For the first time in her life, the two states were impossible to express at the same time. Eventually choosing modesty over elegance, she threw her shawl around her shoulders with a short sigh as she made her way downstairs.
‘Will you not have anything to drink before you go, ma’am?’ Mrs. Pansom, Mary’s elderly cook, shook her head with a concerned tut as she carried a tray of cups through the kitchen door. ‘Doing as much good as you do is thirsty work.’
Mary smiled. Mrs. Pansom was as round and comforting as a mother hen, and had been consoling her with coffee and cakes ever since her own mother died. ‘Alas, I will do no good today.’
‘What do you mean to do today. ma’am?’
‘I must go to Sattersall, to see the chapel.’
‘Sounds like very good work indeed.’
‘Enjoyment has never counted as a charitable act.’
‘I must respectfully disagree, ma’am. A pinch of pleasure does more good sometimes than a pound of duty.’ Mrs. Pansom set down the tray with a decisive clatter. ‘Now take this cup of coffee at least, and drink it before you go.’
‘I fear it will only make my head ache all the more.’
‘Then take this cordial.’
‘You have made both coffee and cordial for me?’
‘You seemed a little out of sorts after the Peterson wedding.’ Mrs. Pansom’s expression softened. ‘I thought I’d prepare myself for any eventuality.’
‘You… you are too kind.’ Mary took the cordial, its herbal scent invigorating her strained nerves. ‘You are always too kind to me.’
‘Nonsense.’ Mrs. Pansom picked up the tray again, heading back to the kitchens with a satisfied smile. ‘You, ma’am, are far too unkind to yourself.’
Was it true? Mary found herself considering Mrs. Pansom’s words as she walked to the Jemmer Street Stables, where her curricle and horses were kept. She certainly wasn’t unkind to others—she was barely unkind to Calcourt, even though he deserved her opprobrium. But when it came to herself, harsh judgement often took the place of mercy.
A pinch of pleasure being worth a pound of duty sounded like something the grasshopper who sang all summer would say, only to die as soon as winter came. It sounded like one of the many mottoes and sayings Mrs. Pansom said every day, along with a stitch in time saving nine and red skies at night meaning a shepherd’s delight.
Unfortunately, in Mary’s weakened state, it also sounded very wise indeed.
What pleasures did she afford herself in life, apart from the vicarious pleasure of helping the less fortunate? Mary, to her chagrin, found the question difficult to answer. She mused upon it as she sat in her curricle, nodding to the driver as he sent the horses trotting out of the stables. A driver was a luxury, she supposed, but she was far too out of sorts to hold the whip herself.
She enjoyed a cup of tea in the afternoons. She enjoyed conversing with Rebecca. In terms of more fulsome pleasures, there was very little to note. Mary, keeping an eye out for the wisteria of the cottage, felt a stab of uncharacteristic disappointment.
She wasn’t used to pleasure. More importantly, she wasn’t used to wanting it. When she pictured James Calcourt’s face, and the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes when he smiled, the rush of feeling that overcame her was as close to pleasure as anything she knew.
It was wrong. Silly. But as the carriage stopped outside of Rebecca and John’s cottage, and Mary saw the black-clad figure of the vicar, her heart beat a little faster than normal.
‘My dear!’ Rebecca’s fulsome greeting briefly took her mind off of the mysteries of her own wants. They embraced as the curricle driver tipped his hat to the group, encouraging Mary’s horses on their way. ‘Things have gone rather awry.’
‘Oh?’ Mary curtseyed readily to John as he bowed, and curtseyed more cautiously to Calcourt as he followed suit. ‘Don’t tell me the visit has been called off.’
‘Oh no. Not that. And the scarves and gloves are packed and ready. But there has been a misunderstanding.’
‘Oh?’
‘Oh yes. There’s been the most terrible mishap.’ Rebecca’s bright expression made it seem as if the mishap, whatever it was, was anything but terrible. ‘The barouche we had hired to make the journey has been called back at the last minute. Apparently there was something wrong with the roof.’
‘I see.’ Mary blinked. Quite why a faulty roof would impede the movement of a carriage, she didn’t know—but then, she was no carriage-builder. ‘That is certainly a mishap. I shall have to continue in my curricle.’
‘You can hardly travel to Sattersall in a curricle. And in any case, your poor driver has already gone—you won’t catch him, even if you run.’
‘But that leaves us with nowhere near enough carriage space for all of us to travel to Sattersall, dear.’
‘Not exactly.’ Rebecca looked at John, who nodded. ‘We have managed to procure a chaise at short notice.’
‘A chaise?’ Mary turned to Calcourt, who shrugged. ‘How did you manage to find a chaise at short notice?’
‘The stables offered one, seeing as the barouche was out of commission. And does it really matter? It solves the problem.’ Rebecca smiled beatifically, pointing to the road. A worn but worthy-looking chaise was trundling to rest at the end of the earthen track, two ponies snorting placidly as the driver waved his hand. ‘John and I in the gig, and the Reverend in the chaise with you.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Mary looked in horror at her friend as she climbed into the gig, followed by her husband. ‘Surely you mean you and I in the chaise, while the Reverend travels with John in the gig?’
‘Goodness! What a delightful new colour for the paintwork.’ Rebecca’s loud tone carried a deliberate, weighty deafness. ‘Do you think, John, that we could buy ribbons for the grey mare’s mane?’
As the gig began rattling down the earthen track, a speechless Mary had half a mind to follow it. Follow it, and beat her fist against the wheels until her friend presented a respectable solution to the problem. As the horses struck up a smart pace, taking the vehicle onto the road with a merry toss of their heads, Mary forced herself not to stamp her foot on the sodden grass.
Ridiculous! Ridiculous beyond all comprehension! Only someone as cunning as Rebecca would think to do this—to arrange some idiotic nursery tale of a meeting between her and Calcourt, forcing them into close proximity for hours. It was stupid, and presumptious, and had the potential to cast doubt upon her hard-won reputation—even if the man she was sharing a carriage with was a priest, she was unmarried! As was he!
She wouldn’t go. She would stay here, glowering outside the cottage, waiting for the world to rearrange itself into a recognisable shape. A shape that didn’t involve being crammed into a carriage with Calcourt, at the behest of conniving friends who should know better.
‘Well.’ Calcourt let out a long, reflective sigh. ‘This is something of a pickle.’
Mary kept mutinously silent, before realising just how childish she looked. ‘Agreed.’
‘I could try and run for your curricle.’
‘Don’t. I’m not making the journey.’
‘But the children! The scarves and gloves!’
‘I don’t wish to share a chaise with scarves, gloves and you for half a day.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Calcourt began walking down the earthen track. He half-turned, a slight smile just visible on his lips. ‘Then you’re more cowardly than I remember.’
Damn the man. Forget the evils of blasphemy, and damn the man to hell and back. Mary grimaced, casting her eyes to the heavens before stamping down the track after Calcourt.
She wasn’t going to submit to such a devastating assessment of her character. Not least because it hovered on being correct. She had grown cowardly over the ears—afraid of the evils of the world, even as she fought them. Afraid of what she would become in old age, even as she maintained the social schedule of a woman fifteen years younger.
She was thirty-six, and br
ave, and was going to get to Sattersall to see the bloody chapel. Even if it meant sitting next to James Calcourt at his most irritating best, and wondering what might have been.
‘Ah! You’ve decided to come.’
‘Stop it. You’ll be sitting on the gloves and scarves.’
Even in the midst of her turmoil, the forest was beautiful enough to notice. Mary leaned her head against the edge of the carriage window, keeping herself as far away from Calcourt as she could as she took in the leaves and light.
She could probably name every tree she could see as they rattled by. She could search for and spot the small splashes of colour on the forest floor, and think of ten suitable preparations for headaches, foot pain and bad dreams… anything, really, other than look at Calcourt and dream of what might have been.
The man was almost offensively good-looking. It was a thought she had tried to ignore, tried to vanquish, ever since he had broken her heart. Unfortunately, despite her best intentions, the years had been kind to Calcourt in a way that was unavoidable. He was weathered now, touched by time and trouble, and every moment of it had only made him more attractive.
Has time been kind to me? It was useless to look at one’s changing face, one’s dwindling youth, and treat it as a kind of tragedy. Vanity was a terrible sin—it took up so much time that could be spent on better, higher thoughts, especially at thirty-six years old. But at the carriage picked up speed, the trees less defined as the horses trotted more briskly, Mary found herself wondering how time had changed her too.
When she looked into Calcourt’s eyes, she felt as if she hadn’t changed a bit. She was still the wild, headstrong girl of long ago, ready to fall into atrocious immorality with a man who had sin sparking from the tips of his fingers. His gaze, full of a new boldness that scared her as much as it excited her, had her gripping the carriage seat beneath her skirts.
‘I’m beginning to agree that this may indeed be some sort of plot.’ Calcourt smiled ruefully. ‘After the display this morning, I don’t think we can avoid it.’
‘We would be foolish beyond measure to consider this… arrangement an accident.’
‘I quite agree.’
‘They clearly wish for us to speak.’
‘Does that mean we will speak to one another?’
‘No.’
‘Speaking is forbidden, then.’
‘... No. Not forbidden. I am simply exhausted.’
‘Then sleep.’
‘I can’t sleep here.’
Calcourt frowned. ‘I hope that isn’t an aspersion cast on my character.’
‘Of—of course not.’ Mary coloured, realising how unwise her words had been. As rakish as the young James Calcourt had been, he was not and never would be the sort of man to prey upon a sleeping woman. ‘I am tense. Taut as a wire.’
‘Thanks to my presence?’
‘Of course.’
‘Another aspersion cast—but a warranted one. I’m tense too.’
Mary forced herself to harden her voice. ‘You have no right to be.’
‘We walked through a forest together, once. In autumn. You had a—’
‘This journey will become insupportable if you speak of the past.’
Calcourt’s quiet nod felt like a reproach, however gently it was done. ‘Forgive me.’
‘... No. Forgive me. I was cruel.’ Mary paused, the lingering warmth of the spring air carrying the scent of pine. ‘But… let me be.’
Calcourt nodded again. How strange it was, to speak again—to trace new patterns in old conversations. ‘Of course.’
Mary relaxed in her seat, letting the tension ebb from her body by degrees. She couldn’t very well travel all the way to Sattersall in this condition—she would take ill, or do something rash. Yes, this was unacceptable, yes, it was certainly some sort of trick, but that didn’t necessarily mean that she had to succumb to it.
Even if Calcourt smelled like musk and freshly-sawn wood. She remembered the scent from long ago, and couldn’t connect it to anything but pleasure. Even if the sound of his breath, soft and regular, made her heart beat faster in her chest.
‘Was it Evesham Forest?’
‘No.’ How strange it was to speak normally with him when they were alone. The memory of doing exactly this was so simple it barely pained her. ‘Horfton Wood, I believe. It wasn’t a forest.’
‘Trees clumped together make a forest. No-one can tell me differently.’
‘Says a man who has become far too used to London.’
‘We have both become far too used to London. Far too used to poverty and dirt.’ Calcourt shifted, moving slightly closer to Mary’s side of the carriage. ‘A little country air can do no harm.’
‘Horfton Wood was hardly the country. It was a stone’s-throw from the barracks—the earth was always muddied with hoofprints.’
‘Yes.’ Calcourt nodded. ‘It was.’
This was… pleasant. Too pleasant. Mary thought of Rebecca’s innocent smile as the carriage had sped away, and inwardly promised to give the girl the severest of upbraidings as soon as they all arrived at Sattersall.
‘’Do you still visit it? Horfton Wood?’
‘No.’ Of course unpleasantness would arrive, sooner or later. ‘I can’t find much enjoyment in it now.’
‘Because of how I treated you?’
‘... We are speaking of the past again.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ Calcourt turned to look out of the window; Mary lost herself in the dark gold of his hair as he spoke again. ‘I didn’t used to visit the wood either. My only excuse was cowardice. Now I visit, and… and I remember.’
‘Are you calling me a coward for not visiting?’
‘No. I’m calling myself a coward.’ Calcourt turned back to her. The dark intensity of his gaze held Mary spellbound for a swift, delicious moment. ‘I understand why you don’t visit. I know you want to forget the past.’
‘I don’t want to forget the past.’
‘I’m sorry?’
That was a truth she hadn’t been expecting to tell. Mary bit her lip as she looked back out of the window, the light on the forest floor now mockingly bright. ‘I don’t want to forget the past. If I forget, I—’
‘What?’
‘... I forgive.’
A shameful confession. One that had her staring unseeing out of the window, everything a tangle of leaves and light until Calcourt spoke again.
‘Is… is that the only way I will be forgiven, Mary? By forgetting?’ The softness in his voice was almost painful to hear. ‘That is a severity you condemn in others.’
‘I must be more severe with myself than others.’
‘But by being severe with yourself, you are severe with me.’
‘Do you consider yourself undeserving of severity?’
‘I most certainly do not.’ Calcourt leaned closer, his voice lowering. Mary wished she could lean away, but her body wouldn’t let her. ‘But do you not believe that I have treated myself severely over these intervening years?’
‘That is none of my business.’
‘And yet, it is. I changed my life. I found purpose.’ Calcourt’s voice trembled. ‘Do you think I did that for myself, and myself alone?’
‘You… you can’t tell me that—’
‘I changed my life because of what I did to you. What you gave to me, and I took from you. You can deny it all you want, but it’s true.’
‘Are we not moving too quickly?’
‘You dare say that, after what we’ve shared?’
‘No.’ Mary held up a hand, her eyes widening. ‘The carriage. The carriage is moving too quickly.’
The vehicle rocked and swayed, the thundering of the horses’ hooves approaching a gallop. The driver’s anxious cries were barely audible over the crunching wheels and frightened whinnies; Calcourt moved himself to the front of the carriage, attempting to look out of the gap below the roof as Mary cowered in her seat.
‘What’s happened?’ Calcourt’
s shout made itself heard above the chaos. The driver’s answer came back, muffled and lost among the hoofbeats. ‘Say it again!’
‘He must have lost control.’
‘How can he have lost control? These horses couldn’t—oh, God’s blood.’ The blasphemy came from Calcourt’s lips with a flourish, just as it had in his earlier years; Mary found herself oddly glad to hear it. ‘One of them has got loose, I—hold on!’
‘To what!’
‘To something!’
Hold onto something? Fear rose in Mary’s chest, blotting out all rational thought. With one shaking hand she gripped the seat of the carriage—and with the other, she reached for Calcourt’s wrist. She clung to him, biting her lip, determined not to scream as the carriage jerked wildly to one side.
‘The wheel’s gone.’ Calcourt’s tone was grim. ‘It’s all right. I’m here. Just—’
Before he could finish the sentence, the world lurched further sideways still. Mary gasped, her vision a sudden tumble of wood and earth and her own gown, weightless for an instant before the carriage slammed into the ground.
Darkness. Shock. Pain spreading through her, not serious, but uncomfortable enough to make her wince. The warmth of Calcourt’s body as he lay atop her, the weight of him both new and familiar at the same time.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘No.’
‘Make sure.’ His rough hand caressed her face; Mary blinked, not wanting it to feel so good. As if he were cradling her. ‘Move your feet.’
Mary obediently wriggled her toes. As she shifted, the taut heaviness of Calcourt’s body came into even sharper relief. ‘I can move them.’
‘Now move your hands.’
‘You are not a doctor.’
‘Move them. For me.’
‘What happened to the driver?’
‘Move your hands, Mary.’
How long had it been since he had used her Christian name? Here, huddled on the floor of the overturned carriage, it felt like no time at all. ‘I’m moving them.’
‘Good.’ Calcourt’s other hand was suddenly against her palm; the contact, swift and tender, was as intimate as a kiss. ‘Good.’
Dukes of the Demi-Monde Page 31