Love Then Begins

by Gail McEwen

  THE DAY WOULD GO ON forever, it seemed. Even though the shadows reached longer and longer over the landscape and the scant daylight of the short winter day was already fading, there was no end in sight for the, by now, very weary travellers. Holly knew that her husband had an abhorrence for travelling and sitting in suspension in a closed carriage only to be let out for short periods for changing horses, passing tollgates, taking refreshments and stretching of limbs. She also knew he had done his utmost not to let his mood and aversion affect her journey and she was truly grateful for his efforts. They had laughed and talked and been quite silly. They had taken naps in turn and even played “I spy” games that were in danger of turning very wild indeed when his lordship could not find anything he wanted to spy upon except the various clothed and momentarily unclothed parts of his wife’s person and insisting on following it up with scandalous variations on “I hear with my little ear”.

  By the end of the day, however, Holly was so weary with the bumping and movement of the carriage that she was eager to welcome the enforced separation made necessary by sleeping at the Inn at Penrith—indeed she found herself barely able to keep awake and carry her end of the conversation at dinner. Consequently, she fell asleep in her comfortable bed within seconds, completely oblivious and uncaring about the fact that this was the first time in three weeks she had gone to bed alone.

  The following morning at breakfast it was very much harder to engender any enthusiasm about another long day and many hours on the road. His lordship looked grumpy and had sour comments to offer about the coffee. Holly could see nothing wrong with it and would infinitely have preferred to linger in the breakfast room over yet another cup instead of being told by the postillion that horses and carriage was ready—“now, my lady . . . ”

  The hours and miles passed slowly, and though he tried his best, his lordship’s efforts at remaining cheerful and optimistic were less successful than those of the previous day. He complained that he had not slept well at all, that he never did in a strange bed, and he sank often into quiet reverie, staring out the window with an unreadable expression. Holly tried to join him in contemplation of the passing countryside, but despite the fact that her husband ordered them cleaned at each stop along the way, the windows quickly became covered with grime and dust as soon as they began moving forward again.

  Holly shifted in her seat. She was sore and stiff and her feet were cold. She occupied herself by blowing on the glass and drawing little scenes in the fog with her finger. Her mind wandered to the bundle stuffed in the bottom of her trunk—presumably, once in Cheshire she could manage to command some time to herself. Finishing those drawings and the colouring would be a quick matter if she was just given a few hours of uninterrupted time . . . and a place where they could dry, undisturbed and unnoticed. Surely there was such a place there . . . one or two quiet afternoons ought to do the trick, and then it was only a matter of packaging them up and finding the post office nearby . . . or did the lady of the house not do those duties? Could she give the task to a servant and be sure that it was kept secret . . . No! not secret, her mind rebelled at the word, not secret. Discreet. Yes, discreet was the better description. She would be discreet, so her husband would not be troubled with concerns about her previous obligations. Uncomfortable with that train of thought, she furiously rubbed her fist across the little winter landscape she had drawn and dug through her satchel for Elizabeth’s letter. It may not be better to read again about her cousin’s uncertainties than to fret about her own, but at least it was different.

  Oh Holly, I am truly at my wit’s end! This Candlemas presentation, which Mr Darcy assured me had always been a stately and dignified affair when his mother was alive, is becoming bigger and more involved with each passing day. The locals are all abuzz about the return of a beloved tradition not seen since the passing of Lady Anne. Old-timers tell tales of past glories, each more fantastic than the one before, newcomers are spinning yarns of similar grand events they have seen or heard about, certain that ours will surpass them all. The expectations are great and growing greater by the hour, it seems.

  Mrs Reynolds is continually coming at me with questions—as well as ‘suggestions’—and when I am unable to offer her an immediate opinion, I begin to feel that she questions my abilities to manage anything about this affair, not to mention this estate. Honestly Holly, these are her people. Shouldn’t she know more than I how many are to be expected and whether they would prefer rum punch over small beer, or apple dumplings rather than pear tarts? Mr Darcy himself seems to have been taken with the fever and comes to me with ideas of sleigh rides and skating parties. I declare, I was nervous enough in my earliest impressions of the day when I was merely picturing a never ending receiving line and an endless need for polite small talk. Now it appears that the highlight of the local calendar, and the hopes of the entire county for entertainment and escape from their dreary lives, are all resting on my inexperienced, unworthy shoulders.

  Oh Holly, how I do long for a friendly face.

  “WHY DO YOU KEEP READING and sighing like that?” Her husband’s sharp question interrupted her, mid-exhalation.

  “It’s poor Elizabeth. Her dignified event is turning into an extravaganza and she fears she is in over her head.”

  “She may as well get used to it,” Baugham said brusquely. “And you as well. That’s all an estate and name mean, you know: irrational demands, unreasonable expectations and nonsensical obligations.”

  She looked up sharply, “That may be so, but it does not make it any less difficult for her to bring this thing about successfully.”

  “Darcy is a careful and conscientious gentleman. I’m sure he has prepared Mrs Darcy for what would be expected of the Mistress of Pemberley.”

  “Rather, he should have warned her,” Holly said, “but I suppose it’s all quite unremarkable for him. And he has never had to bother himself with the details of housekeeping, so I’m sure he doesn’t realise the work it takes to accomplish something like this.”

  “Yes, perhaps,” he said absently, returning his gaze to the window, but Holly moved across the compartment to sit beside him, laying her hand softly on his leg.

  “Darling?”

  “Yes, love?” He turned back to her.

  “You are a careful and conscientious gentleman, are you not?”

  “I attempt to be so,” he smiled softly. “Why?”

  “Because,” she hesitated, “I don’t feel prepared at all for what will be expected of me in Cheshire.”

  “That is very likely because I have never quite come to know what is expected of me in Cheshire,” he sighed and pulled her close. “But I am quite sure you will not disappoint. The locals had despaired of there ever being another Countess of Cumbermere. They will be thrilled by your very existence, Lady Baugham.”

  The formality of the title caused her to shudder slightly.

  “What if I don’t want to be a countess?” she asked quietly.

  “Then I suppose you should not have married an earl,” he answered, but she kept her eyes down and did not see if he was smiling or not.

  OBLIGATIONS.

  Holly sat in front of her mirror and barely registered when the maid wished her a good evening before giving a small curtsey and hurrying on to whomever down the corridor needed her services next.

  Expectations.

  She was, after all, a seasoned traveller. She had taken trips back and forth to Edinburgh all her life and she knew exactly how to treat postmasters, ask for decent seats, what was an exorbitant price for food and drink on the way and how to tip the ostlers. It had never been a problem for her to make her way as a young, unmarried, respectably employed young woman and now she found herself sitting in front of a mirror in an inn of some quality and reputation, patronised by important tradesmen and wealthy merchants on their way to the growing city of Manchester and beyond—an inn proud of its service, standard and quality and feeling as if she had not quite lived up to expectations. In
fact, she was thinking so hard about expectations, roles and duties when she entered the establishment, she probably did not live up to them at all.

  Holly sighed. It was not that she was nervous or afraid of what was waiting for her in Cheshire. It was more that she had a growing suspicion her husband could not—or would not—be the one to tell her what exactly it was. Now, she knew very well that it would be foolish indeed to think Elizabeth’s situation would in any way mirror her own. Pemberley was a very different affair than Cumbermere, but there was something about their situations that she could not help feel could do with some commiserating. There was no time for letter writing now, but in her mind she had already composed dozens of pages to her cousin while the carriage hurried through the rolling hills interrupted by the small mill towns scattered against the landscape. When she got to Cumbermere . . .

  It was late, but tonight she had no interest in the bed turned down behind her. There was, she realised, something else that would better serve to calm her fears and doubts. She looked at the lone candle standing beside her and made up her mind.

  Never let it be said that years in a girls’ seminar do not teach skills valuable in the world outside the marriage market. Holly felt she was back at Hockdown again as she carefully made her way the few steps down the corridor to reach her husband’s room. A light scratch at the door, no waiting for an answer but a quick look around with her back to the door and then a quick push and she was inside!

  “I must speak with you . . . at once.”

  To her surprise, he was sitting in his shirt sleeves in front of the fire with his head turned in an awkward angle and a book on his lap. His reaction upon seeing her went from surprise to mischief in a second.

  “Madam?” he lazily said and shifted around to face her. “Have you discovered a new part of your anatomy you cannot adequately define? I can’t image what else could cause you to creep around the corridors in such a fine establishment as this otherwise . . . in your nightgown.”

  “I can’t sleep,” she pouted.

  Her husband laughed. “Mice? Bedbugs? Surely not!”

  “Thoughts.”

  “Oh.”

  Something of his mirth disappeared and he lost his careless pose. Sighing, he threw his book aside and onto the floor where Holly now saw most of his clothes were lying as well, obviously discarded where he stood. It appeared he really was dependent on a man to take care of him. She wondered if he would disapprove of her carefully folded clothes that she had insisted to inspect after the maid had finished doing it for her. Did a countess do such things? But when he stretched out his hand to call her closer, there was no trace left of thoughts of him as a spoilt and pampered peer anymore. She quickly hurried through the room and flung herself in his arms.

  “Love,” she whispered and held his head tightly to her chest. He let her pet him without protest, only smiling at her when she carefully fingered his features and smoothed his hair.

  “What is it, Holly?” he said softly when she had sighed deeply and lay her cheek to his head.

  “I missed you,” she answered simply.

  “Well, that is the last thing I thought you would confess after the look you gave me when you stepped out of the carriage!”

  “No . . . Well, yes. But we were both tired.”

  “True.” He moved her hair aside and looked up into her face. “So you braved cold corridors and omniscient servants to see me again.”

  “I did.”

  “You must have missed me excessively.”

  “I did.”

  For some reason he felt his heart contract at that simple admission and it was his turn to pull her closer once more. “Well, you are very welcome,” he whispered.

  “Can I tell you something?”

  “Anything.”

  Holly swallowed. “After today . . . after what we talked about . . . Elizabeth’s letter . . . When I was alone without you I was unsure. I was unsure of who I was. Who we were.”

  It was obvious from his face he did not understand her.

  “When we are together I know who we are and despite everything I don’t understand or worry about, I have no fear. I missed that just now, being all alone in this strange place. I don’t want to be in strange places without you.”

  “Darling . . . ”

  His voice was soft and his hand felt warm and protective against her back.

  “Don’t worry about me, love, just don’t leave me.”

  “Holly.”

  She looked into his eyes and saw how love shone back at her. It filled her with reassurance and even boldness.

  “David,” she said, a little shakily at first. “David?”

  His face broke out into a smile. Almost a childish one, she thought, as if she had discovered a secret that he was delighted to share. It made her break out into a quiet laugh which he joined in. She put her face into his hair and laughed a little louder.

  “Shh,” he said but she could tell he was shaking with laughter himself the way he pushed his face into her bosom. “You’re not supposed to be here!”

  “Well, I’m not leaving now,” she said, trying to control her mirth. “I am absolutely not leaving!”

  Her childish laugh changed when his lips pushed through the fabric of her dressing gown, however and settled on her naked skin.

  “Naughty girl.”

  Yes, she did feel naughty. Childish and naughty and playful at the same time. So she pushed her hands down his back and caught his shirt, pulling it upwards and him towards her in a single determined move. His hands dug past the fabric of her gown and slid along her hips. Strong and warm, they settled on her and she responded immediately.

  “Mmm . . . ” she murmured as his hands slowly glided up her stomach, “but you mustn’t make me scream, you know. Or beg very loudly . . . ”

  He simply smiled and let his hands move down, working his way along her thighs.

  “Or, indeed, moan excessively,” she said with a sigh. “And I suppose the bed creaks horribly.”

  He raised his head and fixed her with a grim look.

  “Then, madam, why exactly are you here?” he asked.

  “I need you to help me sleep, of course,” she said in mocking surprise.

  He swung her over to straddle his lap.

  “Then perhaps it would be more prudent and successful if I recited the Cumbermere tenant roll for you.”

  She put her hand inside his shirt.

  “Oh, but that would make me scream,” she said mischievously, “and send me running down the corridor in a fright. And possibly make me moan excessively, too . . . ”

  He looked at her in her loveliness and knew exactly which scandalous display from Lady Baugham he infinitely preferred, Lifting her up in one big sweep, he quickly silenced her surprised gasp by covering her lips with his and walking over to his bed. He tried to put her down gently just in case she was right and it was a creaky bed, but she rolled over him and straddled him again.

  “Although . . . ” she slowly said and sat up, her long dark hair falling forward to hide her shoulders and breasts, “if I did all the work and you simply impressed me with your amazing self-restraint and tact, we might achieve something of a—”

  “Compromise?” he murmured as she pushed him down and let her hands travel beneath his shirt, setting to work at releasing the rest of him from it.

  “Oh no,” she whispered as her head came down to his bare chest, “I think we can have it all. I think we can safely count on achieving absolute mutual satisfaction, after all. Don’t you?”

  HE FOUND SHE HAD PERFECTED a most exquisite form of torture. He lay on his back, holding very still, while she moved ever so slowly over him, avoiding any creaks, moans or cries until he knew that any measure of self-restraint and tact that he might possess was long, long gone. He reached his hands down to her hips, to guide her movements into a tempo more to his liking and looked up to see if there was a twinkle of victory in her eye.

  Instead he saw that mo
st satisfying frown, the one telling him she was close . . . so close . . . and she was biting her lip to keep from crying out. He kept it up until he heard a sharp intake of breath, small whimper escaping, and then . . . restraint, creaking beds and neighbouring rooms be damned.

  He spun her over and gave in to his need with abandon, taking her with him. Her hands on his back, her legs wrapped so tightly around him, he kept at it until she lost all restraint as well and he heard her cries of pleasure and release.

  He rolled over, still breathless, and pulled her close, running his fingers lightly up and down that beautiful, flushed and glistening body slowly sinking deeper and deeper into relaxation and peace.

  “Holly,” he whispered.

  She stirred languidly, but he felt her smile. “Yes? David?”

  “Can I tell you something?”

  “Mmm . . . ” she said drowsily into his neck. “I suppose so.”

  “Your thoughts . . . earlier . . . that were troubling you . . . ” he paused and she lifted herself up onto her elbows to watch him in the firelight, “they don’t matter. None of it does. Titles mean nothing, especially mine. Not to me, not in comparison to the one thing, the one person, that means everything to me.”

  “But . . . ”

  “No ‘buts’,” he touched his finger to her mouth. “Cumbermere is a crumbling and decaying estate; I am sure you will have no more love for it than I. We will go there and we will fulfil our obligations: we will show our faces in church on Sunday, you will acquaint yourself with the staff and I will attend to the books and tenants and then we will leave. It will go one, as it always has, quite well without us. We have a duty, but aside from that duty, that place has no claim on us. It does not define who we are.”

  “And that is why you won’t assume the title,” she said, with a dawning understanding.

  “Exactly. I am not Cumbermere, and neither, thank God, are you. No one there knows us. Nothing there matters. We, my love, are David and Holly, husband and wife. Everything else is secondary.”