Thunder & Roses

by Mary Jo Putney

  "Perceptive of you," he replied. "The females who come here are those who want to look as alluring as possible. Though some are society women, many are actresses and courtesans." He cocked his head to one side. "Does that offend you?"

  "I suppose it should," she admitted, "but I would be out of place in a society salon. Besides, I rather like Denise."

  Their conversation ended when the young apprentice brought in a tray of tea and cakes to sustain them. Nicholas and Denise began an energetic discussion of the stockings, shoes, gloves, cloaks, and unmentionable undergarments that would be required. Merely listening to them made Clare tired.

  Nicholas, however, was thriving. When they left the shop after three hours, he said exuberantly, "Now, my dear, I am going to introduce you to the most sensual experience of your life."

  "Oh, no," she said with dismay. "I'm trying to be a good mistress, but I don't think it's fair for you to humiliate me."

  "Did I say anything about humiliation?" He helped her up into the curricle, then took the reins from his groom, who climbed onto the back of the vehicle.

  As they plunged into the London traffic, she said warily, "Are you taking me to some kind of... of orgy?"

  "Why, Clare!" he said, glancing at her askance. "You shock me. What do you know about orgies?"

  "Not much, though I understand that they are vile and lascivious and involve numerous people behaving like barnyard animals," she said scathingly.

  He laughed. "Not a bad definition. Orgies come in all sorts, of course, but I suppose that there must be at least three parties present to qualify. They don't all have to be human, of course."

  As Clare choked with embarrassment, a dray shot from a side street, almost colliding with them. Nicholas deftly managed to stop the curricle and avoid an accident, but the filthy cockney drayman wasn't satisfied. A long-dead cigar dangling from his mouth, he began shouting curses about bloody flash coves who thought they owned the roads.

  "What a disagreeable fellow," Nicholas remarked. "He needs to be taught manners."

  With a powerful snap of his wrist, he cracked his whip and the cigar vanished from the drayman's mouth. The cockney was left with a ragged stub clenched between his teeth and an astonished expression.

  Impressed but appalled, Clare gasped, "Good heavens, if you had misjudged, you might have taken that man's eye out."

  "I do not misjudge," Nicholas said calmly. He snapped the whip again, and the drayman's cap came sailing through the air to land on Clare's lap. She felt a faint hiss of air, but the thong of the whip moved so swiftly that she couldn't see it.

  As she gazed at the crumpled cap in mute fascination, Nicholas told her, "Though it is said that a man who is a good whip can take a fly off the ear of one of his lead horses, there are few who actually can do it." The whip cracked once more, and the hat went whirling back through the air to land on the head of the befuddled drayman. "I, however, am one of the ones who can."

  Performance over, Nicholas resumed threading through traffic. "To return to the fascinating topic of orgies, it is a common male fantasy to bed two women at once. In fact, bed is the wrong term—so much space is required that one is likely to end up on the floor. Having an inquisitive mind, I once decided to indulge in this particular fantasy. I suppose that the result could be termed an orgy." He turned the curricle into a broader street. "Do you know what my most vivid memory of this orgy is?"

  Face flaming, Clare clapped her hands over her ears. "I don't want to hear any more!"

  Ignoring her protest, Nicholas said with relish, "Carpet burns on the knees, that's what I remember. In order to keep either of the ladies from getting bored, it was necessary to crawl back and forth constantly. An exhausting experience, and I limped for a week." He paused pensively. "It taught me that some fantasies are better off remaining in the mind."

  Clare went off into helpless laughter. "You're deplorable," she gasped, thinking that only Nicholas could turn a hopelessly bawdy story into something hilarious. Perhaps, after all, his "most sensual experience" would not turn out to be so dreadful.

  Yet she was not prepared when he pulled the curricle up in front of an enormous Gothic church. Recognizing the building from a print she had seen, Clare said incredulously, "Surely this is Westminster Abbey."

  Nicholas tossed his reins to the groom, then assisted Clare from the curricle. "Right you are."

  For a time, they stood in silence while her eager gaze scrutinized the facade. No print could do justice to the size, or the power, of the structure. Every line of the abbey and its twin towers soared toward the heavens, a wordless tribute to the faith of those who had built it.

  Nicholas took her elbow and they moved toward the entrance. If he had not been guiding her, she would have fallen over her own feet, for she could not take her eyes off the building.

  The interior was even more glorious than the exterior. Though other visitors and worshippers were scattered about, the enormously high roof made the people seem insignificant and gave a paradoxical sense of privacy. Dark shadows, glowing jewel-toned windows, pointed arches, a forest of enormous columns; Clare was so dazed by the visual richness that she had trouble grasping the abbey as a whole.

  She held Nicholas's arm as they wandered up a side aisle. "This is a building designed to impress humans with the power and majesty of God," she murmured, not wanting to raise her voice.

  "All of the great places of worship do that," he replied quietly. "I've been in churches, mosques, synagogues, and Indian temples, and all of them were capable of making a man think that there is something to this religion business. But I've also been in shrines smaller than Zion Chapel in Penreith, and some of those seemed the holiest of all."

  She nodded absently, too overwhelmed to keep up a rational discussion of religious architecture. The walls were lined with monuments to famous Britons. Incredible to think that she was walking over the bones of so many great men and women: Edward I, called Longshanks, and Henry VIII. Elizabeth the Virgin Queen and her cousin and enemy, Mary Queen of Scots. Geoffrey Chaucer, Isaac Newton, and the William Pitts, both Elder and Younger. When they reached the chapel of Edward the Confessor, who had been both king and saint, she said in a hushed voice, "Is every important figure in English history buried here?"

  He gave a low laugh. "No, though it can seem that way. The combination of spectacular architecture and history Is rather overwhelming." He pulled out his pocketwatch and checked the time, then turned and started back along the south aisle.

  They had gone only a short distance when the silence was shattered by a torrent of music. Clare caught her breath and a shiver fizzed up her spine. It was an organ; no other instrument would have had the power and majesty to fill such a huge church.

  The organ was joined by a choir of angels. No, not angels, though the voices were truly angelic. Hidden somewhere in the complex spaces of the abbey, scores of male voices lifted in triumphant song. The music resonated from the stone walls, echoing and concentrating with a stunning power that paradise itself would be hard-pressed to match.

  Nicholas gave a soft, enraptured exhalation. "They're practicing Easter music." He took Clare's hand and stepped back into the shelter of a niche that was partially obscured by a flamboyant memorial sculpture.

  Relaxing back against the stone wall, he closed his eyes and gave himself over to listening, absorbing the throbbing measures as a flower absorbs sun. She had known that he loved music from his own harp playing, but his face now made her realize that "love" was not a strong enough word. He had the expression of a devastated angel seeing the possibility of redemption.

  Slowly, insensibly, she drifted closer to him until her back brushed his white linen shirt. One of his arms went around her waist, folding her against him. There was nothing carnal about the embrace; rather it was a way of sharing an experience too profound for words. Closing her own eyes, she allowed herself to revel in the moment. The transcendent power of the music. The strength and warmth of Nicholas. Joy.
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br />   The third piece was Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus," a piece of music as electrifying as it was unmistakable. For the Lord God omnipotent reigneth... She shivered under the impact of emotions that resonated from the depths of her soul.

  King of kings and Lord of lords... Spiritual faith and passion, beauty and love, sensuality and tenderness, sacred and profane—all were jumbled together in an inseparable mass that brought wistful tears to her eyes. Forever and ever and ever...

  Perhaps the juxtaposition of such disparate emotions was blasphemous, but she was unable to separate them, any more than she could have said where she ended and Nicholas began. She simply existed, wanting nothing more of life.

  When the choir finished, the organ went into a thunderous solo that threatened to loosen the ancient stones of the abbey. Slowly Clare came out of her trance. She opened her eyes to a scowl from two passing ladies. Reminded that Nicholas's arm was still around her waist, reluctantly she pulled away from him.

  She turned and looked up at him, and couldn't look away. Softly he said, "I've always thought that hell must be the absence of music."

  A sense of closeness, of connection, pulsed between them. And there was something different about him. It took a moment for her to realize that, for the first time, his expression was utterly open. Usually his quick tongue and eloquent face disguised the fact that he held himself back, but now the barriers were down. What she saw in his eyes was vulnerability, and she wondered how long it had been since he had let anyone see that deeply into him. Or if he ever had.

  Then she began to wonder what he might be seeing in her eyes. Uneasily she looked away, breaking the connection between them. She had to clear her throat before she could speak. "That was wonderful. And you were right—it was the most sensual experience of my life."

  "And utterly respectable." He offered his arm to her.

  Clare could still feel the phantom warmth of that arm around her waist. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and they walked wordlessly from the abbey. After the choir, anything else would be anticlimactic.

  Outside a brisk wind was chasing fragments of cloud across the sky in ever-changing patterns. Nicholas hailed the curricle, and soon they were threading their way through the Westminster traffic. The quiet streets of fashionable Mayfair were a relief, and Clare was looking forward to reaching Aberdare House, In fact, after the stimulation of the dressmaker and the abbey, she might commit the self-indulgence of a nap.

  Nicholas, however, had not yet run out of surprises. As they passed down a peaceful residential street, he suddenly reined in his horses. "The knocker is up, so the family must be in residence."

  Handing the reins to the groom again, he jumped lightly to the pavement and reached up to help Clare.

  "Who's in residence?" she asked as she alighted beside him.

  Eyes gleaming, he guided her up the steps and rapped on the door with the lion-head knocker. "Why, my dear old granny."

  Granny. Grandmother? But his father's mother had died years before, and if his mother's Gypsy mother was alive, she wouldn't be living in a house in Mayfair.

  Understanding hit her as the door began to swing open. Clare realized with horror that he must be talking about his grandfather's young widow: Emily, the dowager Countess of Aberdare—the woman who was widely believed to have been Nicholas's mistress, and who had been at the center of the scandal that had cost two lives.

  Chapter 14

  As Clare entered the house with Nicholas, she felt a distinctly unchristian desire to wring his neck. It was common knowledge in Penreith that on the night when the old earl and Caroline had died, servants had found Nicholas in the countess's bedroom. In spite of that strong circumstantial evidence, Clare had been reluctant to draw the obvious conclusion. Though at the time she thought she was being nonjudgmental, in retrospect she supposed that she simply hadn't wanted to believe Nicholas could be so base. Now, however, she was likely to learn the truth by seeing the two of them together, and she found that she didn't want to know what had actually happened.

  As the dignified butler admitted the visitors and asked their names, a naked toddler ran shrieking through the front hall. It quite ruined the formal effect. A panting nursemaid came racing through in hot pursuit of the child, followed a few seconds later by a laughing lady in her mid-thirties.

  Her gaze went to the visitors, and her expression changed. "Nicholas!" she exclaimed, holding her hands out to him. "Why didn't you tell me you'd returned to England?"

  He caught her hands, then kissed her on both cheeks. "I only arrived in London yesterday, Emily."

  Clare watched in stiff-faced silence, thinking that she had seen Nicholas kiss entirely too many women today. The dowager countess was glowing with health and happiness and looked a decade younger than when she had lived in Aberdare. And judging by the obvious affection between the two, it was easy to believe that they had been lovers.

  Nicholas turned and drew Clare forward. "Perhaps you remember my companion."

  After a moment of perplexity, the countess said, "You're Miss Morgan, the Penreith schoolmistress, aren't you? We met when Nicholas was setting up the endowment for the school."

  It was Clare's turn to look perplexed. "Nicholas set up the endowment? I thought the school was your project."

  "Since my husband tended to disapprove of Nicholas's progressive ideas, it was better for me to do the public part," the countess explained. "I hope the school is doing well. Are you still the schoolmistress?"

  "Most of the time," Nicholas interjected. "She's taken a three-month leave of absence in an attempt to educate me."

  The countess's curious gaze went from him to Clare and back again, but before she could comment, the young nurse maid returned, her bare-bottomed charge gurgling in her arms. "I'm sorry, ma'am," she said apologetically. "I don't know how Master William managed to sneak off like that."

  The countess leaned forward and kissed her son's cheek "Amazingly inventive, isn't he?" she said proudly.

  "'Ventive, 'ventive, 'ventive!" the child echoed.

  "So this is my godson." Laughing, Nicholas took William away from the nursemaid. "Considering how much he hates wearing clothing, he's going to be inexpensive to dress in years to come. Maybe he has some of the Gypsy love of freedom."

  Clare couldn't stop herself from looking for a resemblance between Nicholas and William. If there was one, she didn't see it; the child was blond and blue-eyed, a proper English baby. He was also too young to be the product of a four-year-old liaison.

  The countess's light voice interrupted her thoughts. "Forgive my rudeness, Miss Morgan. As you can see, everything is at sixes and sevens, but would you care to join me for tea? Nicholas and I have a great deal to talk about."

  Nicholas chuckled and handed William back to his nurse. "It's clear what you've been doing for the last several years."

  The countess blushed like a schoolgirl as she ushered her guests into the drawing room and rang for refreshments.

  Clare sipped tea and nibbled cakes while the other two exchanged news. Was this why she was in London—to watch Nicholas charm other women? The thought made her feel distinctly hostile.

  After half an hour, Nicholas drew a round, brightly painted wooden object from his pocket. "I brought a small present for William. It's from the East Indies, where it's called a yo-yo." He looped the silk string around his finger and made the toy run up and down the string, accompanied by a soft singing sound.

  The countess said, "My brother had a similar toy when we were children, but his was called a bandalore. Let's see if I remember how to make it work." Her attempts were unsuccessful. The third time the yo-yo ended up hanging limply from the string, she returned it to Nicholas. "I'm afraid I'm out of practice."

  "If you don't object, I'll take it up to the nursery and demonstrate it for William."

  "He'll be enchanted." The countess rang for the butler and ordered him to take Nicholas to the nursery.

  Clare felt uneasy about
being left alone with the countess, but that faded when the other woman turned candid hazel eyes toward her. "Please forgive Nicholas and me for our rudeness—four years is a long time, and the scapegrace hardly ever wrote."

  "I'm sure you're glad that he's home again, Lady Aberdare," Clare said in a neutral tone.

  "Yes, even though it reminds me of that dreadful time." The countess picked up one of the butter cakes. "Incidentally, I don't use the title anymore, Miss Morgan. Now I'm plain Mrs. Robert Holcroft. Or Emily to a friend of Nicholas's."

  "You've abandoned the title? That's almost unheard of. I thought women in your position usually keep their former rank if they remarry commoners."

  Emily's face hardened. "I never wanted to be a countess. Robert—my husband—and I grew up together, and always knew that we wanted to marry. But he was the younger son of a squire with few prospects, while I was the daughter of a viscount. When Lord Aberdare made his extremely flattering offer, my parents insisted that I accept it even though he was forty years older than I."

  "I'm sorry," Clare said awkwardly. "I had no idea. You looked so serene that no one in Penreith guessed that the marriage was not to your taste."

  "Lord Aberdare wanted a young brood mare to give him more children." She began crumbling the butter cake between her fingers. "He was quite... conscientious about exercising his conjugal rights, but I proved to be a disappointment to him. It was a difficult time. Nicholas was a... great comfort to me." The butter cake had been reduced to a mound of golden crumbs.

  To Clare, it sounded like an oblique confession that Emily and Nicholas had been lovers, but that the affair had not been casual, lustful seduction. At least, not on Emily's part. Though Clare could not condone adultery, she understood how an unhappy woman could slip into an affair with a handsome, charming step-grandson who was close to her own age. Not knowing what else to say, she remarked, "William is proof that it wasn't your fault that there were no children borne of your first marriage."