Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  His voice was the softest of murmurs; he had to feel her trembling. ‘Will you wish to kiss me again, if I smell of something more pleasant?’

  ‘Yes.’ Susan nodded. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Good.’ Oliver’s brow furrowed; he sat deep in thought. ‘Do you have any particular preferences, when it comes to scents?’

  ‘For kissing? No. I do not believe I have indulged in the practice enough to develop a preference.’ Susan paused, thinking. ‘But I do enjoy the smell of roses. I suppose everyone does.’

  ‘Yes.’ Oliver looked at her. ‘You are still holding my hand.’

  ‘I know. I like it.’ Susan swallowed. ‘Should I stop?’

  ‘No.’ Oliver’s thumb briefly stroked over her fingers; Susan felt a warm, new shiver run through her body. ‘I like it too.’

  They sat in silence for a long stretch of time; time that Susan didn’t feel the need to count. It was already being counted in heartbeats, in shortened breaths, in the slow stroking of Oliver’s thumb over her knuckles. Trees could grow, stars could fall; the world, as it was, could deviate from the rhythm it had set for itself… she was finally, happily still.

  When Oliver spoke again, she almost jumped. ‘Queens should be celebrated, you know. They are honoured with dances, balls… have you ever had a ball held for you?’

  ‘No. Balls are a duty for me, not a pleasure.’ Susan thought for a moment, her lips pursed. ‘I do not like being with people I do not know very well.’

  ‘Well, queens can choose the manner of their celebrations as well. That’s the joy of being queen.’ Oliver smiled. ‘What celebration would you choose, if given the choice?’

  ‘Well… a dinner. A simple dinner, in the garden.’ Susan shrugged, suddenly awkward. ‘But I doubt very much that I am to be celebrated. It seems foolish to discuss it.’

  ‘What if I wish to celebrate your current good health? You have come out of your room—you are speaking to people again. You have watched unworthy people run screaming across the lawns. This is news worthy of celebration.’ Oliver stroked her hand again, the awkwardness easing. ‘Worthy of a dinner in the garden, at the very least.’

  ‘I do not think a queen can insist on being honoured. Or perhaps they can—I really couldn’t say.’ Susan wondered if she should smile; not knowing, she remained serious. ‘I certainly would not know how to ask.’

  ‘Queens never need to ask.’ Oliver’s tone was light, but definite. ‘They have servants for that.’

  ‘A dinner.’ Henry Colborne’s voice was very calm; Oliver wondered for a moment if he was doing it deliberately, before dismissing the idea as paranoid. ‘A dinner in the garden, tonight.’

  ‘Yes. I think it’s a capital idea.’ Oliver took a puff of his cigar. ‘And I think it should be done sooner, rather than later.’

  He watched Henry, Anne and Olive look at one another, the bright daylight flooding the drawing-room, and wondered what all the fuss was about. All conversations seemed to be this way; muddled, timid, full of sentiments that never seemed to be fully expressed. Nothing like speaking with Susan; Susan, who had held his hand and made him feel like a king.

  It had to be tonight. It had to be as soon as possible, before the upset and subsequent recovery had blended back into the general lull of routine. He would not allow a single day to go by without celebrating Susan Colborne; Susan, who was currently in the gardens planning extensions to the lily-house.

  ‘Look. I appreciate your spirited defence of my sister last night. My gratitude is immense.’ Henry paused, evidently struggling to find the words for what he wanted to express. ‘But… but you are beginning to speak for my sister, to presume her motives and intentions, in a manner that could be considered presumptuous.’

  ‘I am not being presumptuous in the least. I asked her about it, and she liked the idea.’ Oliver narrowed his eyes, staring at Henry with no small irritation. ‘If you would like me to be presumptuous, I certainly can be.’

  ‘Father.’ Olive’s voice was heavy with warning, but Oliver paid her no heed. He looked at Henry, arms folded, waiting for a response.

  Eventually, one came. ‘You brought an albatross into my living room. How on earth are you going to behave more presumptuously than that?’

  ‘By reminding you, young man, that Susan has a right to want things. To want things that may seem silly to you, or exaggerated, or foolish—but she is still allowed to want them. Even if it is something as apparently absurd as a dinner in her honour.’ Oliver tutted; he saw Anne lay a warning hand on her husband’s arm. ‘And if my levels of presumption are already considered beyond the pale, let me add a final point—I find it shocking, utterly shocking, that the fact she is now feeling better does not count as a cause for any sort of celebration.’ He paused, wondering if he should say his final piece, and decided to be courageous. ‘It is as if you do not care for her at all.’

  Henry’s eyes widened; he stood, his face white, as Oliver stood too. ‘How dare you, sir? How dare you presume to know the correct manner in which to care for my sister?’

  ‘I can only proceed on the evidence presented to me.’ Oliver knew he should moderate his tone, seek kinder words, but now wasn’t a good time to ask Olive how best to phrase it. ‘I see no happiness that she has returned to the world. No joy.’

  ‘When Susan recovers from her moments of indisposition, it is considered best practice to behave as if nothing has occurred.’ Henry’s fists were clenched, his voice icy. ‘We are her family. We know how best to overcome the problems that arise.’

  ‘How do you know best? Where did this sage advice come from—a pompous doctor, who no doubt said the best place for her was in an asylum, of from Susan herself?’ Oliver stared at Henry in disbelief, quite forgetting any semblance of good manners. ‘Have you ever actually asked your own sister how she wishes to be treated when she surfaces from one of her long nightmares?’

  Henry flinched, for all the world as if Oliver had struck him. Looking at his stricken face, hearing Anne’s quiet gasp, Oliver knew he had struck a nerve—and he also knew, with a slight touch of fear, that he had to go further still.

  ‘No. You did not ask. You treat your sister as an encumbrance, or as something to either overlook or overcome. As if she must not be spoken to directly, or challenged, or appeased.’ He shook his head, tutting to himself. ‘No wonder she feels so utterly wretched about everything she does, or feels, or wants.’

  ‘Did Susan say that?’ Anne slowly rose, her face even more pained than Henry’s. ‘Did she really say such a thing?’

  ‘My lady, Susan told me in no uncertain terms that she considers herself a disappointment to every living creature. Her friends, her acquaintances, and especially her family.’ Oliver sighed, the raw pain in Susan’s words coming back to haunt him. ‘She feels as if her most essential self, with all its eccentricities, is deeply irritating at best and intolerable at worst. Possibly because no-one, no-one at all, thinks to praise her for the utterly splendid woman that she is.’

  Silence greeted his statement. Knowing that he was past the point of recovery, looking into Olive’s wide eyes, Oliver decided to drive the point home.

  ‘She has made the Longwater gardens the jewel of England.’ He spoke more quietly, sure of what he was saying. ‘She took care of every aspect of the estate during your period of dissipation, Your Grace—do not attempt to deny your conduct in your younger years, it is common enough knowledge. She has welcomed any number of people into Longwater—her hallowed ground, her sacred space—and watched as more and more husbands and children have arrived, hospitable to all despite her immense dislike of change, and has not raised a single serious complaint—even when the resulting upheavals have imperilled both her health, and her peace… but really, all of that is immaterial.’ He sighed harshly, aware of how quickly his heart was beating. ‘Because even if she never did a thing for anyone, not a single thing, she would be worthy of celebration all the same.’

  Yet more silence follow
ed his words. Oliver stared angrily at the room, wishing he knew how to interpret people’s faces more expertly, until he saw Anne wiping away a tear.

  ‘Oh, Lord.’ His shoulders sagged; he looked to Olive, who didn’t seem particularly inclined to step in. ‘I am most terribly sorry. I had no intention of making anyone weep.’

  ‘No. You were quite correct, in everything you said.’ Anne spoke in an increasingly watery voice, her face crinkling as she continued. ‘I just—I simply cannot bear the thought of poor Susan suffering in silence, and us too pig-headed and selfish to even ask her if she was—if she was—’

  Breaking off, burying her face in her hands, she threw herself into Henry’s arms as she began to cry in earnest. Henry, his face now a dangerous-looking shade of purple, looked at Oliver with what looked to be a concentrated mixture of both shock and rage.

  Oliver wondered if he should leave the room. Leave the house—leave the country. But Olive’s arm was suddenly linked with his own; his daughter’s eyes, far from the humiliation that Oliver had expected, showed a cautious pride.

  ‘I…’ Oliver watched Henry sigh, a little of the unnatural colour leaving his face. ‘You are certainly presumptuous.’

  ‘I know. I also know that I am more than a little strange.’ Oliver held Henry’s gaze. ‘But I refuse to apologise for it.’

  ‘Well… there are worse things in the world.’ Henry shook his head, holding his weeping wife. ‘Treating one’s sister as an encumbrance, for one thing.’

  ‘I spoke in anger. I exaggerated significantly.’ Oliver bowed his head. ‘She has always spoken of you very highly in her letters. She thinks the world of you.’

  ‘You seem to know rather a lot when it comes to what my sister thinks.’ A shade of something, half-curiosity, half-doubt, flickered in Henry’s face. ‘She seems to trust you. Implicitly.’

  ‘I value whatever trust she places in me very highly.’ Oliver stuck his neck out, refusing to answer the unspoken question in Henry’s eyes.

  ‘And this trust. This… closeness.’ Henry was refusing to yield. ‘I assume that if anything were to flower from such a correspondence, Anne and I would be the first to hear about it?’

  ‘Oliver simply stared back, his face stony. He had at least fifteen years on this arrogant young buck, and Sheba could probably be convinced to attack him if the right fish was offered as bait… but Olive’s hand tensed on his arm, perhaps alerting him to the glint of worry in Henry’s eyes, and Oliver relented.

  ‘Of course.’ He nodded once, softly. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good.’ The relief in Henry’s voice was evident. ‘Dinner then, in the garden. Tonight.’

  A simple dinner, in the garden. Even as Susan had said the words, she hadn’t given much thought to imagining what a simple dinner in the garden could be. But as she walked onto the lawns, ready to breathe some fresh air before dinner began, she was shocked to see a table set on the grass.

  Everyone was sat around it; Henry, Anne, Lydia, Andrew, Henrietta, Richard, Isaac, Agnes—Agnes with babe in arms, of course, and William sitting placidly beside his mother. Olive was sitting next to Henrietta, a timid smile on her face, and Oliver… why, he was sat at the head of the table, a beaming smile on his face as he stood.

  He needed no words. He simply raised his glass, honouring her presence; honouring her openly, without shame, without conditions. As her family followed suit, smiling with their glasses raised high, Susan felt an almost overwhelming feeling of triumph. Victory. Acceptance.

  It was almost too much. She almost ran back into the safety of the house; the darkness, the comforting ticking of the clocks, the old routines. But as she searched for Oliver’s gaze, holding it as a shipwrecked man clings to driftwood, Susan knew that with him at the helm—with him watching her, listening to her, taking care of her—she would be able to do even the most frightening things.

  What, then, was a simple dinner in the garden? It was the taste of strawberry ice, and rissoles, and partridge in cream sauce; dishes that Susan had always loved, and continued to love, and would eat every day if she could. It was the sound of laughter, and memories relived, and humorous tales told to the assembled company; it was the smell of trampled grass, and lit candles, and the sweet smell of sugar lumps dropped into cups of tea. Even the feel of the tablecloths pleased Susan; it was her favourite one, the blue cotton that had once graced her mother’s tea table, and she knew without asking that Henry had been the one to choose it.

  Yes, there were things that irked her; sometimes sounds were too loud, or William wiggled too much. But Susan was beginning to accept such moments of excess, of irritation on her part; they only grew stronger if she denied them. So she simmered in some moments, laughed in others—and realised, as time wore on, that she had never been quite so relaxed in company as she was at the table, taking yet another spoonful of strawberry ice under the darkening sky.

  It fell outside of her usual routine. This could not be denied. But there was continuity in people’s dress, in their manner, in the order that the dishes were served—enough regularity, in fact, to keep her calm. Susan looked along the laughing, chattering table, wondering who was responsible for such care and attention, until Oliver’s gentle gaze gave her the answer.

  Eventually, of course, it was over; the last dishes were cleared away, the table was taken indoors. There was brief, sleepy talk of a card game, and an attempt at rounders—but soon the gardens were quietly, blissfully empty, the sun sinking below the woodland as Susan watched. Yes, a dinner in the garden had been wonderful, but looking at an empty garden was an equally powerful pleasure.

  She never normally walked through the gardens at sunset. Morning was her time for exploration; she had always felt a thrill of fear when darkness stole over all the things she loved. But this evening was different; her usual routines and rituals had loosened a little, giving Susan the freedom to practice them in a different context.

  Taking a blanket from a chest in the drawing room, she set off across the lawns. She was still wearing black. She was still walking through the gardens at her usual pace, taking note of the usual points of interest. But things had changed; powerful things, fundamental things, and Susan felt excitement instead of fear.

  The rose garden had become a perfumed bower; the flowers had given up the best of their sweetness in the last burst of sunlight, filling the air with a ripe, rich scent. Susan placed her blanket in the very centre of the grass, appreciating the lack of dew on the ground as she sat.

  She could sit here, alone, for hours. She would enjoy that very much. But there was something else that she wanted; something that she hardly dared to hope for, but felt in her bones as deeply as she felt her own joy, here in this moment, in this place.

  ‘Queen of the Garden.’ Oliver’s voice sent a shiver of contentment through her; hearing him was as good as reading, or counting. It set the world to rights. ‘You have left your court.’

  ‘My court will do quite well in my absence.’ Susan looked at the mass of fragrant roses, lost in their scent as Oliver approached. ‘Although, today at least, they have flourished in my presence as well.’

  ‘They always flourish in your presence.’ Oliver moved closer; Sheba swooped down, swift and silent as an arrow, barely dislodging the petals on the grass as she settled next to Susan’s blanket. ‘The flower is only one stage in the life of a plant, yes? There are so many other, unseen processes. You have explained them at length to me.’ He sat on one corner of the blanket; Susan took in his face, the power of his presence, and felt another thrill of what she knew was happiness. ‘Just because you cannot see their appreciation, does not mean that the appreciation is not there.’

  ‘True. Wise, as always.’ Susan attempted the piece of sarcasm with trepidation; she relaxed as Oliver laughed. What a nice laugh he had. ‘But it was particularly lovely to hear their appreciation today.’

  ‘Yes.’ Oliver shifted a little closer on the blanket. ‘It was. For everyone, I think.’


  There was a short, rich moment of silence; the kind that Susan had only ever shared with Oliver. A quiet that came with layers of sentiment, secrets, dreams… a quiet she could happily exist in for as long as was humanly possible.

  She had to do something; something that would express the tumult of emotion that she felt moving in her, deep and treacherous as quicksand. Simply holding his hand was not enough, although she wished to do that very much. She had to say something, do something… make him understand.

  Reaching out, gritting her teeth against the rush of emotion that she knew would come, she took Oliver’s hand. The wave hit her again; the rush of excitement, of intensity, of longing… longing for something that she had never known could exist for herself, for her soul.

  ‘Thank you.’ She took a deep breath, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. ‘You have… you have reminded me that unusual as I am, I have a place in this world, and am cherished by those who inhabit it. It was a gift you did not need to give me.’

  ‘It is a gift you more than deserve.’ Oliver’s palm was so warm against her own, so reassuring. ‘A gift I am infinitely glad to have given you.’

  ‘And I do not know how to thank you adequately.’ Susan bit her lip, her brow furrowed. ‘All I can think of to do is kiss you, which I would very much like to do—but I am not sure if it works as an expression of thanks.’

  ‘I do not want you to kiss me as a way of thanking me.’ Oliver moved closer still. ‘I would like you to kiss me because you want to kiss me.’

  ‘And I do. Very much. I have told you.’ Susan nodded. ‘But I still would not have thanked you adequately.’

  Oliver nodded. ‘I see. Then… then tell me that you do not, under any circumstances, smell sardines.’

  ‘I do not.’ Susan looked at him, confused. ‘But why would that—’

  Her words caught in her throat as Oliver’s lips met hers.