by P. N. Elrod
Then it struck me that such a liaison, if discovered by Aunt Fonteyn, especially if discovered while being consummated in her own house, might have the most disastrous of consequences. The details of such a scene eluded me, but they would be awful, of that I was sure. My blood went cold remembering the disgusting accusation Mother had made against myself and Elizabeth, of which we were entirely innocent. How much worse would it be with Aunt Fonteyn, particularly with a decided lack of innocence in this case? No. No amount of transitory pleasure could possibly offset that storm.
All this and more passed through my mind in less time than it took me to blink. I steeled myself to graciously turn down the lady’s generous offer.
Truly . . . truly, I did.
Clarinda, however, was not ready to hear my decision, much less accept it. As I stumbled to find the right words to say, she placed herself closer to me. I had an unimpeded and unsettling view of just how low the bodice of her gown went and just how much filled it.
“Oh, dear,” I gulped. My blood ceased to be so cold. Just the opposite, in fact. It was as near to a boil as ever it had been with Nora.
“Oh, yes, my dear,” she murmured. Without looking down to guide it, her other hand unerringly pounced upon a vulnerable and now most sensitive portion of my person. I jumped and stifled an involuntary yelp. As though to gainsay my determination to retain a cool composure, her hand’s quarry began to traitorously rise and swell to full life in my breeches; there was no controlling the mad fellow.
“I . . . ah . . . think, that is . . . .” Oh, dear. Again.
“What do you think, dear Cousin Jonathan?” She was all but purring, the warmth of her body surging against mine. She pressed us toward that settee and no mistake.
“I think . . . it would be best to shut the door. Don’t you?”
As a romantic dalliance it was brief in duration, but intense in terms of breathless mutual satisfaction. The fact that Clarinda was already more than halfway to her climax before I’d even lifted her skirts had much to do with it. When a woman is that eager it doesn’t take long for a lively man to catch up—something I was only too happy to do for this enchanting lady once the door was securely shut with a chair’s back propped under the handle. Though the danger of being caught was a contributing factor to our speed, it added a decided enhancement to the strength of our pleasure.
I was puffing like a runner when we finished and, after planting a last grateful kiss on her mouth, gently let myself drop away to the floor to recover. Clarinda was content to recline back on the settee with her legs still invitingly extended over its edge. From my present angle it was all I could see of her, as the upper portion of her body was hidden by what seemed to be an infinite number of petticoats and the fortunately flexible pannier that supported them. It was an absorbing view: white flesh, flushed pink by activity and friction and embellished with silk ruffles all around like a frivolous frame on a painting. I found the study of her upper thighs as they emerged from her stockings to be fascinating, the fascination increasing the farther north I went.
Now that I had the leisure for study, I could not help but make comparisons between Clarinda and Nora. Of their most intimate place, I noticed that Clarinda’s was of a lighter color, nearly blond, causing me to speculate on the real color that lay under her wig. Her skin was equally soft, but with a slightly different texture under my hand.
The view, and my exploring hand, was suddenly engulfed by a tumble of underclothes as she straightened up.
“Goodness, but you are a restive young man,” she said with a glowing smile.
My hand was still up her dress, and I gave her leg a tender squeeze by way of reply. I sensed that with a few more words and compliments on my part that a second triumphal entry might be attained. She’d awakened my appetite for sport, and in a few more moments I’d be ready for another bout.
“I’m not your first, am I?” She had a trace of disappointment in her expression.
It seemed wise to be honest with this woman. “No, dear lady. But if you had been, no man could have asked for or been bestowed a better initiation.”
“Oh, I do like your manners.” She leaned forward to brush her lips lightly on my temple. “Whoever your teacher was, she has my admiration. She must be a remarkable woman. You are doubtless one of the most considerate lads to have ridden me in many a year.”
I writhed happily under her praise. A pity I would not be passing her compliments on to Nora, but I instinctively knew she would not appreciate them. “Would I be too impertinent if I asked you if . . . .”
“If I always go around seducing young men? Yes, that is impertinent, but no more so than I have been with you just now. I hope you will give me pardon.”
“With all my heart, dear lady. But as for my question?”
“Not always. Only when I see a handsome fellow who stirs my . . . curiosity, then I can’t resist the temptation to find out what he’s like. In all things,” she added, to clarify her meaning.
“I trust the answer you found was fulfilling?”
She made a catlike growl in her throat that I interpreted as contentment. “May I know the name of this lady to whom I also owe my thanks?”
“I gave her my word I would always be discreet. I am honor-bound to that pledge.”
“You gentlemen and your honor.” She sighed, mocking me a little. “But I do see that it is a wise practice. May I ask your pledge to apply to ourselves as well?”
Whatever other differences lay between Nora and Clarinda, their desire for discretion was identical. I wondered if the trait was true for all women. It seemed likely. I readily gave my promise, easing the lady’s mind and at the same time providing me with a legitimate reason to refrain from confiding this episode to Nora.
Clarinda produced a handkerchief and dabbed at my face where some of her powder and paint had rubbed off, then offered it to me for any other cleaning I required. In a flash of interested insight, I noticed that it was a plain bit of linen with no tale-telling initials. I felt a surge of amused admiration for her forethought to caution as I pocketed her favor.
“May I see you again, soon, dear Cousin?” I asked hopefully. I regained my feet and buttoned my breeches. A second attempt was on my mind, but one should never make assumptions about a lady’s preferences. I had the thought that she might like to seduce me again.
She smoothed out the fall of her skirts. “Not soon, perhaps. We live here in London, you see, such a long way from Cambridge.”
“How disappointing, but should I get a holiday. . . .”
“Then we must certainly arrange for a visit. Of course we can’t meet at my home. My husband’s there and the servants will gossip.”
“Husband?” I yelped. What a horrible, awful, terror-striking word. The breath was quite violently torn from my lungs.
“I would rather he not know. I’m sure we can sort something out when the time comes.”
“Yes, I’m sure we can,” I said vaguely, swatting away any dust lingering on my knees and seat to disguise my flummoxed state. All desire for another liaison fled from me.
Husband, I thought with searing panic. I’ve just committed adultery.
It had happened so easily, so quickly. Surely the breaking of one of the Ten Commandments should have been accompanied by some kind of thunderclap in one’s soul. There had been no hint. Nothing. I felt betrayed. Would God hold it against me or forgive since I’d done it in ignorance? Possibly not. My knowledge of biblical laws on that point was hazy, but He certainly would deliver a dire punishment if, with this new knowledge in mind, I repeated the sin.
Clarinda remained serenely unaware of my tidal wash of guilt. I was one of many to her, a happy memory. We parted company on friendly terms, albeit separately. I remained in that cold sitting room for a long time, walking in slow circles, the pacing an outer reflection of inner turmoils.
Why was I so bothered? Father had his mistress. I’d heard other lads talking freely about their sweethearts, and some of the fellows had mistresses who were married. It was such a common practice as to seem normal. But what was right for them was wrong for me in a way I could not yet define. Being with Nora was one thing; neither of us was married. But being with Clarinda, or with any other woman who belonged to another man, was quite something else. It troubled me. Deeply.
As well as betrayed, I also felt rather stupid that I could initially assume her to have children, but fail to consider they might also have a father.
There and then I made a private vow that no matter how pleasurably provoked by a woman, I would first determine whether she was free or not before engaging in activity that might cause . . . spiritual problems later. For either of us. For any of us, I thought, including the husbands. I had no wish to encounter this odd, creeping emptiness again. Clarinda and others might be able to live with it; I could not.
My God, but life was full of surprises.
* * *
I’d been very young then and, in matters of the heart and body as well as the mysterious ways of women, still inexperienced. But after the passage of four full years, the negative memories of that day had faded, though I had kept my promise about not bedding married women. Even dear Clarinda. At subsequent gatherings, I avoided being alone with her, but made an effort to be exceedingly polite about it so as not to insult her feelings. I now could look back upon the interlude and smile with a surge of genuine affection for my beautiful, passionate cousin.
Cousin by marriage only, I reminded myself. All the better that she was free of the taint of Fonteyn blood, if not the companionship. I wondered what had ever possessed her to marry twice into the same family. Money, perhaps. I had a vague recollection that Cousin Edmond possessed a good income from somewhere. Clarinda might want a share of it to add to her deceased husband’s bequest, thus maintaining her preference for the finer comforts of living and assuring a good future for her small brood.
“What amuses you, little brother?” Elizabeth seemed to suddenly appear, unknowingly interposing herself between me and the past. I did my best not to jump.
“The long face on that one there,” I said smoothly, pointing to a handy portrait behind her. “It may surprise you to hear that once when a hunt was called, his grooms put a bit in his mouth and saddled him for the chase.”
“Few things would surprise me about this family,” she said, narrowing her eyes against my jest. “I suppose once the bit was in, he could not protest further indignities, the poor fellow.”
“Far from it,” put in Oliver, joining the game. “He was always the first one away over the fences. Might have even done a bit of racing in his time except he’d had the bad luck to break a leg and was shot. Cousin Bucephalaus they all called him.”
This was delivered with a perfectly sober demeanor, and for an instant Elizabeth gaped at him in near-belief before her own good sense prevailed and she began to laugh. Oliver pretended to ignore her reaction and drew her attention to another painting, doubtless with a similar eccentric history attached, when the gravedigger footman approached and bowed.
“Mrs. Marling is ready to receive you, sir,” he announced. I couldn’t help but think of a judge intoning a death sentence.
“Well,” Oliver growled, his cheerful manner quite vanished. “Let’s get it over with.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
We entered and marched slowly down the length of a room shudderingly familiar to me, a chamber that was much too large for the purpose of an intimate reception. Aunt Fonteyn must have found the great distance between herself and the door to be a useful means of studying her prey as it approached.
For all its size, the room itself had but one window away to the left. Candles were needed even in the daytime to illuminate the more isolated corners. Many candles had been lighted, but these were concentrated at the far end. The only other light came from a massive fireplace large enough to burn a tree trunk. Indeed, a great pile of wood flamed away there, filling the already close air with suffocating heat.
Above the mantel, bracketed by candelabra, was the full-length life-size portrait of Grandfather Fonteyn, the wicked old devil who started it all as far as my view of the world went. If not for his influence on Mother, then Mother’s influence on me, I mightn’t be standing here now, braced against whatever onslaught his eldest daughter had readied. On the other hand, without it I might never have met Nora Jones or survived past perils had I been spared so strange a progenitor. Still, it was no small amount of hardy resolution on my part that kept me from thumbing my nose at his fearsome, frowning image on the wall.
The stories that had come to me about him varied. According to Mother and Aunt Fonteyn, he was a stern but fair saint possessing a bottomless wisdom, who was never wrong in his judgments. According to Father, he was an autocrat of the worst sort, subject to impassioned fits bordering on madness whenever anyone crossed him. Having much respect for my father’s opinion, I was wholly inclined to believe his version. Certainly the evidence was there to see, since Grandfather’s bad temperament had been passed down to his daughters as surely as he’d passed on his hair and eye color.
Enthroned in a big chair below and to one side of the portrait was Aunt Fonteyn, and seeing her again after such a lengthy absence was anything but a pleasure. For a wild second I thought that it was Mother, for the woman scowling at us as we came in had the same posture and even wore a dress in a material identical to one of Mother’s favorite gowns. The fashioning was different, though, leading me to recall that about a year ago Aunt Fonteyn had sent her younger sister a bolt of such fabric as a gift.
Her hair was also different, being dressed in a much higher and more elaborate style, but like Mother, she grasped a carved ivory scratching stick in one hand to use as needed, whether to poke at irritations on her long-buried scalp or to emphasize a point when speaking.
She had not aged noticeably, though it was hard to tell under the many layers of bone-white powder caking her face. The frown lines around her mouth were a bit deeper; the laugh lines around her eyes were nonexistent. We each received a cold blast from those frosty orbs before they settled expectantly on Oliver. He formally greeted her with a deep bow. I copied him, and Elizabeth curtsied. Such gestures were suitable for a royal audience, but Aunt Fonteyn was, for all purposes, our royalty. By means of her father’s will she controlled the family money, the great house and in turn the rest of the clan. She never let anyone forget it.
“It’s about time you got here,” she berated her son, her voice matching her cold eyes. “When I invite you to this house, boy, you are to come at the time specified and without excuses. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Mother,” he said meekly. His own gaze was fixed in its usual spot, a place just beyond her left ear.
“You may think you’re well occupied wasting time getting drunk and worse with your so-called friends, but I’ll not be mocked in this way ever again.”
And what way would you care to be mocked, madam? I thought irreverently. Awful as she was, I’d met far worse people than Aunt Fonteyn. The realization both surprised and gratified me.
“What are you finding so amusing, Jonathan Fonteyn?” she demanded.
“Nothing, ma’am. My nose tickles.” To demonstrate the truth of this, I rubbed it with the knuckle of one finger. Not the best substitute for thumbing, but better than nothing. I stole a glance at Elizabeth, who raised one warning eyebrow. She’d somehow divined the impertinence lurking in me and, being prudent, wanted it curbed.
Aunt Fonteyn noticed the interplay. “You. Elizabeth Antoinette.”
Elizabeth, though she despised her middle name as much as I did my own, remained calm and offered another cautious curtsy. “Madam. It is a pleasure and honor to meet you at long last.”
Had we been alone, how I might have teased my sister
for lying through her teeth with such ease.
Aunt Fonteyn looked Elizabeth up and down for a long moment, obviously disapproving of what she saw. “Why aren’t you in mourning, girl?”
Having not had to deal with the subject in so long, the question referring to her late “husband” struck Elizabeth hard enough to rock her. She blinked and her color deepened. “Because I choose not to wear it.”
“You choose? I’ve never heard such nonsense. Who put that idea into your head?”
“I did myself. The man I married is dead, his name and his body are buried, and with them my marriage. It is a painful memory and I am doing my best to forget it.” True enough.
“Ridiculous. Custom and respect for the dead demand that you be in mourning for at least a year. You are in a civilized country now, and you will maintain civilized manners. I’ll not have it said that my niece denied reverence to the memory of her husband. It is especially important that you set an example to others because of your raised station.”
“Station?” This one thoroughly puzzled Elizabeth.
“Your being Lady Norwood of course.”
“I have forsaken that name for the one I was born with.” A wise thing to do since Norwood’s title had been as false as his marriage vows.
Aunt Fonteyn was ignorant of that detail. Elizabeth and I discussed with Oliver whether or not to reveal the truth of the unpleasantness to his mother, and he’d opined it would serve no good purpose to anyone. The old lady would only find some way of using it against Elizabeth.
“Your given name is of no value whatever in genteel society. You are Lady Norwood until such time as you might be allowed to remarry.” Thus decreed Aunt Fonteyn, with no mind for the feelings of her subject.
Who was clearly going mulish. I felt the mute rage rolling off Elizabeth like a wave of heat from an oven. She mastered it, though. “I appreciate your concern for my station and future, Aunt, but I am Miss Barrett again until such time as I say otherwise,” she stated, carefully grinding out the words. In another era this would be the same as throwing down the gauntlet.
