by Amelia Smith
“But why? Why now?”
He wondered how much to tell her. There was no reason not to tell her all; there was so little to tell.
“There was a man in India, a Frank Churchill, who broke away from the Company to trade with the king of Sikkim. I believe he recognized your necklace from the descriptions of it – he thinks it's one which the Company, or one of their agents, stole from the Sikkimese some time ago. I saw him staring at you, at the ball. Well, he wasn't staring at you, only at your necklace. He even said to me that he thought it was Sikkimese, that it must be something called the Star of Kanchen, that the Company had lost a treaty over it.”
“But why would he steal? Surely a gentleman who was invited to that ball wouldn't be so desperate,” Hyacinth said.
Thomas shook his head. “No, there's plenty of desperation in London ballrooms, even in the finest houses. You'd learn that if you stayed. In any case, Churchill is not a gentleman, not in any sense, not even by birth. He's a tradesman, through and through. All he seems to care for are profit and his own advantage. Though I don't know him well, I do know the covetous look he had when he saw you that night. I wouldn't put it past him to pose as a highwayman, and what kind of fool wears a cotton coat in the English winter, except maybe a fool who's been in the tropics too long?”
“You really think he was the highwayman?” Hyacinth said.
“I do. And I think he's going to take that necklace to India on the first ship he can get passage on. He was fairly bouncing away to the docks when I saw him last, just before I rode for home. I should have known!” He made a fist, and looked around for something to punch. Hyacinth had risen to her feet.
“But there was no way to know, and why was it so important?” Hyacinth said. “Was it stolen to begin with? And how did my grandmother come to get it?”
Thomas looked for his coat. Hyacinth followed him into the hall.
“The Company has stolen any number of things,” he said as he strode towards the door. “It was one of the things I never quite made my peace with. I don't know the details, but I can find out.” He found his coat and pulled it on. The servants were nowhere to be seen.
“Surely he will have sailed already?” Hyacinth said.
“Possibly,” Thomas agreed, “but it only becomes likelier the longer I wait.”
Hyacinth put her hand on his arm, stopping him. “Don't go,” she said. Her eyes were beseeching, and very clear, clear still pools that he wished he could fall into. She was, despite her maid and the other servants in the house, quite alone here. She needed protection, protection from the likes of Mr. Churchill, who would only see her jewels or her fine estate, and want it for themselves.
“I don't want to leave you,” he said sadly, “but I can fix this. If anyone can, I can. I don't know if anyone else in London knows enough about Churchill's plans, or has the authority to have him stopped.”
“I don't care about the necklace,” Hyacinth said. “I mean, if it was stolen to begin with, maybe my grandmother's patron left it with her merely to hide it. Maybe it's better off in India, or Sikkim.”
“It may be better off there,” Thomas said, “but not if it benefits that scoundrel!” He strode to the door, but paused before opening it. “I'm glad he didn't hurt you,” he said, “but I have to go now. I have to set this right. When I come back, I'm never leaving you again. Ever.”
Hyacinth's jaw dropped. Even with her mouth gaping open, she looked more beautiful than any woman he'd ever seen, anywhere. Then she flung herself at him and he was enveloped in violet silk and a gentle perfume of muguet and tea. She tipped her head back, and her lips parted again, this time in invitation. He took it. He took her mouth, her head, her body into his embrace and wanted to take her completely, but not here, not now. He kissed her, lips touching, then crushing, then just barely probing with his tongue until he opened his eyes. She was gazing at him again, in something like surrender. He broke away.
The cook, for only the cook could be so covered in flour, and brandishing a cleaver, appeared in the doorway along with that gardener, the manager, and two other maidservants.
“We'll not have none of that,” said the cook, “even if you are our own Molly's long-lost brother. You'd best leave now, unless you intend to marry our Miss Grey.”
“I do,” Thomas said. “I do intend to marry her.” He had not quite realized it until just then. He turned to Hyacinth. “If you'll have me?”
“I will,” she promised. Then she backed away. “I'm not so sure about your family, though. And I want to stay here, living in my own house. You'll have to stay here too.”
The prospect of living at Lindley Hall was certainly more cheerful than the idea of living at the derelict, haunted Lawton. “That is thoroughly agreeable to me, even if you do fill the place to the rafters with schoolgirls.”
Hyacinth hugged him again. “You'll really help me with the school?” she asked.
Thomas considered. “I won't stand in your way, and I doubt you'll need my help. Besides, I'll have to spend a good deal of time at Lawton, even though it belongs to my mother by rights and she has a good bit of life in her yet.”
The gardener harrumphed. “I'll just walk you in to the village, then, see that you have the banns read.” He looked about him, as if searching for a cattle-prod to coax Thomas on his way, should he prove reluctant.
“In Grantley?” Thomas said. He looked at Hyacinth, who was at least as startled as he was. “I'd thought that maybe we'd marry in London, at Saint James. I was just going to ride there on... other business. I might as well.”
The servants stepped closer, somewhat menacing in their unity. “You might skip out,” the cook said. “We can't have that.”
Hyacinth gasped. “Oh, no. I don't want a Society wedding. Unless you think we need to?”
“No,” Thomas said. “We don't need to. Society can gossip in our absence.” He exhaled. “Grantley it is, then.”
“You'd best go, too, Miss,” the cook said, “to be sure of him.”
Hyacinth nodded. “I'll just change into my walking boots.”
“And I'll get...” Thomas began. He muffled a curse. “I don't have Polaris. I meant to ride to London immediately.”
“Well, you'll just have to wait for your sister to bring him back, then, won't you?” Hyacinth said. She squeezed Thomas's hand, then ran up to her room, taking the steps two at a time.
#
By the time they reached the village church, Molly had ridden through on her way to Lawton, taking her mother with her to say their farewells to the dissolute and dying lord of the manor. The village was abuzz, almost as if they were expected. A crowd of curious onlookers followed them to the rectory, whispering amongst themselves.
Thomas and Hyacinth set a wedding date in the middle of March. They wrote letters to their relations in London, and Hyacinth wrote to her father in Gibraltar.
“Shall we wait for Molly to return?” Hyacinth asked, when their letters were sealed and waiting for the post.
“No,” Thomas said. “Let's walk back home.”
They spent the rest of the day together, talking about the future. By the time Molly returned to Lindley hall, dusk had settled over the valley, and Polaris was growing tired. Thomas would have to stay the night.
Hyacinth went down to the kitchen to discuss arrangements with Sarah.
“I'll put him in the brown bedroom. It's just upstairs from your grandmother's old room,” Sarah said with a wink. Hyacinth looked at her dumbly. “So you can visit him if you like. Through the secret passage beside the chimney!” Sarah said, as if it were obvious to anyone. “You really are an innocent.”
“But we're not married yet!” Hyacinth gasped.
Sarah rolled her eyes. “You're engaged. It's nearly as good, and we'll hunt him for a scoundrel if he cries off. Go on, have a bit of fun!”
Hyacinth felt quite out of her depth. “I'll consider that,” she said.
#
At dinner, Hyacinth sat a
t one end of a long table while Thomas sat at the far end, as if he were already her husband. Sarah had set out an admirable repast, centered around a roast goose, with apple pie from Lindley's own orchards. They spoke in pleasantries, but silences stretched between them.
“Are you quite certain?” Hyacinth asked him, after one long pause.
Thomas's mouth was full. He finished chewing and swallowed before he answered. “About marrying you? I'm not sure I've ever been so certain about anything in my life.”
“What if you want to go back to India?”
“You can come with me. I think Mrs. Owen is quite looking forward to having a school here, and she has the makings of a headmistress, if you ask me.”
Hyacinth thought about that. “What do you know of headmistresses?”
“That they should be a bit like headmasters, and I knew the one at Eton, when I was a boy. She could stand up well enough to them, I think.”
“To an Eton headmaster?” The thought was a bit dizzying. “That's high praise.”
“We'll have time to see if she measures up, though I'd wager that she will.” Thomas tucked back in to his dinner. “Your cook makes an excellent roast.”
#
That night, Hyacinth couldn't sleep. Outside, the snow clouds scattered and the stars shone through. The moon climbed up over the hills. Hyacinth lit a candle and took out one of her grandmother's journals, one from the time when she was in London, just before she became Bereford's mistress.
I cannot, I cannot, I cannot. He says he means to marry me, but why would he? He is a merchant's son, and wealthy enough to keep a wife, but not to keep a mistress, too, and he cannot really want me for a wife. Oh, how I long for him! But I cannot. I must go and find another patron before I am too old.
There was a tear stain on the page. Hyacinth wondered if her grandmother had regretted that always. She wondered how her grandmother, having suffered so much at the hands of men, could still long for one, even knowing what they were like. She didn't know what they were like. Even Sarah's cheery, “Have a bit of fun,” frightened her. She did long for Thomas, but beyond a kiss, what was it that she longed for?
She sat for a long time, holding the old leather-bound journal, its spine worn smooth by careful hands and time. An owl called out in the night. Hyacinth gathered a wrap around her and carried the candle to her grandmother's bedchamber.
It was easy enough to find the catch beside the fireplace, an irregular bit of molding shaped like a flattened rose. The panel swung out easily, revealing a dark stair climbing up, and descending in the opposite direction, towards the lake. She sheltered the candle's flame against the draught and took one tentative step up, then another and another, until she reached the next landing. The wall was smooth, no obvious catch. She felt around, searching for the way to open it, to enter Thomas's room. At the top, there was a gap with a loose bit of wood. She prodded it, but nothing happened. She ran her hand down the side, finding the hinges, then tried the other side, but again, there was nothing. Her heartbeat quickened as something scurried on the stair above. A rat? She fumbled along the wall.
She knocked the candle over.
She screamed.
“What in blazes?” Thomas's voice came from the other side of the wall, sleepy and half-aware.
“In here!” Hyacinth cried.
“Where?”
She could hear him scramble out of bed, the creak of the floorboards as his feet hit the floor, a muffled grunt as he stumbled. She knocked against the wall.
“Where are you?” he demanded.
“Here,” Hyacinth called. “Inside the wall. Beside the fireplace. I can't find the catch.”
“The catch?” Thomas said. “What are you doing in there?”
“Trying to come see you?” she said.
“That's charming, but would be much more charming if you weren't trapped in the wall.”
The rat scuttled past her feet. Hyacinth shrieked.
“What is it?”
“A rat, I think,” Hyacinth squeaked. “Just get me out of here. Look for a rose, or something, in the molding. The one downstairs works just by pushing it.”
“I'm looking,” Thomas said. There was a moment, a very long moment, of silence as he searched. “That's got to be it,” he said. “Stand back!”
Hyacinth tripped, falling back straight onto the fallen candle, and its puddle of hot wax on the stone, which melted through her night rail, burning her posterior. She gasped.
Slowly, creakily, the panel swung open. She looked up at Thomas, silhouetted in moonlight.
He swept her into his arms, and muttered a tiny oath as the last of the candle's warmth curled the hair on his strong, bare arm. He carried her out of the secret passage and deposited her unceremoniously on the bed. He stood looking down at her.
“How did you come to be in the chimney?” he asked, looking into her eyes. He was naked, absolutely and completely naked, despite the cold.
“You see,” Hyacinth blushed. She turned half away, hiding her face in shadow. “It's just that I'm not sure, about... about that thing. That we're supposed to get married first. Oh, I'm making a muddle of it.”
He sat beside her. “You're afraid of it, of sex, so you go climbing in secret passageways?”
Hyacinth nodded. “It's ridiculous. Also I don't like rats. I especially don't like rats.”
“You could have come in by the door.”
“You probably locked it. And I wasn't sure I wanted anyone to know.”
“They're all asleep, aren't they?” Thomas said. He stretched out beside her, every inch of his bare flesh. She'd never seen anything like him, his nakedness. Apart from prints of statues, and some antiquities here and there. But those weren't alive, and Thomas most definitely was – alive, that is, and the part between his legs larger than any on a statue, and getting larger by the heartbeat.
“Maybe I'd better go,” she said.
“No, stay,” he said. “Unless you don't want to.”
“I do want to stay, but...”
“Don't be afraid,” he said. “There's no need to be afraid. I haven't been with a woman in so long, I'm not sure I can remember what to do, myself.”
“I can't believe that,” Hyacinth said.
“Well, would you help me remember? Or rather, discover it all again?”
“I would, but...”
“But we won't... I'll be sure I don't get you with child, not yet.”
Hyacinth gulped. “Yes, definitely not yet.”
“I want to enjoy your company for myself, for a while,” he said.
“So don't go to London?” she said. “You know, I want you to be safe, too.”
He pulled away slightly and looked curiously at her. “That's a very dear thought, but I'm not a boy, and I don't like what that man has done. If anyone harms you, they must not escape.”
“Still,” she said, “I wouldn't like to see you harmed.”
“I'm sure I won't be,” Thomas said. “He's not that clever.”
“Though he must be desperate,” Hyacinth said.
Thomas shrugged. “I'll be back just as soon as I can, I promise,” he said. He settled back on the coverlet and reached for her hand. “Now. How shall we begin?” he asked. Not waiting for an answer, he raised himself up on one elbow and leaned over to kiss her on the lips, before she could think of words to say, let alone speak. She tried to sit up, too, but he pushed her gently back down onto the bed. He loomed over her.
“Allow me,” he said. She nodded. He kissed her again, then his mouth began a long journey down, tickling her jaw, lingering on her neck, her collarbone, slipping beneath her thin night rail and down to her breast. He looked up to her eyes again and she tried to speak, but something quickened in her heart, lower, in her belly and between her legs, and all she could do was to let out a tiny squeak. He pulled her up from the bed, pressing her against his long, hard self, and worked one hand under the hem of her night rail, feeling her legs, the whole, pale length o
f them, lifting the fabric up until he clasped her buttocks.
“Are you sure?”
She gulped and nodded.
“I don't know that I'll be able to stop myself. I want you.”
“And I want you.”
“I have from the first moment I saw you,” he said.
“You intrigued me,” she said.
“I hope I can do more than that.” With one fluid motion, he undressed her, ripping the thin garment over her head and throwing it on the floor. His nakedness, now that she was naked too, seemed to take on more luster in the moonlight. Her nipples hardened as the air teased them, a draught blowing in from the window. Outside, an owl hooted.
“Let me see you,” she said, getting up from the bed and leading him farther into the light.
He groaned. “I want to bury myself in you.”
“Do.” She drew him over to the window and touched him, as his lips had touched her, splaying her hands on his chest, so muscular, strong.
“Lower,” he said.
Her hands fell, skimming over his midriff to the joint of his hips, where the sparse hairs grew into a thicket.
“Yes, there. Touch me.”
And she did. Her fingertips reached his member, its surface velvety, surging up as she wrapped her hand around it.
He grunted, a primal sound, and flattened her against him. He picked her up and threw her on the bed, landing with a creak as the ropes strained beneath her. “Now,” he said.
He took her mouth in his again while one hand pushed up between her thighs, parting her, dividing her, pushing into the soft, warm place between her thighs, grown slick with anticipation. His other hand released her head and teased one nipple. He looked into her eyes once more, and then bent down to kiss her neck. She almost screamed, but he muffled the sound with another kiss as the head of his erect member pushed against her.
“Go gently?” she said.
“I'm trying.” He almost whimpered when he said it, and then... “Oh, god.”
A sharp pain, over almost as soon as it had started, and he was inside her, sliding into her, taking her. She drew him in closer. “More,” she said.
He nodded, and gave himself into her, more and more until they both erupted in ecstasy, dripping in perspiration, moonlight and winter air still teasing their bodies as they lay entwined.
