by Lisa Berne
“What wonderful mementoes of our wedding-day, Aunt Claudia! Thank you so much.”
“I’ve enjoyed making them, my dear. So much joy everywhere. While you’re away, I thought I would add in washes of color, and frame them, and have them placed wherever you like in your house.”
“Our house,” murmured Gwendolyn, the phrase delightfully cozy, but still unfamiliar in her mouth. It was hard to believe that Christopher’s father had given them the house next door as a wedding-gift, whether to keep or to sell. Such extraordinary generosity! They both had agreed to keep it; they didn’t know where ultimately they would settle down, but Whitehaven would always be in some essential way their home, and certainly a place they would visit regularly.
“I thought perhaps one of the hallways?” Aunt Claudia went on musingly. “When the painters are done, of course. How fresh and new it will all look.”
“I propose they go in the main drawing-room,” said Christopher, “in a place of honor,” and Gwendolyn added at once:
“Yes, I think so also! And how we shall shamelessly brag, too, when people come over. Our very own artwork by the brilliant and renowned artist Claudia Mantel!”
“Oh, my dears, you flatter me,” murmured Claudia, blushing modestly.
“Not a bit of it, Auntie,” said Christopher, using this new and affectionate sobriquet which only made Claudia blush the more.
“And you are going to work on something for my London gallery, Aunt Claudia, aren’t you?” Gwendolyn said.
“Yes, if you like. I want to do a portrait of Verena, you know, making lace. If I can capture the absorption on her face, and do justice to her clever, clever hands, I’ll be so pleased! But it would be only for show, my dear Gwendolyn, not for sale.”
“Absolutely,” answered Gwendolyn, and so the bargain was struck, and after that Rosalind came swaggering over with Señor Rodrigo riding jauntily on her shoulder, and she said in a loud, commanding voice to no one in particular:
“Walk the plink, you scarvy dig!”
At this Señor Rodrigo gave an extremely noisy laugh that went on for fully half a minute, and Hugo came over to catch up Rosalind in his arms, bearing Rodrigo up with her. “By Jove, isn’t she splendid?” he said proudly. “As fierce as her mama.”
“She is indeed,” Gwendolyn agreed. “And may she stay that way forever.”
“Papa’s crown,” said Rosalind, and put her coronet of roses on Hugo’s golden head.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” said Hugo. “I say, I feel quite regal.”
Katherine came over, holding Cordelia in her arms, and so Cordelia generously put her coronet on her mother’s head, and then the family’s dogs, who had been shut into the library when the celebration began, somehow got out—it being Bertram’s considered opinion that one of them, a mastiff whom Mama had found abandoned as a puppy a few years ago and brought home to nurse back into health, had figured out how to turn door-handles with its mouth—and they all came lolloping into the drawing-room where they proceeded to gaily greet everyone and also hunt down and eat every scrap of food that had fallen onto the floor. Nobody minded, and then Will Studdart brought out his fiddle, so furniture was pushed away to make room and there was some very lively dancing, followed by cake and champagne, and then, as afternoon gave way to evening, the guests began to leave, and the twins, who had fallen asleep on one of the sofas, were carried upstairs by Katherine and Hugo, Owen had one more giant slice of cake and then helped Christopher and Francis and Bertram push the furniture back into place, Gwendolyn let the dogs out into the yard for a run and called them all back inside, and hugged Mama for a very long time, and then, finally, she and Christopher went out into the dark snowy night and strolled next door to their house.
They went into the kitchen, where from the banked fire Christopher lit a candle, and they walked upstairs, hand in hand, and to the threshold of the small room he had been using as his bedchamber.
Christopher pushed open the door. “After you, signora.”
“Thank you, ma merry mervy yoo,” Gwendolyn answered, took a step inside, then stopped, amazed.
In the room was only a bed, a chair, a small table with a couple of books upon it, and an old armoire which Christopher had brought up from the basement. Upon every surface, including the floor, had been scattered pink rose petals, the same shade as those Rosalind and Cordelia had gleefully strewn to left and right as they walked down the aisle in church, the same shade as the bouquet she herself had carried, the same shade as the coronet which she had just given to the young daughter of one of Hugo’s employees, who had looked so very proud and happy to wear it.
“Christopher,” Gwendolyn breathed, turning to him wide-eyed, “how lovely.”
He smiled. “The room seemed a little spartan for our first night together.”
“I’d have spent it in a cave. All that matters is you. But rose petals! And the scent! It’s heavenly.”
“I’m glad you like it. I hoped you would.” Christopher went to the fireplace and used the candle to set aflame the twigs and logs he had carefully prepared earlier. Light and warmth began to fill the room, and he put the candle on the little table. He looked at her, long and deeply, and softly said, with pure wonder in his voice:
“Bellissima.”
It was dim here in this small bedroom, but Gwendolyn could very easily see the glow, the love, in Christopher’s eyes. She smiled, and went to him, and lifted the hand upon which a new gold band gleamed, the mate to the one she now wore on her left hand. Lightly she pressed her lips to his wedding-band, the everlasting symbol of everything they were to one another.
“Mio amore,” she whispered, and then took hold of a frill in his neckcloth. “May I?”
“Yes, please,” Christopher answered, and so she began to untie his neckcloth. His breathing quickened, she could see it in the rise and fall of his chest, and it made her want to hurry, hurry.
Nonetheless she tried her best to be slow, leisurely, deliberate; she made herself pull the long strip of white linen from around Christopher’s neck as if, in fact, her own breathing hadn’t sped up, or as if she wasn’t starting to feel very, very warm, or as if she could wait a long, long time for all that was to come.
Slowly she pulled free the linen strip and let it fall onto the floor. Onto the rose petals that smelled so sweet.
Then she tugged open the sides of his jacket and Christopher helped her by shrugging himself out of it.
The jacket, too, went onto the rose petals.
Gwendolyn tugged up the hem of his white shirt and her hands went to the warm, hard flesh of his torso, and up along the sides, lingering upon each slight rise and fall of rib-bone—a sensation so delicious, so intoxicating, it felt as if her fingers, her palms, were kissing his skin. A hot purl of pleasure went through her, settling low in her belly, between her legs, and suddenly all thoughts of a protracted disrobing vanished.
She ripped Christopher’s shirt up and over his head and then her hands were at the fastenings of his breeches, struggling. He helped her with these, too, kicking off his shoes and drawing off his dark stockings, then slid his breeches down, past his narrow hips; he stepped out of them, pushed them aside, and she whipped around so that he could undo the many little silk-covered buttons of her gown.
“May I?” he said.
“Oh yes. Yes.” She was trembling, in an agony of impatience now, and though it seemed like years it was probably only a minute or two before Christopher had finished, sliding her gown away and down, and then her shift, and she turned to face him clad only in her gossamer-thin white stockings, garters, and lilac-colored slippers.
“Mia cara,” he said, his voice low and rough and eager, the very sound of it sending a delicious thrill cascading through her. Quickly Gwendolyn went to the bed, sat on the edge, shoved off her slippers and garters and stockings, and looked up at Christopher in all his masculine glory, the wiry strength of him, his muscled arms and shoulders, the taut planes of his chest, and more
.
Oh, so much more.
She held out her hand to him and he came to her, swiftly, eagerly, matching her in urgency, and in a moment, they were lying together on the bed, body to body, his mouth on hers, and with a soft noise of the greatest satisfaction Gwendolyn wrapped her arms around Christopher and held him tight.
If within her were any lingering doubts about herself, about her capacity to give and receive pleasure, they were gone in just a few staccato beats of her heart, as she met Christopher kiss for kiss, caress for caress, and for every achingly sweet thrust of him inside her, she welcomed him, moved with him, effortlessly, in a timeless dance of love and shared joy. It was everything Gwendolyn could have dreamed of—yet, at the same time, it far exceeded what she had thought being with him would be like.
In Christopher she found a lover both tender and ardent, sensitive and generous, to whom she could open herself with trust and with freedom.
A lover with whom she could be herself, to whom she could whisper, or gasp, or cry out: Yes, that, more, please, here, could we, oh again, again.
And so the night went on.
Both of their voices, mingling: I love you, yes, again, please, would you, shall we, yes let’s, oh God, ti amo, ti amo . . .
With the candle long since guttered out, the first soft intimations of dawn—just barely beginning to brighten the curtain drawn against the window—found them in each other’s arms, languorous, contented, drowsy.
“Christopher,” Gwendolyn said, lifting herself on one elbow.
“Sì, signora?”
“You have rose petals in your hair.” Lazily she reached to pluck a few of them from amongst the dark strands and toss them, like confetti, into the air, where they drifted down onto the floor.
“So do you.” He smiled. “They suit you. You look very much like a flower yourself.”
“Do I? What sort of flower?”
“You remind me of a strelitzia.”
“A what?”
“A crane lily. Sometimes they call it a bird of paradise. Do you know it?”
“No, but what a flattering comparison.” She snuggled closer to him. “What does it look like?”
“It’s got a very sturdy stem, with bright strong leaves almost in a kind of fan effect. With your hair all rumpled like that, and your throat bare, that’s what reminded me. You look a little fragile, signora, but you’re not. You’re very strong.”
“Cook always says it’s because we eat fish all year round.”
He laughed. “She may be right.”
“Where have you seen crane lilies?”
“In Naples. A family from Madeira brought them over, and were hoping to cultivate them there.”
“It sounds like such a lovely flower. I hope they succeeded.”
“Shall we go find out?”
“Yes, let’s.” Gwendolyn reached up to stroke his shoulder, relishing the warmth of his skin, the powerful muscles and the bone beneath, then luxuriously ran her fingers down along his arm. “Oh, Christopher, how marvelous you are. I can hardly believe we can touch each other—feel each other—as much as we like.”
“And for a lifetime.” He kissed her, and pleasure shivered all throughout her body. A thought suddenly occurred to her and she giggled.
“What is it?” he asked, smiling.
“Oh, I was just remembering the ending of Escape from Castle Killarney. After the heroine runs away from home, she somehow manages to get to London and falls into the clutches of an evil woman who runs a—what is it called?—oh yes, a house of ill-repute, where she’s sold to the highest bidder, a dreadful old roué who spends several pages rubbing his hands together and leering at the poor girl.”
“If this is the ending, it’s rather an unfortunate one.”
“Oh, I’ve backtracked. She’s rescued, you see, and at the very last moment, by a handsome duke who happens to be walking by and hears her screams.”
“How does he find her? Let me guess. Does he scale the walls of the house, with stunning agility?”
“No, he goes in at the front door. First he has to fight at least half a dozen burly guards, and then he has the most magnificent confrontation with the evil proprietress, and then he dashes upstairs and bursts through the locked door of the room where the heroine is being held captive. And he just happens to have a great long whip concealed on his person, which he uses to wonderful effect on the old roué, who’s promptly reduced to a blubbering mass of tears.”
“Well, that’s nice.”
“Diana and I certainly found it so! And we thought the Duke the most delightful hero there ever was.”
“I wish I’d thought of carrying a whip around,” Christopher remarked. “You’d have fallen in love with me much faster, wouldn’t you?”
Gwendolyn laughed. “Very likely.”
“Don’t leave me in suspense. What happens after that?”
“Well, after five or six chapters—or is it more? I can’t remember. It seemed to take forever. In any event, the Duke finally proposes, and the heroine’s so happy that she faints, and then they get married—it’s a magnificent wedding in London, and somehow the Pope shows up to officiate—but they only have a very brief, chaste kiss at the altar, which Diana and I found very disappointing. And then we see them the next morning having breakfast, without even a paragraph about what happened between them the night before. No kissing—nothing.”
“How unutterably dull.”
“Wasn’t it? And so that’s the ending, except that the author includes a rather long homily about how the heroine achieves happiness despite having been so shockingly unfeminine and naughty as to run away from home wearing men’s clothing, and that she deserves all the awful things that happened to her, and she’s going to atone for it all by being a properly obedient wife to the Duke. And that, evidently, is the moral of the story. So you see, Christopher, by this logic, I don’t deserve you at all.” Gwendolyn laughed again.
“Good God, what a lot of nonsense. Why did you and Diana read it?”
“Well, for the happy ending, for one thing. We knew that no matter what dreadful things happened, everything would be all right in the end. Also, we read it for the good parts.”
“The good parts?”
Gwendolyn smiled mischievously. “You know—the hugging and the kissing and especially what comes after that.”
“Ah.”
“Unfortunately, in Escape from Castle Killarney there were barely any good parts.”
“How disappointing. Aren’t you glad we can create our own?”
Gwendolyn slid her leg over his lean hip, and brought herself close, so wonderfully and intimately close, to him. His response was immediate and satisfying, and with a purr in her voice she said:
“Oh, Christopher, I’m so glad. We already have, haven’t we? And we’ll create some more. Right now, in fact, if that’s all right with you?”
“More than all right, signora,” he said, with a lovely answering rasp of desire in his own voice, and she kissed him, and he kissed her, and then they did.
Epilogue
Several years later . . .
“And so,” Gwendolyn said, “in April of 1818, the Earl and I were officially betrothed. He gave me a ring, too. It had been in his family for generations—it was a gift from Queen Elizabeth to a previous Lady Westenbury who served as her Mistress of the Robes. Oh, it was so beautiful! It was made of gold, with a large, milky-white pearl in the center. Around the pearl were tiny, perfect rubies which made it seem to absolutely glow.
“When I was alone, I’d hold up my hand and stare at the ring. A symbol of my future happiness. No—my present happiness. I was engaged, I would tell myself over and over, and to the most wonderful man in the world.
“Engaged to the Earl.”
Gwendolyn looked down at her left hand, where on her fourth finger gleamed not a glittering ruby and pearl ring, but a simple gold band, and she smiled.
Cordelia and Rosalind Penhallow, who had been listeni
ng to their aunt tell the story of her long-ago engagement to the Earl of Westenbury with all the fascination fourteen-year-old girls feel for a romantic tale, exchanged wondering glances.
“How long did it last, Aunt Gwennie?” asked Rosalind.
“Long enough for me to realize it would have been a dreadful mistake. As it turned out, the Earl wasn’t the most wonderful man in the world. At least, not to me, which was all that mattered. So one day I told him it was over, and gave him back his ring.”
“Was he very upset?” Cordelia said.
“Yes, I’m afraid he was.”
“And did he become a tragic figure after that, Aunt Gwennie? Did he shut himself away, hiding his broken heart from the world?”
“Did he become a hermit, living in a remote hut in the forest?” added Rosalind eagerly. “Forever weeping over his lost love, and growing an excessively long beard?”
“No,” answered Gwendolyn, “he married a very nice young lady with whom he has, I believe, several children. I saw him and the Countess in London the last time your uncle Christopher and I were there. They seemed very happy together.”
Both Rosalind and Cordelia looked disappointed, and Gwendolyn laughed. “But there is a moral to the story, my dears. It’s this: I hope you’ll always follow your dreams—and settle for nothing less than whatever is the best for you.”
“That’s a good moral, Aunt Gwennie,” said Cordelia.
“Yes, Delia dear, it is. In fact, I think it’s the best moral of all.”
“Then I’ll try to remember it,” Cordelia said, and her twin added with a determined nod:
“I will, too.”
The three of them were sitting together in the library of the Penhallow home in Whitehaven. It was a warm, bright summer day in July and all the windows were open to let the pleasant sea-breezes come wafting in. A couple of dogs were sleeping at Gwendolyn’s feet, and a fluffy little gray cat was curled up in her lap, purring.
“Meow,” suddenly said Señor Rodrigo from his perch on Rosalind’s shoulder, looking with obvious affection at the cat, adding, as if an afterthought, “Blast and damnation.”
