Bed of Flowers

by Erin Satie

  Bonny squeezed her eyes shut. Why did he only ask the questions she didn’t want to answer? Her voice came out as a whisper, and even that was a struggle. Her throat wanted to close on the words, to strangle her into silence. “I was ashamed.”

  “Of what?”

  Bonny shook her head. She couldn’t explain. She couldn’t.

  “I don’t mean to be unkind.” Loel took her by the shoulders and gently urged her to take a few steps backward. Away from the buggy. “But you’re asking me to trust you and showing me that I can’t.”

  Bonny clapped her own hands over his, trapping them, and rose up on tiptoe. She had to make him understand, had to make him believe, and if she couldn’t use words…

  Loel recoiled with a curse. He covered his mouth, though her lips had never reached it, and stared at her as though she’d crawled out from under a rock.

  Bonny shriveled right down to her soul.

  The moment stretched. Bonny would have fled, but what would be the point? She couldn’t run away from herself. Wherever she went, her shame would be waiting—with cowardice for company.

  Loel set his jaw. He tensed, his nostrils flared. “All right,” he said, reaching out again—for her. His fingers closed around her neck, thumb tipping her jaw up as he pulled her close for a kiss. “All right.”

  It was the opposite of their kiss in the greenhouse, which had made her feel so warm and safe. He plundered her mouth, tugged her lips with his teeth, stole the breath from her lungs and gave it back hotter and less nourishing. This kiss was unrepentantly angry, and Bonny ought to have been frightened.

  Instead, she melted. Melted. Her knees turned to water, and she steadied herself by grabbing hold of him. Their bodies touched and every point of contact burned. Her breasts, crushed against his chest, ached.

  The reins jangled as Loel dropped them, and a chiding whuff issued from one of the horses—Bonny didn’t know which one because her eyes had fallen shut somewhere along the way. He wrapped an arm around her waist, and she tugged him closer, closer, closer.

  Loel’s fury ebbed, but the fire that fueled it remained. It had been this way from the start, Bonny realized, from the moment he’d found her snooping in his greenhouse. This draw that pulled her back to Woodclose when she ought to have stayed away, that riveted her attention, that had made nursing him so… complicated.

  He felt it too. She was certain of it.

  Loel pulled away. His lips, usually pale and firm, had flushed bright pink and shone wet with saliva. He composed himself but this one small part remained soft and vulnerable.

  The symbolism didn’t escape her.

  He laughed shakily, ducking for the reins. He collected them, smoothed them in his palm, and said—directing his comment to the horses—“My God, but you terrify me.”

  Bonny, drunk on a small morsel of joy when it had been so scarce in her life these last weeks, smiled brilliantly. “No I don’t.”

  “Is that so?” He laughed again, properly this time. “I have to return the buggy to Mrs. Twisby.”

  “Mrs. Twisby?” Bonny repeated. “You’re acquainted?”

  “I’m not sure how I’d manage without her,” Loel admitted. “She lets me send her manservant on errands in town, sends him by almost every week. It’s the only way I can buy anything from the shops since they won’t sell to me.”

  “She’s donated to our circulating library, as well.”

  “She’s a good woman,” said Loel. “Your bedroom is upstairs on the first floor. Feel free to explore. I won’t be long.”

  She really did terrify him.

  Not so much the woman she was but the woman she could become. That kiss had thrown two facts into painful, blinding clarity for him. One: His new wife was only just beginning to learn how to use her beauty as a weapon. Two: Once she did, she would be unstoppable.

  Her amateur efforts were devastating enough. When she wanted something, he wanted it. When she spoke, he believed her. When she made absurd suggestions, they seemed plausible. It was ridiculous, and it took more willpower than he had to defend against it.

  People chided otherwise strong men for their “weakness for women.” Loel wondered exactly how goddamned strong a man would have to be to resist a smile like Bonny’s.

  As they approached the Twisby property, the horses picked up speed without any urging. They knew when to slow too, at just the right moment to bring the buggy to a gentle halt right in front of their stable. The groundskeeper, who looked after the horses and the garden, emerged to take the reins.

  Loel was surprised to see Mrs. Twisby sitting on her porch in a rocking chair, reading a book. He thanked the groundskeeper and waved his hat at the old woman as he approached.

  She’d been a good friend to him since his return. She hadn’t been hurt by the fire, of course, and had her own struggles with New Quay—her friends outnumbered her enemies in town, but not by much.

  She loaned him her manservant and the occasional use of her horses. In return, Loel paid for the upkeep of her stable. It was more than he wanted to spend, but he thought it important to return her kindness with fairness.

  “Enjoying the fresh air?” he asked.

  “That I am.” Mrs. Twisby grinned. “You look like a man who’s got a tiger by the tail.”

  “I feel like one,” Loel admitted. And then, gingerly—because he could feel his objectivity sailing away, never to be seen again—he added, “I’m married to the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’ve never seen her like either.” Mrs. Twisby cackled. “She’s told you about her circulating library?”

  “A little.”

  “She came here asking me for donations, and I decided I’d give her a book. One, mind you. Books don’t grow on trees—at least not directly. But once I told her I’d donate, she smiled and it was like the clouds had parted and the sun shined out, just for me. I couldn’t help it—I gave her five books.”

  “The effect must dull with time,” he said, thinking of Bonny’s family. They hadn’t seemed at all inclined to dance to her tune.

  Mrs. Twisby’s eyes sparkled. “Best enjoy it while you can.”

  Loel recognized bait, and he chose not to bite. “How’s your daughter?”

  “Not sending news often enough,” answered Mrs. Twisby. “Hopefully she’s enjoying herself too much to be bothered, but I worry.”

  “I could look in on her the next time I’m in London.”

  “I might take you up on that.” Mrs. Twisby reached into her knitting basket and extracted a bell. She rang it, explaining, “I asked my cook to prepare a meal for you. Best take it home while it’s still warm. Congratulations—I wish you happiness.”

  A manservant arrived with a slatted wooden crate half-full of dishes wrapped in towels, which Loel took. “I’ll stop by again before the next auction,” Loel promised, before bidding Mrs. Twisby farewell.

  The walk home took fifteen minutes, which he spent thinking, inconveniently, about Mrs. Twisby’s parting comments.

  He had planned to postpone the consummation. It had seemed the wise decision for a host of reasons—the more comfortable they were with one another, the more likely that their coupling would be memorably good instead of memorably awkward. Not incidentally, he’d assumed that keeping his distance would give him a chance to reevaluate Bonny’s character.

  He glanced at the sky, measuring the sun’s progress across the heavens. Not yet noon and already he could tell that he’d need a new plan.

  Bonny wouldn’t tolerate the delay. If only because she’d discovered what he’d already known: Sex would cloud his wits. It would make him stupid and forgiving. What she didn’t yet understand was that sex could solve almost any problem two sufficiently lusty people had with one another… but only temporarily.

  He reached the end of the drive and circled around the house. He’d spent too much time inside in the months after his return from sea. He tormented himself with his parents’ final reproaches during the day and
then, at night, dreamed of Captain Royce with a noose around his neck, spewing curses.

  Eventually he’d taken a closer look at the trust his parents had left, started his nursery, and begun spending his every waking and sleeping hour in the orchid house. Things had gotten… better. But some superstition had taken hold of him and he’d begun to avoid the main house.

  Bonny called out, “You’re back!” from an open window—she’d found her bedroom, apparently—and ducked inside.

  He set the egg crate down on the table he’d dragged outside—formerly the dining table in the servants’ quarters. Loel would have to repay the estate for any damages to the property—or its contents—that occurred while he resided at Woodclose. So he’d wrapped the furniture in sheets, shut up the rooms, and plundered the servants’ quarters for furniture he could afford to replace.

  Bonny burst through the double doors leading to the old music room, beaming. She looked—heaven help him—like the sun and stars in one, skin so luminous, eyes so bright. Breasts bouncing cheerfully.

  “What have you brought?”

  He began removing the dishes. “A meal, I believe.”

  “More than one, I think.” Bonny began peeking under the lids. “There must be enough food here to last through tomorrow. How is Mrs. Twisby?”

  “Good.” He searched for a diplomatic term. “Bit cheeky.”

  “A privilege allowed to women of a certain age. And this is really a wonderful gift.” She smiled again, and this time he saw the effort in it, the edge of desperation. “How are the orchids?”

  Loel grimaced.

  “I’m sorry.” Bonny slumped. “I did the best I could.”

  “Don’t apologize,” said Loel. “It’s only thanks to you that any of them survived. But the weather’s finally turned—you must have been warm inside the orchid house?”

  “Aren’t greenhouses supposed to be warm?”

  “Some of them are,” Loel acknowledged. “But not all, and I keep orchids that prefer cooler weather. A good many of those… overheated.”

  “You mean I killed them?”

  “You couldn’t have known,” Loel replied. “In the winter, it’s a struggle to keep the temperature high enough—but in the warmer months, heat is just as deadly.”

  “Oh.” She sat, eyes downcast, a picture of misery. “Perhaps you can teach me to do better so it doesn’t happen again?”

  “Of course. It only takes a bit of practice—the proof is that the Odontoglossum crispum ought to have been one of the first to die, but it fared better than most.”

  “But it’s still not healthy, is it? It’s grown, what, a single leaf in the three months.”

  “It’s a miracle that it’s survived as long as it has.” Loel sighed. Whatever Bonny’s mistakes, they didn’t stem from malice. Perhaps he was gullible, but he believed in her good intentions.

  “Stay here,” he told her. “I’m going to fetch the tableware and a bottle of wine. I owe you some information.”

  He kept china and utensils in the music room but just one set. And he usually washed them in a bucket in the yard. But he stored his wine in the meat cellar—underground for the even temperatures but no danger of accidentally poaching from the trust-protected bottles in the wine cellar—where the servants’ tableware was close to hand.

  It took some doing to carry the bottle and opener, a handful of utensils, plus the extra glass and plate all at once, with a few fingers free to open doors, but he managed it. He returned to the table in the yard and thanked Bonny when she carefully disassembled the stack he’d made, item by item, arranging the table.

  She eyed the wine as he scored the foil with the sharp tip of his bottle opener. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Why not? You’re a married woman now.” He peeled away the foil, twisted the screw into the cork, and pulled. “You’re allowed a vice or two.”

  She lifted the glass he poured to her lips and sipped, pillowy lips puckering at the taste. “It’s… all right.”

  “Hmm. Well, there are others.” He downed his glass in a single quaff—he was about to explain something he very much hated to discuss—and poured himself another. “You must have wondered how it’s possible for me to have access to my family’s property but not my family’s money.”

  “I’d assumed—everyone had—that your parents disinherited you, but that Woodclose had been entailed…”

  “My life would be easier if that were the case. If I owned any part of Woodclose, I’d get income from it.” Loel shrugged and emptied another glass. He didn’t taste the wine, but that wasn’t the point. “My father rewrote his will to bypass me while keeping the family’s assets in the direct line.”

  Bonny’s eyes widened. “Why? Because of the fire?”

  “No.” He could have explained but—no. He didn’t want to talk about Captain Royce or the Incitatus. Not yet, maybe not ever. “He put everything into a trust for my heirs. It’s designed to cut me out—but only me. If we have children, they’ll inherit all the property, all the investments, bank accounts fattened by years of compounded interest. The trust will release funds to ensure that they receive appropriate care and schooling. You’ll never need to worry about a daughter’s dowry or a son’s quarterly allowance.”

  Bonny’s eyes widened. “And my family—my sister?”

  “No. I’m essentially a tenant here—I don’t own anything that I haven’t bought myself. Not a single fork or plate, not even a book.”

  “That’s why you couldn’t donate to the library!”

  “I had to petition the trustees to make improvements to the orchid house.” He began ticking off a list. “The basin, the fountains, the hanging shelves. I had to prove that I wasn’t stealing from my eventual heir. One of the trustees tried to stop me, on the grounds that commerce would devalue the property. Luckily, he was in the minority.”

  “What did he expect you to do?” Bonny demanded. “Starve?”

  “Make a living like anyone else,” said Loel. “Ask one of my competitors whether it’s fair that the trust pays all taxes on the property, including the greenhouses.”

  “I suppose they’d say it’s not.”

  “And ask yourself how you would have felt, knowing I had all my family’s wealth at my disposal? If I’d been collecting racehorses and throwing parties while you sewed your own clothes and settled for Charles Gavin?”

  “I would have been furious.”

  “So things are as they should be, more or less.” He uncovered the dishes, and Bonny began serving—creamed spinach, roasted lamb, stewed apricots, all prepared with enough spice to prickle his nostrils. “We’re on our own. But any children we might have are safe from our mistakes, and I find that makes them easier to bear.”

  “Oh.” Bonny smiled, not so much from joy as from gratitude. “I see what you mean. Thank you.”

  He reached across the table and offered his hand. She took it, and he squeezed. “We can do this, you and I. We’re going to be fine. Yes?”

  He was surprised by how fiercely she returned his grip, by the intensity of her echoed “Yes!” And he wondered, for the first time since the vicar’s wife had burst in on them, if perhaps he’d gotten lucky.

  Chapter 16

  She could feel Loel softening and it took all her willpower not to push for more. It was her instinct for self-preservation at work, the same that compelled dogs to please their masters or clerks their supervisors. She didn’t just want his approval—she needed it.

  Patience, she told herself. Patience.

  She could tell that while Loel might be wary of her affection, he took offers of assistance at face value. She couldn’t blame him for being suspicious… but nor could she stop herself from capitalizing on the one opening he left for her.

  When they’d finished eating, she said, “Why don’t you give me a more thorough introduction to your greenhouse?”

  He agreed. Willingly. When she asked if he had tasks for her, to ease his regular workload,
he answered “yes” without hesitation. He didn’t trust her with his heart, but he seemed to have faith in her work ethic.

  It was a start, wasn’t it?

  He introduced her to the iconic simplicity of the moth orchids, fan-shaped, brilliantly colored, and so modest in their demands: a bit of water once a week, good sunlight. He showed her how to recognize the cattleyas by their flamboyant lips; they only liked to be watered when they were very dry. She had overdone it while Loel was sick and killed most of them, leaving a large section of the greenhouse nearly empty.

  The dancing ladies, on the other hand, had thrived under her inept care. These flowers formed a shape that resembled, like in a silhouette or a cameo, a well-dressed woman of the previous decade, with great leg-of-mutton sleeves and long, full skirts. They were all positioned right next to the cascading fountains, and the extra water had done them good.

  The lady’s slipper orchids were her favorites. Their petals formed a pouch shape that would have provided very stylish footwear to a fairy on her way to a ball. And that was only the beginning. There were star-shaped Angraecums, spotted Vandas… It was a hobby, she supposed, for people who liked to be absorbed in minutiae.

  In the evening, they grazed again from the dishes that Mrs. Twisby had sent. When Bonny yawned, tired after a long day, Loel touched her shoulder.

  “Not tonight.”

  She would have liked to whine. She’d had enough of rejection—and her husband was rejecting the part of her that she’d always believed to be most valuable; her body, her beauty.

  But she checked herself. There was no judgment in his expression. His hand rested gently on her shoulder, a kind touch rather than an intimate one. Still, he’d made contact. He meant no insult.

  So Bonny nodded her acquiescence and went upstairs alone. She slept now in one of the rooms that she’d sneakily explored while Loel was sick—grand and neglected, like most of the house, the protective sheets pulled away to reveal elegant furniture, spindly and feminine.

  It ought to have been a lovely room, except that—Bonny realized—a lovely room must be lived in and cared for, must breathe with the soul of the people who inhabit it. A room that had sat empty for so long could only be sad.