‘Being vicious doesn’t suit you. It needs my sort of personality to pull it off, Isla.’
I knew he was right and he was enjoying watching me bristle. I should have left it there but he had my ire up now. ‘What I’m trying to say is that you might be prey to certain whims but don’t tar me with that same brush.’
His smile widened and in that moment I felt soppy enough to believe that perhaps it was worth getting angry with him just to see its brilliance. ‘Really? You being here is wholly about doctoring?’
‘What else do you think it is?’ I demanded, frowning, covering the guilt. I hated myself right now for the attempted deception, not just of Saxon, but of myself.
He said nothing for a few moments in which I could swear the world stilled. There was no sound, no movement, just Saxon’s stare, filled with accusation. I felt consumed by the blue . . . his eyes, the dome of sky that I suddenly felt weightless within, the stripe on the pyjamas he wore. All that compelling blueness conspiring against me, drawing me under a spell.
‘You’re a useless liar, Isla.’
Before I could speak again he had leaned forward and in doing so had claimed my space as his. Now he was so close I could taste the sugary flavour on his breath from his tooth dentifrice, and still he paused, embarrassingly near, disgustingly confident, and I remained horrifyingly excited.
‘Worried about my illness being this close?’
‘I know what you have is not contagious.’
He grinned and I knew he’d said that to give me one final excuse. But now it was too late. Saxon thieved the tatters of my conscience and without mercy stole the kiss that I had promised myself over and over in my mind I would never relinquish to him. I had thought myself barricaded against such weakness, believed I possessed self-control that temptation could not penetrate. I was spoken for, another man’s property. I loved Jove. Didn’t I?
And yet all Saxon Vickery had to do was lean forward close enough and pause a heartbeat before my permission was given. Once his lips had closed over mine it sealed something intensely private between us. It wasn’t a case of unlocking those feelings. Those feelings lived around me, within me, were me. I had just been moving through my days on the pretence they did not exist.
But they were living, breathing, passionate feelings. These secret moments belonged only to us and none of the world’s sights or sounds, smells or creatures could penetrate our locked embrace. As I kissed him back so recklessly, I opened myself up entirely. This man aroused me – not only physically but emotionally – so that I could feel rage and raw desire in the same heartbeat. Sadly, I wasn’t thinking about Jove. I also flattered myself that he wasn’t thinking about his wife.
For me there was only ‘us’ and I was dizzied by kissing the man I’d longed to kiss, was forbidden to kiss, and it made me feel weightless, floating in a cloud of delicious need. In spite of how powerless I knew I’d become beneath his loving, there was also empowerment. I don’t think in those passionate moments I’d ever felt more in touch with myself, my desires, or who I truly was. And worse, I was consumed by a possessiveness that frightened me; it roared up like a monster and became a greed for him.
I couldn’t let him go so I pulled him closer and the seal strengthened; our lips moved in a silent conversation that conveyed thought, emotion and more feeling than any words could. Is there anything more intimate than a deep kiss? I think not. I think Saxon and I were more naked in that moment to each other than we might ever be again. The honesty of it made me weepy and when we finally broke apart, dismantling the spell, I had nothing but my tears to give, all of them falling for my easy betrayal of Jove.
Saxon looked down into my lap where we had laced fingers, anchoring hands, perhaps, so that we couldn’t be tempted to venture further down this precipitous path. I dared not look into his lap. He was trembling from the slight breeze that was picking up, shaking his frailty, and also no doubt from the pounding desire he was controlling . . . as he controlled everything about his life.
‘Besides, what you say isn’t wholly true about not being loved,’ he murmured, his voice grittier than usual. He spoke as if we had been in the midst of a discussion and then I realised we had been, and he was referring to my cutting remark that no family loved him. ‘My wife loves me,’ he said.
‘Jove loves me,’ I whispered, chasing his confession.
‘And yet here we are.’ He mocked our treachery.
I untangled my hand from his. ‘Oh, I hate myself!’ I sniffed.
‘I did warn you.’
I nodded. ‘I wanted to prove myself above your smug belief.’
‘It was as much, if not more so, a warning to myself.’ And in typical Saxon style his voice turned tender and I heard only affection. ‘Isla, I’ve been married for four years, most of that time spent here in India. It doesn’t matter how unpleasant I am, women continue to flirt, some of them go further and have tried quite ferociously to get beneath my defences. But I haven’t once been unfaithful to my wife.’
‘Until now,’ I qualified.
He sighed, nodding once.
‘But I haven’t flirted or tried to catch your attention,’ I added. It was as though I was trying to make this all his fault.
‘No, you haven’t but you also won’t leave me alone.’ I wanted to dispute this but my actions defied any protest. He placed his hand on mine again, gently though, so the gesture was not at all possessive. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong, Isla.’
‘Are you saying this is all your fault, then?’
‘Yes. Your conduct to the outside world could not be misconstrued.’
‘Except this isn’t the outside world, Saxon. No one is here but us,’ I said, looking around. ‘This is our world that we’ve created and in this world I don’t think I can misinterpret the plain truth that I have just kissed you and I did so with longing and with passion.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for? I’m not a child. I didn’t have to kiss you back. I could have pushed you away at the first sign of indiscretion. No, Saxon, obviously whether I was conscious about it or not, I wanted this to happen.’ I watched him shiver. ‘Come on, let’s head back. There’s a million steps to climb and I can’t carry you.’
‘There are twenty-one steps,’ he said, easing himself off the wall and allowing me to link his arm through mine. I wasn’t sure if I was offering support or simply wanting to keep touching him while I sorted through my anguished thoughts.
_________
Fortunately, he was exhausted by the time we reached his bedroom and I was able to fuss like a good nurse in getting him settled into bed and tucked in. I offered more painkiller, although he pushed it away, preferring to cope without the drug.
I busied myself, talking all the while about nothing in particular while I checked his temperature, which was still up but not too high. I refilled his water jug, flannelled his face, and pointed to the vessel, should he need to spend a penny, and he gave me one of his withering looks to suggest he was not an idiot.
And then he mocked me by pulling away the layers of distance I had been trying to create. ‘You can run all you like from it, Dr Fenwick, but you must face the reality of what happened today.’
‘I’m not running away. I’m here, aren’t I?’
He seemed to change his mind on challenging me. I could see his body loosening into the limpness of weariness. ‘As you wish.’
‘I’m going to make up some food.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘I don’t care. Your body is. Rest. I’ll be back in an hour.’
I scurried away before he could say any more, which left me and my guilt to confront one another. I moved around the kitchen in a slight stupor but it was helpful to have my hands busied, knowing what they had to do as they chopped and stirred until I had a chicken soup simmering. In it I had vegetables, diced tiny for easy digestion, and was pleased with myself Saxon would get a good dose of protein and vegetable. And while I stared at m
y small pot of golden healing liquid and began the repetitive chore of skimming the surface to take away as much fat as I could from the meal, I let my mind wander now into the dangerous area I had been avoiding.
What was I doing with Saxon? Where did I think it might lead? What were my hopes for this recklessness? I had no satisfactory answers; in fact, nothing more than mere bleats seemed to bubble up. I was dealing with an itch I had been trying not to scratch for months. It would lead only to misery. I had only the hope that I could resist him until I left this place knowing he was well down his pathway of recovery. Could I turn away from him? Yes! That was my only definitive response. Why? Because I was too scared of the consequences if I did not.
I carried a tray I had taken much care in preparing, including the small bunch of wildflowers, back down the corridors, retracing my steps. Evening was settling across the landscape and I was feeling more in control. I had kissed him. That was an error but the itch was now scratched. I would live with that brief mistake, bury it deep, never confront it again, and I knew in years, even in a few months’ time, the reality of this slip-up would dim. The guilt would lessen. Yes, I’m promised but not married – I’m sure lots of engaged people experience similar crises and are able to make sense of them and pack them away. I had sampled what was forbidden and I needed never taste it again. There! I felt strong and composed standing outside his door. I knocked.
‘Still here?’ he called out. Obviously this was to be an ongoing amusement for him.
I balanced the tray expertly and let myself in. ‘Afraid so,’ I said, smiling but in a professional way, I thought.
His pyjama top was open and his hair damp.
‘Did you bathe?’ What a stupid and obvious question.
‘I’ve cooled my temperature.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t do that alone,’ I said, trying to regain some ground. I checked his bandage, which was intact and dry.
‘So I’m to call you when I’m naked, am I? I’m to act helpless and as though I don’t understand my own physiology?’
‘Saxon, stop being contrary and do as you’re told – just for once.’ He knew how to vex simply by grinning at me. ‘Well, a shower has perked you up, that’s for sure.’ He had colour in his face again that was not fever.
‘What have you been up to?’
‘This is a poached chicken soup. Lots of good healing in here.’
‘It smells good, thank you.’
My hackles smoothed. ‘I used tea to help in the poaching and give that deep colour.’
‘Tea? Goodness, I’m impressed.’
‘Whatever are you doing?’ I asked, frowning to see his hands moving expertly with paper. Even bandaging halfway up one hand couldn’t make him look clumsy.
‘Have you heard of origami?’
I frowned and shook my head.
‘Ah, so you don’t know everything, Dr Fenwick.’
I gave him a look of exasperation as I set the tray down and sat politely on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch him. I kept my eyes firmly on his and what was in his hands, although my gaze fought me, wanting to glance at the taut belly, the broad chest, but I watched his fingers finish folding paper into something small and intricate. He made a final neat manoeuvre, tucking a tiny triangle of paper within one of the concertina-like folds. He held it in the palm of his hand and waited.
‘A bird?’ I said, genuinely delighted.
‘Not just any bird. This is my best interpretation of a Himalayan green magpie.’
‘It’s exquisite.’
‘Thank you. And before you ask, we had a house guest who came for three months and stayed thirteen years. He was Japanese and an old master at the art of origami.’ Saxon said this word in a special way, fast and rolling his ‘r’. ‘He taught me over a decade of growing up how to fold a square of paper into anything I wanted.’
I stared at the beautiful little creature made of paper. ‘And Himalayan green magpie sounds very specific.’
‘It is. This little thing is trying to capture the spirit of Jade, my pet bird of childhood. She was young, injured and I found her one day while trekking. Everyone else was all for wringing her neck and being done with it but I put her into my shirt next to my heart so she was warm and, I hoped, reassured. She survived, and then couldn’t go back to the wild so she lived with me for years and was tame. I used to walk around with Jade on my shoulder. She was a luminescent, vivid green . . . she was truly extraordinary and whistled beautifully.’ I loved to hear this wistfulness in him because it rarely sounded as if Saxon had many happy memories but this was clearly one. ‘When she died, strangely she turned blue, the colour of glaciers.’ The colour of your eyes, I thought. ‘I was inconsolable for about a year and I used to make these little icons of her most days.’
‘What a precious relationship,’ I murmured, enchanted by the story.
‘Which is why this is for you, Isla.’ He offered the paper bird and I accepted it, thrilled. ‘I think our relationship is precious,’ he added and I wished he hadn’t. ‘I think I love you as much as I loved Jade.’
Because that was all it took. The right words in an affectionate tone that was rarely heard from Saxon, I suspected. The words themselves seemed like the most tender of caresses.
I swallowed. ‘Our friendship means a lot to me too.’ It was a poor attempt at deflection.
‘I know you’re trying to protect yourself but being disingenuous is not helpful. I’ve been fighting against a tide of desire and yearning since you first slapped me.’
My gaze snapped up to him to see if he was teasing me but he was earnest this time. ‘No one’s ever fought back like you. Oh, my parents and I fought but they didn’t care. You fought with me because you did.’
‘And your wife?’ There it was, the invidious claw of jealousy, bubbling up. I’d put ownership on him even though I knew I couldn’t have him or he me, so I hated that she could legitimately call him hers.
He didn’t seem to notice me inwardly gag at my indiscretion, and made an effort at a candid answer. ‘I married to please everyone but not myself. I never set much store by the notion of love; I’d never experienced it at home so I had no real sense of it for life; the closest I got was Jade. I loved that bird more than anything. When she died after a long, good life, it hurt terribly. And I probably decided that loving something too much was painful, so perhaps I decided not to love anyone ever and closed myself off to it.’ He lifted a shoulder, clearly self-conscious of this deeply revealing fact. ‘But my wife loves me with all of her heart. There’s nothing fake about how she feels.’
In that moment my jealousy fled and was replaced by interest. ‘But, Saxon, surely Frances deserves more than passing admiration for putting up with you?’ I was trying to be so objective but her very name sounded ‘green’ in my head, as I fought the jealousy monster.
‘Yes, she does. She’s a lovely person, tolerant of me, seems to accept – even if she doesn’t understand – all the horrible parts about me, and there are plenty of those,’ he qualified. ‘She’s the counterbalance, you could say, because everything about Frances is fine and I am deeply fond of her. I question what she’s doing with me.’
‘Unfortunately it’s your thoroughly brusque, often indifferent, attitude that makes you interesting to women.’
‘I don’t understand it.’ His admission appeared genuine.
‘And then there’s how you look. You can pretend, Saxon, but you can’t hide from it. You were blessed and that makes you hard to miss in a crowd.’
He waved my rationale away, clearly tired of being reminded.
‘Only those kissed by gods can be that dismissive. There are men —’
‘Miles, for instance,’ he said, a wickedness in his tone.
‘Yes, poor carrot-haired, freckle-faced, gangly-limbed Miles, who surely suffered terrible acne as a child and an ugly disposition to boot.’
‘He deserves all the bumps in the road that he meets on his journey. Miles lacks em
pathy and for a doctor that’s unforgivable in my book – certainly a doctor out here. Sometimes empathy is what keeps the whole circus going.’
I nodded. ‘It’s not a vocation for him, no calling. He simply had the brainpower and opportunity . . . he used both. He’s getting married, by the way, to a beautiful, seemingly empty-headed creature just arrived off the boat. I admire his resolve.’
He cut me a sharp glance of confusion.
‘But I don’t admire him. Anyway, you neatly manoeuvred me off my topic.’
‘Which is?’
‘Frances. Surely she wants you home.’ I tried not to make it a question but it hung between us. He didn’t answer, staring at the paper bird I twirled restlessly. ‘So do you love her?’ I pressed, knowing he’d already answered that question but I needed him to clarify it.
He looked slightly bewildered. ‘She is my wife, I shall remain fond of and care for her until there’s no more breath within me.’
There was the truth of their relationship; he would let nothing affect their status as man and wife. I shouldn’t have been surprised, yet his admission cut as surgically as a scalpel through skin, straight to my aching heart. I begged myself not to say it but out it came like a train emerging from a tunnel, steam exploding from the mouth that had held it. ‘What about me?’ There it was, my deepest insecurity aired. I loathed my weakness.
He raised his gaze to look upon me and his expression was bruised. He shook his head and my throat felt constricted by the certainty of the gesture. ‘Our love is irrelevant,’ he murmured, and while I’d misread his response, its negativity nevertheless stung. ‘We’re not allowed to have “us” beyond here,’ he qualified quickly, waving a hand through the air to signify Brackenridge. ‘But let me say this, Isla, how you affect me transcends any relationship I’ve had with anyone. I don’t know what this is that we have, but . . . ’ His words trailed away.
I needed him to be specific. ‘But what?’ I urged, desperate for him to help me understand how I could betray the man I loved for someone who clearly didn’t want me to love him.
‘I’ve done everything within my power to resist the gravitational pull towards you, but the universe insists on drawing us together so presumably it wants something from us.’
The Tea Gardens Page 31