A Bed of Thorns and Roses

by Sondra Allan Carr

  “Miss Tate. A pleasure.”

  Garrick inclined his head, aware that he was grinning like a silly fool. Somewhere deep inside he felt a twinge of misgiving but chose to ignore the warning. He wanted to bask in Jenny’s undisguised admiration, to absorb her gratitude and let it act as an anodyne for the painful self recrimination he had suffered these past two days.

  “Miss LaValle is bound to be pleased with your gift, Dr. Garrick,” the jeweler announced as he entered from the back of the shop, stopping short when he saw that Garrick had been joined by a female companion. “Excuse me, I didn’t see . . . I didn’t hear you come in.”

  The man, usually as smooth and polished as one of his own gemstones, stood by awkwardly, uncertain how to handle his intrusion. Garrick realized uncomfortably that he and Jenny had been gazing into one another’s eyes like long lost lovers just met. She looked across at the counter, where he had left his hat next to the emerald earrings, then met his eyes again. The innocent delight vanished from her expression, replaced by a knowing disappointment.

  Garrick’s gut twisted. He had failed Jenny, disenchanting her fantasy of him as her rescuer, her knight in armor. In that moment, she had seen him for what he was, a middle aged man bereft of passion, buying an expensive gift for his mistress—not as a romantic gesture, but as a calculated business exchange.

  “I mustn’t keep Mrs. Cooper waiting,” Jenny said in a thin voice. “Good day, Dr. Garrick.”

  She moved toward the door. Garrick wanted to step in front of her to block her way, but stood rooted to the spot. “Jenny.”

  Her name left his lips before he could stop himself. He searched desperately for the right words. To his dismay, none came. He didn’t relish the status of fallen hero.

  He watched her go, foolishly wondering whether she would ever call him Richard.

  * * *

  He arrived at Monique’s door shortly before seven, as instructed. She had sent the letter that afternoon, delivered by a young boy she often hired for such tasks. The lad’s father had deserted the family months ago, and Monique helped them in this way, making her generous tips appear to be given for work well done, and not for charity. Garrick rang the bell and waited on the stoop, smiling as he thought of Monique’s disguised generosity. No one understood the pride of the poor better than the formerly impoverished.

  “My darling.” Monique greeted him warmly, pulling him inside by his arm.

  “I am sorry, my dear, to—”

  She stopped his apology with a finger planted firmly against his lips. “You silly man.”

  Garrick tried again to speak, only to be stopped a second time.

  “I am not in the least sorry to see you, my darling,” Monique said, lowering her voice with a seductiveness that went straight to his groin.

  Proving her sincerity, she pressed her body against his and kissed him, hard and wet and open mouthed. Garrick responded with a groan, the pent up lust of the past few weeks releasing in a nearly unbearable rush of desire. Monique’s hand cupped his buttock and held him while she ground her pubis against his growing erection.

  He wasn’t certain how long it had been when he finally leaned away from their embrace to catch his breath. Damnation, the woman was good. But then, she had spent close to two decades honing her craft. And, he didn’t mind admitting, he considered himself something of a connoisseur. He had studied more than medicine during his years at the Sorbonne.

  Garrick laughed. “I think you missed me.”

  “Mais oui.” She translated unnecessarily, “But of course.”

  He held her at arm’s length, frankly admiring. She reminded him of Rossetti’s painting, Persephone, with her thick auburn hair, full lips, and straight Greek nose. Confident in her own charms, she smiled back at him as his gaze drifted down the daring décolletage of her bodice.

  “I have a present for you.”

  Her eyes lit in greedy anticipation when he produced the tiny leather box from his pocket. She snatched it from him, foregoing any pretense of coyness.

  “Oh.” She gasped when she opened the box, her lips puckering in a moue of appreciation. It was a sight that convinced Garrick his money had been well spent.

  “I must see them on,” she said breathlessly. Twisting around in his arms to face the hall mirror, she yanked the earrings she was wearing off her lobes with a violence that made Garrick wince. With practiced speed, she fastened the emeralds to her ears, then smiled at him in the mirror.

  The image she presented would have brought Rossetti to his knees. The emeralds indeed complemented her eyes, deepening their color to a shade that would have challenged any artist to recreate on canvas. Garrick thanked heaven for the female sex at that moment. Though the Bible portrayed woman as an afterthought of God, he found it hard to believe. Looking at the gorgeous creature smiling back at him in the mirror, he thought that surely a discerning god would consider her the very crown of his creation.

  “What are you thinking, Richard?”

  Monique gave him a look that made him consider his own reflection in the mirror. He saw how quickly his face settled into a worried expression when his thoughts wandered. Had it come to this, that the emotion etched into his aging features was that of concern?

  He dropped a kiss on her neck, then murmured in her ear. “I was thinking what a lucky man I am.”

  She smiled at him, graciously accepting his compliment with a tilt of her chin. “But come, darling, I have prepared dinner for you tonight.”

  “Then I am doubly lucky.”

  He let her lead him into the dining room, where she had set an intimate table for two. Monique knew all his favorite pleasures and played to them with the talent of a virtuoso. There were too many narrow minded bigots who would call her a whore, but they were wrong. True, she was a kept woman, but she chose her keepers with the utmost particularity. In another era, in another part of the world, she would have been respected as an accomplished courtesan. In another time and place she could have easily been a king’s mistress.

  With her usual tact, Monique waited until the butler had cleared the dessert plates and they were sharing the last of the wine before she asked her question. “Now, Richard darling, tell me, what is it that’s troubling you?”

  Garrick sighed heavily, not bothering to hide his relief that she had finally asked. Like any accomplished courtesan, Monique was practiced in the art of listening. And, he realized uneasily, she had been his only confidante since Simonne’s death. He and Jonathan were as close as any father and son, but there was much he kept from the boy. Jonathan had more than enough troubles of his own.

  Garrick took a slow sip of the burgundy before he answered Monique’s question. Setting down his glass, he studied the tablecloth as he spoke. “It’s Jonathan. I have been blind to his needs.”

  “His needs?”

  “His physical needs.”

  Monique shook her head, not understanding.

  “For a woman.” Garrick blushed on Jonathan’s behalf. Monique knew of his facial disfigurement, and he feared she would react with revulsion. Her laughter surprised him.

  “That is a problem easily remedied.”

  Garrick frowned, wishing it were so.

  “Oh.” Monique’s hands went to her mouth, and she added a muffled oh la la, gazing at Garrick in horror.

  “What is it?” Garrick thought she had mistaken his intentions and assumed he meant for her to supply the remedy.

  Monique lowered her hands from her mouth and pressed them against her bosom. “His injuries . . . Is he . . . ” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Can he perform as a normal man?”

  “Ah.” Garrick almost smiled when he understood the reason for Monique’s alarm. “Alas, he is perfectly capable, for all the good it will do him.”

  “Why alas? Of course it will do him good!” She leaned forward, allowing Garrick an impressive view of her cleavage, and rested her hand on his knee beneath the table. “This does you good, does it not?” She smiled
seductively as her hand traveled up his inner thigh.

  Garrick sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. “As if you needed an answer to that question.”

  Monique leaned back in her chair, and not a moment too soon. Garrick thought it best to return to the problem under discussion before she addled his brain completely.

  “What I meant to say was Jonathan will never find a willing partner.”

  “I am willing, if it pleases you.”

  Monique never ceased to amaze him. Garrick shook his head, both in wonder and denial. Her offer, though generous, made him queasy in ways he could never explain.

  “You are a generous woman, my dear, but you cannot know the extent of his damage. His scars are horrific. They have left him . . . ” Tears sprang to his eyes as he said the word. “Grotesque.”

  Monique gave a Gallic shrug of supreme indifference. “All men look the same in the dark.”

  Garrick turned his head aside and discreetly wiped away his tears. When he returned his gaze to Monique’s, she looked back at him expectantly. “Well?” she asked.

  “He is too proud. He would never accept such an arrangement.”

  Monique clucked her tongue in disapproval.

  “And too fearful. And . . . ” Garrick pressed the heel of his hand to his brow and closed his eyes for several moments before he could continue. “Oh God, I’m afraid I’ve created a terrible mess.”

  Monique reached across the table and drew Garrick’s hand away from his face, forcing him to look her in the eye. Garrick grimaced, then swallowed his pride and made his confession. “I committed a terrible blunder when I hired Miss Tate.”

  Monique cocked her head to the side, questioning, and he added, “Jonathan’s new secretary.”

  “If she’s lazy, fire her.” Always one to give value for money, Monique had little tolerance for those of lesser integrity.

  Garrick shook his head. “I wish it were that simple. I’m afraid he’s developing feelings for her.”

  “You mean he is falling in love with her?”

  “I fear as much.”

  “How do you know?”

  The question made Garrick stop and think a moment. “Though he tries to hide it, he’s eager to introduce her into our conversations.”

  Monique pursed her lips doubtfully. “That is your only evidence?”

  “No.” Garrick frowned, searching for words to articulate what was no more than a feeling in his guts, yet one he knew with growing conviction to be true. “No, he notices things about her only a man in love would notice.”

  “Such as?”

  “Her wardrobe.”

  Monique laughed. “Men notice one thing about a woman’s wardrobe.” She traced her fingers along the edge of her plunging neckline, a gesture that came close to making Garrick forget the subject of their conversation. Monique laughed again. “Do go on, darling.”

  Garrick laughed, too. “I found myself distracted for a moment—proving your point for you.” He shook his head good naturedly. “Jonathan commented that Miss Tate’s wardrobe is deficient.”

  “Then she must buy a new one.” Monique’s eyes widened. “But—”

  A crease formed between her brows. Garrick knew this to mean she was searching for the correct English phrase. Though she had lived in America for twenty years, the language’s idioms sometimes escaped her.

  Monique brightened when she finally discovered the sought for expression. “But you fear she is a digger of his gold?”

  Garrick smiled. “A gold digger?” He shook his head. “I don’t know, I don’t think so. But I can’t very well ask her if she has been encouraging Jonathan’s attentions.”

  Monique rested her chin in her hand and tapped her lips with her forefinger, thinking. “That is the sort of thing another woman might ask, however.”

  “I know that look. You’re plotting, Monique.”

  She nodded, readily admitting as much. “Miss Tate needs a new wardrobe. Very well, introduce her to me and I will take her along to my dressmaker. We will make friends.”

  “And you will easily learn from her what I can never ask.”

  “Exactly, my darling.”

  Garrick felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He smiled across at Monique, wishing he’d bought her an emerald necklace as well as the earrings.

  Monique pushed back from the table, hesitating long enough to give Garrick time to come around and help her out of her chair. He offered his hand when she stood, and she took it, delicately draping her fingers across his palm as though they were about to dance a minuet.

  “Stay with me tonight,” she murmured, already leading him toward the bedroom.

  Garrick acquiesced silently, following her without comment. As they entered the room, he saw the framed photograph on her dressing table and frowned. He knew he wasn’t her only lover, but he had little liking for the man she had chosen as her current patron. Hunter Galbraith was a famous actor, and there were some who considered him a fine one as well. But that was the man’s problem. Garrick had met him on several occasions at social gatherings, and Galbraith played himself to perfection. He was always onstage, and at its center.

  “What of your friend?” Garrick nodded toward the photograph. “Does he no longer claim the privilege of your nights?”

  “Phhht.” Monique dismissed Garrick’s question with a flick of her hand. “He has a play in New York which runs through the end of the month.” She shrugged, smiling mischievously. “He can’t expect me to live without companionship.”

  Garrick was already undoing her bodice. He had always flattered himself that he was one of Monique’s favorites. Moreover, he had no claim on her, nor any say in her choice of lovers.

  Sliding her bodice off her shoulders, Garrick bent to kiss her. As he did so, he couldn’t help a nervous glance toward her table. It was childish of him, but he felt as if Galbraith were watching.

  He noticed, too, an impressive number of new jars scattered across her table. When he returned his gaze to hers, Monique smiled, and tiny lines appeared at the corners of her eyes, faint creases that he hadn’t seen before.

  Perhaps that was the reason she had cultivated Galbraith’s patronage, for his knowledge of stage make up. Though it was true to a lesser extent for men, they both were engaged in professions that demanded youth and beauty. Garrick cupped Monique’s naked breasts in his hands and comforted himself with the thought that Galbraith’s vanity was the main attraction for her. Once she had exhausted his knowledge of the subject, she would lower the curtain on his performance.

  * * *

  Garrick woke the next morning from an unbroken sleep. He lingered awhile in lethargic contentment, searching for the pleasant dream that had slipped from his grasp. Somewhat disoriented at finding himself in a strange bed, he took several minutes to realize that there was a soft, warm body next to his.

  Beside him, Monique stirred, turning onto her side and snuggling closer so her naked breasts rested against his chest. Below the waist, Garrick stirred as well, coming fully awake when Monique draped her leg over his. He opened his eyes to see her looking down at him.

  “My darling. I was beginning to think you would sleep all day.”

  “What time is it?” he muttered in a groggy voice. His hand found her waist and he pulled her closer.

  “Almost noon.”

  “More than enough time.” He smiled, enjoying her slow caress as her hand traveled down his chest and stomach, then lower still, until her fingers wrapped around his stiffening penis.

  “But I am cross with you.” Garrick yelped when she squeezed him hard enough to hurt. “Very cross.”

  “What was that for?” He frowned. She still held him in her grasp, and he disliked his vulnerability.

  “You were talking in your sleep.”

  “And you reproach me for dreaming?”

  She pouted. “Not for dreaming, mon petit ami.”

  She squeezed his penis again, gentler this time, leaving Garrick uncertain w
hether she addressed him with the mocking endearment, or his member. My little friend, indeed.

  “Then what is it you punish me for, ma chère?” he asked, allowing a hint of sarcasm to creep into his French.

  “For keeping secrets.” She withdrew her hand.

  “Secrets?” He couldn’t imagine what she meant. “Am I to take you seriously?”

  Monique rolled on top of him, arching her back and letting her breasts hang near his mouth like forbidden fruit, luscious yet tantalizingly out of reach. “You may take me however you like,” she teased. “But if you want to take me seriously, you must first tell me one thing.”

  “What do you want to know, ma chère?” Garrick lifted her by the waist and positioned his by now insistent phallus to enter her.

  Monique opened her legs and let him slide inside her, then smiled coyly. “Who,” she asked, beginning a slow, teasing rhythm, setting the pace for their love making before she let the guillotine drop. “Who is Jenny?”

  Chapter Twenty two

  Isabelle hid behind the parlor drapes and watched the gig start down the drive with its passengers. She had maintained her excuse to avoid Sunday morning church services, but without Mr. Nashe’s collusion, the full guilt of her lie weighed on her conscience, making it all the more difficult to face those she had deceived.

  As for Mr. Nashe, he had failed to make an appearance since their disastrous encounter on Thursday afternoon. She had flattered herself to accuse him of avoiding her company. Avoidance would have required intention on his part, and forming an intention required thought. His work occupied his thoughts, not she. Why should he waste a moment’s consideration of her?

  Isabelle sighed heavily and stepped away from the window. Why did she care what he thought of her? She had never before yearned for any man’s good opinion. They were beasts to be feared. Even the poorest and lowest among them were tyrants in their own households.

  Honesty compelled her to admit that good men must exist, though such had never made themselves known to her. It was true, Dr. Garrick had been kind to her and Jenny. His kindness, however, was prompted by his concern for Mr. Nashe. She couldn’t forget the hard look he had given her in the garden when she offered her resignation.