by Cari Hislop
The night was still early when she crawled under her covers and cried herself to sleep. She had tears in her eyes as she opened the dream garden gate and hurried to find her friend. “Sunshine, is that you?” The distant sound of his voice made her sob in relief. “I’m by the fish pond!” She found him with his feet dangling in the water, his toes commanding an audience of curious fish. “Sunshine?” He abruptly sat upright as she dropped down next to him and pressed her wet cheek against his shoulder until his arm wrapped around her drawing her close. Feeling him tuck her hair behind her ear and gently wipe her visible cheek made her sick with longing. “Has someone hurt you?”
“I wish you were really you.”
“If I’m not me who am I?”
“A lovely dream…why is that funny?”
“I’ve been called a living nightmare, but never a lovely dream.”
“You’re lovely to me.”
There was a sharp intact of breath as she put her arms around his waist. “I wouldn’t presume to argue with an angel. Who would you be if you weren’t you?”
She tried to bite her tongue, but confession was too tempting. “Your wife.”
“What makes you think you’d have to be someone else to suffer that doom?”
“You wouldn’t marry me.”
“Why not?”
“Because…”
“Well I suppose if you put it that way. ‘No, I couldn’t marry an angel…because…’ At which point any right thinking person would complete the statement with my mother’s taunt , ‘…because you don’t deserve her. Leave the sunlight for the living…’ Sometimes truth is best ignored.”
“The real Geoffrey wouldn’t want to marry me.”
“Who’s the real Geoffrey? If you think there’s more than one of me I assure you the blood racing through my veins would disagree.”
“I wish something awful would happen so I’d have an excuse to send for you.”
“If you need me, send me word. I’ll come.”
“It would be selfish. You’re probably on the Isle of Mann. I’d feel guilty for prolonging your agony.”
“Send for me; give me an excuse to see you.” She tipped back her head and stared at his lips hoping he’d bend his head and kiss her, but after a long sigh he merely lifted a lock of her hair to his lips. “I can’t wait ‘till I finish this ghastly enterprise and return to your sunlight.” Jealous of her own hair, Tolerance pressed her face against his neck and tried to imagine what it would be like to be held in the real Geoffrey’s arms. It was difficult to believe he’d be so chaste or sweet.
Chapter 12
Geoffrey was acutely aware of the woman leaning against him; the feel of her hair against his throat, the warmth of her body and the thin layers of linen hindering his ability to caress her skin. Even with the sun on his face he could feel the angel’s warmth filling his chest with blue skies and a peace that made the simple acting of breathing a pleasure. Feeling her arms wrap around his chest, the familiar deluge of desire threatened to wash away his self-restraint, but if he kissed his angel she’d soon be laying in the grass at the mercy of his lust. The irrational demands of his body had to be ignored. If he couldn’t control his physical needs in his dreams he’d never succeed in the waking world. When his raging blood washed aside that concern, the fear of his angel rejecting his heartfelt adoration as mere lechery operated as an effective final barrier. He allowed himself to kiss her hair, but her upturned lips were avoided. The trial of self-restraint had to be easier than being repulsed. Here in the garden he knew she loved him. It would be enough until he felt he deserved to call on his angel in the flesh.
“I wonder where the real Geoffrey is?”
“I couldn’t get much closer without earning a slap.”
“No silly, where do you think you are?”
“I’m right here.”
“No, where do you think the flesh and blood Geoffrey is staying?”
“I’m in London.”
“You would say that. You’re in my dream; you’re bound to tell me what I want to hear.”
“I saw you the other day. I waited to see if you’d turn and look in my direction, but you were fascinated by something in a shop window.”
She abruptly sat up and stared at him in horror. “I missed seeing you because I didn’t turn my head?”
The tears in her eyes filled Geoffrey’s chest with an blue skies. Part of him was sitting on the ground; part was floating off into the white fluffy clouds above. “Sunshine, women cry because they have seen me, not because they haven’t.”
“If that’s supposed to cheer me, it’s not working.”
“You looked beautiful in your green pelisse and pink gown. I almost didn’t recognise you in a bonnet. I even tried to write a poem about my Sunshine in a green poke bonnet… That wasn’t supposed to make you laugh. I thought you the loveliest thing I’d ever seen.”
“I’d suggest you get out more, except some beauty would catch your eye and remind you that I’m not remotely lovely. I prefer the deluded Geoffrey.”
“The devil can’t be deluded!”
“You’re not the devil, you’re good and kind.”
“I wouldn’t argue with an angel, but…”
“Then don’t argue! You’re good and kind and I miss you.” Adoring eyes stared up at him clearly hoping for a kiss, but after several long seconds she sighed in disappointment and pressed her head against his shoulder. Geoffrey forcibly reminded himself why he couldn’t kiss her on the lips. Resting his cheek against her hair he inhaled the smell of heaven.
Geoffrey woke with a smile on his face and that strange warm fuzzy sensation wrapped around the ache, making him feel fifteen years younger. He flushed like a school boy as he remembered being held in her arms. He could only pray he could convince her to be his wife. He was still smiling two hours latter as he sat down to eat his breakfast wearing dark blue breeches and matching coat looking almost normal. Nearly six weeks of eating enough for two men had given cause for new clothes. When he passed a mirror he was pleased to see that his face filling out. His skin was beginning to lose its deathly pallor and the bruises on his cheek were starting to fade. Finding a letter next to his plate from his friend was marzipan on the cake of life. He carefully opened it, oblivious to his maid standing nearby holding his breakfast-tray.
Dear Geoffrey,
My mind is full of windmills. I wish I was there, wherever you are so I could lend you my ear, but even if you’re sitting at your own breakfast table your still too far away. Geoffrey looked up in dazed amusement to see if his Sunshine was standing in the corner and caught sight of the maid with a strained look on her face. He motioned for her to serve him and then sent the frightened woman away with a scowl. He ignored his plate and resumed his letter. I’m pleased to hear that you haven’t killed anyone. Perhaps the ungrateful worm had toothache. If I’d had toothache when we met, you’d have thought me a shrew. Now that is a depressing thought!
Where are you? Are you safe in your own bed or being chewed by bedbugs in some remote country inn? Have you thought about carrying a bed-roll and sleeping on a table? I’ve heard it’s more comfortable than having one’s face eaten by those horrid bugs though that remains to be seen. Why God had to make those nasty little creatures I’ll never know.
I’ve started knitting you some woollen socks for winter. Are you one of those men who prefers his boots loose, they looked loose the last time I saw you, or do you prefer a tight fit? As you’re taller than average I’m guessing your feet are slightly larger than average, but if you’d trace around one bare foot on paper I’ll try to make something that fits. I warn you, with my knitting skills in mind, they may make a better scarf. I can see you now, riding all over England in the wind and rain with a pair of socks on your hands and another tied around your neck. I’m sure the other rakes will be too drunk to notice. Let me know where you are and if you’re feeling better. I pray that you are!
Sincerely,
Tol
erance
As the maid returned to ask if her master needed anything her blood froze at the sight of the Duke of Lyndhurst’s lips parted in a diabolical grin that displayed his yellow teeth. She mentally crossed herself and watched him out of the corner of her eyes as an unearthly chuckle escaped his red lips in-between mouthfuls, but he was oblivious to her presence. He was smiling at the table just past his plate with what appeared to be a wistful expression. Crossing herself she hurried to give the rest of the servants’ further proof that their master was possessed.
Geoffrey’s resolve to relinquish the pleasure of his friend’s presence until he felt worthy continued to grow as the months crept by and the ache began to diminish. Her thick woollen socks were worn every day as a Northeast wind stripped the autumn landscape. Six months into his campaign he relished the fact that his wasted muscles had strengthened from daily use. He could run up three flights of stairs without losing his breath and riding thirty miles no longer made him feel like he was going to die. He almost felt fifteen again when he’d run ten miles for the joy of being in motion. His first glance into a mirror in three months stunned him. The corpse-like veneer had been scraped away and replaced with real skin slightly tanned from being out in all weathers. The dark circles around his eyes were becoming less prominent, allowing his face to be dominated by his eyes that gleamed like two aquamarine gemstones. The pleasure in his improved appearance was ruined by finding several grey hairs amongst the long strands of black hanging half way down his chest. He looked like a mummified rake-hell left over from the previous century. Sending for a pair of scissors he hacked off his long hair and then stood back to view the result. He looked like he’d been attacked by a drunken barber, but it was an improvement. With short hair his face didn’t look so old or narrow, but would the angel like it?
Chapter 13
As the months crept by, Tolerance found her routine restructured. With the almost daily arrival of a letter from her friend, she’d spend the morning penning a reply. In the early afternoon she’d play with her son. In the late afternoon she’d run errands or attend to estate business and then it would be time for dinner and after spending more time with her son it would be time for bed. In her waking hours she marvelled at the strangeness of how her dream Geoffrey continued to change. His pale sickly colouring had evolved into a healthy tan and his white dream clothes were starting to fit properly as his slender frame was covered with muscles and flesh. In one dream she’d entered the garden to find him asleep in the grass looking like someone had crept up and cut off his hair. Taking advantage of the moment she sat next to him and watched his chest rise and fall under the linen shirt. He looked fast asleep. Lightly running her fingers over his head, the stubble was like thick black embroidery silk. She was so absorbed in his lips she failed to notice his chest was rising and falling at a faster rate. One moment she was admiring a sleeping man and the next she was staring down into pale blue fire. He looked sorely tempted to pull her into his arms, but he merely rolled onto his stomach and lay face down in the grass muttering something under his breath until he suddenly jumped to his feet and suggested they see what the fish were doing. She wasn’t surprised that he didn’t touch her the rest of the dream; she’d given up hope that he’d try to kiss her. He did occasionally touch her cheek or lightly pull her hair, but unless she reached out to touch him he remained distant. She was tempted to ask him why he hadn’t tried to kiss her, but but she didn’t want to hear that he thought kissing her would ruin their friendship.
A year to the day after Geoffrey’s fateful interview, from eight in the morning till eight o’clock at night every hour on the hour a gift was delivered by her friend’s boot boy; a bouquet of flowers, a novel with an inscription, a handkerchief embroidered with his monogram. Having received a note that there would be one more gift, Tolerance was wringing her hands in anticipation as she waited in the hall for the clock to strike, hoping he’d deliver the gift in person. The Butler opened the door and let her step forward. Her heart fell as she looked down at the boy holding a large wrapped rectangle under his arm. She handed the boy a coin and took the heavy package pausing to scan the darkening street in either direction, but there was no one except the grubby coated driver of the horse cart that had brought the boy.
***
Geoffrey smiled as Tolerance scanned the street to see if he was there, but his amusement faded as her shoulders slumped in disappointment. The horse reared its head as his body tensed, drawing one last glance in his direction. His most expensive gift safely in her hands and the door closed, there was nothing left to do but drive the wagon and his boot boy back to the mews. The ache in his chest was slowly easing; there were only a handful of people left to find from his original list of sins, but his inglorious memory continued to cast up names from the past.
On reaching home he stepped into a light green hall and threw off his borrowed outerwear revealing a stylish close fitting black suit, his chin outlined by a white cravat. Alone in his cheerful yellow parlour he walked in circles around the solitary gold wingback chair as his mind whirled in the opposite direction. What did she think of his gifts? Had he been too extravagant? Had he been too shabby? Wracked with doubt, he kicked a log deeper into flames. Falling back into his chair he crossed his legs and closed his eyes and tried to imagine his Sunshine getting ready to go out for the evening. What would she be wearing? Where would she go? Who would she dance with? The last two months she’d been meeting him late in the garden, but even worse she’d taken to describing her latest balls and dancing partners in her letters.
He cursed all decent handsome men under his breath and silently prayed that he’d be able to convince her that he’d make a good husband. The thought of his angel marrying another man was unthinkable, but when he thought of it, he’d be in a foul mood for hours hating himself and feeling dyspeptic. He knew he’d never deserve her, but he adored her, wanted her, needed her. Geoffrey sighed as he stared into the fire. He was tempted to stroll back to her doorstep, but he remained in his chair. His black mouldy heart would never be worthy of her, but as soon as he completed the list he’d offer it. If his friend loved him, she’d accept. He was mentally making love to his future bride when a knock on the front door disturbed his pleasurable thoughts. A soft knock on the parlour door made his heart race. Raising his head he tried not to look eager as his butler’s shuffling footsteps approached the chair.
“A letter Your Grace.”
“Thank you Howard.” Geoffrey snatched up the small square from the silver tray and waited impatiently until the door was closed before kissing the red seal and breaking it open.
Dearest Geoffrey,
I pray this finds you at home. If so, I’m thinking of you as you read this. I’m entranced by your twelfth gift of the day. I’ve seen several of Gainsborough’s landscapes, but none of them were this magical. I’ve never told you, but as a young girl I used to spend hours watching the clouds drift past as they changed shapes. Looking at this painting makes me feel like I’m watching the clouds. I can almost believe that the small skirted figure carrying a water bucket is me, hurrying home to the little cottage among the trees where my husband will beat me for taking so long getting his dinner. Of course he only married me for my dowry; a pregnant sow, one quilt, and two goose-down pillows and a cast iron pot. He certainly didn’t marry me for my looks or cooking ability. When I was nine I fell in love with one my parent’s under gardeners. He was a young lad with red hair who cringed every time I wandered into view. I think he was wise to write off a girl who’d never be able to lift a boiling cauldron off the fire let alone figure out how to cook in one.
