by Jo Beverley
She probably was worrying over nothing. The grand society of Cumberland and Carlisle didn’t know Jane and Nan Otterburn existed. If one of the ladies had come into Martha’s shop—and she couldn’t remember such an event—they’d not know who had assisted them. Such people did not attend the chapel.
A knock on the door made her jump, but when she opened it she found only Kirkby offering a steaming jug of washing water. She took it, thanking him. Every luxury on the Eweretta.
She poured hot water into the china bowl, telling herself it would be all right. There was no danger, and if she’d read the signals right, Simon would soon be joining her, with lovemaking on his mind. She quickly stripped down to her shift and washed, cradling her own breasts as she soaped them beneath the cotton, her mind sliding toward pleasures to come.
When she was clean, she quickly swapped damp shift for nightgown and pulled her warm robe on top. She unpinned her hair and teased out the plait, and then sat on the chest to give it its hundred strokes. When Simon knocked and slipped in, she truly felt her heart tremble. In love, in desire, and in fear of ever losing him.
“My wife.”
Such simple words to bring everything to the one important point. Simon.
“Keep on brushing,” he said. “Please. I love to watch you do that.”
So she tilted her head and continued with the long strokes as he began to undress. Shoes first. Then jacket, waistcoat, cravat.
“What next?” he asked.
Jancy remembered to continue brushing, even though the strength was leaving her hand. Abbey Street propriety suddenly overwhelmed her. “Your . . . unmentionables.”
His eyes danced, but he took off his pantaloons. “And the even more unmentionables?” he asked, meaning his drawers.
“You’re a wicked man to tease a lady so. But yes.”
In short order, he stripped naked. “Is this less teasing?”
The brush fell from Jancy’s hand with a clatter as she rose to take him in her arms. But the light of the one candle shone on his long, jagged wound. She bent to kiss it.
“You nearly died, Simon.”
“And would have except for you.” He raised and discarded her nightgown and they kissed.
Beyond the door, a burst of laughter made her hide her face against his chest. “People will hear us,” she whispered.
“We’re married,” he whispered back. “We’re allowed to do this.”
“Even naked? I’m sure we’re not supposed to do it naked.”
She felt his chest shake. “Why ever not?”
She looked up. “You’re laughing at me.”
“You’re being silly. But if you’re worrying about the others, you’ll have to be very, very quiet, won’t you?”
He sat on the chest and drew her to straddle him, and then began to play his mouth over her breasts, then her belly. When she muttered something, clutching, he said, “Hush.”
“Wretch.”
“Rogue,” he corrected.
His left arm supported her, but his right hand slid down her belly and into her slit to find the sensitive spot and circle there. She gasped, and right outside the door, someone—the colonel, she thought—said, “Good night.”
She went very still, and again, Simon laughed.
She muttered furiously at him.
“Then don’t make a sound.”
“Or?”
“Alas, I’ve forgotten my horses’ tails. So scream if you wish, love.” He grasped her hips and slid deeply into her.
She managed to keep most of the cry in her throat and cradled his face to kiss him as she clenched around him. Her hips flexed on their own and he leaned back. “Go on.”
“Or?” she asked again.
He smiled. “I’ll make you scream and embarrass yourself.”
She hummed, teasing him, but then rose and rocked, watching his beloved features show the pleasure and torment she was causing him. He gripped her hips and control fled. They could be shaking the whole ship Eweretta like the mightiest storm, but she didn’t care and neither did he. But she managed to keep her cries of “Simon! Simon! Simon!” to mostly gasps.
They clung together afterward, she kissing his hair, he nuzzling her breasts, but then cold had them scrambling into the bottom bed. It was a tight fit, but they lay face to face, kissing, stroking, whispering.
She had to make it clear. “I love you more than words can say, Simon. Always remember that.”
“How could I forget? Especially as we’ll be doing this every night.” He raised her leg and adjusted, pressing against her, sliding in again. “It’s been so long, my love,” he said as he rocked against her. “I’m ravenous for you. Feed me.”
His lips sealed hers.
Simon was woken by the steward’s little bell announcing breakfast.
He turned in the tight space to look at his wife, all ivory and gold beauty in the thin sunlight coming through the porthole. She’d not plaited her hair before bed, so it tangled around her, and she had crease marks on her cheeks.
He soothed those marks and stroked hair off her face, adoring the smell of her, the feel of her. Her eyes flittered open, confused for a moment and then smiling—as if he were her sunrise. He prayed he would always be worthy of her love.
“We’re summoned to eat. Sleep well?”
“Astonishingly well.”
“Nothing astonishing about it after all that exercise.”
“Stop it.”
He grinned. “Yes, my love.”
“Don’t!”
“Call you my love?”
“Look at me like that. We can’t.”
The little bell rang again and she hurried out of bed, grabbed her shift, and began to dress. He indulged in watching her, savoring complete happiness, and then followed more carefully.
She stopped, dress half on. “Are you all right? Did you hurt yourself?”
“I am wonderfully all right. I even slept well. But you can help me dress if you’re worried.”
She shook her head at him but brought his clothes and dressed him, and then he helped her, and they kissed. The bell rang again, insistently. Laughing, he grabbed her hairbrush and untangled her hair, and then brushed the long length of it. She stilled and he could almost hear her purr.
“So many delightful ways to please you,” he said, kissing her nape. He plaited her hair and tied it with a ribbon. “Leave it like that. It’s pretty.”
She turned to him. “It’s childish. I want to look like your wife.”
“Oh, you do. I assure you.”
She whirled to the small mirror. “Everyone will know!”
“Everyone,” he said, turning her toward the door, “will be very jealous.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
As the Eweretta sailed down the Saint Lawrence, Simon’s support and natural confidence shrank Jancy’s nervousness. It almost felt as if they were setting a tone for casual dressing, for after that first night, Mrs. Ransome-Brown did not again appear in glossy splendor. Was that the power of Brideswell?
The lady had quizzed Jancy a few more times about her origins. She’d looked down her nose at the Trewitts but accepted the Otterburns as some compensation. She herself was one who needed her escutcheon tattooed on her forehead. Jancy soon knew that the Ransomes were a very important family in Rutland, and that she was also connected to the Manners family and the Wallops.
That night Jancy asked Simon who they were.
“Manners, Duke of Rutland. Wallop, Earl of Portsmouth.”
“I had a hard time keeping a straight face at thought of the Wallops. Am I supposed to know these things?”
“By rote.” But he grinned. “As you can see, people will tell you, directly or indirectly, if they think they’re important.”
Jancy considered this, which wasn’t easy when he was undressing her. She slapped his hand away. “Listen.”
“Why?” He began on the pins in her hair.
She twitched away, laughing. “I want to be serious a moment.”
“Nonsense.”
He kissed her and she kissed him back, but then she put her fingers between their lips. “I do think I need to know some of these things. It’s all natural to you, like . . . like types of lace and embroidery stitches are to me. But I know as little about dukes and earls as you do about sewing. You’ll have to teach me. It will give us something to do.”
His eyes laughed at that, but he freed himself and said, “Very well. The king is our head. . . .”
He worked on her pins and then ran his fingers through her loose hair.
“The royal dukes are your eyes.” He kissed the lids of each.
She bit her lip and laughed.
“Your lovely lips are the ordinary dukes. Very important, dukes are, even ordinary ones.”
Perhaps that was why he lingered there, teasing her until she grasped his head and kissed as she wanted to.
He trailed his lips down her throat, murmuring, “The mighty marquesses,” working on her gown until it fell open and then unfastening her bodice beneath.
A tug on the drawstring of the neck of her shift and her breasts were at his mercy. “The earls, our most ancient nobles, rulers of counties before the conquest.”
When his lips settled on one nipple, she held his head there. “Why not counts, then?”
He switched to the other side. “Nasty French things, counts are.”
“Why are Earl’s wives countesses, then?”
“God alone knows.” He pushed her clothes off her shoulders so they slid down, sinking to his knees to explore her navel. “The viscounts. The minor counts, mere newcomers.” His tongue swirled.
Her knees wobbled. “I think I have it now. King, dukes, marquesses, earls, viscounts . . .”
“And barons . . .” His tongue traced a line but stopped. “No, that is too wondrous a place for barons, ancient form though that be. They shall be your pretty knees.” He kissed each as he untied her garters. “Remind me,” he murmured, “to teach you all about orders. The Garter. The Bath.”
She clutched his shoulders. “Simon . . .”
He rose to his feet, took her hands, and kissed each palm. “Not lords at all, but not to be discounted. The baronets—knights and their fair ladies.”
He brought her hands together and then stepped back. She was naked; he was still mostly dressed.
“Now,” he said, “repeat the lesson on me.”
So she did, proving she was a very clever student indeed.
The next day she watched the approach of the city Quebec, Canada’s capital, without any premonition of trouble.
It looked to be a handsome city, high on the cliff that great Wolfe had climbed with his army to defeat the French sixty years or so ago. Captain Stoddard was still anxious to escape the river, however, so they could not disembark to explore. Supplies were taken on, especially fresh water, and the final passengers arrived.
The Dacres seemed a pleasant couple of about the same age as Jancy and Simon. They were both brown haired and well dressed, but in a quiet way. He had a rather chunky, high-colored face, whereas she was long faced, doe eyed, and pale.
Mrs. Dacre was either quiet or shy, and her husband was exactly her opposite. Everyone soon learned that they were newly wed—the lady blushed—and traveling to his home so that she could meet his family. He had been in Quebec for five years, had an excellent government position, and had hopes of rising higher. She was from a prosperous Royalist family—those who had come north when the Americans had rebelled against the Crown.
He could, Jancy thought, have been unbearable, but he was so cheerful and good-hearted, and so blissfully in love with his wife, that she liked him. It wasn’t until dinner that they all introduced themselves fully to the Dacres.
Simon said, “ . . . and my wife is from Carlisle,” and Dacre perked up like a terrier.
“Carlisle! A fellow Cumbrian. How splendid!”
Jancy stared at him, so shocked that she feared she’d faint.
He cocked his head, studying her. “In fact, I feel we might have met.”
Before Jancy could even attempt to respond to that terrifying statement, he carried on, “But no. Can’t pin it down, and I’m good at faces. I’m from the Penrith area myself, but I know Carlisle pretty well. Do you travel there, ma’am?”
Jancy wasn’t sure she could force words out of her tight throat, but she managed, “No. I no longer have family in the north, sir.”
“Shame, but we’ll have to share memories, what?” Then he was off talking about his plans, which apparently required some time in London on government business before he could visit his home.
Simon said softly, “Are you all right? You look a little pale.”
“Oh, yes.” But she needed to escape, so she said, “No, not really. I think it’s the motion of the ship.”
In fact it was no different from any other day and she seemed to be tolerating the roll well, but Simon made her excuses and supported her to their cabin. He sat her on the chest. “Do you need anything?”
Feeling like a deceitful worm, she shook her head. “I think I’ll just go early to bed. I’m sure I’ll be recovered by tomorrow.”
He kissed her. “I hope so.”
When he’d left she sat there feeling her stomach churn, but it was with fear.
Dacre thought he knew her, but he couldn’t! She certainly didn’t know him. She hadn’t moved in his circles, and a young gentleman like that wouldn’t have patronized Martha’s shop. He wasn’t even from Carlisle.
Her hands gripped each other and she forced terror down.
Hadn’t he said he’d been in Canada for five years? If he had met her, or Jane, or both, they would have been children. Surely he couldn’t tell one from the other now, and that was the important point.
She sucked in a deep breath. He was no danger, and she couldn’t have a fit every time she met someone from Cumberland. She’d already accepted that it must happen. It was him saying he thought he knew her that had thrown her into a panic, but that was impossible.
She was still shaken, however, and went to bed, falling asleep before Simon joined her. She woke in the morning alone. After a frantic moment she realized that Simon was sleeping in the upper bed.
She knew it was only out of consideration for her, but it felt like an ill omen—that her secrets and fears would drive them apart. To overcome that, she climbed up to join him and woke him with intimate attentions. Which seemed to delight him, even if they did almost fall off the high bed.
Despite her every effort, when she went out to face the Dacres again her heart pounded with nervousness, but soon she relaxed. He hadn’t recollected overnight that he knew her to be Nan Otterburn. In fact, he didn’t mention Cumberland at all.
The days settled again into pleasant patterns.
The Dacres were wrapped up in each other. Jancy hoped she and Simon were less obvious about their feelings but doubted it. People tended to leave them alone.
Reverend Shore spent all his time at the desk in the cuddy, writing. The colonel was usually with his sons, which made Jancy think well of him. The Grand Panjandrum mostly sat in the cuddy reading or sewing, her sulky daughter under her eye. The governess came and went silently with the toddler.
In the evening, some social interaction was expected. Whist was popular, especially with the colonel and his lady. Norton and Simon were the ones most likely to make up the four. Jancy was happy to sit and sew and Hal to observe.
She wondered if he didn’t like to use his card frame in front of strangers. When she remembered how Simon could be struggling to manage without his right arm, she shuddered.
Sometimes they had music. Eliza Ransome-Brown had a dulcimer, thank heavens, a pretty voice. Otherwise, it would have been torture. Hal had an excellent voice, too, and was willing to sing duets with the girl. Lionel Dacre played the flute, and Simon—somewhat irreverently, Jancy thought—proved to be expert on, of all things, the spoons. He could take two spoons and play such excellen
t rhythms with them it was almost music on its own.
One evening, in their warmest clothes, they even danced on deck. Some of the sailors obliged with music and they made a set of eight. Norton partnered Eliza. Jancy supposed dancing, with the gentlemen passing ladies arm to arm, was something else Hal found awkward to do.
She was nervous, but it was a simple dance and Simon guided her. Soon she was loving it. As she spun with him, arm in arm, she said, “This is wonderful! Look at the moon and stars.”
He looked up, too, and they almost collided with others. But then everyone was looking at the moon and stars as they danced, and laughing.
But after Quebec the river had turned north, and every day grew colder. When they paused again to take on more fresh water, they saw ice glinting at the river’s edge, and that night it snowed. Only a trace was left when they rose, but the dire predictions were correct. The river would freeze early this year, and ships that had dallied in Montreal might not make it to the Atlantic.
It wouldn’t trap the Eweretta, however. Sails full, she sped into the gulf and toward the ocean, hitting rougher seas. Jancy put on extra clothing and stayed in the fresh, frigid air, despite the fiercer rolling of the ship, praying, praying, praying. . . .
But when the colonel threw up over the rail, her stomach took charge, and she fled to the stateroom and the waiting bucket.
“Jancy, love . . .” Simon tried desperately to think what to do.
“Go away!”
“How can I?”
Jane looked up from the bucket, a disheveled misery. “Go. Go! Leave me alone.”
“You wouldn’t leave me in York. I won’t leave you here. Let me at least wipe your face.”
Eyes closed, she said, “If you don’t go away, I shall shoot you.”
“You don’t know how.”
“I’ll learn. Go!”
Then she retched again.
Simon stood and reluctantly did as she commanded, having to cling to handholds to avoid being thrown about by the turbulent sea. He winced as a particularly vicious roll dragged at his healing wounds.
It was after dinner—which few had eaten—and everyone had retired to sleep. Or to be sick. He heard sounds of vomiting from various cabins. His own stomach wasn’t rock steady.
