Robin Schone

by The Lady's Tutor

  She had discussed her marriage with another man. A man who had said things that no gentleman ever said in front of a lady. Crude words like “bedding” a woman.

  She had spoken of matters and used words that no lady uttered—ever .

  Elizabeth forced herself to walk and not run up the stairs.

  She needed to see her husband.

  She needed him to reassure her that she was still a virtuous, respectable woman.

  Her bedroom adjoined his. She would just peek in to see if he was awake. Then they would have the talk that but for her lack of courage they would have had years before.

  Heart pounding, she gently eased open Edward’s door.

  His room was empty. The starched linen sheets and forest-green-velvet spread were neatly turned down.

  Clearly he had not slept in his bed.

  Moisture burned the backs of her eyelids.

  Softly closing the door—afraid she would jar free the tears that seemed never far from the surface this last week—she turned around . . . and almost died of heart failure.

  A plain, round-faced woman enigmatically smiled across Elizabeth’s unmade bed. “You are up early this morning, Mrs. Petre. I brought you a pot of hot chocolate. Though the worst of winter is over, it is still quite cold outside.”

  Elizabeth took a deep breath to fight down the scream that clamored for release. “Thank you, Emma. That was thoughtful of you.”

  “The dean rang up on the telephone. Young Master Phillip has been at it again.”

  A smile lit Elizabeth’s eyes at mention of her younger son, now in his second term at Eton. Eleven years old, Phillip was bold and bright and she missed him dearly.

  It did not matter that he had not inherited the scholarly abilities of his father and grandfather. He had the gift of laughter. And that, combined with his boyish love of mischief, had afforded Elizabeth ample opportunity these last few months to further her acquaintance with the dean.

  Emma set the silver tray onto the nightstand and arranged its contents to her satisfaction. “The dean talked to Mr. Petre’s secretary.”

  Elizabeth casually crossed the dark blue wool carpet—so very English in comparison to the bright Oriental carpet covering the Bastard Sheikh’s library floor—to her desk. “I see. I suppose Mr. Petre had already left for an appointment.”

  The muted sound of pouring liquid was followed by the overwhelmingly sweet odor of chocolate. “I wouldn’t know, madam.”

  So many lies, Elizabeth grimly thought as she slid the reticule with the forbidden book inside it underneath the rolltop lid of her desk.

  Emma was fully aware that Mr. Petre had not slept in his bed. As, no doubt, were all the other servants.

  How long had they shielded her from the fact that her husband preferred another woman’s bed?

  She peeled off her cloak and bonnet and tossed them onto the ladderback chair in front of her desk. The black gloves followed.

  Silently, she accepted the delicate rose-patterned china cup and matching saucer that Emma offered her. Unable to face the abigail’s knowing eyes, she shied away to stare out the window.

  Pale yellow sunshine shone on a gnarled, lifeless rose garden. Dried-out hay covered the barren ground to protect hidden roots, unattractive but effective.

  The Bastard Sheikh’s voice danced and shimmered inside her head.

  You will find, Mrs. Petre, that when it comes to sexual pleasure, all men are of a certain nature.

  How many times, when she had thought that her husband had merely risen early to attend parliamentary duties, had he in actuality not come home at all?

  She leaned her forehead against the cold glass. Hot steam spiraled up from her cup and fogged the window.

  Today was Monday. Elizabeth was scheduled to tour a hospital at ten and hostess a charity luncheon at twelve. She needed to plan her wardrobe and a short speech, but all she could think about was the empty room adjoining hers.

  What if it weren’t her lack of sexual knowledge that repelled Edward? What if it were . . . she? Her body, her personality, the utter lack of political charisma she had failed to inherit from either her mother or her father?

  A sparrow darted up toward the sky. It carried in its beak a piece of hay to add to its nest.

  Suddenly, Elizabeth knew what she needed.

  She needed to surround herself with a child’s uncomplicated love.

  Or perhaps she needed to make sure that her clandestine meeting with the Bastard Sheikh had not somehow tarnished her relationship with her two sons.

  Elizabeth turned her back onto the lifeless rose garden. “Tell Mr. Petre’s secretary to send a note to The Good Women’s Charity Organization. Tell him to write that I cannot attend the hospital tour or speak at the luncheon because of an unexpected emergency.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  Renewed life flowed through Elizabeth’s veins. Being a desirable wife might be beyond her capabilities, but being a good mother was not.

  She flashed Emma a rare smile. “Have Cook prepare a picnic for two ravenous boys. Then order a carriage to drive me to the train station. I am going to spend the day with my sons.”

  A soft, elusive scent teased her nostrils.

  The perfume.

  “But first I would like you to draw me a bath, please.”

  “Would you care for refreshment, Mrs. Petre?”

  The dean pointedly stared at his ornate gold pocket watch. His neatly trimmed whiskers, silver with age, twitched with annoyance.

  He did not like conducting business with a mere woman, even if that woman was the mother of two of his students. Especially when she had barged in without an appointment.

  Elizabeth smiled, refusing to be intimidated by the older man’s obvious attempts to do just that. Having confronted the Bastard Sheikh, she did not think any man could ever discomfit her again.

  “No, thank you, Dean Whitaker. What has my son done now?”

  “Master Phillip attacked a student at breakfast this morning.” The dean slipped his watch back into his pocket and pinned her with a glare from beneath bushy white brows. “He had to be physically restrained.”

  “And what did this other student do to provoke him?” she asked sharply, her maternal instincts bristling.

  “Master Phillip claims Master Bernard is a Whig, madam, and as such is an outrage to his social conscience.”

  Elizabeth was torn between amusement and shock.

  On the one hand, Phillip had never shown any interest in politics. On the other hand, he had never before engaged in fisticuffs.

  That he would simultaneously develop the two tendencies rang a warning bell inside her head.

  “And what does Master Bernard have to say?” she asked mildly.

  “He does not say, madam. Your son’s shocking display of violence has reduced him to a quivering mass of nerves.”

  Elizabeth surveyed the dean’s outrage for long seconds. Finally, “What form, pray tell, is Master Bernard in?”

  “Master Bernard is in the . . . fifth form.”

  The dean was reluctant to relay the information.

  With good reason.

  Phillip was eleven and in the first form. Bernard, in the fifth form, had only one more form to complete before graduation.

  Her son was indeed ferocious to reduce a student who was four to six years older than himself into a “quivering mass of nerves.”

  “Are you suspending Phillip, Dean Whitaker? Because if you are, I must inform you that I have been considering removing Phillip for quite some time. Harrow, I believe, offers a higher standard of education than does Eton. And, of course, if I remove Phillip, then I will also take Richard. I know he has only six more months before he takes his exams, but still . . .”

  “There is no need to jump to conclusions, Mrs. Petre.” The dean was loath to lose not only money but prestige—the two boys had a very influential grandfather and father, both of whom had attended Eton. “I am sure that with the appropriate moneta
ry funds—after all, damages were minimal, and boys will be boys—”

  Elizabeth stood up. “Please contact Mr. Kinder, my husband’s secretary. He will make arrangements to pay you for damages. I would like to see my two sons now.”

  “Master Phillip is in detention and Master Richard is in class. Perhaps another time . . .’

  “I think not, Dean Whitaker,” she said briskly. “Harrow is looking more and more desirable.”

  “Very well, Mrs. Petre.” He picked up a small brass bell and rang it. Immediately, his clerk, a middle-aged man with stooped shoulders who was as timid as the dean was aggressive, entered the room.

  “Bring Petre major and Petre minor to the visitor’s salon, Mr. Hayden. Mrs. Petre, if you will follow me.”

  Two pairs of shoes echoed hollowly along the wooden hallway, the dean’s soft and unassuming, hers sharp and intrusive.

  Eton was a depressing place, Elizabeth thought, all gleaming wood without one single finger smear to account for the hundreds of boys who occupied its hallowed halls.

  The dean threw open a door and stepped back for her to enter. “Pray, make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Petre. Master Phillip and Master Richard will be here directly.”

  The visitor’s salon was not a room that invited comfort. It contained two leather wing chairs that confronted a rigid walnut sofa with a three-medallion back and eight legs. A small, mean coal fire burned in the dark granite fireplace beside the sofa.

  Taking off her cloak, bonnet, and gloves, Elizabeth perched on the edge of the sofa and stared at the glowering coals.

  She wished she could keep her two sons home with her, warm and safe from harm.

  She wished it were enough being a mother.

  She wished—

  “Hullo, Mother.”

  Elizabeth swiveled around on the edge of the sofa.

  Phillip stood in the doorway, auburn hair ruthlessly combed back from his face. He nervously shuffled from one foot to the other.

  His left eye was swollen shut. His right one was bright with unshed tears.

  She wanted to run to him and smother him with hugs and kisses.

  She wanted to sweep him away from Eton and all of its dangers.

  She wanted to give him the dignity he was so valiantly struggling to hold on to.

  “Hello, Phillip.”

  “You talked to the dean.”

  Elizabeth did not bother responding to what was plainly obvious.

  “Am I going to be expelled?”

  “Do you want to be?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to tell me why you picked a fight with a boy in the fifth form? Those are pretty vicious odds.”

  Phillip balled his fists. “Bernard’s a Whig—”

  “Please do not insult my intelligence by repeating that nonsense. Besides, we do not call them Whigs anymore—they are Liberals.”

  His shoulders drooped. “I’m not a boy anymore, Mother.”

  “I know you are not, Phillip.” She offered him a wry smile. “You have the black eye to prove it.”

  He stood a little taller at her words . . . and seemed to grow even younger than his eleven years. “Please don’t ask me why I started the fight. I don’t want to lie to you.”

  “Obviously, I must ask you, and because you have never lied to me before, I do not believe you will now.”

  Phillip stared down at his shoes; finally, he mumbled, “He said something.”

  “About you?”

  “No.”

  “About Richard?”

  He lifted his chin and stared over her head. “I don’t want to tell you, Mother.”

  Elizabeth was suddenly filled with foreboding.

  Children, regardless of their age, repeated the same gossip as did their parents. If she had overheard rumors concerning Edward’s extramarital relationship, it was quite probable that her children had too.

  “Did Master Bernard say something about your father, Phillip?”

  He blinked, gaze still fixed over her head.

  Obviously, the blink meant yes.

  Why had she been such a complaisant wife? None of this need have happened, not to her husband, not to her, and not to her children.

  “Phillip.”

  Her son gazed at her in mute appeal, well acquainted with that particular tone of voice.

  Elizabeth’s heart ached for him.

  Save for the color of his hair, Phillip looked so like his father, the same dark brown eyes and patrician nose . . . yet there was nothing at all of Edward inside him.

  Elizabeth could not imagine Edward with a black eye. Not even at Phillip’s age.

  She patted the sofa beside her. “I brought you something.”

  His dark brown eye regarded her warily. “What?”

  “A box of Cadbury chocolates.”

  Bribery achieved what all the mother’s love in the world could not have accomplished. Phillip darted toward the basket sitting by her feet.

  “You shouldn’t reward violent behavior, Mother.”

  The reproving voice belonged to neither a boy nor a man, but someone in between the two stages of life.

  Elizabeth turned to her elder son with unfeigned pleasure. “And you should not allow your little brother to pick on boys who are twice his—”

  Her mouth dropped open in shock. “Richard!”

  He was pale and gaunt and nearly unrecognizable as the boy who had daily hounded her between terms for a new safety bicycle. Even his hair, midnight black like his father’s, was dull and lifeless.

  She stood up and reached for his forehead. “Richard, are you ill?”

  He suffered her touch. “I’m fine now.”

  “Why didn’t the dean contact me?”

  “It was nothing, Mother, just the sniffles.”

  “Are you eating properly?”

  “Mother.”

  “Would you like to come home for a rest?”

  He recoiled from her hand. “No.”

  “Would you like a box of toffees?” she asked tartly.

  A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “I wouldn’t object to it, no.”

  “Then come join us and we’ll feast. I had Cook prepare a picnic basket.”

  Phillip had already invaded the basket and discovered inside the hidden treasures. Solemnly, he handed the box of toffees to Richard.

  It was as if the two boys were sealing a pact.

  In between gulps of apple cider and bites of sliced roast beef, rich Stilton cheese, pickled vegetables, and crumpets smothered with strawberry jam, Richard bragged about his studies while Phillip bragged about his tricks to escape studying. All too soon their time together was over.

  Elizabeth packed away the last of the plates and utensils into the basket—the remaining food she folded into two napkins. “Richard, eat. Phillip, no more fights. And now I do not care whose dignity I offend, I am claiming a hug from each of you.”

  Phillip, as if all along he had been waiting for permission, barreled into her and pressed his face into her midriff. “I love you, Mum.”

  Elizabeth was overcome by a fierce surge of protectiveness. ‘Mum’ had been Phillip’s special name for her ever since he had overheard a maid call the queen “Queen Mum.”

  Richard towered over Elizabeth by five inches. He surprised her by wrapping his arms about her and burying his face into her neck the way he had when he was a toddler. Warm, moist breath tickled her skin. “Same for me, Mum.”

  Elizabeth breathed deeply of his skin; it smelled of soap and perspiration and his own unique scent. Manhood was stealing Richard from her, but he still smelled like her little boy.

  She blinked back prickly hot tears. “Your father and I love you too.”

  Silence greeted her declaration. As if by unspoken agreement, Richard and Phillip stepped back out of her arms.

  Elizabeth vowed then and there that she would do anything to unite her family.

  The train ride back to London was agonizingly long and slow. The monotonous
swaying should have lulled her to sleep; it didn’t.

  She thought of Edward and his empty bed. She thought of her sons and their silent withdrawal at the mention of their father. She thought of the Bastard Sheikh and the perfume he had been drenched in.

  And no matter how she tried to envision it, she could not imagine Edward ever taking the pleasure in his mistress that the Bastard Sheikh had obviously taken in his.

  The coachman was waiting for her at the station. Her husband was not waiting for her at home.

  Politely but firmly refusing first the butler’s and then her abigail’s insistence that she take a light supper, Elizabeth prepared for bed. The moment Emma closed the door to her bedchamber, Elizabeth retrieved the book from her desk.

  It smelled of leather and fresh ink, as if it had but recently been printed. Carefully, she flipped over to the title page and read the stark black print on rich white vellum paper.

  THE PERFUMED GARDEN OF THE SHEIKH NEFZAOUI; A manual of Arabian Erotology (XVI Century): Revised and Corrected Translation. Cosmopoli: MDCCCLXXXVI: for the Kama Shastra Society of London and Benares, and for Private circulation only. (Pagination: xvi + 256).

  Erotology.

  Elizabeth had never encountered such a word.

  The printing date was 1886—the book was fresh off the press.

  Impatiently, she rifled past the table of contents, stopped when she flipped to the Introduction. Her gaze seemed to leap by its own accord to the opening paragraphs.

  Praise be given to God, who has placed man’s greatest pleasure in the natural parts of woman, and has destined the natural parts of man to afford the greatest enjoyment to woman.

  He has not endowed the parts of woman with any pleasurable or satisfactory feeling until the same have been penetrated by the instrument of the male; and likewise the sexual organs of man know neither rest nor quietness until they have entered those of the female.

  A sharp stab of longing shot up between her thighs. It was followed by the memory of the Bastard Sheikh’s mocking turquoise eyes.

  And she had no doubt whatsoever that he had agreed to tutor her so that he might humiliate her.