“Why not??” Julianne asked incredulously. “You are in full jealous cry and that is what you ask? Why not? Do you want me to marry someone else? Because it is you that I wish to marry.”
“I am not jealous.”
“Oh, yes you are my darling. Yes you are,” Julianne said, chuckling. “Because you are not so unkind as to wish that during the ten hardest years of my life, I would never be touched. Ten years in which, I may add, I did not know of your existence, nor you of mine. And during which, moreover, you were married to someone else.”
Maryam couldn’t help herself. She wanted to know: “Is she French?” Would she know how to please you better than I? Be a more confident lover?
“English.”
“From under the bridges, then.”
“Mind your assumptions, Maryam, about what you think that means,” Julianne warned.
Maryam nodded, chastened by the impulse. Lord. She was jealous.
“What is it about this that unsettles you?” Julianne asked softly.
“I just wonder: If you’ve known each other so long and she has no difficulty about you both being women then why would you even bother with me?”
“Reddeka is a good friend. We helped each other when no one else would. She will always be in my life, always be welcome at Edgemere. But she needs her bright lights. And I need my shadows. She’s larger than life, a persona, a grand character. Make-believe is fun for her. But not for me, Maryam. You know the toll it takes on me to pass as Lord D’Avenant. Can you imagine how harmful a theatrical milieu would be to me over a long course? I’d get drawn into the charade. Become a self-deprecating parody of myself. Drink myself to death.”
“Wait a minute,” Maryam said. “Theatre? Reddeka? Are you talking about Reddeka Nash?”
“Yes. Reddeka. That’s what I’m saying.”
“The diva with the three-octave range that packs Drury Lane Theatre and has London agog? She’s your lover?”
Julianne nodded. “Yes.”
“She has all those men dangling after her!”
“Well, my love. Things aren’t always as they seem, are they?”
Maryam started laughing.
Julianne watched her until her laughter subsided.
“What?” Maryam said. “What look are you giving me?”
“I guess it eluded you in the heat of your jealousy.”
“What?”
“My marriage proposal.”
“You didn’t!”
“Yes, My Lady. I certainly did.” Julianne’s eyes were sparkling. She lifted her brows, amused. “Perhaps you’d give it some consideration?”
“When? What did you say?”
“I said I love you and you are my soul-mate and you help me be my best self and I want to be my best self for you and I want us and the children to be a family together, come what may.”
“You didn’t say all that.”
“Hm. I meant to.”
17. Fear
By the fifteenth of December, Maryam completed the end of quarter finances, had D’Avenant sign the bank drafts, and rode into the village with Normand and Leonard as her escorts.
Marriage, she kept thinking.
The farmers and tradesmen gathered in the church house hall were surprised to see her and not D’Avenant. She explained he was ailing and that he had sent her in his stead. Then she invited them to line up at her table to pay their rents and collect their wages.
The children, she kept thinking.
Some of them blushed or stammered when they reached the front of the line. They were not accustomed to exchanging money with a Countess, and she knew they would have been more comfortable had she been a male steward, acting on D’Avenant’s behalf.
Julianne, she kept thinking. Brave, beloved, complicated Julianne.
However, this was the quarter when D’Avenant disbursed annual bonuses for services well-rendered during the year. No one refused to interact with her. She completed the needed transactions without revolt and returned to Edgemere, relieved to have it done.
What to do? What to do?
In the days leading up to Christmas, Edgemere smelled divine. Herbal bouquets of rosemary and lavender adorned the foyer, library, and dining room. Spices wafted from the kitchen, where Sophie and the women were grilling goose and venison, and preparing plum puddings, mince pies, and seasonal specialties ahead of time so they could take Christmas Day off.
This year as a special pre-holiday activity Sophie had agreed with Brigid’s idea of opening the kitchen to the children, who were enlisted to ‘help’ cut and bake cookies. Aproned and hand-washed, they rolled the dough out on the long table, patted it down where it tore, built it up where it was thin, and made a grand mess of oddly-shaped sugary confections. Half of them were eaten immediately as they cooled from the oven.
Because of its unique origins and ethos, Edgemere did not observe Christmas season as most manors did. There were no balls or parties, no entertainment of outsiders at all. Pragmatically, the tradition relieved the kitchen of the burdens associated with large-scale entertainment. Realistically, it satisfied D’Avenant’s need for privacy. He lived a lie. Socializing exhausted him. It required constant misdirection, unrelenting vigilance. It was fraught with risk. Until Maryam entered his life he’d had no one with whom to candidly share his life anyway, outside of the Edgemere women.
The Edgemere women had come together out of need. Sophie with her daughter Annie, and Estelle had been escaping abusive husbands. Sarena was rejected for her inability to speak. Romelle had been reviled for her gypsy heritage. Norma (‘Normand’) and Leona (‘Leonard’) had been destitute, living off the sale of their bodies. The twins Minnie and Mo had simply been abandoned, extra mouths that parents could not feed. None of them had any other place to be either. So Edgemere celebrated the holiday as a family of sorts.
On Christmas Day itself, they would all eat together at the long table in the kitchen. The tradition harkened back to their first year at Edgemere when they were still rising from the ashes but grateful for shelter and gainful work. It was the holiday where their common journey was acknowledged. There were no servants, no masters, merely a band of women who had survived desperate times together and continued to be mutually-supportive of each other. Every year D’Avenant gifted each woman with a generous sum of money and a ‘holiday’ in London, so she could have the fun of staying at the townhouse, and go shopping, and see whatever city sights attracted her.
But tonight, Christmas Eve, after the evergreen boughs and garlands were brought into the house, Julianne put on the vest made by Estelle, which proved to be easier to get in and out of, and more comfortable than the corset. Dressed as D’Avenant, she emerged from her room to traverse her home for the first time since she dove into the river. She walked slowly down the corridor and through the portrait gallery. The sound of music and singing trailed up the stairway from the Great Room. She stopped, hand on the bannister, and smiled. Maryam and the children had given Edgemere a beating heart.
Arriving at the Great Room, she stood in the doorway. The candelabras were all lit. Everyone from inside and outside the house were sitting around the dance floor, some on the steps others in chairs, singing Joy to the World with Sarena on the violin and Maryam on the pianoforte. A closed bible rested atop the pianoforte. Maryam had said she traditionally read the children the Christmas story from one of the gospels before they sang carols. Tonight she would have read it to the whole gathering.
Elizabeth saw Julianne first. “Lord D’Avenant!” she cried. “You’re here!” She and Edward and Megan exclaimed loudly and dashed over to him.
At the keyboard, Maryam looked up, smiling, and continued playing. Sarena looked over her strings and kept up with the song though the gathered singers strayed from the lyrics long enough to shout out greetings and comments of delight at seeing him on his feet.
D’Avenant, encircled by the children, bent over each one in turn and
gave them hugs, and kisses on their foreheads. “Oh, I missed you,” he said, taking Elizabeth’s hand. “I hope you still remember how to walk and hold hands.” To Edward he said “You, young mister, are one precious child. I want you around forever.” He turned to Megan. “Higgy Pop!” he said, holding open his hands, unsure whether she would be shy again after such a long time apart. “Shall I pick you up for a hug?” She raised her arms and D’Avenant lifted her, groaning. “You got so big!”
Nodding cheerfully to everyone as he passed, he put Megan down and sat on the dance floor with the young ones.
Maryam caught Sarena’s eye, indicated to go back to the top of the refrain, and nodded her head at the transition point. The carolling resumed. Joy to the World felt right, celebratory, uplifting.
He watched Maryam’s face and hands as they moved over the keyboard. She looked so animated, so intelligent. She seemed to glow from the inside. He loved how courage and determination converged with the sheer womanliness of her. He loved the way she looked—Lord, the curve of her hips!—when she bent attentively over a child. Her eyes sparked and inner steel glinted when she was challenging him to be his best, and he loved that, too.
Her life, since that day they met at the Abercrombies, had changed dramatically. With great aplomb and adaptability she had freed herself from Grenville, moved into Edgemere, set up Skylark as an ongoing source of income, learned how to manage tradesmen and keep accounting books, nearly lost her beloved Edward—and made love to another woman.
She had come a long way from the sheltered life of a noblewoman to the Great Room at Edgemere—entertaining the servants, no less. Handling money with tradesmen and farmers, and working! But she was a true revolutionary, stepping up to the promise of the new 19th century that now lay mere days away.
Her last great challenge would be a very personal one. And while she might be bold for herself, she had young ones to consider before she made any irrevocable decision. He knew what he was asking. Live a lie with me. Risk public ridicule if we’re discovered. Risk bringing shame upon your children. He couldn’t press. It was Maryam’s choice to make, whether in his favour or not. That said, he wanted to be sure she knew where his desire lay, that she not take his sufferance as indifference.
After the singing ended, Sophie and the twins briefly went to the kitchen and returned with a large bowl of steaming spiced apple cider and served it at a table with the children’s cookies, and some other baked treats that looked less intensively handled.
Maryam, bringing two cups of cider, came over to D’Avenant and sat near him on the steps leading down to the dance floor.
“Thank you,” he said. “And thank you for playing. You and Sarena make a joyful noise.”
“You’re welcome.” She wrapped her hands around the warm cider cup and sipped. “You look happy to be out of your room.”
“I feel like I just washed ashore from a shipwreck.”
In the background Sarena started playing some quieter compositions.
“I keep thinking,” D’Avenant continued, “how different our Edgemere Christmas must seem to you after your years of London social life.”
“I do miss Clarissa of course. But she’s in Scotland with Ernest anyway. And while there are acquaintances I would converse with were we at a ball, I cannot say I miss the exchange of inanities that is so prevalent at those parties. I’m quite enjoying this. It feels intimate, familial.”
“The one thing I miss,” D’Avenant said, “is dancing. Would you waltz with me?”
Maryam tensed. The scandalous dance.
He lowered his voice. “Too many onlookers for me to be anything but exceedingly proper, My Lady.”
She caught her breath.
“Or for you to lose all self-control, either,” he murmured, bending casually nearer so his comment wouldn’t be overheard.
Maryam felt her face flush. “Did you think me wanton, that night?” she whispered, staring at the cup in her hands.
“I thought you marvellously arousing,” he whispered back. “And I am open to a reprise. With any variations on the theme you may wish to experiment.” He stood, smiling mischievously, and offered her his hand.
She set her cup down, took his hand, and stood up.
He walked her to the centre of the dance floor. “Sarena?” he called.
Sarena, not missing a note, looked up.
“A waltz? But slow the tempo please so I don’t lose my breath.”
She nodded and played a transitional bar from her previous song while D’Avenant faced Maryam.
Maryam stepped forward, toe to toe with him in starting position. She lifted her left hand and rested it on D’Avenant’s shoulder. He slid his hand high onto her back and took her right hand in his left.
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded.
On the beat, he stepped forward with his left. She retreated with her right. His right came to the side, she followed with her left.
She’d never danced this before. Rather than concentrate on her footwork, she decided, she should pay attention to the guidance of his hand on her back, and the directional tug of his hand holding hers. If one was to dance the waltz with any grace, she decided, one had to relinquish a sense of separate will and simply follow the partner. If the partner was an accomplished dancer—and D’Avenant led confidently—Maryam had only to remain light on her feet, ready to shift direction, and then follow each new move.
She looked up into his face. D’Avenant looked down into hers and held her gaze, moving her fluidly around the dance floor in time to Sarena’s music.
As they circled the dance floor, eyes fixed on each other, she only saw Maman, the children, and the Edgemere women in her peripheral vision. The longer she held D’Avenant, the more drawn in she felt. The tide of him was rising, flooding her, washing her up to him again. Everything else seemed unreal. Maryam caught herself. Her. The tide of her. And yet it didn’t really matter. Him. Her. Julien. Julianne. It was this brilliant caring wounded spirit in her arms that she so loved.
Touching him, moving with him, staring into his eyes mesmerized her. She synchronized with the pulse of him. She could see why the waltz was considered sinful by some. Without thinking, Maryam readjusted her hand on his shoulder, raising it to draw herself closer so she could follow the intentions of his body as well as his hands. Their bodies met. A ribbon of physical attraction rippled through her. Her knees felt weak. D’Avenant slid his hand down to her waist and steadied her, holding her more closely to leverage the strength of his body. Feeling her spine crumpling, she leaned into him, resting her temple against his neck. In a private setting, she would relinquish herself to this energy coursing between them. Ohh, Julianne.
D’Avenant nuzzled his cheek against her. “My love,” he whispered back, his breath warm at her ear.
She faltered. Lost her balance. She’d whispered it aloud. Julianne. Not just thought it.
He steadied her, stepping out of the sequence to avoid treading on her foot, and stopped.
“I’m sorry,” she said, breathless.
“Not at all,” he replied, his eyes still intent on hers. He broke the gaze. Stepped back. And, breathless himself, released her, smiling. “That’s athletic enough for me tonight.”
Maryam curtsied, relieved—and hungry for more.
18. Decision
The stone church house in the village was gaily decorated with holly and evergreen garlands. Horses and carriages, including the phaeton and wagon from Edgemere, were hitched out front, the horses snuffling and pawing in the snow for tufts of grass. The villagers were gathered for the St. Stephens feast. On this Boxing Day after Christmas the vicar, Mr. Hezekiah Farwell, opened the alms box—which included a handsome donation from Edgemere—and distributed the coin to the townspeople.
Sarena, who found such gatherings exhausting because no one understood her hand signs, stayed at the mansion to keep the fires going and to do some last-minute jo
bs in the kitchen. But everyone else from Edgemere always attended the yearly feast. Since his return to Edgemere D’Avenant had sponsored the Boxing Day fête at the church house.
Inside, the hall was a rectangular gallery with an arch-braced purlin roof. Tables lined up along the north wall were loaded with meat pies and sweet treats and non-alcoholic apple ‘wassail’ bowls, prepared by the women, but financed by Edgemere. The villagers, including many of the tradesmen and farmers that Lady Maryam had met at end of quarter meetings were in attendance with their wives. The children, dozens of them, chased each other underfoot.
She and D’Avenant were exchanging pleasantries with the Vicar, a gaunt fellow with a bald pate and his wife Olivia who was cheerfully plump, when she heard Edward’s voice cut through the din of conversations in the hall.
“That’s not true!” he cried defensively. Edward was a short distance away, faced off against a curly-haired blond boy who was about a year younger than him.
“He looks like a girl!” the boy shot back.
Conversation in the room stopped, as all the gathered adults turned their attention to the conflict between the children.
“D’Avenant looks like a girl!” the boy said heatedly.
Maryam gasped inwardly.
D’Avenant turned his gaze to the little boy.
The villagers as one turned their gazes to D’Avenant. He was frozen, his face rigid.
“He does not!” Edward retorted. “He’s a man!”
Oh, God, Maryam thought. D’Avenant’s worst nightmare, playing out. For all the times he might have considered how to respond if he were thus challenged D’Avenant would never have pictured the challenge coming from a child. Another man could be called out, or be levelled with a cutting remark. But neither of those responses were appropriate for a little boy. Say something, she prayed. Don’t just stand there. Laugh it off. Counter it, before it settles and looks true.
But D’Avenant stood there, sweat breaking out on his forehead.
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