by Edith Layton
He was perhaps a trifle cool, compared with the other beaux who flocked around her, and older than most of them too. But richer and more distinguished, and he really looked yards younger when he smiled. Which was seldom. But then, Caro thought, she could go elsewhere for smiles after they were wed, a married woman had such freedom, and the duke didn’t look as though he would care. She wondered if such a cool fellow ever would. He was very up to all the rigs, after all, or so everyone said. And so why not that one too?
But now he seemed disposed to really chat with her. It was about time. But about gingerbread? What nonsense. It must mean he was in a frolicsome frame of mind. That was a relief. Talking about anything more difficult was too trying, and so whenever he had, she’d smiled and been peacefully sweet with him. He’d liked that. But now he wanted some drollery? Wonderful. She was just the girl for it. Time to turn on the charm, indeed, and wouldn’t he be pleased!
“Gingerbread?” Caro cooed, “Oooh, she loves gingerbread, Your Grace!”
“Who?” he asked, confused.
“Her, she just loves it,” she said with a giggle, “but she’s sooo sorry! Gingerbread mans are too, too naughty for her, for they make her look like a little dumpling, you see, but she does love them even so.”
He looked at her blankly. She pursed her plump pink lips, and pouted. He was almost enchanted by the sight. “She does, wicked man,” she whispered with a charming show of mock sulkiness.
He simply stared at her as though she’d lost her wits.
“Her—I mean me!” Caro said, “Oh, bother! It’s the way people talk when they are friends, silly.”
He was appalled. “I do not talk that way, Caro,” he said firmly.
“Wicked fellow,” she said sunnily, “but all of us do. ’Tis the latest thing!”
“It is?” he asked, his gray eyes wide.
She nodded, and then proceeded to tell him what else was. The Duke of Blackburn sat, transfixed, as the Incomparable of the Season finally revealed herself to him in her full splendor: prattling on, chattily acquainting him with all the fun and roundaboution her set was up to these days. Baby talk was the least of it. Lisping and riddles were prime.
“But she refuses to lisp,” Caro said with a show of hauteur, “because it is too too popular, and it wouldn’t do for her to be common, would it? I mean, every shop girl is lisping, and it ith tho tho tedious, ith it not?” She giggled and batted her astonishing eyes. “But she need not lisp, everyone adores baby talk, it is too charming. The gentlemen all send poetry to her too,” she added, and rapped his knuckles with her fan. “Naughty fellow to have not penned one poem to her!” she said merrily. “But she will forgive you, if you ask her very sweetly.”
The gentlemen sent flowers and poetry and sweets, and really clever lads sent kittens; it was the newest rage. “So there!” she said triumphantly, when she was done with her recital. “See how nice her is to still be speaking with you when you’ve neglected her so! She forgives you though.”
“Indeed,” he said, aghast.
*
Owen went to sleep near dawn, so troubled by his thoughts he was hardly aware of getting into bed. He had left the ball early and paced London’s streets, gone to his club and drunk himself even more morose. Exhaustion, and all the brandy, finally put him to sleep…
…to dream of gingerbread again. Stifling sweet, pungent fumes of gingerbread suffused his dreams. He groaned with longing and despair and felt as though he were suffocating and gasped for air—and woke to a bleak morning, with nothing sweet in sight, and all his dreams dashed.
He looked haggard when he called on Elizabeth. She looked weary as well, her blue eyes shadowed with blue, her face pale. Still, she mustered a surprised smile for him.
“A call every morning this week, Duke?” she asked as they sat in her parlor again, and she poured tea. “We’re friends, to be sure, but take care. You’ve never been so attentive before. The ton will think you’re courting me, and what shall Miss Caro say to that?”
“Much I care,” he grumbled. “Gad, I tell you—and only you, Elizabeth, because we’re such old friends, but the girl is a clothhead! It’s over, so far as I’m concerned, and I wonder that it was ever begun! All she’s got in her head is those eyes, which are remarkable, true. But I need more in a wife than that. She has the conversation of a three-year-old! She says it’s on purpose because it’s the fashion but I wonder…and don’t want to find out, I assure you! I left the ball early, as a matter of fact. Doubtless she’ll have Chudley, or Harrington, or some other of her besotted beaux. And much luck to them! They’ll need it.”
Elizabeth didn’t seem to be particularly surprised. Rather, she seemed to him to be abstracted. Distant and preoccupied, and strained. But she had complained of some “female problem” the day before, so Owen made no comment about her distraction, nor asked how she felt. It would only have embarrassed her. Poor girl, he thought, nothing he or she could do about her discomfort but wait for her time to pass and time itself to cure her: females had a hard row to hoe in this world, Nature herself saw to that.
“So, anyway,” Owen said heartily, looking at the purity of her profile as she gazed out the window, “this means that I’ll be going home for Christmas after all. Just what I need, I think. Once I’m there, maybe these foolish dreams will cease. The fresh air—there’ll certainly be enough to distract me there too. I made sure of it. I asked my secretary to send invitations by messenger, first thing this morning. And so doubtless all our neighbors and our kin who can be will be there: my sisters, their husbands, our old friends and theirs as well, and all the children. Gad! I’d best bring buckets of gingerbread at that! How many nephews and nieces are there now, anyway? I’d thought to add to their number soon, but as it stands, maybe it’s best I don’t. We’ve a legion of children as relatives between us now, don’t we?”
“Indeed,” she said softly, “indeed we do.”
“So!” He slapped his hands on his knees. “Done then. Well, Christmas is coming, and the New Year won’t wait for us. I was thinking of leaving for the manor as soon as Wednesday. When shall I come get you, my dear?”
“Oh,” she said, turning to face him, a strained smile on her face, “ah—well, as it happens—you need not bother. Not this time, at least. For I won’t be going home this year, after all.”
“What?”
“I’m not going home,” she explained. “I’m going to…to Henry Murcer’s house, instead.”
“Murcer’s house?” Owen blurted in astonishment. “But why?”
“Come, that’s not very flattering,” she said. “He asked me, is the why of it. And I thought it wise to go, so we could get to know each other better. I’m—I’m by the way of considering his offer, you see.”
“Murcer?” Owen asked again, dumbfounded. “But you—he—you’ve been friends for years, old Murcer and you.”
“Very flattering…” she said with the trace of a real smile. “‘Old,’ indeed. He’s our age—your age actually, Owen. And yes, we’ve been friends for years, since I came to London, in fact. But he’s always made his intentions clear, should I choose to see them. And now, I think I do.”
“But Murcer…” Owen said, stunned. He fell still, thinking of their mutual friend. There was nothing he could say against the man, because he liked him, actually, but it seemed bizarre. Elizabeth and Lord Murcer? The fellow was a good man, true, a worthy chap, in all, but so ordinary. Neither strikingly handsome nor clever. Somehow, he’d thought that Elizabeth, when she decided to wed… No, he thought in surprise, he had not. He had never thought of Elizabeth actually marrying at all. She’d never seemed taken with any man before. He hadn’t heard that she was favoring Murcer’s suit, or anyone’s. It bothered as much as stunned him. “A very good fellow,” was all he could mutter now, “but to marry him? Are you sure, Elizabeth? Friendship’s easy. Marriage is a lifetime affair.”
It seemed to him she squared her slender shoulders. “Yes,” she said with m
ore spirit, her blue eyes blazing, “so it is. Exactly. Friendship is very easy. Marriage is not. But I’m of a mind to think of my future now. You’re not the only one to think about children at Christmastime, Owen. I’m not getting younger, either. And you were contemplating marriage, weren’t you? A wise idea. It set me thinking. Murcer says his parents would like to meet me, and as for me? I—I should like to see what may be my future home, as well.”
“But—but do you love him?” Owen asked.
She leveled a cool blue penetrating stare at him. “Love? Is that necessary, do you think, my dear?” she asked in chill tones. “Think on your plans with the Davis chit, before she overwhelmed you with her nonsense. Hmmm? And then rethink your question, if you please.”
It seemed she actually waited for him to do just that. But he was too confused to attempt it. After a few seconds of silence, her chin went up. “So,” she said with resolve, “there it is. I’ll won’t be going with you. But I’ll see you in the New Year, my old friend. And perhaps then—I’ll have some news for you.”
“Oh,” was all Owen could think to say. He felt strangely insulted, and even more than a little angry. He couldn’t say why, because she’d every right to do as she pleased, of course. She wasn’t accountable to him, after all. But she might have consulted him before taking such a huge step.
“Of course,” he said, rising to his feet, drawing himself up to every inch of his full six feet of icy nobility, “I wish you well. You are indeed doing what I was about to do. Very wise of you. However, I remind you, I chose to tell you of my doings, every step of the way. Odd, that you didn’t think to mention a word to me.”
“Oh, come now,” she said, with forced laughter, “you’re not my father, Owen. Only three years between us, after all. And you were never that—precocious—is that the word you used for me when last we discussed age?”
“So it was,” he said icily. “Gad! Look at the time,” he said, fumbling for his fob, scarcely glancing at his watch. “I’m late already.”
“But, what about your dreams?” she asked with real concern as she rose to see him out.
“What of them?” he asked coldly as he strode to the hall and her front door, because he couldn’t remember what she was talking about.
He remembered later, of course. When he discovered himself trying to drown his unease in gingerbread. Because he’d turned in at Gunthers’ tea shop instead of his club, and had ordered a cup of tea and a bit of gingerbread before he fully realized what he was doing.
Fine, he thought in dismay, as the waiter brought him a plate and he stared down at a brace of wickedly grinning gingerbread men, you lose your mind, and she gets a husband. Lovely way to pass your declining years, in Bedlam. Babbling about gingerbread boys, while she dandles real babies on her knee.…Little russet-haired girls with peacock blue eyes, he thought, vacantly staring at the brown, currant-eyed gingerbread boy before him.
He absently took a bite. And then sat up and stared at the fractured piece he still held in his hand.
“Waiter!” he shouted. The waiter appeared instantly, looking perturbed. The gentleman had a strange and wild look in his eye.
“Is anything amiss?” the waiter asked anxiously.
“No, but, tell me, have you always had such gingerbread?” the duke demanded.
The waiter relaxed. “Indeed, sir, we always attempt to purvey the finest for our clientele. But if it isn’t to your taste, we can always get you something else. A plum tart, perhaps? A seed cake? No? Then perhaps some gingerbread of the cake variety. These are more of a novelty, for the Season, you see.”
“No, no, never mind. This is fine. It’s more than that, it’s excellent, the best I’ve ever had, actually,” Owen mumbled, shamed at the attention he’d drawn to himself, because other diners were staring, “There’s no problem. The reverse, in fact. I—er—called you to wrap it up for me, please, for I find I’ve got to leave.” Before I make a complete cake of myself he thought bitterly.
He strode from the shop with the gingerbread in his coat pocket. It was the same, he’d swear to it. This was exactly what had haunted him through so many nights. He was sure. The scent and taste matched the treat of his dreams: redolent of ginger, sweet but tart, soft and chewy and utterly delicious.… And so what?
So he’d solved the mystery about the origin of his dreams. The place served delicious gingerbread. That was scarcely news. It was London’s most popular and exclusive pastry shop, famous for its wedding cakes and ices, and other delicious treats. Of course, they’d have tasty cakes of any sort. He’d thought he’d never liked gingerbread but obviously he’d eaten such before and enjoyed it, sometime in the past. It made sense.
So did the obvious solution to his sudden obsession with the stuff, as well as his dreams of it. He passed the shop often in his daily rounds, and the scent of it had obviously triggered his memories, setting up a desire for more. Elizabeth was wrong in more ways than one.
Gingerbread simply signified: gingerbread.
And so? He had larger problems now. But he could not, for the life of him, decide what they were. All he knew was that they sat on his back like a weight, and oppressed his heart. Truly mad now, he thought as he strode on through the winter afternoon, his spirits low as the gray clouds above him, and twice as cold.
*
His Grace, the Duke of Blackburn, went home and dressed for the evening. He went to dinner at his club. He kept to himself, though he kept himself in constant company all evening. And yet he could never remember being lonelier. In fact, he could never remember being lonely before. That troubled him. He resolved not to let it. She was not the only female in London, there were dozens of young women who would be only too pleased to bear him company; although, actually, he preferred the company of his own sex, after all, he decided. He understood men. And why not? They were explicable.
He left dinner and went to another club, and then another, and then to a gaming hell and then to a tavern and then to a rout and then to a friend’s house for a cordial and then back to a tavern and then went reeling into bed near to dawn.
And woke in a sweat, dreaming of gingerbread again. He punched his pillow and groaned, and buried his head in his arms, and slept again. And dreamed of sweetness and tartness and delicious scents…of a faint reminiscent perfume…
He was dancing to the strains of a wonderful waltz. The woman in his arms was graceful, her perfume delicious, sweet as vanilla, spicy as ginger. It seemed he couldn’t hold her close enough. He was no boy, he’d had many women, but there was something overwhelming about this one. Her hair was soft and scented and her firm breasts peaked against his chest, the skin of her cheek was like satin and he nuzzled it as he drew her closer still as they swayed, locked together as longing rose in him… He glanced down.
He couldn’t see her face clearly, but she wore white, the color a young girl might wear in her first Season. That gave him pause, he was tempted to step back, curiously ashamed. But then he reassured himself There was nothing girlish about this wondrous, sensuous female he waltzed with. Her breasts were high and full, he could see down into the shadowed valley between them, and for a moment he wanted to quit the dance and bury his face there…but the music swelled even as his desire did, and they turned and turned to the music. The dance was like a prelude to love, and she danced with him as though they were already one.
It seemed to him, in the curious way one knows things in dreams, that they’d danced thus before, long, long ago. But then, for some reason, he’d not been bold enough to take what he wanted, the way he knew he would now. Because now he knew he had to hold her even closer and move with her in a different sort of dance, one that promised pleasure beyond any he’d ever felt before.
He could feel his skin growing heated as his desire rose and his body rose to hers. But suddenly she pulled away.
He paused, filled with frustration and yearning.
He was dimly aware of people watching, and realized he shouldn’t have held
a female so close, even in a waltz, so he shrugged an apology and bowed. She returned to his arms, they danced again, but the scent of her, the warmth of her and the absolute pleasure of holding such a slim, curved, and beautiful body so close overpowered him and he dragged her close again. She broke away.
His desire was so keen he forgot about propriety and went to snatch her back into his grasp—but then he saw her clearly. And stopped. Because it was Elizabeth standing there, in the gown she’d worn at her come-out all those years ago, and she was looking at him ruefully, a slight smile on her lovely mouth.
He felt shame and remorse, but even so, he couldn’t resist her, and as shocked at himself as he was aroused, he reached for her again.
She held out her hand. But not to take his. Only to show him what she held in hers: a gingerbread boy. He stared. She sighed, and showed him that she held three of them—three little gingerbread boys with piped-on icing eyes and foolishly smiling mouths. As he watched, they grew to real boy size. Then they stood at Elizabeth’s side, grinning at him. He recoiled in horror, because he suddenly saw that they all had Henry Murcer’s face.…Elizabeth took their hands, gave him a sad smile, shrugged, and turned away…
He woke.
It was not yet dawn. The winter sparrows had not yet woken to squabble outside his windows, the sky was still black with icy night fog. But the Duke of Blackburn shot out of bed. He rummaged in his wardrobe like a wild man, and then pulled on a shirt and stuffed it into a pair of hastily donned britches, tugged on boots, and struggled with a neckcloth. It was too early to wake his valet, too late to rouse a footman to let him out, so he dressed in some disorder and slid from his town house, and took to his heels when he reached the pavement and ran full out down the empty streets, frightening a few lamplighters, making a few drunken bucks reeling home sing out: “Go get ’em” without knowing what they were cheering about.
And then he hammered on Elizabeth’s door.