by Ariel Atwell
“There might be a bit of truth in that,” he said with a mischievous grin that lit up his blue eyes like sparklers, giving her the oddest fluttery feeling in her chest.
Get a grip on yourself, Laurence Heath, or this man is going to think you’re a total bufflehead.
Hastings did not inquire about her own lack of family. He, like all the other partners, no doubt believed Laurence was entirely devoted to his career with no room for an outside life. Not having a family had never much bothered her before, and it wasn’t as if she’d had any choice in the matter. The guiding decision of her life had been made by her mother when she was born.
All in all, things hadn’t turned out badly, had they? Thanks to her mother’s resourcefulness, Laurence led a very comfortable life doing meaningful work that she greatly enjoyed. She had never been the sort of person to waste time on regrets. So why were Matthew Hastings’s shiny blue eyes now causing her to reconsider things?
When the dishes had been cleared away, Laurence raised the matter that had brought them to dine together in the first place. “Say now, Hastings, wasn’t there some sort of legal tangle you wanted to discuss?”
“Indeed,” Hastings replied, launching into a detailed description of Lord Worrell’s woes. Laurence listened intently, offered a few comments here and there, and confirmed to Hastings that he was taking the correct approach in resolving the situation.
They finished their drinks and, as the evening was mild, walked the short distance back to Laurence’s townhouse.
“I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you allowing me to stay with you, Heath,” Hastings said. “It’s been a godsend given how busy I have been at the firm. I will do my best to try to find time this week to search for a new place.”
“No need, Hastings. You are welcome to stay here as long as you like,” Laurence said, realizing that she meant it. Sharing a glass of port in the evening or a meal at the breakfast table in the morning with another person made her feel…well, less alone.
Before his arrival she had not realized she felt this way. When he left, as he would eventually, would she be lonely? Perhaps the answer was to get a dog. She had never been overly fond of animals, but she knew people who were mad for their pets. Yes, a dog could be just the thing.
Or maybe Matthew Hastings might be persuaded to stay a while longer. That seemed the better option, actually.
“Stay as long as you like,” Laurence repeated, wanting Hastings to know she was sincere. “The house is absurdly large for one person. With you about, Martin and Mrs. Campbell can finally earn their keep.”
Hastings smiled. “You’re doing an outstanding job persuading me that my imposition on your household is serving the greater good.”
As they came inside the house, Laurence found she wasn’t quite ready for the evening to be over. “Shall we adjourn into the library for a nightcap?” she said as Martin relieved them of their coats.
“That sounds just the thing,” agreed Hastings.
“Bring us a bottle of port, Martin,” Laurence said to her manservant. “The DaSilva. It’s been quite a day.”
They settled companionably into chairs on either side of the fireplace and somewhere around the third glass of spirits found themselves engaged in passionate debate about contract law theory.
“Mansfield ruled in Carter that where the burden was on the insured to disclose a material fact, any concealment of that information voids the contract,” said Hastings, but Laurence gave no ground.
“You’ve totally missed the buttonhole on that point, Hastings. A concealment need not be active. When it arises because of a mistake, the contract could also be voided. Any other view is absurd,” she said.
Instead of responding with another verbal volley, he smiled, catching her entirely off guard. “You know what’s really absurd?”
She blinked. “Canning denouncing Brougham as a liar in Parliament?”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Nay. The fact that you and I have spent the better part of an hour arguing about theories of contract law that most people outside our profession have no idea even exist and would have no clue to the purpose even if we explained it to them.”
She stared at him. He had such a lovely laugh. The sound of it rolled across her entire being, warming her and making her suddenly long for things that could never be. When was the last time she had laughed like this? She couldn’t remember. Maybe never.
When she didn’t respond right away to his quip, his smile faded and an abashed look crept into those vivid eyes. What shade of blue were his eyes, anyway? She couldn’t put her finger on it, but suddenly longed to fling herself into their depths nonetheless. She was becoming obsessed. She needed to calm herself.
“Has my levity offended you, sir? If so, I offer my most humble apologies.” The penitent tone in his voice snapped her back into awareness. “I have grown so relaxed in your presence that I fear I may have overstepped my boundaries.”
“Offended me? No, not at all,” Laurence blustered. “Always good talking to a fellow scholar of the law.” She looked up at the clock. “My word, it’s nearly midnight. Been a very trying day. Good night, Hastings.”
“Good night, Heath. Sleep well.”
Despite her claims of fatigue, Laurence tossed and turned restlessly in her bed. Perhaps having a houseguest wasn’t such a good idea after all, for her evening with Matthew Hastings had left her feeling quite unsettled. When she rolled over for the umpteenth time, her hand accidentally brushed against that part of her body that had always been forbidden. Instead of pulling back as she normally did, she hesitated.
Laurence had been born a virgin and expected she would die one. That certainty had not stopped her from wondering what it would be like to be with a man who would do all the things she’d heard her classmates make vulgar jokes about during their school days. The man of her imaginings had always been a rather vague figure, but he was suddenly coming into focus. And she realized, as she thought about that mysterious place between her thighs, it was Matthew Hastings whose hands she envisioned there.
She was more than two score old, her mother and father were both long dead, and there was nothing to stop her from exploring her own body behind locked doors in the darkness of her bedroom. She had been a dutiful child, had worked hard to achieve all that her parents had asked of her and more. Surely God would forgive her this tiny sin.
Tentatively, she put a finger against her most sensitive flesh and rubbed. The sensations shot through her body as if she’d been struck by lightning. She knew she should stop but somehow couldn’t, and she did it again. Then a third time, and then so many she lost count, clenching her legs together against the delicious pressure. She had become wet there—how had that happened? She knew she was moving toward something but had no clue what it might be. And then an image of Matthew Hastings flashed before her eyes, and the incredible tension that had been building within her suddenly snapped as the most intense waves of pleasure swelled through her body.
She lay there, panting softly in the darkness.
How on earth would she face Hastings on the morrow?
Chapter Four
Following their initial dinner together, Laurence and Hastings gradually fell into a routine, which was not unusual for two men rooming together, she told herself. They enjoyed breakfast at home each morning, prepared and served by Mrs. Campbell. Rain or shine, they always walked to Heath & Heath’s offices on Jermyn Street.
Throughout the day, they frequently consulted with each other on various matters, with Laurence becoming increasingly impressed with Hastings’s approach to the law. For while Hastings was quite modern in his thinking, he fit in well with the firm’s overall philosophy of conducting meticulous research on every case and leaving no path of argument unexplored in support of its clients.
They departed the office most days by half six, either stopping to eat at Laurence’s club or enjoying a meal cooked by the housekeeper. Their evenings generally finished compa
nionably in the library over glasses of port or brandy and a lively discussion on whatever topic struck their fancy. When the clock struck midnight, they would bid each other a cordial goodnight and retire to their respective bedchambers.
Locking the door behind her, Laurence would quickly escape from the confinement of her bulky man’s costume and climb into her bed, where she often indulged herself in thoughts of Matthew as she brought herself to pleasure.
As the days passed, Laurence found herself thinking about him more and more, taking note of his likes and dislikes. She learned he enjoyed whisky and ordered two cases of his favorite. She directed Martin to keep him supplied with his preferred soap and hair tonic. When his disdain for carrots became known, they were banished from the menu, to Mrs. Campbell’s dismay.
“Since when don’t you like my carrots, sir?” the housekeeper asked querulously.
“Nothing against your cooking, Mrs. Campbell,” Laurence soothed. “Carrots give Mr. Hastings indigestion.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that, now, would we?” said Mrs. Campbell, rolling her eyes when she thought Laurence wasn’t looking.
“I saw that,” Laurence said, trying to sound stern but failing.
“No carrot shall ever again be permitted to darken the doorstep of this household, or the good Lord can strike me dead,” pledged Mrs. Campbell, holding up her spoon as if it were a sword and she were Joan of Arc, heading into battle.
“Excellent,” Laurence said. “I shall hold you to that, madam.”
Mrs. Campbell merely snorted and went back into the kitchen, leaving Laurence with the distinct impression that the battle against carrots had only just begun.
And so it continued. When Laurence walked by the watchmaker’s shop, she wondered which of the lovely timepieces Matthew might enjoy owning. The same for the haberdasher and the boot maker. She did not buy anything, of course, but the notion of purchasing a gift for a man was entirely new to her, and she found herself secretly enjoying it, even if only in her imagination.
Now and again, Matthew would make noises about finding his own accommodations.
“I’m growing so comfortable here it’s going to be difficult to leave,” he said over the breakfast table one morning when they’d made plans to visit the Dulwich Picture Gallery. Matthew had just returned from the barber and was freshly shaven. There was a tiny nick along the left side of his jaw, and it was all Laurence could do not to reach out and wipe away the spot of blood with her napkin.
“No need for that, Hastings,” Laurence said gruffly. “Happy to have you.”
“I hate to impose,” he said. “You’ve already been too kind.”
“Not at all,” Laurence said. “By the way, how is that matter concerning Lord Worrell progressing?”
Hastings frowned, and to Laurence it was as if the sun had gone behind the clouds.
You are becoming ridiculously fanciful, Laurence Heath.
“Not good?” she asked.
“Worrell has gotten himself mixed up in several transactions that are dubious at best,” Matthew said, shaking his head. “It’s not going to be easy to extricate him without lasting repercussions, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sure you have matters well in hand, but don’t hesitate to let me know if I can help in any way,” Laurence said.
“Thanks, Heath. I appreciate that.”
“Of course. That is why I am here.”
Chapter Five
On a Monday morning in early May, Matthew returned north to retrieve his children during their school term and take them to visit his widowed mother.
Laurence had known the trip was in the works, of course, but had scarce imagined how lonely it would seem after a month of being in close company. By day’s end, she was keenly feeling his loss. She was growing much too attached to Matthew Hastings. It was dangerous, she knew, but had no idea how to stop.
When the church bell down the road chimed half seven, Laurence knew she could no longer delay her final task of the day.
She looked at the oil portrait of Edward Heath that hung on the wall of the office that had once been his but was now hers.
“What exactly was your purpose in all this, Father?” she asked the painting. “If you had some sentimental hope that your family would accept your bastard child, you were sorely mistaken. Or were you seeking to punish your wife for something? What terrible thing did she do to deserve your eternal ire?”
As usual, the painting stubbornly refused to respond to her query, and she sighed, putting on her coat and heading out in the waning light of the London day.
It took less than a quarter-hour’s walk to reach the imposing brick house on Langley Square. The front door was opened by an elderly butler whose mouth pursed in disapproval upon seeing her.
“The lady of the house, please,” Laurence said. “She should be expecting me.”
“Whom shall I say is calling, sir?” asked the servant, as he had on every single one of her sixty-four visits over the past sixteen years. Not that she was counting.
“Laurence Heath,” Laurence said.
“Just a moment,” he said, shutting the door in Laurence’s face and leaving her standing on the front stoop as if she was a person of no consequence.
“Whom shall I say is calling?” she muttered under her breath. “Bloody hell. The person paying your wages, that’s who is calling.”
She heard the unmistakable sound of laughter and glanced over at the large bowed window at the front of the house. Immediately, she wished she hadn’t.
The curved panes of glass provided her with a full view of the drawing room, brilliantly lit with lamps and candles against the approaching twilight.
From her vantage point, she could see Mrs. Heath, still dressed in black all these years after her husband’s death, surrounded by a large group of people of all ages, laughing and talking. A little boy no older than five years sat cross-legged on the floor trying to hold onto a squirming puppy while his mother showed off her new baby to an elderly woman who tenderly cupped the infant’s cheek. Two men stood in the corner listening to a third man talk, while a group of women sat in chairs near Mrs. Heath, sipping from crystal punch glasses and chatting in an animated fashion. A maid entered the room carrying a lavishly decorated cake on a tray. She set it down on the table in the middle of the room, and Mrs. Heath rose to her feet and began waving her arms to get the crowd’s attention. Laurence could easily hear what she was saying through the leaded glass.
“Quiet now, children,” Mrs. Heath said, and it was the first time Laurence had ever seen a smile on the older woman’s face. “This is a happy occasion, indeed, for we are celebrating the birthday of our dear baby today!”
“Oh, Mama, I’m hardly a baby at forty-three years,” protested a woman, causing everyone in the room to laugh. The woman’s once-blonde hair, pulled up into a chignon, was now streaked with gray, but Laurence knew who she was. It was Violet, full grown now but still recognizable as the little girl Laurence had seen going into the sweetshop with Edward Heath all those many years ago.
“You’re my youngest child, and like it or not, you’ll always be my darling baby girl,” said Mrs. Heath, smiling affectionately. “Now come see the lovely pudding that Cook has made in your honor.”
“Yes, Mama,” Violet called back. Standing directly behind her was a gray-haired man, tall and handsome—her husband, no doubt. He put his hands on Violet’s shoulders, said something in her ear, and smiled. She turned around and smiled back, giving him a kiss on the cheek before taking her place at the table in front of the cake. As the members of the party began to gather around and the candles were lit, a little girl toddled over to Violet, tugged on her shawl, and was lifted up to sit in Violet’s lap. Laurence watched as Violet smoothed back a lock of the child’s hair. Was this her daughter perhaps?
“Time to blow out the candles, Vi!” cried one of her sisters.
“If you light all of those, the house may burn down,” Violet said. “Surely I cann
ot be that old!”
“A toast to Baby Violet!” a man’s voice cried out, causing gales of laughter.
“You are beyond foolish, Cousin Alfred,” Violet admonished, wagging her finger jokingly across the table.
“All hail Baby V!” called out someone else, to more laughter.
“Now, Jeremy, don’t you dare start!”
Amidst all the merrymaking, no one other than Laurence noticed when the butler slipped into the room.
“Happy birthday, dearest Violet,” everyone said in unison, clinking glasses together. A girl who looked to be no more than fourteen or so handed Violet a box with a large bow on the top.
The maid returned carrying a large stack of plates, and the little girl sitting on Violet’s lap clapped her hands with glee.
“Pudding, pudding!” she cried out, and Violet laughed and cut a slice, spooning a bite into the child’s mouth.
“Here you go, poppet, a lovely bit of Auntie Vi’s birthday pudding. Who else would like some?”
Laurence wanted to look away but could not, for she was utterly transfixed despite herself. She saw the butler approach Mrs. Heath and whisper something in her ear. The old woman grimaced and shook her head.
By the time the butler opened the front door again, Laurence was standing far away from the window. “Madam is occupied and unable to see you this evening,” he said, confirming what Laurence already knew.
“Give her this,” Laurence said curtly, thrusting into his hands the package she had carried over from the office. She didn’t wait for the door to be closed in her face again, but turned and walked away.
The temperature had dropped another few degrees and darkness had almost completely enveloped the evening sky by the time Laurence made it back to her own house. It was Martin’s night off, and her arrival was greeted only by the dinner tray from Mrs. Campbell that awaited her in the library. Laurence lit a lamp, poured herself a glass of port, thought better of it, set it down, and filled a second glass, this one with whisky. She sat down in a wing chair, staring off into the shadows. Home was the place she had always felt at ease. She had lived here for nearly twenty years. Had the house always sounded this quiet? Always felt this empty?
