Innocence and Carnality

by J. Alan Veerkamp

  “We had a schedule to keep. We didn’t have time to spare.”

  It was difficult to keep from raising my voice with the venom fueling it. “I’m being shoved around from place to place, relocating to another country without knowing a soul.”

  “Which is why I agreed to Harston accompanying you.”

  “He’s my valet. It’s not the same thing.”

  “I don’t understand the problem.”

  “My difficulties have nothing to do with Harston. I’ve just been married and am now being taken away to a foreign land without discussion. I’m doing my best to maintain myself, but when do you expect me to have a chance to adjust to this?”

  Rother’s brow creased. “I’d have thought you’d be happy to be away from your father.”

  “I should be.” To make my point, I closed the gap between us so every enunciation would be felt on his face. “I would be… if my opinion or interests had been consulted at any point, in any form. I’m not an idiot. I knew someday my marriage would be arranged. It’s the way of the world. But the way this was handled…. Every moment of this has been orchestrated by him. By you. In the course of two days, you’ve swept in and upheaved me out of my life without so much as a ‘by your leave.’ And my father couldn’t tell me to pack my bags fast enough.

  “In the end, I believe this is an improvement, but I’ve still lost the only home and family I’ve ever known. Allow me a small chance to grieve.”

  A subtle shift of understanding came over Rother as he stepped back. His shoulders dropped a fraction, which was probably the closest to chagrined I might see from the man. He averted his eyes as a tiny frown marred his lips.

  “I suppose asking you to remain silent is out of the question.”

  “I think it’s a little late for that. You’re the one who asked what was wrong.” I felt better now I’d voiced my issues, but doing so ran against my grain. Some things were simply not done in public, even if I’d broken my own rules recently.

  Rother sighed. “I suppose I did. I’ve been accused of being shortsighted when I’m focused. Being driven in business is an asset to success, but perhaps less so in matrimony. We’ll be in Marisol in the morning. Once we’re there, perhaps we’ll be able to start fresh.”

  Given how self-involved Rother appeared to be, I imagined this was his version of an apology. Although I had to admit, a fresh start sounded good. Once in his homeland, I would hope he’d be more forthcoming and less distracted. Clearly, my homeland vexed him.

  “Why do you hate Deilia so much?”

  “I don’t hate Deilia. I despise the class hierarchy your people cling to so tightly. Monarchs, lords, and ladies, all born to power as if it’s divine right. The people with the most, do the least to earn it.”

  While I didn’t acknowledge his version of the truth, I was somewhat appalled. I was one of those people he gathered into his mass dismissal, and I found myself reacting with sarcasm. “Next you’ll tell me you don’t employ servants in Marisol.”

  “Of course we do. But we don’t base our social standing on it the way Deilian society does. A poor man isn’t forced to stay so forever. He has the opportunity to improve himself. The whole country leaves me with an unpleasant taste. I can’t leave fast enough.”

  “I’d say you set some kind of record getting out.”

  “You being the exception, I look forward to ridding myself of anything Deilian. Probably more than you’re looking to be rid of that belt.”

  My face heated at the mention of the belt. “You’ve clearly never been forced to wear one. Given our conversation in the stagecoach, I’m surprised I’m still wearing it.”

  A small grin curled his mouth and his eyes darkened. Rother stepped forward, crowding me as his words took a husky tenor.

  “The belt intrigues me. It sharpens my anticipation. I want our first time together to be special. The idea of being the one to introduce you to the sensual arts tests my patience, but I’m not going to ruin it for either of us. When I unwrap my prize—and make no mistake, you are the most delicious prize—I want you to enjoy yourself enough to crave more.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. I found myself flustered, as I did when he advanced on me. It took all my self-control to center my breathing. For a man I barely knew, he was skilled at unsettling me in unfamiliar ways.

  Rother’s heated breath singed my neck and ear. “You deserve to have your first time be a pleasurable exploration, not a painful fumbling in a nobleman’s coach to be tossed out afterwards with a handful of coins.”

  The phrase struck me as odd. Confused, I leaned back so I could look into his eyes.

  “To which nobleman’s coach are you referring?”

  The lusty visage sobered; his whole expression blanked. Rother stepped out of my space and stood tall. It was ironic how his renewed stance was reminiscent of the Deilian nobles he scorned so openly.

  “It’s getting late. I hope your private cabin is to your liking. I look forward to seeing you in the morning. Good night, Nathan.” Rother turned and walked away, leaving me alone once again.

  Chapter 4

  SOMEHOW, I managed a modicum of fitful sleep. Anticipation and the strange accommodations made for troublesome bed partners. I hadn’t slept outside my own bed, my own home, in years. Travel for me had ended after the apothecarian’s report had become public knowledge. One couldn’t have the family shame strutting around the continent. What would the other houses think?

  No doubt the lack of rest helped feed the rising tension in my chest as the airship lost altitude and Marisol’s vibrant coastline rose to greet us. The propellers’ roar softened as we slowed and men dropped lengths of chain to the dock, using them to guide our clockwork balloon into landing. Each man knew his task, preforming without instruction, yet I found no comfort in their experience. The guardrail refused to crack no matter how hard I squeezed.

  Rother placed a hand over mine, urging me to relax my grip. “Ease down, Nathan. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.”

  “It’s just another country.”

  “Far, far away from home.”

  “I have no doubt you’ll come to think of Marisol as home soon enough.” Rother hovered close, keeping a respectful presence since our talk last night. The trip had unsettled me, but having him near anchored me somewhat.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Learn to trust me. It will make everything much easier.”

  It was a reasonable request. The least I could do was make the attempt. The first step required me releasing the rail. My hands had begun to ache.

  Rother stayed near as the airship was fixed to its moorings and the exit bridge hoisted into position. As we prepared to depart, he held out his hand to me. I stopped and stared at his palm in confusion. Rother didn’t actually think I would take his hand and walk down the aisle in front of all these people, did he? With a slight frown, he dropped his hand, and I felt as if I’d offended him somehow. Surely even he understood that being a lord did not exempt one from inappropriate displays in public. I followed him off the vessel with Harston and Blythe in close tow.

  “Stay with Blythe and Harston. I’m going to secure us a carriage.”

  Rother didn’t have to tell me twice. I was afraid to move in the cacophony, unprepared for how chaotic the station would be as one wave of passengers found their way to shore as the next prepared to board and depart.

  Blythe sent Harston to collect our luggage, staying nearby as he checked each piece for damage. I refused to explore. The crowd didn’t scare me, but their clothing and boisterous manner reminded me I was the strange one here. In Deilia, even disgraced I sat near the top of the hierarchy. Here no one noticed me with any reverence beyond a quick glance, scanning my clothing top to bottom and flitting away. My Deilian garments were conservative in comparison to the rest, highlighting how out of place I was in this city.

  With all of this going on, only one person took
the time to approach me.

  “Spare a coin or two, sir? A warm meal would be a treat.”

  The man appeared to be near my father’s age, dressed in ratty clothes and shuffling with each step. Perhaps he suffered an illness, leaving him disabled? Rank of scent, his skin bore dark, filthy smudges, making me wonder when was the last time he’d been able to bathe. Everything about this man screamed of need, and I was raised to help the unfortunate.

  Before I could reach out, Blythe stepped into the man’s space, forcing him backward with his bulky frame.

  “Bugger off.”

  The beggar took one look at Blythe and scampered off with much more agility than I’d believed possible. I suppose fear was a heavy motivator. Blythe continued to glare at the man until he vanished into the sea of people.

  My indignation shook me out of my stupor.

  “You’re awfully heartless. You’d deny alms for the poor?”

  Blythe snorted out loud, far too amused by my question. “Poor? He’s not poor.”

  “How would you know?”

  “He was here when Rother and I left. His type haunt this place. Travelers have money and tourists don’t know better.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You’re telling me he dressed up as a vagrant on purpose? That’s ridiculous. Why would anyone do such a thing?”

  “Were you going to ask me to give him money?”

  I hadn’t been on Marisol soil long enough to convert anything over into the country’s currency, so his assumption, accurate though it may have been, grated me. Although I wasn’t about to tell him so.

  Blythe huffed in satisfaction. “That’s a yes. Add that to the fifty other sods he bilks before sunset. Every day for a season.”

  A quick calculation in my head brought about a staggering number. Again, I kept my revelation to myself.

  “Like I said. He’s a beggar. Not a pauper.”

  Crossing my arms, I turned away, pretending to find the milling crowd of renewed interest. I didn’t appreciate being made to look foolish by the help.

  Harston arrived with the last of our cases. His eyes narrowed as he glanced between us. “Is everything all right?”

  I forced a smile. “Everything’s fine. Blythe has been educating me on some of Marisol’s less savory practices.”

  Harston dropped the case in front of Blythe, scant inches from his feet. “Why am I not surprised after what I heard back in Deilia?”

  “What happened in Deilia?”

  Blythe only gave Harston a wide grin, his scar twisting it into something far more devious. Harston said nothing as they went about their business, purposely ignoring my question.

  I left it alone. I had my own issues to deal with.

  Weaving through the thinning mob, Rother found his way back to us. He paused in front of me, keeping an acceptable distance between us, for appearances. I appreciated his skill at reading my cues.

  “Would you care to take a walk through the city?”

  “I’d love to. But what about our luggage?”

  “I’ve arranged to have the station load it all onto the carriage. They’ll take good care of it. We have plenty of time. There’s no hurry.”

  “A stroll through town would be nice. I’d like to know more about my new home.”

  WITH ITS long stretches of coastline, Marisol was a destination for businessmen and travelers alike. The deeper into the city we went, the more varied the population. The same menagerie of merchants, businessmen, and pedestrians walked the street as I would have found in Deilia. The differences were in the details.

  The Marisolian standard for dress was bolder, more colorful than anything allowed by Deilian principles of decency. I thought Rother might be an aberration, with his outfits bordering on costumery, but I was wrong. Marisol was like living theater, dramatic and grandiose.

  I found it garish, as one man dressed in a colorful patterned waistcoat and bowler shouted in greeting to another across the street, waving wildly. Neither man appeared dirty or uneducated. No other passersby noticed or seemed to care about the spectacle they were making.

  This country confounded me.

  I welcomed Rother’s decision to stop for lunch. Strung tight as a clock spring, I’d barely eaten in the last two days. My appetite finally made a reappearance once I’d relaxed enough, and I couldn’t have held out much longer.

  The café was charming, if not the most meticulous. The decor was dark and sumptuous yet strangely cozy. All the wrought iron and stone sported flaws softened by lush fabrics. It lacked the grandeur to which I was accustomed—it was hardly a luncheon at high court—but Rother sat back in total comfort. While he had chosen a private table for two, I found it disconcerting to find Blythe and Harston at a separate table, eating with all of us in the main dining room. Such a thing would be unheard of at home. The staff had their own space to dine, out of sight of the family, yet no one objected here. I felt very out of place in this rustic environment.

  “Marisol is a lovely country, no?” Rother asked.

  Even through the picture window’s flawed glass, I had a clear view of the city. “It certainly is colorful.”

  “Is that a positive reaction?”

  I turned away from my view of the street and faced my husband. Relaxed and handsome, he looked at home. “I hope so.”

  “Once you learn to relax, you’ll embrace the differences. Lean back in your chair already. You look uncomfortable.”

  I sat upright, my back not touching the splat of my seat. My learned posture was considered a sign of breeding and manners. Slouching in a chair marked a man of laziness, something forbidden to me as long as I could remember. Although Rother wasn’t mannerless. In fact, he held himself quite well, but lacked the refinement Deilian society held in high regard. It’s why my father’s acceptance shocked me.

  “It will require more than one full day and a half as your spouse to unlearn a lifetime of manners. You could stand to meet me somewhere in between.”

  A wicked gleam sparked Rother’s eye. “Am I too coarse for your prim standards?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  Rother scraped his chair backward and stood up high on the seat. The other patrons all looked our way as he clasped his hands over his heart.

  “Oh pray tell, should I confess to these fine folk my husband finds me a vulgar boor?”

  “Rother, stop!” I hissed. “Everyone is staring!”

  “Whatever shall I do? However shall I survive?” He projected his voice as he gestured with all the dramatic flourish of an amateur thespian. The chair legs tilted and clapped on the floor as his weight shifted back and forth. I wanted to grab his arms and drag him down to earth.

  “Be careful before you fall!”

  As much as I hated being mocked, the spectacle I foresaw was much worse. Rother bounced to the floor, leaning over the table with his hands poised before me. With a rakish smile, his voice darkened.

  “You’re the only one about to fall, my dear.”

  Chuckles from the other diners softened into silence as he righted himself in his chair. I flitted my gaze around, but everyone had gone back to their meals, as we were no longer of interest. Once again, my face flamed in his presence. If I didn’t learn to control my reactions, it would be a difficult marriage indeed.

  “A little discretion would be in order, I think.” Unlike my husband, I lowered my voice so only he and I could hear.

  “About what?”

  “You’re shouting out about our marriage—”

  “You’re not in Deilia anymore. No one cares about the betrothal of men here.”

  I resisted the urge to look around. “You’re sure?”

  “Passion is the basic tenet of Marisol. Enjoy what the world has to offer. While we may not be obsessed with precision aesthetics as in Deilia, we understand the pleasure involved in all things. Our styles are looser, perhaps more extravagant, but no less beautiful. If it’s not enjoyable, why waste your time with it?�
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  I imagined an entire country of men and women acting out their every whim without strict rules of decorum to follow. How could it result in anything but chaos?

  “It sounds like a recipe for hedonism.”

  Rother chuckled. “From your viewpoint, I imagine it does.”

  I didn’t have time to respond before the portly woman who served us returned with our lunch, carrying an overloaded tray on one hand. After setting a steaming bowl in front of each of us, she placed a small basket of dense bread and a carafe of wine on the table.

  The stew looked hearty in its simple crafted bowl, and I tried to ignore the scuffs and scratches on the unpolished silverware. Rother wasted no time pouring us each a glass of red wine and diving into his meal.

  “Go on. Eat.” It was unsurprising that he spoke with a mouthful of stew.

  I stamped down my unease and dipped my spoon into my dish. The scent was bold and rich, unlike my usual fare. There was nothing offensive about the rough chunks of meat and potatoes on my utensil, so I risked a bite.

  It was magnificent. I believed it was the best thing I’d ever tasted. Savoring the complex flavor, I finished my bite before commenting.

  “Marisol may grow on me yet.”

  LUNCH CONTINUED without additional embarrassing outbursts, and I was allowed to enjoy my meal. Rother insisted on another glass of wine for us both, which I admit helped a great deal in the task of unwinding my nerves. I felt far more at ease as the four of us worked our way back to the airship station to find our carriage loaded and waiting. It was almost enough to stave off my impended dread.

  My new home was a carriage ride away.

  “Must be difficult, you having to sit with the servants. First in the café, and now on the ride to Delaga House.” Blythe’s taunting smirk matched the looks he’d given me the entire time we spent in the restaurant.

  The carriage Rother hired was smaller than the coach in Deilia, an uncovered wagon with plush seating. With the tighter streets in Marisol, a larger vehicle would be unwieldy. The driver’s seat fit only one man, so Blythe and Harston sat across from me with Rother at my side.