Just who does she think she is? Patrick was thinking. The cheek of the woman. My God, ye nearly made a terrible mistake there, Pat me boy. Ye’re well out of it. A hoyden, that’s what she is. She’d’ve made your life a misery given half the chance – an’ who wants her anyway? She’s nuthin’ special when ye get close. He bit into the pie and munched it as though it was her he was chewing up. Then he examined it half-heartedly and, with a curse, flung it as far as he could, watching it bounce off a rooftop and shatter in a cloud of crumbs. Oh, shit. Ye’ve really gone and messed things up, haven’t ye? He sprang up and resumed his work, bringing down his pick in a strenuous arc and taking his anger out on the earth. For he knew that however she had behaved, whatever he had said about her, he could never give up.
* * *
The sun had gone down. Thomasin closed the shop door behind her and set off for home, a sense of emptiness inside her. What a fool she had been, ruining her chances with her bluntness. She should seriously consider having her tongue amputated. It was too late now; he knew what she was. His angry face came to mind – the tanned features creased into an unflattering frown, the blue eyes sparkling with vexation. Why, oh why when she felt as she had never done before about anyone, did she have to open her big gob? Before she had gone very far she felt a hand on her arm. ‘What d’you want?’ she muttered crossly, then cursed herself – Look, there you go again!
Patrick swallowed the angry retort that sprang to his lips and walked alongside her. ‘I wanted to apologise. I had no call to say those things about ye. Ye were right, I did fancy ye – an’ I would’ve asked ye if I could call on ye, like, given time.’
‘How much time, though?’ asked Thomasin, trying to keep pace with him, then grinned to show she didn’t mean it as it sounded.
He smiled. ‘I suppose I must seem a bit backward to you.’
‘Makes a change. Wish the same could be said for that mate o’ yours.’
‘Ye mean John?’
‘Long on cheek, brown hair, gappy teeth an’ dirty laugh?’
‘That sounds like John all right,’ chuckled Patrick.
‘By, he’s a fly devil, that’n. D’yer know, yesterday he asked me for these cakes what I ’ad to go through t’back for. When I came back, he pays me and it’s only when he goes out I notice there’s half a dozen almond tarts missin’.’
‘Sure, I thought ’twas unusually generous o’ John to be treating us all!’
He threw back his head in laughter. She linked her arm familiarly with his and smiled up at him. ‘Look at us, walkin’ along an’ laughin’ as if we’ve known each other years.’
‘You’re very forward if I might voice an opinion without gettin’ covered in jelly.’
Thomasin threw up her eyes. ‘Eh, I can be a right scold. ’Ave yer gorrit off yer shirt yet? Let’s ’ave a look.’ She made him turn round. ‘Tut, I’ve made a right mess of it. I’m ever so sorry. Tell yer what, you come ’ome wi’ me an’ I’ll try to clean it for yer.’
‘There’s no need,’ answered Patrick, then berated himself for his loose tongue. Wasn’t that what he wanted, to go home with her?
Luckily for him she insisted. ‘It was my fault I lost me temper. I’m allus doin’ it.’
‘Aye, made me look a right clown, didn’t ye? Well, I dare say I deserved it.’ He told her his name.
‘Mine’s Thomasin Fenton, how d’yer do?’ She looked along the street, wondering whether Roland would put in an appearance tonight, then decided it was worth the risk. ‘Away then, let’s get ’ome an’ get that shirt off.’ Patrick was pleased to see she had the grace to blush. She wasn’t such a hoyden then. He took her arm. The heat of her skin escaped the thin material of her sleeve – it burnt like the very Devil himself.
Roland Cummings, heading back from the castle, turned into Piccadilly with the intention of waylaying Thomasin before she left the shop. The sight of them brought him to a standstill and a wave of nausea rose to his throat. The couple sauntered arm in arm into St George’s Terrace, the woman lifting her face adoringly to her companion who slid an arm possessively round her, pulling her to him. Both were blind to everyone and everything except each other – as is usually the way of people in iove.
Chapter Sixteen
‘Come in,’ invited Thomasin as he stood outside rubbing his hands nervously.
He followed her inside, wiping his dusty boots on the mat and making a quick appraisal of the room. Doubt touched him fleetingly again – God, will ye look at this place, he told himself. Perhaps she was too good for him, was used to a better life than he could offer. But no, there was no mistaking the warmth in those eyes.
She offered him some tea which he gratefully accepted. In the kitchen she could barely keep the cups from rattling in their saucers and fought to calm her nerves. Huh, that was a good’n; Thomasin Fenton nervous of a fella! But even as she said it she knew that this one was different – special. Though God knew what it was she found so attractive; he obviously didn’t have a penny to his name – I’ll have to find a new category, she thought – though I don’t know what I’ll call it. He’s one on his own is this’n. Those eyes.
Patrick thanked her for the tea, glad to note that most of it was in the saucer. Glad, because minutes earlier he had felt oafish and callow next to her and now he knew that she was as nervous as himself. It was crazy, the two of them behaving like children.
‘Where d’yer come from, Patrick?’ asked Thomasin politely whilst sipping her tea.
‘Ireland.’
‘Well, I know that, yer daft… sorry, I meant what part?’
He told her, adding, ‘I mean to go back there some day.’
She saw the wistful expression in his eyes. ‘What did yer come ’ere for in t’first place, if yer don’t mind me askin’?’
‘We were starvin’,’ he replied simply.
‘We?’
‘Me an’ the wife, everybody, nearly everybody I knew. Don’t ask me to describe it. I couldn’t in a million years. ’Twas… devastating is the word that springs to mind, but even that isn’t strong enough.’ He sighed.
Her face had dropped when she heard the word ‘wife’. ‘Yer married then?’
Her forlorn mien prompted him to hasty explanation. ‘Ah no, I’ve been a widower these last couple o’ years.’
‘Sorry. Did she… was it because of the famine?’
‘No, she died in the cholera epidemic of forty-nine.’ He saw that her face was without its usual smile. ‘Cheer up, I didn’t mean for to make ye miserable. ’Twas a long time ago, it doesn’t hurt me to talk about her now.’ It was with some surprise that he realised this was true.
She reached for the teapot. ‘More tea, Patrick?’ He thanked her and held out his cup. ‘Tell me what life is like in Ireland.’
‘Sure, ’twouldn’t be as interesting as your own.’
‘Let me be the judge o’ that,’ said Thomasin firmly. ‘An’ as for workin’ in a bakery bein’ interestin’ that beats all, that does. Come on, tell us.’
Patrick did not know where to begin, but soon found himself telling her about the cottage where he had been born, the work he had done, the people amongst whom he had lived.
‘An’ what sorta things did yer do for pleasure?’ she asked.
‘Well, in the summer we’d be workin’ the fields all day, there wasn’t much time for pleasure as you’d know it. In the winter it was lazier, ’cause there were no praties to be tended. We’d pile the fire high with turf an’ invite our neighbours in for a sing-song an’ a tale, an’ hope the poteen would see us through the end o’ winter.’
‘Yer’ll find it a bit different round ’ere, then?’
‘I do,’ he sighed. ‘Of all the things I miss ’tis the greenness most of all. The city is full of ugliness.’
‘By, lad, yer must walk around wi’ yer eyes shut! York’s a grand ol’ place.’
‘Well, you’re bound to say that, ye live here.’
‘I weren’t born ’e
re though. I come from t’country, same as thee, but I can still find beauty in a city.’
Patrick laughed at her vehement defence of the place. ‘Well, can ye show it to me for I’ve yet to come across it.’
‘Right, I will,’ vouched Thomasin. ‘I’ll tek yer on a tour o’ York. When can yer come?’
Patrick said that Sunday was his only day of freedom, then had an idea. ‘Thomasin, d’ye think ’twould be all right to bring me daughter along for part of the time? She doesn’t get much enjoyment an’ well – I’ve been awful hard on her since her mammy died. I’d like to make things up if I can.’
Though wanting him to herself Thomasin smiled warmly and said of course it would be all right. ‘’Ow old is she?’ He told her five. ‘I expect she misses her mam.’
A nod. ‘One o’ my friends looks after her for me, she’s very good to her but ’tis not the same, is it?’
Thomasin played with the buttons on her dress. ‘’Ave yer never thought of marryin’ again?’
‘I have… but never seriously till now.’ – God, what’s wrong with you, Feeney, saying things like that? She’s not the sort o’ female a clean Irish boy weds.
My God, thought Thomasin, what am I getting mvself into? Look at him, poor as a church mouse. What sort of life could he offer? However attractive he might be, whatever her feelings for him she had not intended that it should come to this. Then just what did you expect? she asked herself. Lord, I don’t know, but if I don’t steer this conversation away from marriage, if he keeps looking at me with those eyes of his, it would be anyone’s guess where it would all end. ‘Er, more tea, Mr Feeney?’ she stammered.
‘’Twas Patrick a moment ago. Have I said something wrong?’ He declined the tea.
She put down the pot and answered lightly, ‘No, ’course not – oh, I nearly forgot! I said I’d get that mark off yer shirt, didn’t I? Best take it off an’ I’ll see what I can do.’
‘I’m not sure that would be decent.’ His eyes had darkened, his lips slightly apart. ‘Besides, I’ve a feelin’ on me that I won’t be able to stop at the shirt.’
‘Now who’s bein’ forward?’ she joked, but her voice quavered.
They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, then Patrick began to unbutton the shirt and pulled it over his head. She found that she could not take her eyes off him. Her breath came in rapid, heart-fluttering sighs. Never had she wanted anyone as she wanted him, wanted him so much that it was agony just standing there looking. It was this look that encouraged him to make his move. As she reached out for the shirt his hand shot out and manacled her wrist, pulling her close. The heat from his body wrapped itself around her, drawing her into him.
‘Ye don’t seem to have much to say for yourself now,’ he said thickly. ‘Are ye sorry y’asked me to take it off?’
She shook her head slowly as his mouth came down on hers. The actual effect far surpassed those vivid imaginings that had preceded it. She now knew what it felt like to drown. Each muscle and nerve of her body seemed to liquefy, to melt into a sensuous whirlpool of pleasure. Her tongue darted tentatively between his lips, shocking him. Never had he done such things – but he did them now – You’re mad, you’re bloody mad, she scolded herself but continued all the same.
Patrick was dying. The line between pain and pleasure became so fine that he no longer knew which side of it he trod. He could only pull her closer, moulding his body to hers, touching her, screaming out for her. They fell to the carpet, assisting each other in the shedding of clothes, their lips never parting as though bonded together. Thomasin pressed her palms against his chest, pushing him downwards, her breasts tumbling like lush fruits. She bent over Patrick’s beautiful strong face, gracing it with light, loving kisses. His eyelashes brushed her lips as she touched them. Nose, lips, cheeks, throat — none escaped; she wanted to taste every part of him. A pause in her movements as she gazed down into his face brought his eyes open and the love there mirrored her own. So this was what it was like, love. God, what she had been missing. What did all the other things matter? All the jewellery, the clothes, the money, all were irrelevant now. This was the only thing that mattered; this moment. Such were the things one dreamed on when one grew old.
Patrick felt about to explode. He started gently to push her over, to assert his dominance.
‘Please, not yet,’ she begged. ‘I want this to last.’ She resisted the pressure and continued to lay her lips upon his body, shivering as she anticipated the feel of him inside her. His breath came in urgent gasps, belly contracting as her tongue slithered over him. He groaned her name. Ecstatically she brushed her lips against the silken hardness of him, making his tumescence too agonizing to bear. With a convulsive shudder he ejaculated high over his taut stomach, forcing a groan of pleasure and apology from his lips.
‘Ah, Christ I’m so sorry.’ He swallowed and pulled her up beside him, holding her small face in one great hand. ‘It’s been so long, an’ I wanted ye too much. ’Twas like bein’ a wee boy let loose in a sweety shop. God, woman ye’re enough to drive a fella crazy doin’ things like that.’ It was never that way with Mary. Mary had never done things to him – he had never even known that women enjoyed it till now.
‘Ssh.’ Thomasin placed a finger to his lips. ‘It doesn’t matter, honest. It was my fault, any road. I just couldn’t stop. I wanted it to go on an’ on.’
He kissed her. ‘It doesn’t have to stop, does it? After all we’ve the rest of our lives for making it last.’ He noticed the flicker in her grey eyes and propped himself on one elbow, looking down on her. ‘I can’t help noticing that every time I’m steeling meself to broach the subject o’ matrimony ye go all defensive. Is it that you’re married already?’
She pointed to her finger and asked softly, ‘See any ring?’
‘But you’re living with a man at least.’
She started. ‘What makes yer say that?’
‘Sure, I’m not blind,’ he answered with a kiss. ‘There’s plenty o’ signs about the house. That robe over there, ’twould swamp you – an’ I doubt if ye’ve taken to wearing trousers, although I’d not put anything past ye.’ God, he still trembled with disbelief.
She followed his eyes and saw Roland’s checked trousers hanging neatly over the back of a chair. It had never occurred to her just how much of him was here: a lone cigar on the mantelshelf, the gold cravat pin so carelessly mislaid under one of the armchairs.
‘D’ye do things like this with him?’
‘What if I do? What if I am livin’ wi’ someone? It’s not really any o’ your business, is it?’
‘Ye can lie there an’ say that?’ he expostulated fiercely, winding his fingers into her hair. ‘After what ye’ve just done with me? And yes, I reckon it is my business – leastwise I’m making it so.’
She felt his hardness pressing into her but resisted the urge to yield to it. ‘Why? Why, is it?’
‘’Cause ye know the way I feel about ye, brazen though y’are, an’ if I’m not mistaken ye feel the same about me. Is it the fella I saw ye with in the shop?’
She closed her eyes in affirmation and pulled his head to her breast but he struggled free pettishly. ‘Y’ought to have told me before.’
‘Yer never asked. Anyway, I’m not actually livin’ with him, he just set me up in this ’ouse so he can come an’ see me from time to time.’
Patrick felt the jealousy gnaw at brain and body, at the same time asking what sort of woman had he got himself mixed up with. ‘Will he be likely to come tonight?’
She felt herself go hot at the thought of Roland coming in and catching them like this. After a look at the clock she sighed in relief. ‘I don’t think he’ll come now, it’s too late. To tell yer the truth I never even gave ’im a thought – isn’t that awful?’
Patrick found it hard to summon any sympathy for his rival. He tightened his hold on her hair. ‘Ye must tell him ’tis over when next ye see him.’
‘But that
means I’ll ’ave to give up this ’ouse. We’ll ’ave nowhere to be together.’
‘We’ll manage somehow. I don’t relish the thought o’ makin’ love to you under another man’s roof.’
‘Have I any choice?’
‘No. And there’s something else: when ye see him ye’ll not make love to him.’ It was an order rather than a request. ‘You’re mine now, Thomasin; mine an’ nobody else will have ye. If he does, I’ll kill him.’ He thrust himself inside her, using his body almost as a weapon, plunging for her very core, clamping his lips over hers and drowning her mews of passion, finally erupting in one last desperate thrust and filling her body with his burning seed.
* * *
The moon crept stealthily through the bedroom window to where they had retired, clothing their satiated bodies in its ethereal glow. Thomasin lay in the crook of his arm, tracing a delicate finger over his torso and making him shiver. He tugged the bedclothes over them, slinging a leg over her as he did so and taking her earlobe gently between his teeth.
‘Ah, I shouldn’t get too comfortable.’ He peered at the clock on the bedside table. ‘’Tis sinful late.’
Prising herself loose she reached over, opened the window that encased the dial and, instead of, as he thought, merely putting the hands back, twisted them almost into knots. ‘That’s what I do to spoilsports.’
He laughed and rolled with her. ‘D’ye know you’re a bloody crazy woman?’
‘Stay with me,’ she answered.
He sighed into her ear, sending mind and body into turmoil. ‘Ah, I wish I could, but Erin’ll be worried enough as it is.’ She took his hand away from her breast and laid it firmly over her waist. ‘Then don’t set me off again else yer’ll be lucky if I let yer out of ’ere next week, never mind tonight.’ He grinned into her neck. ‘I’ve never met the like of ye. Insatiable ye are.’
‘It’s you I can’t get enough of.’ Her smiling face turned to his. ‘Funny, it’s as if I’ve known yer all me life. I can’t believe we only spoke to each other properly for the first time today.’
A Long Way from Heaven Page 15