by Rose Lerner
He swallowed the last slippery mouthful and had a sudden vision of the dead moths in his chest awash in custard and soggy sponge cake, their wings disintegrating into the liquor. His throat rebelled, but he managed not to visibly gag.
“What is it?” Lydia said anyway. She watched him too closely. How was he supposed to fool her?
There was no way he could go back to her room and bed her and look like he was enjoying it. He was nauseated and his stomach roiled. But how could he tell her the truth? She would think he was mad.
Maybe he was. Why on earth would a person tell such a lie? There was nothing to be gained from it. It was a grotesque, unaccountable thing. He had already ruined their first tryst with his inexplicable melancholy. He couldn’t spoil their wedding night too, not if he meant this marriage to be something she didn’t want to let go of.
“I’m simply tired,” he said. “I haven’t slept properly in more than a fortnight, and the excitement of the day…”
Disappointment hovered around her mouth, and fled. She nodded at once, all sympathetic understanding. “Of course. We’ll go directly to bed.” By the time she was through the sentence her smile was genuine.
His heart ached. “Thank you,” he said, and tried not to want to be caught in his lies.
As he undressed and pulled on his nightshirt, he could hear her moving around in the next room, she and Mrs. Wrenn speaking quietly—everyday domestic sounds. He fell backwards onto his new bed full of down and fresh straw and shut his eyes. His nausea receded. He was already half-asleep when she knocked shyly on the door and came in.
He somehow managed to align his limbs with the mattress and get under the covers. She followed, letting him pull her snugly against him. Jasmine and orange blossom and Lydia. She was warm and he could feel her breathing.
“Mrs. Cahill,” he mumbled into her hair, and felt her cheek move as she smiled. Maybe he really was just tired. Why had he been so upset? He couldn’t remember…
He slept.
Lydia had never shared a bed with another person in her life—well, except for Jamie once or twice when he was a very small boy and had nightmares, and that was a long time ago and didn’t count. Mr. Cahill’s body surrounded her, their skin separated by two layers of linen.
It should have been strange—it was strange, but the strangest thing about it was how much less strange it was than she had been led to believe. Everyone behaved as though marital intimacy would be a terrible shock to a young woman’s sensibilities, an alteration in her very mode of existence. But it all felt so natural, as if she had been made for it. Bodies had been created to fit together, she realized, to share space and heat. How had she not known it before?
Chapter Twenty-One
Lydia didn’t quite like waking in a strange bed with another person. It had been comfortable and pleasant the night before, but now her throat was dry and her mouth tasted odd and she couldn’t move without disturbing Mr. Cahill, who hadn’t slept well in two weeks.
She rolled over slowly. He had the blankets pulled up high and an arm wrapped round his head. All she could see of him was his close-cropped hair, his forehead, an ear and one eye.
There was nowhere she’d rather be, after all. She shut her eyes, moved a little closer, and commenced mentally planning the week between now and Gooding Day. After a while, she got up, fetched the quilt from her own bed, and moved to his writing desk to jot down some thoughts and lists. Even with the quilt wrapped around her, the air was biting, and she had to hold the ink bottle in her hand to thaw it, but Mr. Cahill slept on. At ten—Lydia had left instructions not to disturb them before then—Jeanie came in to light the fire. Mr. Cahill rolled over and did not wake.
“If you would bring my morning correspondence and some breakfast on a tray,” Lydia murmured to the maid, and moved the desk closer to the fire to read her letters while drinking chocolate and milky coffee and munching on buttered rolls.
It was two in the afternoon when Mr. Cahill finally stretched and said hoarsely, “What time is it?”
Lydia started a little guiltily, having taken a respite from her tasks to indulge in lustful daydreams. “Two o’clock.”
He sat up. “Sorry I slept through our wedding night.”
She shook her head. “Do you feel better?”
He blinked and considered. “Much. I don’t think I even knew how tired I was.”
“Would you like some breakfast?”
“In a moment. I’d better…” He went into her room to use the chamber pot. Lydia calculated how long it would be polite to wait before broaching the subject of intercourse.
Coming back in, he poured himself a cup of lukewarm chocolate, coffee and milk. Lydia made a face, but he drank it with evident satisfaction, fingering her warm dressing gown. “You haven’t dressed.”
“No.”
“How would you like to have that wedding night now?”
Lydia sighed in satisfaction. “Very much.”
He put his hand under her elbow and pulled her out of her chair, untying her robe and sliding it off her shoulders, leaving only her thin nightgown.
Not sure what prompted her, Lydia crossed her arms over her breasts, shyly. “Wait…I’ve never…” The heat in her face had nothing to do with blushing confusion, but it could pass for it.
His eyes crinkled, immediately taking the cue. He gently uncrossed her arms and put them at her side. “Let me see you, angel.” He shaped her with his hands through the linen. “My beautiful bride.”
She shivered. “You’ll be gentle, won’t you?”
He kissed her brow, his unshaven cheek rough against her skin. “I promise not to hurt you more than I have to.” He couldn’t keep up the earnestness. More than I have to shifted into a teasing menace that made her want him to bruise her, bend her over the writing desk and take her hard…but there would be plenty of time for that later.
She pulled her nightgown over her head and held it to her chest for a moment, hesitating. His eyes were dark and hot. She let the linen fall to the floor, hands hovering as if she would have liked to cover herself. But she wanted him to see. She loved the way he looked at her, the frank lust in his gaze and the fond curl at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m going to worship every alabaster inch of you,” he said huskily, and swept her up into his arms. Naked, it was a little awkward—her breast was mashed into his side, and she was extremely conscious of his gaze on the triangle of auburn—red, she corrected herself, the triangle of red hair between her thighs. But even though his mischievous glance told her his instinct was to toss her onto the sheets in a flurry of limbs and laughter, he set her down reverently on the bed, smoothing a stray bit of hair away from her face.
“Kiss me.” She made it half a question, reaching up for him. He pulled off his own nightdress, and finally, finally she saw him naked. It was even better than she had imagined. She wanted to rub her nose in the curly dark hair on his chest and press her open mouth to the smooth gap beneath the hair that came to a point at the base of his sternum and above the hair that marched in a dark line down to his navel. She wanted to put her mouth absolutely everywhere, feel the texture of every part of him.
But he lay beside her and kissed her, tender and sweet, and when he pulled away this wasn’t a joke anymore. “Make me yours,” she said with breathy overacting, but she meant it.
And he made her his, petting her until she opened her thighs, entering and taking her with slow, careful strokes. She wrapped her arms around him and uncurled herself like a closed fist, finger by finger. He watched her face, intent and a little desperate, and she didn’t know if this was real or if they were only pretending together, but she knew she’d never been so lost in anything in her whole life. The moment swept her up like a wave, and she let it, holding on to him and putting her heart in her eyes. When the surge of pleasure came, she offered it to him, spreading her legs
as wide as she could and pressing up against him and not holding anything back.
The week passed like a dream. They spent hours every day indulging in carnal pleasures, and hours more sprawled in bed talking. There was even a day or two when Lydia didn’t bother to read her correspondence.
A few days after their marriage, visitors began to arrive in the mornings. Christmas was a season of visiting, and since a new bride stayed at home, the neighborhood came to her, bearing puddings and spiced brandy and most importantly, mince pies.
“It’s important to eat twelve mince pies in the Christmas season, each made by a different baker,” Lydia explained to Mr. Cahill as they sat in their snug parlor with Mrs. Cradduck, the brewer’s wife.
“Aye, it brings luck for each month of the coming year,” Mrs. Cradduck said.
Mr. Cahill lifted his small, cradle-shaped pie—and then put it down. “I—I think I’ve got more than my share of luck,” he said, with a warm smile for Lydia. “There’s a little girl in town who recently lost her family. Would you mind if I saved this pie for her, ma’am?”
Mrs. Cradduck agreed, of course.
Lydia couldn’t breathe with how much she loved him, how kind he was. She had wondered if he even remembered his promise to take Mary to her sister on Christmas Day, and here… He carried on the conversation as if he’d done nothing out of the ordinary, and that night she saw the pie wrapped in brown paper, nestled in the corner of a basket on his dressing table.
He saw her looking and asked, “Do you think Mary will be pleased?”
Lydia nodded wordlessly and kissed him. Over the next few days the collection grew. “Is your brother coming for dinner again?” he asked on Saturday morning. “Do you think you might ask him to bring a pie from the house? I still need five more by Christmas.”
Jamie had been for dinner once already that week, an awkward affair where he watched the two of them for any sign of discord. She was not entirely looking forward to tonight.
Jamie arrived late, mince pies in hand. He was startled when Mr. Cahill set his carefully aside.
“You remember I told you of a girl from the workhouse, Mary Luff, the one with the sister?” Lydia said. “Mr. Cahill has promised to take her to visit Joanna for Christmas, and he’s saving pies for her, to bring her luck in the new year.”
Jamie looked uncomfortable at this evidence of Mr. Cahill’s good character.
Dinner might have been worse. Mr. Cahill managed to engage Jamie in conversation about the Wheatcroft sheep. Lydia didn’t understand why her own questions on the same subject fifteen minutes earlier had been met with monosyllables.
After dinner they went to the parlor. Mr. Cahill sat on the sofa and held out an arm. Lydia hesitated; she didn’t want Jamie to feel shut out. But she took the seat, wanting Mr. Cahill’s arm around her too. Wanting to feel wanted.
“You were happy to get the sofa, then?” Jamie asked.
In fact, Lydia’s heart had sunk when she saw it in the parlor. Didn’t Jamie treasure those memories of their childhood as much as she did? Had he spent so much time away that Wheatcroft things had lost the power to charm him? Did he consider the sofa one more sentimental fancy of hers?
Mr. Cahill’s arm tightened. He knew how she felt, somehow, without her saying. She smiled at Jamie. “You know how much I love this sofa.” She should be happy to have it. She and Mr. Cahill had coupled on it once already, the key in the keyhole to block the view of anyone in the hall.
Jamie patted the sofa on the arm, affectionately. “Do you remember when we used to pretend it was Gibraltar, and besiege each other?”
Lydia’s heart leapt. “If you ever want the sofa back, Jamie, you have only to ask. You know that, don’t you? It belongs to Wheatcroft, really.” He might still want a family someday, and children. It upset her to think of the sofa one day meaning nothing to anyone.
Jamie scowled. “You mean it belongs to my children. I’ve told you I don’t want any. You’ll have children long before I do. Why shouldn’t they have the sofa?”
She knew she must look caught-out. To distract him from her silent meddling, she said, “Mr. Cahill and I aren’t planning to have children.”
Jamie’s face changed. “Why not?”
The moment froze. Suddenly she heard Mr. Ralph’s anxious voice: Was it difficult? When you were so young too?
What should she say? What could she say? Raising you was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I wouldn’t live it over again if you paid me half a million pounds was the truth, but she didn’t think Jamie would understand that. He’d think he’d been a burden somehow. Never mind that she’d seen it many times—women who’d brought up five or six children with aplomb dismayed at a pregnancy in middle age or at having to take in a grandchild.
“Chasing after babies is all very well for a young woman,” she said, smiling. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t have the energy for it now.”
“You’re only thirty.” Jamie’s voice was odd and tight. “Plenty of thirty-year-old women have children.”
“You don’t want children,” she snapped. “So why should it bother you that I don’t?”
Jamie’s shoulders slumped. “I suppose we’ll be the last of the Reeves.”
There it was, the fear she hadn’t wanted to say aloud. Everything their family had created, the love and the legacy, the political interest, the house, the laughter, the stories—it would pass away and there’d be no trace left of it upon the earth. It would all go to the family of their second cousin four times removed, whose name wasn’t Reeve and whom they’d met once twenty years before. He’d been three years old and he’d shut baby Jamie’s head in a door. Lydia had hated him ever after.
Their father had passed so much on to them, and a few months after his death, they’d already decided to let it die.
“It’s only a name,” Mr. Cahill said. “A man’s life goes from dust to dust and ashes to ashes, but he lived it just the same whether or not anyone remembers it.”
Lydia felt guilty that she couldn’t feel the truth of his good advice, when Mr. Cahill’s past might as well have been a picture drawn in the sand for all the traces that remained of it. But she met Jamie’s eyes, and for a moment, they understood one another perfectly. They were Reeves, who had been brought up to leave their mark, whose roots were everywhere in the land and in the town. Plenty of people hereabouts spoke Lydia’s great-grandfather’s name as familiarly as their neighbors’ children’s.
“I’ll sign over the money to you,” Jamie said abruptly. “What are we saving it for, anyway?”
Lydia wished she felt happier.
Jamie had gone to see the family solicitor directly after leaving the house. Ash thought it a bit rude to bother the man after he’d left his office on a Saturday, but he supposed the Reeves had paid him enough over the years to compensate. Sure enough, whatever Jamie said or whatever fee Jamie had offered convinced him to draw up the papers on Sunday so that they could all sign them Monday morning in his office. Ash would have his three thousand pounds before the Gooding Day auction started at three.
It was now Monday morning, and Lydia was dithering with Wrenn over what to wear. “We’ll have to go straight to the auction.” The door between their rooms was ajar, and her tense voice carried clearly. “Do you think such a bright color is suitable for a charity event?”
At that, Ash couldn’t wait patiently in his own room anymore. “You’ve been to hundreds of charity events,” he said quietly, pushing the door open and leaning against the jamb. “You know what’s suitable.”
She met his eyes in the mirror and nodded. The papillote curls framing her face trembled decisively. “It had better be the ice-blue wool. Festive but not too showy, and not too warm in the crush of the crowd.”
He was going to have to buy more clothes. After today, he’d have the funds to do it. He could buy boots that had bee
n made for his feet and break them in himself. If everything worked out as he hoped, he could keep them until he’d worn them out. He could own more than one set of evening clothes, maybe even something in the kind of flashy color that would draw attention to itself if worn twice in a row.
He was recalled from his daydream by Lydia’s voice, twice as tense as before. “If you would give us a moment, Wrenn.” The door shut quietly behind the maid.
She had something to say to him, then. Ash waited patiently, ignoring the fluttering in his stomach.
“You needn’t answer me right away.” She clenched her gloved hands together in her lap, putting taut wrinkles in the white kid. “We had a bargain, and of course I will keep it to the letter if that is what you prefer.” White gloves. He was married to a woman who didn’t have to care if her clothes showed dirt. Had she realized he would always be unsuitable for every occasion? Was she going to ask him to leave early?
“I want you to stay,” she said. “That is, I would like to invite you to stay, if the idea pleases you. On a permanent basis. I meant to wait, I meant to give you time to—to grow attached to me, I suppose. But I—I should like to know sooner than later. You must take all the time you need to consider, of course.”
“Wh—” Ash’s throat was too dry to finish the word. He swallowed. “Why?”
She met his eyes directly. “I find that I love you. I find that I’m happier with you than I have been before.”
Well, there it was. What he’d hoped for. All he had to do was say yes. Why not? Why should he sacrifice this?
But he didn’t believe in sacrifices, only swaps. He wouldn’t be happy if she wasn’t. That was selfishness too. “I can keep up this charade for six months. For a lifetime?”
She went, if possible, paler. “Do you mean you don’t think you can, or that you would find it constraining?”
“I mean that I’m not a gentleman. And sooner or later, I’ll make a mistake, or get to know someone well enough that they’d expect details of my life, and someone will guess. Or we’ll come across one of my flats. I couldn’t ever go to London with you—”
