Once Upon a Tower

by Eloisa James

  Edie burst into tears.

  Layla hugged her, but Edie had held her tears for too long. After a while, Layla said, “Darling, that’s my last handkerchief, so unless you want me to rip something off my petticoat, you must stop blubbering. I’ll be brutally honest and admit that my petticoat is trimmed with Alençon lace, so I would rather not turn it to handkerchiefs.”

  “I will,” Edie gasped, struggling to take a deep breath.

  “Tell me the worst,” Layla said, giving her another squeeze. Her voice dropped. “Did he turn out to have some sort of perversion? Does he tie you to the bed or something of that nature . . . even worse? I will take you away directly and you will never see him again. Your father will have the marriage annulled before the duke realizes you’re out the door.”

  “It’s consum-consummated,” Edie said, getting herself under control. “And I don’t want to annul my marriage.”

  “Of course, there are some perversions that I’d quite like to try myself,” Layla said encouragingly. “Why should we be so rigid, after all? If two people wish to indulge themselves, and are in perfect agreement, why not? I’ve never tried to talk your father—”

  “Gowan isn’t perverted!”

  “Oh, so it’s a more mundane problem?” Layla looked quite relieved. “Let me guess. He’s a five-second-miracle. I should have brought a potion or two with me. Those big, burly men, they’re the—”

  “It’s the opposite,” Edie interrupted, hiccupping.

  “The opposite?” Layla frowned. “Please tell me you’re not complaining about a situation that most women merely dream about.”

  “There’s something wrong with me,” Edie cried, her darkest fears tumbling out. “It hurts so much.”

  “That probably just means that your husband is well-endowed. Let’s see . . . would you compare him to a carrot, a marrow, or a courgette? I do hope we’re not talking about a string bean.”

  “But—but you told me pain was an old wives’ tale.” A last hiccup escaped. “I hate it. I just hate it. I feel so stupid and—and I’m such a failure at the whole business.”

  Layla gave her knee a pat. “Darling, I couldn’t possibly have revealed that there was the risk you might feel as if you’d been skewered like an unlucky matador.”

  “It would have helped!” Edie cried. “All this time I was afraid that something was wrong with me.”

  “There is something wrong with you. You’re a chucklehead. What’s all this about failure? There’s no failure about it. After her wedding night, my cousin Marge locked the door to her bedchamber and wouldn’t let her husband back in for a solid month. And even then, she didn’t enjoy it.”

  “I’ve met your cousin and her husband,” Edie observed. “There might be more than one reason for her lack of pleasure.”

  “So true. The man has lips like a sturgeon. It’s most repellent. Do you think the windows open in this carriage?”

  “No, and you mustn’t smoke in here. The smell would never come out of the velvet.”

  “A bit overdone, don’t you agree?” Layla said, poking at the seat. “Not that I have anything against copper-colored velvet. I think this would make a wonderful pelisse. But just think if you spilled some wine!”

  “Gowan doesn’t drink wine in the carriage,” Edie said, feeling even more despondent. “He works all the time.”

  “Works? Works at what?” Layla had taken a small implement from her reticule and was prying at the window.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Fresh air is good for your skin,” Layla said over her shoulder. “The perfume of Scottish wildflowers and the deep forest. You don’t want to have spots, do you? You’re already all blotchy from that virginal wailing.”

  “I’m not a virgin anymore,” Edie protested, feeling better just for having told someone. “Do you think the pain will go away?”

  “No question. If it didn’t, the human race would have dwindled out long ago. I’ve never heard of anyone having a problem that lasted more than a few weeks. And believe me, married women discuss this sort of thing for hours on end.”

  The window popped free and sailed away behind the coach. “I didn’t even hear a crash, did you?” Layla asked.

  A pungent smell of manure blew in the window. “The odor of these Scottish wildflowers is astonishing,” Edie said, wrapping her pelisse around her and watching as Layla opened a tinderbox to light her cheroot.

  “Ah, that’s better,” Layla said, a second later. “A nice glass of champagne would be marvelous, but it is before noon. One must maintain one’s standards. So, darling, how terrible is it?”

  Edie shuddered.

  “Dear me, that is bad. Throw me one of those extra cushions; we might as well make ourselves comfortable.”

  The carriage’s seats were so padded that the seat felt as soft as a bed. Edie propped herself in one corner, stretched her legs out on the seat, and crossed her ankles. It felt rather naughty to put her slippers on all that plush velvet.

  Her stepmother did the same on the seat opposite. “So you’re in positive agony, but it’s getting better. Here’s the most important question: Are you berating Gowan nightly, thereby making him understand just how lucky he is that you even allow him near your delicate lady parts?”

  “No.” The word dropped into the carriage with all the desolation Edie felt.

  “Darling, you really must cheer up. It’s hardly the end of the world, and you are not the first young couple to find yourself initially incompatible.” Layla pushed herself up a bit and blew some smoke in the general direction of the broken window. “Why on earth aren’t you scolding your husband for his—ahem—magnificent proportions? You might as well get a diamond or two out of all that misery.”

  “It was all so horribly embarrassing. I thought it would go away.”

  “Don’t tell me he doesn’t have any idea.” Layla sat even further up. “Is that what you meant in your note, about my ‘secret’? That’s not what the secret is for!”

  Edie sighed. She hadn’t even used the secret correctly.

  “It’s meant to give you some relief, not him. If he’s hammering away at you and it hurts, you should be yowling like a cat on All Hallows’ Eve, not befuddling him by making him think that you’re enjoying it. You’re doing it all wrong, Edie.”

  “I think he may have guessed, but is just too polite to say so.”

  “Men are never polite in the bedroom.” Layla made a sweeping gesture that sprinkled ashes all over the upholstery. “It is you who are being too polite. So let’s tot it all up. It doesn’t hurt as much as it did. Are the two of you making a regular go of it?”

  Edie shook her head. “Not since my courses began ten days ago.”

  “So what? Oh, don’t answer that. You look as horrified as when you were young and I told you about how babies are made.”

  “You told me they came from eating suet pudding with treacle!”

  “Well, I couldn’t tell you the truth, could I? Even in the earliest days of my marriage, I had already grasped that your father was on the sober side. You wanted to know and I had to tell you something he wouldn’t mind. Suet pudding is very fattening. I was giving you a helpful tip about adult life.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Edie said, staring at the toes of her slippers. “I’ve made a mess of my marriage. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life gasping out faux moans. I simply can’t. I’m not even any good at it. I wouldn’t believe myself.”

  “Let’s go back to what you told me in the beginning.” Layla tossed her cheroot out the window.

  “Layla! What if you start a fire?”

  “I extinguished it.” Layla pointed to a dark mark on the floor. Then she peered closer. “Don’t tell me His Almighty Grace has put carpets in here.”

  “He has.”

  Layla collapsed back into her corner. “So the duke goes at it so long that you’re wincing.”

  “He’s simply too big.”

  A short silence ens
ued.

  “I could say something, but I won’t,” Layla said with a sigh. “It would be indelicate.”

  “When has that prevented you?”

  “I’m getting older. Listen, darling, the important thing is that it’s hurting less than it did at first.”

  “It does seem to stop hurting as he keeps going. But that’s not the only problem, Layla.” Edie made herself say it. “That petit mort? It’s not happening to me, obviously. I don’t think it ever will.”

  “Do you feel good down there?”

  “Sometimes, but then it drains away as soon as I think about it.”

  “Believe me, I know what you’re talking about,” Layla said, sighing. “I remember the mindless days—or, I should say, nights—before I started thinking too much about babies. Those brains of yours are the enemy of a happy bedchamber.”

  “What am I going to do? I can’t tell Gowan; I just can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “He never fails at anything. I have to solve this problem, because the failure is mine.”

  “There’s no failure,” Layla said decisively. “Don’t you dare blame yourself; it’s a bad precedent in a marriage. What’s missing is romance. The air of a boudoir. A bottle of champagne.”

  “He tried that,” Edie said, tears welling up again. “He ordered supper in his bedchamber and served champagne. But there was a footman to bring the meal in. And then, just when I was starting to relax, he had the footman come back in, with another fellow as well, to remove the plates. I feel as if Bardolph is hovering in the corridor all the time. And when Gowan spent the night in my chamber, his valet marched straight into the room in the morning. I hate it!”

  “It sounds as if you’re trying to be intimate in the middle of Hyde Park,” Layla offered. “Do you know, darling, I’ve never heard you be so passionate about anything other than music in all the years I’ve known you?”

  “Gowan is never alone,” Edie continued. “I’m never alone anymore, either. I had to threaten to dismiss everyone in his retinue if they didn’t keep interrupting me while I was practicing. While I was practicing, Layla!”

  “You simply need to get your husband alone.”

  “It’s impossible. I was thinking the other day that his life reminds me of throwing a piece of bread into a stream and watching a whole flock of little minnows come up and start nibbling at it. People come and go around him at all hours.”

  “I don’t think minnows flock,” Layla commented.

  “Who cares?” Edie demanded. “You see what I mean, don’t you?”

  “So you need to make changes in his household. That’s not as easy as keeping footmen out of your bedchamber, but it can certainly be done. You’re simply going to have to intervene.”

  “He takes care of every problem that arises, the moment it’s presented to him,” Edie said disconsolately. “He doesn’t need anyone. He’s perfect in every way, Layla. I could hate him.”

  “Except you love him instead,” Layla said calmly. “Do you mind if I smoke another?”

  “Yes, I do mind!” Edie said.

  Layla reached for her cheroots.

  Edie sat up. “I mean it! I hate those things. I hate the way they make my clothes smell after I’ve been around you. I hate the way they make you smell. I hate the way they make your breath smell.”

  Layla’s mouth fell open.

  Edie had the impulse to say something to smooth it over, but she did not give in. “I shan’t apologize.”

  “Very well,” her stepmother said cautiously. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

  “No.” Then she added, “Not that I can think of right now.”

  “My breath?” Layla frowned at the box of cheroots she was holding. “I don’t like that.”

  “You shouldn’t,” Edie snapped.

  “Right.” The box flew through the window. They heard a faint thump as it hit the road.

  “Thank goodness the second coach is a distance behind us,” Edie said. “You could have brained one of the horses.”

  “If I were going to brain anyone, I’d brain that Bardolph,” Layla said, reclining again. “I don’t like the way he looked at me, as if I were some sort of aging hag come to steal the virtue of the young prince.”

  “Wait until you see what he thinks of me. Are you really going to quit, Layla? Just like that?”

  “I began smoking in order to irritate your father. Why keep it up, now we’re no longer living under the same roof? But I don’t want to talk about my miserable marriage. You need to teach your husband to be romantic.”

  “I suppose I could ask him to give me flowers,” Edie said dubiously. “Is that what you mean?”

  “Picture His Dukeness on one knee, handing you a bundle of violets tied with ribbons. How do you feel?”

  “A little sick. Violets are so funereal.”

  “Very fussy,” Layla said reprovingly. “If your father handed me a bunch of daisies he’d plucked off a coffin, I’d be thrilled.”

  “Have you written to him?”

  “I wrote and said I would be paying you a visit. He didn’t reply, which is unsurprising, because he didn’t reply to my first two letters, either.”

  Edie sighed.

  “So we’ve decided that you need to reform the duke’s household,” Layla continued, “and teach him how to protect your privacy. What else? Is he a bungler in bed?”

  Edie thought about it. “I don’t think so.”

  “Have you told him what you have particularly liked?”

  She shook her head.

  “You have to take some responsibility in that respect,” Layla advised. “Men like a road map. No: men need a road map. My mother told me that years ago, and she was absolutely right.”

  Edie was trying to imagine herself giving Gowan directions, when Layla sat up jerkily. “Are we going to be sitting in this carriage all day long? We’ve been here two hours at least.” She reached up and thumped on the ceiling.

  A slat slid open. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “It’s Lady Gilchrist!” Layla shrieked. “Stop this carriage. I need to stretch my legs.”

  “We’re very close to His Grace’s borders,” the coachman hollered back. The horses didn’t slow.

  “ ‘His Grace’s borders’?” Layla repeated, throwing herself down on the seat again. “Have you noticed that they act as if your husband is a monarch?”

  “Because he is a monarch to them, Layla. They practically kiss his toes every time he leaves a room.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if people kissed my toes. You know, I might be a wee bit irritable in the next day or so,” Layla said, drumming her fingers against her seat. “Cheroots give me a sense of calm that seems to have gone missing at the moment.”

  “You can howl all you wish, as long as you give them up,” Edie told her.

  Layla sighed. “Right. Well, darling, what we’re going to do is set the scene for an evening of romantic bliss. Champagne, flowers, poetry.”

  “Poetry?”

  “I’ll instruct your husband myself. You know I’ve seen every romantic play performed in the West End in the last three years. I’m an expert.”

  “You cannot tell Gowan what we’ve discussed!” Edie ordered.

  “I would never do that,” Layla said, looking injured. “Trust me. I’m as wily as a fox.”

  At that moment the carriage rocked around a turn. Edie looked out the window and gasped.

  Before them lay a fairy-tale castle. It was pale yellow stone, the exact color of October beer, its battlements sharp-edged against a sky so pale that it looked like skim milk.

  “God, I hope your husband had bathrooms put in,” Layla said, sliding across the seat so that she could look out her window. “Castles have garderobes; did you know that? I gather they’re nothing more than holes that empty straight into the moat.”

  “No moat,” Edie said. “I’m looking at the flag.”

  “Good Lord,” Layla said, in a shocked voice
. “Just look at the size of that dragon’s sword. Either it’s a mighty boastful flag or you really do have something to complain about.”

  Edie squinted at the sword the dragon held. “It’s a trifle out of proportion.”

  “No wonder the man is so autocratic. Every time he comes home he likely forgets he’s a mere mortal. Do you suppose trumpets will sound when you step from the carriage?”

  “I hope not.”

  “That’s what happens in threepenny plays when the princess marries a swineherd who turns out to be a king,” Layla said. “Trumpets, and lots of them. Who would have known you’d marry someone like this? I can’t wait to see you drinking pearls dissolved in wine and generally carrying on like Cleopatra. Given the size of that castle, Gowan should be giving you a diamond for every squeak of pain you suffer.”

  “Layla!”

  Twenty-seven

  Edie climbed down from the carriage, clutching the doll she’d bought for Susannah, to find Gowan and company waiting in front of the castle.

  “I feel as if we’ve traveled through time to a medieval fiefdom,” Layla said, stepping onto the ground next to her. “Weren’t those the days when a returning duke was met by servants running in from the fields and the like?”

  Edie was watching people stream out from the portcullis. “I suppose.”

  Gowan moved to her other side, his expression as grave as ever. He had helped Edie from the carriage, but he hadn’t said much. Now he stood silently with his hands clasped behind his back. She had the feeling he was angry at her, but she wasn’t sure why. When he asked about her monthly courses, she’d told him the truth. If he had asked, she would have allowed him into her bed.

  But he hadn’t asked.

  At that moment, all the assembled servants bobbed up and down at the same time. Gowan lifted his hand.

  They were so silent that Edie could hear a bird singing over the wall.

  “I present to you the Duchess of Kinross,” Gowan said. His voice was quiet, but utterly commanding. “She is your mistress. Respect her as you respect me, obey her as you obey me, and love her as I bid you.”

  They all bobbed more curtsies and bows.

  “Thank you,” Edie called, looking from person to person with a hopeless sense that she would never come to know all the people who lived in her own house. What’s more, if she couldn’t talk Gowan out of his habit of allowing his retainers carte blanche in his bedchamber, in the breakfast room, and in the dining room, she’d have all these strangers wheeling through her life on a daily basis.