by Angie Ray
“The Relationship between British and Egyptian Coleoptera of the Scarabaeidae and Geotrupidae Families--Comprising an Account of Their Metamorphoses, Habitations, and Mating Rituals.”
“Good heavens,’ she said faintly. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. He had always been brilliant. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for his drawing. “Why don’t you let me sketch the beetle?”
He looked at her in surprise. “You would do that?”
“Certainly. As long as I don’t have to touch it and it doesn’t have to touch me.”
Gladly, he surrendered the pad and pencil.
She drew a very competent outline of the beetle. “You can’t possibly think this is beautiful,” she muttered as she began detailing its small, monstrous head.
Bernard, making some notes in a small journal, looked up. His lips quirked. “Perhaps not, but it is very interesting, nonetheless. It is related to the scarab beetle which was sacred to the ancient Egyptians. The scarab’s activities were seen as a reflection in miniature of the world around them and was a symbol of rebirth.”
Margaret looked at the ugly black beetle, then at Bernard. “Truly?”
“Yes, truly.” He leaned over to look at her drawing. “That is very well done, Margaret.”
“Thank you.” She finished adding striations to its back, then craned her neck to see behind the twig. “I can’t quite see the legs, Bernard.”
“I will hold it if you like.”
She hesitated. “It won’t jump out of your hand on me, will it?”
“No, these beetles fly only in the evening.” Carefully, he picked up the beetle and held it in the palm of his hand.
Margaret repressed a shudder. How could he bear to touch it? She watched the thing warily until satisfied it wouldn’t attack her, then returned her attention to her drawing. As she added several hairy legs to her sketch, she asked, “Were Dor beetles sacred here?”
“No, but in some parts of Europe, it is believed they have magic powers to curse or conjure up a fortune,” Bernard said. He smiled with the amused superiority often felt for the superstitions of one’s ancestors. “Some even believe they are familiars of the devil--“
Before he could finish his sentence, the beetle flew up in the air and fell straight down the low neckline of Margaret’s dress.
“Eek!” she screeched. Jumping to her feet, she brushed frantically at her bodice. The insect dropped lower. She could feel it crawling between her breasts, its wings fluttering. “Bernard! Get it out! Get it out!”
He hesitated a split second before plunging his hand in after the insect. His warm fingers probed the cleft of her breasts, grazing the soft curves before he grasped the insect and pulled it out.
“I have it, Margaret.”
His voice sounded a bit odd, and she looked at him, still shaking, whether from the insect, or embarrassment, she wasn’t quite sure. Mortification flooded her. Had she truly ordered him to stick his hand down her dress? “You did that on purpose!” she said shrilly.
Bernard turned pale. “No! Margaret, I swear--!”
She didn’t let him finish. Stalking to the dogcart, she climbed into the seat and sat there stiffly until he drove her home, protesting his innocence all the while.
*****
She told Phillip that night, and he listened sympathetically, making small noises of outrage at the appropriate moments. He was glad she was angry at Bernard, but he still did not like the side effect of the little incident. Bernard had actually touched her.
“But maybe it was an accident,” she said, calming down a bit. “Bernard is too much of a gentleman to do something so lewd. He respects me.”
Respected her! Why he’d wager the idiot was wallowing in lewd thoughts this very moment. “Bernard ought to be shot,” he growled with more sincerity than he had shown till that moment.
She looked at him in surprise, then with dawning suspicion. “Phillip--“
Hastily, he rose from the settee. “Dear Margaret, I must go now.” He patted his vest as if searching for his watch.
“Why?” Her suspicion increasing by the moment, she folded her arms across her chest.
“Ghost business.” Ignoring her outraged expression, he smiled sweetly and quickly disappeared.
*****
The next night, after everyone had retired, Bernard walked to Margaret’s room and raised his hand to knock. His determination faltered for a moment, and he lowered his hand to his side again.
Would she like his idea? Or would she think it foolish? He didn’t know, but he knew he had to take the risk. He was beginning to feel desperate.
Margaret had been a little distant all day, although she had finally accepted his apology. He did not try to proclaim his innocence again--he suspected he knew who he had to thank for the incident with the beetle.
He hoped he could recover some lost ground tonight. If she liked the idea and didn’t think it foolish. With a deep breath, Bernard raised his hand again, and knocked.
Margaret’s maid answered the door, opening it barely a crack. “Yes?”
Bernard cleared his throat. “May I speak to Margaret?”
The woman frowned. “She’s getting ready for bed.”
“Who is it, Yvette?” Bernard heard Margaret call.
Reluctantly, the maid opened the door all the way. Bernard saw Margaret, standing behind a dressing screen, her dress draped over the edge, her bare shoulders just visible. His throat tightened.
“Bernard! What do you want?” Her bright blue eyes looked curiously at him. “Is something wrong?
“No, no, not at all.” He had to clear his throat again. “I wondered if you would like to go for a boat ride on the lake.”
“Now?” she gasped.
“Why not?” he asked. “The moon is almost full and it’s still warm.”
Margaret stared at him for a moment, wondering at the odd invitation. First the billiards, then the picnic, now this. Bernard hadn’t been so...friendly since they were children. What was behind it all?
The answer came to her, so clear and obvious, she didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of it before. He was trying to reestablish their childhood friendship. She felt a warm glow. Perhaps he wanted to let bygones be bygones. Perhaps he missed her companionship as much as she had missed his. She smiled brilliantly. “Why not indeed? Yvette, come help me put my dress back on.”
Grumbling, the maid did so, and in a few minutes, Margaret and Bernard were walking towards the lake through the sweetly scented night.
She hesitated a moment when she saw the weathered wood of the old rowboat. “It won’t sink, will it?”
“Don’t worry, it’s seaworthy. I checked it today.” He helped her climb aboard, then pushed off and jumped in. Picking up the oars, he began to row.
Still a bit tense, Margaret relaxed slightly when the boat glided forward smoothly.
“Worried your dress might get wet?”
Startled, she looked at him. Was he actually teasing her? Although the light was dim, she could see his half-smile. Involuntarily, she smiled back. “It’s not my dress that concerns me. I can’t swim.”
He stopped rowing for a moment to stare at her. “You never learned? Why didn’t you tell me? I would have taught you.”
When they were children, he had always been trying to coax her into the water, she remembered. She had turned up her nose in disdain to cover her fear. Ever since she had fallen in a lake as a child, she had tried to avoid large bodies of water.
“I’ll still teach you, if you would like to learn.”
“Perhaps someday,” she murmured.
The lake was like a silver mirror, perfectly still, except for where the boat cut through it. The only noise was the slight splashing made by the oars, and the creak of wood. The last of her tension flowed out leaving Margaret feeling pleasantly relaxed. What a wonderful idea this was! It surprised her that Bernard had thought of it. But he had surprised her quite a bit lately.
; “It is important to have some knowledge of swimming,” Bernard continued as he resumed rowing. “You never know when it will save your life.”
She thought she detected a slight grimness in his voice. Curious, she said, “You sound as though you speak from experience.”
“Yes, I almost drowned once in India.”
“Drowned!” Margaret straightened. “What happened?”
“When I first arrived there, I heard about some bees that made their nests in the Marble Rocks at Jubbulpore. Since the Marble Rocks stand up out of a lake, so I had to take a boat in order to observe the bees. I got too close to a nest, and a swarm attacked me. I had to dive overboard. Everytime I came up for air, the bees attacked. Fortunately, I was a strong enough swimmer to finally get away.”
“Dear heaven,” she breathed. “That wasn’t much of a welcome to India.”
He shrugged. “India isn’t always welcoming to foreigners. The British especially. Just the heat is nigh unbearable--the air is thick with humidity, and the sun so fierce, one can’t hold a gun, or anything else made of metal, without gloves.”
He paused, gazing out across the lake, with a distant look in his eyes. “But on a night like this, you can go down to a water-hole and see deer, jackal, leopard, and wild boar. In the garden of my villa, I often saw bulbul, hoopoe, and mina birds. There was even a green parrot that stole plums from my tree. The villa itself smelled of sandalwood, and the windows and doors were always open for air. The hospitality of the people is unlimited.”
Margaret could not take her eyes away from him. “You sound as if you enjoyed it,” she whispered.
He looked at her. He shook himself slightly, as if coming out of a trance. Picking up the oars, he began to row again. “As I told you before, it’s not so romantic as it sounds. In the rainy season, snakes prefer a dry house to a wet garden. Many are poisonous. Sudden disease and death are common. It’s not comfortable, Margaret.”
No, it didn’t sound comfortable at all. But did she want to be comfortable? “Don’t you think one can become too comfortable?” she asked.
He looked at her oddly. “Perhaps.”
He didn’t say any more, and she considered what he had said. Although much of it was negative, there had been a certain tone in his voice and certain look in his eye that made her think Bernard wasn’t as stodgy as he sometimes appeared. In fact, she was sure of it--look how he’d invited her on this boat ride. Leaning over, she trailed her hand in the water, reveling in the pleasant coolness, and feeling more in charity with Bernard than she had in a long time.
They were some distance from shore when Bernard stopped rowing again. “I wanted to talk to you where we wouldn’t be interrupted,” he said, pulling up the oars. “I’ve been wanting to clear up a few things.”
“Oh?” He sounded serious. Margaret pulled her hand out of the water, shaking it to remove the moisture. “What things?”
Bernard handed her a handkerchief. “Your father, for one.”
“My father?” Margaret stopped drying her fingers to look at him. She couldn’t make out his expression in the dim light. “What about my father?”
He hesitated, as if choosing his words. “What he said about ‘upping the ante’,” Bernard finally burst out. “That wasn’t true.”
Upping the ante? Oh. She remembered how her father had implied he had to increase her dowry to persuade Bernard to marry her. “It wasn’t?” she said coolly.
“I mean, he did, but I never...that is, he was the one...what I mean to say is, I certainly never asked for anything from your father. I’ve done very well for myself in India. I would have been glad to marry you even if you didn’t have a penny.”
“You would?” The handkerchief slipped from Margaret’s fingers and she had to grope around the bottom of the boat to find it. She didn’t know what to make of his words. Was he merely trying to be polite? If he truly wanted to marry her, then why did he always seem so distant?
Looking up at him, her lips parted in unconscious invitation.
He leaned forward. “Margaret--“
A sudden cold breeze swept across the lake, rocking the boat. Strangely, the breeze swept back again, from the other direction, rocking them even more violently. One of the oars tipped into the lake. Bernard, reaching out to grab it, leaned dangerously far over the edge the boat. The cold wind swept by for the third time, and Bernard fell overboard, almost as if he had been pushed.
With an exclamation, Margaret reached out to help him, only to overbalance. Her arms windmilled in an effort to save herself, but it was useless. With a loud splash, she fell into the cold, dark water.
Chapter Sixteen
A black nightmare world closed around her. She was a four-year-old child again, weak, helpless. Terrified, she tried to claw her way to the surface, but her heavy skirts and swirling hair hindered her. Although she had instinctively taken a breath before falling in, she was quickly running out of oxygen. Panic-stricken, she thrashed in the water, heart pounding, lungs bursting.
She was certain she was going to die when a hand seized her arm and pulled her to the surface. “Margaret!” Bernard exclaimed. “Are you all right?”
“Bernard!” She locked her arms about his neck and wrapped her legs around his hips. Pressing her face against his chest, she clung like a starfish to a rock.
“Margaret.” His hands came up to her waist, and she burrowed closer to him. “Margaret! The water’s only five feet deep.”
Tremors reverberated through her bones. She could barely make sense of what he was saying. Something about the water.
“You can stand up, Margaret. The water’s only five feet deep.”
Five feet? Margaret’s breathing slowly returned to normal. Becoming aware of the intimate way she was clinging to him, she abruptly released her deathgrip. She splashed awkwardly in the water until she found her footing. “I’m sorry, Bernard.” She blushed furiously. “Thank you.”
“Are you all right?” Bernard asked again, keeping hold of her arm.
“I’m fine,” she replied. “But we’d better get inside.”
Abandoning the boat, they waded to shore and hurried to the house, Margaret dragging her heavy sodden skirts. Inside, she headed straight for the stairs, when Bernard caught her arm again.
His dark brown hair looked almost black against his pale skin. “Margaret--“
“Tomorrow, Bernard,” she said, her teeth chattering. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Pulling away, she hurried up to her room.
She threw the door open so violently, it crashed against the wall. Shivering and dripping, her hair plastered to her scalp, water trickling down her nose, she glared around the room.
Phillip was not there.
Furiously, she stomped over to the bell pull and yanked.
With much clucking, Yvette helped Margaret change. When the maid left at last, Margaret climbed into bed and waited, arms folded across her chest.
Half an hour passed. Muttering dire imprecations under her breath, she picked up her book and forced herself to read. By the time Phillip finally made an appearance, she had herself well under control.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him hesitate, then try that engaging grin of his. As if she were one of those foolish women who found him irresistible, she thought. As if he expected her to smile back.
Her lips tightened; she ignored the smile. That wind had not been natural and it had confirmed her suspicions about the beetle incident. She wanted an apology. A protracted apology.
Phillip watched her quietly for a few moments. Her eyes looked bluer than ever against her pale skin and the dark gold of her slightly damp hair. She was sitting up in bed, leaning against a mass of pillows, reading a book. He studied her tilted chin, raised brows and pursed lips.
She looked amazingly adorable, even though she appeared a bit miffed. He supposed it hadn’t been a good idea to rock that boat. He had never meant for her to get wet, only her stick of a betrothed. He hadn’t realized she could
n’t swim.
“I’m sorry I rocked your boat, Margaret.”
Her face remained cold. Perhaps she was a bit more upset than he’d thought. He tried again. “If I’d known you can’t swim, I wouldn’t have done it. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Still her expression remained cold and he discovered he did not like seeing that expression on her face after all. She should be happy, her eyes glowing with love....His stomach clenched in a peculiar manner. And quite suddenly, he was determined to make her smile.
“You look lovely tonight.” He smiled his most charming smile, the one that caused women to sigh, to melt, to swoon.
She did none of those things. Nor did she look charmed. In fact, if it wasn’t for the disdainful arch of her eyebrows, he would have thought she hadn’t noticed. She turned a page in her book and stared at it intently.
He sighed noisily. Pulling out a handkerchief, he laid it on the floor. At least, he tried to. It floated slightly above the carpet. He pressed it down, but it immediately arose again as if it, or perhaps the floor, gave off some repelling force. Oh, well. He rested one knee on the handkerchief. “I humbly ask forgiveness for being the inadvertent cause of your midnight swim. My intentions were honorable--I had hoped to wash some of the starch out of the noble Barnyard.”
“Bernard,” she corrected, frowning fiercely.
“As you say. Tell me you forgive me or my life will be ever blighted.” He paused, placing a finger to his temple. “Hold, that’s not right. My death will be ever blighted? That doesn’t sound quite right either.”
“You are ridiculous.” She snapped her book shut.
“Smile upon me please, fair maid. Say you forgive me.”
Her lips twitched.
“One word from thine beauteous lips will spare me the agony of undying remorse. There, that is much better, isn’t it?”
She laughed. The sound was like rippling bells. Her whole face softened, the contours somehow rounding with laughter. Even her blue eyes curved, shimmering with mirth.