by Edith Layton
“All right,” she said, sniffing away the last of her tears, “but what then?”
“Then,” he said and she saw a sad, lost look in the depths of his eyes before they warmed as he turned them to her. “Then, we’ll see. At least let us be friends until then, shall we?”
She nodded.
“So then,” he said, more confidently. “Laudanum for the pain of your present condition?”
Only hemlock would cure that, she thought, but knew he was only speaking of her monthly pain, and said, “No, I don’t like being drugged and stupid. It will pass. A warm brick will ease it if some hot tea doesn’t.”
“And company,” he said, decisively. “Mine. Company warms the heart. I think we can be friends. Yes?”
“Yes,” she said, and sighed, because that was one of the nicest things he’d ever said to her.
They took tea. He sent for a hot brick for her and, ignoring her blushes, had it wrapped in flannel before he ordered her to hold it in her lap as they sat and talked. It eased her pain almost as much as his light conversation did. He told her he had seen the wonders of the ancient and modern worlds. He had acquaintances around the world, and he related merry stories about them. But she questioned him with such interest that he found himself telling fewer stories and talking more about himself.
She’d awakened to many mornings in new places, too. In her case, it was because she’d been dragged off in the night and carried in secrecy to some new place that her father’s creditors didn’t know about. But now she found herself laughing with Crispin as she told him about the Fabulous Youth Elixir, the Excellent Silver Tarnish Preventive, and the Miraculous Hair Restoring Paste—all of which worked the same way, which was to say, not at all.
They discovered they’d read many of the same books, and she envied him his hard-won skills in Latin and Greek, but not his skill with horses and the hunt, because she was a city girl. When he argued that she enjoyed flowers and trees, she had to admit that there was something to the countryside—but not much. He claimed she was exactly like his friend, the earl of Wrede. She recoiled with such horror that he laughed. He imitated Wrede’s distinctive drawl, and she upset her teacup. They had such a lovely afternoon that they never noticed the time passing until the lengthening shadows told them it was dinnertime.
This alarmed Dulcie and bemused Crispin so much that they were both almost glad it was time to go upstairs and dress for dinner.
As she did, Dulcie remembered the afternoon and found herself tingling, though he’d never done more than touch her hand. Then she became frightened. She comforted herself by thinking that he wouldn’t want to touch a woman in her present condition. And refused to think an hour beyond the coming night.
Dinner was wonderful. The soup was spicy, the fish fresh, the capon juicy, the duck lean, the mutton truly springtime’s, the beef tender, and the wines rich and fruity. By the time the desserts were brought out, they could only pick off bits to savor, exclaim over and tempt each other with. They laughed as much as they swallowed, and ate every bite that was presented to them. It was a lover’s dinner, but they each for their own reasons pretended it was just a friendly feast.
Full, and merry, they retired to the small salon and sat beside a mumbling fire. It was dark, but it wasn’t late, and they had an evening in front of them.
“Cards? Chess? Dice? Or perhaps you’d like to play at something other than a game?” he asked. “There’s a fine harpsichord in the music room.”
“I don’t play,” she said sadly, knowing that a lady should. “At anything?” he asked, with a half smile.
“Well, cards,” she admitted, “but I don’t play often because I’m a very bad loser.”
“Ah, so am I, so let’s have a game and see who can hold his temper better. Two games in one, much more interesting.”
They played by fire and candlelight. The challenge of keeping their tempers even when they were losing made the game more comical than serious, and twice as delightful. She was a terrible player who was, however, capable of spurts of brilliance; he was a good player who was always surprised by her occasional clever ploys. They laughed so hard they sometimes dropped their cards.
Often they stopped laughing and playing, to talk, to listen. “My mother was a demon player,” Dulcie said.
The wistfulness in her voice made him hold his hand and look at her. “Do you miss her?” he asked, genuinely curious as to why Dulcie hadn’t mentioned her before. Now that he thought about it, it was odd that a girl wouldn’t tell her mother of her marriage, whether it was a mock one or not. Odder still that she hadn’t applied to her for help.
“No—no more than always, that is,” Dulcie said simply. “She left when I was a little girl. I’ve seen her since, but it was always clear that she didn’t regret going. It’s not that she doesn’t like me,” she added quickly, as though daring him to contradict her, “because she says she does, and she never forgets my birthday. She sends me lovely things every year. And she loves to gossip with me about the royal family and about the people she knows. We visit every year, and she writes to me regularly, every few months. She likes to shop with me, too, whenever we meet,” she went on a little less confidently. “It’s just that some women are not cut out to be parents. I know that some people would disagree, but so it is.”
He was trying to decide what to say when she added, “And your mother, do you miss her?”
How could he miss a dim, fond memory with more than passing regret? She’d been a gentle woman who always appeared in his memory in the same blue gown. She had played the harpsichord and loved roses, but whether he knew that from his father’s stories or for himself, he didn’t know. But suddenly Dulcie’s words and this warm, gentle night by the fireside conjured up another vision—a long forgotten one, of firelight and laughter, of sitting by the hearth with a roasting apple on a stick while a laughing woman in blue silk cautioned him to watch his fingers. There’d been a laughing girl with him then, too, and another boy or two. He’d been the youngest.
He remembered how he’d looked down—had his hands really been so small and plump and ineffectual then?—to find his apple splattered on the hearth. He remembered how his tears had been washed away and how he’d been presented with a new apple on a stick. The memory was there because it had been a hard, tangy fresh apple, and he remembered the despair he felt, wondering if he’d ever be able to hold it over the flames long enough to make it sweet and soft and fragrant.
Nothing had ever been that sweet again. The other boys were gone, and the laughing little girl, and the laughing mother. Only the little boy remained, and he too had all but disappeared. Until tonight.
“Yes,” he said, surprising himself, “I miss my mother very much.”
He and Dulcie played for walnuts, they played for grapes, they played for the fun of sitting up and talking without her having to worry about him looking at her lips, and then acting on the look that sprang to his eyes, without him worrying about her trying to lure him to her bed. Tonight was unique; tonight they could appreciate each other without fear of compromising themselves. And so they did.
When at last they had to admit the night was done, he took a brace of candles and walked her to her room. He stood with her by her door, hesitant for the first time, denying how much he didn’t want to go.
“How do you feel now?” he asked. “Any more pain? Are you sure you don’t want some medication? Another hot brick?”
“No, no,” she said. “I’m fine, really, much better already. I’ll feel better every day, I assure you. It never lasts long.”
“Then good night, Dulcie. Sleep well and be well, my dear.”
When she saw him look down to her mouth, she wasn’t afraid to offer him her lips in a kiss of peace, for the night had created between them a certain understanding.
His kiss was light and gentle but no less thrilling for that. It was filled with warmth and friendship as well as delight. His arm came around her, and she yielded and leaned a
gainst him, savoring the hard warmth of his mouth and body. She felt comforted and cherished; it almost felt as if they were really married, she thought as she kissed him freely and without fear.
And it was almost as if he had read her mind when he spoke again.
“Ah, Dulcie, if you were only really, truly mine,” he whispered against her hair, “I’d hold you close, your bare skin to mine, your cold little bottom tucked into my lap, my hand on your aching stomach, Dulcie, I promise you.”
Then he released her, as shocked and surprised by what he’d said as she was.
He bowed abruptly and left her, after one long last look—left her to dream of what could be, and he to lay awake longer than he liked, thinking of what could not be, and what might have been.
*
“Red and pink and gold! And white!” Dulcie cried. “Every color they come in! If I had a rose garden here,” she said, indicating the newly leafed bushes they were strolling past, “that’s what I’d plant.”
“Just what I thought. So I did just that,” he said.
She gave him a brilliant smile and walked on, pleased at the way her deeply belled skirt swung over the crushed-shell walk, noting with satisfaction the expensive lace that trimmed her bodice and her sleeves. Today she looked, and almost felt as if she belonged here.
Crispin looked handsome in his dark breeches and white shirt. She thought they both looked like a picture of rural contentment, and almost believed it.
The place awed her. She had seldom seen parks that were so big, and few that were so carefully kept. She couldn’t stop thinking that she wasn’t just a visitor here; by the law of the land, she owned all of this with him. It was too huge a concept to hold in, and the words escaped her as she thought them. “How does it feel to own all this?” she wondered, because she knew that she really didn’t—and never would. “How must it feel to own so much!”
“If you’re born with wealth, it feels normal. Too normal, I think,” he answered slowly. “It doesn’t feel unusual—until you lose it. Then you feel as if half your heart’s been torn out, as if you’re left with nothing but yourself, which seems like very little after you’ve had so much. It’s not just the land, you see,” he went on, voicing just what he was thinking. “It’s the history. Knowing that your grandfather planted that tree and your great-grandfather planted that other one. It’s as though your history is written in the earth itself, and you’re only another one in the line. So you feel as if you belong here as much as that great white oak over there does. And you feel just as disrupted when you’re uprooted.”
This time she didn’t say what she thought: that she felt like a weed in his glorious gardens. She knew very well that she didn’t belong here the way he did. She’d never owned anything of any real importance, and had lost everything—except her heart. And even that was now in jeopardy. But she still had her pride, she thought, unconsciously raising her chin, and that she must keep.
He saw the wistful sorrow on her lovely face and paused, appalled at his thoughtlessness, realizing how much he had and how little she possessed—beyond grace and beauty and a quick mind, of course. So he determined to entertain her.
He took her hand and changed the subject, making light conversation as he led her down his winding paths.
He showed her his world with such charm and grace that she almost began to believe he really welcomed her to it. He strolled at her side, commenting on everything they saw, as delightful a companion as she could have wished, with not one unkind, or too fond, word to trouble her. She didn’t know how long that would last, but didn’t let that bother her now. She was sure she could handle anything that happened on this soft, misty spring morning. It might be that his sensuality came only with the candlelight. She would face that tonight.
“…but I think we should concentrate on present pleasures,” he commented, and she almost tripped, wondering if he could read her mind. But then he went on. “These roses won’t bloom for a month. Till then, you shall wear one of these.” And he plucked a sprig of lilacs and tucked it in her hair.
“Oh, but you said they’d wilt if they were taken,” she protested, touching her hand to her hair.
“The best pleasures are fleeting,” he answered gruffly, and lowered his head to breathe in the scent of the lilac. And then had only to turn his head an inch to find her parted lips.
Her hand faltered in the air, and then found his hair instead of her own. Her other hand went around his waist. His mouth felt so warm that she realized she hadn’t known how chill the morning was. And he found such sweetness in her kiss that he forgot all his resolutions. He’d been caught off guard. All he could think of was the moment, and the softness of her lips and the sweet yielding of her body against his.
“Heavens!” a familiar voice called. “Should I return? But I only just got here!” The earl of Wrede waved his walking stick to get their attention. They sprang apart like guilty children surprised.
“Good morning, your ladyship,” Wrede said, his cool, bright glance on Dulcie, crimson in her confusion.
Crispin kept his arm around Dulcie and felt her tense, ready to bolt. He pulled her up close to his side, as she looked up at him. He gazed at his friend impassively, his smile less than welcoming. But that might have been because his composure was absolute again. She’d grown used to a warmer expression in his eyes. Now they seemed only to reflect the light.
“Wrede,” he said calmly, “what brings you to the countryside? I thought you said it was fit only for flowers.”
“Of which you have a multitude,” Wrede said, “but even so, I found myself concerned for you, dear friend, and decided to have a look for myself.” He looked at Dulcie as he spoke to Crispin, and she felt uneasy.
“Am I not welcome?” he asked sweetly.
“You’re always welcome in my house,” Crispin said.
“Even on your honeymoon? Oh, yes, I’d forgot, there wasn’t to be one, was there?” he asked with patent falseness. “I’ve news for you,” he said before Crispin could say the hard thing obviously on his lips. “News I know you’re eager to hear.”
“About Dulcie’s father?” Crispin asked quickly.
“Alas. No. Mr. Blessing is vanished, hide and hair,” the earl said, shrugging as he looked back to Crispin. “I even paid a visit to Harry Meech with a pocketful of gold, which he slavered over—to no avail. He’d sell his granny for a fourth of it if he could find a buyer for her, but he couldn’t earn a groat from me because he can’t find Mr. Blessing, either. No, I’m sorry to say I’ve no news of him. But I’ve word of someone else you’d like to hear about.
“I come on a mission from a dear friend of yours. Who specifically begs to be remembered to you. Lady Charlotte sends her love, Crispin,” the earl said, staring down at Dulcie now with a look that made her back up a step, “and asks not to be forgotten. It appears that, consoling as they are, your constant letters are not enough for her anymore.”
There was a second of silence, as the earl smiled at Dulcie, and Crispin drew in a quick breath. Dulcie spoke before he could. “I’ll leave you two to talk,” she said.
She spun away from Crispin and marched down the path back to the house, her skirt swaying to the beat of her rapid steps. The shells snapped and crunched beneath her feet and she hoped she made enough noise so that they wouldn’t hear her crying.
When she’d gone from sight, Crispin turned on the earl and demanded, “Was that necessary?”
“It seemed to me that I had interrupted a true honeymoon. I thought someone should remind you of reality. Has she bewitched you? I saw where your mouth and your hands were, but where is your head, my boy? Have you made this a true marriage? I wish you’d told me, and spared me the horrors of having to seek out Harry Meech in his rathole.”
“No, it is not a true marriage,” Crispin said through tight lips.
“You relieve my mind.”
Crispin ran a hand through his hair, his face was anguished when he spoke. “Ah, Wrede,
I tell you, it’s a coil. Am I married? Yes. Am I wed to her? No. But it’s not her fault. Should I become her husband? Do I have a choice at all?” He laughed bitterly. “I don’t know. Was ever a man in such a strange position?”
“I have made some discreet inquiries regarding your situation,” Wrede said seriously. “There may be a solution yet. It is agreed that Fleet marriages are a vile practice, causing havoc financially and morally. It’s the financial aspect that concerns the government most, of course. Something is going to be done about the situation there, and perhaps be done for you, too. It may take time, but don’t give up.”
“But do I want to keep fighting? Or do I want to give up, I wonder?” Crispin asked.
“I think you’ve been in the countryside too long,” Wrede said in alarm.
“Once you were Dulcie’s champion. Now you seem to be her enemy. What has changed your opinion?” Crispin asked, gazing at his friend with a clear, unwavering gaze.
“Circumstance,” the earl said. “My judgment was a victim of circumstance too. When I first saw Dulcie in London she seemed young and frightened, honestly outraged at her father’s contentions. The situation looked temporary then; she appeared as eager as you to end the farce. Now I’ve had time to think. So, obviously, has she. I don’t want to see you cheated, even by yourself, but most especially not by some young woman. Things have changed. Dulcie’s father has bolted. She’s been left on your doorstep, and seems inclined to stay there, permanently.”
Crispin stood very still and glared, blue fire in his eyes. “I suggest you remember that Dulcie is my lady, and until she is not, you are to give her the courtesy due her as my wife!”
He closed his eyes and sighed. When he looked at Wrede again, there was weary sorrow, not fury, in his eyes. “I’m sorry, old friend,” he said, laying a hand on the earl’s now rigid shoulder. “I know you mean well. But you can’t know… Look, Wrede, I have no proof she’s anything but what she says. And I believe her.”