by M. C. Beaton
They were to meet Lord Bohun on the barge. As they were about to set out in Miss Grimes’s carriage, Sir Charles took Fanny’s hand to help her in, then started slightly at the current of emotion that seemed to be running between them. Fanny released her hand and nearly fell into the carriage, and then, as it was an open one, unfurled her parasol and dipped it to hide her face.
Captain Tommy and Miss Grimes were giggling and laughing like schoolchildren, so that the other two members of their party felt like striking them.
So indecorous at their age, thought Fanny crossly.
“Tommy’s making a cake of himself,” whispered Sir Charles, and Fanny nodded vigorously. Then she looked up at the blue sky hopefully—for the sign of just one cloud—but the day seemed set fair.
“Is Miss Woodward to be there?” she asked.
“Of course,” said Sir Charles bleakly.
“Poor Charles,” said Fanny, aware of his sad look. “You must be very much in love with her.”
“I suppose I must,” he said. “Let us talk of other things. Do you know the Green Man has finally gone completely mad?”
“I do not know anything at all about this Green Man.”
“Oh, his name is Haines and he was a famous sight at Brighton. He dressed in green pantaloons, green waistcoat, green frock coat, green cravat. He ate nothing but green fruit and vegetables, had his rooms painted green and furnished with a green sofa, green chairs, green tables, green bed, and green curtains. His gig, his livery, his portmanteau, his gloves, and his whip were all green. With a green silk handkerchief in his hand and a large watch chain with green seals fastened to the green buttons of his green waistcoat, he paraded every day on the Steyne, and in the libraries, erect like a statue, walking—or rather moving—as if to music, smiling and singing, as well contented with his own dear self as those around him, which made up quite a considerable crowd, as you can imagine. He certainly had money, for his green food, including as it did choice fruit, sometimes cost him a guinea a day. He was seen at every place of amusement and entertained lavishly. But people did begin to get the idea the poor man was not quite right in his upperworks after he had thrown himself out of his windows several items and once over a cliff. So they locked him away.”
“That’s sad,” said Fanny huffily. “I like stories with happy endings.”
“But this one is true, you little goose.”
“Don’t call me a little goose!”
“Why not? Only a goose would find such as Bohun attractive.”
“And what of Miss Woodward?” Fanny dipped her parasol and rolled her eyes in a parody of Miss Woodward flirting. “Oh, Sir Charles. How strong you are!” mimicked Fanny. “You actually managed to pick up that monstrous heavy handkerchief for me.”
“She is all that you are not,” said Sir Charles. “She is womanly and graceful.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much, dear Charles. Now I know what you really think of me. You are only jealous of Lord Bohun because he is taller and—and stronger than you are.”
“Fiddle and fustian. The man’s a walking tailor’s dummy. Where do you think his great chest comes from, hey? Buckram wadding. And his waist? His slim waist? Corsets, Fanny. Still, he is an old-fashioned gentleman, I grant you that. Never got into this modern fad of washing properly, has he? Real eighteenth-century man. Just adds more scent.”
“And they call women cats!” exclaimed Fanny, her face flaming.
Both sat back in a sulky silence—and both then wondered why they were defending someone they had learned to dislike.
“I am truly sorry, Fanny,” said Sir Charles at last. “I am peculiarly out of sorts.”
“Then I am sorry, too. We should not quarrel. We are in such a predicament. I say!” She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “Captain Tommy is a trifle bold, is he not? He has his hand on Miss Grimes’s knee.” Her curls were tickling his cheek and he drew away sharply, as if he had been burned, and Fanny gave him a hurt look.
This is ridiculous, he thought. This is only my Fanny, who is like a sister to me. And at that moment they arrived at the Thames, before he could quite realize just how stupid that thought was.
On board the black-and-gold barge, Fanny was immediately joined by Lord Bohun. But Lord Bohun, to add spice to the coming blackmailing of Fanny into seduction, had decided it would be fun to woo her into a feeling of security. He apologized humbly for having treated her so roughly at the Kensington party—and then set out to entertain her with mild gossip about London society and about the plays he had seen, until Fanny was quite in charity with him, and, although she could no longer look at him with the eyes of love, she decided he was proving to be such a friendly and sensible man, it would make her job of telling him that the engagement was at an end very easy after all. Having made up her mind to face up to the distasteful task, she was now eager to be alone with him, but for some reason, everywhere about the barge that they moved, Sir Charles and Miss Woodward were always there—and Fanny did not know that Miss Woodward was becoming more and more furious because Sir Charles seemed to be making a great point of avoiding being alone with her by dogging this “cousin’s” footsteps. And the setting should have been romantic: the orchestra playing, the waiters circulating with iced drinks and food, and the lazy river slipping past.
When they arrived at Hampton Court, the guests were first taken to see the famous vine, which was laden with grapes. It had nearly a thousand bunches and completely covered a hothouse of seventy-five feet long by twenty-five wide. In the far corner stood the brown twisted stem of the vine, almost lost to view, as if it did not belong to the magnificent canopy of leaves and fruit that owed their existence to it.
As they moved toward the palace, Lord Bohun fretted to find that Sir Charles’s constant presence had been replaced by that of a tall German noble who appeared fascinated by Fanny and was entertaining her with his impressions of English society.
“The gentlemen are so rigid, Miss Page,” the German was explaining. “I shall tell you a story, and you must believe that I speak only the truth. A lady of my acquaintance saw a man fall into the water and earnestly entreated the dandy who accompanied her—and who was a famously good swimmer—to save his life. Her friend raised his quizzing glass with the phlegm indispensible to a man of fashion, looked earnestly at the drowning man, whose head was just rising for the last time, and said, ‘It’s impossible, madam. I was never introduced to that gentleman.’ ”
Fanny laughed and exclaimed she did not believe a word of it, while Lord Bohun moved off in search of his hostess to make sure the guests would be taken to the maze.
They moved into the palace. Most of the rooms still had the same furniture as in the time of William III. The torn fabric of the chairs and curtains was carefully preserved. There were some very fine pictures to admire: Raphael’s cartoons and two very fine portraits, one of Cardinal Wolsey and one of Henry VIII, his treacherous master.
Lord Bohun rejoined the party in time to hear the German tell Fanny that he had stayed at Hampton Court the previous year and nearly died because his German servant, who had probably been too well entertained by some English colleague, had taken the burning coals out of the fire while he was asleep and left them standing in the middle of the room in a lacquered coal scuttle. “The frightful smoke and infernal smell,” he said, “fortunately awoke me just as I was dreaming that I was a courtier of Henry the Eighth and was paying my court to a French beauty at the Champ du Drap d’Or, otherwise I should have gone to meet the fair one of my dreams in heaven!”
Would the damned fellow never give over talking? thought Lord Bohun sourly. And why did Fanny have to appear so amused?
The German had moved on to discussing his bewilderment at English eating habits. “After the soup is removed and the covers taken off, every man helps himself from the dish before him and then offers some of it to his neighbor. If he wishes anything else, he must ask across the table or send a servant for it—a very troublesome c
ustom. Why do they not adopt the more convenient German fashion of sending the servants round with the dishes?
“And the intermediate dessert of cheese, butter, and raw celery is served with an ale so old and strong that if you throw it on the fire, it sets the place ablaze.”
“I am sure we English would find some German customs very odd,” countered Fanny. “You will not find spitting boxes in England.”
“Of course not,” said the German, with mock solemnity. “An Englishman’s spitting box is his stomach. No wonder they die young! And this fashion of ‘taking wine.’ You ask someone at the table to ‘take wine with you.’ Then you raise your glass, look fixedly at the one with whom you are drinking, bow your head, and then drink with the greatest gravity. Many of the customs of the South Sea Islanders are less ludicrous—”
“Miss Page,” interrupted Lord Bohun, with an edge to his voice, “we are going out to the maze. Pray take my arm.”
“And pray take my other,” said the German.
“I am sure I am keeping you from the other ladies,” said Fanny, with regret. But she felt the moment had come when she should tell Lord Bohun that the engagement was over.
Lord Bohun had bribed the servant, who was usually placed on a stepladder above the maze to guide people out, to disappear as soon as he saw himself and Fanny moving toward the center.
They conversed amiably enough as they walked between the tall hedges toward the center, where there was a rustic bench. “I have something to say to you,” said Fanny, “and I had better say it very quickly, before anyone else joins us.”
“I do not think there is any fear of that.” Lord Bohun looked up. Servant and stepladder had disappeared and there were cries of exasperation as the guests tried to find their own way out.
“Do not be angry with me,” pleaded Fanny. “I cannot marry you. I am so very sorry. I am afraid we would not suit.”
He smiled at her. “I have no intention of marrying you.”
“Oh!” Tears of relief started to fill Fanny’s eyes. “You are so good, so generous. I was afraid you would take it badly.”
“I think you misunderstood me, Lady Deveney. I do not need to marry you to get what I want.”
Fanny stared at him in disbelief.
“Yes, Lady Deveney. Your mistake was to tell me about that portrait of me. In my search for it, I was lucky enough to meet the vicar who married you. I gather the pair of you are still poor. Why you ever got married in the first place is beyond me, but the obvious plan seems to be that you each find rich partners. So unless you want me to ruin Deveney, you will do what I ask.”
“Where is that wretched guide?” came a man’s voice from the other side of the hedge. “I declare I will get the fellow horsewhipped when I find him.” And a female’s voice answering, “Oh, let us try this way.”
The voices faded. Fanny turned a white face to Lord Bohun.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked in a thin voice.
“Tomorrow you will meet me at the corner of the square, Hanover Square, and you will come away with me.”
“But I cannot leave with my baggage. I will be noticed.”
He laughed. “You won’t need baggage, my chuck. Besides, I shall take you up at nine in the morning. No self-respecting member of society will be awake by then.”
“And if I do not?”
“Then I will tell everyone that the Deveneys are married and don’t have a feather to fly with. Deveney’s reputation will stink to high heaven. I shall make sure that word of his deception gets back to his regiment. Of course, I shall tell the Woodwards before anyone else.”
“Charles was right about you,” said Fanny, her voice breaking. “You are a monster.”
“You may call me any names you please. You have no alternative.” He reached for her as she shrank back on the seat. And then, with a little gasp of relief, she looked up and saw that the servant was back on his ladder.
She jumped to her feet and called out, “Direct me out of here immediately, if you please.”
Sir Charles and a small group of people were waiting outside the maze. He saw Fanny’s white face and strained eyes and took her aside.
“What has that bastard been up to?” he demanded fiercely.
“Nothing,” lied Fanny. “We couldn’t get out of the maze and I thought I was going to be trapped in there forever. Walk with me, Charles. Where is Miss Woodward?”
“Back at the barge.”
They walked silently to where the barge was moored. Sir Charles was immediately claimed by Miss Woodward. Lord Bohun came running up and joined Fanny.
“Pity Sir Charles had you first,” he murmured, and Fanny threw him a look of loathing, but no one saw that look.
On the way back, Fanny sat and listened to the orchestra and drank steadily, glass after glass of champagne. Lord Bohun left her to it. Let her drink and sulk all she wants, he thought. I have her at last!
Sir Charles sat down next to Fanny and said, “Drinking a lot of that stuff, aren’t you?” He gave a little sigh. “Good idea,” and held up his glass to a passing waiter to be refilled.
The sun was sinking in the sky and turning the river to molten gold as the unhappy couple sat side by side and proceeded to get quite drunk.
Fanny’s tipsy brain wrestled this way and that with the problem and found no way out, no way that would not damage Charles. Charles should not have kissed her so beautifully. But what was it he had said? That it was a long time since he had had a woman?
Suddenly her brain seemed to become clear and sharp. Charles should have her first. Bohun thought he already had. Then let Charles have her for all his kindness and forbearance. He could use her “unfaithfulness” with Bohun to get a divorce. He could have his Miss Woodward and live happily ever after. Had she not drunk so much, or had she been at all used to drinking heavily, she would have known better than to act on such an idea. She might even have realized that since that kiss she had fallen deeply and irrevocably in love with her husband. Sir Charles, wrapped up in his own misery, let the music slide in and out of his brain and matched his wife glass for glass.
“What a state you are both in!” exclaimed Miss Grimes as Fanny tried to step into the carriage when they arrived, missed her footing, and fell on her face on the carriage floor. Sir Charles tried to help her and fell on top of her.
“Bed for both of you when you get home,” said Captain Tommy severely. Fanny looked at him wide-eyed. “How did you know?” she asked tipsily, but no one knew what she was talking about.
Miss Grimes remarked tartly that she never thought to see the pair of them “come home glorious,” as the euphemism for dead drunk had it.
On arrival, she sent her maid to prepare Fanny for bed, confident that Fanny would quickly fall into a deep sleep and wake in the morning with the most terrible headache.
But although Fanny’s legs were wobbly, everything in her brain still seemed crystal clear. When the maid had tucked her into bed, she murmured a well-manufactured, sleepy good night.
As soon as the maid had left and closed the door, Fanny got out of bed, fell on the floor, picked herself up, and sat in a chair and stared at the clock. She would give it fifteen minutes and then go to him.
The door opened and Sir Charles walked in. Fanny goggled at him. “I was supposed to come to you. Lock the door, Charles.”
“Why? I only came to see if you were all right. We did drink rather a lot. Going to feel like hell in the morning, Fanny.”
“Lock the door!”
“Oh, very well.”
“Now come here and kiss me!”
“You are drunk.”
“Bohun’s a beast.”
Sir Charles walked over and crouched down in front of her. “So you’ve found out at last.”
She nodded solemnly. “Now you can kiss me.”
“Oh, Fanny, Fanny … I’ll kiss you for that. And then bed, promise?”
“I promise. That’s the idea.”
He sto
od up, raised her to her feet, and kissed her gently on the mouth, but she wound her arms tightly about his neck and held him close. It was like the fireworks display in Vauxhall, he thought dizzily. Great golden stars were exploding in his head and deep, thick blackness.
They were both in their nightclothes, he could feel her breasts hardening against his chest, her nipples pushing through the thin cloth that separated their bodies. This is my wife, he thought with a sudden burst of gladness, and everything is as it should be.
He carried her to the bed, laid her down on top of the covers, and then lay alongside her and gathered her in his arms again, forcing himself to remember she was still a virgin, forcing himself to slow his pace, caressing her and kissing her until he knew at last she was ready for him. Had Fanny not been so drunk, the loss of her virginity might have been more painful, but passion and tenderness for her made Sir Charles a skillful lover. Naked, they moved gracefully in the dance of love, the one instinctively learning to pleasure the other, bodies writhing and turning and twisting, while the sounds of London life died away outside and the watchman’s hoarse bark punctuated the hours.
They had gone to bed very early. Sir Charles, at last sated with love, fell into a dreamless sleep. But his now sober wife lay awake, knowing what she must do. Now that she loved him, it was more important than ever to protect Charles from ruin.
She dragged herself from the bed and slowly began to dress. She sat down at her writing table and wrote a letter to him—explaining why she had to go away with Lord Bohun and begging him to be happy with Miss Woodward. Then she unlocked the door, went to his room, searched until she had found his pistol, and put it into a capacious reticule. Then she went back and sat beside the bed, looking at her husband’s sleeping face in the flickering flame of the rushlight in its pierced canister beside the bed. She slept fitfully in her chair, awakening with a start every now and then, her eyes flying to the clock.
