Come Be My Love

by Patricia Watters

  "Do you think I give a rat’s rear end about that?" Jon said. "Besides, you silly mooncalf, you'll be a heroine now. Because of you, the kidnappings have been stopped, the women who were abducted will be brought back, the smuggling ring has been broken, and the horde of gold we impounded from the Revelation represents a sizeable boost to our economy. We estimated over twenty-thousand in gold alone. There's no question, the Queen's delegates will find Victoria a prosperous colony, far more prosperous than New Westminster."

  Sarah looked at him, as if her presence in his life was something between an aggravating enigma and an itch, and said, "But you believe that rights for women and the wearing of bloomers are silly and frivolous."

  "Perhaps," Jon replied, "but I fancy a potion of frivolity every day for the rest of my life."

  "You don't understand. It's just not that simple."

  "Isn't it? I ask you to be my mistress. You agree. I buy you a house, and we spend the rest of our lives making mad, passionate love together."

  Sarah met his gaze. The pull was so strong, the all-powerful awareness of his physical presence: of his broad-shouldered frame, standing solid and real, his strong hands moving up and down her arms, the look of love and longing in his eyes. But the thought of holding a man's love for a lifetime seemed inconceivable. "I'm afraid."

  "Of what?"

  "Of losing you."

  "Losing me?" Jon stared at her. Light through the porthole caressed the curve of her cheeks and softened her lips, making her look childlike. And vulnerable. Of course. What a fool he'd been. It wasn't the political burdens she'd bring to his life, or ambivalence about her own feelings that was making her hesitate. It was the fact that every man in her life had deserted her.

  He tipped her chin up so she'd have to look into his eyes, and said, "How could you possibly lose me? You're the center of my world, the heart of my existence. Being with you brings me such joy. I love your wit, and your charm, and your cleverness. I love the way that little dimple appears when you smile, and how your eyes light up when you've bested me. How could you possibly lose me? Our hearts and souls are one. Could you lose your heart? Could you lose your soul?" He kissed her tenderly. "Besides, if you won't come live with me and be my love, I'll never be able to suckle your toes." He peered into her eyes, and added in a voice just above a whisper, "Sweetheart, I love you more than my life."

  The truth came to Sarah quite suddenly. It happened while she looked into his eyes: all of her fancies about fashion and independence and rights for women faded, replaced by a longing that made her chest ache and her throat constrict. She wanted Jon to gather her in his arms and hold her for all eternity. She wanted him to banish her apprehension for the love she'd never had, and help her come to terms with her inability to trust and accept a man's love. She wanted to curl up with him amid down pillows and muslin comforters and feel his arms around her and his body warm against hers. She desperately wanted his love, a steadfast, unfaltering, forever kind of love that would endure a lifetime. The fact was, she wanted to be his wife.

  She wanted to be Mrs. Jonathan Cromwell...

  Taking a long, slow breath, she held his gaze. "You might consider it maddeningly prudish of me,” she said, "but I don't want to be your mistress. I want to be your wife."

  "Wife?" Jon looked at her solemnly, and said, "I thought you were against marriage."

  "I was until I fell in love with you," Sarah replied. "But no matter how much I love you, I cannot be your mistress. And you can't seem to ask me to be your wife."

  "That's because I didn't know that was an option," Jon said. "So I will rephrase it. Will you come live with me and be my love... and my wife?"

  "Don't say that just because you’ve found yourself backed into a corner, Jon."

  "Sweetheart, do I look like a man who could be backed into a corner? Besides, if you left me I would dearly miss suckling your toes."

  Sarah looked at him, wide-eyed. "You want to marry me... so you can suckle my toes?"

  He grinned wickedly. "Among other things."

  "Then yes, I will marry you." She curved her arms around his neck. "You know, I think I’ll enjoy being the wife of the governor instead of being a bloomer merchant."

  "You'd give that up for me?"

  "The truth is, I'd give it all up for you, my love. Manufacturing and selling bloomers, the issue of rights for women..."

  "No," Jon said, "I couldn't allow it. I fear if I did, you'd take on the dull gloss of an exquisite piece of porcelain sitting on a shelf collecting dust."

  "Then... you don't mind if I proceed with my plans?"

  "Absolutely not," Jon said with resolve. "Long ago, a beautiful butterfly convinced me that she'd never be content leading an aimless, frivolous life, and I accepted that."

  "So our little battle has finally ended?"

  "Whether you realize it or not, you overthrew your opponent and seized power long ago, at Mystic Spring in fact, when I saw your face peering back at me from the reflection in the pool, because it was then that I knew I'd move heaven and earth to have you. As for my political future, lesser men than I have survived greater obstacles than complications imposed by a headstrong, independent wife."

  Sarah gave him a rueful smile. "And what will you do, Governor Cromwell, if I'm forced to go against your wishes because we disagree on certain principles regarding my business?"

  A triumphant gleam crept into Jon's eyes. "Probably haul you off to bed."

  "Bed?" Sarah echoed vaguely. "Why would you do that?"

  "Because, my adorable little bird-wit, whenever you defy me, that's what I feel like doing. And since I still cannot condone women marching from home and family to fight for rights they simply don't need, nor can I openly endorse your wearing bloomers outside the privacy of our home, we should be spending quite a bit of time in bed."

  "I like that idea." Sarah kissed his chin, his jaw, his lips. "Now that I'll be proceeding with my plans," she said between pecks, "I'll look into purchasing the little building on Wharf Street that I wanted a while back, the one next to Sporborg's Grocery. Mandi said Mr. Sporborg told Wellington it was for sale—"

  "Just hold it right there," Jon broke in. "I refuse to let you buy the building."

  “You refuse!"

  "Flatly. I'm the man in the family and I'll be the one to buy the building. And that's that!"

  Sarah took a moment to digest his words. Then she gave him a furtive smile, and said dutifully, "Very well then."

  Jon puffed out his chest.

  Sarah allowed him his moment of triumph, then said, "Of course, the building will have to be expanded, so when I present my plans for review, what will your position be?"

  "I'm afraid I won't be able to approve them," Jon said. "They'll violate an ordinance prohibiting the expansion of any building on the waterfront." He gave her a wry smile. "But I suspect you'll get around that."

  Sarah tightened her arms around his neck and raised confident eyes to meet his gaze. "Well, I did plan on having a rather large following with me when I go to face the council: Elizabeth Thurman and her father, Flora and Jeremy, Mandi and Wellington, Mr. Babington—he offered to represent me if I need him. And just in case that isn't enough, I'll also enlist—"

  Jon silenced her ramblings with a sound kiss, knowing he'd already lost this round. Then he chucked her under the chin, and said, "I can see that our bed will never get cold."

  Sarah gave him a slow, wicked grin. "How lovely," she replied, and kissed him again.

  EPILOGUE

  Victoria, Vancouver Island - Five months later

  Josephine glanced up and down the hallway, peeked into Jon and Sarah's bedchambers and motioned for Louella to follow. "Well, here they are," she said to Sarah. "What do you think?" She offered the black bloomers for Sarah to inspect. "And look—" she pointed proudly to the stitching along the gathered inset "—my seams are ever so much better."

  "Your seams are perfect," Sarah said. "Absolutely perfect." Sarah held up the bloome
rs, her eyes focusing on the U-shaped panel of soft flannel gathered in an inset in the front. "And I think you are positively clever, Louella. What a novel idea. Lying-in bloomers. Why, every woman who is with child in Victoria will want a pair." She looked up and smiled. "And you, my love, have become so proficient with your stitchery that I want you to start right away on the trim for the silk tunic that goes with these bloomers. Mandi will be needing them both very soon."

  Louella beamed.

  Josephine nudged her sister. "Go on... show her."

  Louella blushed and held up something she'd been clutching behind her back. "Well, these are for you. I hope they fit."

  Sarah stared at the bright, flowery silk lying-in bloomers. "You've made a pair for me too." She held the bloomers against her stomach and giggled. "It won't be long before this pouch will be quite expanded."

  "How exciting," Louella said. "A little brother."

  Sarah looked askance at her. "It could be a little sister, you know."

  Louella eyed Josephine. "Well, I suppose that would be all right, too," she said. After a few moments, she added, "Have you talked to Papa about us working for you yet?"

  "I will soon, love," Sarah replied. "Just be patient. I must address the subject at precisely the right moment. With men timing is everything." She smoothed her hand over her belly, realizing her timing with Jon had been a bit off along those lines. A month after they were married she realized she was pregnant. But Jon was delighted, and so was she, though she'd never imagined she'd be excited about anything as domestic as having a child. But she was, incredibly and amazingly so.

  "Well, I guess you're right," Louella said. "Will you show Papa the lying-in bloomers?"

  "Of course," Sarah replied. "I'll also point out that they were your idea, and mention how clever you are. And I'll tell him how adept you are with the sewing machine, and how much help the two of you would be to me in my shop, especially in the months ahead when I’ll be needing to slow down a bit."

  Josephine looked at Sarah, a tiny crease gathering between her brows, and said, "Do you have any idea why Papa wants to see us all in the library?"

  "No," Sarah said. "I haven't the foggiest idea."

  Josephine sighed. "I hope we're not in trouble again. What if Papa already found out what we've been doing and is angry?"

  "Don't worry, love," Sarah said. "Your father's not angry. Actually, he seems especially pleased about whatever it is. Perhaps it has something to do with the baby."

  Hearing someone approaching, Louella snatched the silk bloomers from Sarah's hand and tucked them behind her back, then looked at the open doorway with a start. "Oh... Grandmother. We were just leaving." She gave her grandmother a nod, and both girls slipped away.

  "Lady Cromwell," Sarah said. "Please, come in and sit down."

  "Oh, my dear," Dorothy said, moving to sit in a lady's chair. "We must do something about that."

  "About what?" Sarah glanced around the room, wondering what she meant.

  "My name," she said. "Since you are not only in the family now, but also to be the mother of my grandchild, we must dispense with the formalities."

  "Well, that would be nice," Sarah said, surprised. Lady Cromwell had not exactly been overjoyed at the wedding, and afterward, she'd seemed indifferent. But ever since Jon announced the news of the baby, his mother had become much more approachable. "What do you propose I call you?" she asked.

  Dorothy tilted her head while pondering the question. "Well, perhaps Mother Cromwell. No—" she waved her hand "—that wouldn't do. It makes me sound like a mother superior. Oh, well, no matter. We'll think of something. Now for the reason I'm here."

  "You don't have to have a reason to come to our chambers," Sarah said. "You're welcome any time."

  "Thank you, dear. But first, how are you faring?"

  "Very well," Sarah replied, "though I feel as if I could consume several scones with marmalade, a few kippers, and at least two cups of chocolate."

  "Then it will most definitely be a boy," Dorothy said. "I felt enormously ravenous with both Charles and Jonathan. But with Esther, I was quite squeamish during most of my lying-in. If it's a boy, Jonathan will be as proud as a horse with bells."

  "Yes, I expect he will be," Sarah said. Jon had been talking endlessly about the outings he and their son would take—fishing, hunting, day excursions on horses...

  "Jon has been evasive lately," Dorothy said, interrupting Sarah's musings. "And now with his bidding us to congregate in the library at six... Do you have any idea what this is about?"

  "None at all," Sarah said. "But I admit, I am curious."

  "We all are. Neither Esther nor the girls know what it is, nor does Ida. But I suspect Peterson and Tooley know, although they deny it. Those scalawags were smiling as if they had a secret. But that's not why I'm here." Glancing around, she asked, "Are we quite alone?"

  "Yes," Sarah replied. She noticed that Dorothy seemed to be holding several remnants of fabric, which she dabbled at with restive fingers, arranging and rearranging them, pressing them smooth, nervously trifling with them.

  Giving Sarah a contrite smile, she offered the samples. "What do you think of these?"

  Sarah took the remnants. Studying them closely, she ran her fingers over the fine silks: an ecru jardinire strewn with orange poppies and foliage, an olive green foulard with dark myrtle-green shamrock leaves, and a salmon India silk with embroidery of a deeper shade. "They're lovely," she said. "Are you planning a new toilette?"

  "Well, not exactly," Dorothy replied. "That is, I want to have something made for... a friend. I'd like to place the order with you."

  "How lovely," Sarah said, pleased that Jon's mother held her tailoring in such high regard. "This jardinire with the bright poppies made into a shirtwaister would make a lovely summer frock," she said, smoothing the fabric against her knee.

  "Well... the fact is, I wasn't contemplating having a shirtwaister made, or a new gown."

  "You weren't?" Sarah said, perplexed.

  "No, I was thinking more about—" Dorothy's eyes shifted uneasily "—bloomers."

  "Bloomers?" Sarah looked at the older woman, stunned. She could imagine Lady Cromwell enlisting her to make almost anything for her friend, except bloomers. Was the older woman actually trying to promote the garment?

  Dorothy cleared her throat. "The jardinire," she said, drawing Sarah's attention to the remnant. "I thought it might make a nice... What is it you call the upper garment?"

  "Overtunic," Sarah said.

  "Yes," Dorothy replied. "It would be quite summerish. And the bloomers could be made of perhaps a green foulard. Green is one of my favorite colors. I have always felt it was especially attractive on... uh... my friend."

  Sarah eyed Lady Cromwell dubiously. "Is this... friend, a young person?"

  "Well, not exactly," Dorothy replied. "That is, she's about... my age."

  "I see," Sarah said, the outlandish implication almost too outrageous to conceive. "Then I assume her coloring is the same as yours—ivory complexion, silver hair."

  Dorothy shrugged and admitted with a wan smile, "Yes."

  Sarah stepped over to her desk and retrieved a box of fabric swatches. "May I suggest an overtunic of a rose peau-de-soie such as this?" She offered a remnant with pink and blue brocaded flowers. "The blues would accentuate your silver hair and the lovely rose would bring out the pink of your cheeks. The bloomers could be of a deeper rose faille. Or perhaps we could make the tunic of a ciel-blue poult-de-soie embroidered with silk of a darker shade, and the bloomers could be made of a deeper color of blue such as this sapphire Sicilienne."

  Dorothy's brows snapped together over the bridge of her thin nose. "Oh, balderdash!" she said. "You know."

  Sarah shrugged. "I only guessed. And I'm delighted."

  Dorothy smiled ruefully. "Well, Esther has been parading about the house in her bloomer outfits for quite some time now, and although they're most unconventional, they do make good sense. Of course, I
will wear the costume only in the privacy of my bedchamber." Her cheeks flushed as she added, "And I would appreciate it if you would not say anything to the girls, or to Jon. Naturally, I will tell them in due course, but I prefer to allow a bit more time to pass first. I hope you understand."

  "Yes, of course," Sarah said, sensing that she and Lady Cromwell were on the verge of becoming fast friends.

  From the mantelpiece, the clock chimed six.

  "Oh, my goodness," Dorothy exclaimed. "It's time."

  Sarah and Dorothy met Josephine and Louella in the hallway, and the procession funneled into the library. Moments later, Esther, dressed in a bright lilac and green bloomer costume, with Admiral Windemere at her side, joined them. They gathered in a semicircle around Jon, who stood beside a draped easel.

  Jon addressed the group. "I know you must all be wondering why I've called you in like this, but as you can see, we're about to have an unveiling." He winked at Sarah. "In fact it's a painting of my beautiful bride."

  Sarah blushed. Now she realized what had happened to the daguerreotype of her they'd found among Hollis's things. Jon had given it to the artist he'd commissioned to do the portrait. She wasn't certain she wanted to see a painting of that particular daguerreotype, but she was touched that Jon had taken it upon himself to have a portrait done.

  “Now, if you will all step over here where you can see it,"

  When everyone had positioned themselves in an arc in front of the draped canvas that was sitting on an easle, Jon lifted a corner of the drape and swept it away.

  Everyone stood, speechless.

  Sarah stared in open disbelief. She had expected to see a portrait of herself sitting demurely on a sofa, hands clasped in her lap, a slight smile on her face. Instead, what she saw was what appeared to be body parts and multiple faces and large eyes, all less than masterfully painted. The composite was most bizarre. She had no idea how to respond.

  "Dear," Dorothy was the first to speak. "May we assume this is a joke?"