Dangerous to Know

by Christina Boyd (ed)

  * * *

  The path between the main doors on Drury Lane and the stage door had become well familiar to me. In the se’nnight, I had seen Shrew three times, and yet my interest in it was not sated. It had become like a poem one knows by heart or a passage from the bible to be savoured. Words like instinct on the tongue, feet forming patterns on the stage, the same routines repeated. For that evening’s performance, I was alone in my box, and I did not care who saw me or what they may speculate. As had become customary, and as was warming to my heart, as she spoke her final line, Miss Light looked up at me and me alone. The look was fleeting, but it was there. I had developed a practice of bringing a small bunch of flowers with me to the stage door by way of greeting, and she had received these gifts with a happy countenance. I recalled showering my late wife with gifts that I could ill afford, before and during our engagement. Trinkets, silk shawls, leather bound books she had heard tell of. It was not that I did not give with every good intention—for I did. My late wife was a pleasant young woman who deserved good treatment and received it well. But I would never have shown myself to her in this way. I would never have appeared in the dark with a bunch of valueless flowers or a piece of cake because I knew she would be hungry. A dark idea sounded in my mind, like an alarm in the distance. Was I showing too much of myself? I did not believe I was. My instincts for the motivations of others had always been excellent. And though Sarah Light was a woman and an actress, born far below me, I was certain she was an honourable being.

  She appeared when I had been waiting only for minutes and a smile lit on her face at the sight of me. The gaslight of the street flickered on us both and on the morass of persons who flooded out beside her. Judging from their demeanour, I judged them preparing to enjoy the freedoms of the night. Miss Light looked beautiful but tired.

  “Mr. Elliot! What a treat.”

  “Miss Light.” I bowed to her and kissed the warm skin of her hand. She should have gloves.

  “The treat is mine.” I held out the flowers which she exclaimed over and accepted.

  I had taken to offering her my carriage after her performance, in order that she may travel in comfort to whatever social occasion she was due to attend. The life of an actress, I discovered, did not cease when the curtain fell but poor Miss Light was frequently obliged to attend all manner of events afterwards. On this evening, she took my arm in the darkness as I moved to offer her a seat in the carriage.

  “Mr. Elliot, do you think that we may walk and take the air for a moment? The theatre has been stifling hot and I believe I should like to walk with you in the cool. If you can spare the time, that is?”

  She looked at me enquiringly, even pleadingly. She had not yet realised I would do anything she asked, and that must be a blessing.

  “Of course.” I began to stride with her by my side. I could feel her skirts against my legs in the dark street and inside, I soared. We walked for some time in companionable silence as the din of the city at night roared about us. My carriage moved beside our shadows on the road like a loyal dog. There were some women as would not do this. I thought immediately of my late mother, of my quivering cousins at Kellynch. But Miss Light was not like them; she feared nothing.

  “I apologise for this odd break from tradition, sir. But this evening I am not of a mind for company and, since I have no party to attend or dinner to reach before the dawn, I cannot ask you to escort me there. And thinking, Mr. Elliot, that I did not wish to lose my time with you, I formed the idea of us walking together for a time.”

  “Of course. I am more than content. It is not my choice to spend every evening at parties, Miss Light.”

  “Really?” She wore a surprised expression and playfully brushed the front of my waistcoat. “Is that not exactly what fashionable young men such as yourself live for?”

  “Not this one, I assure you. I have seen enough gaming hells and debauches to know that I need not seek them out on a regular basis. There was a time when I said nay to nothing, no wine was too rich, no loss too much. But not now. My friends, I cannot speak for.”

  She laughed gently and I could see her breath in the chilly night air.

  “Yes. Mr. Carruthers and Mr. Carnaby are amusing gentlemen. But what they possess in joie de vivre, they lack in maturity, if I do not say too much?”

  “No, of course not. You are perfectly right.”

  It occurred to me that Carnaby for one may not even understand her, still less be offended. We walked on, in perfect step for some streets, passing all manner of ne’er do wells and questionable characters. I felt somehow, that although I am in the heart of Town, I had walked many leagues from my home. I had turned a corner and seen a new world but not yet stepped into it. A force greater than me was pulling me harder, harder into the unknown and I do not know as I could resist, or even wished to. I had tasted but not swallowed. I felt her dear arm tighten on mine and an almost inaudible sigh escaped her mouth.

  “Miss Light, are you chilled? We can take the carriage. I cannot have you catching a chill on my account. Let me escort you back to your lodgings if you have no engagements this evening or back to the theatre if you have made other arrangements.”

  Her fingers, that had been lightly laid upon my arm like a limp bunch of flowers began to caress my sleeve as she looked up.

  “Thank you. It has grown rather chill, and I would be in such trouble if I became ill. Maybe a trip in your carriage would be agreeable. But please, may I go back to my lodgings, not the theatre. Everyone will be gone by now, and I have my belongings.”

  She patted her reticule as though it were a much loved pet and smiled sweetly.

  “Certainly, let us go.”

  I commanded the carriage to stop which it did, but as I reached for the door, her voice came forth behind me.

  “There is one request I have though, before we set off. I appreciate your manners, sir. Indeed, I believe you must be the most gentlemanly man of my acquaintance. I know so many men, Mr. Elliot, but you are different. I believe that we are friends.”

  “Of course, we are friends.”

  “I wonder therefore, whether we might allow ourselves the liberty of Christian names? Whether we may be Sarah and William, rather than Miss Light and Mr. Elliot?”

  I had not known what she would ask until she spoke the words but an unexpected joy washed over me and I almost sang my response: “Yes, Sarah.”

  Having given the coachman her address, I handed her into the carriage; its interior even darker than the city outside. Rather than her usual practice of sitting in the middle of the bench, she sat to one side and seeing the invitation, I sat beside her, closer than our bodies had ever been. Rapidly thereafter, the door was closed, the curtain drawn and we rattled through the night, our arms threaded, a sense of complicity rising up inside me faster than I could smell its sweetness. As we neared, she began to look bashful and apologised that her dwelling was not a smart one nor really fit for company. She shared with another girl, also an actress, although she believed her to be out for the evening. My first reaction to this was some degree of anger. Sarah was the finest actress in the company and surely the cause of a significant crowd. She was as hard a worker as any man and more than most. The idea that she was kept in undeserved penury was an offensive one. I assured her that I cared not for the neighbourhood or the structure, as long as I could see her safe at home.

  “Thank you, William,” she said as though she were trying on my new name like a gown.

  We continued in silence, legs touching through layers of fabric and the movement of the carriage bounced us together. I felt a flush to my face and a thrill shot through me each time she moved her hand on my arm. The impropriety of my situation was perfectly plain to me, but nothing would urge me to change it. I felt rather than saw her move. In one movement, and as though it were nothing at all, she removed her bonnet and leaned over to kiss my lips. I have known many women, in respectable moments and otherwise. I have tasted lips and bodies. But I have nev
er felt tenderness of this sort, never been moved to still my person while another takes over. But that is how it was. Her kiss became our kiss and it deepened as she moved her body against mine in the pitch dark of the carriage. At some half-remembered moment, we alighted in some quiet corner, unknown to me. We said nothing, but Sarah laughed as I carried her lithe form up the stairs and we seemed to move through doors and along corridors like phantoms, arriving in her rooms breathless, ruffled, unable to stop even for a moment. The door to her chamber clicked closed behind my back, and my mouth was on hers. Fabrics fell away from bodies, hair pins gave way to flowing tresses, and our breath mingled in the dark. Her bare flesh emerged in the moonlight and dazzled me, so perfect was it. I felt a heat within me and a racing in my belly as I advanced upon her. We fell together onto the soft bed, my hands in her hair and her breast in my mouth like a fruit. She wrapped her legs about me and some colossal force ripped through my being.

  Later, alone beside her sleeping form, I felt a sense of contentment wash over me and remain. I had no idea where I was. The window, which was partially covered, gave onto the street and the slightest shimmer of gaslight threw shadows in the room. It appeared to me small and somewhat sparse. There was nothing there that was smart, nothing suggesting wealth. But the bed was comfortable and my body warm and at ease. Sarah moved slightly in my arms and I beheld her like a jewel. After a moment, I closed my eyes and she surprised me by speaking.

  “Are you comfortable, William?”

  “I could not be more so.” I kissed her head and she pressed her face into my chest before stretching out. “Thank you.”

  “I hope you do not mind the bed. It is less than you are accustomed to, I think?”

  “I certainly do not mind the bed. It is the very best place and I would be nowhere else.”

  The truth was that I cared not a fig for the name of the street or the details of the property. But I did want to know about her. A thirst for knowledge of her swept through me.

  “Another girl from the theatre lodges here, too. Meredith.” She rolled towards me, laughing softly. “She is an agreeable girl. But she is away tonight. Meredith is frequently absent at night. We are comfortable here, but it is not grand, by any means. I would not have led any person of your refinement here if there was not the most fixed friendship between us. But for all that, you are a gentleman. I believe I can trust you.”

  “Of course.” I kissed the top of her head and a wisp of hair stuck to my lips. I had slept in some grand beds, some of them my own, but I did not yearn for them now. Provided that this young woman, Meredith, did not plan on intruding into Sarah’s chamber, I cared not where she was or how she conducted herself. I had a sense of growing intimacy to the woman beside me, of enveloping, and being enveloped. It was bliss.

  “I trust that I am not so pampered, that I cannot go to new places and be content. If a man cannot walk with those who live differently and put them at their ease, then he is no gentleman at all. I have always been convinced of that. In fact, I have enjoyed all my life, the practice of reading people.”

  “Reading people? Like books?”

  “Yes, just so. I try to observe others closely, to see how they think and what motivates them. Everyone has desires, Sarah. One must be alive to them. When you know what a person desires, you know them, and how to approach them.”

  I stroked the silky skin of her arm, thinking on it. Without ever saying it out loud, I had lived my life in this way.

  “For some people, material considerations are paramount. They simply cannot contemplate a life without riches or a world of low connections.”

  I think of many when I said those words, but in particular Sir Walter and his simpering daughter. I can almost see their faces.

  “And you?” Sarah asked, bringing me back to the present.

  “I am wealthy now, but it was not always so. My family are well connected, but my late parents lived modest lives compared to their relations. We did not want for comfort, but on occasion we did want for luxury. Maybe, as a young man, that made me envious. It made me aspire to a different manner of living.”

  “You are a young man now.”

  “Even younger then. I suspect you have heard that I married for money. I know what people believed and what they said. That I was a fortune hunter who pursued a young heiress for the coin in her pocket. The truth is always more complicated than it appears to be, is it not?”

  “It certainly is.”

  “My wife’s money was an element, but it was not the whole. No doubt I was attracted to her way of life, to the idea of provision above that I had always known. But I enjoyed my wife’s company. When we established our connection, I was more than content to spend my days with her, rather than my own family in whose keeping I had been. In fact, the whole thing caused something of a—division—between my cousin, the baronet, and me.”

  “Hmm?” She stroked my chest and looked to me enquiringly.

  “It was around the time I met my wife. We were in Town for the Season and I had been seeing rather a lot of Sir Walter. He is a proud sort of man, very conscious of his own position. It is possible that I had tired somewhat of pandering to him. In any event, he has a number of daughters, but one in particular was in his keeping in those days, Elizabeth, the eldest. At first, I called it accidental, but I soon realised that my cousin promoted the charms of his daughter to me at every opportunity—and she was not above doing so either. At every dinner, she appeared beside me; if there were cards, she would be my partner. That is how it became: a monotony of companionship.”

  Not like this, I thought, but did not say. I recalled for a moment, the feeling of being trapped by Elizabeth Elliot’s permanent presence beside me in those days. How different it is now, to lie beside a woman of my choosing.

  “Our connection soured when my cousin invited me to Kellynch, and I did not go. By that time, I had met my wife and resolved against Elizabeth. I was given to believe that Sir Walter took it rather hard. I believe that he and Elizabeth have despised my very name ever since.”

  “Did she have expectations, do you think?”

  “She may have done. But if she did, it was her father who encouraged her, not I. I never showed my cousin anything more than the niceties of the Season: partnering her to dance, attending them on calls. Merely nothings, whatever may be said. It would have been a convenient match. But we did not suit one another; it was as plain as that. Elizabeth is perfectly presentable, but we are not well matched in anything other than family convenience. As it was, my wife appeared on the scene. We all met her at a ball which she attended with her cousin. Of course, my family took an immediate dislike to her. She was wealthy but of obscure birth. She was not part of their set. As far as they are concerned, there is no greater crime than for people to change places in the world, to rise on a tide of wealth as my wife had. Sir Walter and his family will have explained my marriage by preference to her fortune. But it was not thus. She was a kind, pleasant, comely woman of some humour. And I liked her. We rubbed along contentedly, as a couple must if they are to marry.”

  The fact that I could not quite say “love” did not escape me. I had no wish to lie to her. My aim was to speak of matters exactly as they were. My view was, and remains, that in order to marry a lady, one need not love her, but it is essential to be compatible. The woman beside me shifted and I turned to face her. For a married man to lie with another woman was so commonplace, it was hardly worth remarking. And yet, as I lie there, I could not bear the idea of Sarah thinking ill of me, so I told her.

  “My wife died, Sarah. Some months ago.”

  “I am sorry, William. That is dreadful. Particularly when you were so young.”

  Her words brought me up short and an unexpected emotion powered through me. I had written the announcement for the newspaper myself and it was deliberately anodyne and dignified. Very few people knew that my wife had died miscarrying our child, and I had no intention of that state of affairs changing. In this strang
e world of London society, where everyone knows everything, I was determined to keep that fact concealed. It was a credit to Sarah that she did not ask. Her simple comment, unattended by prying questions, was the greatest comfort.

  “Thank you for saying that. Save for the expressions of regret which those who know me are required to give, I do not believe any other person has used those words. All of my friends and still more my family assumed, I believe, that I was not sorry at all.”

  “Then maybe they have all misunderstood you.”

  And with that, she shifted and kissed my chest, stretching her arms over me like a blanket and arching her back as she sat astride me. The barely discernible grey light of the dawn seeped through the window and a door closed somewhere in the middle distance. All I saw was her body moving against mine, her dark hair falling between us and the world like a screen.

  * * *

  Weeks had passed. Glorious, glittering weeks. Potter took my plate as I placed the letter face down on the breakfast table and leaned back. I had arrived home in the early hours and her scent was still on my skin. I would never have left her but that I had an appointment with my lawyers that morning and a number of duties to undertake. I could hear her laugh in my ear and it warmed me. The last thing I expected was to receive a letter regarding my Elliot cousins and I turned it over and regarded it again. It was from a mutual friend and made for peculiar reading. My esteemed cousin was leasing Kellynch to a naval man and he and his daughters were high-tailing it to Bath, apparently. My friend said nothing of the reasons, which suggests to me that he does not know. But it must have a financial basis. Did Sir Walter leave Kellynch because he can no longer afford to stay? A vision of his pompous face appeared to me and I suppressed the compulsion to laugh. That was more than he would do for me if our roles were reversed. I could not say that I was pleased to read that a stranger and a shipman would be sitting in my family seat as though it were his own, but it is not yet my affair. I resolved to respond to my friend, thanking him for the intelligence and say no more. I assumed that had Sir Walter managed to marry off Elizabeth or his other daughter, I should have heard about it. It occurred to me that they were the sort of people to whom things happened, rather than people who made their own fortune. The more I thought on the subject, the more I was convinced that since I last saw him, Sir Walter has done nothing but spend money, grown vainer still, and failed to marry off his eldest daughters.