The Loving Seasons

by Laura Matthews

  Adam was horrified by the virulence of Dunn’s tongue-lashing. Not in the whole of his life had anyone so thoroughly chastised him for his conduct, and the worst of it was that, as his head began to clear, he could see that there was some justification for it. He felt, with a touch of bravado, that Dunn was not giving enough consideration to the effort he had made to obtain a gift for his bride that would especially please her. But he could see that poor Margaret must have wondered why he didn’t come up to her as he had said he would.

  His eyes returned to Dunn’s from their inspection of the detested bird cage and he said stiffly, “I mean to treat Margaret with all the respect due her as my wife. There was no intent on my part to insult her this evening by going out to get her a present. Perhaps if I had not had so much to drink, I would have realized the . . . inadvisability of such a course, but I didn’t think it would take so long.”

  ‘”Will you accept a word of advice from me?” Dunn asked, his voice restored to its usual calm.

  “Of course.”

  Dunn rubbed his forehead thoughtfully and turned to his brother. “Wait down at the door for Adam, if you please, Stephen. This is a private matter.”

  More than ready to obey, Stephen swiftly made his departure, relieved to escape so lightly for his part in the escapade. Still Dunn did not speak. Frowning slightly and tapping restless fingers on the head of his cane, he seemed perplexed as how best to put his suggestion.

  “God knows this is no business of mine, Adam, but I would hate to see you carelessly throw away any chance you may have of building a solid marriage on the tottering foundations you have laid so far. Give your wife time to gain some confidence in you. When you want to, you can he exceedingly captivating to ladies, and you shouldn’t think that just because you’ve married Lady Greenwood, she is not worthy of at least your ordinary effort to win her affection. If you . . . rush her now, you may never recover the lost ground.”

  “You mean I shouldn’t sleep with her tonight?” Adam asked bluntly.

  “I can see delicacy is wasted on you,” his mentor grumbled with a pained expression. “You would be wise to woo her a bit, as you were at the wedding feast. She is, after all, very young.”

  “Oh, I had realized that she needed the proper encouragement,” Adam responded somewhat loftily. “You may trust me to see she is handled with the greatest delicacy.”

  Nothing in Adam’s prior behavior had given Dunn reason to trust anything of the sort, but he said only, “You reassure me. I hope you will pardon my interference.”

  “I know you only meant it for the best,” Adam replied magnanimously, taking a firm grip on the stand and starting for the stair. “We leave for the Lodge in the morning. I think my wife will like it there.”

  With a negligent wave of his hand, he began the descent, hampered by the bird cage and stand, but undaunted. Dunn watched his retreat with a frown, then sighed and reentered the gambling rooms. He had said far too much already to the young gudgeon, and it was likely to have no effect at all. There were lessons that could be instilled only through experience, and he very much doubted that Adam was a quick learner in the school of human relations. Given to believe from a young age that he was some sort of god, it would take more than Dunn’s words to convince him that he had a very mortal path to tread.

  Adam had shucked off the lecture instantly. It was mortifying, at his age, to be raked over the coals, whether he was deserving of the rebuke or not, and he felt that he had reclaimed a little ground by being able to say truthfully that he was aware of Margaret’s innocence and the necessity of handling it with finesse. His head was a great deal clearer now, and the cold night air served to sober him almost entirely as he trudged along with Stephen, relating the bargaining for the bird cage. His friend was appalled at the price paid and expostulated almost to Adam’s door in Half Moon Street, where he was dismissed with a friendly thanks for his assistance—only half in jest.

  The porter was there to let him in, as usual, but it was out of the ordinary for him to find Mrs. Phipps still up at that hour. She came from the dining saloon where she had sat on a chair by the door listening for his return.

  “Good evening, Lord Greenwood. I thought you would wish to know that the coachman is feeling better and will surely be fit to convey you and Lady Greenwood to the Lodge in the morning.” Her eyes never once met his but seemed unable to detach themselves from the bird cage he carried.

  “Yes, well, he’ll be looking for another place if he isn’t,” Adam said curtly. He had no intention of explaining the bird cage.

  “Lady Greenwood was not feeling well and took a few drops of laudanum before retiring.”

  A stab of remorse caused him to wince but he made no comment other than to bid her good night and march toward the stairs. One did not explain one’s behavior to one’s servants. He could feel her eyes on him as he lugged the cage and stand up to the first floor and down the hall to his dressing room. It would be just his luck if the damn canaries had died from their exposure to the cold night air, he decided morbidly as he poked his snoring valet in the ribs. Perkins rose magnificently to the occasion, giving a piercing yelp and then settling in to rid his lordship of his clothes and offer his night attire.

  “I can put on my own damn nightshirt,” Adam snorted. “Get to bed and be ready to leave for the Lodge early in the morning.”

  Eventually he crept into his bedchamber in total darkness, his consideration going so far as to suggest he not carry a candle, which might awaken his wife. But he still had the bird cage with him, and in the dark he tripped over a hassock as he looked for a suitable place to put it. The resulting clatter—the bird cage and stand bounced against the wardrobe and Adam landed on his face—apparently did not disturb his wife’s sleep, for there was no movement from the bed. A horrid idea occurred to him and he left the birds to fend for themselves while he advanced to the bed and reached out to touch the sleeping girl. Her flesh felt warm and she appeared to be breathing quite naturally. Reassured, he returned to set the birds right, shushing their angry twittering and telling them to go to sleep. Finally he crawled into his bed, exhausted, and immediately fell asleep.

  One of the things Adam especially liked about the Jewel was that she always awoke in the mood for love. When he spent the night at her house in Clarges Street he would feel her body next to his when he was half asleep and the first light was pressing its way through the draperies of her bedroom. As though in a pleasant dream he would allow his hands to wander over her where she lay nestled away from him, tracing the curves of her thighs and the firmness of her buttocks. He would press himself up against her already hard with desire, and lay an arm over hers to reach the sensuous fullness of her breast. The luxury of caressing her in that soporific state had almost as much merit as the driving energy of the night before, when his passion, raised to a fine pitch, would satisfy itself in a more vigorous manner.

  No, the morning was every bit as delicious, when he could bury his face in her hair and kiss the nape of her neck without even bothering to exert so much effort as to open his eyes, or speak a word of endearment. His hand inside her nightdress touching the soft flesh, calling forth a response, and the hardness of her nipple making his own desire too strong to bother controlling. Sometimes he would take her that way, simply rolling the nightdress up over her hips; at others he would pull her toward him and slide onto her.

  “What the hell!” The dream was rudely shattered when he found himself unable to enter and his eyes flew open to behold not Julia but Margaret beneath him, staring with enormous gray eyes at his astonished face. There was nothing for it but to brazen it out. He had gone too far to draw back. But her maidenhood was firmly intact and the pleasant fantasy had become a laborious reality.

  Adam could see that she was frightened and that his thrusting caused her pain, but the only thing he could think of to whisper was, “There now, my dear. It will take but a moment.” After the shock he had received he needed all his concentration
to achieve his goal and his estimate of time was sadly off. His wife bore with stoical silence the callous and lengthy destruction of her virginity but a tear slid down her cheek which did not escape his notice, once he had succeeded and lay panting on her, his weight crushing her small body.

  “You mustn’t think it will hurt another time,” he said consolingly, kissing away the tear.

  Maggie said nothing. To come partially out of her drugged sleep and find his hands caressing her had not been entirely unpleasant, but his thoughtless consummation of their marriage had been even worse than she had envisioned. Neither passion nor tenderness accompanied it, merely brute strength and an expressed wish to get it over with quickly. She refused to shed further tears but gently nudged him off her so she could pull down her nightdress and climb out of bed. If she had not been so shattered, she would probably have remained there until he left her. As it was, all she wanted to do was get away from him and be alone for a while.

  “Where are you going?” Adam had not meant for his voice to sound cross, but he knew he had botched the defloration and his vanity was involved.

  Picking up her dressing gown from a chair, Maggie proceeded to push her arms through the sleeves and wrap it about her. “To wash myself and get dressed.”

  “It’s hardly light yet. No one will be up to help you.”

  “That’s better, I think. I don’t want to see anyone just now.” Before he could say anything further, she let herself out into the hail. The darkness there was a welcome cover to her as she made her way to the room at the back. No sounds of stirring reached her and she found the room blessedly deserted. Unfortunately, it was too early for a can of hot water to have been brought to the basin, but there was a fresh towel, too good to ruin, really, but she had little choice. She discarded her nightdress, tidied herself as best she could, and then pulled the cover off a chair to seat herself and doze off and on until the household awoke.

  When Jennie brought a can of water, she was startled to find Lady Greenwood already in the room, and even more surprised to be dismissed before she could assist her ladyship with her dressing. Maggie’s modesty was not ordinarily so great that she found it distasteful to be assisted at her toilette; she had had a servant to do so for most of her life. But not today! Not when she came from her husband’s bed feeling embarrassed and somehow shamed, as though that one thing she had always considered her own, her body, could never again be hers. Which left her with only her thoughts sacred, and she vowed that they would remain untouched, unobserved even, by her husband or anyone else. If they were all she could call her own, then they must be treasured.

  In the early dawn hours Adam slept fitfully, disturbed at what had happened and yet convinced that he was not really to blame. His wife did not return to the room, nor did he expect that she would. Hell, he’d meant to do it right and he could hardly be blamed for causing her pain. She would learn in time that there was no need for tears. Really, it was a great pity women had maidenheads to begin with, making their introduction to lovemaking such a painful business. Adam contented himself with the thought that his wife was fortunate to have such an experienced lover to guide her in the Paphian garden.

  A sharp twittering awoke him from a sound sleep and he remembered the canaries. They were alive at least. How he could have forgotten to tell Margaret that they were here . . . Well, he would inform her at breakfast. Better yet, he would have them taken to the breakfast parlor to surprise her. Subconsciously he acknowledged that she would need something to cheer her low spirits; she had not left him in a particularly propitious mood.

  Maggie was sipping at her third cup of tea when a footman brought the bird cage on its stand into the room. She felt it incumbent on her to be there when her husband came in for his repast, but she was up so long before him that it was a considerable wait. When Adam soon followed his present into the room, he was in flowing spirits, sure that now he had made restitution for any small oversights of which he might have been guilty. Like a conjuror he whipped the cover off the cage and declared, “Your wedding present, my dear.”

  The birds, restored to light, greeted the first signs of morning by hopping about, pecking hopefully at the floor of the cage. But the mishap of the previous night had tossed the bird seed on his lordship’s bedchamber floor, and there was none to be had. Maggie rose from her seat and came to stand by them, at a loss for words. Not that she was speechless with gratification but rather mystified as to why he would have chosen such a gift. She lifted a piece of cold toast from the sideboard and crumbled it for them as she tried to invest her voice with enthusiasm. “How very thoughtful of you, Greenwood. Do they sing?”

  “They’re supposed to, but I don’t know whether one can trust . . . That is, if they don’t we can get ones that do. Remember you said the other day that you liked canaries?”

  The hair pin! Trust him to take her answer to his casual question so literally. Maggie tried to summon up a real appreciation, tried to believe that he had actually given the gift serious consideration, but she failed. Everything in her felt flat and dry, emotionless, drained. One of the birds began to trill, the notes soaring and falling, skimming about the sunny room as though to fill it with joy. Maggie smiled faintly. “How pretty. Thank you, Greenwood.”

  Her response was not all that he’d hoped for. Perhaps he’d thought she would throw her arms about his neck and kiss him, as the Jewel had done when he’d presented her with the phaeton and pair. Not that he could really picture Margaret doing that, but the previous day she had been shyly accepting of him, pleased by his little attentions, ready to make an effort to earn his approbation. Now she was cool and remote, strangely unapproachable. Far too late he remembered Dunn’s urging him to give Margaret time to trust him.

  But that was nonsense. There was no reason she shouldn’t trust him, after all. He pressed a kiss on her forehead and said confidently, “We’ll take them with us to Combe Lodge. You’ll like it there.”

  Chapter Eight

  Emma settled back in the carriage beside Anne and declared, “I shall never set foot inside that place again!”

  Anne’s brother, Will, who was seated opposite them, grinned. “No wonder. To hear Mrs. Childswick you would think you were going out into a world full of depraved ogres and ferocious dragons ready to destroy your souls. Anne had told me what she was like but I thought she exaggerated. Mrs. Childswick seems to think Windrush House is the only port in a very stormy sea.”

  “More like a cloistered nunnery in a pleasure garden,” retorted Emma, who had just been informed by her erstwhile preceptress that her frivolity, levity, and penchant for mischief would lead her into sorry scrapes if she did not learn to lead a more constant and elevated existence. There had been a hint, too, that Lady Bradwell was hardly the person to have charge of a volatile young miss such as herself, to which Emma had taken exception, though not out loud.

  Personally, she couldn’t think of anyone she would rather have as her chaperon than the ever-cheerful Lady Bradwell. To her mind it was her aunt’s perpetual good humor and optimistic outlook on life that inspired the jealousy underlying the gossip about her. Not that the gossip had no foundation, mind you, but it was the envious matrons, with nothing to do but order their own lives and those over whom they had control into the stuffiest and most boring of channels, who gave rise to the criticism, and not their lack of ambition to lead such a carefree existence.

  Lady Bradwell was cautious in her choice of cicisbeos, never flaunting her power over a married man to pique his wife or enrage his children. In all likelihood she could count any number of married men amongst her train, Emma mused, but they were not visible at assemblies and card parties as her attendants. To be plucked from the sterile atmosphere of Windrush House and dropped in the swirling gaiety of London social life had been Emma’s goal for so long that she could hardly believe that it was at last coming true. She did not bother to catch a farewell glimpse of the school, as Anne did, but set herself to questioning Lord Wil
liam about the upcoming season. Did he frequent Vauxhall and Drury Lane? Did he prefer balls to card parties? Did he know any other young ladies who would be making their appearance this season? Did he know her aunt?

  “Lady Bradwell? Of course. Everyone knows Lady Bradwell. She’s been so kind as to invite me to entertainments at her house several times. To my mind she’s the most vivacious hostess in town. You can always be sure of enjoying yourself there—plenty of food, drink, and good company. And her affairs are never littered with encroaching Italian sopranos or insipid pianoforte performances by untalented young ladies.” When his sister gave him a reproachful glance he mumbled, “Beg your pardon! I’m sure I never meant your own performance.”

  Emma laughed. “Aunt Amelia knows better than to call on me, I hope! Though I don’t mind accompanying if the men want to sing, mind you. There is nothing quite so lovely as to hear really fine male voices singing, is there? I could sit by the hour—and have at my aunt’s—especially since the men are not generally accompanied. And I will play for dancing, since no one is particular about the music then, but in the ordinary way I don’t like to perform. Now Anne is another matter altogether. She plays astonishingly well.”

  A gleam of brotherly pride sparked in his eyes. “Mama says she could perform professionally, she’s that good. And, though I do say so myself, I think we all sing rather well together.”

  Anne shook her head mournfully. “You will have Emma thinking us quite vain, Will. I’m sure there’s nothing out of the ordinary about any of our talents.”

  “If I had a special talent, I would not be so modest about it,” Emma declared, her eyes dancing. “Mrs. Childswick is convinced that my only accomplishment lies in mischief-making.”

  Will grinned. “Then doubtless we will see you displaying your achievement during the season. No use hiding your light under a bushel, as you said. Things can get deadly dull and monotonous, even during the season. Never hurts to kick up a bit of a lark to liven things up.”