PESTILENCE: The Scent of Roses

by Margaret Brazear

  "I am relieved it is no longer a memorial. Now it can be your garden, your own place. I will not venture inside unless you permit it."

  Her eyes met his but she did not speak. She had nothing to say, nothing for which she wanted to risk his anger.

  "I have noticed that you need new clothes," he said. "Will you send for the seamstress? Or would you like me to?"

  "I can send for her, My Lord, thank you for thinking of it." She paused nervously. "May I order clothes for Rose as well? The child has nothing but what I have sewn for her."

  Damn! Why had he not thought of that himself? Because he was too selfish, that was why, too wrapped up in his own desires and his desire at that moment was to see his beautiful wife dressed as she should be.

  "Of course," he replied quickly. "Order whatever you like. She is a pretty child; she must have pretty clothes to match."

  He bowed and turned away, afraid to say more lest he give himself away. He longed to hold that child in his arms, longed to see her in the fine cloth her rank deserved. But he had condemned himself to distance with his actions in the past. This was going to be a high mountain to climb.

  Later that morning he rode out to the nearest town in the hope of finding a gift for Felice, knowing she could not be bought with trinkets as she had little interest in jewellery.

  Some of the villages he passed were eerily empty with an occasional corpse lying in the street. That meant there was no one left to bury the dead. He had hoped the worst had past, that the Waterford estate had escaped, but it seemed he was wrong. Was this pestilence getting closer? Would it even find its way into his village, his estate and steal away the one thing he would give anything not to lose again?

  The town seemed less affected, thank God, and he looked about until he found the perfect gift, or what he hoped was the perfect gift. He was ashamed to admit he hardly knew his wife, and had no real idea of what would be the perfect gift for her. He could not buy for her the one thing she really wanted, the one thing he wanted, for her to trust him. That would take time, a lot of time.

  On his return, he found her sitting beneath a tree with Daisy and the two children. He drew rein and smiled at the scene from a distance, watched for long enough to see his son squirm away from his mother when she tried to hold him.

  He delivered his horse, along with the beautiful chestnut mare he had just purchased, to the stables then walked back to the tree and approached his wife. She had never had her own pony since their marriage, had always made do with whatever mount was available. Christopher had no idea if he was right, but he had a strong feeling she would appreciate a little mare of her own, an animal that was not simply transport but one she could grow fond of.

  "Papa," the little boy jumped to his feet and ran at Christopher, as though he were a haven from the threat of this strange woman.

  "My Lord." Felice got to her feet and Daisy did the same, lifting the little girl quickly into her arms.

  "I have a gift for you," he said, addressing his wife, then he turned to Daisy. "Perhaps you would watch the children."

  Daisy curtsied quickly, clutched Rose closer to her and stepped forward to take the hand of little Christopher. She frowned, as did her mistress. That was an excessively polite request coming from him. For Lord Christopher to talk to a servant with such civility was unheard of.

  Felice followed her husband and as she drew close, he offered her his hand, but she did not take it straight away. She wanted no physical contact with him; she was afraid the temptation would be too much to resist. She looked at his outstretched palm for a few seconds before entrusting her small hand into it, but she did not smile or give him any encouragement.

  “Did you see that, My Lord?” She demanded, glancing back to where the children sat with Daisy. “Did you see the way my son squirmed away from me? I am a stranger to the boy. You did that.”

  “I know and I will have to live with that for the rest of my life. Is that not enough for you?”

  She dropped her gaze to the ground. Why should she feel guilty for making him feel worse? He deserved to feel worse, why not?

  They walked together in silence to the stables. He hoped she might be excited by a gift, excited enough to ask questions, but she would not even do that.

  The mare was beautiful. Chestnut with a white mane and tail, just the right size for Felice and the groom had brushed her coat to make it shine. A smile broke out on her lovely face.

  "Do you like her?" Christopher asked.

  She turned her smile on him at last, then reached up and kissed his cheek, making his heart leap with joy and hope.

  "She is beautiful, My Lord," she said. "Thank you. Does she have a name?"

  "You can name her whatever you like," he replied. "She is yours. Will you honour me with your company on a ride?"

  She was hesitant for a few moments.

  "If I refuse your invitation?" She challenged him, thinking he might take back his gift.

  "Then I will send a groom to keep you safe," he answered. "You are not obliged to tolerate my company."

  He was smiling and he did have the most wonderful smile on the rare occasions he chose to use it, but he also looked sad somehow.

  The mare was beautiful and she was pleased he had thought of her, and he had earlier noticed her clothes. It was not like him, not like him at all. She wanted to hold him in her arms, kiss him, but she would not risk it.

  It had been many years since she owned her own pony. Her last was a black stallion who had finally died of old age, easing expenditure for her father who insisted on keeping him for Felice, despite the dire financial straits in which he found himself. She loved that stallion and mourned his loss, but since then she had made do. The little mare Christopher bought for her was beautiful, but she feared it might not be safe to love her too much, in case he stole her away when he turned on her again.

  It seemed he was trying to show her he had changed, but she would not accept he really meant it, that it was not some ruse to win her trust, get back into her bed then turn into the angry, suspicious man she had known before.

  As they rode across the estate together, her memory showed her the one and only time they had ridden together before, a ride which had culminated in the sight of a man locked into the pillory, about to be whipped and Christopher’s peasant mistress staring at her with hatred as they rode passed her little hovel.

  Now she patted the mare's neck gently and reluctantly followed her husband as he dismounted and tied his horse to a branch. He took her hand and pulled her down to sit beside him on the grass and she felt herself stiffen, afraid he intended to claim her after all.

  She sat beside him, but kept her distance. She wanted nothing that might make him think she welcomed his embrace, even though she did, but she was trying so hard to resist. If she once let him resume that intimacy, she would be lost, her resolve melted away to nothing and he would have her trapped once more. Then something else would rouse his anger or his suspicion, and she would be hurt all over again.

  "Felice," he said softly. "I want you to know how sorry I am; I want to earn your forgiveness somehow, even if it takes a lifetime."

  “It may well do, My Lord,” she answered bitterly.

  “You used to use my given name, the only person in my life who did. Could you not call me ‘Christopher’ again?”

  She felt her mouth turning down, bit her lip to suppress more threatening tears.

  “That was when I believed you had some affection for me,” she answered. “That was when I thought we had some mutual love, before you proved me wrong. I will not make that mistake again.”

  She was surprised to see his face flush, his gaze drop to his hands, to see him look uncomfortable. He said nothing for a few moments, while she wondered if he was about to lose that fragile temper. She moved back a little further, prepared to get to her feet, but when his eyes met hers all she saw in them was remorse.

  “What I want more than anything is for you to trust me." He watch
ed her stare at him, the disbelief clear in her eyes. "I know I do not deserve it," he went on. "I know I have given you cause to fear me in the past, but losing you, believing you dead, that changed me. I want the chance to prove that to you, if only you will give it to me. I love you."

  Felice watched him, trying to see into his heart. She recalled Thomas telling her Lord Christopher was incapable of love. At the time, she believed he spoke nonsense; now she was not so sure. This could be some trick for his own ends for all she knew, but she could not believe he really loved her, not after everything that had happened.

  His words when she saw him last, you will hang, resounded in her mind over and over. Now she heard them again, and they sent a tremor of fear slithering through her.

  "You hurt me," she said accusingly. "I loved you and you hurt me. You always thought the worst of me. You believed me capable of murder; how could you think I would do such a thing? You are the law here, you are judge and jury and even if you were convinced I killed your peasant, you had the power to commute that penalty to whatever suited you. You could even have ordered that whipping you have been itching to inflict upon me."

  He caught his breath and reached out to her but she jumped to her feet and stepped away from him.

  "Felice, please listen to me," he pleaded.

  "You would have hanged me," she went on tearfully. "How can you sit here now and tell me you love me? How am I supposed to believe you?"

  She choked on a sob then ran to mount her new little mare, and galloped back to the house.

  ***

  Felice arrived at Sutton Place with a flutter of excitement at the prospect of seeing her dear father once more. It had been so long since she saw him, but as she entered the room she stopped and caught her breath.

  He looked so old! His hair, always a velvety brown, was almost all grey, his face wore deep wrinkles and he got to his feet with the aid of a cane.

  “Felice!”

  She ran to him, put her arms round him and held him close, feeling the frailty of his body against her own. He had grown so thin, so weak, she might not have recognised him had she seen him outside in the town.

  “Come, Father,” she said, guiding him back to his chair. “You sit down and I will sit here beside you. I have missed you so much.”

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips; even his smile looked weak, as though it took a tremendous effort to make it.

  “Oh, Felice. You cannot imagine how I felt when I got your husband’s letter, telling me you were safe. I heard from servants’ gossip that you were dead, that you had succumbed to the pestilence. He did not even have the decency to come and tell me himself.”

  She was shocked by this news. Lord Christopher was many things which won him no favours, but a coward he had never been. She determined to ask him about it at the earliest opportunity.

  “I am sure he had his reasons, Father.”

  “Yes, he did. He knew he was responsible and he was ashamed to face me.”

  That did not sound like Christopher.

  “I do not want to talk about him,” she said. “Please. Tell me you are well. Christopher said you had been ill. You are recovered?”

  “I started to feel better the minute I got his letter, and now I know you are safe, I am sure I shall make a complete recovery.” He squeezed her hand and gazed at her with a look of wonder. “Felice, what can I say? I have made so many mistakes, but allowing myself to sink so low that you had to marry that man was something for which I will suffer in purgatory for the longest time.”

  “Father, please do not talk like that.”

  “It is true. Had I been the man I should have been, the man your mother loved, you would have stayed safely wed to Viscount Thomas as you should have been.”

  “Safe, perhaps, but not happy. I wish you would believe me when I say that Thomas is a coward and a very shallow man.”

  “He would not have accused you of murder.”

  “Perhaps not, but only because he would have been too lazy to investigate.”

  “But...”

  Felice leaned forward and put her fingers to her father’s lips.

  “Hush,” she said. “I will not speak about my husband behind his back. It is disloyal, no matter what he has done. I loved him once; perhaps I can love him again.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  There is Pestilence in the Village

  Felice gave Daisy orders to keep the baby with her at all times. She gave her a chamber of her own so she could do just that and now she entrusted her daughter to the girl for the night. They had been back in the castle for almost a week and although Felice was insecure, always glancing at Lord Christopher in fear of seeing that fragile temper flare, her main concern was still for her baby daughter.

  "Lock your door, Daisy," she told her. "I do not want to risk anyone coming in and taking her while you sleep."

  "Do you think that is likely, My Lady?" Daisy objected. "Lord Christopher has been so kind to us both since we returned. I do believe he has changed."

  "That is what he says," Felice replied, "but I cannot trust him. My daughter is all I have left, now he has turned my son against me. Keep her safe, please, that is all I ask."

  She climbed into her bed, breathing in the perfume from the vases around the chamber. Her mind and heart were in a whirl of indecision. She wanted so much to believe Christopher, to forgive him and put the past behind her. She wanted so much to take him back into her bed, to feel him in her arms, but she could not move past the very real fact that he would have sentenced her to death.

  Knowing how passionate his nature, how fierce his desires, she also wondered how long it would be before he broke his promise, before he began to persuade her with affection he did not feel, or perhaps claimed her as his wife as was his right.

  It seemed that just as she had these thoughts the door opened and he stood looking at her while her heart jumped. He gave his word, and his word meant everything to him. Why was he here?

  "May I come in?" He asked.

  "If you wish," she answered nervously.

  He walked slowly toward the bed and sat down, took her hand in his and kissed her fingers.

  "Why have you come?" She asked.

  "To bid you goodnight," he said. "To see you, assure myself I have not imagined you here, alive and back where you belong. To give me something beautiful to dream about."

  He leaned forward and kissed her lips, that long, hungry kiss she had treasured, that she remembered so well. Her breasts tingled and she felt a rush of passion deep inside her, but she put up her hands to his chest and pushed him away.

  "Please, Christopher," she said. "This is not fair."

  “No, it is not fair. It is as unfair as the way I have treated you.”

  “Then leave, please. How can I trust you when you come here trying to tempt me?”

  He looked disappointed but did as she asked, left her alone to shed tears of despair. She wanted him, as he knew she would, and she wanted so much to forgive him, but she was not sure she ever could. Why was he so eager to hang her? Why did he think that was his only option? If she could once understand that, she might be able to forgive.

  She tried to build a distant rapport with him over the next few weeks. She wanted them to be on friendly terms, but she was afraid to let him come too close. He came to her chamber every evening and kissed her goodnight, but not with passion, then he retreated to his own bed for the night and that action reminded her of those first days when she longed for him to stay.

  She still longed for him to stay, but she was certain that would eventually lead to more hurt, more pain. How many times could one heart be shattered before it was damaged beyond repair?

  Sometimes she would catch him watching her and quickly turn his gaze away when he saw she had seen. It was very difficult to keep her distance, to resist the warmth and tenderness she always cherished in him.

  During the weeks since her return, she saw nothing of his fearsome temper, nothing but ki
ndness and consideration but she suspected he would change once she accepted the closeness he was trying to achieve.

  It was almost autumn and growing chill in the castle when Christopher finally decided he could not go on like this. It hurt too much to see her every day, to kiss her goodnight and not be with her, not be a part of her. If he wanted her back, he had to let her go.

  He got to his feet to leave the hall after breakfast. Felice also rose to follow him so the servants could leave their tables and go about their business. Once outside the hall, he turned to her and took her hand in his.

  "Felice, can we go into the sitting room?" He asked. "I have something I need to say to you."

  Her heart sank as she followed him, sure he was now going to insist on claiming her, on her being a proper wife, whether she liked it or not. He would no doubt think he had waited long enough and perhaps it would be better that way. Perhaps it was the only way, but she would never feel that need of him again unless she felt it willingly and that made her sad.

  He sat down and looked up at her expectantly until she sat beside him.

  "My Lord?"

  "I told you a long time ago, when I found you alive, that you could have anything you wanted," he said. "Do you remember?"

  She nodded, sure there would be a condition in there now, that his next words would begin with a proviso of some kind.

  "I said it, but I did not allow it, did I? If you still want to stay at Sutton Place, with both the children, I will not stop you."

  Her heart sank. She had only half realised she was beginning to trust him again and now he would send her away, prove she meant nothing to him. She knew that was unreasonable, but that did not prevent her disappointment.

  “So you will send me away?” She said bitterly. “You are tired of waiting, but you gave your word. Now you will send me away, send me back to my father so you can take a mistress, fill my place with what? Another peasant? Or will you try for a more noble whore this time?”

  He caught his breath and she saw anguish in his eyes as he shook his head.