Her Convenient Husband's Return

by Eleanor Webster

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But you will not change my mind about the estate by force feeding me cream puffs.’

  ‘Actually, I do not intend to discuss the estate. I thought we could have a holiday?’

  ‘A what?’ Ren laughed, not that harsh, abrupt bark, but something softer.

  ‘A holiday,’ she repeated.

  ‘And what would this holiday consist of?’

  ‘Nothing—that is the joy of a holiday. I thought we could forget about Allington and Jamie and Graham Hill. And even the Duke. I thought perhaps we could laugh a little, eat a little, talk and forget that we are old, stodgy adults.’

  ‘Talk?’

  ‘Yes, there are very few people with whom I can converse. I don’t have many friends. I mean, there is Jamie and I love him, but he really doesn’t talk, except to plants.’

  ‘And you are lonely?’ he said, as though discovering something unexpected.

  ‘A little. And I thought you might be, too.’

  He said nothing for a moment and she wondered both at her temerity and stupidity. The man, after all, was known for having a string of mistresses and doubtless belonged to every gentleman’s club in London. Loneliness hardly seemed a likely predicament.

  ‘And how long is this holiday to be?’ he asked at length.

  She felt uncertain. ‘I don’t know. Long enough to forget I am a grown-up.’

  ‘You don’t want to be grown up?’ He gave a slight chuckle, but there was a silky timbre to his voice which made her feel oddly breathless, even though she was not exercising or exerting herself in any manner.

  ‘Don’t,’ she muttered. ‘It makes me—think of elephants.’

  He laughed, a full warm sound. ‘So, there will be no elephants on this picnic?’

  ‘Definitely no elephants,’ she said.

  * * *

  Mr Robbins’s ankles proved accurate. The day dawned clear and surprisingly warm for April. Beth had told Ren to be ready shortly before noon and he complied.

  ‘You do realise that I am never out of bed before early afternoon?’

  ‘I hadn’t. How peculiar! You require that much sleep?’

  ‘It is not really so much when one doesn’t return home until dawn.’

  ‘Gracious. What do you do?’

  Two nights ago he had won several thousand at a game of hazard and then there had been last week when he had timed a foot race between two members of the club along a London street. The race hadn’t been entirely successful as one gentleman had run into the lamp post and then they had all gone inside to procure steak for his black eye and brandy for his ego. Ren couldn’t remember much more about the night, but when he’d come out again it had been well past dawn.

  ‘Anyway,’ she added. ‘I am quite certain numerous late nights are not healthy. Jamie feels certain that a lack of sleep impacts milk production in cows.’

  He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘A fact that would only interest me if I were a dairy farmer or a cow.’

  ‘Or a gentleman wishing to adopt a healthy lifestyle.’

  ‘Gracious, what a fate.’

  Truthfully, Ren had felt no great enthusiasm for the enterprise when forced to get up at the unreasonably early hour. In fact, he was uncertain why he had even agreed and was thinking rather fondly of Celeste who never hatched such hare-brained schemes.

  Still, as the carriage pulled away he knew a levity of spirit which was quite contrary to his usual lassitude.

  He looked at his ‘wife’ as she sat on the seat opposite. He had schooled himself not to use the term. It was neither accurate nor representative of a lifestyle he desired with Beth or any woman, for that matter.

  Yet there was a pleasure in looking at her.

  There was, there had always been, a serenity about her. He remembered her ability to sit still while he painted and how she would run her fingers across moss and bark and grass, the concentration evident as she discerned each texture. He remembered that the very act of describing a scene to her had helped his art and somehow stilled that restlessness which was so much a part of his personality. She had made him see things differently. He’d analysed colours, perceiving them not only as one dimensional, but with texture. Of course, he hadn’t painted for years. Eleven years, actually.

  He’d tried once after he’d finished school. He’d bought the paints and brushes. He’d told himself that his illegitimacy had robbed him of his family, but should not rob him of his art, and he’d stood there, clutching the wooden palette and staring at the blank canvas, until his eyes watered.

  And he’d heard the remembered echo of schoolboy laughter. ‘But of course he paints, he’s a painter’s bastard.’ He remembered also how his mother had never looked at his paintings, averting her gaze and flinching as though in physical pain.

  The carriage stopped, jerking his attention back to the present. They were on the crest of a hill in a less popular part of Hyde Park. Ren helped Beth out. The feel of her hand, nestled within his own, sent a ludicrous frisson of awareness through him, irrational given the innocuous nature of the touch.

  For a moment they stood, the sun warm on their faces. He knew from her expression that she was listening. She had always done that, stayed quite still and catalogued each sound as a detective might discern clues.

  ‘We are near water—a stream or brook.’

  ‘Yes, there is a pond just down the hill. Likely there is a stream feeding it.’

  It was a pretty scene; there was no wind and the water was glassy, the reflection broken only by the trailing fronds of the weeping willows and the tiny, infinitesimal ripples of insects skittering across. In that moment, the urge to paint rose again. He felt it in his chest, in a slight quickening of his pulse, a sharp exhalation and a tingling within his fingertips.

  ‘You still feel it?’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You called it the physical ache of beauty. I used to envy you that.’

  He remembered the words. He remembered the feeling. ‘Good Lord, what a lot of nonsense I spouted,’ he said, turning briskly to unload the carriage. ‘We’d best take several blankets to sit on or we will get soaked. The ground is still damp.’

  ‘Robbins put one in the basket and a sunshade which might also serve to shield us from the rain if necessary.’

  ‘It appears you have thought of everything.’

  ‘I had help,’ she said.

  ‘The omnipotent Robbins.’

  Beth insisted that, as they were pretending to be children, they had no need for servants and directed the removal of both the horse and carriage.

  ‘We never had servants following us around at Graham Hill,’ she said.

  He placed his hand on her elbow. He felt her start and felt his own reaction, as if his fingers had been singed by a spark. He dropped his hand, bending to pick up the basket.

  ‘Good gracious! What on earth have they put in this thing?’ he said.

  ‘I am not exactly certain. Sadly, Mrs Crofton said that she couldn’t fit in the fishing rod.’

  ‘A fishing rod? You’d have us catch our luncheon?’ He glanced towards the small pond. It did not look promising. ‘I am glad we have been provided with an additional source of sustenance.’

  ‘Indeed, Mrs Crofton promised all manner of goodies.’

  ‘Hence the basket’s weight. Let us hope we find a suitable picnic place soon.’

  ‘I’m sure we will,’ Beth inhaled. ‘It smells perfect.’

  He glanced at their surroundings. Much of the grass was still yellow from winter and muddy from the spring rains. The shrubbery boasted the stark, bare twigs of winter and the pond looked brown.

  ‘It is perfect,’ he said.

  They walked in silence. She had placed one hand at his elbow while still grasping her cane with the other.

  ‘Describe it
to me—’ her fingers tightened slightly ‘—like you used to at home.’

  ‘It is beautiful,’ he said, glancing at her.

  The sun touched her face. Her lashes formed delicate fans across her cheeks and he became aware of their solitude and wished with startling intensity that things were different. He wished he was not illegitimate, that he was not a rake, that he did not feel this numb, dead ache for a brother who was not a brother, a father who was not a father. He wished that he did not fight duels or have whole nights obliterated by alcohol.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It is grassy with five trees,’ he said.

  ‘You are being disobliging.’

  ‘And you are wanting me to be someone I can no longer be. I am not the boy who was your friend. I am not the boy who drew pretty pictures and believed in art and the ache of beauty and other nonsense.’

  ‘But you could still describe it to me,’ she said softly. ‘Because I still believe in art and the ache of beauty.’

  He wanted to say ‘more fool you’ but couldn’t.

  Instead he stopped, putting down the basket and surveying the scene once more. This time he allowed himself to notice the different shades of green, the bright emerald moss, the verdant jade of willows’ unfurled leaves, the dark blue-green of the scattered conifers sombre against the alders’ paler shades. He could visualise the palette. He could imagine the delicate mix of yellow and blue.

  He felt a heady excitement, like a person gorging on forbidden fruit.

  Had he even noticed London’s greenery before? He could remember only riding hard and fast, as though punishing himself, immersing himself within London’s foggy grey.

  He glanced down at her blind, expectant face.

  ‘The grass stretches away from us,’ he said. ‘It is soft and smooth, like a green carpet. It looks the way the velvet of the curtains at Allington feels. The park is different from the country. It is more open. It is not constrained by fences or hedges. There are no cows or horses and the trees are huge and tall. It’s as though they know they are important. They are not crowded, but each owns its space. They are like the women who still wore hooped skirts when we were little.’

  She angled her face towards the pond as though his words had truly made it visible. Her smile widened. The breeze had loosened her hair and brightened her cheeks so that they flushed pink.

  ‘I always feel like I can see the colours when you describe them. Pink is sweet like sugar biscuits. And green is mint leaves.’

  She touched the bushes beside her as though to illustrate her point. They crackled under her touch. He smiled as they were neither pink nor green, but brown and deadened from winter.

  He stepped closer to her, forgetting the basket and stumbled. His movement brought them together as though choreographed in a Sheridan play. He heard her exhalation and felt the soft warmth of her breath as her chest rose.

  They stood quite close. The silence magnified and it seemed that everything else had dwarfed to insignificance. Slowly, he touched a glistening strand of gold hair. It wound about his finger, glimmering in the pale spring sunlight.

  He felt a contented wholeness, a peacefulness. It was as though some inner darkness, some yawning need, was briefly sated.

  * * *

  Beth stood within his arms. The sun warmed them. There was a stillness about him that was unusual. She had seen him infrequently since adulthood, but had always been aware of his restlessness, the movement of his arms and legs as though unable to stay still. Even after their wedding day, he had left almost immediately, saying only that he had business in London.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. She felt and heard his voice vibrating through his chest, just as she felt and heard the music at the church. ‘For coming to London. For telling me that Edmund knew and still cared. I tried to tell him not to go.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I loved him,’ Ren said.

  ‘I know.’

  They stood entwined, the moment sweet. Then it shifted. Beth became aware not only of the warmth of the sun against her back, but also of the long, lean hardness of him pressing against her. The steady beat of his heart quickened as though in response to the lessening of her own lassitude.

  His arms tightened.

  Instinctively, she leaned into him. Her breasts, pressed against the lining of her gown, tingled. Sensations—strange, unknown, exciting, complex—surged through her, heating her cheek as she laid it flush to the worsted cloth of his jacket.

  She felt him shift away and felt an instant of loss and need. Then his fingers touched her chin, tipping it upwards. His caress left a trail of sparks, igniting something deep into the very heart of her. He was going to kiss her. She wanted him to kiss her. His lips touched hers. The movement was slow, gentle, exploratory. It was not like the kiss in the study which had been fuelled by anger.

  His lips touched hers fleetingly, for the merest instant.

  The sparks exploded, flooding her with sensation she had not thought possible. Her hand reached into the thickness of his hair, pulling him closer. His lips touched hers again. She felt the intrusion of his tongue—except it did not feel like an intrusion. She pressed closer to him, arching against him, melding her soft curves to his harsh angles.

  She was molten, liquid, fused to him. Everything dwarfed to insignificance in contrast to this fiery needfulness.

  Ren broke the contact, pulling jerkily away, his breath coming in harsh and ragged gulps.

  ‘Ren?’ She reached out with her hands. She felt off balance, confused, as though the earth beneath her feet lacked stability. Her thoughts and emotions swung and circled. She had dropped her cane.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ His voice shook.

  Her hands found his arm. She grasped it with one hand while reaching up with the other. Stretching her fingers, she explored his features. Slowly, inch by inch, she felt how his face had changed and matured. She felt the strong chin, the familiar cheekbones and aquiline nose. She felt the lines bracketing his mouth which spoke of sadness and also a small scar just above his eyebrow.

  ‘Don’t,’ he muttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That.’ He shifted further. The bushes rustled.

  ‘Did I do it wrong?’ she asked. ‘The kissing?’

  ‘No.’ His breath was still uneven and his voice strained as though his throat had tightened. ‘No, you did not do it wrong.’

  ‘But you stopped?’

  ‘I— It— I— Look, I am not— I have always been— You deserve better.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Because I am blind?’ she asked.

  ‘What? No—’

  ‘Being blind does not make me a saint—that is as limiting as those who think that a lack of sight impacts intelligence. My disability has no impact on my morality, although I suppose it might limit my opportunities for immoral behaviour.’

  ‘Good Lord, what do you know of immoral behaviour?’

  ‘Very little,’ she said.

  She felt a frisson of regret that she had never felt previously. Those kisses—it felt as though she had glimpsed something, some experience that had been denied to her. It was irrational. It was foolish, but her body felt a need, a yearning—

  His free arm moved forward. She heard the rustle of cloth. He touched her chin, tilting it. Time stilled. She heard again his quickened, ragged breath. She felt the slight roughness of his thumb brush her skin.

  Then his hand dropped. He stepped back. ‘Right,’ he said briskly. ‘We will aim to keep your knowledge of such behaviour limited.’

  ‘I—’ Loss, regret, embarrassment flooded her in a confused disorientating mix. ‘Naturally. Absolutely. Certainly.’

  She spoke as though the proliferation of words would mitigate the awkwardness and distract her from the confused mix o
f emotion.

  She heard him bend to pick up the basket.

  ‘Shall we find somewhere for this picnic. Sun or shade?’

  ‘Sun,’ she said, stiffening both her spine and smile, because in the sun anything seemed possible.

  Chapter Nine

  Impatient as always, Beth stepped ahead, tapping out her route with her cane. Her sure-footed ability had always impressed him—how she could feel her way through the world, moving with care but a surprising surety.

  They found a spot on a slight hillock overlooking the lake. He laid down the plaid rug and helped her to sit. Then they opened the wicker basket and he was aware again of an almost childlike pleasure, more typical of a child at Christmas than a sophisticated man.

  Mrs Crofton had thought of everything: fresh bread, cheese, fruit, chicken, meat pies, wine of an excellent vintage.

  Beth leaned over, sniffing with her head slightly cocked and her expression intent.

  ‘You resemble a hunting dog.’ He chuckled, glad of the humour to lessen the tension which still seemed to snap between them.

  ‘Chicken,’ she said. ‘And that is hardly a flattering comparison.’

  ‘As always, your senses are correct. In addition to the chicken, we have wine, bread, cake and even some strawberries.’

  ‘We cannot possibly have strawberries.’

  ‘But we do.’

  ‘Give me one to prove it,’ Beth said.

  ‘What? Dessert before the savoury?’

  ‘Fruit doesn’t count. Besides, I like to break the rules.’

  ‘Of course you do.’ He passed her a strawberry.

  She took it. He watched as she held it between thumb and finger, the juice staining her fingers red. With a whimsical smile, she popped it into her mouth, delicately licking her parted lips. As always, there was a spontaneity in her gesture, a lack of affectedness and an intensity in the way she lived as though all that mattered was the taste of that single fruit.

  He wondered when he had last enjoyed a moment like this.

  By being unable to see others, she was less cognisant or caring of their opinions. She did not hesitate to show her emotion, be it joy or anger. And she took such pleasure from little things.