Rules of Surrender

by Christina Dodd

  "Charlotte, dear, do you know anything about Sereminia?" Adorna asked brightly.

  "Why, yes, we all do." Charlotte put on her governess face. "When we studied Europe, we discovered that Sereminia is a small country in the Pyrenees on the border between France and Spain. What is their official language, Leila?"

  Leila sniffed, but obediently answered, "Their official language is Baminian."

  "Robbie, what are the names of their rulers?"

  "They are ruled by King Danior and Queen Evangeline, and—"

  Leila interrupted. "Why can't you still be our governess? I don't want a new governess."

  Looking troubled, Charlotte took a deep breath. "I'll still supervise your lessons."

  "Why can't you teach us?"

  Robbie couldn't stand his sister's badgering anymore. "Because she'll be having a baby, dunderhead."

  "No…" Charlotte said.

  "I want to be the youngest." Leila's lower lip trembled.

  Charlotte was blushing. "I'm not…"

  As a tear trickled down Leila's cheek, she turned to Robbie. "Will she have a baby soon?"

  "Real soon," Robbie confirmed. "Papa is potent!"

  Even the tip of Charlotte's nose blushed. Adorna had to walk to the window to hide her irrepressible laughter, but when she turned back, she clearly saw the expression on Charlotte's face. What she had previously suspected was confirmed. Charlotte was unhappy. Unhappy and determined to endure.

  No unruly child ever put that sorrow on a woman's face. This was Wynter's fault.

  Adorna sighed. She didn't want to interfere, but if her son was as oblivious and complacent as he appeared, she would be forced to—after the Sereminian reception.

  The thought recalled Adorna to the reason she had come. "Do you scholars know anything about Sereminian traditions? I wish to arrange some appropriate entertainment for them."

  Charlotte was patting Leila on the back, even though Charlotte looked as if she badly needed her own back patted. "Sereminian women are known for being adventurous. In her youth Queen Evangeline was quite a daring woman, given to rowing on rough rivers and climbing steep mountains."

  Adorna covered her cheeks. "That doesn't help."

  "Queen Evangeline is also known throughout Europe as a gourmet," Charlotte offered.

  "What about King Danior? Hopefully he's as dull as Prince Albert."

  Regretfully, Charlotte shook her head. "That is not his reputation. I'm sorry I can't help you more, Mother."

  "Actually…" Adorna thought about what she'd learned and smiled. "You helped me quite a lot."

  CHAPTER 31

  Wynter stood in his traveling garments and watched as an army of house servants placed chairs and tables in comfortable groupings on the wide portico. Workmen spread a golden awning over a wooden frame to provide shade and protect the royal parties from sun or rain. Inside, he knew, local help was cleaning and scrubbing until everything gleamed in sparkling perfection.

  A wise man would stay far, far away. Barakah would have stayed far, far away.

  Wynter wasn't Barakah.

  His mother stepped out the door, a sheaf of papers in hand, looking bright and summery in a grass-green dress few women could have worn. He told himself he should be grateful he had a youthful mother he could apply to in her wisdom. Yet he didn't feel grateful. He just felt disoriented, like a man whose shelter was disappearing in a great, irrevocable sandstorm.

  Adorna stopped, clearly startled to see him. "Wynter. Dear. I thought you'd gone to London for the day."

  "I did."

  She glanced toward the sun. "But it can't be more than one o'clock. It's a two-hour ride."

  "I can make it in an hour and a half." Galloping and with a change of horses, but he didn't have to tell her that.

  "But an hour and a half there, an hour and a half back—you can't have spent more than two hours there." She brightened. "You didn't go to the office, did you?"

  "I did."

  Her face fell.

  "I couldn't concentrate." He hated to do this. Hated it so much, he almost changed his mind. But he'd searched for other options, and he couldn't come up with any. "Mother, I want to talk to you."

  Adorna's hand went to her chest and clutched the stretch of smooth material in her fist. "Dear, what I did was necessary."

  "What you did?" Why was she talking about her? "What did you do?"

  She stared at him, wide-eyed, then took great pains to smooth the wrinkles out of her gown. "I spent over four thousand pounds on this reception."

  Why was she babbling about the reception? "Fine. That's fine." He glanced around the portico, which was teaming with workers. "Could we go somewhere private?"

  "Of course." Adorna indicated he should walk into the house ahead of her. "I think my study is probably the only place where we can be alone today."

  As they passed a mirror, he glanced to one side and caught her dabbing her brow with her handkerchief. "Did you really think I would care?" he asked, trying to give heed to her concerns when he wanted only to talk about his own.

  "Yes. Yes, I did." Her voice quavered.

  "The money from the business is your money." Taking her arm, he led her around the kneeling forms of two housemaids, both polishing the lowest step until it shone. "I am not your husband to check your accounts. I am your son. And not a good son, either. If I were, I would have been here for you after Father's death. You would not have had to work so hard to run the business. We would not now be searching for the identity of an embezzler."

  She gripped his hand as they climbed the stairs. "Dear, you can't be serious! You don't really think that. Why, you're the best son any woman could ask for! Interesting, exotic, masterful—a man in fulfillment of his destiny. I don't want you to be anything but what you are. I might have wished for you to come home sooner, but…you don't really think you have anything to make up to me, do you?"

  Today he was grimly aware of his faults. "Mother, while I always knew you could run the business, to leave you to bear the burden for so many years was not right."

  "But I like running the business. Your father taught me so much, and I enjoy putting his lessons to use." She sounded faintly pleading. "Oh, dear, I never thought you would take this embezzlement so seriously."

  He suspected they were talking at cross-purposes again, but he didn't have time to question her about her misgivings. Not when they were entering her apartments. At last he could talk to the one woman he knew would understand about the one woman he did not understand. Hands on his hips, he said, "She isn't working out the way I'd planned."

  Adorna's brow knitted. "Who, dear?"

  "My wife, of course."

  Adorna sank down on her sofa and stared at him.

  "She has ceased her senseless defiance. She has admitted my wisdom in bringing about our marriage. She thanks me for my gifts of clothing and jewelry. Yet"—he could scarcely stand to admit this—"yet she is not happy." He paced across to the window, then paced back. "Mother, why is she not happy?"

  "Some wives"—Adorna seemed to carefully pick her words—"don't find pleasure in the marital bed. Is Charlotte one such woman?"

  He had no time for this English delicacy about perfectly natural functions. "Barakah, my desert father, taught me that if a wife does not find pleasure in the marital bed, it is the husband's duty to discover what will pleasure her."

  "The old blackguard was right about that, at least."

  "Charlotte and I find much gratification in each other. She brings me ecstasy, and I do the same for her. Many times. Often. I bring her to the peak often because…"

  Adorna was clearly fascinated. "Because?"

  "At night, when she thinks I am asleep, she weeps."

  Adorna's face fell.

  He gritted his teeth, then told it all. "This morning, after the sun rose and I had brought her much bliss, she turned her back to me and cried."

  Adorna shook her head. "Oh, Wynter."

  "My appeals for elucidation pr
oved fruitless. She will not talk to me."

  "Never?"

  "Not as she used to. Even when I eat with my fingers, she says nothing!" That was the worst—he'd performed the most heinously improper act of which he could think, and Charlotte hadn't reprimanded him! "She said she loved me."

  "Yes…" Adorna appeared to be deep in thought.

  "A woman is fulfilled when she loves a man."

  Adorna choked.

  "So why is she not happy?"

  Leaning back into the corner of her sofa, Adorna asked in a sarcastic tone, "I don't know, Wynter, why isn't she?"

  "Because she wants me to love her!" He paced across the room.

  "Charlotte is a very loveable woman," Adorna pointed out.

  "A real man does not love a woman. So my desert father Barakah taught me."

  "Wynter!" Standing, his mother snapped out his name as if he were six years old and embroiled in a fistfight. "You tell me that this Barakah, this desert father of yours, said a real man does not love his wife. Do you remember your own father at all?"

  Her vehemence startled him. "Yes, of course. I honor his memory."

  She stood there, staring at him, waiting as if he were supposed to know something he didn't.

  At last she made a sound of disgust. "Could you be any more stupid?" Placing her hand to her forehead, she said, "I don't understand what you want from me. Do you want me to tell you how to make Charlotte happy?"

  His mother had to know. She had to, for where else could he turn? "Well…yes."

  "It seems to me Charlotte has already told you how to make her happy, but in case you need to hear it again"—she gestured—"perhaps you should ask her."

  Charlotte stood framed in the doorway. She wore one of the gowns he had bought her, a simple white cotton, and even with the mark of Leila's sole upon it, she looked most ravishing. Her hair was down, as he preferred, and was caught back in a clip of blue diamonds set in platinum. She looked like a sweet and gentle angel. An angel who was glaring at him.

  He didn't know why, but she was angry with him.

  Anger was better than that awful resignation and sadness.

  "I came looking for you to tell you how concerned I was about Leila," she said. "And I find you discussing me with your mother?"

  He looked to Adorna for guidance, but she had disappeared. "I did not know what to do about you."

  "About me? You didn't know what to do about me? Am I a child to be handled?"

  "Not a child, no. But certainly a woman who doesn't know what she wants."

  Her fists balled at her side. "I don't know what I want? I am not the one who had to come to my mother for advice."

  He blinked in amazement. "Coming to my mother was the logical course to take. Our union is not proceeding as I had foreseen."

  Her skirts rustled as she strode into the room. "It is, too."

  "This is an untruth. You are not happy as you should be."

  "Why would I be happy?" Coming to him, she placed her hands on his arms and looked up at him earnestly. "My life is just what I feared it would be. At least before, I was a governess. I worked for my keep. My labor had worth. Now I need do nothing. I am nothing. I am a possession to be tended as long as I give pleasure."

  "A wife is more than a possession."

  "Like a horse is more than a possession?" She must have seen the answer in his face, for she flung out her hands. "I'm not a horse. I'm not a dog. I'm a human being and I want to be valued for that. I want to be…"

  Her eyes must have been filling up with tears again, for she turned away. Had he ever seen her cry before their wedding? No. And since then she had not stopped. Not to control him, as Barakah had warned him some women did, but out of some deep-held pain.

  Barakah would have told him that a woman's pain was a trivial matter, and she should be left alone to heal. But something in Wynter demanded that he help with the burden of Charlotte's pain. If he didn't, he thought she might bear it forever. He repeated, "You want to be…loved?"

  Leaning her shoulder against the wall, she groped for her handkerchief. "He comprehends!"

  "But it is enough that you love me."

  She blew her nose. "Apparently not."

  He experienced confusion. He did not like confusion. He liked life to proceed as it should according to the laws and traditions set down by the men who were his elders. "A real man does not—"

  She swung on him like an avenging goddess. "I'll tell you what you can do. You real men can just go to—"

  "Papa!" Robbie appeared in the doorway, eyes wide and horrified, holding a piece of paper. "Papa, Leila's run away."

  CHAPTER 32

  Charlotte snatched the note and in despair read the childish scrawl.

  "Run away?" Wynter stared at Robbie. "Run away where?"

  Hoarsely, Charlotte said, "Home. She says she's gone home."

  She had never seen Wynter turn pale, but he paled now. "To El Bahar." He stood as if turned to stone, then seized Charlotte's hand. "You were going to speak to me about Leila."

  "Yes. Yes." She scrambled to collect her thoughts. "As we got busy preparing for the Sereminian reception, I've grown worried about her. I suspect she feels neglected. She's cheerful, then ill-natured—"

  "Really crabby," Robbie interjected.

  "Yes," Charlotte agreed. "I don't think she's sleeping well, and while she was always a challenge, she just isn't her usual exuberant self."

  Wynter nodded curtly. "Robbie, would she try to run away to El Bahar?"

  "Yes. She's so dumb she might not remember how far it is. She'd try to go back." Robbie grimaced as if trying to contain tears. "She hasn't been happy about me playing with my friends. This is my fault."

  "You're not responsible, son, I am." Wynter placed a hand on Robbie's shoulder and squeezed. "Very well. Robbie, go to the stables and speak to Fletcher. See if Leila has been there. Charlotte, send someone to the hostelry and see if she's boarded the coach." His face took on a grim cast. "I'll go to London and search the docks."

  "No, you won't." Charlotte twirled and strode out the door. "At least…not alone."

  Wynter finished talking to the sea captain he had collared, and realized with a start that Charlotte had vanished from his side.

  It was a pitch-dark night on the London docks, his wife and his daughter had both disappeared and he could have howled from a fear that ate at his guts. He was going to lose Leila, or Charlotte, or both of them, and this time he couldn't run far enough to cover the pain. This crisis was nothing like his father's death. This time Wynter was an adult, a man responsible for the well-being of his family, and he was failing in every way.

  How was this possible? He had lived by the truths as he understood them, taking responsibility, behaving honorably, acting always in an upright manner. What had gone wrong?

  In the darkness, he appealed to the sheikh who had guided him into manhood and taught him his hunting skills. "Barakah, please help me find them."

  He took a few steps along the wall of a tavern, using every sense to locate his wife. She couldn't have gone far. She'd just been here.

  Then he heard her. Charlotte's voice, asking, "If you see a girl walking alone, will you let me know?"

  Wynter leaned against the tavern wall, which was damp from the fog and permeated with the stench of old ale, and passed a shaking hand over his forehead.

  "Aye, miss, but…lots o' girls walkin' alone down 'ere, miss, an' none o' 'em fer a good reason."

  Wynter followed the voices down a fetid alleyway, taking care to make no noise.

  "I know, but this girl is special," Charlotte said urgently. "This is my daughter."

  Wynter clamped his hands on her shoulders. "What are you doing, Charlotte?"

  The prostitute shrieked at his sudden appearance and stumbled into a pile of rubbish.

  Charlotte leaned back as if she never had a doubt who stood behind her.

  He slid one arm around her, feeling the firm combination of skin and muscle that
was Charlotte. He needed this. He needed her; worried as he was about Leila, dismayed as he was at having his wife along on his hunt, still he took comfort in her presence. She gave him hope.

  Barakah would be amazed at her strength.

  "This young lady is out in this alley all night long." Charlotte sounded unruffled, as if she regularly spoke to prostitutes in the lowest dive in London. "She has kindly consented to watch for Leila."

  Charlotte had a good idea, Wynter admitted. Alert the prostitutes to watch for Leila. But he didn't think he could survive very many more of Charlotte's good ideas. Not if they involved her disappearing into the night.

  "I'll pay you well," he told the prostitute. He could scarcely see her in the spill of the tavern light behind him, and he knew he was nothing more than a hulking brute to her. But she saw the gleam of his coin as he extended it, and at once it disappeared up her sleeve. "There's more where that came from if you see her. Come to the Ruskin Shipping Company. We'll be there."

  "No." Charlotte grabbed his arm. "We can't stop looking now."

  "The sun set two hours ago. The fog's thickening, and we're just as likely to get our throats cut as find Leila." And I need to stash you somewhere safe. But he didn't say that. She had insisted on coming to London. She would resist any attempt to search without her. And in truth, hunting now was foolish for just the reasons he listed, even for him. He herded Charlotte toward the street. "We need to rest so we can search again in the morning."

  "What if Leila's out here alone?" Charlotte asked in a low voice.

  "At the age of five, she survived a raid on our camp." He reminded himself of that often. "She is wary and wily, and if she is hunkered down somewhere, we could never find her anyway." Charlotte didn't know it, but he held his knife unsheathed in his right hand. "She might not even be out here. The girl they said took the London coach did not match her description."

  "Leila could have worn one of your mother's wigs."

  "I know." Of course he knew. Leila could do anything when she set her mind to it. "Grip my coattails," he instructed. "I will lead us back to Ruskin Shipping."

  To the best of his ability, he kept to the deepest shadows, hearing the grunts of the working prostitutes, the snores of the drunks, the occasional whimper of a soul in distress. The thought of Leila out here ate at him. In the morning…