“But…” he said with a deep frown. “He is your matelot, correct?”
“Aye.”
He seemed on the verge of asking much more, but reconsidered it every time he began to open his mouth.
“The Comte de Montren favors women,” I said at last with a tired sigh.
“Oh,” he said with great relief.
Thankfully he left me. I drained my goblet. Gaston was still seemingly at ease talking to Christine. She was leaning her fan demurely across her chest: I supposed she had tired of his talking to the chandeliers. I went to find more wine. When I returned, Gaston and Christine were discussing Agnes’ lenses. My matelot glanced at me and frowned. I was sure he was either angry with me for disappearing or wondering how much I was drinking.
I wondered how much I would drink this night. I wondered a great many things.
The Marquis came to stand beside me and I stifled a curse.
“So you asked for her hand?” he asked.
“I asked her,” I said bitterly. “We knew my father was sending a bride, and I had met Miss Vines by chance when I arrived on Jamaica. I thought she would be a far more acceptable candidate than any my father might send. But she bolted: disguised herself as a boy and booked passage on a ship in an attempt to reach Christendom. She claimed she simply did not wish to marry.”
“How do you feel she views the matter now?” he asked.
“How the Devil should I know?” I asked. “I have not seen her in nearly a year.”
The Marquis regarded me with concern and speculation. “Would you allow him to marry her?”
Doucette’s words rose from my memory. If he were to meet a proper girl he would be attracted to, would you release him?
“I will not stand in the way of his happiness,” I said.
“That does not specifically answer my question,” the Marquis said diffidently.
“If he wishes to marry her, and if it will appease you, and if it is a thing the girl desires, then I will do nothing to impede it,” I growled.
He nodded thoughtfully. “Will you stay with him?”
I swore vehemently in English before returning to French. “I love him. I will stay with him until I die, unless he wishes otherwise.”
“I do not mean…” the Marquis began with a frown of sincere concern.
“Then shut up,” I said, and went to stand by Gaston.
My matelot quickly regarded me with concern. “Will?”
I met his green eyes and wondered what I could say. He was oblivious to what was occurring, and I felt I should not end his bliss while we were here.
When I did not answer, he took my arm, “We should…”
But then the musicians began to play and Christine was on my other arm.
“Come dance with me,” she said.
“Perhaps the Comte wishes to dance, Christine,” Lady Mary said.
“I doubt it,” Christine told her sharply.
Gaston was appalled. “I do not dance.”
“Well,” Christine leaned to him to say conspiratorially, “Do you mind if I borrow Will for a round?”
He sighed and shrugged, but he tightened his grip on my arm before she could pull me away. “Are you well?” he hissed.
“Well enough,” I sighed. “Do not worry.”
He did not appear to wish to heed my advice as Christine towed me away.
“What did you speak to my father about?” Christine asked in French as soon as we took the first position for an allemande.
I was acutely aware of all the eyes upon us. I kept my voice pitched for her alone; though I doubted few of the other dancers could speak French, one could never be sure. “How you were captured and how he despairs of finding you a husband,” I said pleasantly.
She grimaced, but quickly disguised it as a smile as we changed partners. When we returned, she whispered, “He has this insane notion that you will divorce your wife and marry me, despite...” She shook her head and the dance pulled us apart again.
“That will not happen,” I told her as we closed once more. “And not because of you.”
She appeared crestfallen, but quickly disguised that too as we spun apart.
“The question is now whether you will marry Gaston,” I hissed as we came around.
She stumbled and missed her cue from her next partner and had to hurry to catch up.
She was silent when next we closed, and would not meet my eye.
Then we were around again and she asked with a searching gaze, “Is that a thing you would wish?”
I was minded of Gaston’s jealous words that she had truly coveted me and resented him, and Agnes saying that Christine had indeed fancied herself enamored with me. I did not stumble or miss a step, but I did not speak.
“I wish for you to be happy,” I whispered as we closed.
She shook her head regretfully as we passed.
“I cannot aid you in that now,” I added. “But perhaps he can.”
She nodded thoughtfully.
“They will want children,” I added.
She sighed and rolled her eyes.
“I would not have to live at my father’s?” she asked.
“Non, and you could travel someday as we once agreed.”
“I will think on it,” she said as the dance ended.
I took her arm and walked her back to her frowning parents and a curious Marquis, who had been joined by an equally curious Theodore. Gaston was standing apart, with his back to the wall and his arms crossed.
“I could have loved you,” Christine whispered.
“And I you, but I met him first,” I said.
She winced at that, but turned to give me a taut nod before going to her parents.
I went to Gaston. He was all Horse, coiled and ready to run or fight.
“What is happening?” he hissed.
I sighed. “Your father feels Christine might be a suitable bride. Sir Christopher feels you might be a suitable suitor. Christine wishes to escape her father’s house yet again.”
For a moment I thought he might strike me – not from anger at me, per se, but from the need to vent the sheer amount of fury boiling behind his eyes. I held still and told myself I would not cringe.
“We must leave,” he said.
“Oui,” I sighed with relief.
He headed for the door.
I turned to the Marquis and Theodore and simply said, “We are leaving.”
“Wait,” Theodore said and hurried to my side as I began to follow Gaston. “What is amiss?”
“There has been talk of a marriage between Gaston and Christine,” I said.
“Oh bloody Hell,” he sighed. “I take it this is not his idea.”
“Nay.”
“Nor yours,” he added.
“Nay.”
We had crossed the threshold and I paused to tell him, “We will not need the carriage.”
“What should I say?” he asked.
“Nothing.” I thought of what people had witnessed this night. “They will likely think we are fighting over her. Leave it at that. The Gods know the damn bastards need something new to talk about.”
He smiled thinly. “Be careful.”
“Do not worry,” I sighed. “At this moment, there is nothing more dangerous than Gaston on this whole damn island.”
“That is what I am concerned about,” he said kindly.
I nodded. He was right to be concerned.
I hurried down the steps into the yard and then the street. There was no moon as of yet; it would rise much later. But Spanish Town was an orderly place, with someone assigned to light the lanterns on the corners.
I found Gaston, or rather he found me, before I reached the town square. He stepped out of an alley and I eyed him warily. He was all Horse, but the anger had passed and now there was just desperation in his eyes. I let him pull me into the darkness between the buildings. He stopped in a place that was as far from the nearest windows as could be managed, and then his mouth closed
over mine.
Though carnality was far from my heart, or even my desires of the moment, I did not fight him in body or spirit. His hands began to move over my body roughly: more the fumbling of a young swain than the sureness he usually displayed with his seductions. It felt good to be touched, though. It felt good to not have to think for a time. My manhood, initially confused, quickly warmed and stirred to the idea.
I wondered if he had thought to bring salve in his belt pouch, I had not, and then he knelt before me and I stopped trying to think. I clawed at his shoulders and locked my knees as I leaned on the wall to peer up at what I could see of the stars as he pleasured me.
When I finished, he fastened my breeches, buried his face in my crotch, and wrapped his arms tight around my legs. I rubbed the stubble of his scalp as his sobs shook us both. I wanted dearly to know his thoughts, but I stayed silent and waited.
Eventually he stood and kissed me gently. I held him.
“I do not want to marry her,” he whispered.
“I am not asking you to,” I replied. “It is not my doing. I would not have you think it was.”
“Nor was it mine,” he sighed. “I would not have you think that, either.”
“Are you still angry?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Are you angry?” he asked.
“Oui,” I sighed. “But I am not angry with you.”
“Nor I you,” he breathed.
I did not feel he lied, but I wanted very much to have any further discussion in the light where I could see his face. “Let us go home,” I said.
He nodded and led me out of the alley, his hand tightly entwined with mine. We crossed the nearly empty town square; and the Spanish design of it, and the lack of people, made me feel we were somewhere else, Porto Bello, or Puerte Principe perhaps, roving and making war again. I supposed we were. This seat of government and place of plantation commerce was surely not our home. We were interlopers here.
Though there was no moon and the light of the stars was dimmed by haze, he led us to the road leading toward the Passage and Port Royal, and we walked into darkness, trusting the road to be level and our footing sure. I thought of the battleground at the Governor’s and wondered at myself. I was indeed angry over what had occurred, but I was not angry at any one person – or even all of them, necessarily. I was angry that I could not give him a child. I was angry that a child was required of either of us. I was angry that tradition and law required heirs. I was angry we lived in a world in which we could love one another such as we did, yet we were denied the ability to grant all of one another’s desires or needs. As civilization receded behind us, I decided I was angry at the Gods.
Sixty-One
Wherein Unwanted Things Are Born
The night was black, hot, and thick with insects. They swarmed about us and buzzed incessantly in the forest. As it was too dark to see the trees, and the only sources of light that one might focus upon were the stars, it seemed as if they were the cause of all the sound, and that they buzzed as they twinkled. Despite the heat and stillness of the air, I was pleased we wore as much clothing as we did. It limited the amount of bare skin exposed to be bitten. The damn creatures did not seem to care if we were walking or crouched in the bushes to hide from any passing carriage, as Gaston insisted we do. And I found I was constantly waving my hand about my face and neck in irritated little swats, like a horse flicks its tail.
After perhaps a mile, I knew I needed some distraction, and so I broached the subject that hung over us like a pall, though I still wished to see his expression when we talked.
“Might we speak of it?” I asked. “Or something.”
He sighed. “Tell me all that was said.” He did not sound angry, just tired, as we trudged along the slightly paler black of the road – a charcoal perhaps, as compared to the ebon of the brush.
And so I told him all I could recall, sparing nothing, starting with my conversation with Sir Christopher and ending with my brief exchange with Theodore. Relating it all cleared my mind on several points, and as he did not speak when I finished, I began to relay my thoughts as well.
“I do not feel any of them began to engage in this… speculation… by design,” I said. “It was all a matter of happenstance, or Fate, or a thing arranged by the Gods. And even if you were in agreement with it, it is not inevitable. Christine might very well bolt again. Your father might regret his haste, as he regretted his pageantry in presenting you so. And Sir Christopher might come to feel he is asking a thing of her which she does not want.
“In viewing the matter objectively, as I feel some part of my mind was doing as events unfolded, I cannot say where it would be a bad thing. Christine is as she was before: still beautiful, intelligent, and… all things we might wish for in the mother of fine puppies – though I know not whether she wants to whelp any. And it would still aid her, in that giving her a name would free her from some of the constraints placed on her by society. It would appease your father as to the matter of an heir, and save us having to wait to see what horror he might send from France – though I doubt he could compete with my father on that front. And even if she feels she is enamored with me – which I feel she is, stupid girl – it will not matter so very much if she marries you. As in, she is not enamored of you, and thus I need not be jealous, and I will not have a damn thing to do with her, thus you need not be jealous.”
He was still silent. I sighed as I followed the tumble of my thoughts.
“But… that is all objective reasoning,” I sighed again. “My Horse, though I cannot name the cause of its unease, is quite distraught over the concept. I feel that it is because… we must, as in I cannot provide you an heir and one is required. And that they all view our love as some obstacle they must surmount in meeting their goals.”
“That angers me,” he said suddenly. He did not sound angry though, merely thoughtful. “And that this is a course being set upon us and not one we have chosen for ourselves. And oui, I wish we could bear our own puppies. It is not fair that we must involve some other when we are happy as we are.”
The last was bitter, and I felt there was more he did not say.
“Should we not drag it all into the light?” I asked gently.
His breath caught, and his step slowed, and I was sure he was peering at me in the dark.
“Why did you do as you did in the alley?” I asked.
He stepped closer, and his hand found mine to tightly entwine our fingers. Then he began walking again with steadfast purpose.
“Gods, my love,” I sighed. “Please speak of whatever is troubling you. You know I will never...”
“Oui,” he snapped. “You will never betray me. It is me that is unworthy.”
“How could you be unworthy?” I asked.
“I want her,” he growled. “I do not wish to marry her, but I wish to fuck her very much.”
I snorted with relief and immediately worried he would perceive it as derision. “That is not betrayal,” I said quickly. “I want to fuck her, too. It is a thing of our cocks, not our hearts. She is quite fetching and very desirable.”
He was silent, and I was not sure if it was due to stubbornness or thought. I let myself think my own thoughts to see where they led.
“I will not have us be like Pete and Striker,” I said carefully.
“Non,” he said. “I will not share you.”
I shook my head, and sighed at my useless gesture in the blackness. Then I worried he would misinterpret that sound.
“I keep shaking my head or nodding as if you could see,” I explained. “I am frustrated with myself over it. It is why I sigh.”
His hand tightened on mine and he sighed.
“I do not wish to be shared,” I said. “That is not what I meant. I do not want a situation to develop wherein you are yelling at someone on a beach ten years from now about your frustration over not having a woman – which it is your nature to favor. I would rather you bed one and know of it and…”<
br />
I did not wish to say make a decision, but I heard the words in my heart and they hurt, and I realized that was what had my Horse so spooked.
If he found a proper girl he could be attracted to, would you release him?
I must have stumbled or slowed, because I found his arms around me and we were standing still in the road.
“I do not wish to want them,” he whispered. It sounded like a plea.
I took a deep breath. “Maybe… maybe you do not as you think you do. Perhaps you favor both men and women as I do.”
But it was a false hope and we knew it.
“I will not betray you,” he hissed. “I would rather… let us leave. We can return to Negril.”
Clarity returned as I gazed up at the buzzing stars. I had sworn I would always do well by him.
“Non,” I said, and kissed him gently. “This means too much to you. Not her, not women, but your title and all that it implies. We managed to talk ourselves into my marrying that bitch in the name of preserving the pretension of my title, how could we think to do less for you when it means so much more to you?”
He held me and rocked us from side to side a little: a gentle swaying a mother would use to calm a child soon to sleep.
Though I had spoken with calm conviction, my Horse was beginning to run with terror down a bramble-lined path into a darkness more encompassing than that in which we stood. What if he did find he favored them, such that ever after, being with me was a chore, and he stayed with me anyway, as I knew he would?
If he found a proper girl he could be attracted to, would you release him?
Christine had always been my formidable opponent, not his.
“I will never find anyone who loves me as you do,” he whispered. “Or who can care for me as you do.”
“I hope not,” I said.
But what if he did?
I wished to lighten the moment, but all I could think of were very poor jokes about my being a fool, and they would only make us feel worse.
I remembered the rock I had overturned in my first confrontation with his father.
He does not favor men in general, but he favors me in specific a great deal. Because I love him despite everything. Because he has lived a life devoid of love.
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