by Susanna Ives
Yet, they continued to bubble up.
Megan stroked Branwen’s ear. “I understand.”
Helena heard footfalls coming down the stairs and the gentlemen passed the parlor door she had opened again after Theo left. Officer Wilson surprised her by abruptly turning and entering.
“Miss Gillingham, I’m surprised to see you,” he said, all smiles and politeness, and not at all the unemotional, icy man she remembered from London. He bowed. “You look as lovely as ever. Congratulations on your engagement to Mr. Mallory. I see he is the happiest of men.”
Helena gazed over the man’s shoulder at Theo. His face was rigid. His eyes held the hollow, unfocused stare they did the day he had broken down on the mountainside.
Branwen barked, and tried to run to her master, sensing something was wrong. Megan hugged the dog’s neck, holding her back.
“Thank you,” Helena murmured and performed a tiny bob of a curtsey.
“This is interesting news, indeed.” The officer glanced back at Theo. A silent communication passed between the two men. Theo glanced down.
Officer Wilson switched his attention to her. An odd expression, akin to sadness, came over his roughened features. “I wish you the best, Miss Gillingham. I always have, even if you don’t believe it to be so.”
Officer Wilson turned to leave the room, but stopped and glanced over his rounded shoulder. His lips opened to say something, but then he changed his mind. He walked out without another word. Theo followed in equal silence.
Helena rushed to the window. Outside, the three men conferred. Then Officer Wilson and the other man nodded and stepped into the carriage. Theo remained outside as the carriage circled the drive and lumbered out the gate. He pressed his fingers to his forehead.
“Oh, God,” Helena whispered, her gut knotting up.
“What’s wrong?” Megan still restrained Branwen, who was barking and pulling to get to her master.
“I don’t know.”
Helena rushed into the hall with Megan and Branwen. They met Theo as he entered through the carved doors. His lips and face were drained of color. He seemed unsteady on his feet, as though he were drunk.
“What has happened?” Helena cried. “Tell me! Tell me now!”
∞∞∞
Theo looked upon his beautiful intended and thought, I’m going to destroy your heart. Ruin your faith. That is what has happened.
He knelt and rubbed his faithful hound’s ears. “Megan, can you take Branwen for a walk?” He spoke in hollow, soft tones, all he could muster. “I must speak to Helena.”
“But—”
“Please,” Theo said.
The girl’s worried gaze shifted between Helena and Theo, but at last, she said, “Come on, Branwen.” They walked slowly away. Theo closed the door behind them.
“Why was that man here?” Helena cried. “What do you know?”
He drew her to his heart and closed his eyes. “I love you.”
“That man. He came to my house every day after my father died. He oversaw the investigation.”
Theo said nothing, but kissed the top of her head, breathing in her scent, taking in each detail of her touch, knowing this would be their last embrace.
But Helen yanked away. “Did you have something to do with my father’s investigation?” Panic raised her pitch. “His death? Tell me. I must know.”
His eyes burned and he thought he might cry. But when he opened his mouth, fury seized him.
Dammit, he had gone to Crimea out of duty to his country. Its honor. The battlefield at Alma flashed in his mind, the cannon smoke rising to reveal the chunks of human and horseflesh strewn over the mud. His fingers had ached, and his shoulder was bruised from firing his rifle. The groans and pleas for help from dying Russians, boys shot for the glory of England, formed an eerie, off key kind of music. He couldn’t help them. He couldn’t even look at them, else he might catch their eyes and be reminded of the humanity he had lost.
To live in Crimea, he had to die inside.
It had taken him years of digging in the stony Welsh dirt to bring himself back to life. When he was near Helena, a profound, almost, spiritual peace filled him. He had lost his comrades, his faith, and sanity for his country, and now England was going to rip Helena away from him.
And what about her? What would the truth do except to destroy what little trust she had left? He couldn’t bring himself to inflict any more hurt on her. He could not break her like he had been broken. He never wanted Helena to know that despair.
He gazed up at the ceiling, adorned with the friezes of Welsh heroes. He began to speak. His words sounded as though they were spoken from a far distance. “Officer Wilson explained that he had attended to your father’s investigations these last months.” The story formed in his head as he spoke. “I’m sorry you had to see him today. But his presence here had nothing to do with your father. Thank goodness. These men are searching for a former employee of my father. A secretary. This employee has been implicated in several thefts, including some valuables that were my late mother’s. They believe this secretary might have fled the country and were questioning me about my dealings with him.”
“Why would they take a train all the way from London to ask you this?”
“They are incompetent fellows. My father has been pressing them for months, yet they have found nothing. I think they are merely putting on a show. They know the secretary has vanished for good with my mother’s ancestral jewelry. Some I would have given you.”
He searched her face, gauging if she bought into his flimsy fabrication. His lie sounded so damningly hollow. But he also knew she wanted to believe his innocence. People willingly latched onto the thinnest thread of ridiculous hope.
Her shoulders slumped, her face crumpled. “I’m so sorry, Theo!” she cried. “I’m so terribly sorry. Can you forgive me for even thinking… how could I? Please forgive me. Please.”
“Perhaps.” He ran his thumb over her lip. “Kiss me,” he whispered, and tilted her head to his. He closed his eyes and slipped his tongue into her mouth. Her breasts rose, brushing against his chest. Even as he tried to block out his fears, they howled inside his head. Monday seemed too far away and his hold on her more tenuous than ever.
He released her mouth and whispered, “Come.” What he wanted to do to her was shameful; he was becoming as corrupt as her father. He waited, half-wanting her to refuse him, because he knew he wasn’t going to stop himself.
She took his hand.
He led her up the stairs and through the corridors to his chamber. The curtains were drawn, casting the ornate room into midnight. He lit a lamp on the side table, illuminating the carvings. He wouldn’t give her up. He would lie for the rest of his life to keep her. He slowly pulled the ribbons of her bonnet loose, letting it fall away.
She reached up and brushed his beard with the back of her knuckles. He closed his eyes, reeling in her touch. Her hands slid down his neck to his coat. Her fingers felt like feathers on his shoulders and arms as she pushed the coat away. The anxiety that coursed through his body now lessened, overpowered by raw want. His cock swelled with anticipation, straining against his trousers. She glanced at the bulge and then shyly looked away as she released his waistcoat.
“You can look at me, love. I’m your husband.” He undid his necktie and collar and then pulled off his shirt.
She tentatively touched him until slowly her fingers grew bolder as she trailed along his chest to his belly. His muscles quaked under her touch.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispered and kissed him, sliding her tongue along his, tasting him, exploring him. The pressure of her mouth increased, she pressed her breasts against him.
“My love,” he murmured and slid his hands up her back. Then, button-by-button, layer-by-layer, he removed the barrier of clothes until she was stripped to her thin chemise and drawers.
She inched away from him. Keeping her eyes on his face so she could take in every nuance of his expression
, she untied the string of her chemise and slid it away. Her breasts were the shape of fat teardrops and the tips were erect little red buds.
“Helena,” he whispered, reaching to feel her, but she backed away again.
This time she reached for the string of her drawers, letting the remaining piece of her clothing fall until she was fully bared before him.
“You are loveliness,” he said quietly as he studied her. “Your heart, body, mind, every part of you.”
She began to protest, but he silenced her with his mouth. He didn’t want to hear or utter any more words. Words told lies and half-truths. Words were mere stabs in the dark at something larger, wild, and inexpressible.
She shuddered when he circled her nipple with his thumb, letting it flick over the top. Her mouth widened, letting him deeper into her. He continued to play along her breasts, feeling the tension of her desire building. Keeping her hostage in his kiss, he let his hand drift down, down, down, over her curls and into the swollen folds of her sex. She whimpered in his mouth and writhed against him as his fingers glided along her wet contours, learning her terrain. When he stroked her clitoris, she jolted. Her eyes shot open, and she pulled her mouth from his. She gazed down to where he caressed her. He continued to fondle until she could hardly stand but leaned her head into his shoulder, making soft and high hum-like moans.
She whispered something unintelligible.
“My love?”
“I desire to feel you inside me. I desire to feel…” She couldn’t finish but cried out.
He lifted her from the floor and rested her in his bed. There he hovered over her, kissing her mouth, her chin, her breasts. Her body moved in the motion of lovemaking, kneading against him, wanting more than his lips. His cock burned it was so engorged. Still, he held himself back. He opened her legs with his flattened palm and found the source of her pleasure again. He suckled her nipple, listening to her heartbeat under his ear and her purring whimpers, all while his finger danced over her mound, teasing, playing, enticing. Her legs turned rigid and trembled, her fingernails dug into his arm. Another touch and she might peak. But he withdrew his hand.
She grabbed his wrist. “No!”
In a twinkling, he was between her thighs, easing his cock into her. He hissed as her snug, slick walls took him in. At first, he controlled the pace, keeping his will intact, enjoying the quiet whimper she made when he delved into her. But when she began to milk each stroke, undulating her thighs around his penis, she broke his restraint. He thrust and thrust, trying as best he could to be gentle. But all his frustration and anger fueled his fervor. Her body took it away, transforming it into her pleasure.
Hot tears burned in his eyes as he watched her, her lids closed, her mouth open. All the fears about Officer Wilson were miles away from her now. He wanted her to know this pleasure every day. This was how he could make her feel. In this dangerous game she unwittingly played with him, these were her stakes.
She threw back her head, her legs quaking. She remained suspended for several seconds in this state, not even breathing. His penis burned. He fought his need to climax and continued to thrust.
“Come, Helena,” he rasped. “Come.”
She cried out, pushing him deep into her sex. Oh God. A white light flashed behind his eyelids and the tension poured out of him.
“Oh, my love,” he whispered as the last of his seed flowed into her womb.
Eighteen
The housekeeper led Theo to Bishop Whitaker’s study. The man was reading amid towering bookshelves lined with aging volumes and old stone church relics. He treated Theo to an annoyed glance over the round lenses of his reading glasses. But once Theo was introduced, the bishop’s pursed lips gave way to a tight smile upon the realization he was conversing with a fellow Englishman, an earl’s son.
He rose, pushing away the book he was reading. “What brings you to Bangor, Mr. Mallory?”
“I’ve come for a marriage license.”
“Ah, very good, very good.” Whitaker sat again and drew a sheet of paper from his desk. “Let me write the necessary information here.” He dipped his pen and began to write. “How is your father?” he asked as he worked.
“When I last saw him in London, he was well.”
“Good, good,” he muttered, not looking up from his work. “What is your full name?”
“Theodotus James Simon Mallory.”
“Have you been a resident in this parish for more than fifteen days?”
“I’ve lived here for five years.”
“And whom do you intend to wed?”
Theo fingered his hat. “Miss Helena Gillingham,” he said softly.
The bishop’s pen stopped. He gave a bark of laughter. “Dear heavens, I’m sorry, I thought you said Miss Helena Gillingham. You gave me quite a shock. I daresay your father wouldn’t find my mistake so amusing.”
“I did say Miss Helena Gillingham.”
Outside, the bells chimed eleven times to announce the hour. The bishop’s chair creaked as he turned and finished the license without saying another word. When he was done, he sealed it and set it on the edge of his desk, then rose. “Good day, Mr. Mallory. If you will please excuse me, I have a previous engagement.”
Taking up the document, Theo said, “Please keep this conversation in confidence. My father wishes it so.” He hated to lean on his father’s name but realized the sway a title had on the vain man.
“Of course,” Whitaker replied without expression. Giving no blessing or wishes for a happy marriage, the bishop strode from the room.
Piss off.
∞∞∞
Theo patted his pocket twice as he left the church, making sure he carried the precious license. He headed down the street toward the timbered public house where he had tied his horse in the mews. He nodded to a woman sweeping the stoop of her shop. Beyond the opened door, he could see inside her small, rectangular store. Cabinets rose along walls. Drawers were partially open, displaying gloves, stockings, and other ladies’ needs.
“Do you carry any lace?” he asked in Welsh.
“Lace ribbon?”
“No, just lace. For a...” He didn’t know the Welsh word so finished in English “…veil.”
She beckoned him inside and asked him to wait as she disappeared through a narrow back door. On the counter was a board covered in cotton where paste necklaces and rings were pinned. He took a ring and held it to the window. The light illuminated the facets of cheap glass stone. They glowed a pale blue like Helena’s eyes. He smiled to himself. It would do for now.
The lady returned with a box she set on the counter. She removed the folded paper from the top.
“I’ve had this piece here for awhile,” she said. “Far too fancy for the village. There are almost three yards in here.”
Theo fingered the tiny threads of the lace, imagining her face behind the tiny flowers and vines of silken thread. “I’ll purchase all of it,” he said, without asking the price. “And this ring.”
With the box under his arm and the wedding license still snug in his coat pocket, he ducked under the small medieval door of the public house. Light from the large paned windows streamed onto the tables and floor planks. Old engravings were nailed to the low beams that ran across the ceiling. On the far side of the room, by a massive fireplace, four Welshmen were hunched about a table strewn with newspapers and empty ale glasses. They argued in raised, alcohol-loosened voices, banging their fists to emphasize their points. They glanced in Theo’s direction and, not recognizing him as one of their own, dove back into their animated discussion.
A serving girl of about fourteen hurried from the kitchen. He was too on edge to be hungry, but he hadn’t eaten since dinner the evening before and another six hours of wild terrain waited between him and Helena. He ordered ale and potato soup. When the girl disappeared into the kitchen, he fished the license out of his pocket and ran his finger over the seal.
“How can the English lose five hundred thousand poun
ds!” one of the men boomed. He was a wiry man with a bony, weathered face and a croaking voice. “Gillingham’s fortune was seven hundred thousand pounds and they only traced two hundred thousand of it. And where’s his daughter? You haven’t heard from her disgraceful likes in a while. Mark my words, it was more than him. She knew.”
Theo took deep, even breaths, forcing down the wrath mounting in his chest, before that dark part of him that he couldn’t control leaped from hiding. He carefully returned the license to his pocket and pulled out some coins. He would pay the girl without eating and leave before he did injury that would land him in the gaol and draw attention to the woman he was trying to protect.
“What the bloody devil are you talking about?” asked a lanky man with a receding chin and bulging, bovine eyes. “Where did you get seven hundred thousand pounds? I heard it was almost a million.”
Theo counted his pence.
“That Crimean War fellow said it,” the croaker replied. “From the very beginning.”
Theo’s head jerked up. “What Crimean War fellow?”
The men turned as if seeing Theo for the first time.
“That Crimean War veteran who turned in Gillingham,” the croaker said, in the annoyed voice of someone having to explain common knowledge to a dull wit.
Black spots gathered in the periphery of Theo’s vision. He was beginning to feel that dreamy sensation of slipping from his body again. “W-what’s his name?”
The man shrugged. “I don’t know.” He nodded back to his companions. “Do you know the veteran’s name?”
“They’ve never given his name,” the lanky man said.
“Do-do you mind terribly if I read that n-newspaper?” Theo struggled to form words.
Croaker shrugged. “Be my guest.”
Theo crossed and gathered the old crumpled pages. Back at his table, he reassembled them with trembling hands. He took out a cigarette, lit it, and tried to make his racing mind focus on the words.