Summer Darkness, Winter Light

by Sylvia Halliday

  She was in an agony of longing and sudden, thrilling dread. Mama had cried in anguish beneath Squire Pringle. Always. She felt as though she were stretched on the rack, awaiting…God knew what torment. Yet she loved him. How could he hurt her?

  He began to rock gently against her hips, his manhood merely grazing and stroking the soft entryway. The sensation was wonderful, but her fear was driving away all thoughts of pleasure. Dear heaven, she thought. Good or bad, let it be done with! She couldn’t wait another second. She put her hands around him, grasped his firm buttocks, and pulled him into her with all her might. She flinched with the sharp, tearing pain of his entrance.

  “Sweet Jesu,” he cried, “you’re so tight!” He gasped in surprise and delight, then grunted as his body shook with violent spasms. She felt the thrill of his impassioned thrusts, and then the warmth of his seed as it flooded into her. “Too soon,” he said with a groan, collapsing against her. “Too soon.”

  She lay quietly, feeling him within her. After that first hard entrance, the ripping of her maidenhead, it had not been unpleasant, despite the lingering pain. Far from it. And now? Without quite being aware of how she could control such a peculiar muscle, she tightened herself like a sheath around his shaft, and was thrilled at the jolt of excitement that one small movement sent through her body. He had felt it as well. He moaned in pleasure and kissed her softly. Pleased with the result, she tightened the muscle again, and felt herself growing warm with renewed ardor. She forgot the few twinges of remaining soreness. She arched her body to his, praying he would understand and move inside her again, thrill her once more.

  Instead, he withdrew and sat up beside her, scowling down at her body. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She looked down at herself in surprise. Her thighs were spotted with blood. “I…I didn’t think it would matter.”

  He swore softly. “Not matter? That you were a virgin? Damn it, I hurt you. I should have been more careful.”

  “No, Grey. No. It was sweet pain.”

  He shook his head as though he wished to clear it of a sudden bewildering thought. “But…a virgin?”

  “Why should you have thought otherwise?”

  “But…I thought…Wickham. Lord Ellsmere. In the Colonies. I thought that was why you sought him.”

  She smiled ruefully at his mistaken conclusion. As though the insignificance of a woman’s honor could have set her on her terrible course. “I never met the man,” she said simply.

  He lifted her hand and rubbed his fingers across the calluses that still remained on her palm. “Never met him? And yet you endured a life of misery to come to England. Because you want to kill him.”

  “No,” she said softly. “I must kill him. Or never seek for peace in this world.”

  “In God’s name, why?”

  She turned her head away from his searching gaze. The dark concern in his eyes. Her vengeance was her own. And the Baniards’.

  He sighed at her silence and rose from the bed. Allegra lay in warm contentment, eyes closed, unwilling even to move. She heard the soft fall of Grey’s bare feet on the carpet, moving toward his closet; then the room was still. She wriggled against the scented smoothness of the sheets. She wouldn’t get up until she had to. Let this sweetness last, she thought, if only for an hour or two. It would be the dearest memory she carried to her grave.

  “Allegra.” She stirred and opened her eyes at the sound of her name. Grey sat on the edge of the bed, holding a small basin of water and a sponge. Though she protested that she wasn’t a helpless child, he gently bathed her thighs and washed away the bloody evidence of their passion. It was such a humble gesture—this proud, noble man ministering to her most intimate needs—that she wanted to weep. When he had finished and put the basin aside, she pulled his head down to kiss him tenderly on the mouth.

  “That was scarcely your chore,” she murmured.

  He perched on the edge of the bed. “But it was my fault,” he said with remorse. He stared at her, lost in thought. Then he suddenly began to smile, an expression of such warmth and joy that the dim room seemed to brighten. “Of course! That was the why of it…in the box room.”

  She returned his smile, glad to give him the reassurance he needed, though it be false. “I tried to tell you it had naught to do with you. I was afraid. As many maidens are, I suppose. And so I…lost my courage and pulled back at the last.”

  “And tonight?”

  “If we risk nothing, we gain nothing.”

  “And what did you gain tonight?” he growled, his joyous smile turning to a frown. “I hurt you.”

  She smoothed away the frown with her fingers. “Foolish man. I’ve been hurt for much of my life. By those who meant to do so. That is pain.”

  He laughed bitterly. “And I’ve never hurt you by my deeds and words?”

  “You strike out at the whole world, but your blade is always pointed at your own breast. How can you hurt me?”

  He jumped up from the bed and angrily began to pace the room. “Why do you forgive my cruelties with such generosity? I scarcely merit it! Are you a fool? Or a martyr?”

  She couldn’t bear to quarrel with him. Not tonight, when she would never see him again. Better to go quickly, before her heart was broken further. “Shall I leave you now, milord?” she whispered.

  He stopped his pacing, looked at her, then shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Shall I bring you something to drink?” There could be a flask of gin in his closet, or the remains of one of her cordials. She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

  He hesitated. “Is it your wish that I should drink?”

  She shook her head. “Not when it makes it easier for you to indulge that cruelty you so dislike in yourself.” She moved across the room and stood before him, holding out her arms. “Take me, instead of the drink.”

  “Oh, sweet woman,” he groaned, and clasped her to his bosom. “God knows you’re more intoxicating than any drink I’ve ever known.” He kissed her passionately, his tongue tasting her, savoring her mouth; then he dropped his head lower and buried his face in the softness of her neck. “Christ’s blood,” he muttered, “but I want you again.”

  She ran her fingers down his spine and felt a thrill of joy when he quivered at her touch. “Why, then, here I am.”

  “No.” He pushed her away with both his hands, like a man resisting temptation. “I fear to hurt you again. There will be other nights.”

  “No. Tonight!” She tried to hide the desperation in her voice. He mustn’t guess that tonight was all they had.

  “I dare not. I…Wait.” He chuckled softly, crossed the room, and rummaged in a small cabinet. He turned to Allegra and held out a crock that looked strangely familiar. “I have a clever stillroom maid, who mixed the most remarkable unguent for me. ’Tis very soothing. Shall we try it?” He gave her a sly wink.

  She had never known he could be so playful. It warmed her heart to see it. “’Twas meant for the scratches of a bear,” she said, pursing her lips against the smile that hovered near her mouth.

  “And tiger scratches?” He grinned. “For I fear I’ll be in danger of attack if I refuse this impatient cat before me.”

  She laughed softly. “The tiger will be a purring kitten if you only oblige me.”

  He chuckled. “And then, perhaps, if I oblige you well enough, you might reward me with scratches of a different sort.” He jerked his head toward the bed. “Go and lie down.”

  She did as he instructed, allowing him to open her legs and smooth the fragrant cream into her tender flesh, probe the soreness within. His fingers moved back and forth, in and out—stroking, soothing, igniting her senses anew with hot desire. She arched her back to his hand, wondering how it was possible to shiver and burn all at once, to feel contentment and a desperate yearning for something more at the same time.

  “Godamercy,” she breathed, “can anything be more wonderful than that?”

  “I trust so,” he said with
a smug laugh, and moved on top of her. When he entered her, his shaft gliding silkily to its warm berth, she cried aloud. Alarmed, he looked down at her and frowned. “Damn it, I’ve hurt you again.”

  She laughed shakily. “That was joy, not pain. And if you stop again, I swear on my recipe books that I will scratch you.”

  “’Tis on your head, wench. No quarter given.”

  “No quarter asked,” she whispered, and abandoned herself to the ecstasy of his lovemaking. He thrust gently at first, the smooth strokes working her into a frenzy of delight. But when she cried out and clutched at his shoulders in an excess of passion, the gentle thrusts became a pounding rhythm. He slipped his hands under her hips and pulled her even closer to his pulsing loins.

  It was not enough to have him within her; she wanted every part of him to be hers. She clung to him, wrapping her arms and legs tightly about his body. He was her life, her blood, her soul, her heart. And this night would end too soon. She would be alone again with her awful task. She savored every moment of this brief joy. And when her body—stretched taut with ever-increasing desire—gave way in a drenching rush of release and fulfillment, her heart burst as well, and a sob escaped her throat.

  Grey’s release came a moment afterward. He gasped and trembled and shivered, then was still. “Oh, God,” he groaned, struggling to catch his breath, “was there ever creature sweeter than you?” He kissed her lips and cheeks; then he kissed them again and frowned. “Tears?”

  She stroked his dear face. “Tears of happiness. When I die and go before God for judgment, and he seeks to know the one hour of my life I would sell my soul to relive, I shall tell him of this night.”

  “’Tis only one of many. I promise you that,” he said hoarsely. “I knew the first day I saw you—in the lower parlor, after the maids had washed your beautiful hair—I knew you’d be good for me.” He smiled, a wry smile. “But I must be heavy for you.” He moved off her with reluctance and sat up. “My oath, you’re bleeding again.” Before she could stop him, he had fetched his basin.

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” she said, as he dabbed at her legs. Somehow, it didn’t seem right. He was the master, she the servant.

  “It gives me pleasure.”

  She had a sudden recollection. The bent head. The tender care. “As it gives pleasure to Mr. Morgan?” she asked softly.

  His head jerked up and he stared at her. “How did you know?”

  “I saw you once. By chance.”

  He sighed and put aside his basin. He seemed embarrassed by her knowledge. “Absurd, to play such a role.”

  “But if it brings you a measure of peace…”

  He covered his eyes with his hand. “I shall never have peace. Never atone for what I did.”

  For what he did? Dear heaven, could it be true? “Did you…” her voice shook with the dread of it, “did you kill her?”

  He nodded. “Yes. I killed her. And I killed our son, as well.” He sounded tired and resigned.

  “I don’t believe that! Lady Dorothy said it was a childbed fever.”

  He shook his head. “She begged me not to duel with Osborne. She had known him since her childhood.” He laughed bitterly. “But I was headstrong and proud. He’d goaded me into it. God save me, I could have refused the quarrel. I could have shown mercy. I knew it was envy on his part. Because I was rich. And he’d come back from a failure in the Bermudas.” He turned and looked at Allegra. His eyes were shadowed with pain. “She begged me on her knees…Her body was swollen with our child. Oh, sweet God! Who knows why a man chooses the darker path? He had insulted me…my pride…”

  “Oh, Grey.” Allegra wrapped her arms around him and held him close.

  “And after I killed Osborne…” He shuddered and drew away from her, as though he felt unworthy of her embrace. “She sent for me, in the agony and pain of her stillbirth, and put my dead son into my hands. She insisted that I hold it, that poor little thing. She would have it so, she said, that I might suffer as she had suffered.”

  He gulped, stared at the ceiling, then went on. “And while I wept over my child, she lay there—amid her bloody sheets—and cursed me. And told me she had done it on purpose. Because she had come to hate me, and my name, and…Oh, God!” His voice caught in his throat. “And my child in her womb.”

  “On purpose? Merciful heaven, what are you saying?”

  “I don’t know what potion she took to force her labor too soon. Perhaps you, with your lore of the stillroom, would know.”

  Allegra gasped. It was scarcely to be believed. She knew, of course, what Ruth would have taken. A distillation of juniper, mixed with mercury. Mama had secretly used it herself, more than once, to rid herself of Squire Pringle’s foul seed. She frowned at Grey. “But then how can you say that you killed her?”

  “Don’t you understand? I drove her to it. She had no other way to show me her hatred and her pain, save by destroying what I held most dear.” He brushed the tears from his eyes. “Poor helpless Ruth, suffering with the grief I’d caused her.”

  It was still almost beyond comprehension. “She destroyed the child in her own womb?”

  “She found an apothecary to give her something. It was not meant to harm her, only the child. But, in her unhappy state, she must have taken too much of it. It ended by poisoning her as well. By the time I knew of it, it was too late to save her. I sent for a doctor in secret. But he looked at her and departed.” He groaned. “I hear her voice, over and over again, cursing me. Sometimes I think only gin can drown out her screams.”

  “And you told no one? Not even your friends? Not even when the gossip began? The whispers of murder?”

  “How could I? I was the cause of it all.”

  She shook her head, shocked as much by Grey’s acceptance of guilt as by the horror of Ruth’s actions. “But that’s monstrous!” she cried.

  “Yes,” he said, bowing his head. “I can never forgive myself.”

  “No! She was monstrous!”

  He scowled savagely. “Are you mad? I drove her to it. That sweet, good woman. She was a saint. And I broke her heart.”

  Allegra felt a sudden, unreasoning hatred of the dead woman for blighting Grey’s life. It was a hatred that felt very much like jealousy, but she drove the ugly thought from her mind. What kind of woman would kill her unborn child to revenge herself on her husband? “Put aside your thoughts of guilt, Grey,” she begged. “How long can you torment yourself for what’s done? It cannot be recalled.”

  He waved his hands as though he wished to fend off her reasoned words. “’Twas my fault entirely. I drove her to it.” His voice cracked. “And God cursed me for my wickedness by transforming me into a coward.”

  “Your fault? Did you guide her hand to the foul nostrum? We’re creatures of our own free will, Grey. She chose her means of revenge against you. It was a cruel, willful deed. She chose. Don’t you understand? She chose foolishly and unwisely, to be sure. But she was willing to kill her own child out of spite for you. I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead, but…God help me, I could not have made such a cruel choice. But she did. And now her spite reaches from beyond the grave to play sad havoc with your life.”

  He gripped her by the shoulders and glared at her. “What do you know?” he growled.

  “I know that your pain breaks my heart. Forgive yourself, Grey. Let her go.”

  “I have no right. Unworthy wretch, she called me. And ’tis so. Why should I know peace?”

  She pounded on his chest in frustration. “Listen to me, Grey Ridley! How can you call yourself unworthy? Jagat Ram would give his life for you. The rector at the almshouse called you an angel of mercy. Even Mr. Briggs admires you in his way. And as for me…I had room in my heart for nothing save thoughts of vengeance. Yet you crept into my life, into my very soul, and made me love you.”

  “What?” He stared in disbelief.

  She hadn’t meant to tell him. It seemed too cruel, knowing she must leave. But perhaps those were words he
needed to hear. “I saw you at your worst, and still discerned the good man you were. The good man you are. Take my love and let it heal you at last. Put away the dark past, live again in sunshine. Foreswear the excess of drink that makes you cruel, and let Mr. Morgan rule your heart. Promise me!”

  “You love me?” His face was filled with wonder.

  She nodded, helpless to stem the flow of tears. “Will you promise?” she whispered.

  He took her into his embrace, and kissed her tears and laughed gently. “I give you leave to reproach me with your sad eyes should I become the monster again.” He pulled her down to lie beside him on the bed. “Come, you dear woman. Let me fall asleep with you in my arms. And wake to your gentle smile.” He wrapped them both in the coverlet and sighed in contentment. “I think I’ll dream of you.”

  Her own sigh was filled with grief and pain. “I’ll dream of tonight,” she said. “Forever.”

  “So solemn? There will be many more nights like this.”

  Her heart was breaking. She clung to him. “Yes, of course.” She kissed him fervently on the mouth, and rested her head on the pillow of his warm breast. She heard his breathing relax into sleep, felt the rise and fall of his chest beneath her head. Felt again the wonder and joy of lying in her lover’s arms.

  After a little while, she carefully extricated herself from his arms and slipped out of the bed. She turned away from his sleeping form; she couldn’t bear to look at him where he lay. One glance at his dear face and she would be undone, her vow in tatters. She hurried into his closet and dressed quickly, then took the jeweled knife from the wall and tucked it into her bodice.

  She was about to slip from the room when her eye fell upon Grey’s small writing desk in the corner of his closet. She had debated with herself about writing him a note. The more she thought of it, the more it seemed the honorable thing to do. She had no hope that they would ever meet again. Her search for Wickham could take her anywhere. And if she found him, and found the courage to do her duty, her final journey could be to the gallows. But she couldn’t leave without a last message to Grey.