The Hourglass

by Barbara Metzger

  “I cannot. I have been here too long and the knowledge, the power, fades.” He flicked his fingers toward the hearth, but nothing happened; the fire still burned.

  Genie thought he was teasing. “Surely there are books right here full of magic tricks. But I am not speaking of sleight of hand.”

  “Neither am I. A man forgets too much. That is his nature, and has to be if he is to go on.”

  “But you will go back? You will return to this mysterious place in… five months?”

  “Less now.”

  “How shall you get there? If you take a ship, I could—”

  He touched her lips with his fingers. “It is a differenl kind of journey. You know that.”

  “You will die.” That was a statement, not a question.

  His hand fell to his lap, actually her lap, and idly stroked her thigh while he thought of any other word he could use. He could not find one that made sense. “Yes.”

  She was only a little distracted by his hand on her upper leg. Somehow his hand was beneath her heavy robe, sliding against the thin silk of her night rail. She refused to succumb to the pleasure, if such was his intent. With Ardeth in an expansive mood, understanding his answers was more important than understanding that the Name fiery heat could build in her other leg, without his touch. “But you know you will expire at such and such a time? That is impossible unless… you do not intend to kill yourself, do you?”

  His fingers stopped moving, but wrapped around her thigh in a firm hold. “What, after fighting so hard to live? No, I will not give up until I have to. This”—he squeezed her leg harder, moving his thumb at the same time in a caressing motion that also drew her silk bedgown up higher—”feels too good.”

  She breathed in. Then out. “You cannot explain more?”

  He shook his head and moved his hand to the hem of her gown, now near her knees.

  “But you will leave?”

  “Unless a real miracle happens. I thought…”

  He did not say what he thought. “Do you believe in miracles?” Genie asked, thinking there was one at work right now, her bones melting into meringue.

  “Oh, I have seen many in my day.” His eyes were on the front of her robe, which had fallen open to reveal her bosom, with no stays, no corset, no shift, nothing but a scrap of silk and a line of lace between her smooth, snowy breasts and his hands, his eyes, his tongue, by heaven.

  Before he could reach out to lower that neckline, to feast with his eyes the way he had savored the sweet trifle, she shifted around to face him.

  He groaned.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  He could only shake his head, his tongue turned numb and dumb.

  “I want to tell you that I understand about your vow of chastity.”

  She did? Ardeth was having a hard time understanding it now. Harder with every wriggle.

  She nodded. So did her breasts, it seemed, the darker nipples rising and falling with her movement, with her breath.

  That was good, Ardeth thought. One of them should keep breathing.

  Then she said, “Yes, you think marital relations might shorten your life.”

  That got his heart beating again and his wits back in his brain instead of his breeches.

  One misstep might make him Satan’s puppet for eternity. If he harmed her or hurt her feelings, if he used her like a harlot, he was finished, hourglass or not. He’d be gone forever, and this time not as a Reaper, either, despite Satan’s words. His Grimness would not employ such a defector, and the Devil would not let him go. Ar might end up being a plague bearer or a fire kindler. The Devil loved those catastrophic kills. With so many souls lost, a few more than usual were bound to come his way. A dead Coryn Ardsley, Earl of Ardeth, would have no power to prevent any of it. He would have no will to resist, but enough to know what he was doing. That would be the worst.

  As if he felt a sudden chill, Ardeth pulled Genie’s skirt down and her robe closed. He moved his hand to her hair, brushing his fingers through the sunset waves. “We shall not speak of it again. Now rest.”

  Here, in his arms? In his lap? That must have been what he’d meant, for he pulled her closer against his chest, tucking her robe around her like a blanket. But she was not cold, not at all. Quite the contrary, in fact. And she was still not tired. Well, perhaps she was a little weary. After all, it must be close to four o’clock in the morning by now. And the gentle touch of his fingers on her head was soothing. So what if her husband was an enigma or an escapee from a mental asylum? His arms felt right. His chest made a perfect pillow. His steady heartbeat acted as a lullaby.

  The crow flew in an hour later. Ardeth opened one eye at the flapping of the bird’s wings at the trifle bowl as Olive looked for crumbs. Then he opened the other eye and noticed that his wife’s robe had fallen open, revealing her charms, and that there was a gremlin’s grin on the crow’s face.

  “I didn’t do it,” he said, meaning he had not lecherously undressed a sleeping woman or nudged her mind into slumber in order to avoid more questions.

  “Ar hum ball,” Olive cawed.

  “I am humble? Well, yes, I have learned humility in the face of my desires, but I have not surrendered.”

  “Hum ball,” the crow repeated.

  “You mean humbug? I tell you, I did not tumble my wife here in the library like a libertine.”

  The crow wiped his beak on the carpet. “Ar. Hum’bird balls.”

  Chapter 16

  Genie awakened in her own bed the next morning. She did not have to wonder how she got here, remembering her husband’s arms around her. She did, however, wonder what Cook had put in the trifle. She had never seen Ardeth at once so talkative and so little in control. Not that he made any more sense than usual. The poor man was deluded into thinking that some dire fate was going to claim him, whisking him off to some metaphysical temple on a specified date, depending on the discovery of a small hourglass. Or maybe Ardeth was still living his fairy tale of a knight in shining armor, with a sorcerer’s spell laid on him.

  Whether he was deluded or not, Genie was not going to let him go.

  She had a kind and caring husband, enough funds that she need never worry. She had friends, family, an almost scandal-free name. Now all she needed, according to Ardeth, was a miracle.

  Was it blasphemous to pray for something that sounded entirely heathenish? Genie did not know if her prayers were worth tuppence, since she had lied and cursed and not honored her parents, besides been unfaithful to Elgin’s memory. Oh, and she had coveted her neighbor’s everything, in the days when she had nothing.

  She honestly did not know if she believed in miracles, for that matter. She did, however, believe that God helped those who helped themselves, and she fully intended to help herself to a happy ending. If there was such a thing as a miracle, Ardeth was hers, appearing just when she needed him. Hers to keep.

  She was not going to concede defeat, not going to hand the man she loved—she could admit that to herself—over to some evil assassin or wicked wizard, even if they existed only in his own muddled mind. He’d stay, she was sure, if she found the hourglass, or if he loved her enough.

  Now who was living a fantasy? The peculiar trinket—if it existed outside Ardeth’s imagination—was lost in another country entirely, across the sea. The odds of finding it, though, were better than those of her other option. A man like Ardeth, worldly wise and wonderful-loving silly red-haired Imogene Hopewell? Ha! But she could try.

  She knew he cared for her and wanted her happiness, but that was not love. Neither was sex, but it was a start. He already noticed her: her skin, her hair, her lips, her breasts. She was no green girl who could not recognize a man’s desire when she saw it in his obsidian eyes and hear it in his ragged breathing. She’d seen it often enough in Elgin, when slaking that desire was about the only use he ever had for Genie. Elgin had not been a gentle lover, nor even a satisfying one—other women had whispered that pleasure was possible for both partners in
the intimate act!—but Genie had learned to recognize his amorous moods the same way she watched for his drunken rages or morning-after moodiness. She had also learned to find some excuse to avoid her husband’s embrace whenever she could, a headache, the accounts, her courses. Now she was going to use that knowledge of a woman’s power to bring a man to his knees, or to her bed, despite whatever foolish notions her husband held. Just let him try to claim a headache, the accounts, his… cronies!

  That was her plan, to succeed by seduction. She ignored the existence of the scores of women far more beautiful, far more experienced in pleasing a man, and far more dashing than she was. She was his wife.

  On the other hand, maybe he could grow to love her mind, which, she admitted, was not a quarter as quick as his. Or her character. She was working on forgiving her sister, and had written a polite thank-you to her mother. Genie knew Ardeth appreciated good deeds, and for every toy and treat and book she sent her little nephew, she sent a dozen to the nearest orphanage, and not just to impress Ardeth. She also went in person to play with the children and read to them, for her own pleasure. Little Peter was seldom well enough for her visits, although he adored seeing Olive perform.

  Genie realized she could not do more than look her best and be on her best behavior. But she could try to spend more time with the earl, so he’d be aware of both her physical and mental attributes, such as they were, and her affection for him. According to the novels she’d read and Marie’s chatter, liking was the best aphrodisiac.

  She sought him out whenever she was not at the orphanage or scouring antiquities shops and jewelers for an hourglass brooch. If there was one such gewgaw, she figured, there must be others made from the same mold. Perhaps her husband could not tell the difference in his addled state.

  She wanted oysters; could he take her to dine at the hotel that served the best? The smells of the city were upsetting her stomach; a drive in the country would refresh her. Her father had not written; what did Ardeth advise? Her effort to learn German needed practice, her sketch of Ardeth needed another sitting, and what did he think of the Corn Laws?

  To get Ardeth alone meant she had to send Miss Hadley and James Vinross off on other errands. They did not seem to mind. Neither did Ardeth, although he was amused to think she was advancing the other couple’s courtship.

  Genie took to holding his hand, touching his face, bestowing a good-night kiss on his cheek. He never seemed to mind that, either. He did not offer more, but he accepted her shows of affection, after his first surprise.

  Was she making progress? Genie hoped so, for they’d be leaving town soon, and a man could disappear in the country far more easily than among the crowded streets. Ardeth had been studying all kinds of agricultural treatises, she knew, so was liable to immerse himself in his lands once they reached Ardsley Keep. And there would be less than four months left.

  Marie lowered the necklines of Genie’s gowns. Miss Hadley tutored her singing voice. Cook kept the trifles coming. The Randolphs kept the fires lit. Genie did, too, the flickers of passion she was hoping to kindle.

  She held private waltz parties just for him, with a small hired orchestra seated behind a screen. Miss Hadley and James sometimes joined them, and James’s sister and her betrothed, with his mother smiling happily over the lobster patties. Genie suspected Marie and Campbell and the Randolphs danced in the adjoining parlor, so she left the doors open for the sound to carry.

  At least Ardeth had to hold her while the music played. She swayed closer, clung tighter, smiled more suggestively—and still the clunch left her outside her bedroom door. A good-night kiss seemed as far as he was willing to go, and not one inch closer.

  What in the name of all the saints was a woman to do, beg on her knees? Hide in his bed? Weep? Begging would embarrass both of them, and Genie had tried waiting in the sitting room adjoining his chamber. The man must have extraordinary hearing, or smelled her perfume, or whatever. He never came, not when she was there. As for tears, they were a weakling’s weapon. Ardeth would be a comfort, but he would not be aroused.

  He liked her. He cared for her. He enjoyed being with her. Genie was certain of those things. She was equally as positive that he was attracted to her. He raised his eyes with effort and manners when her bodice shrank. He swallowed hard when she licked her lips. He never felt the cold when they danced. He smiled more.

  And he stayed on his side of the door. Perhaps her burgeoning belly was repulsive to him, or the fact that the babe was not his, despite his avowals. Or perhaps the man was a saint after all.

  Genie was plotting stronger measures—accidentally walking in on her husband at his bath, pretending a mouse was hiding under her bed, dancing naked on the dining room table, by Jupiter; she was that desperate—when her plans suffered a setback.

  Major Lord Willeford and his wife returned to London after a visit to her father in Cornwall. Her father being a marquess, to say nothing of Willeford’s sister’s husband being a duke, the pair had an elevated opinion of themselves, and a low opinion of Genie and Ardeth.

  Willeford knew better than to challenge Ardeth to his face. The jumped-up foreigner was too popular at the clubs and too dashed dangerous looking to take on head-to-head. One dark glance from Ardeth had younger men fleeing, and older men minding their tongues.

  Willeford’s own tongue was tied. He could not mention the actions of the earl in the late battle, not wanting his own behavior examined. But he could start asking questions, like where Ardeth’s money came from, and where, precisely, his sympathies lay. Here he was, giving money away hand over fist to the poor, just like some revolutionary. Why, he might have been a Bonapartist during the war, supporting the filthy French. After all, no one had seen him before the last victory.

  For that matter, no one had ever heard of him or his title. The earldom might have been an ancient one, but no one knew of any Coryn Ardsley, his father, or his grandfather. Where did he go to school? Who were his chums? They had only his vague answers of travel and investments.

  Faugh. Now that he was in England, all Ardeth seemed to care about were the lower classes. If he was not a traitor to his country, Willeford hinted, he was a traitor to his class. Gentlemen, especially those who owned mills and mines, began to listen.

  Lady Willeford did her part in the whispering campaign. She mentioned to a few of her oldest, dearest friends that she did not care to attend the same gatherings as climbers and fast women. When pressed, she would not name names, but she did hint at a widow bride whose condition was as scandalous as the identity of the child’s father.

  Soon ladies were staring at Genie’s middle, talking behind her back. Her sister defended her, Genie was happy to hear, as did Lady Vinross, but some things were simply indefensible, and harder to hide. Fewer invitations were delivered. Fewer women sought her company.

  “How soon can we go into the country?” she asked Ardeth one night after dinner. Miss Hadley and James were singing duets at the pianoforte while Genie stitched at her needlework. Ardeth was reading. He’d be going out later, Genie knew, to yet more political gatherings, rallies in support of workers, meetings with denizens of London’s underworld who plied their trades at night. The dangers he faced were yet another reason to leave town. “I thought your work here in London was almost done.”

  He looked up and smiled to see that she had her feet tucked under her, like a little girl. “Almost.”

  “Surely you have convinced everyone whose mind is open enough to change. The others will never be swayed to your causes. And I know you have trained assistants ready to carry on when you are gone, so that is no reason to stay longer.”

  “Why, are you not enjoying yourself?”

  “Less every day, I am afraid.”

  “The social rounds do grow tiresome. I cannot imagine what the fribbles find to speak about, seeing the same people every day.”

  “They talk about us. There is gossip, I understand, sly whispers that place my new acquaintances in awkward po
sitions. We should leave.”

  “Concede defeat by running away?”

  “It would not be cowardly to go visit my parents. Quite the contrary, but Mama has asked twice now for our visit. No one would think it odd in us to go, especially with so many of the ton leaving for their own estates. And it is past time to get your country house in order, too. Those distant relations of yours who live there sent a small pair of candlesticks for our marriage. I took that to be a token of their small regard. I doubt they are pleased to have their places usurped, with a new master and mistress appearing out of the blue. For all you know, they could be robbing the estate blind while we stay on in town.”

  “No, I thought about the chances for ill feelings and felonies, so I installed stewards who report to me, and other men who report on them. All is in order. Everyone will be amply compensated.”

  “Very well, but what about the village school for girls I was going to establish, and the pottery for returning soldiers? There is much work to be done.”

  “You are right, my dear. We should think about going while the weather holds. You will not wish to travel later, and I admit I am curious to see Ardsley Keep.”

  “It is odd to think of an earl not knowing his ancestral Lands.”

  Sir Coryn had claimed those acres with his sword, defended that castle with his blood. He knew them. “Oh, I have a good idea of the place. But you will want to refurbish it to your tastes.”

  “And yours. I know you will want to install a bathing room with heating pipes, if one does not already exist.”

  He smiled at how well she understood his needs, or thought she did. “Yes, we have much to do. Still, I am not intent to let one man’s ugliness besmear the good we are doing. I have heard the rumors, you see, noticed doubts on men’s faces in the clubs and coffeehouses. I do not wish to let James Vinross fight my battles, nor engage in name-calling like a grubby schoolboy.”

  “You will not challenge Willeford, will you?”

  “To swords or pistols? Hell, no. That is, heavens, I am not that bloodthirsty. Mayhap I shall stick Willeford’s wagging tongue to the roof of his mouth.” He smiled at her gasp. “No, I have one more important meeting next week. I will use the time to decide what to do about the maggot. Then we can go.”