‘And I was afraid of you.’
‘…I wanted to eat you.’
‘And I loved you, I think.’
‘Love me now, Felice. Be my wife. I want no one but you.’
‘I do love you. I will. But what was all that talk of taming? Not that much of a challenge, surely?’
‘To anger you. I love your wildness, your wilfullness. I adore you, woman.’
The voluminous white tablecloth wrapped their limbs, and a wrinkled hair-ribbon slid between its folds like a reflection of blue sky on the sea, and it was as if the sudden release of all misunderstandings and doubts gave their loving a new direction, a never-ending gentleness in which time had no part. All inhibitions dissolved as Felice gave herself up to him in a total surrender that brought both laughter and tears and wave upon wave of joy into her heart, now repaired, restored and intact again. Suddenly she was living, flying, and whole.
The notion that Marcus and Levina should solve each other’s problems found favour with everyone, even Lord Deventer who would have done anything to ensure his niece’s future happiness. Relieved to see Felice’s glowing contentment, Marcus fussed around Levina like a dog with two tails, caring not one whit that Lord Deventer and Sir Leon had insisted that she tell him the exact truth of her condition. It made no difference to Marcus; he would take her in any condition, though the lady’s uncle had made the path remarkably smooth with a generous annual allowance.
Supper that evening was an informal meal at which Felice was allowed to dress in the new pale-blue watery silk that Sir Leon said was exactly right for a wanton moon-spirit. And even though the grave coroner and his clerk were their guests, Sir Leon would have her hair only loosely knotted with a crumpled blue ribbon.
The coroner wanted to know how the fire had started, but no one was sure except that one of the injured was a man who had only recently been dismissed for drunkenness. He should not have been there at all, and so far had not confessed to anything. As for what John Aycombe had been doing in the guesthouse so late, no one knew the answer to that, either.
‘You say he had a beechwood box with him?’ the coroner said to Sir Leon. ‘Have I seen it yet?’ He knew he had not.
‘It’s one that belongs to me, sir,’ Sir Leon said. ‘Nothing much in it.’
‘Then what did he want with it?’
‘He was probably taking it across to my new office. I can’t think of any other reason. Can you, Thomas?’
‘No, sir. John would have had his reasons, I don’t doubt. He always did.’ Deep in the pocket of his black gown, Thomas’s hand closed around a fold of linen that Sir Leon had given him only that morning after their private conversation. It was soft and yielding and gave no indication of its contents, a curling lock of dark brown hair tied with a fine gold thread. There had not, apparently, been anything for Thomas to tell him that he’d not already discovered for himself.
The cloister was deep in shadow, lit faintly by a distant torch that flickered in the stableyard beyond and by a moon that had only just risen above the church roof. Already the walkways had been cleared, and the square that had once been rubble-filled was stacked out with strings and trenches ready for new beds to be laid and, at the end near the sacristy, a rectangular grave-slab had appeared which Felice had not seen before.
Hand in hand, the two lovers approached. ‘Who was it?’ she said.
‘The sub-prior. We’ll not disturb him. He was a friend of Thomas’s, I believe.’
‘Then we must dig carefully round him and plant rosebushes. Would he like that, d’ye think? And rosemary, for remembrance?’
‘Yes, my love, he’d like that.’ He took her in his arms and saw the moon reflected in her eyes. ‘Do you remember sitting here? How we fought?’ His kiss reminded her, sending shocks of pleasure through her that once she had tried guiltily to deny.
‘I remember another fight, sir,’ she said, ‘when you lost something, too.’ Against the pale moon, Felice held a golden pointed thing shaped like a tiny spear-head. ‘This?’ she whispered.
‘My missing aiglet! Where did you find it? You’ve had it all this time, next to your heart?’
‘Most of the time,’ she teased. ‘This has been a most unseemly summer, has it not, sir?’
But if she thought she would be allowed to have the last word, just for once, she was reminded otherwise. ‘Unforgettable,’ he whispered, his lips teasing hers, ‘not unseemly. Unless you wish to argue the point?’
ISBN: 978-1-4592-4314-9
A MOST UNSEEMLY SUMMER
First North American Publication 2003
Copyright © 2001 by Juliet Landon
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