Memory's Bride

by Decca Price

  Claire broke off, Simmie looked so peculiar.

  “Miss Laycock?” she said sharply. “Miss Dolly Laycock?”

  “Why, do you know her, Simmie? How extraordinary that would be!”

  “May I see that?” Simmie asked, extending her hand. Reluctantly, Claire gave her the journal, still open at the passage she had been reading. Simmie read the entry to herself, then flipped at random through the volume, paused to read other entries here and there.

  “No,” she said slowly after a few minutes. Claire saw that her friend’s face was quite red.

  “But you have heard things?” Claire prompted.

  “No,” Simmie said. “That is to say... Claire, does Mr. Carter write much about their meetings other than they went to the theatre and supper?”

  “Well, he does comment on her ankles, and on her complexion” Claire admitted. “A gentleman would do that, wouldn’t he, if he admired a lady? It is a private diary, after all. He would write things he couldn’t say to her? He says she has very trim ankles—in fact, he underlines that more than once—and skin—he uses the word ‘skin,’ which is so odd for the circumstances—‘as silky as an angel’s cheek.’ He... he was very fond of kissing her.”

  Simmie put the journal on the desk and grasped Claire’s hand in hers. “Claire,” she said, then stopped. “Dear heart, ‘Dolly Laycock’—that’s a casual term men use for a certain kind of woman. A woman who sells her body to men for their pleasure.”

  Claire stared at her.

  “But Josiah wasn’t like that,” she said at last. “He was a gentleman.”

  “Men live different lives than women do, Claire. Some do things that make no sense to us and things that, if we knew, would break our hearts nine times out of ten.”

  “It all makes sense then—the money, the night out.” Claire wrinkled her mouth, and Simmie feared her friend would burst into tears.

  Giving her a moment to compose herself, she poured Claire a cup of tea. “Leave it, dear. What harm was done is long in the past.”

  Claire looked thoughtful. “Harm,” she said. “Yes. Those poor women—how sad their lives must have been.”

  “Life for women of a certain class can be very hard.” Simmie replied. She handed Claire several envelopes. “The boy brought these from the village ages ago. There’s a letter from your aunt and I think a note from Mr. Latimer. I can go if you wish.”

  “No, stay, Simmie. Aunt Manwaring is sure to have news from home and we can read her letter together. Mr. Latimer’s note will be about our work together, but I’d rather not think about that right now.”

  As Claire surmised, her aunt intended to keep Claire and her family connected, despite her father’s obstinance. As she noted wryly in her letter, her suddenly frequent visits to Thurn Hall obviously discomfited them, despite their efforts to appear pleased.

  “Your Papa,” she wrote to Claire, “takes great pains to discuss the weather, which I find tedious, and what he imagines to be my interest in London society, which he would just as soon ignore as well as I. Pleased as he is by dear Frances’s engagement, your mother is wearing him out over the expense of the trousseau and talk of Catherine’s season—two years away!—for which she now has great hopes, since as Mrs. Hapwell, Frances will be able to give her sister entree to a more eligible class of suitor. Of course, as a mere nephew, Henry Hapwell is not so much as an ‘honorable,’ but Frances is quite pleased with her achievement.”

  Claire handed the page over to Simmie. “How I wish I could be there!” she sighed before she continued reading. “Even though Mama is sure to be driving Papa mad. Francie, silly as she likes to appear, will be all business and counting up every handkerchief and chemise to ensure she goes to her new home with the correct numbers of things. And Cat! Poor Cat—she’ll be chafing soon under Mama’s basilisk eye, with both Francie and me gone.”

  “The wedding is to be soon, then?”

  “Yes. Aunt says they’ve fixed on January. They’ll be married from Lord Grimthorpe’s townhouse in London and—oh, listen to this! ‘Mr. Hapwell learned yesterday he’s to be a secretary on Lord Augustus Loftus’s staff and posted to the diplomatic mission in St. Petersburg. It’s all on the qui vive at the moment, but he and Frances expect to travel out in the spring after the wedding.”

  “I wonder what Francie thinks—to be so far from home and among strangers as a young bride. She’ll have much to learn and no one to guide her.”

  “She’ll have Mr. Hapwell,” Claire chided.

  “Yes,” Simmie said absently. “That will scarcely be enough, poor girl.”

  Claire looked puzzled. “All Francie will have to worry about is calls and clothes, and she has excellent manners and taste. It’s not like she’ll be running a household, as she would here in England.”

  “There is much more to marriage than that,” Simmie commented, “and much is learned after the fact. If a girl isn’t prepared properly by her Mama, life can be quite difficult those first months.”

  “I’m sure Mama will do everything she can for Francie,” Claire replied. “Let’s see what else has come in the post. I don’t recognize the handwriting on this one.”

  Using her sharp paperknife, Claire carefully slit the sides of a flimsy penny lettersheet and opened it. “Oh, how wonderful! Cook writes to say that Annie would be pleased to accept the position here and awaits my direction on when she should come. Right away, I’d say, wouldn’t you?”

  “For your Mama’s sake, you should let her give proper notice,” Simmie responded. “I can serve as your maid a while longer.”

  “Very well, in a month then. I’ll write to Cook and send her enough for Annie’s fare and a little pocket money—that is, an advance on her first quarter’s wages,” she amended. Setting the penciled note aside, she reluctantly turned her attention to the remaining letter.

  “It is from Mr. Latimer. Even his hand is beautiful,” she remarked, showing Simmie the bold, flowing script on the heavy cream envelope. Claire extracted from it a short note.

  “Dear Miss Burton,

  I hope this finds you well—I understand you suffered a shock recently and it would not be unexpected that you feel repercussions for some time to come. I had purposed looking in on you this afternoon but will postpone my visit until you name a day and time. It is my opinion that to accomplish the solemn and scholarly task before us in as timely a fashion as the publishing world seems to expect, we set ourselves a regular schedule for our labors, when you are up to it. This I would like to discuss with you and also, I must confess, it would set my mind at ease to see for myself that you suffered no ill effects from your lamentable experience. Until then, believe me to be faithfully yours,

  E. Latimer

  “Mr. Latimer is right, Simmie. He says we should get down to work and apply ourselves in a regular way. I mustn’t be miss-ish because I learn Josiah wasn’t perfect.” She got up and took a stab at tidying her hair in the mirror that hung above the washstand in the corner. Since she had left off the chamomile rinses, the red tinge was becoming unmistakable.

  “I’ll invite him to tea tomorrow and we can begin. Meantime, should you like to go for a ride? You haven’t seen much of the country yet and I could do with some air.”

  Though she knew how to ride, Beatrice Simms was no horsewoman, but she was game. Claire ordered a quiet cob—kept in Oak Grove’s stable for no reason she could discern, for next to Toddy and the other saddle horses, this horse was runtish and stolid—to be saddled and brought forth for Simmie’s inspection.

  “He seems an absolute pet and just right for you,” Claire said encouragingly as Simmie eyed the little roan, which gazed placidly into the distance. “He’s bigger than the ponies you’re used to at Thurn, but you are a country woman now and should ride a proper horse. He’s called Pippin, like the apple.”

  “I’m not sure he’s what you’d call a ‘proper’ horse,” Simmie replied, comparing him to Claire’s imposing hunter, “but he’ll do for the like
s of me.”

  “Just wait,” Claire teased. “If we ride every day, you’ll soon be scouring the stable for a better mount. We’ll have you riding to hounds by autumn.”

  With the help of Bobby Tressel, who always seemed to be about when wanted, Simmie settled into the saddle and looked at Claire expectantly.

  Using the mounting block in the stable courtyard, Claire swung up onto Toddy’s back and adjusted her habit. Sitting higher than her friend, Claire looked back to see that Simmie was ready, then urged her horse forward. Pippin followed with more enthusiasm than she expected.

  Soon Simmie did relax, and they began to enjoy themselves. All around them under the warm May sun lay rich brown fields striped with bright green where tender spears of corn reached skyward. The lanes were scarcely more than a cart’s width, with soft grassy verges should a traveler need to step aside to allow one to pass. Billows of white hawthorn blanketed the hedgerows on either side like late spring snow, while a few early dog roses spangled them with pale pink and gold. Both women found exhilarating the smell of the moist earth mingled with the heavy scent of hawthorn.

  Plowed fields gave way to pasture as the lane climbed, and through gaps in the hedge they caught glimpses of small white-faced sheep grazing on the lush vegetation.

  “Just look,” Simmie said happily. “It’s such a picture I wish I had my paints with me, though I couldn’t do it justice. The sheep look like clouds come down to earth and the hawthorn looks for all the world like wool tufts caught on the brambles.”

  “Or the sheep grew wings and flew into the sky!” Claire laughed.

  At the top of the hill, their way grew unexpectedly wide and straight. As one, the two women urged their mounts to a canter and thundered down the lane, Claire leading the way, until they plunged into a shadowy woodland dell and pulled up.

  “Don’t you feel it?” Claire exclaimed. “This land a living thing, just like the sheep and the grass and the people. Just breathing in the air makes me feel—I don’t know, Simmie. Like I’ve just been born!”

  Indeed, her blood was singing as she drank in deep drafts of the cooler air under the trees. Her corset pressed uncomfortably on her rib cage, though, and she suddenly felt feverish in a way that had nothing to do with the exertion. Her skin tingled and the soft linen of the chemise under her fitted jacket rasped across the flesh of her breasts like rough wool. The heat flooded through her nether regions and involuntarily she closed her eyes, clenching her thighs tightly until the sensation climaxed and died away, leaving her lightheaded and spent.

  She shuddered, moistened her dry lips and glanced at Simmie as Toddy’s muscles rippled beneath her. It was like being drunk again, only this time her senses were sharpened. Every leaf, every stone, every sound was magnified, her every fiber vibrating with the hum of life around her.

  Surely Simmie would notice—but Simmie was trying to retie her stock with one hand while holding onto Pippin’s reins with the other. She gave up and nudged the cob toward Claire.

  “Where does this track go?” she asked while Claire adjusted her neck cloth for her.

  “We’ve just left the home farm,” Claire said. “A few minutes ahead, the lane forks and we can ride down to Abbot Pyon, if you’d like, or we could just go back. Up leads into the park. I want to show you something first, though, if you feel up to it.”

  Simmie smiled again. “I didn’t know how much I needed to get out of the house. Show me and then let’s go into the village. There are a couple of trifles I’ve been wanting and—I don’t suppose Abbot Pyon supports a tea room, but perhaps we could just call a moment on Mrs. Hanniman. “

  They trotted on for another half mile and took a turning to the right that led them still higher, until they came out above the hedgerows. There, valleys and ridges spread in undulating ranks east and west, a patchwork of greens, browns, blacks and ochres until they merged on the horizon into layers of misty blues and white. Here and there the women could pick out a cluster of dwellings or a cultivated spot that indicated a farmstead. In the far distance, a train the size of a child’s toy in their view trailed a white veil of steam as it inched its way across the land.

  “This must be how the angels view the earth,” Simmie breathed in delight. “What a wonderful country this is!”

  “Yes,” Claire agreed. “Take away the signs of human habitation and you can imagine what Eden must have been like, it’s so pure and lovely. Up here I begin to see how men and women can become obsessed with a place.”

  Simmie looked at her curiously. “You don’t mean you are beginning to sympathize with Lord Montfort?”

  “Sympathize? No,” she replied. “But I see why losing even a part of it would be like losing a part of himself.”

  They entered Abbot Pyon from the road that led past the church and rectory, and as St. Michael’s came into view, Claire halted.

  “Simmie,” she asked. “Would you mind terribly if I stopped here and left you to do your errands alone? It’s time I went in there,” she said, indicating the churchyard with a nod. “I half think I’m avoiding Josiah’s grave on purpose, as though not seeing it will mean he’s still alive somewhere.”

  “Are you sure? You didn’t want to be alone before”

  “I need to be alone. You take your time and I’ll be waiting at the lych gate when you return. The cottage for the school is just down the road and we can go by before riding back to Oak Grove.”

  “Very well, then,” Simmie said reluctantly. “I shan’t be long.”

  Claire waited until Simmie was out of sight before dismounting and tying Toddy to the rail beside the gate. Taking a deep breath, she walked through into the churchyard and past the weathered headstones nearer the road toward the newer ones, farther back near the rear of the church. A few newer graves were neatly tended, but most of the churchyard was a riot of flowering grasses and daisies. Here and there, the dried heads of daffodils rustled in the breeze.

  Josiah’s plot lay under a tall willow whose branches had been clipped back on one side to clear the way for funeral parties, visitors and headstones. On the other side, the trees’ graceful wands brushed the thick turf and trailed in the beck where the water rippled gently before tumbling down over the stones toward the footbridge where Montfort had made his ugly discovery.

  A simple slate stone no taller or showier than any other in that quiet corner marked the grave she sought. Young grass covered the low mound of earth, and near the edge, small clumps of dark purple violets clung to the flinty disturbed clay. Resting against the stone was a withered bouquet of wild flowers.

  Only a name and two dates were incised into the slate: Josiah Fitzgordon Carter, 1840-1875.

  Blinded by tears, Claire bowed her head and tried to pray, but the no words came.

  A cloud slid over the sun and she shivered as the warmth of the day suddenly withdrew. Her spirits plummeted and she questioned the wisdom of the course she had chosen, unable to force the doubt away. She missed her sisters’ gaiety, just as she missed her Mama’s vigilant though often tedious care and even Papa’s blustering. Life at Thurn Hall was certain, and with predictability came security.

  At this moment, while Cat stayed at home to practice her piano or sketch, Mama and Francie would be making calls. Had she listened to her parents, Claire would be sitting with them in a neighbor’s drawing room, balancing a delicate porcelain cup and plate and listening politely to the older women discuss Francie’s bright future. Francie’s new status, she realized, could help not only Cat but herself, should she choose to live by society’s rules.

  Instead, she stood here, alone, an unwelcome stranger in a country village, learning to run a complicated estate and endeavoring to be “literary,” tutored by two men she barely knew—one of whom openly disapproved of her efforts, while the other revealed a side of her she could barely acknowledge to herself. She wondered whether she would complete either apprenticeship with credit. She no longer had to worry about the tedium of social niceties, since tha
t odd Mrs. Hanniman was the only woman in the county willing to call at Oak Grove.

  In Surrey, her place in the world had been as fixed as the stars. In Herefordshire, she feared to contemplate the slippery path she walked. Once again she asked herself whether she had done right in allowing Beatrice Simms to share her exile.

  Exile. The word stabbed her heart like cold steel. In reaching for freedom, is that what she had done to them?

  The chill breeze strengthened and the dry stalks of the flowers rasped against the dark stone at her feet.

  Spying a scrap of paper attached to the sodden ribbon that bound the stems together, Claire stooped to pick the bundle up. The ink had run but she made out the words, “... my devotion is as steady as the North Star...” and what remained of a name, “...all..” or “...oll...” or maybe even “...dl...”

  Immediately her thoughts flew to Josiah’s letter, the one Mr. Chambers has given her that day in Papa’s study. “... your devotion will remain as steady as the North Star I will rely on to guide me home to England,” he had written. Had he, then, been quoting from some poet or his own works? If the latter, the words came from one of the novels she had yet to read, for she had the others almost by heart. A tribute from an avid reader?

  “What are you doing here, Miss Burton!”

  Claire dropped the dead flowers with a start and spun to see Edward Latimer all but running toward her. He reached her in another two strides, grasped her elbow roughly and demanded again, “What are you doing here?”

  “Miss Simms had some errands in the village. I—”

  “The two of you are out riding alone? Are you mad?”

  “I ride most days,” Claire said, gently pulling out of his grip. “I enjoy exploring my new home and the air is so bracing.” He resisted an instant, then released her.