by Edith Layton
He did, however, discover—as he told them all—that he found gingerbread cake a waste of chewing, and the gingerbread men, more to the taste of a termite than himself. Most agreed.
“Yes,” Lord Rockingham announced sadly, “even so. Such tempting shapes and aromas, leading to disappointment, after all. Gingerbread is very like most of the dreams we pursue—whether they are of females, or horses, or other such awaited promises: stale at the edges and bland at the center when we finally get them. The idea is all. Because the waiting is far more enjoyable than the outcome.”
And so was that what his dreams were telling him? Owen wondered as he strolled home to change his clothes for the evening. That he wouldn’t find pleasure in his marriage to the Davis girl? What did he expect from that alliance, anyway? An accommodating wife, a good hostess, and a good mother to his children. She seemed to be capable of providing all those things for him. She was pretty, charming, well-born and bred; the Toast of the Season, in fact. But adorable as she was, he didn’t lust for her. At least not with the kind of longing the gingerbread dreams signified. But then, he didn’t expect lust as a factor in choosing a wife. The women he desired in that way became his mistresses.
He’d liked a great many females, but never loved one. He kept seeking for that elusive emotion, and had come up with passion, appreciation, and admiration—but each for a different woman—instead. He wasn’t a rake, but enjoyed sensual pleasures, and found them more pleasurable with a woman he knew. So he kept mistresses, from time to time. Women well up to snuff, who enjoyed the same pleasures, and pleased themselves by supporting themselves by so doing. Owen felt his blood quicken, thinking of the woman he now had in his keeping.
He decided he wouldn’t go to the Swanson party tonight. He was promised to see the Davis chit the next night anyway, and Elizabeth wouldn’t be there, so there wouldn’t be much fun for him in it. Elizabeth made the dullest London soirees sparkle, or at least, her whimsical humor always did. But failing that…there were other, easier forms of amusement, other ways to pleasantly pass a wearisome night.
Owen remembered that it was high time he paid a call on his mistress…after all, it might be one of the last times he could. He supposed he’d give that up when he wed.
Or would he? If he loved Caro Davis, certainly. It would go against the grain to take another female in his arms if he loved his wife. But would he? And did she expect that? It was as well that he intended to accompany her everywhere this Christmas; there’d be many answers for him. But as to the question of those plaguey dreams of his…he thought, and frowned.
“My dear Duke,” a thin voice intruded on his thoughts. He looked down, to see his neighbors, Miss Araminta Fortesque and Mrs. DeWitt, gazing up anxiously at him. They were of a size, two diminutive ladies. But Miss Araminta was thin as a wraith, Mrs. DeWitt, plump as an old tabby. Both sisters were elderly, gray as geese, and had been since he could remember. Because they’d lived together since then too, Owen sometimes wondered if Mr. DeWitt had expired on his wedding day. They always dressed in drab, and invariably in clothing that had no fashion, but were neat as a pair of pins, and bright eyed as children.
“Ladies,” he said, sketching a bow.
“Your Grace,” they said, and curtsied. “Happy Christmas,” Mrs. DeWitt said promptly, her sister echoing her greeting.
“Since it’s likely you’ll soon be gone from London”—Mrs. DeWitt went on in her gruff tones—“we think it best to offer you felicitations of the Season now.”
“But I plan to be in town this Season,” he said. The ladies exchanged a significant glance. “Business matters,” he lied quickly, finding himself strangely uncomfortable with the thought of all London knowing his matrimonial plans.
He bowed, they curtsied again, and then he walked on toward his town house.
“A lovely gentleman is our duke,” Miss Araminta breathed to her sister as they continued down the street.
“Deuced fine gentleman, I wonder what sort of a neighbor the Davis chit shall be?” Mrs. DeWitt answered.
“Oh dear,” Miss Araminta said, “do you think there will be a problem?”
“One never knows,” Mrs. DeWitt said darkly, “with new brides.”
“Oh my,” Miss Araminta sighed, glancing back at the tall straight figure of the duke as he strode toward his town house.
“Well, we shall see,” Mrs. DeWitt said. “Don’t fuss, Araminta. She may be as good a neighbor as he. Only time will tell. Speaking of time, come along, we’ve more errands than hours, you know. Christmas won’t come any slower because we haven’t the time!”
Her sister bowed her head, and the two hurried into the last of the short winter’s afternoon.
Owen walked on. He made a mental note to ask his secretary to be sure the ladies got an extra-large basket from him this Christmas. He had many elderly neighbors, now he came to think on it, and he remembered them all at Christmastime. But he always took particular care to send the two sisters an especially fine parcel as a greeting of the Season, and they always returned the sentiment by sending some quaint homemade, totally useless object as a gift for him. But now it also occurred to him that although they were always groomed, they also wore the same clothing, year in and out. He hoped they weren’t in financial straits. They were excellent neighbors, after all.
His Grace dressed for dinner, told his valet not to wait up for him, and strolled off into the night. He wasn’t going far. The lady he was visiting didn’t live in as exclusive a neighborhood as he did, but she did live in a good part of town. He paid enough to ensure she did. He—as well as all her past protectors—he reminded himself.
It was a neat arrangement, she was as exclusive as she was professional. She had her apartments, he funded her for so long as he availed himself of her services. As much as he enjoyed her company, he never deceived himself about that. It was a business arrangement for pleasure. He wasn’t a boy anymore, he could deal with that.
After all, he couldn’t very well make love to a “good” woman without marrying her. And although it was unusual for a man of his station, tastes, and times, neither did he like getting that close to a stranger. He’d decided long ago that it must be because he liked so many women for their own sakes. He’d loved his mother, doted on his sisters, and enjoyed the friendship of Elizabeth, for example. So when it came to sexual matters, it was only natural that he should also need to at least like his partner. It was hard to feel greedy and alone at the height of passion. Or so he told himself. But as things were in his world, he really had little choice. Most women of pleasure were not women who gave him much pleasure out of bed.
It was as well, he thought now, as he approached his mistress’s flat, that he would soon be married.
“You look wonderfully well,” he told his mistress when she greeted him at the door with her slow catlike smile. But so she did. She was not a beautiful woman. But she was attractive and very seductive. Dark haired and dark eyed, with a good form, and a provocative smile that hinted at secret pleasures. She looked as though she were just exactly as good at the things she did as she was. And she was not stupid. Women of her caste, class, and expensive upkeep seldom were.
He admired how she looked in her sheer gown, but however seductive she looked, he didn’t take her into his arms and tumble into bed with her. His was not that kind of emotion toward her, and theirs was not that kind of arrangement. They appreciated each other but they were intimate strangers, and both would have been shocked at such a show of impetuous passion. Instead, he helped her on with her cape and they left her house. They went to dinner at a restaurant in the Strand. It was an elegant place, famous for catering to gentlemen bent on dalliance. There was no risk of Owen meeting any respectable female he knew there. Or at least, he thought with amusement, he wouldn’t see them. Couples dined in private rooms in such discreet establishments.
“My lord,” his companion purred, when the last remnants of their dinner had been cleared, and the waiter stood wai
ting for their dessert order, “let us skip this last course. I know a quiet place where the sweets available are said to be…sensational. Shall we go?”
“Hmm?” he said distractedly, because he was studying the card the waiter had given him. “In a moment, my dear. Ah—have you any gingerbread, I wonder?” he asked the waiter.
His companion’s eyes widened, but the waiter was too well-trained to blink. “To be sure, my lord,” the waiter said. “And for you, madame?”
“Coffee,” she said absently as she stared at her escort. She was too wise to ask why he’d refused her offer. But also too aware of her own attractions to doubt them. She decided he hadn’t heard her. When the waiter left, she spoke. “Gingerbread?” she asked curiously.
Such a man would never look flustered. She’d never seen the duke lose control even at the height of passion. But now, he looked a little sheepish. Her interest piqued, she leaned forward, and not only to offer him a better glimpse of her fine high breasts.
“Christmas is coming, my dear,” he said with a shrug of his wide shoulders. “I suppose that’s it. I happened to see a rack of gingerbread men in a shop window this morning, and it triggered memories. Surely you remember such treats? But I imagine I’ll be disappointed. This is a fine restaurant, but nothing ever lives up to childhood reminiscences—things never do taste as good as memory serves”—he smiled at his pun—“do they?”
“I don’t like gingerbread,” she said flatly, her voice cool and her eyes bleak, as though she were seeing something far off. This was so unlike her that he stared. Because now he realized that her every word and action was always cued to his reaction, and the difference—this abstraction of hers in his presence, was startling. It robbed her face of animation and color.
“I used to want gingerbread,” she said absently, “well, what child would not? I remember”—her voice grew colder still—“it was my father who used to bring it home. Such a good man, so doting to his daughter. And she not even his, but only a stepdaughter. And yet see how he indulged her! Gingerbread and Christmas presents: new frocks and toys and hugs and kisses. But mostly I remember the little brown men with their white-buttoned vests and their foolish grins. He’d give them to me with a flourish. And how my mother would smile at him for it. But I did not. I knew the price he’d ask me to pay for it later, when she wasn’t there, when he stole into my room, while she lay sleeping, and I wished to God that I were…
“But that was then,” she said, recovering herself and looking back at him. She saw his expression.
“Oh, Lud!” she said gaily. “What was I going on about? You’re right about the stuff, it does take one back to childhood…”
He didn’t speak, but everything he had to say was there in the gravity of his expression and the horror and pity in his eyes.
“I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” she said sadly.
“I’d no idea…” he said, and heard himself. How foolish. Of course, there was no way he could have known. He felt worse, wondering if he should have. But now he realized that he never discussed such things as childhood, or memories, with his mistresses. And now that seemed brutal to him. He felt as bad as he did confused; all he did know was that anything he might say now would be inadequate, and so he fell still. She bowed her dark head, and smiled to herself. It was a different smile than any he’d ever seen her wear: weary and self-mocking. It made her look much less desirable, and far more likable. He felt terrible.
“Well, that’s done it, hasn’t it?” she asked the air. “But then, I sensed our relationship was drawing to an end, anyway. I mean: to prefer gingerbread to me?” she laughed to herself. She was insulted and yet no fool. The thing had been winding down and she knew it. She’d miss him. Who knew if she’d find his like again? He was elegant, handsome, clean and clever, and had always treated her with consideration. And too—he was one of the few who had ever managed to stir something in her body. That was so rare she decided to reward him. He’d pay her well for their past times together. She owed him honesty as a parting present.
“Why is it, do you suppose,” she mused aloud, “that the gentlemen always want to hear about the terrors of your childhood, but are so selective about it? They don’t mind hearing you were impoverished. They positively love hearing about the horrors of the slums you crawled up from. Or so the other girls in my profession tell me. But other terrors? Those less random, and less specific to class? I did not, nor will I lie—nor would I have told the truth either, if the gingerbread hadn’t loosened my tongue.” She laughed.
“We had money, my lord,” she said, holding her head up and looking at him directly. “Not a fortune, like yours, but my stepfather was an apothecary, we lived well. Not well enough for me, of course. No amount of money could ever pay for what he expected from it. Don’t look so, my dear,” she said, and there may have been bittersweet mockery in her voice. “Why do you think I went into this profession, after all?”
“Not for love, and all for money. I know that,” he said quietly. “It’s only that we gentlemen choose not to. Well, can you blame us?”
He met her gaze steadily, and she was the first to look away. “No,” she said softly, “I don’t blame you. I liked you very well, Your Grace. There’s truth, and no need for it now, so you know it’s true. Lud!” she said in more normal accents, as the waiter entered the parlor again. “You were right! Gingerbread does nudge the memory, doesn’t it? But look—all my honesty for nothing: there are no evil little men here, only a fine cake.”
“I’m so sorry,” Owen said, covering her hand with his, knowing that was all of her he could ever cover again. He wasn’t the sort of man who wanted to feel like an oppressor. The illusion of free will and equal desire was everything in an arrangement like theirs, and they both knew it.
“Sorry? Why, do you know,” she said honestly, “so am I.” She looked at the cake with loathing. “One more thing for me to hate about gingerbread, I suppose.”
*
What was there about gingerbread, after all? Owen wondered as he prepared himself for his lonely bed that night. Such a simple thing, a child’s treat, an adult’s indulgence, but it seemed the portal to childhood was made of the damned stuff. He felt sorry for his mistress, but sighed as he laid his head down on his pillow. It was for the best. Now he could go to his marriage bed unencumbered: mind, heart, and body. He’d see the lady of his choice tomorrow night, and tell her he’d be requesting an audience with her father. He’d be engaged by the end of the year, married soon into the new one. That was that, and so it would be done, he thought, and closed his eyes, and slept.
…And dreamed about gingerbread again: spicy, sweet, tart and moist, melting in his mouth, surrounding him, tormenting him, filling his nostrils with the hot exotic scent of pleasures lost and found and so near and yet so far…
He woke in a sweat and sat straight up and stared into the dawn light: confused—alone and lost—an adult in a child’s world, a child in a man’s body, alone and longing for something he didn’t have and never wanted and couldn’t be without.
*
“More gingerbread?” she asked when he paid her a call the next morning. Owen nodded. Elizabeth sighed. It had only been a day since she’d seen him, only a day since she’d first learned about his problem, but to her critical eye he already looked thinner, the planes of his face sharper; his light eyes held a disquiet she hated to see there. He was self-contained, a man of strong will and emotions, held hard. But his weariness spoke all that he would not.
A dream about gingerbread disturbing his rest? It was a foolish thing to beset him, but she knew him too well to laugh and cared too deeply to tease him for it now. He constantly dreamed about something he couldn’t have. Well, she thought sadly, she knew that kind of dream too well to even think of laughing about it. The only difference was that hers was a waking dream, and his came only when he slept.
“I’ve asked everyone I know about it,” the duke told her as he sat in her parlor in the mornin
g sunlight, his expression bland, but his lean face still bearing traces of his restless night. “You were right,” he said. “I’ve heard some astonishing things because of my questions. Both good and bad. Amazing how such a simple thing stirs so many stories from the recesses of people’s minds. I’ve gotten to know many people much better. That’s good, I imagine. But none of it helps me in this. The dream continues.
“I’ve stuffed myself with the demned stuff too,” he said bleakly, “but it does no good. I hate gingerbread. But there I am, like a greedy boy, devouring it everywhere I find it in London. But it’s never the stuff of my dreams. Am I losing my mind, Elizabeth?”
He gazed at her steadily, his gray eyes imploring. “You’ve known me since we were babes, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“Since we were babes!” she said, her eyes widening, trying to make a jest of it. “But I am a full three years younger, my dear.”
He didn’t laugh. She didn’t know if he even heard her. “Gad!” He shook his head. “What a ridiculous question. But it’s one I ask myself daily. Am I mad? I haven’t forgotten anyone’s name, I don’t have any other bizarre urges; I remember everything I have to do each day—but I dream the same damned dream each night! Be honest with me, Elizabeth, do you think I’m in a decline?”
Her heart broke to see him suffer so, but before she could speak, he went on, a little desperately, “Who else can I ask, after all? I’d horrify my family with such a question, and amuse my friends. But you’re like a sister and a friend to me. And after all, who else knows me so well and is always so honest with me? So continue to be my friend, and tell me straightly please, will you?”
“Of course you’re not mad,” she said harshly, because he had called her sister and friend and she knew she was both to him, and so much as that was so, still it hurt even so, because that was all she was to him. “You’re having a dream. It’s persistent. Since it can’t be a portent of things to come—because you’ve already gone and eaten some gingerbread, it surely means there’s something you’re supposed to know. When you find out, it will cease, I’m sure. It’s not gingerbread itself, clearly. So then—Christmas,” she said in sudden triumph. “It has to be rooted in the holiday, because, as you say: everyone remembers gingerbread as a Christmas treat.”
