“Do you mean that the Prince Regent can tell us how we might live?”
“I’m not sure who rules on the matter. The Garter Principal King of Arms, or perhaps the Lord Chancellor.”
“And this gentleman must pronounce upon the admissibility of my continuing to design steamships? I might suggest we insist on him making that ruling when Napoleon is at sea and the Navy looks toward my spitefuls to fight him.”
Lord Bond laughed. “Oh, how I admire your fighting spirit, my Dearest.”
“But not when I question your actions, My Lord.”
He frowned. “Only when you challenge my rights as your husband. No man could tolerate such free thinking.”
“So Tiverton takes precedence over the Crown.”
“Do not say such a thing . . . even in jest. But I assure you that is not the case.” He looked earnestly into her eyes. “I admit to have caused these circumstances and troubles that you must contemplate for the rest of your life. But I promise that I will be your champion through these matters, and not disregard them. Please trust me to do everything I can to compensate you.”
Roberta studied his manner. No doubt he meant what he said, but how long would that last? Dare she even bring up the matter of his adultery with Elise in Antwerp? She felt certain that it would strain his broadmindedness beyond its breaking point. She must be careful to wage one campaign at a time.
“I do not expect the Stephenson yard to be as busy again as it will be for the next ten months. A coup like the spitefuls may be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but I must ask that you allow me to spend part of the year at Clydebank taking care of the business―if the rest of the time is spent at Tiverton.”
He managed a positive expression. “I would even come with you,” he agreed. “There is good shooting in the Highlands come autumn.”
“That would be doubly pleasing, Julian.” She leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. “I knew we could resolve these difficulties if we tried.”
A knock came at the door. “It is ten o’ clock, My Lady.”
“Who is that?” Bond asked.
“Your sister’s lady’s maid.” She turned toward the door. “Please do not bother this evening, Mary. I would like you to call me early enough in the morning that I can have a bath before catching the train.”
“Very well, My Lady. Good night.”
“Will you be all right without a maid?” her husband asked.
She laughed. “I usually managed quite well when I was Miss Stephenson.”
“Ha ha. Yes of course.” His amusement turned to a calculating expression.
“What . . . ?” Roberta asked.
“I say. Could I be your lady’s maid tonight?”
“Oh, don’t be so silly, Julian.”
“No. I mean it. I can learn how to undress you.”
She felt herself blush.
“Come on,” he said, reaching out to take a jewelled pin from her hair. “All I need is your instruction. It could be useful knowledge when we are shooting in the Highlands with only a gillie for company.”
She clasped her hands over her breast.
He placed his hand between them and then ran it down the length of her dress. “Come closer. How does this unfasten?”
Roberta pulled away. “No, Julian. Please be a dear and let me do it.”
“I insist. We may be apart for months. I want to remember everything about you.”
“But a lady . . .”
“You will not be less of a lady for this. Trust me. I feel sure we would not be the first.” He reached for the fastening to her bodice and opened it wide.
Roberta felt a spreading warmth all over her body. She knew she could not stop his hands, indeed she experienced a secret fear that he might stop them of his own accord. She nestled tightly into his arms and kissed him in the way that had so alarmed her when they were fresh married. If this was truly marriage, then she could own no regrets.
Chapter Thirty-four
The Long Farewell
On Wednesday morning, Roberta rode in the Tiverton House carriage with her husband and Captain McNab to Kings Cross railway station. She and the captain would take the nine-thirty train to York on their way to Glasgow, while her husband was present only to see her off. He planned to take a later train to Tiverton from the Paddington terminus.
Her husband seemed in a most unsettled mood ever since they had risen at cock-crow. He had barely eaten a thing for breakfast, and fussed about like a Master of Hounds who had lost his post-horn. His nervousness had infected her equanimity until she had felt as badly as on the day in Sir Totham’s justice room. There were a great many questions she had not had answered, and she felt that if they were not addressed today the occasion would never arise again for their consideration.
But a quiet and measured moment for deliberation seemed farther off the closer the hands of the chiming clock in the vestibule edged toward the hour of departure.
Even in the carriage he would not give his mind to answering her. At times he was animated by talk of their plans they had left unfinished the previous evening, but then almost without interval he would seem distraught enough to cling to her hands as if she would somehow fly away through the window of the moving conveyance. When they arrived at the station he asked McNab if he would kindly go to purchase the tickets while he said goodbye to his wife.
As soon as they were alone he pulled her into an almost crushing embrace and kissed her face and lips with great passion. He began to unfasten her blouse before she could push his hand away. “Good gracious, My Lord, did you not completely exhaust your passion last night . . . you may be assured that my person will remember those embraces for the rest of my life.”
“I can never feel exhaustion in your arms, my dear one. We know not when we will be able to embrace like this again. I could not say at dinner yesterday but before October’s end I will begin the duty that may last until the American negotiations are completed; over half a year when one must account for the time taken for instructions to cross the Ocean. I may not return to England before Napoleon’s invasion starts, and you will have no likelihood of leisure before that time to visit me.”
Roberta had not expected her husband’s American plan to begin so soon. She almost felt regretful for her part in the matter . . . except her senses of pride and duty would not allow her the liberty. Their discussions of the previous evening had reached the possibility of their being parted for a time―all the better for them to discover how their marriage might be organised. But he had not allowed this more specific information to impart substance to their suppositions. Did that mean he had deliberately limited the arguments she might use? How did one conduct an argument with a spy?
Their later lovemaking had almost driven the substance of their discussion from her mind. She had never felt that way before in his arms. The lack of gentleness that even Elise had remarked had been banished, as if he had closed off the feeling in his own body. The sensations he had engendered by the simple expedient of undressing her one garment and one kiss at a time had transported her to a new place. Was this an invention of his, or was it something he had practiced many times before? Something he had perfected with Elise?
No. She must not allow herself such suppositions. She had felt cherished and loved for the very first time in their marriage, and she must let nothing spoil the blessed memory.
“Will you be able to visit me at Clydebank after you have seen your father? How long do you expect to be in Tiverton?”
“I do not know. I may be reduced to the subterfuge of inventing a summons from the Government to escape his lectures. I would hope to spend a few days if at all possible.”
“So he is very angry . . . as I took to be the case from Aunt Caroline’s cautions to you. You did not tell me what was in his letter.”
“Oh, nothing significant.”
“Nothing? From your countenance after you had received the missive I supposed that the Marquess had written a great deal . . .
and none of it to your liking.”
“He was displeased―I do not deny that. We did rather take everyone by surprise. But he understands the importance of your work and I am sure he will not complain if it may be some time before we will be able to visit him together.”
“He did not direct words of dissatisfaction toward me?”
“Dissatisfaction? How could he?” Lord Bond stared right into her face. “He has never met you but has heard nothing but praise from his correspondents in the Admiralty.”
“That is true? A number of people have given me reason to believe the opposite.”
“They are not family. They do not know the Old Man as I do.”
“Perhaps . . . I suppose so.”
“Of course it is so. He may want to know what you bring into the marriage. He, of course, is concerned about the pecuniary arrangements we made before we married.
“It seems that I recall there were none.”
“Of course not, and I will be sure to impress that upon him.”
“He supposes that I married you for your title and fortune?”
“He has said nothing of the sort.”
“But he knows that we Stephensons are related to absolutely no families in Northumberland he would recognise―not even in the most distant of poor lineages.”
“He mentioned no Northumberland families. Please, Roberta . . . Darling of my heart . . . do not fret. I will give a good accounting to him and settle his concerns to both our satisf―”
Captain McNab spoke from outside the carriage. “The train is aboot ta leave, M’Lord. Ye have nay mour than five minutes.”
“Thank you, Captain. Lady Bond is about to dismount.”
They kissed one more time, tenderly and with deep sighs and caresses. Then Roberta straightened her dress and had her husband help her step down onto the carriage step. She was warmed by his embrace but felt pleased to be on her way to Clydebank where all her problems were straightforward and amenable to her correction.
To Be Concluded in Secrets & Scandals Fall 2015
About the Author
Christopher Hoare was born in Britain three months before WWII started. Later, that resulted in a scholarship place for secondary education under the Butler Education Act and eventually to some engineering training at a Ministry of Supply establishment. While he appreciated the training, he really wanted to be a writer so he left halfway through the course for a stint in the Artillery, and then in the N. African oilfields, followed by a move to Canada and work in the Arctic and Northern bush. He had intended moving on but met his wife of 43 years and is still here–diligently writing at last, and turning all the life experience into somewhat contrarian fiction.
Most of his published novels four out of six have early steam power as a factor in the plot, and he claims his previous work experience with gear manufacture, steam generators, and steam powered utilities makes him almost a founding father of Gear-heads.
Spies and Subterfuge Page 24
