by Julia Ross
Alden was damned if he wanted to discuss that one again. "Ι regret that my conception caused you distress, Mama. It was none of my doing-"
Fortunately the change of subject was hers, as his mother sat up and pointed her finger at his chest. "You have come here straight from that boy, haven't you? Ι swear you will break my heart!"
He strode restlessly about the room. "Mama, we have talked of this before. You won't change my mind. Ι am sensible that Sherry's presence at the Abbey is hurtful to you, but he is an innocent child."
Lady Gracechurch laid the back of one elegant hand on her mouth and closed her eyes. "Hurtful! The knowledge of his existence is like being torn apart in a thornbush. Now he comes between us - mother and son!"
"Your choice, Mama. Perhaps if you would let him visit, you'd see that-"
She swooned melodramatically on the couch. "Next you will tell me that he's a charming child, the image of - Oh, Ι cannot bring myself to speak her name! Mrs. Sherwood! It was all enough to have sent me quite, quite mad, and then your papa could have locked me up as a lunatic. It’s what he always planned. The Duke of Gessham did it to his wife and she was a duchess. That Ι should be sent away to be caged like a wild animal with a broken heart!"
Alden handed her a lace-edged handkerchief as she began to sob. "I’m sure it was very difficult, Mama, but Father would never have locked you away."
"You don't care what Ι went through. What happened - and all because of that woman! For all those years, you stayed in Italy, while Ι had to sit across from my husband's mistress every morning at breakfast."
Not something he could argue, though he had every sympathy for his father. He remembered Mrs. Sherwood, a quiet, attractive widow, who had moved in as his mother's companion just before Alden left England. She had without question almost immediately become his father's mistress and remained so for five years. Then for some mysterious reason she had taken a second, unknown lover on a visit to London and conceived a child by him - a fact she had concealed from Lord Gracechurch until it was too late.
"Yet can you feel no compassion for her orphaned baby, Mama? He'll never even know his father's name."
This only released a flood of tears. "Men are all alike! Even my own sons! Nobody cares about me. The burden forced upon me by that wicked, wicked woman. Oh, Ι am quite, quite unwell!"
Alden rang the bell that sat on the table. It was impossible to get his mother to talk sensibly about it. She seemed to enjoy the mystery, like a child with a secret.
Α maid opened the door and curtsied.
"Tea for Her Ladyship," Alden said. "With some of Cook's orange biscuits."
Mama was suddenly all smiles, dabbing at her eyes. "You darling boy! How did you know orange biscuits are my favorite?"
He leaned forward, picked up her hand and kissed her knuckles. "They've been your favorite for as long as I've been alive, Mama."
"Oh." She giggled, then pouted again. "Well. And you know all this boy's favorite foods, too, no doubt?"
Fresh cherries and ices and raisin cake. "Not really," Alden replied diplomatically. "His nursemaid and tutor tend to his needs."
"He ought never to have been born. You should have sent him away."
Alden took a deep breath. "Ι came back from Italy to find Father dead. You were unwell and wouldn't speak to me. I had to learn about Mrs. Sherwood's death from the butler. Two weeks later, after you had removed here to the Dower House - as you said you preferred - I discovered a baby in the nursery. The maids had been afraid to tell me, in case Ι left him to the mercy of the parish. A baby, Mama!"
"The world is full of babies, thousands of them!"
"But this one fell to me. He is my responsibility."
"Mrs. Sherwood was unfaithful to your father. Ι thought she was my friend. How's that for ingratitude?"
He didn't quite see the logic of this, but then logic had never been his mother's strength. "You’d rather they had remained faithful to each other, Mama? Why?"
A knock at the door heralded the arrival of tea, accompanied by thin wafers of pressed orange and sugar - exactly the kind of over-sweet confection Alden hated. He made himself eat two, while his mother devoured the rest.
"Oh, Ι wish I'd never been born! No wonder you won't marry, with such an example before you!"
"Very likely, Mama. Now may Ι kiss you good night?"
"You are leaving already? Oh, take something with you! Whatever you like!"
He stood and bent over her hand: the generous mother who, perhaps, loved him. "Thank you, Mama. You are very kind. It is my intention, with your permission, to raid your glasshouses."
She waved one hand and closed her eyes. "Take anything you like. Really, Ι have never liked babies-"
Alden slipped from the room.
JULIET WAS WOKEN THE NEXT MORNING BY Α SMALL NOISE. SHE had been dreaming again. Λ golden man had been holding out both hands, cradling something mysterious and precious, something for which she had always yearned. She looked longingly into his palms, anticipating treasure . . .
Kate stood beside the bed with a jug in her hands.
"I trust you slept well, ma'am."
What had he been holding-? The elusive images faded away.
Juliet glanced at the window. Kate had already opened the casement. It was full daylight. She had slept late, something she never did! But now, just today - thanks to him - it didn't matter. She had three extra maids"
"I have brought up hot water, ma'am." Kate dropped a small curtsy. "And breakfast." The maid nodded toward the small table by the door. "It's a lovely morning. Promises to be fair hot again today."
Juliet sat up and wrapped her arms about her knees. A warm breeze stirred outside, carrying the scent of the garden and the far woods. For a moment she imagined herself back in her father's house. Bemused, as if still enfolded in the warm atmosphere of her dream, she let Kate pour water to wash her hands and face. The maid then set the covered tray across her lap on a little table with short legs. She remembered ones like it from her girlhood.
The tray was draped with a fine linen cloth. An embroidered monogram had been worked in white thread on the corners. Juliet lifted one edge to look at it. An unfamiliar crest and a single letter: G.
Kate lifted the cloth away.
On one corner of the tray, a card sat pinned between two chess pieces: white king and red queen. The queen toppled as Juliet plucked out the card.
The handwriting was firm and confident, a man's hand, but one tempered by social grace into fluidity: Madam, your wish is my command - G.
Juliet laughed as she set down the card. Even in bed? She felt pinned by a piercing diversity of emotions: a sudden heady delight mixed oddly with a bittersweet sense of loss. Her thoughts spun. Your wish is my command. The words of the genie in The Arabian Nights' Entertainments? The book sat somewhere on a shelf downstairs: Mille et une Nuits. One thousand and one nights, when a new bride named Scheherazade had woven a spell of tales so her husband would not execute her in the morning.
The tray was silver, heavy and expensive. The spoons and knives were also silver, the handles inlaid with gold. She picked up a spoon. The gold picked out a sinuous engraving: G. Alden Granville.
It all spoke so clearly of him: the exuberant joy in beauty, the love of sensual indulgence - and the seductive small joke, like a little wink, of the two chess pieces. An intimate awareness stirred her blood, almost giddy, almost as if he were here in the room, waking her from a long sleep and giving her that tiny, knowing gesture, the quick drop of an eyelid over one startlingly blue eye.
Your wish is my command.
His crest was echoed again on the corner of a napkin. To one side, a fully open red rose nestled among a host of white sweet peas in a flat crystal vase. Juliet plucked out the rose and inhaled its rich scent. Where had he found such a bloom so early in the summer? It spoke of an extra care, that he had troubled to find such a flower for her.
She was being served breakfast in bed. She had three extra maids.
Contemptible, luxurious excess! Why not appreciate it?
Α bubble of mad laughter fought for release. With determination, she swallowed it, but the humor danced in her throat, making her feel wanton - like a girl.
Juliet set the rose behind one ear.
On the other side of the tray, the spouts of a silver tea service steamed gently next to a blue-and-white china tea-dish, edged in gold. More fine china held strawberry jam and butter. Flaky pastries threatened to crumble at a touch. Other dishes lay covered with individual silver lids. She lifted one: newly baked currant buns. Another: eggs. As she leaned forward to inhale the mixed aromas, the rose fell from her hair. It landed, shedding petals, in the butter.
She pressed both hands over her face as the laughter soared to the surface. Mad, like the release of months – years - of tension. The maid stepped forward as if to remove the offending flower. Choking back her hilarity, Juliet waved one hand to stop her.
"You didn't know roses were edible, Kate? Indeed, they are very good buttered. "With a grin, Juliet popped a petal in her mouth.
The maid stared at her in open astonishment. "No, ma'am." She curtsied. "Yes, ma'am,"
"As eggs," Juliet said earnestly, "are very good with jam. Thank you, Kate. You may go,"
Her round face stiff, Kate curtsied again and backed out of the room.
Mirth burst out in a great shout of glee. Juliet laughed until the bed shook, threatening to spill her luxurious breakfast. She held on to the little table with both hands while hilarity rocked her.
Oh, Mr. Granville, might Ι wish for the moon? And would you deliver it, wrapped in roses and polished silver? Would you deliver me a whole new past? What about a new future to go with it?
In the center of the tray sat another dish, its contents also hidden under a cover. As soon as the mad laughter died to an ache in her side, Juliet lifted the lid, knowing quite well what she would find.
She sat and gazed at it for a moment, while she picked up a pastry. With a silver knife, she spread strawberry jam over the crumbly, hot surface and bit into it. Ambrosia! Flakes of floury, buttery flavor burst on her tongue, mixed with the sweet-tangy strawberries. Still studying the contents of the center dish, she set down the pastry and poured tea. As she sipped at it, she tipped her head on one side to better appreciate the chef’s work.
The spiky green top had been sliced off, then arranged as a decorative surround. Intertwined with hothouse flowers, it made an exotic setting: exuberant, foreign, speaking clearly of paradise. But true paradise lay inside the natural cup formed by the rind. Each slice of fruit had been carefully removed, then cut into an individual flower shape before being set back inside. They glistened there like liquid sunshine.
Juliet set down her tea and picked up a fork. She speared a single piece of golden fruit and closed her eyes, before she bit down into this wondrous heaven. Juice ran down her chin to be licked off with a blithe tongue.
Not the moon, exactly. Fresh pineapple.
KATE HAD BEEN RIGHT. IT WAS ANOTHER HOT DAY. Stultifyingly hot. After a quick tour of her garden, Juliet retreated into the cool parlor. The occasional burst of talk or the rattle of some implement did little to disturb the close air. Tilly and the new maids were doing all the work that usually kept Juliet occupied. She had a whole day to indulge herself, to take a holiday. She could read, lounge at the window, luxuriate in having absolutely nothing to do. Surely she could enjoy it?
She ran her finger along the spines of the books and pulled out The Arabian Nights. Here was fantasy, magic, sweeping adventure in exotic worlds. Here was a woman who had wed - unwisely?
Juliet smiled a little grimly to herself. Obviously Arabian ladies had very little choice and learned to make the best of it. But Scheherazade risked death each morning if she did not keep the sultan entertained with another wondrous tale the night before. That was not, of course, the usual danger of an unwise marriage! Life was a little less dramatic than fiction, even if sometimes just as painful.
Meshach, Shadrach and Abednego rubbed about her ankles, complaining until she sat down. It was too hot to have a cat curl up on her lap, but they each picked a spot on her spread skirts, pinning her to the sofa. She gazed at them, her only companions. Yet even the cats had come with the house, another legacy from
Miss Parrett. Of course, no cat ever truly belonged to its owner. Not the way Scheherazade had belonged to the sultan. Not the way a wife was the property of her husband.
There. It was out. She almost repeated it aloud. Α wife belongs to her husband.
The cats purred, a dry rumble. Α snatch of the maids' chatter blew by the open window. The hum of bees drifted. Dimly in the distance, black rooks cawed and swirled, argumentative and noisy, in their rookery in Mill Spinney.
Mr. Alden Granville thought her a widow. The village thought her a widow. Her secure future here depended on that. But Juliet wasn't a widow. She was a wife.
Five years ago, after the tragedy, George had abandoned her and left her destitute. It didn't matter that she had no idea of his whereabouts. They were still married - until death. If he discovered her here, he could march into her life and demand all his rights: her property, her attention, her person. Not even her body was her own.
She was a wife.
Α wife belongs to her husband.
She mustn't forget. Mustn't think for one moment that this little episode with a charming stranger changed anything about her circumstances. It was playing with fire even to entertain him, and a madness if she thought she could warm herself at those flames and not be burned. If she took a lover, she could never stay hidden. Sooner or later it would become known and she would be discovered. She had also taken vows and paid heavily for them. Not something she took lightly, whatever the results of that hasty wedding. And yet- And yet-
Someone knocked on the door. Juliet leaped up, dislodging cats. They gave her three variations of the same disgusted look and resettled themselves where she'd been sitting. But it was only Betty with a question about some chores. Thrusting away her thoughts, Juliet walked through to the kitchen and plunged into work.
ALTHOUGH IT WAS ALREADY EARLY EVENING, IT WAS STILL HOT when the boxes arrived, delivered by private carriage. Pushing her hair back from her damp forehead, Juliet oversaw the few minutes of clunking confusion as a footman brought three of the boxes inside and handed her a sealed missive. Her name surged across the front in the handwriting she'd first seen that morning. Perhaps he had sent his excuses and would not come for their chess game that night! It was a moment of piercing disappointment. Dear Lord, how foolish!
The maids stared at her with open curiosity. Juliet straightened her spine and walked into the parlor. The wax seal held the same crest as the spoons. She broke it open and started to read:
Madam: Imagine an Italian evening. It is the very hot end to α very hot day. The stars will soon blaze in α velvet sky. White stone houses glow like lamps. The very earth breathes heat. Yet presently, perhaps, a cool breeze might stir to carry the burning air away across the parched hills. Perhaps the zephyr will pull α moisture laden current from the wine-dark ocean. Perhaps it will bring us a serene breath from the icy moon. Will it waft the spiced scents of history and foreign blooms onto our deeply shaded patio? Shall we drink wine and eat a light supper? Shall we play chess together? Ι have sent you α dress in the Italian style. Ι think it might please you - G.
She sat for a moment and gazed blindly at the paper. Then she walked back into the hallway, where the maids were still fussing over the boxes.
"Oh, ma'am!" Tilly's freckled face beamed like a sunrise. "This one's labeled for the kitchen, Betty's to see to that. This one says it's for the bath and is for Kate. The other's all in foreign."
Juliet read the label on the largest of the boxes. Vestimenti di confidenza. She did not know Italian, but she could guess the meaning.
"It's for me," she said. "Leave it here."
"You aren't going to open it, ma'am?" Tilly was openly dismayed.
Juliet shook her head. Α dress in the Italian style.
"There is another note attached here, ma'am."
Kate gave her a folded paper. Juliet broke the seal and walked away to read it.
It would please me very much if you would wear it. Ι shall wear mine - G.
JULIET WENT THROUGH THE REST OF THE EVENING LIKE Α nervous filly. It continued hot, the air heavy with unshed moisture. Jumping and starting at each small sound, she felt taut with anticipation, waiting for him to arrive. She imagined herself winning the chess match. She imagined herself repudiating him, berating him, sending him away. She imagined herself madly asking him to kiss her. She did not dare to imagine an Italian supper.
Why wouldn't it rain?
Why didn't he come?
She couldn't eat for nerves. In the heavy, sticky dress she'd been wearing all day, she burned as if he had already set the flames.
Ι am not a widow. Ι am a wife.
She paced the limits of the parlor, went up and downstairs several times, strode about the hallways and the close confines of her bedroom, where - through the uselessly open windows - the hot air under the roof mingled with the hot air outside. She must win the game, that was all!
Do you truly wish to live here forever like a fly in amber, while the world buzzes and clicks by without you?
Α bat flitted past the window. Juliet sped over to the open casement and leaned out. The sun had almost disappeared behind Farmer Hames's woods to the west. He must come soon.
As the sun is going down.
"Ma'am," Kate said behind her. "Ι have filled a bath."
Juliet spun about.
"In the porch off the kitchen," Kate added. "The tub was delivered not an hour ago."
"Α tub?"
"Yes, ma'am. And another note." The maid held it out.
The wax seal fell away as Juliet tore it open.
In Italy to change into our most casual clothes and sit quietly on the patio with friends is just α gentle, civilized way to spend α summer evening. But rest assured, our 1talian supper does not begin until you arrive in the arbor - G.