Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  I went out to the well and drew buckets of water and heated it, filling the small porcelain hip bath. I scented the water and bathed and washed my hair and reveled in the luxury of love, my whole body seeming to tingle with anticipation of his touch. I dried myself with a soft towel and toweled my hair dry and put on a frail white silk petticoat with rows of delicate lace ruffles on the swirling full skirt. I brushed my hair until it fell to my shoulders in loose gleaming waves, and then I slipped on a pair of soft tan kid slippers with high heels and a pale tan muslin frock sprigged with small dark gold flowers and tiny brown leaves. It was fetching indeed with its small puffed sleeves and low bodice and snug waist, the full skirt spreading out over the petticoat beneath. Looking in the mirror, I saw a girl with glowing complexion and sparkling violet-gray eyes. The glamorous, sophisticated actress had disappeared.

  I went down into the cellar and fetched a bottle of cool amber wine, and in the kitchen I sliced chicken and ham and arranged slices on a plate and buttered bread and washed grapes and peaches and placed them in a bowl. The sunlight was beginning to fade slightly when I heard footsteps coming up the walk. I went to the front door and greeted him with a smile. He was a bit dusty from the walk, his thin white shirt moist with perspiration, clinging to his skin, but that didn’t matter at all when he drew me to him and kissed me again, lightly, tenderly, there in the cool, dim foyer. His lips caressed mine and his arms held me loosely and I rested my hand on the back of his neck and gently stroked the warm skin and then ran my hands over his shoulders and back, feeling the smooth, hard muscle beneath the damp silk.

  I pulled back when his lips became more urgent, demanding. I smiled again and told him we had all the time in the world and he grinned and his eyes glowed darkly and he said yes, perhaps he’d better wash up. I caressed his lean cheek and stroked his lower lip and he captured the ball of my thumb between his teeth and bit the soft flesh gently. I pulled my thumb away, and he lightly encircled my waist, drawing me to him again, and I ran my hands along those lean, muscular thighs tightly encased in black broadcloth, and I felt the bulge in his breeches pressing against my abdomen and smiled once more as he rubbed, straining against me, silently informing me of his need.

  “Later,” I whispered.

  He leaned his head down and planted warm lips against the base of my throat and made a low, moaning noise and then, reluctantly, he released me and sighed a heavy sigh. I went into the kitchen and placed the food on the table and opened the wine, and he joined me a short while later, smelling of soap, wearing another thin white shirt, lawn, with lace at the wrists, a lace jabot dripping at his throat, and that small vanity pleased me. He sat down at the table and glanced at the food, hungry, but not for food, and I reveled in the delicious torment of anticipation, pouring the wine, sitting down myself. We ate slowly, looking at each other the whole while, silent, anticipating, savoring the sensations building, mounting inside.

  Utterly enthralled, I watched him eat chicken, his strong white teeth tearing the flesh apart, and it was thrilling, tantalizing. I observed the way his neck muscles worked when he swallowed his wine, and that was thrilling, too, and I watched with fascination as his large brown hand reached out, fingers wrapping around a fuzzy golden-pink peach, clutching it. He took up a knife and carefully peeled the peach and divided it into sections and ate them one by one, gleaming brown eyes devouring me as he did so. The tip of his tongue slipped out and slowly licked the peach juice from his lips, and then he took another swallow of the cool amber wine. He set the glass down and rested his hands on the edge of the table, fingertips drumming the oak.

  He was impatient now, eager, finding it difficult to contain the smoldering need inside. I felt the same need, but I wanted to savor this delicious anticipation, knowing it would make eventual release all the more satisfying. I asked him if he wanted another slice of cake. Hugh shook his head. The sunlight was dimmer now and the kitchen was beginning to fill with hazy blue-gray shadows. I cleared the table, stacking the dishes on the drainboard, and Hugh climbed slowly to his feet and came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist, drawing me to him.

  “I’ve waited a long time for this,” he murmured.

  “I’m afraid you must wait a little longer. I must bring Matilda in.”

  “Matilda?”

  “The cow. I must put her in the barn.”

  Hugh sighed and, resigned, followed me out the back door. The sky was pale gray, softly smeared with fading orange and gold banners in the west. Heavy oak boughs groaned overhead, leaves rustling, and the chickens were quiet now, roosting in the henhouse. Matilda looked up expectantly as I moved across the field toward her, followed by the tall, lean stranger with the disgruntled expression. I stroked her soft velvety nose and, taking hold of the lead rope, led her slowly toward the small barn behind the henhouse. I talked to her and stroked her as I put her in her stall, promising to see her first thing in the morning. The barn was dim, smelling of hay and manure. Hugh stood in the hallway silhouetted against the light behind him, and I knew he was remembering the stables at Greystone Hall and the bitter, unhappy boy who had tended them.

  “Quite finished?” he inquired.

  I patted Matilda a last time and joined him at the door. “For now,” I replied, carefully closing the barn door.

  “I suppose hundreds have told you how beautiful you are,” he said.

  “I never believed them. I keep remembering that gawky adolescent girl.”

  “You were beautiful back then, Angie. You were the most captivating child I had ever seen, the most beautiful young woman, gentle and graceful and totally unaware of your beauty.”

  “And now?”

  “You’re even lovelier,” he said.

  “You just want to sleep with me,” I accused.

  “You’re right about that!”

  I smiled and he slung his arm around my shoulders and we walked back to the house, passing the kitchen garden with its pungent smells. The house was filled with shadows now, all hazy, dreamlike as we moved down the hall to the foyer and climbed up the worn wooden stairs to the bedroom above with its low-beamed ceiling and whitewashed walls now a soft mauve-gray at twilight. Impatient before, Hugh was strangely subdued and hesitant now, as though this really were a dream, as though he couldn’t believe we were truly together at last and free to communicate the love living inside us all these years. His dark eyes glowed with that love as he gazed at me now.

  Oak leaves rustled outside the opened windows. Hazy white light grew dimmer still, deeper mauve shadows spreading over the walls. His face was solemn, brushed with shadow, cheekbones prominent, lips slightly parted. I put my hands on his shoulders and stood up on tiptoe to lightly caress those lips with mine. He tilted his head, leaning forward, wrapping one arm around my waist, responding to my kiss with a passionate fervor that was still incredibly tender. I held on to his shoulders as my senses reeled, as so many dreams suddenly materialized into a shattering reality. It was real, it was real, he was here, his strong arms holding me to him, his lips tenderly, urgently devouring my own, his warmth, his smell, his lean, sinewy body real, mine, no dream to disappear at dawn.

  Need, desperate need, became a torment inside, for me, for Hugh, our bodies crying for immediate release, but it was not to be, for Hugh had waited too long to plunge and thrust and squander this precious time with instant gratification. Gently, firmly, he held me away from him, and he smiled and kissed my throat, my chin, the corner of my mouth, my cheek, my brow. He stroked my hair and lifted it with his hands to savor its weight and silky texture, and all the while I was trembling inside, a weak, hollow feeling in the backs of my knees, the pit of my stomach, warmth glowing and spreading throughout my body as he tugged at my hair and tilted my head back and finally covered my lips with his once again, kissing me tensely, tenderly, holding me tight.

  Shadows spread and light faded and the walls were dark gray now and the air was filled with a blue-mauve haze that deepened by the moment. S
lowly, expertly Hugh unfastened the back of my bodice and I stepped out of my high-heeled shoes, kicking them aside. I freed my arms from the sleeves and Hugh pulled the bodice down slowly, bunching the muslin in his hands, sliding it over my hips. I moved slightly and the dress fell to the floor to be pushed away with my bare foot. I closed my eyes, certain I would swoon, and my breasts swelled, nipples tight and straining against silk, and suddenly the silk was no longer there and my breasts were free and silk was slipping over my skin, falling to my feet. His right arm curled firmly around my waist, supporting me, he caressed my breasts gently with his left hand, fingers stroking, squeezing, and then he cupped his palm under my right breast and lifted it and leaned down to kiss the taut pink nipple and then lifted the left and encircled the nipple with his teeth and bit down lightly and licked it with his tongue.

  My knees gave way then and Hugh gathered me up into his arms and carried me over to the old brass bed. He carefully lowered me onto the quilted white satin counterpane and the satin was cool and slippery beneath me and I arched my body, lifting my arms, and he stood at the side of the bed gazing at me with something like awe, and I knew he loved me, really loved me, as I loved him, and I knew he had dreamed of this moment, as I had, and couldn’t believe it was ours now after so many years. He placed one knee on the bed and leaned over and began to kiss me, those warm, moist lips covering every inch of my body, pausing here to savor the smoothness of inner thigh, lingering there to nuzzle the softness of my belly with his nose, my legs writhing, my arms thrown back, fingers curling tightly around the cool brass bars of the headboard.

  Sweet, sweet torment, delirium of bliss, delay divine torture that must end soon or sanity would shatter. Lips warm, burning my skin, hands stroking flesh, kneading it gently, an urgent ache inside, swelling, spreading, a moan escaping, another, smothered by his mouth, his tongue thrusting inside mine, the weight of his body pinioning me, my hands clutching his buttocks and feeling the hard muscle beneath black broadcloth, feeling soft silk as my hands slipped up his back, clutching his shoulders, my body undulating beneath him, my legs spreading as he kneeled and tugged at his breeches, the room in darkness now, now the warm hardness of him entering slowly, slowly, plunging then to fill, holding for a moment and then slowly withdrawing, so slowly, plunging again, flesh filling flesh, his hard and strong as steel and soft as velvet, my own clutching, clinging, my body arching to meet him, to bring him closer still, the first pale rays of moonlight streaming into the room as senses soared, higher, higher, building, bursting, soft silver brushing the walls of the room as his teeth sank into my shoulder and the oblivion of bliss claimed us both.

  And in the night, more love, he nude now, lazy, lethargic, loving leisurely as, outside, the leaves rustled in the darkness, and in the morning a thin gold-pink light streamed into the room and he was asleep, sprawled over me, clutching me, and it was right, it was real, no dream, yet I still couldn’t believe he was here, his leg thrown over mine, his skin warm, moist with perspiration, his hair damp, too, his breathing deep, even. He opened his eyes and looked at me, and I smiled. He kissed me sleepily and I felt him swell, felt him grow harder, grow longer, and I shifted beneath him and he shifted too and there was more splendid love as the sunlight grew stronger and a bird chirped merrily in a tree outside. And later, in the kitchen, dressed in last night’s garments, the ashes of aftermath glowing within, limbs sweetly sore, I cooked breakfast and he came into the kitchen, looking weary and worn and wonderful in black breeches and wilted white silk shirt with limp laces. He looked with some consternation at all the food I had prepared.

  “I can’t possibly eat all that,” he said.

  “You’re going to need your strength,” I told him.

  Hugh was with me now, and never, never had I known such happiness as during the weeks that followed. London and the life I had lived there seemed the dream now, seemed to have happened to someone else. Hugh was with me, and we fed the chickens and he watched critically as I milked Matilda, squirting him once after he made a sarcastic remark about my technique. We took long walks over the countryside and discovered a dilapidated stone bridge spanning a small stream, and I recognized it from one of Gainsborough’s paintings. Hugh told me about his life at sea, and I told him about my life in the theater, but neither of us mentioned Lord Blackie, nor did he ever refer to Italy and his dream of becoming Lord Meredith. We went to the village on market day, and he bought me bright ribbons and I bought him a red gypsy scarf he immediately tied around his neck. We watched the Punch and Judy show and the trained birds and came home with fresh fruit and vegetables and a lovely glazed ham and a set of dishes I couldn’t resist.

  The days were long and warm and filled with simple pleasures. I cooked for him, delicious meals, and he put on some weight and looked better although still too lean. How content I was, beating eggs, adding sugar and cream and flour and pouring the batter into a pan, baking it in the black iron stove, washing sheets and hanging them out to dry in the sunlight, gathering wildflowers and arranging them in bowls, simple domestic tasks suddenly suffused with meaning because Hugh was here and he would eat the cake and sleep on the sheets and admire the flower arrangements. We made love, in the barn, on the damp hay, beside the stream after a picnic one day, the summer sunlight bathing his bare buttocks as he plowed away with breeches tangled about his knees, in the kitchen and in the parlor, in the broom closet once when he caught me putting away mop and pail. It was joyous, and it was beautiful, and often he simply gazed at me with love in his eyes and took my hand and squeezed it, conveying his love without words.

  Frequently, in the evenings, after dinner and after Matilda had been put in her stall, we would sit in the parlor and read, me curled up on the pink sofa, a novel in my lap, Hugh sitting at the small mahogany desk, poring over a newspaper he had purchased from the stationer’s in the village, both of us quiet, content to share the silence and serenity. The post brought letters from Megan and Dottie, from Boswell and Gainsborough and others, but I wasn’t at all interested in theatrical gossip, in chatty news of doings in London. That busy, frenetic, frenzied world full of tensions and temperaments, crises and conflict held absolutely no appeal for me now. I was through with it. I knew what living was all about, knew my reason for being here, and, as June melted into July and day followed day, I began to nourish dreams of a future that would be as serene, as fulfilling as these weeks had been.

  In all this time Hugh had never once mentioned Greystone Hall or his dreams of proving his legitimacy and claiming the estate, and I began to hope that perhaps, during these past weeks, he had finally seen the futility of his obsession and given it up. Nevertheless, I was still hesitant about discussing the future with him, not wanting anything to endanger the harmony between us. It was with some apprehension that I brought up the subject one afternoon in late July. We had lunched, had taken some surplus eggs to a family living in a nearby cottage, and we were strolling idly back down the lane. It was an overcast day, the sky a misty gray, promising rain. A cool breeze ruffled the purple and mauve rhododendroms, a few blossoms drifting to the ground. After all the warm days, this cool spell was most welcome. Hugh was silent, lost in thought. He had seemed preoccupied all day long.

  “Thinking?” I inquired.

  “About us,” he said.

  “These past weeks have been wonderful, haven’t they?”

  He nodded. “The happiest weeks of my life, Angie.”

  “There—there’s no reason why it can’t always be like this,” I said carefully. “You love the country as I do. We could buy a place of our own, a farm. You could work it. We could have chickens and cows and—and horses and everything. We could have a large, lovely house and a few tenant farmers to help you with the crops.”

  “You actually believe you could be happy living like that?”

  “If—if I had you,” I replied. “I’m a wealthy woman, Hugh. I received a letter last week from Richard Bancroft, my banker. Jamie—” I hesitated a mome
nt, biting my lower lip. “My former partner has made an accounting of profits from My Charming Nellie, and my portion has been deposited in my name. I could easily afford to buy a place, a fine place.”

  Hugh didn’t reply at once. He thrust his hands into his pockets and kicked a stone out of his path, walking in a long, lanky stride. “I want more for you, Angie. I want to see you in silks and velvets, not cotton dresses with an apron around your waist. I want to see you pouring tea in a lovely drawing room, not tossing feed in a chicken yard. I want your hands to be white and as smooth as silk, not red and rough from peeling potatoes and scrubbing floors. I want you to have servants and carriages and jewels. I intend to give them to you.”

  “When you win your case,” I said.

  “When I win my case and acquire what is mine.”

  He hadn’t given it up at all. The obsession was still there, held in abeyance these past weeks, and a voice deep inside told me that I had been living in a fool’s paradise. Nothing had changed, nothing at all. He loved me, yes, but the dream of inheritance meant more to him than the happiness we had shared, and he was prepared to risk that happiness in order to see the dream through, no matter the odds against it. He had been a pariah in his youth, reviled and taunted because of his birth, and he had to prove to himself and to the world that he was worthy, a person of note. I understood, I understood all too well, but that didn’t make it any easier.

  “Give it up, Hugh,” I said quietly.

  “I can’t do that, Angie.”