by Alina Adams
"I am sure that the lords and ladies of the beau monde would be ecstatic to hear it."
Julia's eyes clouded over. "I cannot imagine, Jamie, that something as important as marriage could be a matter of words. Surely, it must carry far more weight to feel married, than merely to verbalize it. How can a third party, any third party, pronounce someone man and wife, if their hearts do not shout it so first?"
13
Jamie, Julia decided, was most definitely not acting like himself. From the moment they'd set foot on the steamer heading for France, it had felt as if she were traveling with a complete stranger. Jamie did not mock Julia. He did not chastise her. He did not lecture or argue with her.
And, truly, she wished that he would stop. Such a sudden turnaround in attitude was most discombobulating.
On the one occasion Julia felt certain Jamie could not let pass without a quip to make her face redden, he infuriatingly insisted on behaving as the perfect gentleman. All it took was a subtle raising of her eyebrows for Julia to indicate that, on this voyage, Jamie would be sleeping in the dressing room adjoining their cabin, for him to understand and silently comply.
So stunned was she by Jamie's acquiescence, that Julia could only stand and stare at the firmly shut door behind him. Her gaze narrowed on the stacked rows of hand-fastened, lacquer-dyed twigs that, tied one on top the other, made up the hatchway between them. She wondered whether one might be able to see through such a door.
Ten minutes of pressing her eye to the wood and squinting answered Julia's question in the negative. You most definitely could not see a thing. But you might hear quite a bit.
Switching senses, Julia placed her ear against the twigs, and listened. On the other side, she could make out Jamie moving around. The lock on his trunk snapped twice as Jamie opened it, followed by the rustle of clothes being rummaged by a pair of impatient hands. She heard the thump of Jamie taking off his boots and dropping them on the floor one by one. Then, a creak of tired bedsprings, and finally, a most peculiar, muffled, clapping sound, followed by a click-click-click the likes of which Julia had never previously encountered.
Burning with curiosity over what activity might inspire such strange noise, Julia impulsively knocked on the door, and, when no reply proved forthcoming, walked on in.
Jamie lay atop the bedcovers, head and shoulders propped up by a trio of stacked pillows, right leg bent at the knee, left leg stretched out in front of him. He'd discarded the evening dress of black Jamie had worn for the ride from church, and now lounged in merely a pair of white trousers with a blue stripe down each side. And no shirt whatsoever.
Julia stopped short, looking. Well, no, if one wanted to use the correct terminology, Julia suspected that a more apt word for her actions just might be gaping. She stood, gaping.
His chest rose up and down with every breath Jamie took, the triangle of silken, golden-red hair pulsating, and all but drawing an arrow from the width of his shoulders down to Jamie's muscular stomach and . . . Julia forced herself to look away. Surely, this wasn't what she'd come in for. Was it?
No. Julia shook her head, grateful for the blurring vision that produced, and sternly reminded herself that she only had an innocent curiosity about the source of that most peculiar clicking sound. And it, unfortunately, seemed to be coming from the vicinity of Jamie's chest.
Lying on his back, elbows by his sides, Jamie held, by each end, a two-foot piece of rope. When he moved his hands just a little, a golden ring hanging from the rope began to spin, making the same click-click-click Julia had heard through the door.
She recognized the ring. It belonged to her late father. Julia had given it to Jamie to wear for their wedding ceremony.
Unsure of how to react to such a blatant display, Julia remained silent. Jamie continued with his game, seemingly oblivious to her presence.
Palm up, Jamie moved the threaded ring atop his palm, and closed four fingers over it. Flipping his arm, he crisscrossed the dangling rope ends over the back of his palm, and, with his free hand, tugged hard on the rope, pulling it free and simultaneously unclenching his fist. The gold ring was gone.
Julia gasped in surprise. He repeated the trick. This time, her father's ring appeared threaded back on the rope without Jamie seeming to so much as touch it. Enchanted, Julia inched closer, watching in awe as Jamie continued his magic, passing a solid gold wedding ring through what appeared to be solid rope, tossing it from hand to hand and making it disappear mid-journey, tying it in a knot at the bottom of the rope without once needing to handle the ring, until, finally, Julia was sitting on the bed beside Jamie.
She didn't dare take her eyes off his hands for even a second. The nimble fingers seemed like a seperate life form as they danced about the rope and ring. Every time Jamie moved, Julia felt her body responding, as if it were her that his hands were so gently caressing and effortlessly bending to his will.
The air around them grew hotter, and Jamie sped up the pace of his efforts, working faster and faster to insure that Julia remained unable to make out the trick that created the magic, until her face lay inches from his, Jamie's breath warm against Julia's cheek.
He was moving with the speed of lightning now, every action a blur to the naked eye. Julia's heart beat in rhythm with the flashing of his fingers, her hands trembling in anticipation. And then, unexpectedly, Jamie stopped. The rope fell limp in his grasp. He turned sharply, lips all but brushing against Julia's.
Her head spun. Her vision blurred, bright yellow bursting in front of her eyes, as if she'd stood up too quickly. She couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. She couldn't do anything but feel Jamie's presence beside her.
And then, just as suddenly as he'd approached, Jamie pulled away. He stood up from the bed, moving to the porthole across the room, and remained there, staring out at the sea, until Julia managed to compose herself.
Awkwardly, she pressed her hands to her cheeks, noting that, while Julia's face was warm, her palms felt ice cold. She looked at Jamie, hoping for a word of explanation or clarification. But now it were he who refused to even meet her gaze.
Not trusting her voice to produce so much as a steady good-night, Julia only nodded in Jamie's direction, feeling foolish for the action since he obviously did not wish to see her, but certain that there ought to be some sort of acknowledgement between them. Wordlessly, she retired to her room, taking great pains to soundly shut the door behind her.
For the rest of the night, Julia lay awake, half-expecting Jamie to burst in. But, despite what Julia felt certain had almost happened earlier that evening, no bursting in, not even a knock on the door, proved forthcoming.
The next time Julia saw Jamie, it were on deck before breakfast, whereupon his actions and manner proved to be those of a perfect gentlemen, with no indication of anything out of the ordinary having taken place.
He kept Julia, as well as the rest of their dining companions, laughing with bulls-eye imitations of their wedding guests, from the duke of Lancshire, whose eyepiece was forever slipping down the front of his cravat, to the widow Banbury, who, having buried four husbands, nevertheless, at the age of nine and fifty, continued eyeing every unattached gentleman at the reception.
On the one hand, Julia felt thrilled, of course, that he had decided to behave. It certainly made things easier, especially now that she had so many other more important details on her mind. But, on the opposite side of the coin, she couldn't help feeling . . . disappointed? No, that was not it.
Rejected? Good God, certainly not that.
Unaccustomed?
There. That was the word Julia sought. She was feeling unaccustomed. After all, who might have guessed that Jamie Lowell would prove himself to be such a pleasant traveling companion?
Not only was he never at a lack for conversation, but Jamie also knew a great deal about such things as what amount to slip the steward—not too little, lest they miss their mark, and not too much, or he would expect the same for every service.
And fortunately, for the remainder of their journey, there was no repeat performance of their wedding night.
But then again, there was the minor matter of the kiss.
For the whole of the week leading up to their wedding, Julia had dreaded the moment Jamie would be prompted to kiss the bride. Mainly because she still shivered whenever she remembered the way Jamie's lips had felt pressed against hers at the ball. The sensation proved so pleasurable, that, often at night, before she fell asleep, Julia would relive the moment over and over again, until she felt positively light-headed.
Although in the harsh light of day, the last thing she wanted to feel was light-headed. It was bad enough that, lately, some of her exchanges with Jamie had possessed the power to turn a woman her father always called "much too quick of mind for a girl," into a simpering, blathering idiot incapable of putting together thoughts any more complex than "And what shall we eat for dinner?" Now, with Miriam and Alexia's fate so close to being resolved by her timely assistance, the last thing Julia needed was to risk another attack of Jamie-induced dizziness.
And yet, at the wedding that was exactly what happened. Despite Julia's steeling herself in advance, despite her constant repetition that this was all part of their act—or, as Jamie might sneer, their "arrangement" —the moment that Jamie reached for her, the moment his fingers no more than brushed her cheek in preparation, Julia had felt willing to forget everything and everyone, if only he might promise to never stop.
Julia and Jamie had barely settled at their inn in the French countryside at the outskirts of Nogent-le-Rotrou, before she informed him that she would be going out, and that Jamie, under no circumstances, was to accompany her.
"Very well." Jamie barely glanced up from the book he was reading to wave in her direction as Julia headed out the door.
She knew she should feel pleased by how easily he accepted the situation. Yet, Julia was still unaccustomed to this more serious Jamie.
Offering him one final chance at a protest, Julia took her time collecting her hat, gloves, and reticule, then spent a moment hovering at the door, glancing over one shoulder at Jamie, hoping that he might start to wonder why she was still there.
He did not. Wonder, that is.
Resolving to put the entire infuriating paradox out of her mind, Julia slammed the hotel room door loudly behind her, marched down the stairs, and climbed into her hired carriage, offering the driver Miriam's address in Chateaudun.
For the length of the journey, she concentrated on her cousin's dilemma, and on the best way to handle it. Yet, with every inch of distance stretching between then, Julia could not help but feel her mind wandering in speculation about what her husband was doing at the same moment.
Her husband.
In the first instant that Julia instinctively thought of Jamie in those terms, the effect of her words made the dizziness experienced from his touch, feel like but a minor splash in a bucket the size of the Channel.
Jamie Lowell was her husband.
So what if she had told him back in England that the words they'd dutifully recited were meaningless to her? Julia knew that it weren't due to the vows they'd taken or the documents they'd signed that she now felt married to Jamie.
Now the only question remained, whether, after everything that had happened and everything that was about to happen, could Jamie ever begin to feel the same way about her?
The maid who opened Miriam's front door at once raised a finger to both lips and warned Julia to keep her voice down. "Madame de Mornay is . . . ill."
Something about the way she pronounced the final word sent a shiver up Julia's spine. Remembering the French drilled into her in the schoolroom, Julia demanded, "Ill, or hurt?"
"Ill," the woman stubbornly insisted. Then, lowering her voice, confided, "No one in the house can understand it. We all thought he loved her so. And then, three months ago . . . With no reason, madame. I have never seen anything like it."
Pushing past the housekeeper, Julia rushed up the stairs to Miriam's bedroom, knocking on the door, and then cautiously peering inside, after hearing a feeble "Entrez."
At the far end of the curtain-drawn room, Miriam lay in bed, propped up on a half-dozen pillows. Her hands, atop the blankets, seemed to have shrunk to the width of flower stems, with only the tips remaining swollen and frighteningly bluish in color. She barely had the strength to fully open both eyes, but, when Miriam saw Julia, she attempted a smile. The tightly drawn skin across her dry lips cracked, and she winced, coughing.
Julia pulled up a chair, sitting by Miriam's bed, taking her hand, and leaning in closer so that she might hear her words.
"You came," Miriam whispered. Her cheeks had sunk so deeply in the folds of her face, they formed a pair of hollow crevasses on either side. "I feared you would not be able to come."
"After the sort of letter you sent?" Julia could hear herself speaking, and she wondered what in the world was possessing her to sound so jovial while in a sickroom.
And then Julia understood.
It was like whistling while passing a cemetery. As long as Julia continued speaking as if her cousin were perfectly well, then she did not have to contemplate the alternative. "One look at your mother's devastated face, and I knew I had to come. You sounded so desperate in your letter, I almost swam the distance. Fortunately, I remembered in time that I never learned to swim."
A corner of Miriam's mouth twitched. Eyes closing, she breathed, "You always were skilled at making me laugh."
Julia stroked Miriam's forehead, brushing away hair that looked as if it hadn't been combed in days. "If you think that I am amusing, then you should hear my husband. He can even make the duke smile. And you recall how perpetually stern my uncle can be."
"I should have liked to meet your husband." Miriam rallied briefly, raising her head and surveying the room. "Is he here?"
"No." Julia urged Miriam to lie down and rest. "Jamie is waiting for me at the inn. I . . . I did not tell him where I was going. Or why."
"Would he disapprove, then? Of me?"
"If he so much as tries to disapprove of you, darling, I will personally see him hanged for it." Julia wondered how Miriam would react if she learned that her threat was not merely a colorful exaggeration for effect, but a legitimate possibility. She said, "Tell me instead what has happened. Your letter did not even begin to suggest matters growing this bad."
Simply, Miriam said, "I thought I could trust him. We have been married for ten years, I believed that he loved me. And I was so very tired of lying. I confessed everything to him. I knew that he would be cross, but I never suspected, I never suspected he would grow so . . . violent." Miriam closed her eyes, pained, and looked away, blinking back tears.
Thinking to comfort her, Julia reached to pat her cousin's arm, only to feel Miriam stiffen and pull away. Gingerly, Julia rolled up the sleeve to Miriam's dressing gown. The flesh of her arm lay red and inflamed, crimson streaks dotted with swollen, purplish welts. Julia gasped, bringing one hand to her mouth.
"Henri did this?"
"He was angry. He said I betrayed him."
"But surely you must have summoned a doctor to treat it."
"Not at first," Miriam said. "At first I was too ashamed. And so I waited. They say I waited too long. There is no way to stop the infection once it has spread this far."
"So you did finally see a doctor, then," Julia clasped on the first bit of good news she'd heard since arriving. "When does he predict you well enough to travel?"
"Julia," Miriam painfully squeezed her cousin's hand. "I beg of you, stop. I wrote you what my doctor predicted, and when."
"Oh. That. Well, naturally, I assumed you had gotten rid of that particular prophet of doom, and switched to someone a bit more helpful. And optimistic."
"How many doctors will it take to convince you that I am dying, Julia? And that not even you can do a single thing to prevent it happening."
Julia looked away, blinking furiously to keep
the tears from spilling down her cheeks. She pretended that her effort to remain stoic was being conducted for Miriam's benefit, when, in fact, both knew that it was Julia who needed help acting brave.
Miriam continued, "My concern now is with Alexia. Henri is incensed by the idea of my tainted blood poisoning his child. He wants her sent to a convent. But that is not the worst of it. He talks of—of beating the devil out of her. As if she were possessed by an evil spirit, or a demon. And I am afraid that, after I am gone, there will be no one to stop him from trying."
"Your mother would try to stop him. Salome would never let anyone hurt her only grandchild."
"My mother has no influence in France. She has no title, no powerful friends, no money. And Henri is adamant. He believes that he is doing God's work." Miriam's breathing continued to grow more labored, until Julia could see the effort it cost her to suck in every gulp of air, and how painful it was to release it again. "I cannot protect her from him anymore. I had thought of snatching my daughter and fleeing. But I haven't the strength. Henri would send the law in pursuit of us. And what sort of protection could I depend on from the law? He is my husband. He possesses complete control over my person. And as for Alexia. Oh, Julia, I live in a Roman Catholic country. What sort of sympathy do you expect them to extend for a Jewish mother who refuses to let her child be forced into a nunnery?"
A nurse wearing a starched white pinafore swept into Miriam's room, ordering Julia to leave and let Madame de Mornay rest. Julia departed reluctantly, promising Miriam that she would still be there when her cousin awakened, and for however long afterward that Miriam desired.
Needing to fill the time while Miriam slept, Julia decided to pay a visit to the nursery, where she watched, unobserved, Mademoiselle Alexia De Mornay, being drilled in her daily English lesson by a most pompous-sounding tutor.
