by Mary Daheim
Half an hour later James led Morgan through the gallery and onto the balcony overlooking the main entrance to the castle. The townsfolk sent up a cheer at the sight of their young lord and his tawny-haired bride. The accolade brought a little thrill to Morgan’s spine; she had her first taste of what it meant to be a Countess. She smiled widely and waved at the people below as they cheered more loudly. Impulsively, Morgan removed the lace and silk handkerchief from her sleeve, tossing it to the crowd. Several younger women tussled after the prize and a buxom redhead emerged victorious, waving her trophy in the evening breeze. The crowd cheered lustily again.
The hint of a smile on his lips, James took his bride’s arm and steered her back inside the castle. “You’ve won their hearts,” he told her.
Morgan shrugged and avoided his eyes. “Little enough—the lace tickled my nose,” she said to conceal her embarrassment at his words of praise.
Back in the banquet hall there was another round of toasts, led by Francis. Although he had drunk more than anyone, he still seemed in control. He appeared to be having a fine time, making frequent jests about finally getting his older brother married off.
At last the wedding guests escorted the bridal couple to their nuptial chamber. Morgan was grateful that James had been most emphatic about allowing the guests only as far as the door—the old custom of actually putting the newlyweds to bed had always been repugnant to her.
When at last they were alone, James offered to leave the bedchamber while Morgan’s servingwomen undressed her. She agreed, and when he was gone, a sudden tremor overtook her. She could hardly stand up while Polly and Peg helped her out of the white satin gown and the lace underskirts.
“Never saw a bride who wasn’t fair fit to swoon on her wedding night,” Polly clucked reprovingly. “An hour or so from now you’ll think you were crazy to be so wrought up.”
Morgan was too nervous to reprimand Polly, and she wondered if Polly knew what had happened with Francis at York. But if the servingwoman had guessed the truth, she obviously was going to ignore it. So Morgan concentrated instead on trying to keep her limbs from shaking as she settled into a chair while Peg brushed her long hair.
Morgan leaned forward to catch her reflection in the mirror. Were those the eyes that had looked so lovingly at Sean O’Connor? Were those the lips that had touched his? Were those the arms that had held him so close? And was it only weeks ago that Sean was alive and by her side? She shook her head so violently that she almost knocked the hairbrush from Peg’s hand.
“I’m sorry,” Morgan apologized quickly, and tried to still the images of her mind’s eye.
After the servingwomen had gone, Morgan lay naked between the cool sheets, her trembling somewhat abated. Outside she could hear the sea. The room was almost dark except for a fluttering taper on James’s side of the bed. Then the antechamber door opened and James stepped inside.
“You must be very tired,” he said, his hands stuffed far into the pockets of his night-robe.
Morgan sat up, keeping the sheet high around her neck. “Yes, I am,” she answered.
James walked around the room, pausing to glance out at the sea, to adjust the drapes, to check the contents of the washbasin on the nightstand. “See here,” he said, clearing his throat in the same nervous way Morgan had remembered from the day they had signed their prenuptial contract, “if you’d rather wait until tomorrow night when you are more rested ….”
Morgan suddenly realized that he was as frightened as she. Moreover, it occurred to her that he must still be ridden with grief from losing his father. She felt pity, if not affection, overcoming her. “Waiting would only make me more nervous,” she admitted. “But if you’d rather just talk for a bit—we’ve still not had much chance to get acquainted. Here,” she said, smoothing the counterpane next to her, “why don’t you sit?”
Hesitantly, he did so, but his slender frame still seemed tense. There was another long pause before he spoke again. “You must find Belford very different from Faux Hall,” he said at last.
“Oh, yes—but I’m sure I’ll get used to the changes. Francis tells me there is much to see nearby, even miraculous mineral springs. We have nothing like that around the Chiltern Hills.”
“Some are credited with miracles,” James replied, “though I don’t know that I believe it myself. What’s more important and beneficial is the coal which comes from the rich veins around Newcastle. We own some of the mining lands, and our coal is even sold in London—and at a much higher price than locally.”
Morgan bit her lip to keep from smiling. Talking about springs and coal on her wedding night! It seemed absurdly comic, so unlike the rhapsodic, romantic accounts she’d heard ladies whisper about at court.
James sensed her amusement and flushed. “You find my conversation humorous?”
On impulse, she reached out and touched his hand. “No, no. It’s just that I’m a trifle … giddy after everything that happened today. Please forgive me.”
He took her hand in his and studied it for a long time. “Might it not be, too, that you find it disconcerting that I’m not the eager bridegroom?”
“Oh, no!” Morgan exclaimed, all amusement fleeing as she recognized the genuine distress on his face. “I know how you feel about me, that you wish I were someone else.”
He released her hand and looked directly at her for the first time since he had come into the room. “It’s not just that,” he said with difficulty. “I’ve never had a woman before.”
“You should be proud, not ashamed,” she admonished. “So many men pride themselves on their conquests; they think any woman would tumble willingly into bed with them.” She looked away, quickly regretting having spoken so freely, and unable to blot out the image of Francis and his importunate lovemaking. It was clear that talk was not going to bring them any closer at the moment, that she herself would have to take the initiative. Deliberately, she let the sheet fall to her waist.
But James, staring at the flickering taper, seemed not to have noticed. He looked quite miserable and very young.
“James,” she said quietly, “do you want me to take a chill?”
He looked at her then and flushed very dark. Morgan held out her arms to him as he moved slowly toward her.
His kiss was tentative; the arms that held her seemed stiff. Morgan forced herself to press against him, trying to rub her naked breasts against his chest. James glanced down to the lush flesh which glowed like rich cream in the candlelight. Experimentally he touched each breast in turn and, as if more embarrassed by his actions than aroused, buried his lips against her throat.
Morgan held him tight, running her fingers through his fair hair, attempting to wrap her legs around his hips. His arms encircled her waist, and his mouth moved down to the hollow between her breasts. She fell back among the pillows, spreading her legs in the hope that he would become more impassioned; but James paused and looked up into the topaz eyes.
“I think we are both too weary, Morgan,” he said stiffly, but the misery of his gaze betrayed him. “We’ll wait until tomorrow night.”
Morgan suppressed a sigh. Although she had felt no response to him thus far, postponement might make it more difficult for them both. Besides, she was anxious to get the consummation over with; despite her bridegroom’s inexperience, she was still afraid he might realize she was not a virgin.
But she meekly agreed, and watched James blow out the single taper by the bed. He lay down beside her, keeping his distance in the big bed and leaving his dressing gown on. Morgan heard him say, “Good night,” replied in kind, and tried to go to sleep. But her body remained tense and her mind alert. She honestly could not fault James, unschooled in lovemaking and burdened with sorrow as he must be. Still, Morgan was disconcerted by his apparent lack of fervor, and when she did sleep, she dreamed of Francis and the ferocity of his passion—and the pleasure he had given her.
The next night was no different, however: James had complained all day of an
upset stomach, a result of the rich food at the wedding banquet.
On the third night, Morgan demurred. She had not felt well herself most of the day, and the following morning she retched several times, causing James to display what appeared to be genuine concern.
“It’s nothing,” she insisted after Polly had taken the basin away. “Often, when I was younger, my stomach would become unsettled if I got too nervous. I’m sure the trip north and the shock of your father’s death—even though I didn’t know him—and then the haste of the wedding all distressed me more than I realized.” She did not add that Sean’s death had disturbed her far more than the other events combined.
That night James did not attempt to make love to Morgan, asserting that he wanted to be certain she was completely well. Morgan started to protest, thought better of it, resigned herself to sleeping side by side with her husband while still not touching one another, and wondered if James ever really intended to consummate their union.
But the next morning, Morgan was ill again. James had already left to make his rounds of the tenant farms, and only Polly knew of her mistress’s poor health.
“It must be something in the food here,” Morgan declared vexedly as she finally fell back onto the bed after retching for the sixth time. “Are there local herbs or crops I might not be accustomed to?”
For some reason, Polly’s ruddy cheeks grew even more flushed. “That might be,” she replied, but there was a lack of conviction in her tone.
Morgan dozed for a while after Polly left, but was soon jarred into consciousness by a loud rap on the door. Before she could ask who was there, Francis loped into the room, a deep frown etched between his bushy brows. “Polly tells me you are unwell,” he said without preamble. It was the first time they had spoken since Morgan’s wedding day; Francis had been away from the castle most of the time, in Newcastle, Lucy had said.
“Something here at Belford doesn’t agree with me,” Morgan asserted crossly, pulling up the counterpane to cover her bare shoulders.
“Hmmm.” Francis paced the room in silence, glancing occasionally out toward the North Sea. At last he came to the bed and sat down, the frown still creasing his forehead. “Morgan, I could be wrong, but I think you’re pregnant.”
The topaz eyes widened as one hand flew to Morgan’s mouth in shocked dismay. “No! I can’t be!”
“Oh, but you can—probably from the night of the masque.” The frown slowly faded as he drummed his fingers on the counterpane. “I’d say you are probably almost two months along. If you carry the child to term, James will not be particularly suspicious. He himself was almost six weeks premature.”
Morgan lay back among the pillows, too upset to care that the counterpane had slipped down to her waist and that her bosom was clearly outlined in the thin bedgown. “Oh, sweet Mother of God!” She rubbed her fist against her forehead, as if she could blot out the dilemma which faced her. And then she sat up straight, clutching Francis’s arm. “It’s—it’s worse than you think, Francis! James hasn’t yet bedded me!”
It was Francis’s turn to look astounded. “Oh, good God!” he groaned—and then laughed and shook his head in incredulity. “Even James could hardly resist you!” But seeing the horrified expression on Morgan’s face, he sobered at once and clumsily patted the hand that still clung to his arm. “Well, it’s been less than a week since you wed. I suggest you do your best to seduce him tonight.”
“He won’t touch me if he finds out I’ve been ill again,” Morgan all but wailed.
“Don’t tell him. Polly won’t,” he added, and Morgan suddenly realized that Polly knew a great deal more than she ever told—except to Francis.
“I’ll try to—arouse him,” Morgan said wearily, and again slumped back into the pillows. “Francis, he doesn’t want me, I’m sure of it.”
“He’s mad,” Francis stated in his deep growl, and suddenly looked very stormy. Abruptly, he got up from the bed and started for the door. “Good luck,” he called over his shoulder in a terse voice. “I fear you’ll need it.” Before Morgan could respond, he had banged the heavy oak door behind him.
James was more talkative than usual that evening as he prepared for bed: The crops had been especially good this spring, despite generally poor weather throughout the rest of England. Part of the reason for his tenants’ success, he told Morgan diffidently, was some of the innovations he had implemented the previous fall. “It seemed to me that if one crop didn’t do well in certain soil, another might,” he explained as he snuffed out the candles on the bureau. “Consequently, I suggested to my farmers that they try something new when they planted. Oh, some were reluctant, but most agreed, and I daresay the idea has worked well.”
“That was very clever of you, James,” Morgan said as he eased into bed beside her. He still wore his dressing gown and she had yet to see him naked.
“It just made sense,” he went on, blowing out the last taper by the bed. “The ground here is quite sandy, yet I’d noticed that vegetable marrows and beans and even corn seemed to thrive, while wheat did not. At least when it was planted close to the sea.”
In the darkness, Morgan couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Miraculous springs, coal mining, and crop harvests seemed to be James’s favorite topics for nocturnal conversation. Morgan took a deep, silent breath and rolled over to snuggle against her husband. “You must plant seeds of your own, James,” she murmured, and grabbed at his hand, moving it to her breast. “We have our duty, after all, to ensure that Belford’s prosperity continues through your sons.”
James had gone quite rigid at the intimate contact. He said nothing for a long moment and Morgan was certain that he was debating with himself between the necessity of propagating heirs for his beloved land and the apparent repugnance—or fear—he had of attempting to beget them.
“Well, Morgan,” he began rather formally, “I have not wished to appear unwilling to seal our union in the—the physical sense.” He paused to clear his throat rather loudly. “But circumstances have dictated that we put off doing so, and perhaps, since it is quite late and I’ve had a tiring day, we might wait until tomorrow night.”
Morgan hesitated and then decided that a direct attack was her best weapon. “You don’t want me!” she cried, darting away from him. “You find me uncomely! You admitted you’d rather not wed me! I shall write to my uncle tomorrow and ask for an annulment!”
Again James did not reply at once, and it occurred to Morgan that her threat actually sounded like a blessed way out for both of them. And then she realized that Francis was probably right about her condition; a pregnant bride could hardly get an annulment on grounds of an unconsummated marriage.
But James was already attempting to put an arm around her. “Please, Morgan, I don’t find you uncomely at all. You are—very, um, lovely.”
“I’m not lovely!” Morgan was trying to work up real tears but without success. She pounded the pillow with her fists and tried to gulp convincingly.
“Well, perhaps ‘lovely’ isn’t quite the right word,” James conceded, trying to haul Morgan closer to him. “But I’m well pleased with your appearance, it’s just that…” His voice trailed off and Morgan finally managed to squeeze out a genuine teardrop. She put her face against his cheek to make certain he knew she was crying, and her arms went around him in a clinging embrace.
“You must show me then, James,” she declared in a trembling voice. “If you don’t, I’ll die of despair!”
Morgan felt perhaps she had overstepped his credulity, but James actually began to kiss her ear, her throat, and the curve of her shoulder. “Poor wife,” he said sadly, “I hadn’t intended to shirk my duty.”
Duty! thought Morgan, and clamped her mouth shut tight lest she make an angry retort. But James was awkwardly fumbling at her breasts, trying to free them from the bedgown. Morgan helped him, then reached for the ties of his dressing gown and pulled the garment from his narrow shoulders. She could see only his silhouette in the darkn
ess, but he seemed fit, if slim in stature. James’s hands now seemed more eager as he plied her nipples and paused to kiss her lips. But Morgan felt no particular sensation from his touch except that her breasts were quite sore already, and it dawned on her that this was the result of her pregnancy.
He was now kissing her again, over and over, with more intensity, and his hands hesitantly touched her buttocks, then moved back to her waist. Growing impatient, not for satisfaction but to be done with what Morgan was beginning to find tiring if not downright dull, she gritted her teeth and forced herself to reach between her husband’s legs. James’s manhood had not yet grown very firm—certainly not like Francis, Morgan thought, and mentally reviled herself for making such comparisons. Uncertainly but with determination, she began to stroke him with her fingers and was surprised when he let out a series of low moans. At last she lay back and opened her thighs, guiding him with her hands. It was difficult, despite James’s newly found eagerness, and Morgan was astonished to discover that she didn’t have to pretend the pain when he finally penetrated her body. His inexperience had served her well.
But they seemed to be locked together for an eternity, rocking back and forth until Morgan actually became dizzy and feared she might retch again. Just before she was certain she would be ill, James erupted within her and let out a great groan of satisfaction. Morgan lay very still beneath him, exhausted but triumphant. And, she suddenly realized, unmoved. Not only had she received no pleasure from James’s lovemaking, she had not even been aware of desiring fulfillment. As he withdrew from her and murmured something Morgan didn’t hear, real tears began to trickle down her cheeks. Oh, dear God, she thought, as James held her in his arms and bade her a drowsy good-night, why couldn’t he have been his brother?