To Loveand To Cherish

by Patricia Gaffney

  “Don’t ask me. Please, Christy. Be my lover.”

  Very gently, he slid his hands under her shoulders and pulled her up, so that they were sitting again. His eyes were downcast, hidden by his long lashes. The kiss he gave her was different this time, still tender and loving but . . . sad. “I won’t ask you again,” he said in a murmur, brushing his fingers across her hot cheek. “At least, I’ll try not to.” His crooked smile twisted inside her painfully. He whispered, “I wish you could’ve loved me.” And then he stood up.

  She blinked at him, dazed. “You . . .” Her heart slowed, began to thud in a dull, panicky rhythm. “Oh, no,” she breathed. “Oh, Christy, please. Don’t—oh, don’t say we can’t see each other again—like this.”

  He faced her. Where she’d ruffled it, his hair was wild-looking; he still had two rusty spots of color on his cheeks. “I wish I could say that. I’d better take you home now, Anne.”

  She scrambled off the bed, pulling her loose clothes together across her chest. “Why did you touch me like that, then? Were you—were you trying to seduce me? And then—how could you stop? It’s not nice of you, Christy!” She felt like crying. “It’s not very gentlemanly to—to start that and then just stop, leaving me feeling this way—”

  “I’m sorry, I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

  “Oh, fine!” She tried to laugh. “That makes me feel much better!” He turned away. “Well, then, when can we see each other again? When? You said we could. When can we meet? Say right now—when.” He didn’t answer. “Tomorrow,” she urged. She was on the edge of a terrifying capitulation, taking refuge in arrangements, schedules, details.

  “No, I have to go to Mare’s Head.”

  “Early?”

  “In the afternoon.”

  “Let’s meet in the morning, then. I’ll come to you—anywhere. Or you could come to the Hall for breakfast. No one will think anything of it.”

  “I can’t.”

  Panic fluttered again, closer to the surface. “Why?” He didn’t answer. “Why?” He just shook his head. “Why, Christy? Don’t do this to me. You could come if you wanted to!”

  “No, I honestly can’t.”

  She spread her hands. “But why?”

  She thought he looked embarrassed. “You’ll laugh at me if I tell you.” She shook her head mutely. “Very well, then. I told you Mrs. Weedie’s surgery is tomorrow in Tavistock. In the morning. Miss Weedie—you know what she’s like; she’s beside herself with worry. I’ve made her a promise.” He took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. “I told her I would take on all her worries. Tomorrow morning. I told her she could set her mind at rest, let all her tension go, so she could be a true comfort to her mother. So now I have to . . .” He laughed softly, abashed. “I have to worry and pray for Mrs. Weedie tomorrow. In the morning, for about three hours, I should think.”

  Anne pivoted, clapping her hands to her mouth. She went to the far side of the bed, sat down, and toppled over backward. A sob rose in her throat, but a laugh overtook it and got out first. With tears streaking down her temples and running into her ears, she managed to gasp, “I’ll marry you! You win, Christy, I give up. I can’t stand it.”

  The paroxysm of despair and hilarity tapered off; she felt her emotions evening out. She twisted around, propping herself up on her elbows. “I’ll marry you,” she repeated, in case he hadn’t heard.

  She couldn’t read his face; he’d withdrawn toward the door, into the shadows. “I know you enjoy making fun of me,” he said in a hollow, dignified voice. “Just now, though, I don’t think I want to hear it.”

  “Christy!” He’d turned his back on her—he was leaving. She bolted off the bed and scuttled around it. “Wait!” He stopped, standing stiffly, so tall and straight—so dear! She had to take his arm and turn him around, bodily. “I’m not mocking you,” she said with urgent tenderness. “I’m sorry for all the times I ever did. I love you. I couldn’t tell you before because—well, what does it matter. Christy, I love you with all my heart! I want to live with you in this beautiful house.” She reached up with both hands to touch his face. “I want to have babies with you. Our children.”

  “Anne—”

  “I’ll make the worst minister’s wife who’s ever lived, but that’s your lookout now.” She stood on her toes and kissed him. “I will always, always love you, and I swear I’ll never stop trying to make you happy.”

  Christy stared into her earnest green eyes; they still glittered from tears, and her cheeks were still wet and streaky. He wanted to believe her, but what she’d just said was too good to be true. She made an impatient sound and threw her arms around his waist. He held on tight; they were both shaking. “Just because of the Weedies?” he asked, incredulous.

  “It was the straw. The damn last straw. The last damn—”

  He found her lips and kissed her hard, blurring tears between their mouths—her tears or his, he couldn’t have said. “Anne, you do me such an honor.”

  “No, it’s the reverse. Oh, I love you, Christy!”

  “I love you.” His heart was too full to say more. He held on to her while he offered up a quick, uncomplicated prayer of thanks for this miracle. He couldn’t understand how it had happened. One minute he had her half-naked in his bed, and she wouldn’t marry him; the next, he was telling her about the Weedies, and she would. It made no sense—but he supposed miracles never did. He wrapped her up in his arms and lifted her completely off the floor, to celebrate.

  “Oh, look at us,” she cried, laughing. He turned around with her and saw their reflection in the wardrobe mirror: two giddy, black-garbed people with joyful faces.

  “Look at you,” he said, moving closer to the mirror. He put her in front of him and clasped her around the waist, beguiled by her dishevelment. She lifted a hand to cover herself, and smiled knowingly when he pulled it away. “Look at you,” he said again, more softly. Blouse and chemise gaped open enticingly; the cream-colored corset barely covered her nipples. “You look like one of those bawdy ladies in a Hogarth painting.” Laughing, she leaned back in his arms, a movement that swelled her bosom and stretched the corset tighter; that it still covered her at all struck Christy as another miracle. One of the lesser kind.

  Anne sighed. “I don’t suppose we can make love now, can we?” she said without much hope. She wasn’t tempting him; she was just asking.

  Impossible to think while he was watching her in the mirror. He put his head down, resting his lips in the warm hollow between her neck and shoulder, and closed his eyes. Impossible to think here, too. She smelled like flowers, and she filled his arms, fit against his body perfectly. She was his love. “Do you think I could let you go now?” He watched her lovely eyes widen in the mirror, felt her soft breathing change. “Share my bed tonight, Anne. Be my love.”

  She turned around slowly. Her face had gone still. She licked her lips warily. “Won’t you feel guilty afterward?”

  He smiled. “Don’t worry.”

  “That’s not an answer. Will you?”

  “I don’t know.” It was the truth. He had some idea that this had to happen, that they were meant to be lovers tonight. She had been brave, and honest, and to some degree she had given in, made a sacrifice. Now it was his turn. He wanted them to begin their lives together as equals; the thought of either of them being the “winner” repelled him. “I’ve wanted to love you with my body for such a long time, Anne. It’s what you want, too. You won’t deny me now.”

  “But—I don’t want us to do anything that will hurt you, Christy. I truly don’t.”

  “Don’t worry,” he repeated. It was the best he could do. That he would pay for this somehow, sometime, was a foregone conclusion to him, but she didn’t need to know it.

  She studied him for a few more seconds, trying to read the truth in his face—before it occurred to her that, just at this p
recise moment, she might not want to know the truth. And that, if she gave him the chance, he might change his mind.

  Unthinkable.

  “All right, I won’t,” she said quickly, and stepped away from him so she could take off her clothes.

  She thought he would help her, especially when she got mitten-fingered over the hooks of her corset. But he didn’t; he stood still and watched, his eyes heavy-lidded, a certain dangerous, barely leashed waiting in his posture that excited her and made her clumsy. The metal fastener at the back of her skirt defeated her. She felt her cheeks heating from frustration. “Christy—!”

  “Turn around.”

  She did, and bowed her head in patient, heart-pounding submission while he got her skirt off and her shift laces untied. Then he had to kiss all the places he’d uncovered, and she felt as if he were greeting her body, welcoming it in small bits and pieces, one at a time.

  The way he touched her was unearthly sometimes; she could feel reverence in his skin when it caressed hers. It made her reciprocate, and think, This is a miracle, this human lovemaking. Making love. This was as close to divine as she could imagine being. Sacrilege, he’d say, but she felt it. The beautiful congress of their bodies was not completely right for him, she knew. It wasn’t blessed in the sacrament of marriage, so it couldn’t mean for him what it meant to her: glory—unexpected rapture—the deepest blessing she’d ever hoped for. She was sorry for him, she truly regretted it—but she wouldn’t have stopped if she could have. “Christy, this is so right,” she told him, naked now, holding him in her arms.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the image in the mirror behind her, of his two hands sliding slowly up and down her long, slender spine. How could skin feel this soft? Be this white? He cupped the nape of her neck, tilting her head back to kiss her, letting his other hand drift down to her soft breast. “Anne, do you know how beautiful you are?” She didn’t answer, but her eyes said, Tell me. But he didn’t have the words. “I’ll paint you one day,” he promised. “Then you’ll know.”

  They kissed again. She took a deep, ragged breath. “Now you. I’m longing to see you.”

  He took off his clothes. She watched him, entranced, frozen in place. Self-consciousness slowed him down. His body was just his body; he was thankful that it was strong and healthy, but otherwise he didn’t think of it. He hoped it pleased her.

  “Oh, God.”

  There was no tone to her voice, so he had no idea what that meant. What was she feeling behind that hot-eyed stare? “I won’t hurt you,” he assured her—inanely.

  She made a sound, possibly a laugh, and came out of her trance. “Oh, Christy,” she whispered, “I’m so—I’m shaking, I’m so excited. Oh, hurry, let’s get in bed.”

  He laughed with relief. They climbed into the bed in which he’d always slept alone, the bed in which his father and mother had conceived him. Was it blasphemous to think that the slow slide of his hands over Anne’s bare skin was heaven? If so, he couldn’t help it. He was only a man, and this was the sweetest human thing he’d ever experienced. Her silky breasts were heavy and full against his chest; it was as natural as breathing to put his mouth on her nipples and gently suckle her. They clutched each other, head to toe, their bodies’ perspiration making a lovely slickness. He felt the soft brush of her pubic hair against his stomach, and his head swam. He ran his hands down her long flanks, squeezing her buttocks, trying to get her, capture her, understand her body all at once.

  Impossible. He made himself slow down, concentrating on her sleek belly, touching and tasting, and now one satin-skinned thigh, perfect, perfect.

  She’d lost her breath—she was losing her mind. “Hurry,” she said again; “I want—oh, I want—” She wanted to know everything, find out now. She touched him without gentleness, whispering her urgency in his ear, firing him, taking them both higher. But he would not be rushed. He was on a different journey, and his slower pace only magnified her desire. Deep, drugging kisses; slow, shattering caresses; and words—she could’ve swooned from the things he said to her, the singing sound of passion in his voice. This is real, she chanted to herself. Christy would never lie, and this is happening. I am loved, and this is happening.

  At last, at last, he came into her. She enfolded him, and they sighed together, sharing the relief and the deep wonder. Lying still, she felt the strong beat of his pulse inside her body. “I love you,” they said at the same moment. And she said, “This can’t be wrong,” and she was weeping; she felt torn out of herself, born all over again. “Oh, Christy, you know it can’t.”

  He kissed her mouth, moving in her, putting an end to talk. Nothing now but the wild, tender endearments and the gasping sighs, raw, helpless groans, the music of passion, graceless, unrehearsed, heartfelt. Human love, nothing divine. The peak rose up fast, she could feel it, almost see it, rolling in on itself, nearer, closer, the ultimate wave in her turbulent sea. She wanted it to take both of them, both together, so she told him it was coming. She clung to him, her lifeline, her mate, “Christy!”—until it swamped her.

  Lovely, oh, lovely, the sweetest drowning, the endless immersion. She stopped being herself and turned into the sea, and Christy did too, and it was all one, all vast liquid pleasure, rolling and breaking, a rough, sweet churning. From a deep, fathomless distance she heard him say, “Oh, God, oh, God,” on weary, spent breaths. Her mind came back to her gradually, in pieces. When it finally reassembled, she thought it highly likely that he meant it literally—that he was praying.

  XVI

  CHRISTY HAD HAIR all over his body. Fine pale blond hair, soft as a baby’s, lightly fleecing his arms, his chest, his long, handsome legs. The only hairless places Anne could see, after a meticulous survey, were his belly and his buttocks. And the tops of his shoulders. And those soft places on his inner arms, where she liked to kiss him.

  I wish summer would come. The thought came to her out of the blue as she sat on her heels, naked in Christy’s bed, gazing down at him as he slept. She had a bright, vivid picture of him, naked, lying in a sunny, grassy meadow. She saw herself kneeling above him—as she was now—sprinkling him with flowers. Adorning him. Decorating him with buttercups and daisies, marsh violets and forget-me-nots. She’d make a crown of clover and plait it in his hair. Stick foxgloves and scarlet pimpernel between his toes. A little wreath of speedwell for his navel. And for his cock, something most special . . . Ah, she had it. Of course. Hearts-ease.

  A yawn overtook her soft smile. Lying down beside him, she covered his golden body with the quilt and snuggled close, sighing with contentment. A minute later she was fast asleep, dreaming of flowers.

  ***

  He’d only been gone a few minutes. He’d left her sound asleep, a warm, enticing mound huddled under a heap of bedclothes.

  She was even more enticing now. The fire he’d rebuilt had warmed the room in his absence, and she’d thrown off all the covers. He crept closer on silent stocking feet. He set the tray he’d brought from the kitchen on the bedside table and eased down beside her, careful not to shake the mattress. She looked like a runner in profile, lying on her side, all her elbows and knees bent at different angles. A naked runner. He had an urge to stroke one finger down the long, graceful curve of her backbone—but he resisted, fearful of waking her; he wanted to look at her a little longer. Everything about her was beautiful to him, from her red-gold hair, vivid as a flame across the pillow, to the pink soles of her long, skinny feet. Candlelight flickered over her lily skin, gilding it, and he could feel its unearthly softness again even though he wasn’t touching her. One outflung arm coyly hid the tip of her breast, and her topmost thigh shielded the curly nest of her pubic hair. A discreet pose, classic in its way. If he were painting her, he would lessen the discretion. He’d leave the light exactly where it was but lift her left arm a half-inch higher, so the rose-colored nipple showed. Yes. And he might shift the angle of her bottom,
paint it in three-quarter profile, because—well, just because. He smiled, and couldn’t resist trailing his fingers in a feather-soft circle around her left buttock. She didn’t stir. She had a cleft on either side of her spine, a subtle indentation just big enough for his thumb; he pressed it there, lightly. The toes on her right foot twitched. What an intriguing reflex. He tried it again, with the same result. He was looking around for other sites that might connect—her shoulder blade and her chin, who knew?—when she opened her eyes, turned her head, and saw him behind her. Her sleepy, instantaneous smile went straight to his heart.

  “Oils,” he told her. “Definitely oils. Even sleeping, you’re too strong for watercolors.”

  “What?” She put her hand inside his dressing gown and rubbed his chest.

  “Will you let me paint you, Anne?”

  She blinked up at him dreamily. “I presume you mean in the nude.”

  “Of course.”

  “Mmm. Won’t that get you excommunicated or something?”

  “We won’t show it to the bishop.” He said it with a smile, but he wasn’t really ready to joke about the consequences of his relationship with Anne, morally or professionally.

  “You can paint me if I can draw you,” she decided, rolling over. “I’m best with pen and ink, and I’ve got an idea for a nice pastoral pose. You and a lot of flowers.”

  “All right.”

  Her eyes twinkled—mischievously, he thought. She gave his lapel a tug, pulling him down so they could kiss. It was a soft, slow, comfortable kiss, the kind he imagined married people shared when they were in love. Delightful thought. How could he wait a year to marry her—maybe more? Terrible thought.

  “I’m starving.”

  She had a fondness for double entendre, he was learning; he studied her face, but apparently she meant this statement literally. “Good,” he said, “because I’ve brought you sustenance.”

  She looked awed. “Do you have any flaws, Christy? Any at all?”