Dukes and Devilry

by Felicia Greene

  ‘You work alongside Isaac when he takes care of the woodland animals. You have assisted at many animal births.’ Susan shivered with repulsion at the thought. ‘You may have even seen coupling. Do animals enjoy sexual congress?’

  ‘Susan.’ Agnes appeared to have lost the ability to breathe. ‘I—why have you decided to ask me this?’

  ‘Because you blush at being asked even the most innocent questions. I could be asking you anything.’ Susan looked quickly at Henrietta and Lydia, talking gaily a little way away. ‘If I asked one of your more subtle sisters this, and they blushed, then everyone would know that I was asking something scandalous.’

  Agnes seemed in awe, if not exactly pleased, with her little stratagem. Susan, congratulating herself on finally being clever when it came to people, lowered her voice still further.

  ‘Animals. Do they enjoy—’

  ‘Yes. I heard.’ Agnes swallowed, her face now a vibrant red. ‘And… well, no. No, I do not think so. It appears to be a somewhat perfunctory act.’

  ‘I see.’ Susan, looking at Oliver stride along the hedge-line, felt an obscure stab of disappointment. ‘I suppose it is similarly dull for humans, then.’

  ‘Well…’ Agnes appeared to be choosing her words extremely carefully. ‘Humans are not typical animals, of course.’

  ‘So it is not perfunctory in humans?’ Susan looked carefully at Agnes. ‘Are you telling me that humans enjoy sexual congress?’

  ‘I… I honestly do not know what I am supposed to tell you.’ Agnes’ face was red enough to tint paper.

  ‘The truth, Agnes.’ Susan stared. ‘I set great store by the truth.’

  ‘I know. Oh… goodness.’ Agnes briefly looked down at her infant, as if making sure that her baby was sleeping soundly. ‘Well… yes. Most humans enjoy it. But that is not to say that all humans do, or that all humans must. This… union… is merely one of many things that make one’s life a thing of value.’

  ‘I see.’ Susan paused, looking at her skirts. ‘I do know know if I ever wish to engage in such a union.’

  ‘Well.’ Agnes seemed to be determinedly looking at anything other than her. ‘That is your choice, Susan. You have every right to choose what you wish, and do not wish, to do.’

  ‘I know. Even if one marries.’ Susan looked past Agnes, following Oliver’s figure as he walked along the outline of the gardens. ‘Even if one reaches an understanding with a man.’

  ‘You have been married, Susan.’ Agnes looked at her, curiosity stealing out from behind her mask of politeness. ‘Was this… topic… something that you discussed with your late husband?’

  Susan stared at her, completely unable to give a suitable response, until Agnes looked away. After a little while, with a sympathetic smile, she made her way back to the breakfast table as Susan remained by the rose bushes.

  She did not know if she wanted to engage in sexual congress. She didn’t know if she would ever be ready for something that seemed so strange. All she knew was that she was thinking about the act, in the concrete as well as the abstract—and she was thinking about it because of the unexpected, overwhelming presence of Oliver Whitstable.

  ‘Enough.’ Susan muttered it to herself, wringing her hands. She had a thousand things to do, and a very particular order in which to do all of them; she had to stop watching, and start doing. She was atrociously behind with the garden chores—Isaac would be doing them, yes, but she couldn’t rest if she didn’t know exactly how every job was being done—

  ‘Everyone!’ A delighted shout from Henry distracted her; he was striding back to the table from the front of the house, where a group of men stood shyly waiting. Susan looked at the assembled strangers, feeling yet another chill of things falling out of order. ‘I have exciting news!’

  ‘Yes, dear?’ Anne rose, smiling. ‘Who are our new visitors? Do any of them have birds?’

  ‘Thankfully not.’ Henry’s voice was full of boyish enthusiasm. ‘They’re a travelling troupe of actors passing through to Bath—they’ve asked to stay in the stables tonight, and in return they’ll give us a play!’ He looked at Anne, his eyes shining. ‘Let us be hospitable. I’ve a hankering to hear some of the Bard.’

  ‘It certainly would be exciting.’ Anne looked at the table; Susan stood by the roses, trying not to move. She did so hate being observed. ‘They do not have to perform, of course—making people sing for their supper seems uncharitable.’

  ‘But they have offered. And I imagine they recite rather well.’ Henry smiled; Susan saw the smile he had given as a boy, when he wished very much to have something unsuitable. ‘Shall we?’

  Anne’s answering smile, as well as the smiles of those at the tables, were answers in themselves. ‘Of course.’

  Of course. Susan, looking at rosebud that hadn’t quite flowered, felt a spasm of pain that seemed to walk the border that lay between mind and body. More changes, more people, more chaos; she stumbled, placing a warning hand out in front of her, catching her breath with difficulty as she steadied herself.

  No-one had noticed her waver. That, she thought bitterly to herself, was rather fitting—until she saw Oliver, looking at her with concern from over one of the topiary hedges.

  Are you well? He mouthed it discreetly.

  Susan couldn’t nod, couldn’t shake her head—could barely move. In the end she managed a weak shrug, already dreading the idea of the man making a fuss… but to her surprise, Oliver merely nodded in response.

  He accepted her pain. He didn’t treat it as frustrating, or cause for panic. Susan, in the midst of quiet agony, found his reaction a curiously powerful source of peace.

  Evening crept over Longwater; the ramshackle carts of the actors currently resting in the stables as a makeshift play-hall was constructed. The house bubbled with laughter, servants balancing precariously on ladders as they put the finishing touches to a charming, if rustic, stage.

  Actors, at Longwater? Susan could barely remember a time when there had been evening entertainments; the idea of unknown persons in her house, behaving in unusual ways, made her so anxious that she began to scratch at the cuffs of her dress. But no-one had asked her for her preferences, and she was more than aware of how inconvenient her last crisis had been… so here she was as night fell, in an evening dress that scratched her skin intolerably, trying not to run back upstairs to her room.

  At least her dress was black, and not new. Susan could barely stand putting on completely new garments; she had worn this for one unbearable month after Roberto died, knowing that it was too elegant for the purposes of mourning but too paralysed with grief to have another one made. Now, in its new life as a theatre gown, the rustling crepe and jet beads seemed to make slightly more sense—but they were not the usual cotton skirts and velvet trim that she had grown accustomed to, and so she was deeply uncomfortable.

  It was yet another break from routine; another loose thread in the tightly-woven fabric that was wrapped around her life. To calm herself, already knowing that she would be largely incapable of enjoying the evening, Susan began to count the painted roses on the wallpaper as she slowly made her way along the corridor.

  One rose. What would Oliver Whitstable be wearing? She hoped there would be no loose threads or buttons; having to look at them would be agonising.

  Two roses. Would the actors respect the hour in which everyone was to go to bed—the hour that Susan had rigidly observed ever since she was fifteen years old?

  Three roses. Would she actually have the courage to discuss with Oliver the conclusions she had drawn concerning him, and herself, and the idea of sexual congress—

  ‘Ah! You are here. I thought to look for you, before the play begins.’

  Oliver’s voice broke into her counting rhythm, but didn’t cause the usual wave of irritation. Susan looked up, too awkward to look directly into his eyes, but taking immediate note of the elegance of Oliver’s dress.

  ‘I made a superlative effort to be ordered this evening.’ Was S
usan imagining things, or did Oliver’s voice have a hint of unexpected warmth? ‘I imagined you would talk with me more easily, then. We spoke very little yesterday, after our morning walk.’

  ‘Yes.’ Under no circumstances could she tell him that she had spent most of the previous day observing him, as a naturalist would a fascinating bird or mushroom. ‘This is true.’

  ‘Well. Now I am here, and can take your arm as we go to watch the play. If that is what you wish, of course.’ Oliver paused. ‘You look very beautiful. In your dress, I mean—it is quite lovely.’

  One rose. Susan could think of nothing to do but count; this compliment was too large, to unexpected, to give any response to it.

  Two roses. He had called her beautiful—or had it been the gown, which seemed to itch a little less now?

  Three roses. He was offering his arm to her; his broad, dependable arm, which made the urge to count lessen…

  Approaching slowly, still unable to look him in the eye, Susan took Oliver’s arm. Keeping her hand hovering a little way above the sleeve of his coat, so as to avoid a debilitating rush of sensation, she risked a single, brief look at his face.

  He was exactly as warm, and rumpled, and handsome as he had been yesterday. Susan, knowing that such thoughts were unusual for friends to have, looked away with a slight shiver.

  ‘Shall we make our way to the hall? I believe we are meant to go there.’ Oliver began to walk; Susan walked alongside him, marvelling anew at the easiness of his pace. ‘Along here, and down these stairs, and—oh. Listen.’ His voice was full of fascination. ‘I believe they are rehearsing here.’

  There was a murmur of voices behind the half-closed door. Susan, unable to resist checking to see if they had torn the curtains or caused other sorts of disorder, leant closer to listen as the men’s voices came through loud and clear.

  ‘Not a bad place to lay our heads.’ One man smiled rather nastily at the other; through the narrow gap in the door, Susan saw a glimpse of his teeth. ‘A lot of fine pieces.’

  ‘All of them married to huge, titled idiots. No chance of a roll in the hay.’ Another man sighed loudly, applying more powder to his wig. ‘Unless you manage to catch any of them in the gardens, none of us are getting our end away.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Another voice, sniggering. ‘There’s always the witch.’

  All of the men burst out laughing. One of them wiped his eyes, adjusting his shirt as he spoke. ‘It’s true what they say about that battleaxe. All in black, no hint of a smile. Makes a man’s tender parts wither and drop off.’

  ‘Or she eats them. She’s mad, you know—she doesn’t look it, but she’s barmy. It’s a wonder they don’t put her in a home.’ The first man smiled again, a glint of malice in his eyes. ‘Especially after what happened to her husband.’

  ‘Oh, cripes. Pipe down, or they’ll chuck us out. The second man threw a shoe; it thudded loudly against the wall as Susan flinched. ‘I don’t want to sleep in a hedge again.’

  ‘I dunno. Might be safer.’ The third man laughed, slapping his knee. ‘But something was fishy about the way that poor bloke copped it…’

  They continued joking, but Susan couldn’t hear them anymore. She didn’t want to; their voices faded to grey, even as her brain became white-hot. Stepping away from the door, silent, she risked looking up at Oliver.

  ‘They called me a witch.’ Her voice came out as an anguished whisper. Everything was falling apart; her dress itched infernally once more, the beads eating at her wrists. ‘They called me mad.’

  Oliver’s tone seemed oddly, foolishly tranquil. ‘I heard them.’

  ‘You heard them?’ Susan’s thumb began to scratch convulsively against her second finger. ‘They were… they were impolite.’

  ‘Yes.’ Oliver nodded. ‘They were.’

  Friends were meant to defend other friends, weren’t they? She was sure that they were. And even if Oliver was something other than a friend—something outside it, or beyond it—then it meant that he should defend her with even more spirit.

  Shouldn’t he?

  ‘Come.’ Oliver gestured to the distant hall. ‘We will be late. They will start soon.’

  He didn’t care. He didn’t care at all. He thought it perfectly right that men should come to Longwater, her Longwater, and say that she was mad.

  Dreams that Susan never thought she had were cracking into fragments. The splinters hurt, driving into her mind one after the other, reminding her at every turn that Oliver Whitstable was not, could not, be the man she had expected.

  No counting could help her now. No counting, no tapping, no repetition of any kind. The only thing that could give her solace, the cold, small solace of isolation, would be staying in her bedroom… and never coming out.

  She turned away from Oliver without a word. Chewing the inside of her cheek, the candlelight in the corridor unbearably bright, she fled.

  He must have said something. Done something. Oliver, standing in the corridor as the mellifluous voices of the actors began reciting in the other room, wondered what on earth he had done incorrectly.

  Had he complimented her dress? Yes—it had been easy to do. Black was becoming on her. He had complimented her, and listened attentively, and offered his arm… he began to pace, his hands slowly moving up to his hair, realising that whatever had occurred had to be more complex than whatever he was imagining.

  This had to be something connected to the sentiments. Oliver, who was as aware of his limits as he was of his strengths, knew that another mind was needed if he was ever to puzzle this fiendish problem out.

  ‘Father?’ Olive appeared at the other end of the corridor, hurriedly patting her hair into place. ‘They are gathering. I believe the performance is about to start.’

  ‘Olive. Thanks goodness.’ Although his daughter had inherited his keen scientific mind, not to mention his easy smile, Oliver knew without a doubt that Olive had the emotional intelligence that he had always lacked. ‘We cannot go in yet. I… I believe I have done something foolish, but have no idea what I have done.’

  ‘I see.’ Olive’s quiet sigh reminded Oliver of the other times he had posed this problem to his daughter. ‘Has there been any sort of consequence? Is someone angry—has there been some sort of misunderstanding?’

  ‘I’m not exactly sure.’ Oliver pursed his lips. ‘It is His Grace’s sister. Susan. She… she left me in the middle of the corridor, quite abruptly. I believe she has retired to her room in some distress.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Olive’s eyes widened. ‘The very reason we came. What on earth did you say to her?’

  ‘I said nothing. I assure you.’ Oliver frowned, trying to think his way through the conversation. He had been too distracted by the elegance of her dress, the spirited fire in her face… perhaps that was the first time he had been excited, truly excited, about entering a crowded room with a lady on his arm.

  ‘Father.’ Olive looked at him patiently. ‘Think.’

  ‘Really. I cannot think of a single thing I said that could be construed as an insult. I even complimented her gown, which was delightful.’ Oliver paused, aware of a slight furrow in Olive’s brow. ‘Was it wrong, to compliment her gown? It was a very beautiful gown.’

  ‘No. It was very correct of you.’ Olive looked at him. ‘I do not recall you ever having complimented a lady’s gown before.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Oliver frowned. ‘I compliment your gowns frequently.’

  ‘Yes—on their practicality, or their cunning economies of fabric.’ There was a slightly wry look in his daughter’s eye. ‘Never on their beauty.’

  ‘Yes. You are correct—but this is not the point, Olive. I have hurt Susan very badly, and I cannot think how.’ Oliver bit his lip. ‘I complimented her dress, offered her my arm, agreed with what she said about those actors—’

  ‘The actors? What did she say about them?’

  ‘Oh, that they were ill-mannered. Rude. She was correct.’

  ‘And what was hap
pening at that moment? That precise moment?’ Olive looked at him, her eyes grave. ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘Well… nothing that I can recall.’ Oliver shrugged. ‘The actors were speaking amongst themselves, as I said. The usual rough talk among people of their profession. Jokes, criticisms…’

  ‘Criticisms? Of Susan?’ Olive wrinkled her nose. ‘What on earth has she done to them that would be worthy of criticism?’

  ‘Oh, nothing that she said. The usual swirl of rumour that surrounds her, I think—she has never mentioned it in her letters, but one does hear talk among the servants. I’ve never paid it much mind.’ Oliver frowned, trying to recall what the men had been saying. ‘The usual things—that she is mad, or ferocious, of some sort of sorcerer. That she did away with her husband, that sort of thing.’

  He stopped, looking at his daughter’s horrified face. Olive seemed unable to speak; she could only stare, her every feature expressing utmost shock.

  ‘What? I know it was strong stuff, but they are hardly our sort of people.’ He shrugged, a wave of doubt making him feel severely uncomfortable. ‘It wasn’t exactly dinner-table talk.’

  ‘Those are terrible things to say. Atrocious things to say to anyone.’ Olive’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Just… just awful.’

  ‘Well yes. Of course they are.’ Oliver looked at his daughter, wondering what the fuss was about. ‘But who on earth cares what a pack of travelling nonsense-mongers think?’

  ‘Well.’ Olive looked at him, her expression suddenly full of a sort of queasy understanding. ‘I imagine Susan cares an awful lot.’ Her voice grew a little softer. ‘Do you remember the discussions we have had, concerning the effects of words? I know words mean little to you, but… but I think the words heard by Susan would have carried a truly terrible weight.’

  Oliver looked at the ground, his mouth tight as he remembered the many patient conversations he had his daughter had undergone together. His insensitivity when it came to how words could offend people was something that had been a constant feature of his life, not necessarily cherished, but not loathed either… but now, remembering the look on Susan’s face, it felt like the most horrible liability a man could have.