Sweet Awakening by Marjorie Farrell

her.
    “Whatever were you and Lynton laughing at over dinner, my dear?”
    “Oh, he kept me entertained from beginning to end with one foolish story after another about the army,” she answered.
    “I see. And your hand on his arm? Was that in response to his good humor?”
    “Why, Justin! I do believe you are jealous.” Clare laughed.
    “Why was your hand resting so long on his arm, Clare?” Justin demanded in a hard voice that Clare had never heard before.
    “You are not teasing me, are you, Justin? You are quite serious,” she said, wonderingly.
    “I assure you, I am.”
    “I hardly remember why. I think it was that I accused him of glossing over the reality of a campaign, and for a moment or two, I could sense the pain beneath his laughter. And he is so young to be in the middle of a war. It was a natural gesture of sympathy, I assure you.” Clare could still not quite believe that her husband was upset.
    Justin took a deep, ragged breath and then said, in his own familiar voice: “Forgive me, Clare. You are so warmhearted, of course you would be touched by his situation. Who would not be?”
    “Justin, you could not really think that the lieutenant held any attraction for me?”
    “Why not? He is young and handsome in that uniform.”
    “He is a boy, Justin. And you are a man. The only man for me,” she added quietly. “The man I love with all my heart.”
    “Forgive me, darling, for my moment of madness?” her husband said, putting his arm around her and pulling her to his side.
    “There is nothing to forgive, Justin. I know you only said it because you love me,” she answered, all her tension drained away as she cuddled against him.
    That night, her husband’s lovemaking was more gentle and at the same time, more passionate than ever, and Clare marveled that even after six weeks of marriage and a minor disagreement, their love, which had seemed perfect that first night, was only becoming stronger.
    * * * *
    Giles had known that Clare’s wedding would be torture, but he had hoped that if he could take the pain of seeing her as Rainsborough’s bride, then he would have faced the worst and could begin to recover. As he drove down to Whitton, however, seated next to Sabrina, he realized how often he had fantasized Clare beside him. How he had dreamed about this summer. She would have accepted his proposal and come down to Whitton for her first visit as his fiancée. They would have walked and fished and ridden and accepted the congratulations of their neighbors and friends. They would have ... Giles clenched his fists as he replayed the scene. They would have kissed again. He had gone so slowly with Clare, this Season, and then, suddenly, there was Rainsborough.
    Giles spent much of the journey looking out the coach window, and Sabrina could get no more than one-word answers from him, no matter what topic she raised. She was very aware of his pain. All their lives they had shared a special wordless communication, sensing each other’s slightest change of mood. Had it been any other than Clare who had hurt him, Sabrina would have pushed and prodded Giles until she got him to open up to her. But this pain was so deep and so private, that she couldn’t speak, but just sat in silent agony herself, hoping that time, the great healer, would work its way with her brother.
    The first weeks home were the worst of Giles’s life. He was up early in the morning, either riding or tramping the hills for hours. In the afternoon, he closeted himself in the library, losing himself in his study of Persian. He had become quite an Orientalist at Oxford, and had translated several poets. His reputation had followed him down from university, and the Home Office often called upon him for translation of various messages, official and otherwise. He thanked God for his interest now, for trying to find the right phrase in English to fully express a poet’s intention was the only thing that kept his mind off Clare.
    After