Salt Redux

by Lucinda Brant

  Without a word spoken, the chairmen lifted up the poles and transported the sedan chair back to Grosvenor Square. Admittance to the Earl of Salt Hendon’s house by a sleepy porter under the vigilant eye of two burly footmen was a mere formality. The front door bolted on the world and the servants, who knew the meaning of the word inconspicuous, opened the sedan chair door before returning to their posts for the night, the female given the privacy to exit in her own good time.

  Four years had come and gone since Diana St. John had been within the walls of this illustrious establishment, so she took a moment to breathe in the rarefied air. With smug satisfaction, she recalled the layout of the house. Every opulent room with its tasteful decoration and furnishings, every wide corridor and candlelit vestibule, was burned so deeply into her mind’s eye that, if required, she could find her way blindfolded.

  What disturbed her, and had eaten her up in her captivity, was that she was unfamiliar with the suite of rooms she most needed to know intimately, if she were to successfully carry out her plan of wiping the Countess’s offspring from the face of the earth. No matter how many vivid dreams she had of Salt House, of her presiding over it as if she were indeed its mistress, none of her dreams were ever of the nursery. She had only ever visited that most hateful of spaces the once, and that on sufferance. The existence of a nursery at Salt House consumed and tormented her in her incarceration, for it represented the Earl’s future, a future without her.

  Still wearing her red wool cape, its hood up over her hair, Diana St. John made her way to this most hateful of places.

  TWENTY

  ‘WHEN YOU SAY you are a habitual drunkard, does that mean you are drunk all the time?”

  Caroline was leaning back against the polished headboard of Antony’s bed, having made herself comfortable amongst the down pillows, fine linen sheet and embroidered coverlet drawn up to cover her crossed legs. In her lap was a small lacquered chinoiserie tray that had upon it a saucer and a small plate with discarded lemon slice and a silver spoon. The porcelain teacup she held in two hands, and sipped at the hot sweet brew from time to time while they talked.

  “I was. I was drunk all the time,” Sir Antony replied to her solemn enquiry. “I may not have appeared so, but I cannot recall a day when I did not drink beyond what was necessary.”

  “But everyone drinks.”

  “Not the way I did. Not all day, every day. Not to the point where you cannot recall what you did that morning, least of all the day before!”

  “And now you do not drink at all?”

  “I do not drink anything that has been distilled, fermented or that can intoxicate.”

  “Nothing of that kind—ever?”

  “Not a drop.”

  “So what do you drink?”

  He smiled and lifted his porcelain teacup.

  Caroline frowned. “Just tea? Nothing else?”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised what there is to drink that does not contain spirits: Tea, coffee, chocolate, cordials, distilled water… And then there is Prince Mikhail’s special wine.”

  “Special wine? What is so special about it?”

  “I should say it is the bottles that contain the special wine that make it special. It is not actually wine in the bottles,” he explained, “merely flavored distilled water. I have a dozen of the bottles in my cellar. When required, I drink only from those bottles. It is a neat trick and allows me to indulge with my fellows without actually drinking wine.”

  “When will you be cured?”

  He hesitated to respond and took his time to add and then stir half a teaspoon of sugar into his tea, finally leaving the tea trolley to sit on the edge of the bed near her. He felt battered and bruised, and the tea, his second cup, helped to quiet his heart, which was beating too hard in his chest. He had laid bare his soul, confessed his drunken past, all of it, to Caroline, and she had listened without comment, as he had asked her to. Naturally, she now had questions that needed answers, and the one question, the question she had just asked him, was the hardest of all to answer. It required that he tell her what was in store for their future. He prayed she would still say yes to marrying him. Would she consider sharing her life with a habitual drunkard any better than being married to a consumptive narcissist prone to temper tantrums?

  He reached out and took hold of her hand and looked into her green eyes. Best to be direct—how else could he tell her?

  “There is no cure. I will be a drunkard for the rest of my life.”

  “But… You do not get drunk anymore. You have stopped drinking…”

  “That does not mean I do not want to drink, or that I won’t get drunk in the future,” he explained. “The craving is always with me. It never goes away.”

  Caroline frowned. “How do you know it won’t go away? How do you know that you can’t just have one small drink and stop?”

  “A habitual drunk cannot stop at just one drink. It is all or nothing.”

  “But… How do you know? Perhaps it will go away?” she asked hopefully. “Mayhap one day you will wake up and you will no longer have the craving?”

  He shook his head.

  “Caro, listen to me. It is important you realize what I am, and that this is how it will be every day… This is how it will be for us, if you do marry me. Remember I told you about how His Highness Prince Mikhail helped me when I was at my lowest? He was able to help me because he, too, is a habitual drunkard. He recognized in me the same signs. He allowed me to see to what depths a drunkard will stoop, all to find the next drink. He paid a high price before he came to his senses and realized that if he did not stop drinking he would be dead, and before his sons were out of leading strings!

  “One night he was found frozen in the streets. His heart was barely beating. His frostbite was so severe, surgeons had to operate. Two fingers from his left hand and three toes from his right foot went black and turned gangrenous, so they had to be removed. But he was thankful to be alive. He did not want me to suffer a similar fate before I came to my senses. He convinced me to accept his help and counseling, and so it is to Misha—His Highness—that I owe my life, this new life I now lead. He has managed to control his craving for alcohol for almost a decade, which is a feat in itself, but not without the support of his wife, his sister, and the vigilance of his minders.”

  “Minders?”

  “Servants trained to be on the alert for signs of weakness. If their master lapses, they have his written permission and full pardon to lock him away until he regains mastery of himself and over his cravings. It is a drastic measure, but it is effective.”

  “You have such servants, such minders, too?”

  “Yes. Five of the Russians who came with me to England are highly trained, trained to watch me, to watch for signs of weakness, and if I lapse, to act, and act swiftly. They have the same written permission and full pardon should they decide it is necessary to lock me away against my will. They will treat me and care for me until such time as I am fit company for others. No one must interfere with the treatment…”

  “You mean your wife and family must not interfere.”

  “Yes. Have no fear; I cannot be locked up on a whim. All five must agree the treatment is necessary. One cannot act without the others, and four cannot act without the fifth. Caro, you must understand, as surely as night follows day, there will come a day when I will lapse. The compulsion is at times unbearable, but so far I have managed to control my craving.”

  Caroline squeezed his fingers. “I think I understand… I do not like the idea of you being locked up, of needing treatment. And I will fret terribly until you are well again, but I would never interfere in what is best for you…”

  He kissed her hand. “Thank you.”

  “The bearded footmen who brought the tea trolley to the saloon… The one who picked me up and brought me to your dressing room… They are your minders?”

  “Yes.” He smiled thinly. “I had hoped that despite being Russians, they would blend in to
my household dressed in livery.” He gave a laugh. “Little did I realize that five minutes out of ’Petersburg and they threw away their razors. The wearing of beards is forbidden in ’Petersburg by Imperial decree but the rest of Russia ignores the edict. I cannot force them to shave, nor would I want to. Facial hair, it seems, is part of their natural way of life. So I shall be the only English lord with hirsute footmen!”

  “Oh, I think they look splendid with their beards. It lends an exoticism to your household.” She dimpled. “You should dress them in a different livery to the other footmen. Give them gold braid and colored stockings. Make them special. Make them appear as your household guards. Which, if you think about it, is what they are. They certainly look the part, being so wide and tall. And when we travel from one Continental embassy to another, we will be talked about, if for no other reason than our bearded household guard. We may even start a fashion for hairy footmen!”

  “So my kisses meet with your approval? Or was it something else in particular about my person which decided you to accompany me on my next posting…?”

  She kept her lashes lowered, though she could not stop the heat glowing in her cheeks. “Your kisses make me tingle—”

  “Do they?”

  “—all over. And the something—”

  “Something?”

  “—the something in particular is not what you think! Though what I will say about that other particular something is that you don’t need my compliments, because I am certain there are other women, with far more experience, who have praised you without exaggeration.”

  “Praised me? About my short-cropped hair?” he responded with a feigned questioning frown.

  “Your hair?” It was her turn to frown. “Do you let other women see you without your wig? No! Do not answer that! It is not my business, it is yours, and I—”

  “—will be the only woman from this day forward who will have that privilege. You seemed inordinately pleased with my natural head of hair, so despite the urge to want to cover my exposed head with a cap in company, I have not, for you.”

  “Oh! Oh! Yes! I was—”

  “The particular something you were referring to is my scalp sans wig?”

  “Yes! Of course!” she said in a rush, more flustered than ever.

  When he smiled and winked more color rushed up into her face realizing his playful ruse. She smiled, not at all made uncomfortable. In fact she was surprised to find herself overwhelmed by a sense of complete happiness. For the first time in many years, gone was the uncertainty and heartache. She was content and with contentment came an awareness of how comfortable she felt propped up against soft downy pillows in Antony’s bed. She imagined this was how it would be when they were married. She wanted to snuggle down under the covers with his arms and body wrapped around her to fall into a deep satisfied sleep. Sleep. She suddenly realized she was very tired, for it must be well into the small hours of the night.

  Yet there were a few questions remaining to be asked, and she wanted him to answer them now, while he was comfortable sharing confidences. He had been so candid about his affliction, something of which she had been totally unaware, and it had provided her with answers to past behavior that was so out of character for the Antony she knew and loved. She admired his bravery at opening up his soul to her, and because he had done so, because he was her best friend and she loved him, it was only right that she share his burden.

  “Tell me about the tea,” she asked quietly. “Is that what helps stop you wanting to drink those substances that harm you?”

  “It is the ritual that goes into the making of the perfect cup of tea that helps me overcome my craving,” he explained. “Every time I make a cup of tea I follow a precise set of steps. Each step closer to the perfect cup of tea is a step away from wanting a glass of wine, or that drop of brandy.”

  “Yes. I can see how you become absorbed in the ritual. How you make your tea is very calming,” she replied with a smile and stifled a yawn.

  He grinned. “Is calming another word for boring? Am I sending my lady to sleep?”

  “No! Don’t fun!” she pouted. “It’s late and I’m sleepy…” She put aside her teacup to lie back amongst the pillows. “I like the way you make your tea. I like watching your ritual. I watched you today in the saloon and you followed precisely the same steps now as you did then. Every little detail is the same. For example, the handles of the teacups are all angled to the left, while the spoons rest on the saucer on the right.”

  He smiled. “You are observant. Ritual is what helps me maintain my sobriety. There are other aspects of my life to which I apply ritual. It all helps to distract me, allowing me to concentrate on what is most important in my life.”

  Caroline snuggled under the covers and looked up at him with a coquettish smile. “Am I important in your life, my lord?”

  He put up an eyebrow. “Need you ask?”

  “Of course. I will never stop tiring of hearing you say it.”

  “Do you know who finally stopped me drinking?”

  She shook her head, though she tensed with anticipation of his answer.

  “Misha opened my eyes and gave my compulsion a name. He made me come to terms with what I really am, to stare myself in the looking glass and say I am a habitual drunkard. But I still had to want to turn my life around, to have a reason to change, to change for the better.”

  “Tell me,” she murmured. “What was your reason?”

  He answered without hesitation.

  “You, Caro. I wanted to be able to ask you to marry me with a clean heart and a clear mind.” He huffed. “I managed to do that, even if I made a muddle of the delivery.”

  She shook her head, tears in her eyes.

  “No. No. You said it beautifully. You asked me to marry you as I always dreamed you would. It was perfect. I was the one who spoiled it for you—for us—I made a muddle of it!”

  He looked down at her hand in his, and said with a note of sadness, “I made the decision to stop drinking before I knew you had married Aldershot. When I discovered you were the wife of another, that you could not be mine… I almost gave up. I seriously considered being drunk for the rest of my life preferable to living a sober life with you married to another—”

  “Oh, Antony, no.”

  “But then I realized that if I could not remain sober for my own self-esteem, what sort of man was I? I feared that if I reverted to my drunkard ways and returned to England to find you happily married, possibly with children, I would never control my addiction.”

  “But you have returned, and I am no longer married, I have no children and you are in control, so there is no reason for you to be fearful, is there?”

  He smiled at the note of optimism in her voice and hopped off the bed. He picked up the little lacquered tray holding their empty teacups, and stood looking down at her for a moment.

  “I realized something else while staring into that looking glass… A life lived without sharing it with the one you love is a life only half lived…” He made her a quaint little bow of the head. “Please excuse me for a moment while I clear away the tea things…”

  He took his time, stacking the clean plates, rinsing the teacups and the silver spoons with hot water from the samovar, and then carefully wiping the items dry before returning each to their allotted places on the tea trolley. The used sodden tea leaves were tipped into a tall porcelain jar with fitted lid, and the two teapots rinsed and replaced on their respective stands. He next cleaned the blue and white porcelain tea strainer and set it aside, before wiping his hands dry on a towel that he then folded and returned to its hook affixed to the side of the trolley. Confident the tea service was ready and prepared for his next cup of tea, he left the tea trolley and returned to his bed.

  Caroline was sound asleep. He knew she would be. He had taken his time, time enough to make certain that try as she might to stay awake, she would not be able to fight her need to close her heavy eyelids and fall into a deep sleep. W
ith his hands in the pockets of his silk banyan he watched her. He still found it hard to believe Caroline was in his bed, that it was her bright red hair that tumbled across his white linen pillows.

  Earlier, when he had first come through to his bedchamber after depositing Boots the pug with his majordomo, his overwhelming urge was to throw off his banyan, help Caroline out of her thin nightgown with its pretty lace border to hem and neckline, toss her naked onto his bed and kiss her all over. He would make love to her as many times as she desired; prove to her he could make her happier than any other man alive. Instead he had curbed his overwhelming desire and calmly made them both a cup of tea.

  It wasn’t that the confession and the late hour had drained desire. He was no less desirous of making love to her; his body offered him stark evidence of that. It was something less tangible but no less real to him. Was it pride? Honor? Self-conceit? Whatever name it went by, it demanded he remain true to his code of gentlemanly conduct. Maintaining his honor was as important to him as breathing. Without it he was no gentleman. He would not cheapen the ultimate intimate experience between a couple in love that should begin on their wedding night and not before. And so he tenderly brushed a long curl of silken red hair from Caroline’s cheek, softly kissed her forehead, tucked her up properly under the coverlet and retired to his dressing room. An uncomfortable night spent on his chaise longue was a small price to pay for a clear conscience and untroubled sleep.

  He woke two hours later, bathed in a cold sweat, dreaming, not of his adored Caroline asleep in his bed in the next room, but of his sister, and he knew with depressing certainty he would never have the life he dreamed of with Caroline until Diana was dealt with, once and for all time.

  Earlier that day, his sister had snatched from him the invitation to attend the Salt masquerade, eyes glittering with triumph. She proudly showed the gilt-edged card to Lady Dalrymple and Mrs. Smith. Not surprisingly, conversation throughout dinner and later, over coffee and macaroons in the Etruscan Saloon, was all about the masquerade ball, from what to wear, to who would be attending and the need to spend the few days leading up to the ball engaged in fittings for their costumes and visiting their friends also on the guest list.