by M C Beaton
He looked sadly down at her. “It is not so easy. I have a duty to do. The war cannot last forever. Will you wait for me?”
“No,” said Miss Grimes. “We will be married by special license and I will go with you.” She put a hand over his lips to silence his protest.
“But what of Charles? What of Fanny?”
“It is time this nonsense was over and they solved their own problems,” said Miss Grimes.
“True. May I kiss you again?”
“As much as you want!”
Fanny walked under the moon with Lord Bohun. She felt she had never been so happy. For the moment, she had almost forgotten she was married. When they had walked away from the other guests and toward a part of the gardens shadowed by a huge yew hedge, Lord Bohun stopped and Fanny stopped, too, and looked up at him questioningly.
“This is the first time we have really been alone,” he said softly. He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips.
“We will soon have all our life together.” Fanny smiled up at him in the darkness. He seized her and kissed her full on the mouth, Fanny’s first real kiss.
And she did not like it at all. He was crushing her against him. He was kissing her so hard that she could feel her lips pressed back against her teeth. He smelled of brandy and cigars and sweat. He was mauling her mouth and his breathing was harsh and ragged.
With a great effort, she pulled free and said, with a nervous laugh, “We are behaving disgracefully. What would Miss Grimes say?”
“A pox on Miss Grimes,” he growled. “Come here!”
“I think it is not … it is not the … thing. Not now. We are not married.”
“No, we are not married,” he said.
But she was now too frightened and upset to hear him. “I promised a dance to Charles,” she said, and turning, she fled from him.
He stood there, smiling. Let her play her pretty pretend-virginal games. He would soon have her—and there was nothing she could do about it.
Fanny saw Sir Charles walking with Miss Woodward. Miss Woodward was flirting very hard, eyes and fan going at a great rate, when Fanny came hurtling up.
“Oh, Charles,” she said breathlessly, “we have a dance, I think.”
Miss Woodward looked furious, and Charles, amused. “Why so we have. We will walk back to the ballroom with Miss Woodward, where I may turn her over to one of her clamoring suitors.” He offered Fanny one arm and Miss Woodward the other. He could suddenly sense Fanny’s distress and wondered savagely what Bohun had been up to.
When Miss Woodward had been taken up by a partner, Sir Charles led Fanny onto the floor. It was a rowdy country dance, a lot of the guests having drunk too much and feeling that alfresco dancing allowed them to let down their hair more than they would have done in a formal ballroom. When they came together in the figure of the dance, Sir Charles noticed how Fanny’s eyes roamed nervously about the marquee.
He decided he would find out what was ailing her when they promenaded after the dance. But no sooner had the music stopped than Miss Woodward came up to them, accompanied by her mother, and so he had no opportunity to talk privately to Fanny. But he watched her for the rest of the evening, noticed that when Bohun claimed her for the waltz how she blushed miserably and hung almost limply in his arms, stumbling over the steps from time to time while Bohun looked down at her with a glittering air of triumph.
By the time they all climbed into the carriage to go home, Sir Charles was very worried indeed about Fanny. But Miss Grimes and Tommy announced their engagement and looked so blissfully happy that the journey home had to be taken up in congratulations and exclamations—and all Tommy and Miss Grimes wanted to talk about, over and over again, was how much in love they were and how neither of them had thought they had had any hope of attracting the affections of the other. So no future for Fanny, thought Sir Charles bleakly. Aunt Martha will no longer need a companion.
Fanny clutched the side of the carriage, her mind in a turmoil. What was it Mrs. Friendly had said? That one got babies by kissing and cuddling! What if she were pregnant? All the elation that had coursed through her body every time she thought of Lord Bohun had fled. She had been in love with the painted man, the man in the portrait, and now reality had hit her like a hammer blow. She could appeal to Charles to take her away, but what of his love for Miss Woodward? Why should she destroy his hopes of happiness?
Back in Hanover Square, champagne was produced and the happy couple toasted. At last Fanny could not bear it any longer; she excused herself and went off to her room.
After some time, Sir Charles, too, said good night. He went to his room and tore off his cravat and coat and kicked off his shoes. Perhaps Fanny was not yet asleep. He must find out why she was so worried.
He opened the door of her room and walked in. She was sitting on the floor in a lacy nightdress and frilly wrapper, her bare feet stuck out in front of her, her head bent. She looked like a discarded doll.
He sat down beside her and put an arm about her shoulders—and she rested her head against him with a little sigh. He gave her a gentle shake. “Out with it, Fanny. You’ve been looking worried to death ever since you went for that walk in the gardens with Bohun.”
Fanny gave a ragged little sigh. “I think I am with child, Charles.”
He was too shocked to yell or remonstrate. “How can you be?” he asked.
“Lord Bohun kissed me, kissed me very hard.”
“And?” He forced himself to wait patiently for the inevitable dreadful revelations.
“And he hugged me, like a—like a bear.”
“And what else?”
“I ran away.”
“Fanny,” he said in a wondering voice, “there must have been something else.” “Isn’t that enough?”
“No, my dear, not for babies.”
An anguished wail: “But Mrs. Friendly, our cook at Delfton Hall, she said that one got babies by kissing and cuddling!”
“Fanny!” He began to laugh, the relief was so great. “You silly nincompoop! You have to do a lot more than that to get babies.”
She looked up at him. “What, Charles?”
“I am sure Bohun will show you after you are married.”
“I would rather know now.”
“You had better get a lady to tell you. Miss Grimes.”
“You tell me!”
Still holding her, he bent his head and talked softly and earnestly, while Fanny looked at him, wide-eyed.
“Just like dogs in the street and beasts in the field,” she said at last. “How … inelegant!”
“Oh, Fanny, Fanny … What a fright you gave me. What’s in a kiss?”
“I didn’t like it much,” said Fanny, “but you see I have nothing to compare it with. Would you kiss me, Charles?”
“I have kissed you, my sweeting.”
“But just on the cheek. Kiss me on the mouth, here!” She pointed to her lips.
“Fanny, if the right man kisses you, there will be no question about whether you like it or not. Never say you have fallen out of love with Bohun after promising to marry him!”
But Fanny stubbornly refused to even contemplate such an idea. She had held on to that dream for so long. Certainly it had faded during the Kensington party, but that was because she had been so afraid of becoming pregnant. She felt almost light-headed with relief.
“Oh, give me a kiss, Charles,” she said gaily. “You have taken such a weight off my mind.”
He sighed. “You are nothing more than a little schoolgirl, Fanny. Very well.”
He tilted her chin up and kissed her gently on the mouth. A sudden wave of sheer, unadulterated lust swept over him. Those trusting lips were so soft and sweet. But one small, cold, disciplined part of his brain made him withdraw.
He cursed himself as he saw the dawning horror in Fanny’s large eyes. “I am sorry,” he said quickly. He got to his feet. “It is a long time since I had a woman.”
He strode out.
&n
bsp; Fanny sat on the floor where he had left her, her arms wound tightly about her body. That kiss had been wonderful, magical, beautiful. Like coming home. The horror in her eyes had been caused by the sudden realization that Bohun had been a fantasy and that she was already married to the man she loved. And he wanted only Miss Woodward.
A tear rolled down her small nose and plopped into her lap. Well, he could have his precious Miss Woodward. For her part, she would tell Lord Bohun she had changed her mind. Then she would flirt and appear happy and carefree until Charles was settled. She owed him that.
Chapter Eight
DURING THE FOLLOWING DAYS, Lord Bohun wondered if he was ever going to have a chance to have a private conversation with Fanny. And how could he blackmail her into seduction if he could not see her alone?
The weather had changed to steady rain, canceling picnics and other alfresco events where he might have had a chance to lead her away from the crowd. He had tried to talk to her during a musicale and had been shushed violently. His vanity was so great that it did not occur to him that Fanny herself was making sure they were never alone.
But by the end of the week, blue skies stretched out somewhere far above the eternal smoky haze of London—and he was to escort Fanny to the Derings’ barge on the River Thames, where the Derings and guests were to sail to Hampton Court. He called on Lady Dering a day before the outing and suggested to her that her guests would be sure to want to leave the boat at Hampton Court and admire the maze.
Sir Charles meanwhile was intent on playing his role of Miss Woodward’s courtier so that Fanny should feel free to go ahead and marry Bohun if she wished, although he was still sure that she would soon find out what sort of man he was. Sir Charles had put the memory of that kiss firmly out of his mind. He had been overset; he had imagined his violent reaction to the touch of her mouth; all much better forgotten.
Miss Grimes had been made selfish by love. The only person who moved in her orbit was Captain Tommy, and if she thought at all about Fanny and Sir Charles it was with a sort of dismissive impatience. Let them get on with their own problems.
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 he
r 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 custom. Why do they not adopt the more convenient German fashion of sending the servants round with the dishes?
