There she was; he caught the glint of her hair as she came out of the parlor doors, turning back to say something to the woman behind her.
She caught sight of him as she turned back, and her face lit up, touching off a complementary warm glow beneath his rebuttoned waistcoat.
“There you are! I’ve barely seen you all day. Heard you now and then, though,” she added, with a nod toward the open drawing-room doors.
“Oh, aye? Sound all right, did it?” he asked casually, shamelessly fishing for compliments. She grinned and tapped his chest with her closed fan, mimicking the gesture of an accomplished coquette—which she wasn’t.
“Oh, Mrs. MacKenzie,” she said, pitching her voice high and through her nose, “your husband’s voice is divinity itself! Were I so fortunate, I am sure I should spend hours just drrrinking in the sound of it!”
He laughed, recognizing Miss Martin, old Miss Bledsoe’s young and rather plain companion, who had hung about wide-eyed and sighing while he sang ballads in the afternoon.
“You know you’re good,” she said, dropping back into her own voice. “You don’t need me to tell you.”
“Maybe not,” he admitted. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like to hear it, though.”
“Really? The adulation of the multitudes isn’t enough?” She was laughing at him, eyes gone to triangles of amusement.
He didn’t know how to answer that, and laughed instead, taking her hand.
“D’ye want to dance?” He cocked his head toward the end of the terrace where the French doors to the drawing room stood open, letting out the cheerful strains of “Duke of Perth,” then back toward the tables. “Or to eat?”
“Neither. I want to get away from here for a minute; I can hardly breathe.” A drop of sweat ran down her neck, glinting red in the torchlight before she swiped it away.
“Great.” He took her hand and drew it through his arm, turning toward the herbaceous border that lay beyond the terrace. “I know just the place.”
“Great. Oh—wait. Maybe I do want something to eat.” She lifted a hand and stopped a slave boy, coming up to the terrace from the cookhouse with a small covered tray from which an appetizing steam wafted into the air. “What’s that, Tommy? Can I have some?”
“You have all you want, Miss Bree.” He smiled, whipping the napkin away to display a selection of savories. She inhaled beatifically.
“I want them all,” she said, taking the tray, to Tommy’s amusement. Roger, seizing the chance, murmured his own request to the slave, who nodded, disappeared, and returned within moments with an open bottle of wine and two goblets. Roger took these, and together they wandered down the path that led from the house to the dock, sharing tidbits of news along with the pigeon pies.
“Did you find any of the guests passed out in the shrubbery?” she asked, her words muffled by a mouthful of mushroom pasty. She swallowed, and became more distinct. “When Da asked you to go and look this afternoon, I mean.”
He snorted briefly, selecting a dumpling made of sausage and dried pumpkin.
“Ken the difference between a Scottish wedding and a Scottish funeral, do ye?”
“No, what?”
“The funeral has one less drunk.”
She laughed, scattering crumbs, and took a Scotch egg.
“No,” he said, steering her skillfully to the right of the dock, and toward the willows. “Ye’ll see a few feet sticking out of the bushes now, but this afternoon, they hadn’t had the time to get rat-legged yet.”
“You have such a way with words,” she said appreciatively. “I went and talked to the slaves; all present and accounted for, and mostly sober, too. A couple of the women admitted that Betty does tipple at parties, though.”
“To say the least, from what your Da said. Stinking, he described her as, and I gather he didn’t mean only drunk.” Something small and dark leaped out of his path. Frog; he could hear them piping away in the grove.
“Mmm. Mama said she seemed to be okay later on, in spite of Dr. Fentiman insisting on bleeding her.” She gave a small shudder, drawing her shawl round her shoulders one-handed. “He gives me the creeps, the Doctor. He looks like a little goblin or something, and he’s got the clammiest hands I ever felt. And he smells terrible, speaking of stinking.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure yet,” Roger said, amused. “Come on.” He pushed aside the hanging veil of willow branches, alert lest he disturb some courting couple that had beaten them to the stone bench, but all was well. Everyone was up at the house, dancing, eating, drinking, and planning a later serenade of the wedding pair. Better Duncan and Jocasta than us, he thought, rolling his eyes inwardly at some of the things he’d heard suggested. Another time, he might have been interested to see a shivaree, and trace all the roots of it from French and Highland customs—but not bloody now.
It was suddenly quiet under the willows, most of the noise from the house drowned by the rushing of water and the monotonous chirping of frogs. It was also dark as midnight, and Brianna felt carefully for the bench, in order to set down her tray.
Roger shut his eyes hard and counted to thirty; when he opened them, he could at least make out her form, silhouetted against the dim light that filtered through the willows, and the horizontal line of the bench. He set down the glasses and poured out the wine, the neck of the bottle chinking faintly against the goblets as he felt his way.
He put out a hand and ran it down her arm, locating her hand in order to put the full goblet safely into it. He raised his own glass in salute.
“To beauty,” he said, letting the smile show in his voice.
“To privacy,” she said, returning the toast, and drank. “Oh, that’s good,” she said, a moment later, sounding slightly dreamy. “I haven’t had wine in … a year? No, nearly two. Not since before Jemmy was born. In fact, not since …” Her voice stopped abruptly, then resumed, more slowly. “Not since our first wedding night. In Wilmington, remember.”
“I remember.” He reached out and cupped a hand round her cheek, tracing the bones of her face softly with his thumb. It was no wonder that she thought of that night now. They had begun it there, under the drooping branches of a huge horse-chestnut tree, that had sheltered them from the noise and light of a nearby tavern. Their present situation was oddly and movingly reminiscent of that dark and private secrecy, the two of them amid the smell of leaves and nearby water—the nearby racket of lust-crazed tree frogs replacing the tavern noises.
That had been a hot night, though, thick and humid enough that flesh melted to flesh. Now it was cold enough that his body yearned for the warmth of hers, and the scent that enclosed them was the spring smell of green leaves and running river, not the musty smell of leaf-litter and mudflats.
“Do you think they’ll sleep together?” Brianna asked. She sounded slightly breathless; perhaps it was the wine.
“Who? Oh, Jocasta, ye mean, and Duncan? Why not? They’ll be married.” He drained his own glass and set it down, the glass chiming faintly on the stone.
“It was a beautiful wedding, wasn’t it?” She didn’t resist as he took the glass from her hand and set it down with his own. “Quiet, but awfully nice.”
“Aye, very nice.” He kissed her, softly, and held her close against him. He could feel the back lacing of her gown, crisscrossed under the thin knitted shawl.
“Mmm. You taste good.”
“Oh, aye, like sausages and wine. So do you.” His hand twitched up the edge of the shawl, getting beneath and fumbling for the end of the lace, somewhere down near the small of her back. She pressed against him, making it easier.
“Will we still want to make love, do you think, when we’re as old as they are?” she murmured in his ear.
“I will,” he assured her, getting hold of the small bow that secured the lace. “I hope you will, too; I shouldna like to have to do it alone.”
She laughed, and took a deep breath, her back swelling suddenly as the tight lacing came loose. There were the stays
underneath, too, though, damn it. He used both hands, looking for the inner lacings, and she arched her back helpfully, which made her breasts swell up into sight just below his chin. The sight made him take one hand off her back, to deal with this new and delightful development.
“I haven’t got my … I mean, I didn’t bring …” She pulled back a little, sounding dubious.
“Ye’ve taken the seeds today, though?” Away to hell with pizza and loo-paper, he thought; at the moment, he’d trade all prospects of indoor plumbing for a rubber condom.
“Yes.” She still sounded doubtful, though, and he gritted his teeth, taking a firmer hold on her, as though she might bolt.
“It’s all right,” he whispered, nuzzling his way down the side of her neck toward that heartbreaking slope where the muscle of her shoulder joined it. She was smooth beneath his lips, her skin cool in the air, warm and scented beneath the fall of her hair. “We needn’t … I mean … I won’t … just let me …”
The neckline of her dress was fashionably low with her kerchief pulled off, still lower, with her gown unlaced, and her breast was heavy and soft in his hand. He felt the nipple big and round as a ripe cherry against his palm, and bent on impulse to put his mouth to it.
She stiffened, then relaxed with an odd little sigh, and he felt a warm sweet taste on his tongue, then a strange pulsing and a flooding of the … he swallowed by reflex, shocked. Shocked, and terribly aroused. He hadn’t thought; he hadn’t meant … but she pulled his head hard against her, holding him.
He went on, emboldened, and pushed her gently backward, easing her down onto the edge of the bench, so that he knelt before her. A sudden thought had come to him, prompted by the stinging memory of that entry in her dreambook.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered to her. “We won’t … risk anything. Let me do this—just for you.”
She hesitated, but let him run his hands under her skirt, up the silken curves of stockinged calf and round, bare thigh, under the flattened curve of her buttocks, cool and bare on the stone, beneath the froth of petticoats. One of Seamus’s songs had described a gentleman’s exploits “in the lists of Venus.” The words drifted through his head with the rushing of the water, and he was determined to acquit himself with honor in those lists.
Maybe she couldn’t describe it, but he meant to make sure she knew it had happened. She shivered between his hands, and he cupped one hand between her thighs.
“Miss Bree?”
Both of them jerked convulsively, Roger snatching his hands away as though burned. He could feel the thunder of blood in his ears—and his balls.
“Yes, what is it? Is that you, Phaedre? What’s wrong—is it Jemmy?”
He was sitting back on his heels, trying to breathe, feeling dizzy. He caught the brief pale gleam of her breasts above him as she stood up and turned toward the voice, tucking her kerchief hastily back in, pulling the shawl up over her unfastened gown.
“Yes, ma’am.” Phaedre’s voice came out from under the willow nearest the house; nothing of the slave showed but the whiteness of her cap, floating dimly in the shadows. “Poor child, he woke up hot and fussin’, wouldn’t take neither mush nor milk, and then he started in to cough, sounded bad enough, Teresa said we best fetch Dr. Fentiman along to him, but I said …”
“Dr. Fentiman!”
Brianna disappeared with a ferocious rustling of willow branches, and he heard the hurrying thump of slippered feet on earth as she ran toward the house, Phaedre in her wake.
Roger got to his feet, and paused for a moment, hand on his fly-buttons. The temptation was strong; it wouldn’t take more than a minute—less, probably, in his present condition. But no, Bree might need him to deal with Fentiman. The thought of the Doctor using his gory instruments on Jemmy’s soft flesh was enough to send him crashing through the willows in hot pursuit. The lists of Venus would have to wait.
He found Bree and Jemmy in Jocasta’s boudoir, the center of a small knot of women, all of whom looked surprised—even mildly scandalized—at his appearance. Disregarding the raised eyebrows and huffing noises, he forged his way through the skirts to Brianna’s side.
The little fella did look bad, and Roger felt a clutch of fear in the pit of his stomach. Christ, how could it happen so fast? He’d seen Jem at the wedding only a few hours before, curled up pink and sweet in his makeshift cradle, and before that, being his usual raucously genial self at the party. Now he lay against Brianna’s shoulder, flush-cheeked and heavy-eyed, whimpering a little, with a slick of clear mucus dribbling from his nose.
“How is he?” He reached out and touched a flushed cheek gently, with the back of his hand. God, he was hot!
“He’s sick,” Brianna said tersely. As though in confirmation, Jemmy began to cough, a dreadful noise, loud but half-choked, like a seal choking on its fish. The blood surged into his already flushed face, and his round blue eyes bulged with the effort of drawing breath between the spasms.
“Shit,” Roger muttered. “What do we do?”
“Cold water,” one of the women standing beside him said, authoritatively. “Put him altogether under a bath of cold water, then make him drink more of it.”
“No! Heavens, Mary, you’ll kill the child.” Another young matron reached out to pat Jemmy’s quivering back. “It’s the croup; my lot have had it now and again. Sliced garlic, warmed and put to the soles of his feet,” she told Brianna. “That works well, sometimes.”
“And if it doesn’t?” another woman said, skeptical. The first woman’s nostrils pinched, and her friend butted in helpfully.
“Johanna Richards lost two babes to the croup. Gone like that!” She snapped her fingers, and Brianna flinched as though the sound were one of her own bones cracking.
“Why are we havering so, and a medico to hand? You, girl, go and fetch Dr. Fentiman! Did I not say so?” One of the women clapped her hands sharply at Phaedre, who stood pressed back against the wall, eyes fixed on Jemmy. Before she could move to obey, though, Brianna’s head shot up.
“No! Not him, I won’t have him.” She glared round at the women, then shot Roger a look of urgent entreaty. “Find Mama for me. Quick!”
He turned and shoved past the women, fear momentarily assuaged by the ability to do something. Where was Claire likely to be? Help, he thought, help me find her, help him be all right, directing the incoherent prayer toward anyone who might be listening—God, the Reverend, Mrs. Graham, Saint Bride, Claire herself—he wasn’t particular.
He thundered down the front stair to the foyer, only to meet Claire hurrying across it toward him. Someone had told her; she gave him one quick look, asked, “Jemmy?” with a lift of her chin, and at his breathless nod, was up the stairs in a flash, leaving a foyer full of people gaping after her.
He caught her up in the hall above and was in time to open the door for her—and to receive an undeserved but much appreciated look of gratitude from Bree.
He stood back out of the way, catching his breath and marveling. The moment Claire stepped into the room, the atmosphere of worry and near-panic changed at once. There was still an air of concern among the women, but they gave way without hesitation, standing back respectfully and murmuring to one another as Claire headed straight for Jemmy and Bree, ignoring everything else.
“Hallo, lovey. What is it, then, are we feeling miserable?” She was murmuring to Jem, turning his head to one side and feeling gently under his flushed chubby jowls and behind his ears. “Poor thing. It’s all right, sweetheart, Mummy’s here, Grannie’s here, everything will be just fine.… How long has he been like this? Has he had anything to drink? Yes, darling, that’s right.… Does it hurt him to swallow?”
She alternated between comforting remarks to the baby and questions to Brianna and Phaedre, all delivered in the same tone of calm reassurance as her hands touched here and there, exploring, soothing. Roger felt it working on him, too, and drew a deep breath, feeling the tightness in his own chest ease a bit.
Clair
e took a sheet of Jocasta’s heavy notepaper from the secretary, rolled it into a tube, and used it to listen intently to Jemmy’s back and chest as he made more of the choking-seal noises. Roger noticed dimly that her hair had fallen down somehow; she had to brush it out of the way to listen.
“Yes, of course it’s croup,” she said absently, in answer to a half-questioning diagnosis offered diffidently by one of the bystanders. “But that’s only the cough and the difficult breathing. You can have croup by itself, so to speak, or as an early symptom of various other things.”
“Such as?” Bree had a death grip on Jemmy, and her face was nearly as white as her knuckles.
“Oh.…” Claire seemed to be listening intently, but not to Bree. More to whatever was happening inside Jemmy, who had quit coughing and was lying exhausted against his mother’s shoulder, breathing thickly in steam-engine gasps. “Um … coryza—that’s only a common cold. Influenza. Asthma. Diphtheria. But it isn’t that,” she added hurriedly, looking up and catching a glimpse of Brianna’s face.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes,” Claire replied firmly, straightening up and putting aside her makeshift stethoscope. “It doesn’t feel at all like diphtheria to me. Besides, there isn’t any of that about, or I’d have heard. And he’s still being breast-fed; he’ll have immunity—” She stopped speaking abruptly, suddenly aware of the women looking on. She cleared her own throat, bending down again, as though to encourage Jemmy by example. He made a small whimper and coughed again. Roger felt it, like a rock in his chest.
“It isn’t serious,” Claire announced firmly, straightening. “We must put him in a croup tent, though. Bring him down to the kitchen. Phaedre, will you find me a couple of old quilts, please?”
She moved toward the door, shooing the women before her like a flock of hens.
Obeying an impulse that he didn’t stop to question, Roger reached for the baby, and after a instant’s hesitation, Brianna let him take him. Jemmy didn’t fuss, but hung listless and heavy, the limp slackness a terrible change from his normal India-rubber bounce. The baby’s cheek burned through the cloth of Roger’s shirt as he carried the little boy downstairs, Bree at his elbow.
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