“Let me read it, Mother,” Monica said, moved by her mother’s state. “Come, sit down, and let me read it.”
She rose to her feet and guided Mother to the cushion of the chair upon which she leant. When she was seated, Monica took the letter from her. Her hands, Monica noticed as she took the letter, were shaking slightly. Monica patted Mother on the back of the hand and laid a kiss upon her forehead, which was coated with a thin layer of cool sweat. Monica had not seen Mother this disturbed since Father had told her of the loss of Monica’s dowry. Since then, she had existed in icy distance from the world.
Monica read the letter; when she finished, her hands had begun to shake, too.
*****
Dear Mrs. Burrows,
The tone of this letter will perhaps upset or distress you, and for that, I apologize. I realize that this is not the way things are done – that my forwardness is not acceptable – and yet at this late hour, I do not care. I write this past midnight, and even the clear sky cannot illume my study. The candle is low, and the smell of wax is strong. My eyes are straining toward the page. I admit I have taken some wine.
I was in France for seven years. I believe I left for France the same month that your husband died. (You have my condolences.) This is to say that I missed the fallout that resulted from his death. There was, I believe, some scandal. This does not concern me. If, before I went to war, I was a man concerned with social niceties and propriety, I admit I have been thoroughly corrupted. Indeed, one could not endure what I have endured without being corrupted. I make this excuse now, for what I am about to say will disturb your sensibilities, as it would have disturbed mine before the war.
I am fascinated by your daughter, Mrs. Burrows. Monica (yes, I shall use her Christian name) is an infinitely fascinating creature to me. I cannot account for it. We shared a dance and exchanged words, that is all, and yet months later I cannot banish her from my thoughts. She haunts my dreams. She is constantly there. When I awake in the morning, I imagine she is lying beside me. Yes, I know, dear lady! I know how that sounds! I am writing this letter as a desperate man.
I wish to see Monica again. I wish to see her again and talk with her. I am coming to Weston-Super-Mare, to stay at the seaside for a time, and I mean to visit with you if you would have me.
Yours apologetically and sincerely,
Roland.
“Roland!” Monica cried.
“Oh, I know,” Mother said. “I know, Monica, dear. How mad is that letter! I feel as though the carpet of the world has just been pulled from under me, and I am falling, falling, and there is nothing to catch me. This situation is quite unprecedented. I have never read a letter so forward and devoid of shame. He just comes right out and says that he is fascinated with you.”
“It is fortunate we are already ruined,” Auntie said from the doorway. Mother and Monica turned in surprise. Auntie shrugged and walked into the room, seeming to take up half of it. “I do not see the reason for panic, sister. His Grace is a rich man. We are a poor family because of that husband of yours. We should be happy that he is interested in Monica.”
“Happy! May as well be happy if the local livestock sprouted wings and flew into the heavens!”
“Sister!” Auntie cried. “Please, do not be melodramatic.”
“Melodramatic,” Mother huffed. “Melodramatic. Did you not read the same letter that I read, dear sister?”
“Yes,” Auntie said. “You must forget the old ways. These men who have been to war … It has changed them. Can you blame a scarred man for forgetting social protocol? Anyway, he is a duke. His Grace is allowed a certain degree of impropriety. He is not like other men.”
“No,” Monica said. “No, you are right, Auntie. He is not like other men at all.”
Mother and Auntie went on and on for about an hour, but Monica tuned them out. All she could think about was His Grace coming here, to her, specifically to meet with her. He was fascinated with her. She felt as though she had discovered a great truth and then had discovered that somebody else knew it, too. It wasn’t just Monica who felt the inexplicable connection. It wasn’t just Monica who was fascinated with His Grace. He felt it too!
Suddenly she wished he was here, and she wished they were alone, and she wished he had the gall to lean in and kiss her. In the mood she was in, she didn’t even know if she would stop him.
*****
His Grace arrived a week later with surprisingly little pomp and circumstance. He arrived alone in a carriage and dismissed the driver when he reached their door. Mother had spent half of her meager savings to hire a footman. They couldn’t exactly have Lyla, their solitary remaining maid, serving His Grace. Mother was desperate to hold onto some degree of propriety. They were in the drawing room when the footman brought His Grace through.
Marie leapt to her feet when His Grace entered. She ran to him and curtseyed, looking like the tiniest lady in the world. Mother gasped, and Auntie made as though to grab at the girl, but both were too slow for her eagerness. Monica could not help but smile. Her sister would be an impulsive woman, she thought, who would run her husband either into ruin or profound happiness. His Grace looked down at her with a warm smile, the scar on the side of his face creasing. “Well, hello, my lady,” he said. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you, Your Grace,” Marie said, in her high-pitched voice.
Then Mother, Auntie, and Monica curtseyed. There was a murmur of “Your Grace” and then His Grace bowed dramatically and greeted each woman in turn. When he came to Monica (who he contrived to greet last, despite her position in the middle of the three), he bowed even deeper, so deeply that his chin seemed to touch the floor, and smiled warmly and stared into her eyes. “My lady,” he said slowly, drawing it out. “It is a pleasure to see you again.” A stream of light beamed through the window and lit His Grace’s face. For a moment, Monica could not define his features, and then the beam dissipated and she saw that his smile had slipped, and something like strife flickered across his countenance.
“I have looked forward to this,” he said. “I am sorry that I waited so long.”
“It is quite alright, Your Grace,” Monica said, not knowing what else to say. “I—I have looked forward to it, too.”
It was strange to stand in a room with a man and know that he wanted Monica. It was a breach of the protocol by which she’d lived her mouse-life. Men had danced with her, and one man had even tried to court her, but never had they looked at her like that. Never had there been such open affection on their faces. And now here was His Grace, who for some reason Monica could not discern, wanted her, and made a show of making it clear.
The moment floated like a snowflake on the wind, and then it fell and Mother lurched forward. “Please, Your Grace, will you sit?”
They were all seated, and Marie was shuffled out of the room into the care of Lyla, who peeked around the door for a quick look at His Grace. She was gone before he saw her. Marie went with little argument, and then it was just Auntie, Mother, and Monica in the room with His Grace.
He leaned forward and looked at the women in turn. “I have,” he said, looking down at his knuckles, “waited a long time for a woman to whom I could give an affection I thought entirely destroyed in the war.”
Mother almost started at that. Auntie grinned her mannish, wide grin.
Monica inclined her head. “I admit I have not waited for a silver-tongued man, but now that I have found one, I do find him quite pleasing.”
“Monica!” Mother cried.
His Grace smiled. “I admit I did not search for a barbed-tongued woman, but now that I have found one, I find her quite pleasing. My ladies, the air is beautifully fresh today. Being so close to the sea invigorates one. Perhaps we should walk about the grounds before we eat luncheon?”
“You and Monica go ahead, Your Grace, if you wish,
” Auntie said quickly before Mother could say anything. “And me and Ethel will follow.”
Mother jumped to her feet. “There is no need for that,” she said stiffly. She cast a bitter look at Auntie. It was clear what she was trying to do: breach the rules by which they all lived and allow His Grace and Monica to walk unheeded amongst the overgrown shrubbery of their estate. But Mother would not have that. Despite her own passionate and ultimately doomed courtship – or perhaps because of it – she could not permit any wrongdoing under her watch. “No need,” she repeated. “I am quite ready to walk the grounds. Of course, sister, you may stay if you wish.”
“No, no,” Auntie said, heaving her great bulk from the chair. (The chair creaked with relief.) “I shall join you.”
His Grace rose to his feet. “Come then, my ladies,” he said. “Let us see what this August sun can do.”
The four of them hastened out of the door as though it was a race, leaving the footman looking bemused and a little disoriented. His Grace walked briskly, his fine build seeming strong and domineering. Monica found herself tracing the curve of his legs in his tight britches, and a strange sensation came over her. She found herself imagining what it would be like to grab those legs, and then she thought: What if he should grab my legs? How should that feel? It was wildly inappropriate, and yet as they walked, she could not banish the thought.
“Are you with us, my lady?” His Grace said. “You seem adrift in dreams.”
“I am here,” Monica said. She looked bravely into his face. “Yes, Your Grace, I am here.”
*****
There exists in this world quite inexplicable connections, Monica mused. Yes, quite inexplicable. Who can say why this or that man is attracted to this or that lady? I mean the men who court beneath them, as His Grace is surely doing. Why should His Grace be interested in me? Perhaps it is the animal in him that was unleashed in the war. He is clearly half a wild man in his respect for social etiquette. Perhaps the war stripped him of all that. Perhaps my long lonely years stripped me of it, too.
His Grace and Monica walked ahead of Auntie and Mother, out of earshot if they talked quietly but never out of their line of sight. His Grace spoke in hushed whispers and leaned over her so he blocked the sun. “I cannot stop thinking of you, my lady,” he said. “I simply cannot. I close my eyes and see your face. I open my eyes and see your face. You are very beautiful. How you are unwed, how you are called a mouse, is bemusing to me. I know it is wrong of me to say, but I found myself wishing to kiss you.”
Monica knew that she should be appalled by this, that she should see it as brutish behavior, but she did not. His Grace was too attractive to her; that was the truth of it. When she heard those words coming from those lips, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking what it would be like to have those lips on her. How would it feel? How would she feel? She felt a heightened sense of self by being an object of his affection. She discovered that she was carrying herself with more dignity, her head raised a little higher, her face struggling for impassivity during the open and scandalous lovemaking.
“Imagine it, Monica.” He said her name like word of luck. “Imagine it. Imagine me leaning in and kissing you upon the lips. Imagine my lips on yours and my hands upon you. Imagine our lips battling with each other. And then imagine the pleasure we would both feel. I do believe if we were not being observed, I would kiss you right here.”
“I wish you could,” Monica said, staring boldly into his eyes. “I truly wish you could, Your Grace.”
“You are a dangerous woman,” His Grace said. “How is it you have been dubbed mouse?”
“Perhaps it is because of what I learnt when Father died and stripped me of my prospects.”
“What is that, my lady?”
“I learnt that the world only cares what it can get from you. The world does not care for originality or passion unless originality or passion is profitable. The world does not care for ladies who express their innermost thoughts unless those thoughts are tied to a tidy dowry. Why should I play the part of a smiling lady when lords only dance with me so they can tell their friends that they danced with ‘that Burrows girl’?”
“So why show your true self to me, my lady?”
“Because you are rich and of good position,” Monica said.
“Is that all?” His Grace said. He was looking at her curiously, as though he had never seen a lady before, or he was reevaluating every encounter he had ever had with a lady through Monica’s eyes.
She felt she had power over him at this moment, and she decided not to abuse it. She would tell him the truth. “No, that is not all,” she said. “I believe there is an It.”
“An It?” His Grace laughed. “I concede you have stumped me.”
“Yes,” Monica persisted. “I believe there is a feeling between a man and a woman that cannot be described, not even by the term love. I believe this It, whatever it may be, is the defining feature of all truly happy people. One has to look at a potential husband and feel It, and if one does not, then one must accept a decline into spinsterhood. With you, Your Grace, I definitely feel It.”
His Grace suddenly stopped. He nodded behind them. Mother and Auntie were far back. Auntie had contrived to stop at some overgrown roses to distract Mother. Auntie was facilitating scandalous behavior of some sort, most likely because she wanted His Grace to give himself wholly to Monica, and thus elevate them all. Monica distrusted the motive, but with Mother’s eyes and body turned away from them, she felt she was alone with His Grace. But she did not know how long this moment of aloneness would last.
“Kiss me!” she cried.
“My lady!” His Grace exclaimed, but he was moving into her even as he exclaimed his shock. He reached up and grabbed her face with both hands. His hands were rough with war, and when he looked into her eyes she traced her own eyes along the scar. Then she closed her eyes as he leaned in and placed his lips upon hers. They were warm and moist, and Monica parted her lips and allowed her tongue to touch his. Pricks and tingles moved down through her body. His Grace let out a low groan, and Monica sighed with pleasure. Something stirred in her womanhood: an affront to the world her mother’s mother had inhabited; an affront even to the world she inhabited now.
The kiss stopped – neither knew who stopped it – and the couple turned to Auntie and Mother. Mother was just turning, and when she looked once more upon her daughter and His Grace, they were standing properly apart, and now a negative thing could be said about their conduct.
His Grace’s face was flushed, and Monica knew from the heat in her cheeks that her face was bright red.
“Monica,” His Grace whispered. “That was—something.”
“It was,” Monica agreed. “Yes, Your Grace, it was.”
“I should like to do it again when opportunity permits.”
“And you shall,” Monica said. “You can do it as much as you like.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and Monica knew from the look in his eye that it took a momentous effort in self-control not to ravage her right there. Monica, for her part, wished Mother and Auntie would drift away into the clouds for a time, and leave the two of them alone, stranded, together.
Mother walked as quickly as her stick-like legs could carry her, and Auntie rumbled behind like a carriage. Soon His Grace and Monica were joined by the older women, and Mother made a show of assuming the role of the matron.
“Shall we return to the house, Your Grace?” she said. “I fear walks like these are too bold for a woman of my age.” And I shall not leave you and Monica unattended was the unspoken message.
“Of course,” His Grace said smoothly. “I am so very hungry.”
His eyes met Monica’s. Was she hungry too?
Oh, yes, Your Grace, she thought, the kiss still warm on her lips. I am famished.
*****
> Three nights later, Monica sat by her window and gazed out at the stars. The house was silent except for the occasional summer breeze that caused its floorboards to creak, as though ghosts walked amongst them. Monica watched the stars with apathy and a sense of desperation. His Grace had visited with them these last three days, but they not been alone; they had had no chance to carry out their scandalous, unjust desires. They had had no chance to shun the mores by which they were shackled and succumb to their baser desires. Monica watched the stars and wished for a moment that she could become one. Now you are being morbid, she thought. But she could not help it. She did envy the stars – even whilst knowing it was foolish – for they were static and eternal and shined so bright.
She was thinking these thoughts when a stone clattered against the window. She started and leapt backward away from the window. Once calmed, she approached the window tentatively, as though specters lurked beyond it. Another stone clattered against it, and another. They were thrown softly. Curious, she opened the window and looked down. “Is somebody playing a game?” she whispered into the night.
“My lady.” The voice was clear. It was His Grace, Roland Dare. “Monica, it is I,” he said. “I … Tell me to leave, if this offends you. I just – I could not stay away. I have watched you these past three days, and tonight I found myself overcome with the urge to see you. I realize what this means – what this looks like – and if you command it, I will leave. But I cannot bear this temptation anymore. Have I offended you, my lady?”
Inwardly, Monica saw a version of herself where her soul was more suited to high society, where she would decry this sort of behavior from an alleged suitor. In this imagining, she fled from the room and woke Mother. But this was not the real Monica. The real Monica – the one gazing into the darkness below – was overcome with excitement. Her heart pounded in her chest and for the first time in her life, she felt truly alive, truly un-stifled.
Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance) Page 12
