by Mary Balogh
Afterward, when he held her still-trembling form wrapped in his arms, cradled on his body, Merrick still felt no discomfort. He lay staring at the rough boards that made the roof, one of them rotted in a corner so that the rain dripped through to form a small puddle, as he felt Anne relax fully and her breathing become even. Anne. Was he going to be able to leave her in five days' time? He had not wanted her, had fought all these days against his growing need of her. But he feared that he was losing the battle. It would be hard to go back to Eleanor, who would, as always, chatter gaily to him while undressing and resume the conversation almost without break a minute after he had finished having intercourse with her. There was something very flattering, and utterly satisfying, about holding in one's arms a woman who slept as a result of one's lovemaking.
He raised one arm behind his head and with the other hand absently massaged her head through the damp hair. He could take her back with him just for the Season. If he tired of her within those few months, he could then send her back to Redlands. It would give him some pleasure to introduce her to the activities of town, to clothe her in the height of fashion. He would even derive some pride out of introducing her to the ton as his wife. Perhaps he would. He had a few days in which to think about it. It would certainly make amends in a small way for his treatment of her thus far. Life must be insufferably dull and lonely at Redlands.
Although his arm was cramped and the rough surface of the floor had made its presence felt through the blanket that lay between it and him, Merrick was almost sorry to hear the sound of approaching horses. He would have liked to watch Anne wake up and to have had the leisure in which to kiss her. She felt deliciously soft and warm. He shook her slightly.
"Wake up, sleepyhead," he said, "or someone is going to discover to his embarrassment that we really are man and wife." He rolled sideways and set her down in a sitting position on the floor. He laughed as she pushed his hands away and drew her blanket tightly around her.
Both of them were on their feet when Freddie pushed the door open. "Damme," he said. "Knew you would be here. Told Grandmamma so. 'Alex has brains,' I said. 'He will take Anne to shelter in the boathouse.' I was right."
"Grandmamma is here?" said Merrick, peering through the crack between the opened door and the side of the hut. "Then I had better put my shirt on or she will have an apoplexy. Good lad, Freddie, you brought a closed carriage. No, you don't," he said, turning to Anne. "I shall carry you out just the way you are. And you may take that as a command, madam."
Chapter 11
Two days before the play was to be performed, Lady Sarah Lynwood decided it was high time to perform the duties that her mother had assigned her almost two weeks before. She did not have an acting part, as she was much given to fits of the vapors when excited. Instead, she had been put in charge of the costumes. Actually, it was not a difficult task. The duchess was a hoarder; nothing was ever thrown away at Portland House if there were any possible use left for it. Even clothes that no longer fit or that had fallen out of fashion were packed away carefully in trunks and stored in the attic rooms if they were not suitable for giving to the servants or to the poor.
Thus Sarah had a wide choice of gorgeous garments in the styles of several decades before: skirted and satin coats, knee breeches, buckled shoes, and wigs for the men; wide, panniered skirts, tall wigs, feathered plumes, and even some patches for the ladies. All she needed to do was match up sizes and choose suitable styles and colors for each character.
Anne was the only other adult who seemed at all interested in helping. She was intrigued by the old-fashioned finery, which she had seen only in pictures before. Had people really worn all these heavy and costly clothes not so long ago? Somehow, when she really thought about it, she could almost imagine Alexander's grandparents as young people, dressed for a ball. They must have been a stately pair. Even now they both moved around with something of a regal bearing, as if they had learned from long habit as young people that they must keep their shoulders back and chins up if their wigs were to stay in place.
Anne went up to the attic with Sarah during the afternoon. The three children were with her. Meggie had found her in the rose arbor during the morning and told her very solemnly that Aunt Sarah would not allow them to look at all the old clothes upstairs, though Mamma had said that she was to go up later in the day to open up all the trunks. Kitty was crying and Davie was calling her a stupid girl and had called Aunt Sarah a bad word, though no one had heard except his sisters. Anne had winked at the child and promised to see what she could do. The children had been granted permission to come, provided they did not interfere with the serious business of their aunt.
Sarah picked out a kingfisher-blue satin gown for Anne to wear as Kate Hardcastle, grand lady. Through most of the play she would wear a plain outfit, borrowed from the housekeeper and taken in quite ruthlessly at the seams. But for one scene in the play, the one in which Alexander as Charles Marlow would know who she was and stammer his way through an interview with her, she must look as regal as possible. The skirt was very wide, a large bow gathering the fabric into a bustle at the back. The bodice looked as if it must be almost indecently low.
"Ah," Sarah said triumphantly, bent low over another trunk, "here are some hair plumes, Anne. They must have been made to match that gown." She drew out plumes of blue and green.
Anne laughed. "How ridiculously long they are," she said. "I should have to stoop to go through doorways with those in my hair."
"Especially when you are wearing that wig," Davie said, pointing to the piled creation that lay in a heap next to the gown.
"Do try them on," Kitty pleaded. "Please, Cousin Anne. We may not even see you all dressed up on the night. When we asked Mamma if we might watch the play, she said only that she will see."
"Yes, do let us see you," Meggie agreed.
Anne giggled. "I shall certainly not try on the gown up here," she said. "I shall need a great deal of help getting into that. But I will try the wig and the plumes. I shall feel so ridiculous."
Sarah was far too busy rummaging through the numerous trunks for likely costumes for the other characters to take any real notice of what went on behind her. It was left to the children to help Anne fit the wig; there was no mirror in the attic. Finally it was adjusted to the satisfaction of Meggie, the most critical member of her audience. Anne then sat down on the floor while the children placed the plumes in her hair.
"No, no," Sarah said during one moment when she had withdrawn her attention from a trunk, "plumes are meant to stand straight up, dears, to give a lady height, not float out behind like a tail. Worn like that, they would hit everyone in the eye who came within ten feet of her."
"Pull them out carefully, Davie," Meggie instructed, "or you will disturb the hair. Stay still, Cousin Anne. You are very patient. You are almost ready now."
"Oh," Anne said, turning her head as soon as the children had withdrawn their arms, "the box of patches. I should be quite undressed without a patch, you know. Come, you shall help me choose one."
Even Meggie was giggling when they finally settled on a black patch in the shape of a heart and placed it carefully close to the corner of Anne's mouth. Anne stood up and curtsied deeply to the children, being very careful to keep her head rigidly upright.
Davie clicked his heels to attention and made her an elegant bow. "May I have this dance, madam?" he asked, while Kitty clapped her hands and jumped up and down and Meggie watched, her head on one side.
"Damme," Freddie's voice said from the doorway, "you look as fine as five-pence, Anne. Don't she, Alex?"
Merrick was standing, one shoulder leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded across his chest. "Rather top-heavy, I would say," he said, his eyes sweeping her from head to toe, and Anne became self-consciously aware of how ridiculous she must look with such elaborate headgear and a simple cotton day dress.
"Came to see what you have found for me, Mamma," Freddie said. "Is there a waistcoat the col
or of Anne's gown? It would look grand. Will I wear a wig too? How famous." He crossed to his mother's side and peered into the trunk in which she was currently rummaging.
"Cousin Anne is wearing a patch," Kitty said, raising wide eyes to Merrick. "We helped her choose it. It is a heart."
"Is it, indeed?" Merrick said, strolling into the crowded room and looking closely at the patch. "So it is. Ladies used to wear patches, you know, to pass along a message. The color, the shape, and the place where she put in on her face were all chosen for a purpose."
"Really?" Davie said, gazing with interest at Anne's face. "What message is Cousin Anne sending, do you think?"
"A heart is for love," Meggie said.
"Precisely," Merrick agreed, "and I think the placement close to the mouth is an invitation to be kissed. Would you not agree, Davie, my boy?"
"But what would black signify?" the boy asked as Merrick's eyes met and held Anne's.
"Black is for evil," Meggie said.
"Black is for mystery," said Kitty.
"Black is noticeable," said Merrick. "Perhaps the lady merely wishes to make sure that the invitation will not be missed."
"But it was a jointly made choice," Anne protested. "And we really had no choice of color. All the patches in the box are black."
"I think you should kiss Cousin Anne," Davie said, grinning, to Merrick.
"Yes, kiss her, Cousin Alex," Kitty agreed eagerly, clapping her hands.
"Adults don't kiss. Only children," Meggie added.
"Well," Merrick said, "sometimes all of us can be children. If Anne can be enough of a child to dress up and play at being at a ball with Davie here, she can also be child enough to be kissed." He leaned down and placed his lips against hers for a slow moment. There was a gleam of something that might have been amusement in his eyes when he straightened up, though he did not smile.
The children shrieked their amusement.
"Now it is time for me to join in the games," he said. "I came here with Freddie to find out what horrors Aunt Sarah is resurrecting for me. Ah, a tricorne. Is that for me, Aunt? I think I rather fancy that. Tricornes worn with wigs were so much more dashing than top hats, don't you agree, girls? Let me show you."
Anne dislodged the plumes from her wig and removed the headpiece and the patch unnoticed while the children and the two men turned their attention to the small pile of garments and accessories that Sarah had lifted out onto the floor.
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Miraculously, no one had taken cold during the afternoon of the picnic, though all of them had, to a greater or lesser extent, had a soaking. Most of them had soon warmed up before the drawing-room fire and with the aid of brandy for the men and steaming tea for the ladies. Anne had been the only one over whom the duchess had really fussed. In fact, when she knew that Anne had been left behind with her grandson at the site of the picnic while the others came home out of the rain, she had roundly scolded them all and insisted on accompanying Freddie in a closed carriage when an hour had passed and it had become obvious that the pair must either have met with some accident or have taken shelter somewhere.
The duchess had been horrified when she saw her grandson emerge from the boathouse carrying his wife bundled up in a blanket. She had not even commented upon his shocking dishabille, but had lifted Anne's feet to the seat of the carriage, so that they would not receive any of the draft from the doors and had chafed her hands all the way home. Despite Anne's protests, she had insisted that Merrick carry her up to her room, and soon a whole string of maids were carrying hot pitchers of water to the room for a bath and hot bricks to warm the bed, where Anne was banished for the rest of the day. As a result of the treatment, or in spite of it, she had not suffered any ill effects from her exposure to the rain and cold.
No physical ill effects, that was. But during her enforced stay in her room, she had nursed other wounds. It was so easy to tell oneself that one would be sensible. It was so easy to say that her love for Alexander was only physical and that it therefore was of no real importance. It was easy to tell herself that after five more days she would be glad to go home so that she might be free from her imprisonment to her own desires. It was another thing entirely to convince her emotions to agree with her reason.
She loved Alexander. Despite what he was and what he had done to her, despite everything, she loved him, and the thought of being separated from him again soon, perhaps forever, was one she did not dare let her mind dwell upon. She was becoming so dependent on his presence. The mere sound of his voice or the simple knowledge that he was in the same room could brighten her day and torture her all at the same moment. Although she was trying to avoid him except when contact was absolutely necessary, she knew that really she was not trying as hard as she might. She was much more successful at avoiding Jack, probably because she really wished to do so.
Life was going to be unutterably dreary when she went home alone. There would be no chance contacts, no possibility that perhaps sometimes he would look upon her a little more kindly than was usual, no chance that occasionally they might share a smile. And the nights were going to seem endlessly empty without Alexander to love her, without the warmth and comfort of his body against which to curl into sleep.
She wished the afternoon had not happened. It had seemed much more intimate to be with him in the boathouse during the daytime than to have him in her bed at night. It had seemed far less as if he was merely using her as any man might use his wife. She could almost have imagined as he had kissed and caressed her before entering her that he had done so out of love. And he had smiled at her when she had tried to withdraw from the embrace, instead of becoming angry as she had half-expected. She was no longer able to tell herself that he had never shown her any kindness. She had not missed his motive in taking her on top of his body for their coupling. He had taken the hard floor against his own back. She ached for him, for his love, for some sign that she was more to him than a mere convenience. She very much wished that the afternoon had turned out differently.
No, she did not, of course. Her life was going to be a lonely and a barren business. And her memories of these two weeks at Portland House would be painful ones. But would she exchange this life, unsatisfactory as it was, for the life she would have had if Alexander had not been stranded at Bruce's home? It was very unlikely that she would ever have married, and her life at this very moment would be intolerable if she had not. Bruce had recently wed the daughter of the vicar in the village where he taught. Anne would have been in the unenviable position of being a spinster in the home of married relatives.
She was far better off as she was. Redlands was her home and she was undeniably mistress there, loved as well as respected, she had reason to believe. And she had a husband who was able and willing to pay all her bills, with the result that she could make of the old, shabby building a home that pleased her love of beauty. And she had her memories: memories of her wedding night, when she had given herself up to ecstasy, believing herself loved; memories of a family that, for all its oddities, was close and filled with affection, and that had extended that fondness to her; and memories of two weeks in which she had known physical fulfillment with her husband and in which she had seen him in a somewhat more sympathetic light than she had ever before seen him. Memories were a poor substitute for present happiness, but they were at least something.
It was, then, with a determined cheerfulness that Anne had joined in the almost feverish preparations of the final few days before the grand ball. She patiently went over and over a scene when Claude was dissatisfied, when tempers were generally running short. She helped the duchess sort through the cards that had been returned in reply to the invitations that had been sent out, though she did not know quite to what purpose they did so. She played with the children and took them for a long walk in the lime grove, when everyone else either ignored their existence or snapped at them for being underfoot. She gave her attention to Freddie when he was fretti
ng over the decision of whether to wear his puce satin waistcoat beneath his gold evening coat at the ball, or his pink-and-blue-striped one. And she desperately clung to every contact with her husband, committing every word, look, and gesture to memory for future reference.
It was a result of her kindness in giving Freddie some attention that Anne became his confidante. He had brought his evening coat and the two waistcoats to the library, where she sat alone, by prearrangement. It was the morning after the search of the attic for their play costumes.
"Oh, I think definitely the puce, Freddie," Anne said, having given due consideration to both garments under consideration. "It is so much more distinguished than the striped for an evening function. And it complements the gold of your coat so much better. What do you think?"
"Grandmamma will frown and say something cutting if I do the wrong thing," he said. "But if you say so, Anne, the puce must be the better. You would tell me the truth. You have taste. Always look lovely. Lucky man, Alex. Brains, you know, if I had brains, perhaps I would have married you, Anne."
"Brains have nothing to do with the matter, Freddie," Anne said kindly. "Any woman would be fortunate to be your wife. You have the gift for making someone feel special, and you do not need intelligence for that."
"Do you think so?" Freddie asked eagerly. "Damme, I thought no woman would ever have me. Do you think Miss Fitzgerald would consent, Anne?"
"Miss Fitzgerald?" Anne repeated, taken aback. "Are you thinking of asking her, Freddie? Indeed, I am sure she is very eligible."
"And pretty," Freddie said. "Do you think she is pretty, Anne?"
Anne considered. "Well," she said carefully. "No, I would not say she is pretty, Freddie. Handsome, I think, would be a more appropriate description."
"Yes," he said. "By Jove, yes, she is remarkably handsome, is she not? Do you think she will have me, Anne?"