Honey Pot

by Mira Stables

  They settled back easily enough into a semblance of the easy intercourse which had been so abruptly terminated by the visit from the Waydenes. There could be no riding, of course, but Mr Cameron, making rapid progress under his wife’s watchful eye, was soon well enough to be driven out for an hour or so when the weather was propitious. He grumbled a good deal about the restrictions that she imposed on his activities, and assured her that if he had known what it was like to live under the cat’s foot he would have thought twice about marrying her. All he got by that was a calm reminder that he had been given fair warning.

  “I told you I was a bad bargain. And I daresay it is doing you a great deal of good to have that imperious will of yours overborne from time to time. I mean to make the most of my opportunities while you are too weak to resist, or you will be quite impossible to live with.”

  His plan to woo his wife by every subtle means that he could devise made no progress at all. While talk ran on practical day to day affairs they got on splendidly, usually agreeing, sometimes arguing amiably and coming to a satisfactory compromise. But as soon as any topic of a personal or intimate nature crept in, Russet became evasive. In those delightful early days they had enjoyed exploring each other’s minds and tastes, delving into childish memories and comparing prejudices. Nowadays conversation was confined to items of local interest, to consideration of whether or no Mr Cameron would be well enough to escort his wife to Denholme for her sister’s wedding in October, and discussion of the re-decoration of Russet’s ‘prison’ in a fashion more suited to a younger woman. For as she had suspected the room had been his mother’s and had been furnished in accordance with her tastes. This particular topic, together with a running battle over the laying out of the flower borders for next season, was about the nearest that they approached to marital intimacy. The new Mrs Cameron had fitted so easily into her rôle as châtelaine of Furze House that she had a dozen reasons for slipping away if she felt that her husband was approaching forbidden ground. She must talk to Cook or consult Phoebe or enquire into the dealings of the hen-wife or the laundry-maids. And of course there was always Jai, who had reverted to normal puppyhood with her master’s recovery, and had to be fed, exercised, scolded or entertained whenever Mr Cameron might otherwise have been able to claim his wife’s undivided attention. There were moments when, in furious exasperation at his lack of progress, he could almost have wished that she was still a prisoner under lock and key. At least, then, if he desired her presence, she could not escape him. Now, although he would have had difficulty in quoting a single instance, he knew that she was eluding him in a way that was not purely physical. There was a hedge of reserve about her, more impenetrable than the thorny barrier than once guarded the sleeping princess, and try as he might he could not overcome it.

  On the surface all was smooth. There were letters and calls and a visit from Cousin Olivia accompanied by Doll. The pug bullied the much larger Jai quite shamefully and Cousin Olivia succumbed to the charm of her host, pitied his present invalidism and privately assured Russet that she was a very fortunate girl. So far as birth and fortune were concerned, not even Joanna had made a better match. To be sure he was not heir to a dukedom, but where personal attraction was in question—her delicately plucked eyebrows vanished.

  But daily one enormous obstacle bulked larger and larger on Mr Cameron’s horizon. What of the future? He was practically recovered from his injury, but still no decision had been made as to where they should live. Obviously they would stay at Furze House until after Joanna’s wedding, but what then? The purchase of the Scottish estate had been completed. At this season of the year little could be done on the practical side, but Mr Cameron knew very well that he should take up residence as soon as possible. Getting acquainted with his tenants and his new neighbours was likely to be a long slow business; one, moreover, that could best be pursued at a time of year when they were not wholly preoccupied by seasonal tasks. Even the bitter months of winter could be turned to useful purpose, since they might permit him to relieve hardship, so that he used infinite tact and good judgement.

  Russet had said, once, that if she was his wife she would wish to share the Scottish adventure with him. But it had been an academic discussion. In any case he had said that he would make no demands upon her other than that she would consent to take his name, so he could hardly ask her to go into what amounted to voluntary exile with him. Nor would it cause any particular comment if he left her comfortably established in the Town house. Society would be far more likely to smile and raise eyebrows if she went with him. He could perfectly well imagine the sly comments about newly-weds and romantic idylls.

  He tried an oblique approach, asking her what she would like to do when he travelled north. Unfortunately, in his anxiety to leave her absolutely free to choose, he went on, “You could stay on here, you know, if you do not think it too isolated. The winters are quite mild as a rule. Or you could stay in Cavendish Square if you preferred it. I daresay Cousin Olivia would be quite happy to bear you company.” Russet promptly decided that, honour being satisfied with giving her the protection of his name, he no longer had any particular desire for her society. She returned an indifferent answer, saying that she would think it over and perhaps consult Cousin Olivia. And for the second time during her stay at Furze House, cried herself to sleep.

  Heaton met her next morning with a long face. Now that she had grown too large for a basket, Jai slept in the kennels, and it was Russet’s custom to stroll down there each morning after breakfast and take her out.

  “Proper sick, poor little bitch,” he told her gloomily. “I doubt it’s distemper, and she’s got it bad.”

  It seemed to Russet that everything was going wrong at once. She had begun the day feeling thoroughly miserable after last night’s talk with her husband and Jai’s illness seemed to be the last straw. Nor had Heaton exaggerated. Even to Russet’s inexperienced eyes the pup looked very ill. She lay inert on the straw, her painful breathing the only sign of life.

  “Takes ’em badly, this breed,” explained Heaton mournfully. He was especially fond of the lively, mischievous pup, having brought her up by hand.

  He had little comfort to offer. There was not much they could do save to keep the pup warm and bathe away the mucus from her eyes and nostrils. “And try to persuade her to eat,” added Heaton heavily. “That’s the trouble. They won’t eat. Then, by the time the fever ’bates, they’re too weak to pull through. I’ll do my best for her, miss—ma’am, I should say, but it’s only straight to own that I’m not hopeful.”

  “Then pray don’t tell the master,” said Russet impulsively. “Else we shall have him down here helping to nurse her and perhaps taking cold. He is much occupied at present with business matters. He may not notice that she is not about the house.”

  Heaton looked doubtful, but he agreed that it wouldn’t do to have the master sitting up nights with a sick animal. Russet said that she herself would help with the nursing. Heaton was dubious about that, too, but Russet was sure that if anyone could persuade Jai to lap the broth with which Heaton had been trying to tempt her, she could. Alas! Her efforts were no more successful than Heaton’s. The pup lay like a dead thing, her glossy coat dull and harsh to the touch, not hearing their anxious voices nor responding to Russet’s urging.

  “Best leave her be,” said Heaton finally. “I’ll try again in a while. Maybe a bit o’ raw liver ’ud tempt her.”

  Mr Cameron began to find his wife more elusive than ever. During the first weeks of their married life she had at least driven out with him most afternoons and sat with him in the library after dinner. Now she excused herself from the afternoon excursions on the lamest of excuses and would retire as soon as dinner was done, saying that she was very tired. She did look tired, Mr Cameron was obliged to admit, but the long nights of sleep did not appear to refresh her, for she would come down to breakfast pale and heavy-eyed still.

  He began to be seriously concerned for her health
. The weeks of imprisonment had made little apparent impression on her. Marriage—a marriage that was no marriage, a marriage that he had practically forced upon her—seemed to be undermining her constitution with dangerous rapidity.

  She had always been slight of build, but her slenderness had been imbued with vigorous health, a vital warmth that was her greatest charm. He looked at her across the dinner table, aware that she was making only a pretence of eating, and saw the brave effort she made to smile and to converse; saw that the slight body was drooping with weariness, that there were dark circles under her eyes. And for the first time he realised the depths of his own selfishness. He had thought of her welfare, true. He had protected her reputation and dwelt joyously on the luxuries with which he would heap her. But he had thought of her happiness only in relation to himself. He had not been able to see that some other man might give her all that he could give and happiness as well. And this was what he had brought her to. In bitter self-reproach and penitence he forestalled her usual faltering excuses.

  “You look very tired, my dear. I think you should go early to bed,” he said. And saw the thankfulness that she could not quite hide.

  He himself sat long in the library, occasionally rising to throw another log on the fire and to pace the floor in painful thought till the ache in the newly healed wound sent him back to his chair. It was long past midnight when, his hard decision reached, he summoned Jamal to help him to bed. It was even longer before sleep banished the bleak misery that engulfed him.

  In the stable block the fight for Jai’s life went on. They had moved her from the kennels for fear of the other dogs taking the sickness and installed her in a snug corner in the harness room. Russet had made her a kind of coat out of a blanket, and in a deep nest of straw she was protected from chills. Russet and Heaton shared the nursing between them and the pup was never left. On the third night Heaton had shaken his head hopelessly. The pup had taken nothing all day, not even water. In desperation, and with some faint recollection of her father’s actions in a similar situation, Russet had called Ahmed Khan into their councils. Ahmed Khan was no dog lover—he thought them unclean beasts—but he loved his master devotedly and that devotion was rapidly spreading to include Russet. Without complaint he produced his master’s finest brandy. He watched them add the golden liquid to a well-beaten egg without so much as a shudder for such desecration and even stood impassively by while the mixture was carefully coaxed down a dog’s throat.

  The effect was heartening. After a few moments Jai opened her eyes and even tried to raise her head. She was presently persuaded to lap feebly at a broth compounded of rabbit and chicken. No more than a few mouthfuls, but it was the first hopeful sign. Her two nurses glanced at each other with wary optimism.

  “Every two hours?” suggested Russet, nodding at the brandy bottle. “And then try her with the broth or milk. Maybe with a little of the meat mixed in the broth, if its stewed to rags.”

  Heaton nodded sage agreement. And between them they had carried out the treatment, he bearing most of the responsibility during the day, save for a brief rest during the afternoon, Miss Russet—and he must remember to call her Mrs Cameron—taking the brunt of the night nursing. Never was a bottle of brandy mis-used to better purpose. The invalid grew stronger daily. Even Ahmed Khan took a detached but benevolent interest in her progress. And tonight, for the first time, she had struggled to her feet and devoured a small portion of sheep’s liver with obvious appetite.

  “She’ll do,” exclaimed Heaton, his face one wide, joyous grin. “She’s going to do it. And it’s all thanks to you, Miss Russet. Bless your bonny face and your warm heart.”

  He was then so overcome by the familiarity into which his feelings had betrayed him that he hastily mumbled something about seeing if Bob Sheridan could get a couple more rabbits for them and stumped off before Russet could express her thanks for his patient care, which had done quite as much for Jai as she had.

  She sat on beside the sleeping pup, utterly weary but at peace. She even dozed a little from time to time, no longer obsessed by the fear that Jai would die while she slept. Heaton relieved her at five o’clock and she stole back softly to the side door that Ahmed Khan had left unlocked for her. Breakfast was not until nine so she could surrender to the overpowering urge to relax and sleep in the comfort of a proper bed.

  Not unnaturally she overslept and did not even rouse when Ameera came in with her hot water. She was late for breakfast. Her husband had finished his meal and was getting up as she came in. She apologised for her tardy arrival and he said gravely that he hoped she felt the better for her long sleep.

  “I would be grateful if you could spare me a few moments when you have done your breakfast,” he added. “There is something I wish to discuss with you. Perhaps you will come to me in the library when you are at liberty.”

  She nodded acquiescence and poured herself some coffee. She was not particularly hungry and contented herself with a slice of bread and butter, too tired to serve herself from the several delectable dishes that Cook had sent up, wishing only that she could go back to bed and sleep for a week. She wondered dully what James wanted of her. Since, obviously, he did not want her, it was probably something quite trivial. She did not hurry. Now that Jai was on the road to recovery nothing seemed very urgent except her need for sleep. She sipped her coffee and decided that she felt like a clock that had run down and was faltering to a stop. She was still smiling faintly at the foolish notion when she joined James in the library.

  His first words banished any further notion of smiling and shocked her wide awake. Having once made up his mind he came straight to the point. “My child, I have come to realise that I did you a grave injury in persuading you to marry me against your will. I do not ask you to forgive me for my selfish folly but I will do what I can to make amends. A marriage which has not been consummated may be annulled. I will get Anderson to enquire how this may be achieved with the least noise, for I know that you will not want any breath of scandal to touch you, for your sister’s sake rather than for your own. Meanwhile it will be better if we part. If you would prefer to remain here, I will leave. It would probably be better that way. I could go up to Town and consult Anderson without loss of time.”

  During the past weeks Russet had endured a good deal with commendable self control. She had suffered abduction and captivity; had known the heights and depths of love and despair, the fear of death and loss. Now, in her weariness and weakness she could endure no more. She stared at him dumbly, hopelessly. Great tears began to slide down her cheeks. She put out a hand blindly, fumbling for some support as the sobs shook her body, and found herself caught against his breast, his cheek against her hair as he groaned, “Rosetta! My darling! My little love! Don’t cry so, I beg of you. I can’t bear it. I deserve to be horsewhipped and hanged, but I promise that I will set you free as soon as it can be done. You need never see me again. Only please stop crying. You will make yourself ill.”

  Fortunately most of this singularly stupid speech went unheard. The first half dozen words had been enough for Russet. She lifted a very watery face to his, still not quite able to believe that she had heard aright. “What did you call me?” she demanded on a gulping sob.

  He looked puzzled for a moment, then took her meaning. “I’m sorry,” he said simply. “I know I have no right. But even though I set you free, I cannot stop myself from loving you. You need not heed it.”

  “You love me,” she half whispered, wonderingly.

  “With all my heart. I think I have loved you since you turned my bones to water walking along that ledge. But the knowledge need not burden you. You shall go free, I promise.”

  He seemed to have forgotten that he was holding her in his arms, as close a prisoner as she had ever been. Russet made no protest. She felt very comfortable, very much at home. She said slowly, “You are very lavish with your promises, sir. But I made some promises, too. And I mean to keep mine. You cannot get rid of your bad b
argain so easily. We are pledged to each other for better or for worse. Before you start making any more promises, don’t you think we might try to discover which it is?”

  The arms which had been holding her so gently tightened suddenly. Her eyes, still wet with tears, but alight now with laughter, met his incredulous stare.

  “You mean it?” he said slowly. “After all I have done? You will stay with me?” And, as she nodded vigorously, “Accept me as your true husband?”

  She managed to free one hand from his comprehensive hold and put it up to caress his cheek. “Till death us do part,” she said soberly, remembering how close death had come.

  His hold slackened as he, too, remembered. “There is still one thing you don’t know,” he said reluctantly. “If you can forgive me that”—and put her from him, lest her tempting nearness led him to speak less than truth.