The Duke grunted once more, and then spilled his seed within her. He rolled aside and laughed. “I never dreamed,” he said, “that nightmares could be banished so easily, Rebecca, my love.”
“I am glad to be of service, Your Grace,” Rebecca said, running her fingertips up and down his torso.
“No, I am the one who is glad,” Eddy said. He touched her lips and wiped sweat from her forehead. “You are quite unlike any woman—anywhere.”
“And you are quite unlike any man. Our marriage, I think, is a largely unusual one.”
“How is that?”
“We’re happy.”
“Yes,” Eddy said, smiling once more. “Yes, we are, aren’t we?”
*****
Edward skipped over to her and pulled at her skirts. “Mother!” he cried. “Mother! Mother! There is a rabbit! Look!”
Rebecca looked to where her son pointed. Sure enough, a rabbit had crept onto lawn and was poking its nose into the grass, its little ears wiggling. “Can I pet it, Mother?”
“If you wish,” Rebecca said. “Just be careful.”
Edward skipped over to the rabbit and carefully extended his hand. Father blew plumes of smoke from his pipe. “This is a lovely place, daughter,” he said. “I wish Mother could have seen it.”
“As do I, Father,” Rebecca said.
Mother had died a year ago, had just dropped one day and never arisen. Father said once that it was because she had succeeded in her life’s work; Rebecca was married and there was nothing left for her to do. Rebecca didn’t believe that for a moment, but it was a nice thought. Auntie Garnet sat on the lawn with them, her hat pulled low, leaning over her knitting.
“She often spoke of you, before the end,” Father said, looking meditatively at his grandson. “She spoke about your fiery wit when dealing with the suitors before your husband. She said she was glad none of them had been able to stomach you. Yes, stomach you! Your mother could be as fiery as you when she wished! Where do you think you got it from! She said she was awfully glad that His Grace had been the one to match you, and nobody else! And I cannot blame her!”
“Father, he has said you may call him Edison.”
“Call a Duke by his Christian name!”
“I insist, Father,” Eddy said, emerging onto the lawn. He looked up at the blue sky and smiled contentedly. He had been smiling like that more and more of late; and the nightmares had come with less frequency too. He looked down from the sky to his son and his smiled grew even deeper. “The two of you,” he often said at night, when it was just the two of them, “are the reason I am at peace, Rebecca. I knew being with you would be the savior of me, but I did not dream that I could banish my demons.”
“Love has saved you?”
“I suppose it has. How novelistic!”
“You are absolutely French.”
“Do not tell the general, my love!”
They often bantered about things they had no business bantering about. Half their conversations had the potential for scandal, and the other half were deep and full of love. The Duke used to lock himself in the library alone. Now, if a mood took him, he brought Rebecca with him, and the two of them would spend days reading novels and old manuscripts. The Duke had been a withdrawn, cold man; and in many ways he still was. But not to Edward or Rebecca or Auntie or Father. It was the outside world to which he showed his cold face now. To them he was simply Edison.
“I find it difficult to believe you are my son,” Father said, smiling at Edison. “A Duke, my son-in-law!”
“Yes, Father, your disbelief is legendary,” Edison said, sitting beside him. “The very heavens could collapse before you – the clouds could fall from the sky – the stars could land at your feet – and still you would deny that they exist.”
“Daughter! This man is awfully insulting!”
But they were all smiling, and no real harm had been taken or given. They lived apart from the harm that the outside world offered, with its snide remarks and stifling social constructs. They had to live by them when entertaining or attending social functions – they were not rebels – but when alone, in their home, they allowed themselves a dangerous degree of freedom. Even Father tolerated remarks which in days gone by he would have condemned.
“I was thinking of the walk we took after our wedding,” Edison said presently. “Do you remember, Rebecca? It was around your father’s estate, but we were alone. We were husband and wife. Do you remember? I often wish we could take that walk again, as it was, that we could go back and do it all again.”
“I remember,” Rebecca said. “I remember like it was this morn.”
*****
Rebecca held the strong arm and walked beside the man, but she found it hard to believe that His Grace, Brigadier Edison Wells, Duke of Waltren, was truly her husband. But he was. They had just been married in town, and now they were walking the grounds of Father and Mother’s estate, unchaperoned. It was the first time she had been really alone with Edison. At first they didn’t say much, only commenting upon the weather (which had cooled) and the ceremony (which had been traditional and private). They walked away from the house into the woods until they came to the pond.
“I wish to kiss you,” Edison said.
“Here?” Rebecca said, looking around.
“You are my wife,” Edison said. “Why should I not kiss you here?”
Rebecca looked boldly up at him. “Kiss me, then,” she said. “Kiss me anywhere you wish.”
Edison took her face in his hands and brought her close to him. He kissed her fully upon the lips and Rebecca kissed him back. It was awkward at first, neither of them knowing precisely what they were doing, but then something deep-rooted took over, and they kissed long and hard. When it was over, they were both red-faced and flustered.
“We will be happy,” Edison declared, turning from her and gazing at the pond. A group of ducks moved lazily across the water, and Edison tracked their movements for a time. “You know,” he started, and then faltered.
“Go on,” Rebecca urged.
“In the war, there were horrors. They were horrors so terrible that after a while one became numbed to them. The first time you see a dead body—will this not frighten you?”
“You could never frighten me.”
Edison nodded. “Very well,” he said. “The first time you see a dead body, you are seized with dread. Your entire world pauses, and you are captured with a sort of hopelessness. And then you see another, and it is a little easier. By the tenth body, you cease to be shocked anymore. You cease to be anything. You are simply there. That is all. I used to lay awake at night, after my friends had died, after I had lost my last shred of optimism, idly wondering if I would ever find somebody who could instill within me a renewed sense of hope. Perhaps out there, there is somebody, I would think, who can penetrate this wall around oneself.
“But then I would dismiss it as foolishness. For what woman could understand, empathize, with something of which she had no experience? This sounds awfully strange, Rebecca, but I feel as though you were in France with me—as though you really understand me. I believe I have found that somebody.”
“You believe you have?” Rebecca said, reaching timidly for his hand. “Then I have you bested, Your Grace, for I know you have.”
They kissed again then, and the ducks quacked into the waning sunlight.
The Brigadier's Mouse
Monica Burrows looked down at her sister and felt for a moment as though she could weep. Marie had just turned nine – she was the last child Father had sired before his death – and she was innocent and naïve and didn’t understand the world at all. “But, sister,” she persisted, “Father wouldn’t have left us in such a bad situation. I know he wouldn’t have. I just know it.”
“But he did,” Monica said. “I am sorry, my love. He did.”
“But why?”
Monica sighed. A little girl didn’t need to hear about Father’s drunken binges, his gambling addiction,
his fall into consumption. A little girl didn’t need to hear that the Burrows were now a shunned family because Father had offended more lords than one could count on a single hand. Monica reached down and stroked her sister’s head. “It does not matter, my sweet,” she said. “I am sorry. Life is going to be hard for you as you get older.”
“Not for me!” Marie declared confidently, pushing her upper lip outward. “I’m going to be a knight! I was reading about knights in the library, and that’s what I’m going to be! Yes! I will have a suit of armor and all the lords and ladies will say, There goes Marie Burrows, the bravest knight of the realm!”
“I’m sure they will,” Monica said, still stroking her sister’s head.
Presently Mother and Auntie entered. Ethel Burrows moved with the same languid sense of purposelessness as she had since Father’s death. Every movement seemed to be a massive chore. Strands of gray hair stuck up wildly from her scalp, and her clothes dangled from her bony, lifeless frame. She walked over to an armchair and threw herself down upon it. Clora Goodwin was a huge woman with legs like barrels and arms like thick branches. She stood in the room as though she owned it and looked down at her baby sister as Monica had been looking down at Marie—only with a good deal more superciliousness.
“You should never have married him,” Auntie said. “I told you from the start. He stole a kiss in Father’s wheat fields! Didn’t I say when he stole that kiss! I said damn the consequences! You can’t marry a man who would dishonor you like that. And did you listen! Ha, no! You fell head over heels for that slimy man, and now look where you are!”
Mother took this abuse quietly, her eyes downcast, a deadened expression on her face. “Auntie,” Monica said, “don’t be such a brute.”
“Oh, the mouse speaks!” Auntie cried, turning on Monica.
“Don’t call me that,” Monica said stiffly.
“A poor girl can’t afford to be mouse-like, my dear, and yet at every party you sit quietly, staring at the ground as though the eyes of Man offend you!”
“You are in a cruel mood today,” Monica said. “I will not stay to speak with you.”
She was leading Marie from the room when Mother spoke. It was such a rare occurrence that Monica found herself turning without thinking. Mother sat up slightly in the chair. With bony, thin-skinned hands, she reached into her pocket and brought out a letter. “Wait,” she muttered, looking up through tired eyes. “This came two days ago,” she went on. “I do not know what to make of it. It is—yes, quite strange. Maybe you can have a look, Monica, dear.”
Monica took the letter from Mother’s hand and brought it to the window, through which June sunlight streamed in incandescent glory. It was a stark contrast: that bright light outside and the dimness of the mood within. The calligraphy was short and sharp.
Dear Mrs. Burrows,
I cordially invite you and your family to a ball at Hightower Castle. It would please me if you would attend.
Yours sincerely,
Brigadier Roland Dare, Duke of Dinat.
“Mother!” Monica exclaimed. “Have you read this!”
“Yes, yes,” Mother said tiredly. “It is quite strange, is it not?”
“Strange!” Monica cried, peering at the letter once more. She half-expected the words to skip off the page and out of the window. The Burrows no longer received many invitations to parties of any kind, let alone invitations to Hightower Castle! Even before Father’s scandalous behavior – even before they were shunned by high society – they had never been invited to His Grace’s castle, despite living only eighty miles to the south, on the fringes of Weston-Super-Mare. “What shall we do?” Monica said, after a pause.
“Do?” Auntie boomed. “Do? There is only one thing we can do! We must go! Of course we must go! What else would we do? Sit here like forgotten specters, remembering times long passed when we used to be the life of parties most people cannot even recall. Yes, we must go!”
“It is not your choice, Auntie,” Monica said. “It is Mother’s choice.”
“Ah, nothing worse than a house full of women!” Auntie grumbled but said nothing more as she shuffled to a chair in the corner.
“Mother,” Monica said, moving close to her. Monica, now four-and-twenty, had a wealth of memories of how Mother had been before Father’s death. A smile had always been fixed on her face, and laughter had never been far from her lips. She had hugged frequently and giggled like a girl at the slightest provocation. Now a smile was an alien thing to her, and laughter was naught but an unwanted echo from the past. “Mother,” Monica repeated. “What shall we do?”
Mother squinted up at Monica as though seeing her for the first time. Her body looked deflated. Absentmindedly, she picked the cushion of the chair. It was torn and ragged from this habit. “We will go,” she muttered. “Of course, we must go. One does not refuse a duke. But I fear it will be frightfully tough, being in a room full of people who have shunned us.”
“Let them whisper!” Auntie cried.
“My first ball!” Marie beamed, tugging at Monica’s sleeve.
“As you wish, Mother,” Monica said.
Monica did not feel strongly one way or the other. The objections and desires cancelled each other out. She was frightened of going for the same reason as Mother. There would be people there who remembered well Father’s conduct prior to his death. There would be people there who he had offended gravely, and there would be daughters there with whom Monica had played before the rift had torn friendly relations asunder. But still … the thought of a party, a ball at that, was not an altogether frightful prospect.
“He was in the war, wasn’t he?” Marie whispered in the night.
“Yes,” Monica confirmed. “He was in France.”
“I wonder if he has any scars.”
“Sleep now, sister,” Monica said.
There is a point, though, Monica thought. Does he have any scars?
*****
His Grace did have a scar. It trailed down the left side of his face, starting at his temple and zigzagging down to the side of his mouth. It was pale white, and had been there for years. He wore it well and without shame. He did not attempt to cover it, and if he caught somebody surreptitiously looking at it, he stared them straight in the face. Monica found herself admiring his aplomb. She did not think she would be so self-assured with a mark like that.
Mother, Auntie, and Monica took cups of wine from the footmen and found a table in the corner of the hall. Scowers and Sinnets and Wemmicks and Howards and Pattons and Donnells and lords and ladies Monica was not familiar with populated the ballroom. The floor was given to dancing, and Monica waited with her hands upon her lap. She knew from experience that lords would dance with a lady even if they did not mean to court her, and soon enough, a fat lord by the name of Charles Sinnet asked Mother if Monica could dance. Monica was carried to the floor and moved through the routine steps with the man.
The problem was she never felt it. Whatever it was. Mother had felt it with Father. That was why she had married him. Their love had burnt brightly and fiercely, like torchlight in winter, melting snow all around. Their love had been a solitary star on a cloudy night, somehow burning despite the obnoxious blackness of the clouds. Monica had never felt anything even approaching that: had never felt the desire to give herself bodily and mentally and spiritually to a man. She had never even felt a mild stirring. But that was not important, she knew. If she voiced her concerns, Auntie would laugh at her. A lady does not concern herself with love, my niece. She need only concern herself with propriety, money, and position.
After the dance, Monica returned to the table. Marie had run off somewhere with the other children, and the three women sat together in a quiet circle. Mother looked around with wide, anxious eyes, as though inspecting each lord and lady who came into her vision, trying to remember if Father had offended this one, had insulted that one. After a few minutes, another man came and asked Monica to dance. She accepted placidly and onc
e again moved routinely and numbly through the steps.
The dance was nearing its end when a form moved behind her partner. “May I take this dance?” the form said. The voice was deep and peremptory: a voice that was accustomed to being listened to. Her partner bowed and then skulked away, revealing His Grace. Monica let out a quick breath, and then recovered herself and managed to keep her face impassive.
His Grace moved forward and took Monica’s gloved hand. He began to move with the music, and Monica had no choice but to move with him. Her heart was beating madly in her chest, and she was suddenly glad she was wearing gloves, lest His Grace feel the sweat that had beaded upon her palms. “You seem afraid, my lady,” His Grace said. “Is it the scar?”
“No!” Monica cried, far too eagerly. “No,” she repeated, in a more measured tone. “It does not frighten me at all, Your Grace. Not at all.” She paused. “How did you get it?” she blurted. She knew it was a topic of conversation wholly inappropriate to the current circumstances, and she never would have been so bold, but something about His Grace’s hand covering her hand infused her with confidence. She looked bravely up at his face and saw that he was looking down at her.
“They call you a mouse, my lady,” His Grace said. “They all call you a mouse. They say that you barely speak, and when you do it is only in squeaks or whispers, and here you are asking about my scar.”
“Perhaps I was merely not interested before,” Monica said. What are you doing? Auntie will be furious. Mother will be distraught. This is a duke, Monica! You are being improper and impudent. And yet she couldn’t stop. It was as though something else – an alternant Monica, perhaps – had taken hold of her. “Will you answer my question, Your Grace?”
The Duke of Ice Page 8