A Bed of Thorns and Roses

by Sondra Allan Carr

  “Tell me the story.” Miss Tate looked up, imploring him with her eyes the way a young child might beg a bedtime tale.

  She leaned closer. If not for his mask, he could have felt her breath on his cheek. Her nearness renewed the stirring in his groin. He had no choice but to relate the tale, while trying to ignore his ungovernable phallus.

  “Aphrodite sent Eros to Psyche as the agent of her revenge, instructing him to shoot her with one of his arrows. Aphrodite meant to place a beast or some hideous creature nearby for Psyche to fall in love with.”

  The thought struck him then. He was that hideous creature. Only there were no magic arrows to wound another with love for him.

  Miss Tate prompted him impatiently. “What happened next?”

  Reluctantly, he continued, while the image of his own hideous features filled his mind, coiling around the story and choking the pleasure from it like an evil bindweed. “When Eros saw her, he was so overcome by her beauty that he pricked himself with his own arrow.”

  “And of course fell madly in love with Psyche,” Miss Tate added when he paused.

  “Of course.” He was glad the mask hid his grimace. If bitterness was apparent in his words, she pretended not to notice.

  “Did they marry?”

  “Yes.” He hesitated. Would his next words offend her? But he had begun the story, he must finish it. “They married, though Eros would only come to their marriage bed under cover of darkness.”

  The thought of entering Miss Tate’s bed overtook him with such force that his breath came with difficulty. He glanced at her, alarmed she might perceive his distress and guess the reason.

  His fear proved unfounded. In her eagerness to hear the rest of the story, she leaned closer, thereby compounding his difficulties.

  “Why?” she asked. “Why wouldn’t he allow her to see him?”

  Because I need the darkness, he thought. Because you could not bear the sight of me.

  “Because he was a god, he could not reveal his identity to his mortal bride. He forbade her to look on his face.”

  “But she did.” She laughed lightly, actually leaning against his shoulder in anticipation.

  The willful thing inside his trousers stiffened in response. He pressed the book against his lap in annoyance, which only served to worsen his condition. He forced himself to continue with the story, his voice tight with the effort of suppressing his lust.

  “Her jealous sisters tricked her. They told her she had married a monster and persuaded her to light a lamp to look at him. A drop of oil fell from the lamp, burning Eros. He awoke and, knowing his identity had been revealed, fled from Psyche.”

  He stopped to consider the irony. Of all the Greek myths, Miss Tate had chosen one that could have been a cautionary tale written expressly for him.

  “Does the story end there?”

  Yes, if he were the hero of the tale. Only it would be Psyche fleeing from the sight of him. The thought quelled Jonathan’s arousal.

  “Does the story end there?” Miss Tate repeated, her voice falling in disappointment.

  “No.” He shook his head. “Psyche proves her love by enduring a number of trials and in the end is reunited with her lover.” He corrected himself. “Her husband, who persuades the gods to allow his wife to partake of their food, the life giving ambrosia. Then she, too, becomes an immortal.”

  Miss Tate frowned thoughtfully. Jonathan wondered if the story displeased her, despite its happy ending. It had certainly displeased him, most especially because of its happy ending.

  “So,” she began, drawing out the word. “The story is about a woman who nearly destroys her husband’s love by her undue concern with appearances.”

  Her conclusion impressed him as unusual. He had never considered the tale in that way. Jonathan nodded, adding, “And her lack of trust.”

  “Although Eros must bear some of the guilt as well.” Miss Tate gave him a quick, sharp look. “For his pride.”

  A silence fell between them that stretched out interminably. Jonathan could think of nothing to say. He sneaked occasional glances at Miss Tate, worried by her last comment. Had it been directed at him? Surely not. Surely, he had less reason for pride than any man alive.

  She leaned away from him, apparently aware for the first time that they were sitting much too near to one another. She started to speak, then frowned, as if unwilling to say what was on her mind. Jonathan turned to face her, discreetly distancing himself at the same time. His heart pounded with the knowledge that he was the cause of her displeasure.

  “I wish,” she began, then hesitated again.

  “Yes?” He said it softly, hoping to encourage her. He would rather hear she was displeased with him and be done with it. The suspense was more than he could bear.

  She acknowledged his encouragement with a weak smile that barely altered the shape of her mouth.

  “I wish I’d had more schooling. I never learned the Greek stories. Nor Latin. Nor science of any kind.” She sighed. “I am ignorant of so much. You must find me terribly dull.”

  “On the contrary . . . ” It was he who felt dull witted in her company.

  “Do you know?” she asked in a confidential tone, then answered her own question. “You must know.”

  He shook his head slowly, unsure if that was what she expected of him. She was about to confess a secret, and judging from the color in her cheeks, he guessed it was one that caused her more than a little discomfort.

  She offered him a wry, apologetic smile before she continued. “I come here at night to search the dictionary for words you’ve spoken which I don’t understand.”

  It was an unexpected and poignant confession, one that touched him deeply. “Why don’t you simply ask me?”

  She avoided his eyes. “I am ashamed of my ignorance.”

  “You mustn’t be.” He wanted to reach out to her, to stroke her cheek, to reassure her.

  A look of alarm darkened her expression, and she quickly added, “Whatever I write for you, I review carefully. Twice, three times. You must believe me, I would never put your name to a letter that contained errors.”

  “I trust that you would not.” Such a concern had never crossed his mind.

  Her confession had, however, inspired an idea, one in which his lust returned to mingle in a most confusing manner with this new feeling of platonic tenderness. He imagined becoming her tutor. Of teaching her everything she wanted to know.

  The generosity of his feelings was tainted by crude imaginings, because he wanted to learn from her as well. He wanted to go to her bed as Eros had gone to Psyche’s, the cloak of darkness wrapped around him. He wanted to pass his nights learning the pleasures of her body.

  “Are you angry with me?” Miss Tate asked quietly.

  Jonathan cursed himself. While he allowed his mind to drift toward baser thoughts, she had taken his silence for disapproval. Would he never act or speak in a manner that allayed her fears? But the opportunity to reassure her had passed. She would take anything he said now as a polite fiction.

  “No,” he said firmly, and closed his mother’s book. He set it on a nearby table and, remembering to use his left hand, indicated the bookshelves that surrounded them. “The collection here is fairly comprehensive. I daresay you could gain all the knowledge you might ever want within these walls.”

  She followed the line of his gesture, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “You’ve begun in the right place, with the Greeks.”

  Jonathan stood and walked across to one of the shelves. After a brief perusal, he found the book he had in mind.

  “Greek mythology.” He handed her the book and resumed his seat beside her, sitting as close as he dared. “In English.”

  He watched her leafing through the pages, a pleased smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “Once you are familiar with the pantheon of Greek gods, you may read the playwrights with understanding. And, of course, the philosophers.”


  She clutched the book to her breast as though it were a beloved child. “Thank you, Mr. Nashe.”

  Her look of gratitude was more than he could bear. He stood, signaling his intention to leave.

  “Jonathan.” He hesitated, gathering his courage, then posed the question before he lost his nerve. “May I call you Isabelle?”

  She nodded, adding shyly, “I love the way you say my name.”

  “And I am very fond of—” He barely stopped himself in time. He had almost said I am very fond of you. “Of our conversations together.”

  She stood as well then, taking a step toward him. “As am I.”

  He prayed she would come no nearer. He wanted nothing more than to stay, but if he did, he might not be able to resist the unbearable urge to gather her into his arms and . . .

  He refused to finish the thought. To hold her would be enough.

  “Good night, Isabelle.”

  He bowed, then hurried from the room, driven by a single, dismal truth. He would never know Isabelle the way a normal man knows a woman. He thrust his hand into his pocket and gripped the glass vial. Denied the real woman, he was forced to flee to the arms of his imaginary mistress, to Jezebel, the goddess of oblivion.

  And though he did not want oblivion, though he did not want to forget a single moment with Isabelle, no matter how much the memories tormented him, he knew he would sacrifice them all to the drug. Because he was certain he would die without relief from this burning, this desire that threatened to consume him if he did not quench it.

  Jezebel, his mistress, his goddess, his jealous queen. She would douse the flames.

  Chapter Twenty five

  “Give it time, Mrs. Lamington. Another month and you’ll feel yourself again.” Garrick signed the scrip and handed it to his patient. “Take this to your apothecary.”

  The woman nodded and tucked the piece of paper into her waist pocket. She stood to leave, a little too quickly, and swayed on her feet. The color drained from her already pale complexion. Garrick offered his arm to steady her, waiting for her eyes to regain their focus before he led her to the door.

  “You’ve lost a good deal of blood. Stay at home, rest as much as possible.” He smiled, adopting the look of fatherly concern that he had perfected over the years, an expression that was second nature to him now. “Though unlikely, if you do have any further problems, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

  He closed the door when she left and sank onto the patient’s chair, leaning his head back against the wall. That was his last appointment of the day, thank God.

  Garrick closed his eyes and sighed wearily. He had seen too many cases like this one over the years. A young wife, a husband twenty years past his prime, certainly long past the time when he could perform his conjugal duties in bed. The inevitable extra marital pregnancy eventually occurred, followed by a furtive visit to a backstairs abortionist. It was then the frightened woman showed up in his surgery, nearly dead from fever and blood loss. Some of them waited too long, and there was nothing he could do except ease their pain, then offer a convincing lie to the bereaved family.

  There was a soft rap at the door, followed by his nurse’s familiar voice. “Dr. Garrick?”

  When he answered, she eased the door open. “There’s a gentleman here who insists on seeing you.” She stuck her head all the way inside the room and added in a low voice, “A very obstreperous gentleman.”

  Garrick gave her a tired smile at these words. Obstreperous was one of their code words, meaning a difficult, perhaps irate patient, but one unlikely to pose a threat of danger.

  “Show him into my office.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “Nurse Harris?” Garrick stopped her before she closed the door. “There’s no need for you to stay. It’s been an especially difficult day, and you’ve certainly earned your rest.”

  “Thank you, sir.” A profound look of relief accompanied the nurse’s grateful smile.

  When she had gone, he closed his eyes again briefly, mustering his resolve to face this one last problem. Whatever the man wanted, he hoped he would be brief. Garrick pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket to check the time. As he feared, he was already late. Monique expected him at five.

  He had hoped for an opportunity to take her aside, to question her as discreetly as possible whether she had succeeded in gaining Miss Tate’s confidence. His chances of doing so were becoming more and more unlikely with each passing minute.

  Reluctantly, Garrick got to his feet, first pausing to take a deep breath before he assumed the grave expression that usually calmed a disturbed patient. He entered his office through an adjoining door, closing it firmly behind him before he announced his presence.

  “How may I help you?”

  The man had been standing with his back to the door. At the sound of Garrick’s voice, he whirled around, his reddened features so contorted with anger that Garrick took a moment to recognize him.

  “I’ll tell you how you can help, as soon as you tell me what it is you’re up to.”

  “Please.” Garrick gestured toward a chair, at the same time moving behind his desk, thinking it wise to put a barrier between them. “Have a seat, Mr. Tate, and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  Tate lowered himself onto the offered chair with a great show of reluctance. He would not be easily mollified.

  Garrick sat with an exaggerated calm, careful to do nothing that would further agitate the man across from him. He slid forward onto the edge of his seat and surreptitiously felt for the small revolver he kept fastened inside the kneehole of his desk.

  It was apparent Tate had been drinking, and also apparent that he was a belligerent drunk, the sort who might lash out given the slightest provocation. By the looks of him, he wanted little encouragement to resort to violence. In fact, Tate looked ready to commit murder, and there was no doubt in Garrick’s mind that he was the intended victim.

  “You can sit there looking high and mighty, Garrick, but we both know who’s the crook.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know, Mr. Tate.”

  Tate leaned forward, aggressively resting his forearms on the desk, his fists clenched. The man reeked of whiskey. If he could be wrung out like a sponge, Garrick imagined he would yield a good two gallons of alcohol.

  “You make your grand promises of money,” Tate wheezed, emitting a waft of putrid breath in Garrick’s direction, “but my banker tells me Isabelle’s wages are being deposited in her account, and I’m not to get a penny of it.”

  Garrick struggled to keep his contempt from showing. “She is of age and may legally hold funds in her own name.”

  “I have a household to maintain. A younger daughter to look after.”

  It was all Garrick could do to keep from grabbing Tate by his collar and hoisting him outside onto the pavement. After Mrs. Cooper alerted him to the fact, he had personally paid the three months’ back rent Tate owed, money he had no doubt wasted on liquor.

  “My daughters think their mother is dead,” Tate went on. “But she left them. Left me.”

  He was whining now, with enough self pity to convince Garrick he was telling the truth. His story, unfortunate though it was, did not earn him Garrick’s sympathy. More likely than not, the poor wife had fled in terror.

  “Do you know where she went?” Tate raised his fist and brought it down on the desk, causing a Delft inkpot to rattle against its porcelain holder. “She went to a whorehouse.” He banged his fist again. “A whorehouse!”

  Garrick sucked in his breath. Jenny’s mother a common prostitute. Nausea roiled his stomach with such strength and suddenness that he automatically covered his mouth with his hand. Tate grinned, encouraged by the effect his words had produced.

  “And then, years later, she shows up, fools me into thinking she wants her daughter back.”

  “Her daughter?” Garrick had no intention of encouraging Tate by showing an interest, but he had to know. Did Tate mean Isabelle or Jenny?

&
nbsp; Tate looked at him with the sort of disgust a man reserves for an utter fool. “Isabelle isn’t my daughter. My wife was a whore from the first. I took her in when she was pregnant, gave her my name, took her bastard for my own daughter. And what thanks do I get?”

  Tate glared across the desk at Garrick as though he expected to be thanked that very moment. Garrick stared back at him, expressionless. Tate threw up his hands in a dramatic gesture of defeat.

  “I sent Isabelle to her, what else could I do? And, God help me, what happened to her, I get blamed for.” He shook his head. “And the child barely thirteen, poor thing.”

  “You’ve had to deal with unfortunate circumstances,” Garrick conceded, though less from sympathy for the man than the need to keep him from saying more. He had heard enough to guess what Tate was hinting at, and it sickened him.

  Tate nodded, a greedy glint in his eye. “Circumstances I could better deal with if I had the necessary means.” He rubbed his thumb and first two fingers together in a vulgar gesture.

  Until that moment, Garrick was beginning to feel that Tate’s degenerate condition was understandable. Deplorable, but understandable. Then Tate said something that convinced him his first impression of the man had been the correct one. He was scum.

  “If I had the means to ease my pain, I wouldn’t need to let the girls know the truth about their mother.”

  A hard lump lodged in Garrick’s throat. He choked down the urge to spit and instead reached for his pen.

  “That won’t be necessary, Tate.” He opened the binder that held his checks, writing as he spoke. “I think we can come to an understanding.”

  Garrick blotted the ink, then tore the check from the binder and held it out. Tate reached for it eagerly, but at the last instant Garrick jerked his hand away. “I have only one stipulation.”

  He paused, giving Tate a hard look. He wanted this turd of a man to understand just how serious he was.

  “Well?” Tate demanded.