Jennifer Wilde

by Marietta Love Me

  The great ship rocked a little, tilting slowly from side to side, though not enough to be disturbing or to prevent the waiters from serving the excellent meal with superb courtesy. Jeremy was silent, sullen now, toying with his food and making no effort to be sociable. Mouth tight, lips turned down at the corners, blue eyes lost in thought, hair neatly brushed for once, he was severely handsome, stern and formidable. Jeremy loved to squabble as much as I did—yes, I had to admit that our spats were curiously invigorating—but when he was in a mood like this, I knew better than to agitate him.

  "Someone spotted a school of whales this afternoon,"I remarked, spooning more cheese sauce over my asparagus.

  "Yeah?"

  "They were a long way off, I understand. Mrs. Tyler said they looked like gleaming black rocks floating in the water."

  "Fascinating."

  "I'd have loved to have seen them. I've never seen a whale."

  "You haven't missed anything."

  "This sole's delicious. It amazes me that one can dine in such luxury on board a ship."

  Jeremy merely snorted, more sullen than ever. I was beginning to grow irritated.

  "The weather's been marvelous," I observed, "We had that storm last week, it's true, but it wasn't a bad one, a bit of wind, some rain. The ship hardly tossed at all. The water's been smooth as glass today, and—"

  "Is it absolutely necessary for you to keep on babbling like an empty-headed fool?"

  That stung. I could feel spots of color burning on my cheeks.

  "I was merely trying to be pleasant," I informed him. "That's a hell of a lot more than one could say for you."

  "I don't happen to be in a pleasant mood."

  "That's quite apparent. Perhaps it's the company. Perhaps you'd rather be chatting with Janine Etienne."

  "Perhaps I would."

  I started to get up. He reached across the table and seized my wrist in a tight clamp and told me in no uncertain terms to finish my meal. His voice was threatening. His eyes were full of smoldering blue fires. People were beginning to stare. I settled back down into my chair and, when he released it, rubbed my wrist.

  "You hurt my wrist," I said.

  "You're lucky I didn't break it."

  "You bastard!"

  He looked surprised. "You're really mad, aren't you?"

  "You're bloody right I am!"

  "Lower your voice. You're making a spectacle of yourself. People will think Mr. and Mrs. Jeremy Bond are having a marital spat."

  "I don't give a damn what they think. I've had just about enough of this, Jeremy. I never wanted you to come on this trip in the first place. I tried to stop you. This charade is beginning to wear thin. And as for what people think—what the hell do you think they think when you spend every single night in the cabin of that simpering whore over there?"

  "Touchy about Janine, aren't you?"

  "I don't give a damn what you do!"

  "Janine Etienne is an interesting woman. I've played cards with her a few times. I've had champagne with her. I'm a man. I have an ego. The woman I love treats me like a leper, and it's pleasant to spend time with a woman who finds me appealing."

  "Don't flatter yourself! Anything in a pair of breeches is appealing to a woman like that."

  "Be that as it may—"

  "I've no intention of sitting here and discussing your sexual adventures. You can hump her twenty-four hours a day for all I care. I imagine she'd adore it."

  "Probably would," he admitted.

  I stabbed the sole with my fork and viciously decapitated the asparagus. Then I put knife and fork down and tried to control my anger and hold back the tears that threatened to splatter at any second. Damn him for making me feel this way. I took several deep breaths and, after a while, managed to lift my glass and take a sip of wine. After having toyed with his food earlier on, Jeremy now began to eat with apparent relish. The sonofabitch was pleased with himself for having upset me. He loved getting me riled, took a savage glee in seeing my cheeks burn, seeing my eyes Hash. I fought back the anger and made a valiant effort to salvage my dignity.

  Jeremy finished his sole. The waiter removed our plates and asked if we would care for dessert. Jeremy nodded. I maintained a stony silence. Janine Etienne left the dining salon with a flash of diamonds, a swirl of green velvet, the handsome blond trotting behind her like an obedient, lovesick schoolboy. Jeremy paid no attention to them. Our dessert came. He ate his slowly. I didn't touch mine.

  "You more or less threw me out of our cabin," he said in a calm, reasonable voice. "I couldn't sleep on that bloody chaise longue. I had to find a place to spend my nights. An officer, Lieutenant Girdot, chap I played cards with, kindly volunteered to let me share his quarters—he has an extra bunk. I've been spending my nights there."

  "Do you really expect me to believe that?" I asked dryly.

  "Believe what you will, Marietta, but I assure you that the only woman on board this ship I care to sleep with is silting across the table from me right now."

  I met this comment with a brooding silence. My anger had vanished, and I no longer felt I might cry. The melancholy I had felt earlier on enveloped me again, deeper, more disturbing than ever. I felt utterly lost, utterly alone, and life itself seemed a hopeless, meaningless ritual. Not even the thought of Derek could lift the black depression that settled over me.

  "Finished?" Jeremy inquired.

  I nodded, and we left the dining salon. When he started to lead me back to the cabin, I shook my head and told him I wanted to stroll on deck for a while. He said he would keep me company, and I was too weary to object. All the fight had gone out of me. Jeremy said it would be cool and went to fetch a wrap for me. I moved up to the deck, folding my arms about my waist as the chill night air struck me. The night was deep blue and black and silver, only a few stars twinkling against the black, black sky, the moon obscured by clouds. I stepped over to the railing as the huge sails caught the wind overhead, belling out and snapping crisply. The water was much choppier than it had been earlier, and the ship moved ponderously, creaking and groaning as if protesting the strain. An occasional sailor scurried past, but there were no other passengers on deck.

  "Rough night for a stroll," Jeremy said, coming up behind me.

  "I don't mind. It suits my mood."

  "That bad?" he inquired.

  I nodded, and he placed a cloak over my shoulders. The heavy folds fell to my feel, covering me completely. Jeremy moved around in front of me and fastened the strings at my throat.

  "Couldn't decide which one you'd want," he said, "so I just brought one of my own. It ought to keep you warm."

  It was of heavy black broadcloth, lined with white satin, warm indeed and smelling of him. I adjusted the sweeping folds and began to stroll slowly down the deck. Jeremy sauntered along beside me, matching his stride to mine, hands thrust into the pockets of his breeches. The sails snapped. Wood groaned. A sailor called out to one of his mates. Waves sloshed against the hull with a monotonous, slapping sound.

  "Low?" he asked.

  "I have been ever since we left," I said quietly,

  "I guess I'm responsible for that."

  I shook my head. "It's not your fault. It's a lot of things. I should be happy, I know, but—" I let the sentence trail into silence, unable to explain what I was feeling.

  "I understand, Marietta."

  "Do you?"

  "I know you, lass. I know you better than you know yourself. I understand, all right. I'm hoping you'll come to understand, too, before it's too late."

  "You're speaking in riddles."

  "Not at all," he replied. "It merely seems that way because you refuse to see what's in your own heart."

  "You—you've said that before, several times. One day, you said, I would see what was in my own heart. I know what's in my heart, Jeremy. I know who I am, where I belong."

  "Ah, lass, if only that were true."

  He spoke softly, tenderly, and I looked up, at him as we continued to wa
lk slowly around the deck. His handsome face was sad, his eyes dark, reflective. He claimed to know me, but he didn't, not really, and I realized that I didn't really know him either. He was complex, a creature of many moods, constantly shifting. The charming, bantering, bickering Jeremy was merely a facade, and beneath that flippant surface were depths I had never fully appreciated. Once or twice I had sensed them, but I had never made an effort to genuinely know the man who dwelled there.

  Clouds rolled slowly across the sky, spilling silver over their edges as they moved past the moon, and the moon appeared at last, round and full, pale silver-gold. The deck was washed with misty light. A million flecks of silver danced on the water like glittering spangles. Jeremy sighed, hunching his shoulders, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets. He hadn't brought a cloak for himself, and it was growing cooler. He shouldn't he out here after such a serious illness, I thought, but I knew if I said anything to that effect it would irritate him.

  We moved on in silence, each lost in our own thoughts, and after a while I stopped. We had completely traversed the deck, reaching the spot where I had been standing when he brought the cloak. The ship rocked, plowing on through the waves, the deck tilting slightly as we stood there without speaking. Jeremy stood at the railing, gazing out at the water, a stranger to me, it seemed, a man I didn't know at all. I wrapped the heavy cloak closer about me, the satin lining smooth and warm, caressing my skin.

  "We'll be in France soon," I said.

  "Yes, the days are passing quickly."

  "Then England."

  Jeremy turned to look at me, His face, sculpted in moonlight, was without expression now. He seemed remote, un-touchable.

  "That's right," he said. His voice was hard. "Soon we'll be in England, and you'll join your lover and live happily ever after,"

  "Jeremy, I—" I hesitated. "Why did you come? Why?"

  "You know the answer to that, Marietta."

  "You knew I—"

  "Yes," he snapped, "I knew."

  "Then—"

  "I hoped there might still be a chance," he told me. "I hoped you might still come to your senses. I was wrong. I was a fool to hope. I shouldn't have come."

  "I'm sorry. I wish—"

  "It's not your fault, Marietta," he said tersely. "Each of us creates our own hell. We've no one to blame but ourselves."

  He wanted to say more, I could see that, but he cut himself short. I wanted to say more, too, wanted to say kind, wise words that would make it easier for us both, but the words wouldn't come. We stood there, silent, looking at each other in the moonlight as waves slapped against the hull and sails snapped in the wind, separated by silence and deep emotions tightly contained. After a moment Jeremy scowled and looked away. "Good night, Marietta," he said, and then, abruptly, he went below, leaving me alone with the loss, leaving me alone with my own private hell.

  Thirty-Five

  Carts and lorries and carriages of every description rumbled down the street at frightening speeds, horses neighing, wheels clattering over the cobbles, people darting through the traffic at the risk of life and limb. An urchin with flaxen hair and dirty face skipped nimbly in front of a carriage, dodged a cart and leaped in front of a lorry laden with great wooden casks of beer. The driver jerked violently on the reins. The horses reared. A cask of beer rolled off the lorry and crashed on the cobbles, wood splintering, beer gushing in foamy waves. Cheeks red with anger, the driver shouted fearsome curses and grabbed his whip. The urchin laughed, extended a stiff middle finger and danced merrily onto the pavement, swallowed up by the congestion of pedestrians. The traffic grew even more tangled and lethal as vehicles swerved to avoid the slats of wood.

  The din was incredible. Hawkers cried their wares with shrill insistence, urging passersby to purchase sausage rolls, paper windmills, beads, copper pots and pans, tasty chestnuts freshly roasted. Horribly deformed beggars pleading for pennies were coldly ignored or harshly shoved aside by finely attired gentlemen who strode briskly along pavements as congested as the street itself. London was a city of great excitement and even greater contrasts, gorgeous, majestic buildings back-to-back with slums, quiet, lovely parks sheltering serenely amid densely overpopulated neighborhoods. It was a city of theaters and palaces and cathedrals, brothels and gin shops and flophouses where, for pennies, destitute vagrants could sleep in squalor four to a bed. Thieves and pimps rubbed elbows with clerks and advocates and the frenzied gentlemen of Fleet Street. Gaudily dressed prostitutes moved brazenly past aristocratic ladies in towering hats and rustling satin gowns.

  It was invigorating, it was stimulating, it was a colorful, confusing panorama. Foul smells assailed the nostrils, amazing sights captured the eye, and the noise was incessant, splitting the air. It was all new to me, for as governess to Lord Robert Mallory's children I had been restricted to the elegant confines of Montagu Square, with an occasional, carefully planned afternoon with the children in the park nearby. I had never wandered down the streets, had. never seen the gorgeous buildings, the gigantic piles of rubbish, the filth and splendor that gave London its unique flavor. But the proprietor of the White Hart had given me specific directions, and I felt sure I could find the coaching station easily enough.

  As I moved down the street, besieged by beggars and accosted by hawkers who thrust various wares in front of me, I wished I had dressed a little less grandly. The taffeta gown with its broad black and white stripes and red velvet waist hugger was inappropriate, to say the least, as were the long red velvet gloves and the hat Lucille had especially created to go with the outfit, black and white plumes dripping over a broad black taffeta brim, an enormous red velvet bow holding them in place. Hat and gown were constantly imperiled as women dumped slops from second-story windows, and the lavish attire marked me as easy prey for the beggars and appallingly aggressive hawkers.

  Jeremy had volunteered to see to the arrangements for me, but it was better this way. The streets of London were alarming, yes, but I wasn't in any danger. The beggars, the hawkers were merely an irritation, and, after all I'd been through, a relatively minor one at that. I could fend for myself, and I certainly didn't want Jeremy hiring the coach that would take me to Hawkehowse tomorrow.

  He had been distantly polite ever since that night on board Le Bon Cotur when he had left me alone at the railing. The rest of the journey had been arduous indeed. The weather had grown steadily worse, culminating in a treacherous storm that had lasted for three full days. The ship had been damaged, and we had limped slowly on to France, arriving over a week late. The political situation between France and England being what it was, we had encountered a barrage of difficulties, and it had been necessary to make several hefty bribes before we could safely cross the channel. I had fell enormous relief when the towering white cliffs loomed out of the morning mist. Jeremy had hired a coach in Dover, and we rode in silence, polite strangers, arriving in London late in the afternoon and taking rooms at the White Hart Inn,

  I hadn't joined him for breakfast this morning in the tap room, but he had come up to my rooms afterward, standing stiffly in front of the mantle in the sitting room and coldly volunteering to hire a coach to take me to Hawkehouse. Remote, restrained, he gazed at me with chilly eyes, waiting for my reply. Polite, as remote as he, I had informed him that I was perfectly capable of making my own arrangements, and, nodding curtly, he left. I knew that he had left the White Hart immediately afterward. Did he have friends in London, business to attend to? I wondered if I would see him again before I left tomorrow morning,

  I hoped not. It would be much easier for both of us if... if he would just stay away until I was gone. I couldn't take any more of that distant manner, that polite, clipped voice, those blue eyes so frosty yet filled with pain. Being with him had become an ordeal, both of us strained, separated by an invisible wall of experiences recalled, words unspoken, emotions unexpressed. We had been through so much together these past months, and in many ways I had been closer to him than I had been to any m
an, but... it was over now. In a sense we had said our goodbyes that night on Le Bon Coeur.

  Dodging a splattering downfall of slop as a woman emptied a bucket overhead, ignoring a beggar with twisted leg and horribly scarred face who shambled over with hand extended, I turned a corner and made my way down another street, looking for the great brick archway leading into the yard of the coaching station, I found it at last. Passengers were disembarking from a coach as I crossed the yard, and another coach was being loaded with bags. I entered the office. It was extremely crowded, the harried clerk barking orders to an underling, turning the pages of a ledger, trying his best to fend off passengers who besieged him on every side. One woman had lost her luggage. A fat man in a brown top hat demanded immediate transport to Brighton. People shouted and argued, pushing around the counter. Several drivers came in, one of them obviously tipsy, all of them barking instructions. I waited patiently, standing to one side, until finally all the others were gone. The clerk looked at me with belligerent eyes and asked me what I wanted.

  "I'd like to hire a coach for tomorrow," I informed him,

  "A 'ole coach? You wanna 'ire a 'ole coach all to yourself?"

  "That's right."

  "Might be one available, I'd 'ave to check. It'd cost you a pretty penny, though, I don't mind tellin' you."

  "You do hire private coaches."

  "When folks've got th' means, yeah, we do, providin' there's one available. You don't wanna pay that much, I can book you on a regular coach. You'd 'ave to share it with other passengers, but it wouldn't cost you a bloody fortune."