by Jill Jones
Women have always been an anathema to me. Only one, my beloved half-sister Augusta, had never disappointed me, although we had seen little of each other in our lives. It was to Augusta that springtime that I turned in sheer exhaustion & desperate need for Love & understanding. I invited her to leave her dreary life in Newmarket for a time & enjoy the Season as my Companion. I hadn’t remembered her being so lovely as she was when she arrived on my doorstep. I could see the resemblance between us—the large eyes, the fine nose, the sensuous lips. She aroused in me a startling desire, deeper & darker than I had ever known—even with Caroline. It was a forbidden desire, & one was eventually unable to resist.
Augusta, unlike all the others, loved me for my Being alone, & nothing more. She asked nothing from me, demanded nothing. She gave me her Love without question, seeing in me the hunger & desperation of a man who is incapable of Loving. She was the very opposite of Caroline, totally devoid of cunning or spite. She was unlike Lady O. as well, unsophisticated & simple. To me, she was the protection of a mother, the understanding of a sister…& the fulfillment of a lover. If Augusta perceived our actions to be Sinful, she never indicated it to me. We went everywhere together, as brother & sister, to dances & balls & the theater. It was good to see her happy again, away from her drunken husband & miserable noisy brats. She deserved to live the life of a fine lady, & for a short while, I saw to it that she did. Gus, as I called her, & I enjoyed ourselves the most, however, when we were left alone in the privacy of my quarters. There we could be as we wished—it was no longer necessary to play a part—& we wished to know one another in every way possible. Augusta made me whole, ended the Longing & the Confusion. I will not try here to explain the inexplicable, why this one woman, of them all, the one woman forbidden by all that is deemed holy, should be the one at last to bring peace to my heart.
I have been damned by many for my love of Augusta, but it is damnation based on their ignorance of the Purity of our affection for one another. The damnation from Annabella is understandable but hypocritical, since at times she participated willingly in the same kind of three-sided affair as Lord & Lady Devonshire enjoyed with Elizabeth Foster. From Caroline, however, it was a damnation fired by a desire for revenge even more unholy than the Sin I am accused of committing with Augusta. But I am getting ahead of my story…
Chapter Twenty
Alison slept dreamlessly through the night and awoke at greater peace with herself than she would have thought possible under the circumstances. She continued to make mistakes…had made a major one last night, and yet as she stretched luxuriously then curled around the pillows, she wasn’t one bit sorry. If she never knew another man in her entire life, at least she’d had the best, and he’d taken her for a swim she’d never forget.
Typically irresponsible, she heard her conscience nag. Shut up, she told it.
But it continued to nag until it managed to erode the last remnants of her morning-after reverie. With a sigh, she threw back the covers and realized she’d slept naked for the first time in her life. Maybe that’s why she’d slept so well, she thought with a grin. Then she saw the white towel sprawled on the floor nearby and remembered who had taken her to bed, and put her there naked. Had he slept with her as well? She glanced at the other side of the bed, but it was undisturbed. So he’d brought her here, tucked her in, and then left.
What kind of lover would do that?
An indifferent one. A lover who was not above taking advantage of an opportunity when it presented itself in all its sexual fury, as Alison had presented herself to him last night. Oh, God, she moaned, pulling the sheets across her breasts, remembering it was he who had warned her to stop, and she who had insisted that he continue. Her cheeks flamed. How could she face him this morning? He must think her the ultimate little fool.
She forced herself out of bed, noting the tray of food by the now-cold fireplace. She was grateful that Mrs. Beasley had cared enough to bring it to her, even though it had gone untouched. Alison made her way to the shower, hoping the warmth of the spray would bring her out of the stupor she felt herself in. It doesn’t matter what he thinks, she decided after some minutes beneath the hot water. The deed was done. She’d have to live with it.
And try as she might, she still couldn’t bring herself to regret what had happened with Jeremy last night.
But that was then, and this is now, she reminded herself, struggled to regain reality. So what was she going to do today? Then she remembered her uninvited guest. “Ugh!” she said aloud, and made a face. Why had that idiot barged in on her? He was the last person on earth she wanted to deal with today.
And then, she remembered the ghost’s promise to give him a fright in the night. Had it used its spectral bag of tricks to scare the living hell out of the prig and get him on his way? Maybe he was already gone, Alison thought hopefully as she dressed.
She chose a pair of cream colored silk slacks with a matching blouse that had a large collar and a deep V-neckline. The shoulders were well-padded and gave her, Alison thought, added height. She tucked a long aquamarine scarf under the collar and tied it casually just at the juncture of the lapels. She added large pearl earrings and a pair of shoes almost the same color as the scarf. She applied her makeup more carefully than she had in years, then stood back to assess the effect.
Did she look older? Wiser? More able to stand up to Hawthorne?
More able to resist Jeremy?
She went directly to the kitchen, where she found Mrs. Beasley and the young cook making plans for the day’s work. “Good morning,” Alison said brightly. “Do you have anything for breakfast?”
“Yes, m’am,” said the girl with a smile. “I’ve made some fresh toast. There’s sausage and bacon and eggs and broiled tomatoes and…”
Alison’s stomach rebelled at the thought of a heavy, full English breakfast, as they called it. “I’ll just have some toast,” she said, hoping not to offend the obviously eager-to-please young woman. “And some fruit, if there is some.”
“Oh, yes, m’am. Would you like tea?”
“Is there coffee?”
“Of course.”
“I’d prefer it in the mornings. Also, I’d like to take breakfast on the terrace, it’s such a lovely morning. Is there a table set up?”
“I’ll have Kit do it immediately,” Mrs. Beasley said. “We put the outside tables away last night before the storm, but it won’t take a minute.”
“Thanks,” Alison smiled. “And thank you for bringing my dinner to me last night, although I was so sound asleep, I never even knew it was there.”
She saw Mrs. Beasley shoot a quick glance at the servant girl, then heard the woman’s almost hesitant reply, “You’re welcome, m’am, but t’wasn’t me who took it to you. T’was Mr. Ryder carried your tray.”
Alison nodded, hoping to maintain a cool demeanor. “Oh. I see. Well, I’ll wait on the terrace for breakfast.”
So, he’d brought her dinner! He hadn’t stayed the night, but he had thought to leave her something to eat. Now, an indifferent lover wouldn’t have done that, would he? Alison was a jumble of mixed emotions as she stepped onto the terrace. The mist was just beginning to lift from the snarl of brambles that was the garden, but the meadow and forest which lay beyond were still hidden behind the soft gray fog. From somewhere in the moist wet silence, a bird called out. Alison went to the rail and leaned on both arms. It was so beautiful here. So peaceful. She knew this was where she belonged. Perhaps the only place on earth where she really belonged.
In her mind’s eye, she could already see the garden restored to a brilliant splendor. She could hear the drone of the mower as the groundskeeper groomed the immaculate lawn. She could smell the roses, freshly cut each day from the beds she herself tended. How did she suppose she was going to pull that off? She laughed at her own romantic notions. She’d never planted a rose bush in her life.
She heard a noise behind her and turned, expecting to see Kit, the tall young handyman Mrs.
Beasley had hired, preparing to set up her breakfast table. Instead, Jeremy stood at the entrance to the terrace. He was dressed in what Alison was coming to recognize as his favorite attire…jeans and a sweater, and she found his body just as enticing fully clothed as completely naked. She felt a stir of desire sweep through her.
“Good morning,” he said, his face clouded, she thought. With regret? The idea settled gloomily around her heart.
“Good morning,” she replied, forcing cheerfulness. She was determined not to reveal her feelings. “Care to join me for breakfast?”
“Sure.” He came to her and took her hand, leading her toward the far end of the terrace with a strange sense of urgency. “Alison, I…we need to talk.”
“There’s no need, Jeremy. What happened, happened. I don’t hold you responsible. I expect neither an apology nor an oath of undying loyalty. So let’s just…”
“You don’t understand. I’m not talking about us.”
“Oh.” She looked at him curiously, and she could tell something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. “What is it?”
Kit chose the moment to make his appearance, and neither Alison nor Jeremy spoke while they watched him set the table. “Please tell Mrs. Beasley there will be two for breakfast,” she said as he completed his task.
“Make that three,” came a voice from the doorway. Drew Hawthorne appeared, dressed in khakis and a plaid shirt, as if he were on vacation. “You don’t mind if I join you,” he stated rather than asked.
“Would it make a difference if I did mind?” Alison muttered. The man was such a jerk. No class.
Drew Hawthorne chuckled and settled his considerable weight onto one of the garden chairs that had been placed at the breakfast table. “Now, Ali, don’t start in on me. I’m not the enemy, remember?”
“I prefer for you to call me Alison,” she said sharply.
“Alison, then. Come. Sit down. Here’s the coffee pot.”
“You’d think this was your place, not mine,” she observed wryly, but took a seat across from him and nodded for Jeremy to sit next to her. She watched as the young serving woman, whose named she’d learned was Kate, poured steaming coffee into three cups from a freshly polished silver service. Drew helped himself to three spoons of sugar before continuing.
“Well, it’s not yours either,” he said, his voice seeking a humorous note and not quite making it. “Not yet. And I’m here to try to get you to change your mind about buying this…dreadful hunk of real estate, Alison.”
“You’re too late,” she said smoothly, although she was trembling with anger. “The contract is signed, the money’s in escrow,…”
“Wrong, darling. Remember, I told you about that little injunction we placed on the transfer of that money. Just to give you time to re-think…”
“An injunction,” Jeremy interjected, “that I believe is…not worth the paper it’s printed on.” He emphasized the last few words, and his inflection seemed to startle Hawthorne and throw him off balance.
Alison was curious. What did Jeremy know about all this?
“You stay out of it,” the fat man snapped. “This is none of your business.”
“It would seem it is none of yours, either.”
“Who are you, Ryder? What’s your interest in Alison’s affairs?”
“Suffice it to say, I’m someone who has no intention of standing by while the likes of you continues to exploit her inexperience.”
“Exploit! You’re out of line, Ryder. I have no idea what you’re talking about, and if you keep it up, I’ll sue you for character assassination and slander.”
“Are you certain you want to do that, Mr. Hawthorne? Because it would give me great pleasure to turn over a few of your rocks and see what kind of snakes crawl out from under them.”
Alison watched with growing consternation as the two men snarled at each other across the table, discussing her and her affairs as if she wasn’t even present.
“Stop it, both of you!” she cried at last. “Mr. Hawthorne, what I am doing here, and what I plan to do with that insurance money is out of your hands. You have made a mistake in coming here. And a mistake in thinking you could change my mind. You are welcome to finish your breakfast, then call a cab and get yourself back to Boston. By the way,” she added, amused at the way his face flushed at her unusually assertive stance, “how did you sleep last night?”
He frowned at her, confused by her sudden change of conversation. “Sleep? Why, I slept fine. Why wouldn’t I?”
Alison made a mental note to take it up with the ghost for failing to keep its rendezvous with Drew Hawthorne. “No reason. I was just hoping you had nightmares,” she returned with an icy smile. “Now, since the two of you have utterly ruined this beautiful morning, I’m going to excuse myself.”
She stood abruptly, knocking the table with her knee and sloshing coffee onto the white linen cloth. Damn, couldn’t she even make an exit gracefully?
Angry with herself and with the men who continually seemed to want to run her life, she hurried across the terrace, ducked through the door and raced to her room, where she slammed the door behind her and fell onto the bed, crying with rage.
Damn them!
Damn them all…
“With horn-handled knife,
To kill a tender lamb as dead as mutton.
Lord B-n, Lady W-., and Lady C. L-b.were among the guests at a recent party. Lord B., it would appear, is a favourite with the latter Lady; on this occasion, however, he seemed to lavish his attention on another fair object. This preference so enraged Lady C.L. that, in a paroxysm of jealousy, she took up a dessert-knife, and stabbed herself…‘Better be with the dead than thus,’ cries the jealous fair; and, casting a languishing look at Lord B—, who, Heaven knows, is more like Pan than Apollo, she whipt up as pretty a little dessert-knife as a Lady could desire to commit suicide with, ‘And stuck it in her wizzard.’”
Society report in The Satirist
Caroline, as I have noted, did not have the grace to die even as she thought herself in her deathbed. Instead, she allowed herself to be nursed back to full health by mid-summer. I am certain that she knew of Augusta’s presence in London, but in her naiveté, she did not suspect that she had reason to be jealous of her, at least not then. With Lady O. out of the picture, Caroline seemed to relent in her pursuit, or so I thought until that dreadful incident at Lady Heathcote’s.
We met at a small, select party attended by the most elite of the beau monde of London Society. Had I known she would be there, I would not have gone, & thankfully, I did not bring Augusta with me that evening. The evening began dreadfully & descended shortly into Hell. I arrived late, my damnable lameness causing me pain, & lack of a satisfying meal in recent memory eating a hole in my stomach. When I entered the room, I became aware that a hush fell across the gathering, & I turned to determine its cause. Caroline stood opposite me across the room. She was thin & haggard & yet so exquisitely beautiful, I felt a tremor of those old feelings shiver through me. The guests parted to allow us to approach one another, which we did as if drawn by some unseen force. But before we could speak, the orchestra struck up a waltz, that abominable dance which Caroline held so dear & which I loathed so deeply. Our hostess, meaning well, seized the moment to allay the tension between us, urging Caroline to start the dancing. As she passed by me with her first partner, she hissed, “I conclude I may waltz now,” a comment acknowledging our disassociation. But it was also a comment calculated to incur my wrath, recalling other days & other dance parties, when I had sat & watched in agony as she flirted & danced with every man in the room but me. “Dance with everybody in turn, Caro,” I returned with a sneer. “You always did it better than anyone. I shall have pleasure in seeing you.”
After only a short while, her recent illness claimed her energy, & she stopped dancing & asked to be escorted to the supper room. I entered a few moments later with Lady Rancliffe on my arm. Upon seeing Caroline, I commented with jealous malice, for it still
drove me mad to watch her dance, “I have been admiring your dexterity.” To my horror & amazement, her reply was to take up a small knife as if to attack me. Unable to control my contempt, I continued to harry her, saying, “Do, my dear. But if you mean to act a Roman’s part, mind which way you strike with your knife—be it at your own heart, not mine—you have struck there already.” Whereupon she burst into tears & attempted to run out of the room. Lady Rancliffe screamed that Caro was trying to kill herself, & several guests crowded around to prevent the deed. In the melee which ensued, Caroline was indeed cut, but not from trying to commit suicide. The knife, which was too small to inflict much damage in any case, scraped her fingers when it was wrested from her. A few drops of blood trickled onto her gown, & she was rushed back to Melbourne House & into the hands of her beloved William, the fool, who never has foresworn her in spite of all the grief she has caused him.
I returned to my quarters, & Augusta, & allowed her to soothe my sullen spirit as only she could.
Jeremy watched Alison flee the nasty little scene which had erupted between him and Drew Hawthorne. He realized it had been a rude and uncalled for confrontation, at least from her point of view, because she didn’t know about Hawthorne’s plans for her money.
“You’d best do as Miss Cunningham wishes,” Jeremy said at last, drawing on every reserve of politeness he could muster. “I will be happy to call you a taxi.”
Hawthorne appeared unmoved by any of it. “Give her time,” he drawled, taking up a fat sausage on his fork. “She’ll like what I have planned for her, once she understands it.” He waved the sausage at Ryder. “You her lover?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You and Ali. You know, you got a thing going?”
Jeremy hoped he could conceal his true thoughts on the subject. “Once again, sir, I believe you are meddling in things that are none of your business.”