by Robyn Sisman
“Hi, Freya.”
“Hi, Tash.”
They kept their distance, looking at each other with appraising eyes and tight smiles. Ouch! thought Jack.
There was an uncomfortable pause. Then Annabelle stepped toward Jack with a welcoming smile, her hand extended. “And you must be Michael,” she said.
Jack felt his arm grabbed again. “This is Jack,” Freya told them all, with an air of defiance. “My—friend, Jack Madison.”
“I’m so sorry—” Annabelle flushed.
“I did tell you,” Freya muttered irritably.
“Golly, Freya, you do have a high turnover.” Tash shot Jack a mischievous grin.
“Delighted to have you with us, Jack.” Freya’s father stepped forward smoothly. “I’m Guy Penrose, and this is my wife Annabelle. Now: let me introduce you to the mystery of Pimm’s. A strange English drink, but I think you’ll like it.”
With some relief Jack strolled with him to the drinks table, out of the emotional force field of the three women. Men were so much more straightforward. Mr. Penrose had a small cigar tucked into the frayed hatband of his panama. Jack liked him already. The drink was like a punch, chockablock with fruit and sprigs of mint. Jack drank thirstily. The tiredness of the journey dropped away. He began to enjoy himself.
“You’re not a lawyer, are you?” It was Tash, peering up into his face with her long-lashed eyes.
“No, that was Michael.” His tone was dry. If he really was Freya’s lover, he’d be getting pretty annoyed by now.
“Didn’t think so. Lawyers are soooo boring.”
“Well, thanks.” Jack laughed.
“What’s the joke?” Suddenly Freya was at his side.
“Oh, Freya, I meant to say.” Tash’s face hardened. “You didn’t mind not being a bridesmaid, did you?”
“Of course not,” Freya said stiffly.
“Goody. Only Daddy said I ought to have asked you.”
“It’s okay. Jack doesn’t really see me in pink satin.”
Now Tash was fluttering her fingers in Freya’s face. “Don’t you want to see my ring?”
“Oh, yes.” Freya bent to study it. “It’s lovely, Tash. Really nice.” Her voice wasn’t exactly warm, but Jack could tell she was making an effort.
“Rubies, you know. Cost a fortune. Luckily, Rolls is absolutely coining it. I won’t have to work after we’re married. Not like you, poor thing, slogging away.”
Freya arched an eyebrow. Uh-oh, thought Jack. “Funny,” she murmured, “I thought that the price of a virtuous woman was above rubies.”
“More Pimm’s, anyone?” Jack seized the jug and sloshed the fizzy liquid willy-nilly into their glasses.
“Guy, darling, why don’t you help with the suitcases while I see to dinner?” said Annabelle. “I expect you two would like to change after your long journey.”
“Good idea,” Jack agreed heartily. “A quick shower, and I’ll be ready for anything.”
He was perplexed to see them all exchange a complicit grin.
“He’s American,” Freya explained.
Of course, there was no shower. Even the so-called bathroom bore little resemblance to any bathroom Jack had ever seen. Although sumptuously large, with a beautiful stone-framed window that Freya called a “mullion,” its plumbing arrangements seemed almost as historic as the rest of the house. The toilet was a capacious mahogany throne raised on a dais and canopied by a black metal cistern, hung with a torture-room chain. Judging by the adjacent bookcase overflowing with jokey titles, it was a British habit to spend a great deal of time in this position, laughing heartily. There was a gigantic bath with clawed feet in the middle of the room, with a cold tap marked HOT and a hot tap marked COLD, as Jack discovered the hard way. He could only assume that this had been a cunning ruse to sap the morale of German invaders in World War II.
The whole place was an intriguing mix of Hammer House of Horror and Brideshead. There was a hallway as big as a barn with a stunning timber roof. There was Bessie’s Room and the Red Room and the Mirror Room and something unnervingly known as The Crypt. There was the “new” wing, dating from seventeen-something. There were bronze busts and interesting-looking clocks, Persian carpets crudely mended, hideous old couches covered in Indian bedspreads, a painted Chinese cabinet with a live cat on top, blinking sleepily. Decrepitude was everywhere: crumbling plaster, split paneling, fungal patches on the ceilings, damask wall-coverings hanging in shreds. He couldn’t make out if the Penroses were very rich or very poor. Freya had led him, through a warren of corridors and back staircases, to this vast bedroom with its gloomy furniture and tattered carpeting, explaining nothing, acting as if it were all perfectly normal. Never mind. He would piece it all together. He might even get a novel out of it. Meanwhile, it was illuminating to observe Freya in her native habitat.
Jack had never seen her so nervous. He couldn’t tell whether this was because of her family or because of him. It was, admittedly, a little strange to be alone together in the bedroom they would have to share. The huge bed seemed to loom suggestively at them, making Freya retreat into icy hauteur while he cracked silly jokes. Still, she was the one who was so desperate for a “boyfriend,” and he was perfectly willing to play the part. It could be fun.
She unpacked; he unpacked. Jack placed his pajamas—bought specially, with propriety in mind—on one side of the bed. After a small hesitation, she placed hers—pale pink with black piping—on the other. Jack felt rather excited, until she picked up his pajamas and placed them pointedly on the chaise longue. Then he went to the bathroom and changed his clothes there; she did the same, returning in tight white trousers and a lilac top that suited her coloring. While she fiddled with her hair, he stood at the bedroom window, marveling at the magical view of the garden, the sheep meadows and a distant sliver of sea. There were no roads to be seen, no electricity wires, no cars, nothing to remind him of the twentieth century. He wouldn’t be at all surprised to glance out this window tomorrow morning and see a jousting tournament or a maypole dance. In a place like this, anything could happen. The thought excited him.
At last she was ready, subtly transformed. Jack opened the door for her and made a sweeping gesture. “After you—sweetheart.”
Freya’s head jerked around. She looked so haughty that he had to laugh.
“Come on, Freya. We’re in England. It’s not raining. And we’re madly in love. Let’s make the most of it.” He offered his arm.
She capitulated with a sudden grin. “Okay—darling.”
They swept down the grand staircase to dinner, arm in arm.
Freya turned over for the millionth time. She had tried every conceivable position on this wretched chaise longue, and they were all torture. If she sat up against the angled back, she got a crick in her neck. If she lay flat, her legs projected over its rigid end, which cut off the blood supply to her feet. If she curled up into a ball, her hipbone went numb and her folded legs throbbed with cramp. Each time she moved, the eiderdown slithered off, exposing some part of her body to the damp night breeze. It was now nearly two in the morning, as she knew from hearing the bloody longcase clock on the stairs chime every bloody quarter of an hour.
Outside, a screech owl was doing what screech owls do best. Inside, a gentle, rhythmic snore emanated from Jack, fast asleep in the four-poster. Freya burned to go over and pummel him awake. How dare he just lie there, uncaring, when she was so miserable? She sat up irritably and glowered in his direction. The moon was full and the curtains worn. She could see his head blissfully cradled in a downy mound of pillows, and the great sprawling lump of his comatose body. How come he was there, and she was here?
She slumped back onto her bed of pain. It was her own fault. Jack had insisted that the bed was more than big enough for two, but she hadn’t cared for the frisky manner in which he had made this suggestion. It was her idea that they should preclude further argument by tossing a coin for bed privileges, and she had lost. Now she cursed hersel
f for being so idiotically fair-minded, and she cursed Jack for accepting his win so easily. A real gentleman would have protested; a real gentleman would rather have slept on the floor than deprive a lady of the comforts of sleep.
But Jack wasn’t a real gentleman; he was only pretending. Freya brooded darkly on his pretense at dinner tonight, when he had shamelessly wormed his way into everyone’s good graces. “Let me carry that for you, Mrs. Penrose . . . Terrific cigar, Mr. Penrose.” Even Tash had held back her usual snide comments. There he’d sat, utterly at ease, in a dark blue shirt and pressed trousers she’d never even seen before, with his new haircut, entertaining them all with stories about his hometown and his funny ol’ Suthen ax-sent. Her father even fetched up a special bottle of port from the cellar, as if Jack were Mr. Nice Guy instead of a mean, selfish, heartless, sleeping beast.
Screech screech, went the owl. Ting ting, went the clock. Snore snore, went Jack. Scurry scurry, went something she didn’t even want to think about.
Freya threw off the eiderdown and stood up. She’d had enough. If this went on, she’d be haggard and gray by tomorrow. It was bad enough being Tash’s older sister; she didn’t want to be mistaken for her mother. She stomped over to the bed and scowled down at Jack. He was lying on his back now, right in the middle of the bed, with the stupid, noble expression of a felled ox.
“Jack,” she whispered experimentally.
Not a flicker.
Freya hesitated. She was so tired—and cold. She reminded herself that total strangers huddled together for warmth when lost on a snowy alp. Cowboys even slept with their horses. What would it matter if she if she borrowed a teeny corner of the bed, just for a few hours? Jack would never even know, so long as she woke early and returned to the chaise longue. It was a purely practical solution. She placed the heel of her hand against Jack’s pajama’d shoulder, and pushed. He rolled obediently away, leaving a nice, empty space for her. Freya climbed in.
Ohhh . . . heaven! Freya sank her head back onto the pillow and stretched her legs luxuriously. The sheets were deliciously warm from Jack’s body. She almost groaned aloud with pleasure and relief. The knots in her muscles were already beginning to loosen when Jack made a sudden harrumphing noise, turned over and flung a heavy arm across her waist. Freya frowned. This, presumably, was his automatic reaction to the presence of a female body in his bed, since he was obviously asleep. She picked off his arm and deposited it on top of the covers. After a few seconds, he gave a sleepy mutter and put it back. She picked it off again. He put it back again, and this time gathered her to him with a contented little moan. Freya gave up. She was comfortable and sleepy and warm. Really, she felt quite . . . marvelous. Her eyes closed. Her mind began to drift.
She remembered that it had been autumn. The streets were spangled with leaves as yellow as Jack’s hair when he yelled up to her window the news that he had sold his first story. She had bounded down the stairs—clearing the last steps of each landing at a flying leap, swinging herself around the newel posts—to tell him that she, too, had wonderful news. She had at last wangled her green card, the precious document that allowed her to do a proper job in America, with a proper salary, instead of slave labor for slave wages. On the strength of their old friendship, new wealth, and imminent fame, they’d decided on a joint celebration dinner at a ritzy restaurant. Jack had dug out a tuxedo, she’d tarted herself up in a dress and high heels, and they’d taken a cab, like a couple of swells, all the way to the smart uptown address. They’d ordered lavishly, clinking glasses in regular self-congratulatory toasts and tasting each other’s food. Jack smoked a cigar, and she did, too, just to keep up. They’d talked and argued and laughed until it was time to pay the outrageous bill and tipsily return home. Jack had accompanied her to her door, they’d said good night—and then he had spoiled it all by suddenly lunging at her and declaring that he wanted to go to bed with her. Just like that! There had been no romantic preamble, no attempt at courtship, just the sort of crude pass immature men make when they’re drunk. He felt randy, Freya was to hand—hey, why not? She’d said no, of course. Who did he think he was? Just because he was attractive didn’t mean that every female in New York had to fall like ninepins before his charm. Freya had no desire to be just another notch on his bedpost. Besides, he was absurdly young. Jack had been surprised at her rejection, then angry. The episode had never been mentioned since, though the memory of it was like a tiny thorn in their friendship. He’d probably forgotten about it. Certainly, he’d never repeated his advance, something she was very, very happy about. Probably he thought of her as a sister . . . an older sister.
Freya gave a tiny, silent giggle. Here she was, after all these years, in bed with Jack Madison. It wasn’t so bad. Of course, he was asleep. Freya settled herself more deeply in the bed, curving her back into Jack’s chest. It was an instinct thing, she told herself, a totally natural animal response. She gave a languid yawn. There was something she must remember: oh, yes, to wake up early. Absolutely. No problem.
She could hear Jack’s even breathing, quiet now. His head lay barely a foot away from hers. What was going on in there, she wondered? What dreams of women, fame, dark wanderings, pursuit? She yawned again. Her eyes closed. She was asleep.
CHAPTER 23
Jack woke with a tremendous sense of well-being. Every muscle was relaxed, each limb exquisitely heavy; his very bones felt refreshed. For a while he lay utterly still in his warm cocoon, letting consciousness seep back, incapable of even the minor muscular effort of raising his eyelids.
Gradually he registered clues to his whereabouts: no traffic noises, no sirens, no subterranean rumblings or mechanical roars, just the pleasantly inane twitter of birds and the soothing drone of a distant lawn mower. He could smell sweet, fresh grass and frying bacon. A golden light danced at the rims of his closed eyes, promising a sunny morning. He reached down and idly scratched his balls, then stretched his mouth wide in a long, ratcheting yawn. Oh to be in England, now that June is here. There was a complacent smile on his lips as he opened his eyes, rolled his head across the pillow to look woozily about him, and almost died of shock. Someone was in his bed!—a female someone, with short, tousled hair of a pale gold color that was intensely familiar.
Jack leaped out of bed and stood on the frayed bedside rug, frantically smoothing his hair. What—? How—? When—? He scanned the room for clues. The chaise longue was bare. On the floor next to it, the comforter in which Freya had wrapped herself last night lay in a discarded heap. Both their clothes were neatly laid on separate chairs. He couldn’t see any signs of . . . inappropriate behavior. Struck by a sudden thought, Jack gazed wildly down at his own body: he was still wearing his pajamas—both halves. He tiptoed to the other side of the bed, wincing at every creak from the ancient floorboards, and peeked at Freya’s face. She was sound asleep. The sheet covered her almost to the chin; he couldn’t see what she was wearing. Surely he would remember if—? He should never have drunk all that port.
How quietly she slept. The twin crescents of her eyelashes were motionless, her lips fractionally parted to allow a gentle ebb and flow of breath. She lay on her side, one cheek nudging her pillow, the other faintly flushed and sheened with sleep. Jack couldn’t help smiling a little to see her so silent and unguarded. As if conscious of his scrutiny, she took a sudden deep breath. Jack jerked away, but all she did was wriggle into a new position. Still, she could wake up at any moment, and there he’d be, caught like a rabbit in that fierce blue gaze. Jack decided to escape to the bathroom and consider his position.
While hot water filled the bathtub at a grudging, gurgling trickle, he took off his pajama jacket and lathered his face with his shaving brush. Worried eyes stared back at him from the mirror. This was not the first time he’d woken to find a woman unexpectedly in his bed. It was always embarrassing not to be able to remember exactly how she’d got there—or even who she was—though to be fair to himself, such a thing hadn’t happened in a long while. But
Freya! This was worse than embarrassing; it was unthinkable.
Jack squirmed at the unwelcome memory of a blunder he had made, years ago, when the two of them had gone out to celebrate the sale of his first story. Freya had been the first person he told; he so wanted to impress her. He’d never met anyone like Freya before, with her tart English tongue and her air of sophistication. (“When I was in Venice . . .” she’d say—or Toledo or Oslo or Salzburg.) Back then, he’d been an eager twenty-three or -four, thrilled to be out on a date with her. They’d talked and laughed, and he’d drunk perhaps one Armagnac too many (Armagnac!—he’d never even heard of the stuff before Freya suggested it.) Afterwards, he’d escorted her home to the scruffy rooming house a couple of blocks from his own, and said good night: a kiss on her perfumed cheek, a wave of the hand, the click of her door. He’d walked down two flights of stairs, then turned right around, walked back up, banged on her door and, as soon as she opened it, blurted out, “I want to go to bed with you. Let me in.”