Love's Tender Fury

by Jennifer Wilde

  “And Alice—that bitch! I loved her—” His voice broke in something like a sob. “One day I could have given her everything she ever wanted, but she couldn’t wait! It might take years to get it settled, I told her, but it’ll be settled, I said, it’ll be settled and we’ll win and Hawkehouse will be ours and you’ll have a title and riches and—but she left! She left me, just like my mother did, just like they all do!”

  “Derek! You’re hurting me—”

  “They go! Can’t trust ’em! Can’t trust any of ’em—”

  He let go of my wrists and seized my throat, his fingers tightening furiously. I cried out, and he choked off the cry, laughing demoniacally, and I thought I was going to die as the blood rushed to my head and my vision began to blur. He squeezed, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of my throat, and then, abruptly, he released me, and when I opened my eyes I saw him gazing down at me in total bewilderment. A deep crease cut between his brows as he frowned.

  “Marietta? What did I—”

  “You were delirious—” I whispered hoarsely, barely able to speak.

  “I hurt you? I hurt you, yes, because you were created by the devil, you see—” His voice was tender, caressing, and I realized that he still had no idea what he was saying, was still delirious even though the mood was entirely different.

  “I saw you, and I knew Rawlins couldn’t have you, knew I had to have you myself—” and he pulled me toward him gently.

  “Yes—” I whispered. “Yes—let me take off my dress—”

  “Yes,” he moaned. “Marietta, sweet, sweet—”

  And then the energy seemed to go out of him and he went limp. I sat on the side of the bed and pulled him toward me. His head rested on my shoulder, his lips touching my right breast, and he slept, the delirium over. I stroked the back of his head, his shoulders, running my hands over the muscles of his back. A gust of strong wind swept into the room and blew out the lamp. The room was plunged into darkness dense and black, soon softened by moonlight. I held him against me, savoring each moment, knowing I might never again feel his warmth, his weight, might never be able to touch and explore the texture of his skin, his hair.

  He slept deeply, shifting position only occasionally. Moonlight faded and darkness lifted slowly, ever so slowly, and it was as the first pinkish rays of dawn seeped into the room that he gave a mighty yawn and rolled off away from me, clutching one of the pillows with both his arms and cradling it against the side of his face. I slipped carefully off the bed and adjusted the bodice of my dress. On his stomach now, stark naked, he slept, the strengthening sunlight streaming through the windows and across his legs and buttocks.

  Leaving the room, I went down to the kitchen, where Cassie was already preparing a pot of strong coffee. I sat down at the battered wooden table and accepted a cup of coffee, shaken by what had happened, what had almost happened, wondering how much of it he would recall.

  Derek slept most of the day, waking only twice, and then only long enough to eat. While he was asleep Mattie removed the bandage and took off the poultice. She stared at the wound and nodded her head in satisfaction, and then she washed it and applied some medicine and put on a new bandage, but Derek didn’t wake up. I sat in the chair beside his bed throughout the night. He woke once and asked for water. I held the glass for him, and he cupped his hands around mine and drank, falling back to sleep immediately. When morning came I went back to my room and changed and then joined Cassie in the kitchen.

  When I came into his room with the breakfast tray, he was sitting up in bed wearing a shabby navy blue velvet dressing robe with black velvet lapels. His hair was brushed, and he was freshly shaved, smelling of talcum powder. Although most of his pallor was gone, there were still faint shadows under his eyes, and he looked drawn. I paused, startled, and he arched one eyebrow, looking at me as though I were an irritating, dim-witted child.

  “Are you going to give me my breakfast, or are you going to stand there all morning?”

  “You—you got out of bed.”

  “Of course I did,” he said patiently.

  “But—your leg—”

  “I had to hobble a bit, but I could stand on it long enough to shave. It’s healing fast. If you’re finished gawking, Marietta, I’d appreciate my breakfast. I’m ravenous.”

  I set the tray on the bedside table and stepped back. “I—I’m glad to see you feeling so much better. You were in a bad way there for a while.”

  “It seems I’m going to recover. I assume Mattie put one of her famous poultices on my leg?”

  I nodded, nervous, at a loss for words. Hawke looked up at me with an irritable expression. He was clearly not at all pleased at being confined to the bed, his position of authority diminished. He reached over to the tray and poured a cup of coffee.

  “You saved my life, Marietta. I’m grateful.” His voice was brusque. “I remember the copperhead, remember killing it, and everything after that is foggy. You took my knife, didn’t you? You cut my leg and then sucked the venom out. Right?”

  Again I nodded. Hawke sipped his coffee, found it too hot, and scowled, setting the cup back down.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t let me die,” he remarked. “If I remember correctly, I’d just clipped you across the jaw rather forcefully. Yes, I see you have a slight bruise. Lucky for you the snake struck when it did. I had every intention of giving you a very sound beating.”

  “You—you were delirious afterwards,” I said. “You don’t remember anything about the past two days?”

  “Not a bloody thing,” he admitted.

  “And—the other night?”

  “Is there something I should remember?”

  “You—you were rather violent, right before your fever broke. After that you—slept soundly.”

  “Violent? Did I hurt you?” His voice was dry, indifferent.

  “You tried to strangle me.”

  “Indeed? Well, I see you survived the attack. I intend to give Mattie a large supply of snuff as a reward for what she did. What would you like?”

  I gazed at him, a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was a moment before I could reply.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  Hawke arched his brow again, surprised. “No?”

  “Nothing at all,” I whispered.

  And then I turned and left the room, quickly, before the emotions welling up inside could give me away.

  V

  I fetched a bar of soap and a huge towel and left the house, starting toward the creek on the other side of the west fields. July was gone, and it was late August now, six weeks since Hawke had been bitten by the copperhead. Although it was already after seven o’clock, the sun was still a blazing yellow ball, and the heat was an intense as ever. As I strolled through the fields the cotton was like snow, popping out of the pods, almost ready to be picked.

  It was a long walk to the creek, almost a mile and a half, for after leaving the fields I had to pass through the thinly wooded area beyond, but I didn’t mind the walk, tired as I was. I felt hot and sticky, coated all over with grime after a day of heavy housecleaning. I had taken all of the rugs out back and beaten them with a long paddle. Then, I had scrubbed all the floors before bringing the rugs back in. I wanted a thorough bath, the kind I couldn’t get in the tin tub I had to haul into the kitchen and fill with water. Hawke had retired to his study immediately after dinner, and there was little chance he would miss me.

  Leaving the fields, I started through the woods. A squirrel scurried up a tree, chattering at me, and a scarlet cardinal left its perch and soared away. Bluejays scolded, and all around were the heady smells of earth and moss and lichen. I took my time, enjoying the sense of freedom, anticipating the bath. I shouldn’t be doing this, I knew, for I was no longer on Hawke’s property and hadn’t asked his permission to leave. He would be extremely displeased if he found out, but I didn’t care. The thought of the long, luxurious bath ahead of me made the possibility of incurring his wrath well wo
rth the risk.

  Athough he was as remote, as indifferent, as he had ever been, his manner as cool, he seemed to treat me with a bit more courtesy than he had before the snakebite. He had displayed no warmth, yet he had not spoken to me sharply even one time. Because I had saved his life? After brusquely expressing his gratitude the morning I had carried breakfast in to him, he had not referred to the incident again, nor had I. I tried to avoid him whenever possible, afraid I might somehow betray myself. As Cassie’s morning sickness was behind her and she was blooming with health, I let her carry his lunch out to him, and although I still served his evening meal, I did so unobtrusively, never speaking unless spoken to.

  I had baked no more pies for him. I served him efficiently, as silently as possible. If I could help it, Derek Hawke would never know what I felt for him. I firmly repressed the emotions inside, refusing to allow them to blossom freely. Hard work provided an outlet, and I had thrown myself into it with a vengeance, deliberately pushing myself, working as I had never worked before. Things had gone smoothly these past six weeks. I just hoped they would continue to do so.

  I could see the river through the trees ahead. There was a wide, sandy bank, and the water was still a large blue-green pool shimmering with reflected sunlight. I slipped off my shoes, digging my bare toes into the damp, squishy sand, savoring the sensation. Removing my dress and petticoat, I draped them over an old fallen log along with the towel. Completely naked, I stepped into the water with the bar of soap in my hand, moving out until it was up to my waist. The water was deliciously cool and invigorating, and I abandoned myself to its joys, splashing myself, feeling almost like a child again. The soap Mattie had made was soft and creamy and scented with lilac. I reveled in the rich lather, smearing it over my arms and breasts, giving my hair a thorough washing as well. I spent almost half an hour bathing, swimming about, and it was with great reluctance that I finally climbed out of the water and toweled myself dry.

  My hair was still damp, and I decided to let the sun finish drying it before putting my clothes back on. I spied a large, flat gray rock near the water. Spreading the towel over it, I stretched out on my back, propping one knee up. Surrounded by trees and water, I felt like a wood nymph and I smiled to myself at the thought. It was extremely unlikely that anyone would chance to see me and I was perfectly content to let the sun stream warmly over my body. The water lapped gently against the banks. A frog croaked. Birds warbled. Rustling leaves made a dry, crisp sound like whispers. I had rarely felt so relaxed and content, finding the solitude a great luxury after a busy, noisy day.

  The sun was fading, but since I had at least an hour before it would begin to grow dark, I closed my eyes and let my mind wander. I thought about Angie, wondering what had become of her. I hoped her situation was better than my own. The husky young farmer who had bought her was probably waiting on her by this time. I wondered if I would ever see that tough, scrappy little English sparrow again. Our days together on board ship seemed years and years ago. And the experiences I had had at number 10 Montagu Square might have happened in another century. I could think of all that now without either anger or bitterness. The past was over and done with, far behind me, and the future loomed ahead like a vague, unsettling question.

  I must have drifted off to sleep, for when I opened my eyes my hair was dry, curling in feathery waves about my head. Something had awakened me, some unusual noise. I sat up, suddenly uneasy, experiencing the distinct sensation of being watched. A horse neighed, startling me, and I turned to see Derek Hawke sitting astride one of the chestnuts several yards away. His face was expressionless. I had no way of knowing how long he might have been there. I stood up, momentarily forgetting that I was naked, and he continued to look at me without any reaction. The horse grazed on the short grass at the edge of the woods. Hawke sat casually in the saddle, the reins held idly in one hand.

  “I thought I might find you here,” he remarked.

  I scooped up the towel and quickly wrapped it around me.

  “I looked all over for you,” he continued in a calm, level voice, “in the house, in the yard, in the barn. Cassie finally told me she’d seen you leave with a towel and a bar of Mattie’s lilac soap. I figured you’d come to bathe in the river.”

  “Your assumption was correct.”

  “Your hair’s like fire in the sunlight—soft clouds of fire. You know you should never have left the property without my permission. Marietta. If one of the blacks did it, I’d have to use my whip.”

  “And do you intend to use it on me?”

  “I think not,” he said idly. “Not this time, at any rate. You took a mighty risk, coming here like this. There are a number of rowdy young men in the area—Higman’s son, a hellion if ever there was one, and Jason Barnett, a young rascal with a total lack of morals. What if one of them had come upon you stretched out like that, looking like some flesh-and-blood statue of Venus?”

  “Neither of them did,” I replied. “How—how long have you been sitting there?”

  “That needn’t concern you,” he replied.

  So he had been there for some time, long enough to note that I looked like a living Venus, long enough to observe that my hair was like soft fire in the sunlight. He must have approached quietly, walking the horse slowly through the woods. He had made no attempt to awaken me. The horse’s neighing had done that.

  “Your eyes are full of challenge,” he said. “You commit a serious offense, and then you stare at me with those blue eyes as though daring me to do something about it. Where is the submissive wench who served my dinner with lowered eyes an hour or two ago?”

  “I’m sorry if you’re displeased, Mr. Hawke,” I said coolly.

  “Ah, that cool, aristocratic accent. You read books, too. I noticed the volume of John Donne missing from the shelf in my study. I assume it’s in your room?”

  “I’ll return it as soon as I get back to the house.”

  “There’s no hurry. You’re free to read any book in the house, so long as it doesn’t interfere with your work. It seems I’ve got myself quite an accomplished servant.”

  “Slave,” I corrected, “bought on the auction block. Your property for the next fourteen years.”

  “I suppose I should consider myself a lucky man. You know, for a while I thought you might have run off, tried to escape. When I couldn’t find you anywhere, I felt something—akin to panic. Then Cassie told me about the towel and bar of soap. I was mightily relieved.”

  I did not reply. Holding the towel in front of me, I gazed at him calmly, my composure belieing the nervous tremors within. We had not exchanged this many words since before the snakebite, and I found his manner strangely disconcerting. Despite those impassive eyes, he seemed more relaxed than I had ever seen him. He had never been so personal, so familiar, and there was a faint teasing quality in his voice that had never been there before. Was he finally beginning to see me as something other than a chattel, a piece of valuable property? Had the sight of my body stirred something inside of him he had refused to acknowledge before?

  “I suggest you put your clothes on, Marietta. We should get back to the house. It’ll soon be getting dark.”

  “I’ll walk back,” I informed him.

  “You’ll ride on the back of the horse,” he corrected. “I don’t want Jason Barnett stumbling across you in the woods—even fully dressed. Hurry up. Get your things on.”

  He obviously had no intention of turning away while I dressed. I hesitated only a moment, and then I stepped over to the log and calmly draped the towel across it, picking up my petticoat. Although I didn’t look up, I could tell that he was watching me, and I deliberately took my time, taking a perverse satisfaction in doing so. I slipped the petticoat over my head, smoothed the bodice down and adjusted it at the waist, then donned the faded beige and brown striped cotton frock with its carefully patched skirt. I ran my fingers through my hair and shook my head so that it would fall properly, then casually slipped into my shoes.
The whole performance took a good five minutes, and I hoped that he had enjoyed it.

  “Ready?” he asked idly.

  I picked up the towel and nodded. He walked the horse over to where I was standing and held his hand down for me. I gripped it and put my foot in the stirrup, swinging myself up behind him, and then I wrapped my arms around his waist. Hawke flicked the reins and gave them a gentle tug, and the horse started slowly through the woods. Neither of us spoke. I noticed the way his thick dark hair curled at the back of his head, noticed the way the white cloth of his shirt stretched across those broad shoulders. My legs touched his on either side, and I could feel the power in his thighs. When the horse moved over rough ground, I leaned against him, resting my cheek on his back. I thought how glorious it would be to be able to love openly, to express that love freely, in words, in action. I had successfully suppressed it for weeks now, but at the moment it was like a pain inside, hurting … hurting so much.

  The sun was going down at last, and as we started across the fields I saw the blaze of scarlet and gold on the horizon, fiery colors that melted and blended together, tinting the air a hazy orange. The cotton, so white before, was stained soft pink now, and shadows spread thickly over the ground. It was beautiful and touching, and I wanted to cry because of the beauty and because of what I held inside and couldn’t express. Hawke sat very straight in front of me, his back ramrod stiff. I wondered what he was feeling, what he was thinking. Was he thinking of me? Was he remembering the way I had looked stretched out on the rock, or was he thinking of something else, the price of cotton, the chores to be done tomorrow?

  The sun had already vanished and it was twilight by the time we reached the yard. The oak trees cast long purple shadows, and the air was a misty blue as the sky darkened. Hawke stopped in front of the stables and called the boy who was waiting for him to return. The slave stepped out to take the reins, and Hawke dismounted. Then, placing a hand on either side of my waist, he swung me down beside him. Crickets chirped as we started toward the house. The fireflies were already swarming around the fig trees beside the back porch. The old house loomed up ahead, a ghostly white spread with moving shadows from the oak boughs. I felt pensive, sad.