by Bianca Bloom
“Happy birthday,” I said to him, my voice rather thin.
“To you as well.”
We both starting laughing. The sentiment was so ridiculous, and our present situation so ugly, that even the most stone-faced fool in the world would have seen the humor in it.
I always thought that if I ended up in a compromising situation, I would say that we might be discovered at any moment. And even if that fact were obvious, I would say something like, “We could be seen at any moment,” or “We oughtn’t to do this.”
But I said nothing of the sort. I only gazed up into Luke Barlow’s face as he stroked mine, his tall frame crouched over me with care and tension.
And so we remained, until the rain started in earnest again, and even the trees were not enough to protect us unless we moved toward the trunks.
The movement seemed to break the spell for a moment. I wondered, with a heart that had been steeled by a mother’s repeated warnings, whether Mr. Barlow did not try to play games with all of his houseguests.
But we stood together by the trunk of the great pine, and the breaks in his voice were sincere as he explained himself.
“It would all be different if I could marry someone like you, Miss Quinton,” he said, his voice breathy. “I’m afraid I ought to beg your forgiveness.”
As he said it, we moved closer together, and now that we were both standing, there was more than enough room for him to kiss me.
He took full advantage of it, pulling me to him and filling my lips with hot, hasty kisses.
There was still a little bit of the strangeness that I had felt in childhood, but added to this the sweet scent of the rain and the arching, eager body of the gorgeous man before me. It was fortunate that we were not indoors, for we might have been tempted to take our temptation and eagerness to its natural conclusion.
Instead, I pulled away from Luke’s kisses (he was, all of a sudden, “Luke” and not “Mr. Barlow”). And I followed my feelings to a different, though no less logical, end.
“I am twenty one today,” I breathed, looking up into his startled eyes. “Why should we two not be the ones to marry?”
He clutched at my arms. “You would marry me?”
I looked down, wanting to tell him that I should love nothing better, but suddenly struck dumb.
Or nearly dumb. “It would keep me from killing your grandfather.”
“Have you ever killed anyone, then?” he asked, looking distinctly silly as he said it.
I began to laugh, and he put his arms around me again.
“Of course not,” I said into his cloak, as he kissed my hair and I tried to force my face into any expression but the stupid grin that seemed unwilling to leave my lips. “I’ve gotten rough with certain fools, though.”
“Perhaps I ought to marry you just to protect myself,” he said, tilting my head towards him and kissing me again so hard that I thought I might slip and fall in the mud.
9
From that moment on, I knew that I wanted to marry Luke Barlow. He captured my head and my heart all at once, and as soon as we could tear away from each other we started on down to the vicarage after he’d gone into the house to fetch my coat and make some wild excuse to his mother.
On our way to the village, I lost track of the number of times I paused just to look at him, catch my breath, and assure myself that I had not entered some sort of dream state. Luke Barlow was real, I was real, and we really did plan to marry. The feeling of my arm being pressed to his side was nearly enough to send me into a fainting spell.
It was only when we first stood in front of the vicar that our plan began to sound rather mad.
“I know that you are friends with the Archbishop of Canterbury, Mr. Simmons,” said Luke, glancing at me and then back at the vicar. “You may have tried to keep it quiet, but the whole village knows.”
The vicar was a funny looking man, tall and reedy, and with the habit of waving his hands about when he spoke. He sat at his desk with an expression of impatience on his face. “Yes, yes,” he said. “It is the only way I have been able to hold on to this living in spite of all the complaints about my opinions.”
This worried me for what it seemed to imply about my own future family. “You are not saying that Mrs. Barlow would have got rid of you, are you?” I asked. I thought about adding even more opinions about the woman who had treated to sack me over my attempts to evade her crazed father-in-law, but when I saw Luke wincing I decided I needed to say no more.
The vicar sighed. “It was old Mr. Barlow who wanted to get rid of me. He suspected that I had a hand in changing the running of his household, though he was never able to prove anything.”
I looked over at Luke, who seemed confused. “The running of the household? How so?”
“I convinced your mother to take some precautions,” the vicar admitted. “When I heard that every young woman in Woodshire had been troubled, I knew that my role as a man of God had to be to stop that madness.”
Luke was frowning deeply, but I thought I understood the vicar. “It was Mr. Barlow?” I asked. “Do you blame him for being infirm?”
“Well, sickness of the mind can make monsters of us all,” he said. “I can’t say that I blame the man for how he is in his current condition, but I do blame him for how he was before.”
“Was he that way before?” I asked, and I noticed Luke looking down.
“Eventually,” said the vicar, “I was able to speak to Mrs. Barlow about it. Though she refused to control the man, she did allow the servants to do more to defend themselves. She hired many young men and few women. Those young women who stayed were to be together all the time, in groups of at least two, so that the old man should not try anything.”
Luke gasped. “They did used to go about in pairs,” he said. “While one lit the fire, the other would be drawing the curtains and dusting up a bit. Or if mama needed something brought up, one girl would have the tray and the other would be bringing back a bit of mending that the other said she couldn’t carry.”
“A charade,” said the vicar, drumming his long, thin fingers on his desk. “It was all calculated, and your mother went along with that. I also convinced her to find a way to bar off the servants’ quarters. A compromise, as it were.”
“Then I have been right to fear another attack!” I hissed, and the vicar started.
“Miss Quinton, he has troubled you?”
My face was flushed with shame, though I knew that Luke, as the Barlow in the room, was the one who ought to be ashamed. “Yes. He has tried.”
He turned toward Luke. “And, Mr. Barlow, what have you done to protect this young lady?”
“I can protect myself,” I insisted, though it was not entirely true, just as Luke shook his head and said, “I tried talking to granddad.”
The vicar gave me a sad smile. “Of course you can protect yourself, Miss Quinton, but you ought to allow the possibility of help, given the man’s history. And Mr. Barlow, if you and Miss Quinton intend to marry, you ought to do a better job of looking out for her. Something tells me that she is not a woman to sit idly by when you are under threat, and so you must find a way to stand up to your mother and protect her.”
Luke started. “Yes. I don’t know what I shall do, but of course I must do something. Quite right.”
“Well then,” said the vicar. “You are right that I know the Archbishop of Canterbury. In fact, I cannot tell you the details, but he owes me rather a lot of goodwill in return for what I’ve done for him. He happens to be coming to Dover tomorrow, so I may ask him myself. Unless I am much mistaken, I will be able to acquire the license quickly.”
“So we might marry soon!” I burst out.
Mr. Simmons shook his head. “If I myself am inclined to perform the marriage, Miss Quinton. Are you quite sure you understand the very great weight that you are taking on, both in marrying early and in marrying against the wishes of the gentleman’s mother?”
“Well, no,” I admitted.
“But then, nobody knows exactly what they are doing when they marry, do they?”
He smiled. “A logical fallacy, perhaps, but true enough. I would see far fewer young people here if all of them could see the future.”
“Then you will do it?” asked Luke, looking rather pale.
“I will not marry you and Miss Courtenay, so I am glad that you have abandoned that plan. As to whether I will marry you and Miss Quinton, well, you must both convince me that it would be right to do so. In the meantime, I will ask about the license.”
10
At first, as we walked along the path back to what was to be our shared home, neither of us had any words. I wanted to say something clever about the vicar, or about marriage, or about something interesting that I could recall from London, but the words would not come to me.
Thinking instead about the very great beauty of my beloved’s skin, and wondering whether he would touch me again, I wandered along in a daze. Every time I snuck a glance at him, I would silently sigh with pleasure, but I could not keep my eyes on him. Normally a bold young woman, I had become shy with the great excitement of my upcoming marriage.
Or rather, our upcoming marriage. I wondered what Luke thought of it all, but I could not ask him. I only knew that my arm stayed in his, and he matched his long strides to mine.
The road out of the village was broad, surrounded by fields, but as soon as we stepped onto the estate the road was surrounded by trees. And there were so many of the pines that I felt as if I could smell each of them. Except for the occasional gust of wind, the path was completely silent.
My moods were as changeable as the weather. Clouds would start to gather, and I would wonder why Luke did not speak to me, and whether he seemed to regret our decision to marry in haste. After all, it would let him inherit and it would let me get away from the horrid grandfather, but we would still probably be able to find plenty of reasons to repent at leisure.
Then I would recall the way that Luke had looked at me, with a mixture of bewilderment and fascination. Surely he was happy that we were to wed. But if he was happy, why did he say nothing? I kept trying to think up little bon mots in my head, and they went nowhere.
As soon as we came into view of the house, we were pushed together by circumstance. It began to rain once again, and now Luke lead me underneath some trees without either of us saying a word. We watched as the clouds and their rain came over the house, across the pond, over the fields, and down to where we were standing. He began to look worried, though the wind was stronger than the rain. I felt sure that our coats would protect us well enough.
“We may as well just go in,” I told him. “It’s not likely to let up anytime soon, and we’ll only get colder staying out here.”
He did not answer me, but he pushed me so that my back was against the trunk of the tree. And as he had before, he kissed me so that I forgot about every single possible reason for going back into the house.
And of course, nearly crushed beneath the body of a panting Luke Barlow, I was no longer cold. The heat of his hands on my skin neatly proved that he was not cold either. We were so warm, hidden as we were in the trees, that I wondered we did not burst into flames.
It was one of the happiest afternoons of my life, and I would have prolonged it if I possibly could. The delight of wanting Luke, and the even greater pleasure of not quite being able to have him, made me feel as if I had stumbled into a land of marvel.
If either of us had been wise to the ways of married couples, we might well have consummated our union then and there. Even in the best circles, engaged couples were usually given a good deal of time alone, and the number of babies born suspiciously soon after wedding ceremonies were complete meant that everyone knew that such things went on. In fact, the scandal that Luke was about to cause by breaking with Miss Courtenay was predicated on the assumption that couples already headed to the alter would skip ahead a bit.
But all I knew then was that I wanted to raise my legs and twist myself around my future husband, even if I did not quite know how to go about it. I could tell from the way he pressed against me that he was feeling quite eager to know me. His weapon was hard and obvious behind his fall, and I longed to touch it with my hands, not just feel it pressing against my coat. We neither of us knew how to take the next steps, but if we had been under that tree undisturbed for much longer, we certainly would have attempted to take them.
It was only when the rain was pouring down that we stopped our embraces. And then, unable to help ourselves, we started them again, Luke’s hand tight at the back of my neck, his mouth completely covering my own, his arm reaching around to the small of my back to pull me even closer. Our first attempt to stop ourselves had failed, but a flash of lightening forced us to pull our faces apart.
Well, about two inches apart.
“It is not safe here,” said Luke, still holding me fast as his eyes darted toward the sky. “We must get back to the house.”
I frowned. “That’s true, but the road is already muddy. It’s not going to be easy to get there.”
He had to raise his voice to be heard over the rain. “Would you like me to carry you?”
I laughed out loud at this. “Carry me? Why, of course not. I can run. Probably faster than you can, at that.”
And, becoming soaked to the skin as we did it, we raced each other back to the house.
11
At first, it was only Mrs. Barlow there, and she was so busy fussing over her son that she did not even bother to inquire how the vicar had been.
“And you must have a hot bath,” she was saying. “Heavens, Luke, you will be the death of me!”
She looked mostly distressed, but also a little bit pleased as she fussed over her boy. I was reminded of how I disliked it when mothers deemed their grown sons hapless little babies, and Luke did not appear thrilled with it either.
“Miss Quinton should have the first bath,” he said, although he was already shivering. “I am happy to wait.”
“There won’t be hot water ready,” hissed the mother, “Just have a bath yourself before you worry about anything else.”
It was probably the last lesson that a mother should have wished to teach her son, at least if she wanted said son to be a gentleman, but the maid who had helped me the other day came by with another girl. “There’s hot water enough for two, if you please, ma’am,” she said. “Higgins said today we were to get it ready. He knew it would storm.”
After that, the pair of maids whisked me off to have my own bath, and I felt quite the great lady. Cold sponge baths were the order of the day when I was working, and on many dreary days I had envied the family their longer soaks. The bathroom that the maids brought me to was clearly meant for a more elegant visitor. I got to soak in the largest tub of water I had ever bathed in, and I delighted as my skin grew pink. With the double warmth of both my memories and my current state infusing me, I thought I could have stayed in the bath forever, and messed about satisfying my animal urges. But since both maids had stayed with me, I knew that I should be observed, so I had to satisfy myself with enjoying the feelings of warmth in a chaste way instead, trying to keep my fingers from straying under the water any more than the bathing required.
Indeed, I thought that I should surely be boiling hot for the rest of the day. But I had not been out of the water for ten minutes before I started sneezing.
The younger of the two, who was apparently named Maryann, did not seem concerned, but the older one insisted I be put to bed with a hot water bottle. “If it’s the beginning of a cold, we oughtn’t to let it go on, miss,” she said. “We’ll have the nurse called, and she will come see you.”
I protested, as I was still sensible that my place in the household was not assured. If Luke changed his mind about the marriage, his mother and even Miss Courtenay would be well within their rights to decide that I was a drain on the household and fire me. Nobody had ever heard of a servant taking both a bath and a nap in the middle of th
e day. If my mother had known, she would have been horrified, and probably pinched me while telling me to get back to work.
But by the time the nurse had arrived, I was feeling much worse, a fact that she handily confirmed.
“You’re in for a fever, I’m afraid,” she said. And when Mrs. Barlow came in, she spoke to the mistress herself.
“Miss Quinton will need care for a few days, ma’am. She seems like a strong one, but she’s got a nasty cold from being out in that rain.”
Mrs. Barlow frowned, and her reply seemed abstracted. “I could have told her not to go out in the rain. How long will it be before she can work again?”
At this, Luke entered the room. My eyes were closed, but I felt his presence as surely as if I had been looking directly at him.
“Is Miss Quinton well?”
“No,” said Nurse Britton, preempting Mrs. Barlow. “I am concerned for her health. And to answer your question, ma’am, she will not be able to work for some days at least.”
“This is most vexing,” said the mother, but Luke interrupted her.
“If you had been able to prevent Miss Courtenay from goading her, she would not have felt the need to go, well, to go to the church.”
His response was flustered. I prayed that his mother would not notice. Then again, she had apparently failed to notice that I had spent a good part of the day being not only idle, but idle with her son, so she likely had little suspicion of my true aims.
“And spend half the day there at the church! I tell you, it is one thing if it had been her half day, or at least a Sunday, but it was neither,” hissed Mrs. Barlow.
“Mama, you must see how unwelcome she has felt here. If she is to be Lillian’s governess, she should at least not have to worry about Miss Courtenay threatening her with dismissal!”
