A Bed of Thorns and Roses

by Sondra Allan Carr

She leaned closer, until her breasts pressed against his shirtfront. Garrick drew in a quick, sharp breath, unable to suppress the immediate response in his loins.

  “But I am willing to learn if you will teach me. And,” she added pointedly, “you are the only man I ever wish to please.”

  Garrick flushed with the effort it took to restrain himself. Jenny, this innocent, this beautiful child, was openly offering herself to him. He wanted to accept, as much as he had ever wanted anything. But, God help him, he could never look at himself in the mirror again if he abused her trust.

  “Jennifer.” Garrick attempted to soften what he was about to say by lightly placing his hands on her shoulders, the way a father might take a child in hand whom he was about to admonish. “You know I am genuinely concerned with your welfare. And while I find your offer flattering in the extreme, I am old enough to be your grandfather.”

  Jenny looked up at him steadily, refusing to accept his logic.

  “Speaking with the advantage of my greater years, I must say that I fear you have mistaken your gratitude for my concern as . . . ” He balked at the word, then continued, equivocating, and hating himself for his cowardice. “As something else.”

  She shrugged his hands away. “I will be eighteen in one month’s time. An adult. And yet no one takes me seriously because of my age.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she raised a hand to silence him.

  “I have overcome circumstances that would defeat women twice my age.”

  “I’ve no doubt your life has been a difficult one.”

  She spoke over him before he’d finished. “I have spent my life wanting and not having. I have learned that the less I want, the less I suffer. I have tried not to want you. Believe me, I have tried.”

  Jenny met his eyes, holding his gaze with a look of fierce determination. “And though you do not want me, I want you. Not as a child wants a father, but as a woman wants a man.”

  Garrick watched Jenny fight back her tears and realized, to his shame, that he was near to shedding his own. His throat ached with unspent emotion. When he spoke, his voice sounded tight and devoid of feeling.

  “You had better leave now.”

  She took a step back, giving him such a long, wounded look that Garrick felt it like a dull knife slowly cleaving his heart. She turned away from him then, taking the few short steps that would lead her out the door and out of his life.

  “Wait.” Garrick went toward her, trying to ignore the sudden hope in her expression. He retrieved her bonnet and held it out to her, its ribbons dangling. “You will want this.”

  Jenny returned grudgingly, carrying herself with stiff dignity.

  “The disparity of our years.” He handed her the bonnet. “It’s for the best.”

  “Very well, if that’s the way you want it, you shall be rid of me.”

  She opened the door, glancing over her shoulder with one last, accusing look before she left. Garrick watched her go, feeling as if the light had just passed from his life forever.

  “I’m sorry,” he said after her, but it was too late. She had already gone.

  He closed the door and leaned back against it, drained of energy. He had done the right thing in the end. Though he nearly succumbed to his baser instincts, he had done the right thing.

  Then why did it feel so wrong?

  Chapter Thirty five

  Isabelle stood beside the front door, where she had spent the last quarter hour peering through the sidelight with a growing sense of hopelessness. The rain had begun during the early hours that morning and had come down steadily since, with no sign of relenting.

  She ought not allow the weather to depress her spirits, she told herself. She wasn’t proud of her tendency to brood. Yet the gloomy day matched her mood, as gray, dull, and heavy as her heart.

  The argument with Jenny continued to weigh on her mind. And though she could think of little else, she saw no way to remedy the situation. The Sunday walk with Jonathan had promised to be a diversion from her problems. Now even that brief pleasure was denied her.

  The other servants had braved the weather that morning, no longer bothering with the pretense of inviting her along. They piled into the carriage earlier than usual and, with Roger driving, set off for Sunday church service in remarkably high spirits.

  “We’re going to try some of that German fellow’s food after,” Cook said right before they left. Then, with a wink, she’d added, “Don’t worry about us barging in. You’ll have the place all to yourselves.”

  Isabelle could not think of a reply. Cook and the others had formed an altogether preposterous notion of her relationship with Jonathan. Any attempt on her part to deny their assumptions would probably serve to convince them all the more that they were right.

  Isabelle tugged at the cuff of her sleeve, then ran her hand along her forearm, admiring the luxurious feel of the fabric. Of all the dresses Jonathan had bought her, this one flattered her most. Its grass green silk was shot through with threads of peacock blue. The colors shifted unpredictably when caught by the sunlight.

  Isabelle sighed. There would be no sunlight today, and no walk.

  “Good morning.” Jonathan announced his presence from the top of the stairs.

  Her spirits lifted at the sound of his voice. She turned away from the dreary view outside the window and was met with an altogether different sight, one that prompted her quiet gasp of awe.

  Jonathan always dressed elegantly, the cut and cloth of his garments obviously costly without being ostentatious. But today he had surpassed himself. His black wool suit contrasted dramatically with the brilliant white of his high collared shirt. The effect might have been harsh if not for his waistcoat, a dove gray brocade woven with silver thread, offset by silver buttons and a white gold watch chain. Looking at him now, Isabelle could not believe that the face of a monster lay beneath his mask.

  He apologized as he drew near, as if the weather were his fault. “Not a good day for our walk, I’m afraid.”

  Our walk, he had said. His confident ownership of their time together affected her in the strangest manner, leaving a hollow sensation in the pit of her stomach.

  “I hope you’re not terribly disappointed,” he added.

  She shook her head, blushing at the possibility that he might have guessed what she was thinking. Too late, she realized her denial could be taken as an insult.

  “I mean yes. Yes, of course I’m disappointed.” She smiled ruefully, not quite knowing how to recover from the clumsiness of her belated remark.

  “Perhaps I could show you the house instead.”

  Isabelle smiled, grateful that Jonathan was too polite to acknowledge her awkward behavior. “I would like that very much.”

  He offered his arm. Isabelle hesitated briefly, wondering why her heart had suddenly begun to pound. When the hurt registered in Jonathan’s eyes, she knew that he had mistaken her reluctance for distaste. She quickly twined her arm through his. Together, they crossed the foyer into the next room. Isabelle thought he would stop there, but Jonathan continued on through the next room, and the next.

  “Where are you taking me?” she finally asked, smiling up at him to let him know there was no fear behind her question.

  “The portrait gallery.” He slowed his steps. “That is, if it won’t bore you to see the rather pompous display of my slightly illustrious ancestors.”

  “Not at all.” She laughed lightly, leaning against his shoulder as she did so. Jonathan’s self deprecating manner was one of the qualities she liked most about him. His modesty differed so from her father’s drunken boasts, which invariably ended in a long diatribe blaming her for all his life’s missed opportunities.

  They passed through an archway and came to a vaulted room which, being open on either end, more resembled a wide hallway. Paintings of landscapes covered one wall, while the opposite wall held the promised portraits. Isabelle was about to remark on the impressive realism of the country scenes when Jonath
an dismissed that side of the room with a wave of his hand.

  “I’m afraid my father’s taste in art was somewhat limited. He preferred these unremarkable bucolic scenes to anything more venturesome.”

  “Bucolic?”

  Jonathan failed to recognize the question in her voice. Isabelle kept her silence, not wanting to ask a second time. She had grown accustomed to, and even rather enjoyed, her frequent dictionary searches for the unfamiliar words he used.

  Jonathan steered her toward the portraits. “Shall we begin with the dour or the haughty?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My father’s side were a long faced bunch.” He gestured toward one end of the wall. “And my mother’s side have that look about them, as if the rest of the world were some lesser species.”

  A nearly life sized family portrait drew Isabelle’s attention, as it was meant to do, given its prominent position between the two branches of Jonathan’s family. A man with mutton chop whiskers and a stern expression stood with his hand on the back of a chair where an exquisitely beautiful woman was seated. Her arm was draped around the shoulders of a young boy probably no more than ten years of age. Her affection for the boy was unmistakable, yet her embrace appeared more protective than loving, as if she meant to shield him from the father.

  “She’s so beautiful.” Isabelle went to have a closer look, bringing Jonathan with her. “Who is she?”

  He stared at the portrait for several moments before answering.

  “My mother.”

  Isabelle studied the boy in the painting. It took a while for her to come to the obvious conclusion.

  “It’s you.”

  The boy bore a remarkable resemblance to his mother. They had the same mouth, the same full, sensual lips that curved upward slightly at the corners, as though they were sharing a humorous secret. The boy’s wide, intelligent eyes looked straight ahead with unwavering confidence, giving the impression that he was staring directly at the viewer. Isabelle looked across at Jonathan, and their eyes met. She couldn’t help wondering whether the eyes were all that remained of him. Or had the handsome promise in his young features been completely destroyed?

  “What are you thinking?”

  Jonathan’s question was direct and honest. She had no choice but to invent a lie.

  “Is that a ball gown your mother is wearing? I was thinking she looked ready to dance the night away.”

  Jonathan didn’t reply, he simply held her gaze with the same steadiness as the boy in the portrait. Isabelle looked away, unable to meet his eyes, and began to prattle nervously.

  “I used to dream of attending a ball. Jenny and I would dance around the room, pretending we were at a grand party.” Isabelle knew she sounded ridiculous, but couldn’t make herself stop. “Jenny would sing while we practiced the waltz. She was good at it, but I . . . ”

  Isabelle laughed uncomfortably, daring a glance in Jonathan’s direction. He inclined his head to one side, waiting for her to finish. She blushed at the confession she was about to make.

  “Jenny always insisted that I take the man’s part and be the one to lead.”

  “Did she?”

  Isabelle hated the mask now more than ever. She couldn’t tell whether Jonathan was encouraging her to go on with her story, or if he was merely laughing at her.

  “Our childish make believe must seem silly to you.”

  He shook his head. “On the contrary, I used to do the same. I begged my mother to dance with me, pretending—hoping—that one day I could escort her to the society balls that my father refused to attend with her.”

  “That was very gallant of you.”

  Jonathan laughed. “It was very brave of my mother. I trod on her toes so many times that she made me dance in my stocking feet.”

  Isabelle smiled, imagining the scene. “I think I would have liked your mother.”

  She immediately regretted her words. It was not her place to pass judgment on Jonathan’s family. She started to apologize, but Jonathan spoke first.

  “She would have liked you as well.”

  “Do you? I mean . . . ” Isabelle looked down at the toes of her shoes peeking out from beneath her skirt. They were dyed the same blue green as her dress. “I don’t know,” she added feebly.

  She wished she had known how to accept Jonathan’s kind remark. A simple thank you would have been enough.

  Jonathan rescued her with an invitation. “If you will come with me, I have something to show you I believe you may like.”

  He led her from the portrait gallery to a pair of enormous doors then, with an air of showmanship, grasped the gilt handles and swung the doors open. Isabelle hesitated, not quite knowing what was expected of her. Jonathan bowed and gestured her across the threshold with a flourish.

  The room was huge, as big as the inside of a theater. A lack of furniture added to the effect of its vastness. The uncarpeted wooden floors seemed to stretch on forever. A chandelier hung overhead, swathed in cloth to protect the crystals from dust, while a grand piano was similarly hidden by sheeting, its silhouette unmistakable nevertheless.

  “The ballroom,” Jonathan explained. “Do you like it?”

  “Do I like it?” Isabelle had to laugh. “Even in our wildest dreams, Jenny and I could never have imagined this.”

  “Let me show you something,” Jonathan said, sounding pleased.

  She followed him across the ballroom floor, where they arrived at another shrouded object. It was rectangular in shape, with another rectangular shape rising from its center. Isabelle guessed it might be a clavichord.

  Jonathan waited until she came up beside him before whisking the cloth away. Isabelle stared at the object, mystified as to its purpose. It looked like nothing more than a large box sitting atop a matching burl wood table, both lacquered mirror bright. A masterfully crafted box, to be sure, but a box nonetheless.

  She leaned forward to better see and caught a faint image of herself in the shiny surface. Beside her, Jonathan’s pale mask floated, ghost like, its only features two dark, empty eyes. She nearly forgot there was a man hidden beneath the blank expanse of cloth until Jonathan began to speak.

  “My parents attended the Paris fair in 1867,” he was saying, “just before they were married. They saw this at one of the exhibits, and my mother was so taken with it, my father ordered one specially made for her.”

  Isabelle hesitated. She felt ignorant for having to ask. “Yes, but what is it?”

  “Our orchestra.”

  Jonathan lifted the lid, which opened smoothly on double braced hinges to reveal the mechanical innards of the box. A gleaming brass cylinder sat in the center, reminding Isabelle of a rolling pin.

  “But where are the instruments?” she asked.

  Jonathan opened the table drawer, where six hollow brass cylinders lay side by side. “Here,” he said, and gently lifted one of them from its resting place.

  She watched him fit the cylinder onto the roller inside the box, next turning the crank a number of times. When he had finished, he closed the drawer, then fiddled with a lever to start the cylinder turning. Like magic, sounds instantly poured forth from the machine.

  Isabelle laughed in delight. “A music box!”

  “Mother and Father heard this song for the first time at the fair. We call it in English, The Blue Danube Waltz.”

  She watched the cylinder turn, fascinated by how the tiny bits of metal protruding from its surface could render such a pleasingly rich melody.

  “Mademoiselle.” Jonathan turned to face her and bowed with grave formality. “May I have this dance?”

  Her first unthinking response was one of pure delight. Then misgivings crowded in to rob her of her pleasure.

  “I’m a terrible dancer.”

  “It’s really quite simple.”

  Jonathan lifted his arm, inviting Isabelle to take his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she rested her fingers against his palm. When he curved his fingers around hers an
d stepped closer, Isabelle held her breath. Jonathan placed his hand against her back, taking control with such delicacy that she barely felt his touch.

  “Just remember to follow my lead,” he said as she lifted her hand to his shoulder.

  And then they were twirling around the ballroom floor, dancing to the music as though they had done so all their lives. If Jonathan had once been a clumsy dancer, Isabelle saw no sign of it now. She floated along, feeling light as air while Jonathan guided her with an expertise that almost convinced her she was good at this.

  He looked into her eyes as they danced, holding her gaze with an intensity that made her forget everything but the moment, how they moved together to the music, unburdened, weightless, free—her heart as light as her steps. They turned and turned until she grew breathless, and yet she wanted the dance never to end. When Jonathan slowed his steps, finally coming to a halt, she found herself wondering when the music had stopped.

  Though they were standing still, the room continued to circle around her. The sensation made Isabelle light headed. She leaned against Jonathan to steady herself, and waited for the room to stop spinning. As her breathing slowed and her heart returned to its normal tempo, Isabelle suddenly realized her compromising position. She gasped and started to push away from Jonathan, apologizing profusely. “I’m sorry, I quite forgot myself, I didn’t mean . . . ”

  Jonathan kept his hand against her back, holding her to him with a nearly imperceptible pressure. “Please don’t say you’re sorry.”

  Isabelle looked up at him, not saying it, but sorry nonetheless. How could she explain that it was her shame she regretted? Not his touch, not his arm encircling her, not the feel of his heart beating beneath her own.

  “At times.” Jonathan took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “At times when I am with you, I forget.”

  “You forget?” Isabelle whispered. Speaking in a normal tone of voice seemed inappropriate while they stood thus, their bodies pressed together intimately.

  “I forget I am not like other men. That I am a monster.”

  “Don’t say—”

  He interrupted her. “But other times when I am with you, I am more miserably aware of my condition than ever before.”