to the table, sat down, opened and spread a napkin on her lap, and picked up her fork that she finally said,
"I
have had the spectacles since the day before my wedding, Lydia."

Silence filled the room at her announcement, and Clarissa took the opportunity to get a bite or two of food into her mouth. She was lifting a third forkful to her lips when Lydia finally snapped out of her surprise.

"You married him knowing how horrid he looks?" Lady
Crambray
asked. "My God! Are you mad? How can you stand for him to touch you?"

Sighing, Clarissa lowered her fork. "Actually, Lydia, I not only married Adrian knowing how he looked; I knew how he looked before he ever kissed me or made love to me. I saw him the first night at the ball when he danced with me. Every time he bent close to hear what

I said, I caught a glimpse of his face." Clarissa met her stepmother's gaze head-on. "I found him attractive then, and find him attractive still. I am sorry you do not. But then, you are not the one who married him."

She began to eat, aware that Lydia was staring at her once more. Her stepmother was eyeing her as if she were a puzzle she was unable to make out.

'You are actually happy with him," Lydia finally said, wonderingly. And then, sounding bewildered, she asked, "How can you be happy with him?"

Clarissa lifted her head, sadly eyeing the woman across the table from her. Lydia truly did not seem to understand.

"Because he is good and kind," she explained softly, then went on. "Because he treats me like a princess. Because he makes me laugh. Because he makes me happy. Because he took the trouble to read to me when I could not read to myself. Because he fed me and gave me wine when I could not eat or drink at balls. Because when he kisses me my toes curl, and when he makes love to me I cannot contain my passion."

Oddly enough, Lydia's reaction to these words was to pale and blanch as if Clarissa had struck her. Then several other emotions crossed her face: anger, resentment, envy, confusion. Finally, she simply looked lost and dejected.

Clarissa pondered the woman's reaction, as she took up her fork and returned her attention to her food. Several moments passed before Lydia recovered
suffi
ciently
to go on the attack again; then she asked, "Has he seen you with your spectacles on? I bet he has not. I have not noticed you wearing them before this. Does he dislike them then?"

Swallowing the food in her mouth, Clarissa set her

fork and knife down on either side of her plate. She then dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, set it back in her lap, folded her hands neatly together, raised her eyes back to Lydia, and did what she should have done several years ago. She asked, "Why do you want so much for me to be miserable? Why do you hate me so?"

Jerking in her seat as if slapped, Lydia said, "Do not be ridiculous. You are my stepdaughter. I do not hate you."

"But you do wish me to be miserable."

"Life is miserable, Clarissa," the woman said harshly. "All those dreams you have of children and happiness? A loving husband and home? Forget them. Fate is a fickle bitch, and even when she gives you what you think you want, you soon learn you have nothing at all. It is better to learn while young how hard life can be than to grow up soft and coddled and have it taught to you in heartbreak."

Clarissa stared at her stepmother silently, feeling as if she were very close to understanding. After a moment she asked, "Were you soft and coddled, Lydia?"

"Oh, yes." She gave a brittle laugh. "I was spoiled beyond imagining. Anything I wanted I could have. Anything I needed was there,"

"Until you married my father," Clarissa guessed.

Lydia stared down at her plate. After a pause, she said quietly, "I wanted him from the moment I saw him. I saw how he was with your mother and—"

'You knew him while my mother was alive?" Clarissa asked with surprise.

Lydia nodded, her downward gaze almost ashamed. "They loved each other so. I envied your mother. When she died, I thought, 'Brilliant! Now it is my turn.' And I went after him."

Her hand moved to her teacup, and she gave a short laugh. "Oh, not outright, of course. I was there to comfort and soothe him, to murmur sympathetically about how hard it must be for you without a mother. How hard for him, too. You needed someone to guide you into womanhood, especially after the scandal. And raising a child alone and running a household must be a terrible burden alone."

"And he married you," Clarissa said
quiedy
. She recalled that Lydia had been kind to her upon first arriving at
Crambray
. They had laughed a time or two. And then, slowly, she had withdrawn and grown cool, then cold, then downright unpleasant. Not just with Clarissa, but with everyone.

'Yes. He married me," Lydia said miserably. "As I say, I always got what I wanted."

"But you didn't, did you?" Clarissa said with realization. "Because you did not really want my father; you wanted the sort of relationship he and my mother had."

'Yes," Lydia said wearily, then gave a wry smile. "You always were a clever girl. Had I been half so clever, I would not have ruined my own life." Sighing, she ran a hand over her hair, then shook her head. "Oh, he is good and kind in his distant way, but I felt nothing when he kissed me. This toe curling and
uhcontain
-able passion you speak of is alien to me. I blamed him for it. He married me to mother you and run his home, and that was all he really cared about. You were the daughter of his precious Margaret, and he showed you more affection, attention, and consideration than he ever showed me, his wife.

"But I could have lived with that," she went on
quiedy
. "Most marriages are simply business arrangements.
  
I
 
could
 
have
 
been
 
content with
  
his mild

affection and lack of interest if only I had borne children of my own. But that never happened." Her hand tightened around the teacup handle until her knuckles were white, and Clarissa feared she might snap it with her anger. "I have been with your father for many years with no sign of a child."

Clarissa's eyes went blurry even with her spectacles on, and she realized they were filled with tears of empathy. Blinking the tears away, she cleared her throat and said, 'You had me. I would have been your daughter."

"I did not want you," Lydia said harshly, and her eyes were hard; then she looked away with shame. "I am sorry, Clarissa, but you were full grown when I came to
Crambray
. A woman already, formed in personality and attitudes ... and an exact replica of your mother, who'd had the marriage I wanted but could not seem to have." She grimaced and shook her had. "I wanted what your mother, Margaret, had: a husband to love and cherish me, and a baby of my own. My own daughter to look like me and to spoil and coddle."

Clarissa nodded slowly. "And I am sure my mother would have liked what you had."

Lydia blinked in confusion. "What is it I have that she did not?"

"Her health," Clarissa said. "Mother was always frail and ill. She did not have the strength to do much. A slight chill could make her ill for days. And all our love could not keep her healthy and alive."

A flash of shame sparked in Lydia's eyes, and she looked away, her mouth going tight.

"I am not telling you this to humiliate you," Clarissa said quickly. "I am telling you that, with all she had that you want, she did not have it all. Perhaps no one does."

Lydia turned slowly back, curiosity replacing her shame. "Was she happy?"

Clarissa sighed and glanced into the past, recalling her mother's laughter and smiles despite how ill she often got. Margaret
Crambray
had never shown how wearying it must have been for her, or how frustrating. She had been unendingly cheerful and smiling through all her ailments. It was why they had loved her so.

"I think a part of her must have been terribly unhappy," Clarissa said finally. "I know I should have found it frustrating myself. However, she never showed it. Mother once told me that happiness is a choice. If you choose to mope and be glum, you shall be; but if you wish to be happy and determine to enjoy what life has to offer, then you can have that as well.

"She said that nothing is all good or all bad, that life offers everyone a mix of both—though sometimes it does not seem so, and bad is all we can see in our lives, while in the lives of others we see only good and feel envy. She said we must enjoy the good despite the bad, else life can beat us down and leave us hopeless, and that is no way to live."