The Secretary

by Brooke, Meg

  “Take off your jacket and waistcoat,” he said.

  She obeyed. “Are we dispensing with pleasantries, then?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to the bed. He laid her down onto it and then grabbed her waist and rolled her over onto her stomach. “We are not. But I cannot have you wincing through another day in the carriage.” Using his strong hands, he began to massage her shoulders. She let out a sigh of relief as the tension in her back eased. His hands moved lower, working the tight muscles of her lower back.

  “That feels so good,” she moaned.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said, tugging her shirt loose and reaching up to undo the knot that held her binding in place. Then he pulled the fabric out from under her shirt, winding it as he went. He slid his hands under the waist of her trousers and continued to massage her aching muscles. But the lower he went, the less she was able to relax. “Clarissa,” he said after a few moments, “stop squirming.”

  She giggled against the coverlet. “I can’t help it. You can’t touch me there and not expect me to respond.”

  “I suppose not,” he said, leaning down and pressing his lips to the smooth skin of her lower back. She gasped as he blew on the wet spot he had made. Her back arched. He slid his hands back up and under her shirt, lifting it away from her skin and over her head. When she moved to sit up, he said, “Stay where you are.” Then, he lifted off her wig and cap and began to remove the pins from her hair, dropping them onto the nightstand. When every last pin had been removed he pressed his fingers to her sore scalp.

  “Mmm,” she said into the pillow.

  “Forget what I said about keeping the wig,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss the skin behind her ear. As his tongue moved against her neck, he slid his hands down and unbuttoned her trousers, his legs straddling her body.

  She wondered if he meant to take her from behind as he had in the summerhouse. Trying to show him what she wanted, she lifted her bottom and ground it against him.

  “Oh, God, Clarissa,” he groaned. “Do you want me to lose control entirely?”

  “Yes,” she said, and she moved against him again.

  He made a sound deep in his throat and pulled her trousers and drawers down. His hands moved away for a moment and then he was pushing into her, hard and hot. She moved with him, matching his thrusts. He grasped her hips and pounded into her, filling her and then drawing almost completely out before thrusting in again. She braced her hands against the mattress and rose up a little so that he could reach even deeper. A little mewling sound escaped her lips as he rode her, and then his fingers slipped between her folds and she felt the world explode around her. With another quick thrust he joined her, lifting her off the mattress and pulling her up against his chest as he came. Then he sat back, holding her in his lap, still buried deep inside her. He dropped his lips to her shoulder. “I love you,” he whispered.

  “I love you, too,” she replied.

  “Sometimes,” Anders said a while later when they were both lying in the bed, her body pressed against his, “I don’t understand you at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Take this morning, for instance,” he said. “At Stonehenge. I thought you didn’t believe in magic and fairies and druids.”

  “When did I say that?” she asked.

  “You didn’t. But you’ve always seemed so...practical to me. And then you go and tell me that there’s magic in the air and we’re communing with the souls of everyone who has ever lived or ever will live.”

  She rolled onto her back so that she could look at him. “Let me ask you this: why do you care about human welfare?”

  He stared at her. “I suppose...I suppose I care because it’s wrong for people to harm each other. I want to stop them.”

  “But why? Why is it wrong?”

  “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with a naked woman,” Anders said.

  “Just pretend I’m not naked. Or a woman.”

  “I don’t think my imagination is quite that powerful.”

  “But you see, that’s exactly it! Imagination. It’s the one thing we have that all the rest of the world’s creatures lack. You care about other people because you are able to imagine yourself in their position, to feel what they feel, to touch a little piece of their soul. That’s what makes us human. Don’t you think that’s magical?”

  Anders considered it. Was this the sort of thing they taught at Oxford? If so, all their sons were going there, tradition be damned. “I suppose it is magical,” he agreed.

  “You see,” Clarissa said, “I think that’s what my father didn’t understand. He taught me to be logical and rational. He taught me to read Shakespeare only so we could analyze his dramatic techniques. He never thought about why the thing mattered, why we should care. To him, everything was academic. And to you, too. You’ve never stopped to consider that there’s a larger purpose, a larger value to the things we do.”

  Anders felt himself grinning. “I’m amazed you haven’t had ten or fifteen proposals already, Miss Martin,” he said, “with talk like that.”

  “You know,” she said, “sometimes I wonder if that’s why my father trained me to be an academic like him—so that I would never marry.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, then I thank him for it,” Anders said. When she gave him a quizzical look, he explained, “It meant that you had to wait for me to come along.”

  Clarissa woke from a rather strange dream. She had dreamed that she and Anders were sitting in the summerhouse with her father, who had been reading to them from a book of Parliamentary speeches. All of a sudden, a little girl in a white dress had burst into the summerhouse. “Papa, papa!” she had called, rushing over to Anders. “Come quick! I found a fairy!” Then Clarissa’s father had said, “Foolish child, there’s no such thing as fairies,” and his book had turned into a huge cage that had reached out and trapped the little girl. Clarissa could still hear her sobs as she opened her eyes.

  “Good morning,” Anders said as she stirred against him.

  “Is it morning already?” she asked.

  “It is, and we will have to be on the road soon,” he grumbled, sitting up. She slid out of the bed and collected her hairpins from the nightstand. There was a little dressing table in the corner, and she sat down and began to pin up her hair. He watched her from the bed. “I’m glad it’s you who has had to do that every morning and not I,” he said after a few minutes. “I would have given up three days in.”

  “Well, in a few more days I won’t have to do it any more.”

  “No. I’m going to hire you the finest ladies’ maid in the kingdom, and she’ll see to it that you never have to touch a hair on your head again if you don’t want to.”

  “You’re going to hire me a ladies’ maid?”

  “Well, I’ll have Phelps do it.”

  “I’ve never had a maid,” she said thoughtfully as she slipped on her cap and wig. What would she do with a maid? Of course, the Countess of Stowe would have gowns much finer than hers and would need to look perfect in each one. “I only have one condition,” she said.

  “What is that?”

  “I want a maid who doesn’t disapprove of a lady who doesn’t wear corsets.”

  Anders laughed, and Clarissa could understand why. It was nearly impossible to imagine staid, stoic Phelps asking potential maids if they approved or disapproved of corsets. Still, he said, “Done. Now, get dressed and let’s be off.”

  Clarissa went to her case and pulled out a fresh pair of drawers and a shirt. It was only when she bent to retrieve her shoes that she realized something was missing. The book. She looked under the sofa and in her case, but it was gone. Had she left it in the carriage?

  “Missing something?” Anders said. She turned to find him leaning against the doorframe, holding the book.

  “Oh!” she cried. “I’m so sorry, Anders. I never would have borrowed it if I had known it contained such a
personal inscription. I just wanted something to read on the journey.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” he said. “I don’t think my uncle would have minded. And I had never seen this inscription.” He handed the book back to her. “Do you know, I never thought about whether my aunt loved my uncle? I always assumed he was just a silly old man. Now I know differently. I’m glad you found the book.”

  He kissed her one last time, and they went down into the taproom to wait for their carriage.

  TWENTY-ONE

  February 22, 1833

  As the carriage was nearing London, Anders began to think about the days ahead. “I’ve asked my mother and stepfather to receive you tomorrow afternoon,” he said to Clarissa, who had been reading the last pages of Much Ado.

  “All right,” she said.

  “I’ll send the carriage for you about two.”

  “Very well,” she said. “But I will still be at Stowe House in the morning.”

  “Are you sure? Wouldn’t you rather rest a little?”

  “Will you be resting?”

  He shook his head. “No, I don’t suppose I will. There will be a great deal of work to do after my absence.”

  “Then I will see you at eight, as usual,” she said.

  It was late evening when the carriage stopped on Trevor Street. Anders carried Clarissa’s case upstairs and kissed her goodbye.

  “I will see you in the morning,” she said.

  “Don’t worry too much about meeting my mother,” he said.

  “But you’ve forgotten that we’ve already met.”

  He laughed. “Of course. How could I forget?”

  When he reached Stowe House, it was to find Leo waiting for him in his study. “Leo, what are you doing here?”

  “Oh good, you’re back,” his friend said, just as if Anders had burst in on him. “I thought you’d want to hear everything that’s happened while you’ve been away. How was Somerset, by the way? Terrible business.”

  “It was about as good as it could be, given the circumstances. Perhaps a little better, if you must know.”

  “How so?” Leo sat forward in his seat, looking rather impatient as Anders dropped into his own chair.

  “Miss Clarissa Martin has accepted my offer of marriage,” Anders said.

  Leo leaned back and let out a long breath. “So you actually did it.”

  Anders hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Did what?”

  “Proposed to her, of course. Why? You didn’t...” he paused when he saw the look on Anders’s face. “Oh. You did. Well then. Um. Let me tell you what was decided today about the Irish disturbances.”

  Clarissa stood in the center of her sitting room, unsure what to do next. She felt as though she had become a completely different person over the last few days, and yet her little flat was exactly the same.

  She remembered when she was seven and she had built a box with netted sides and then gone out searching for caterpillars. After a few weeks they had built cocoons, and after a few more they had emerged beautiful, perfect butterflies. She had been fascinated and terrified at the same time. And she had finally expressed her secret fear to her father. “Papa,” she had asked, “will they ever change back?” He had laughed and assured her they would not. “They are changed forever.”

  That was her. Changed forever. The girl she had been, coolly analytical and immune to romance, was gone. She was still not entirely comfortable with the woman who had been left behind. But she knew that with Anders by her side she could face anything, could learn to be this new woman. And he would let her continue to work at his side. More than anything, she loved him for that.

  “Clarissa, darling,” Anders’s mother cried as they entered the sitting room of the townhouse in Mayfair where the Coleridges lived during the Season. “It is so good to see you again, especially now that I know you are to be my daughter-in-law. Come and meet my husband, Mr. Coleridge.”

  Clarissa stepped forward to greet Anders’s stepfather. Coleridge was a sensible looking fellow with a sedate, placid face and a large, round, bald spot on his head that always shone no matter how much light there was in the room. Anders had never asked his age, but he thought he was about five years older than his mother.

  “It is such a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Coleridge, and to see you again, Mrs. Coleridge,” Clarissa said. She was wearing that pale pink gown she had worn to the theatre, though she had added a lace fichu for the afternoon. Every time he looked at her Anders thought of how he had first realized his attraction to her because of that gown.

  “Come, sit and have some tea while the gentlemen discuss whatever it is gentlemen talk about,” his mother said, pulling Clarissa onto the sofa. Anders followed his stepfather through into the library.

  “Well, Anders, she seems like a very nice young woman, for all of the two minutes I’ve known her,” Mr. Coleridge said.

  “Thank you, sir,” Anders said. He and his stepfather took their customary seats at the chess table. Anders was not an accomplished player and generally did not enjoy the game, but he would play with Mr. Coleridge because chess was one of the man’s chief joys in life.

  As the pieces moved across the board, they talked idly of affairs both in Parliament and at Ramsay. Anders had not had the benefit of his uncle’s tutelage, though he had sorely needed it, and when he had come into the title Mr. Coleridge had given him a great deal of sage advice. He owned a sizable property in Kent, and had a plenty of experience dealing with tenants and farms. Now Anders felt that he had something useful to contribute to the conversation after the hours he had spent with Jensen and Clarissa at Ramsay.

  “I heard about the fire,” Mr. Coleridge said when Anders told him why he had gone back to Ramsay so early in the Parliamentary session. “Terrible business. But you did the right thing, going back.”

  “I was glad I did. It felt right, being there with those people, standing with them in the church.”

  “They will be pleased to know you are giving them a countess.”

  “Indeed.”

  Mr. Coleridge moved his queen’s knight and then sat back in his chair. “She is an Oxford professor’s daughter, I understand?”

  “Her father was Jonah Martin. Before he was an MP, he taught at Balliol,” Anders said.

  “Not a conventional breeding ground for countesses.”

  “No, and I don’t suspect she’ll be a conventional countess.” Anders paused to consider the board before making his move. He had lost the game three moves ago and they both knew it, but he still picked up his bishop. “But that’s not what I want.”

  Mr. Coleridge smiled. “I didn’t think it was.”

  Clarissa came into the library carrying a cup of tea for Mr. Coleridge. She looked inquiringly at Anders. “No, thank you,” he said. She put her hand on the back of his chair and studied the board.

  “You’ve lost your queen already, Anders,” she said.

  Mr. Coleridge laughed. “I think we’ve ascertained that, my dear. Do you play?”

  “Terribly, Mr. Coleridge. I don’t think I would impress anyone with my skills at chess. My father quite despaired of me. He would have liked for me to be a great chess master.”

  “It sounds like he had great hopes for you, my dear,” Mr. Coleridge said, rearranging the board. Anders took that as a hint to vacate his seat so that Clarissa could sit. He pulled the chair out for her and then went into the sitting room to join his mother. He was sure she had new questions for him.

  After Anders went out, Clarissa took a moment to plan her first move. Then she remembered that Mr. Coleridge had said something to her. “Oh, he had great hopes for me, sir. I think he would have liked me to be a philosopher or a celebrated author or a scientist.”

  Mr. Coleridge studied her for a moment while she looked down at the board. “But not a countess?” he asked.

  She looked up at him, hoping that her face did not betray her alarm.

  “It’s all right, dear girl,” he said. “Marriage to an ear
l is an intimidating prospect. I was terrified to marry an earl’s sister-in-law. But Anders is a good man, and he respects you. I can see that.”

  Clarissa made her move. “Thank you,” she said.

  Mr. Coleridge looked down. “Interesting.” They played in amicable silence for a while. When Clarissa had put Mr. Coleridge in check three times, he said, “I think you underestimate your skills, Miss Martin.”

  Anders came back into the room then, followed by his mother. “Has he flattened you yet, Clarissa?”

  “Quite the opposite,” Mr. Coleridge said, just as Clarissa said, “Checkmate.”

  Mrs. Coleridge said, “Good. You’re both planning to stay to dinner, I hope? Then I’ll steal Clarissa away now to begin making plans.” She took Clarissa’s arm and guided her out of the room and across the hall into a smaller, more feminine parlor. “Now then,” she said when they were seated and she had pulled out a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that perched on the end of her nose, a sheet of paper and a pen. “I wish my son would abandon this plan of a special license, but it seems he is quite determined.” She looked over the frames of her spectacles at Clarissa, who felt a flush creeping up her face. Did Mrs. Coleridge imagine that she was with child? How could she possibly assure her otherwise?

  “Yes,” she squeaked.

  “I understand that you attend Holy Trinity in Brompton?”

  Clarissa nodded feebly.

  Mrs. Coleridge made a few notes. “Good. We will arrange to have the ceremony there, and then the wedding breakfast at Stowe House. After that there will have to be a ball as well, I suppose. It can’t be helped.” She let out a rather unladylike sigh. Then she put her paper and pen down on the table and took Clarissa’s hand. “These idiotic conventions,” she said. “If only my brother-in-law could have married again and had a son!” Clarissa stared at her. She had expected Mrs. Coleridge to launch into a discussion of gowns and flowers and illustrious guests. But her future mother-in-law smiled sadly at her. “I should have raised Anders to be an earl. I should have insisted that his uncle take him and teach him what was right and proper. I never learned, I’m afraid. He told you that my father was the curate of our village?”