by Cari Hislop
The fourteen year old Robert Smirke looked at his uncle in disgust, “I never knew you were such a milksop.”
“I was upset. The young lady I particularly wished to dance with refused to erase even one of several ugly bunglers from her card for me. She was a cursed heartless wench. I’d waited four months for that dance and she didn’t even remember agreeing to dance with me.”
“She was une belle fille. She died several years ago in childbed.”
“Well maybe if she’d danced with me she’d still be alive.”
Peter raised his eyebrows, “James, do you remember when we t-took John to London for his first season and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to be a Beau or a Fop? He kept changing b-back and forth every few days confusing everyone. I nearly d-died laughing.”
“I remember how he raged when the footman didn’t recognise him under his face paint and refused him entry to the house. He punched the footman and then broke his foot kicking the door.”
“It wasn’t funny! I’d been jilted, given the cut-direct and held up by footpads and relieved of a month’s allowance all in one evening. Returning home and being refused entrance to my own house was beyond endurable.” The five nephews were snorting with laughter.
James winked at Peter, “What was it we called him, Big foot?” John’s eyes narrowed as most of the table snickered.
“Stop teasing Jean Sébastien. You know his feelings hurt to be laughed at. He’s un soul sensible.”
“Mamma, you know John is overly sensitive.”
“I am not overly sensitive; I’m short-tempered, cantankerous and moody.” The entire table stopped laughing and stared at him in stunned agreement. “Will someone please pass me the eggs before I starve to death or is there some sort of Smirke conspiracy afoot to ruin my one hope of happiness?” Oblivious to his own heavy sarcasm, John congratulated himself on remaining kind under difficult circumstances. Conversation resumed as the Smirke family cheerfully argued over which implausible trial might afflict John’s journey to wedded bliss, unfortunately John was too entranced by Joan’s whispered assurances that all would be well to pay much attention.
Chapter 11
John grunted as he mounted the large black mare. His boots firmly shoved into the stirrups he shifted in his saddle until his stiff haunches conformed to the uncomfortable seat. After eight days of forced inactivity John’s state of health was irrelevant; the need to acquire a marriage license was burning a hole in his soul. He couldn’t wait another day to make Joan his wife. Meeting her upturned adoring gaze he was scorched by an overwhelming sense of his masculinity. Muscles bound to bone were ready to protect, shoulders eagerly awaited the weight of responsibility. His heart tapped his ribs in pleasure as he bent down and took the small glove in his larger one. “Help her up Peter.” The entire Smirke family stood nearby to witness the chilly morning departure.
Joan happily mounted using John’s boot, Peter’s arms carrying most of her weight onto the horse. Seated over uneven portions of horse and saddle Joan couldn’t imagine anything more pleasant than leaning into beautiful arms encased in a bottle green greatcoat. “Peter, could you please hand me my bundle?”
John scowled at the large lumpy bag, “What have you got in there, your trousseau? You don’t need to bring anything; we’ll be back before noon.”
“I made you a few ginger biscuits last night.”
John lifted the bag off her lap. “A few? The bag weighs at least five pounds. You’re going to kill the horse. Leave it!”
“I’m going to feed you as we ride. You need to keep up your strength for the wedding.”
“After thirty miles in the saddle Uncle John won’t have the strength to wed let alone…ouch!” Cecil hopped up and down on one foot, “Watch where you step Nana, that was my foot. Am I invisible?”
“We change horses at Keynsham Miss Lark, we are not going to starve, now give Peter the biscuits.”
“Don’t be horrid Mr Smirke; I’m not coming without my biscuits.”
Panicked black eyes met determined blue. “Keep them if you must; just put an arm around me before the weight of that blasted bundle pulls you off the horse.”
“Just wait, you’ll be glad I made them for you.” Rolling his eyes in exasperation John turned the horse towards the road. With Joan’s cold nose resting against his cheek they set off at an easy canter. As soon as they were over the river Avon and Bath was behind them, John reined in the horse.
“Why have we stopped? Is something wrong Mr Smirke?”
“I haven’t had my morning kiss.” Soft doeskin caressed his ear firmly drawing him deeper into large eyes until cold lips and warm breath held him captive. John tightly held his companion with one arm as exquisite waves of the strange new pleasure spread from his stomach through his heart and into his head making him grin like a dazzled school boy.
“I love your smile Mr Smirke.”
“More than my kisses?”
“I’m not sure; you’d best kiss me again.” They were oblivious to the horse and rider that galloped past and the high perch phaeton whose jealous driver swore loudly as he nearly ended up in the river after staring at the lovers. The countryside was a picture of serene tranquillity by the time John’s lips were surrendered to the biting cold. The sun had climbed higher into the sky; the laws of nature and man were against him. A common licence had to be performed by twelve noon in his parish church. The thought of suffering another night on a sofa when there was a good bed being warmed by a beautiful willing woman made John ill. He just had to get return to Bath by eleven-thirty with his bride and the needed piece of paper.
“Hang on Miss Lark, we’re going to fly. Gee up!” John’s heels jabbed the mare as Joan leaned back into his warmth, her arm wrapped tightly around his middle. She half closed her eyes and listened to the horses hooves work up to a pounding thunder as naked trees and barren fields blurred into glinting greyish-blue bends of the river. Thirty-five silent minutes later, John slowed the sweating horse to a canter and took a deep breath of cold air. He’d never felt so alive. The sun was brighter, the sky bluer and the woman in his arms was making him his vital organs ache with the sweetest desire. Light headed with anticipation, he ignored his bruised backside and concentrated on getting to Keynsham.
John’s legs threatened to buckle as he dismounted at The White Hart; an Inn perched on the river’s edge. He sighed with relief as Peter’s servant appeared out of the thin fog, “I’ll hold the horse Jennings; help Miss Lark down.”
“Very good Sir…”
“Be careful Jennings, don’t drop her…here take the blasted horse. I’ll help her.” John caught Joan as she slid down on her stomach and wrapped his left arm around her waist. “Saddle the fresh horse. We’ll only be a few minutes.” Once inside the Inn, John wisely steered Joan away from the rough looking men drinking near the fire. “Open that bundle woman and start scoffing biscuits.” Joan was too cold to complain. Crumbs spattered the stone floor as John energetically took his own advice.
After ten minutes of standing still Joan moaned in pain, “I feel like a cripple, my hip aches.”
“At least you don’t feel like you’ve been kicked in the backside. Cecil’s right blast him. You’re not rubbing hard enough, here let me do it.”
“Oh!” Joan squeaked in delight as John turned her away from him, put a bracing arm around her middle and started kneading her sore hip.
“Lift your leg at the knee…put it down. How is that?”
“It’s quite pleasant…I can smell lemon drops and ginger.”
“Gow on…take er, you pretty toff, if yer know ‘ow. We’d be appy to oblige a demonstration if yer need it.”
John’s temper rolled to a boil as a dirty boatmen leered from across the room. “We’re leaving now, before I kill someone. Don’t say a…”
“Are you insulting my guardian you great ugly lump? You’re no match for my Mr Smirke. He’s renown for his wickedness…he’s killed lots of ugly great brutes bigger t
han you.”
“Is that right Missy? I could take im with one hand.”
John was quickly dragging Joan towards the door. “You couldn’t take him if you had three hands.” Joan took a bite out of a biscuit and threw the rest of it at the man’s head. The large man laughed until a second biscuit hit him in the eye. His roar of pain prompted John to speed up their departure.
“Jennings!” The servant walking the fresh mare turned to see John running towards him lugging Miss Lark who was still throwing biscuits at an angry lurching boatman followed by a laughing audience. John didn’t have time to think about his healing injuries. Joan was picked up with difficulty and thrown over the horse like a sack of flour. Clutching the reins in one hand and Joan with the other, John heeled the animal into action. They were galloping towards Bristol before John could get both boots in the stirrups. A safe mile down the road he pulled the horse to a stop and dragged his moaning companion into an upright position and then stood in his stirrups and wriggled about.
“What are you doing? You’re going to push me off the horse.”
“I’m adjusting my seat before I get a devilish saddle sore.” John settled back down and avoided wide eyes.
“Are you mad at me?”
“You idiot, you nearly got me killed! Throw those blasted biscuits into the ditch before I do something wicked.” John cringed in horror as large tears dripped down pale cheeks.
“You think I’m an idiot?”
“Please don’t cry Miss Lark, it makes me feel like a maggot.”
“Calling me an idiot makes you a maggot. It’s unkind and I don’t like you when you’re unkind. I don’t want to marry a man who thinks I’m an idiot. I want to go home.”
“Don’t be ridiculous…you’re not an idiot you’re; infuriating, maddening, disarming…exquisite.” He gently wiped away her tears with his cold fingers. “Oh blast, I forgot my gloves.”
“You think I’m exquisite?”
John shivered with pleasure as she leaned back towards him. “You’re the most demented exquisite female I’ve ever met, but unless you want me to die a painful death and end up in hell, I beg you…try not to enrage large drunken men to pummel me.”
“I’ll forget you called me an idiot, if you kiss me.” John earned forgiveness with a thorough kiss that left his bride to be with bright cheeks that matched her lips. “Do you want a biscuit?” Joan shoved one into his open mouth as he urged the horse into a slow trot. “I was only trying to scare him so he’d leave us alone. I’d have poked out his eyes if he laid one finger on you.”
“If I survive to become your husband, I’m going to spend so much time kissing you; you won’t have breath to incite another riot.”
“If you kiss me again I’ll give you another biscuit.” John willing paid the required price and took the biscuit. Joan wrapped her arm around his middle and pressed her cheek against his coat as horses hooves thundered over the miles.
***
Navigating Bristol traffic John finally reached his destination with every manly muscle in his body cursing his inability to wait three painless weeks to acquire a wife. The horse stabled, John took out his pocket watch as he pulled Joan in the direction of the Bishop’s house. It was just coming up to nine o’clock. He sighed with relief as he tucked it back into his trouser pocket. If the Bishop hurried they could be back on the road in half an hour. Glancing down he forgot his own discomfort as he noticed Joan was shivering as she limped. The new pleasurable feelings caused by her nearness contorted with worry. What if she caught a chill and died of fever? The worry twisted into agonising fear. The thought of losing her to death made him feel physically sick. “We’ll find an Inn and spend a few minutes in front of a fire. They’re bound to have something hot to help wash down a few blasted biscuits.”
“That sounds heavenly Mr Smirke. You’re very good to me, when you’re not being horrid. That’s one thing I love about you; I never know what you’re going to do next…don’t you love the colour of that door? Did you see those winter roses?” She clutched his left arm and leaned her cheek against his shoulder as he pulled the Bishop’s bell. “Have you bought my wedding ring?”
“No we’ll have to borrow one for the ceremony. I’ll buy you one tomorrow.”
“Can I have a gold ring with a large ruby? I’ve always wanted a ruby. A big one, not one of those cheap little stones that look like glass…”
“Shhh someone’s coming.” The door was opened by a footman in serviceable black.
“Yes?”
“We’ve come from Bath to purchase a common license from the Bishop.”
“Bishop Mansel does not rise before nine-thirty. Return after eleven and he’ll oblige you.” The awful words sank into John’s heart poisoning the tender seeds of kindness.
“I haven’t abused my backside or endangered the life of my bride this early in the morning to wait for some fat cleric to get out of bed and stuff himself with raspberry tarts paid for with my tithe taxes. Go tell Bishop Mansel that Lord Adderbury’s brother wishes to purchase a license so as to be married in Bath by noon…”
“Bishop Mansel has given strict…”
The footman squeaked in terror as he was forcibly taken hold of by his cravat and pulled within inches of black marble eyes. “Tell the Bishop the Honourable John Smirke wishes an immediate audience or he’ll wish you had.”
The footman drew in a loud breath as he was released. “I’ll inquire…” John took a deep painful breath of freezing air as the door slammed closed. After several long silent minutes of staring at the door he slowly glanced at the woman at his side and snarled as his insides twisted in agony. She was looking at him as if he was a used chamber pot left lying in the middle of a room.
“That was very unkind Mr Smirke. You don’t choke a footman for doing his job. Are you going to choke me if I don’t do what you want?”
“I’d never hurt you…” The truth of the words rushed through John’s heart like antidote to the poison as he reached out and caressed her cheek with a cold finger.
Her expression of disgust faded to sadness. “He couldn’t breathe Mr Smirke.”
“He’s fetching that lazy man of God out of bed now isn’t he?”
“You should apologise to the poor man and tell him you’re sorry you lost your temper.”
“Apologise? To a footman?”
“I thought you were trying to be kind?”
“I am! I didn’t kill him did I?” John’s shoulders slumped as his stomach was filled with an unpleasant burning sensation. “How can you look at me like that if you love me?” He blinked away a threatening storm as he groped for reassurance.
“I do love you. I just don’t like you when you’re horrid.” John folded his arms and tried to think his hands warm and his heart at peace, but failed. After ten minutes of uncomfortable silence the door was cautiously opened by the wary footman.
“The Bishop will see you.”
As the footman closed the door John avoided Joan’s unhappy eyes. “I’m sorry I lost my temper Man…” Joan’s frown faded. “…and choked you. Racing the clock to wed a woman affects a man…”
“Very good Sir, if you’ll follow me Sir.” John forgot to scowl at the unforgiving servant as Joan tucked her hand around his arm, her adoring smile proclaiming him once again liked as well as loved. The warm pleasurable sensation oozed back into his chest as he stepped into an elegant pale salmon pink Salon. The aging Bishop stood in the middle of the room, his nightdress covered by a faded red banyan that swished around his naked ankles. The footman closed the door prompting John to lead his bride up to the grim looking gentleman.
“Good morning my Lord, it was good of you to leave your warm bed to help us. We are in desperate need of a marriage license.”