by Erica Brown
A puzzled, almost hurt expression crossed his face. ‘I could never think less of you, no matter what you did.’
He clasped her hands and held them against his chest. The feel of his heart beating beneath her fingertips made her pause and reflect on what she intended to say. What would he think?
She fixed her eyes on his. ‘My room is next door to yours. Did you know that?’
He hesitated. Blanche thrilled to the feel of his quickening heartbeat.
‘Yes. I know.’ His voice was a long, drawn-out sigh. ‘I’m going to have trouble sleeping tonight. I shall be imagining I can hear you breathing.’
‘Coughing, more likely.’
The concern came back to his face. ‘I wish there was something I could do to make you better. If it cost the whole world, I would do it.’
She looked up at him in earnest, her eyes unblinking and her features quietly still. ‘I’m not going to ask you for the world. Just one night. That’s all.’
Tom looked astounded. ‘Blanche, I don’t know what to say…’
She was not surprised when he didn’t jump at the chance. He had two reasons to be concerned: Emerald and Max.
‘If Horatia should find out…’ He shook his head, unwilling to tell her the lengths Horatia would go to should she discover that they’d gone to bed together. It wouldn’t be just him who would suffer; she would get to both of them via the children. Emotional, long-lasting vengeance – that was Horatia’s way.
You should have remembered what an honourable man he is, she thought as she withdrew her hands from the vicinity of his heart.
Perceiving she was about to turn away, he held her shoulders, forcing her to look up at him. ‘Blanche, you cannot possibly conceive what is at stake here. There have been so many times in these past years when I have wished and wished that you were lying beside me. But fate didn’t play us that particular hand. I can’t do what you’re asking of me, much as I would like to.’
Her eyes looked huge in her face. ‘I should have known better,’ she said, and attempted a weak smile.
‘But I’ll always be there for you,’ he added.
His hands were still on her shoulders. She was still looking up at him. Being so close, the inevitable happened. The distance between their lips became smaller and smaller. They kissed like lovers, their hearts racing and their bodies seeming to fuse into one.
When they parted, she was breathless.
‘Nothing’s changed.’ She did not mean that only the kiss had not changed. Their feelings for each other had never altered.
A group of children ran past chasing a hoop. Their nurse followed, pushing yet another of the new-fangled perambulators.
Blanche adjusted her bonnet. ‘We’d better go,’ she said, sheepishly lowering her eyes. She didn’t regret having asked him to go to bed with her. She merely regretted the outcome.
She slid her arm into his. He stroked her hand and they continued walking.
‘At some point you may have to go to a better doctor or one of the sanatoriums,’ he said. ‘I hear there are some very good doctors in Harley Street, and a good sanatorium at Clevedon.’
She laughed at the mention of Clevedon. ‘I dare not go to Clevedon again. It seems full of unsuitable gentlemen in pursuit of respectable widows. Besides, I’m much improved. It’s the sunshine. I’m always better in the sunshine. Have you heard me cough lately?’
Smiling, he shook his head. ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Well, there you are. You linger here on false pretences. I am not ill. You are here because—’
‘I love you.’
She laughed. It had a beautiful quality, like the notes of a fine piano. ‘But you won’t go to bed with me.’
‘I care for you too much to see you hurt by my wife.’
‘Whatever your reasons, I will respect them. Besides, we’re too old for those sentiments, surely.’
Her grey eyes looked up into his. She could read his mind by the expression in his eyes. He cared for her. He cared for her deeply and her present predicament ate into his soul.
‘No one is ever too old to love.’
They came to a standstill at the top of the steps leading out from the gardens and onto North Parade itself where carriages, carts and cabs vied for space in the narrow, congested streets.
His body ached for her. There never had been another woman he’d desired as much as he did her. If only things had been different. But her suggestion had worked its magic. No matter how hard he tried to shove it to the back of his mind, it refused to go and sat there, simmering like a flickering coal about to burst into flame.
* * *
By bedtime, she was feverish. Alone with her thoughts, she stood in her nightgown before the open window, unheeding of the chill breeze that had come with sundown.
Leaving the windows wide open, she finally got into bed, closed her eyes and, with her head thumping, fell into a troubled sleep. In her dream, she shivered yet felt hot, began to see a scene: gaslights, stone doorways, alleys and moonlit roofs. A cat screeched as it ran out between her and a deep puddle. She started, slipped and fell face first. She didn’t know how long she lay there, the dirty black water cool against her face. Someone, she didn’t see nor care who, lifted her arm and slid off her purse strings, then lifted her head and took her hat, the brooch from her throat, a bracelet from her wrist. It wasn’t until she’d struggled to her feet and felt sharp cinders beneath her soles, that she realized whoever it was had also taken her boots.
Their loss suddenly seemed funny, almost welcome, and she no longer saw her drab surroundings. Clenching her toes, she felt her way over the worn-out road, through the dirty puddles, the cold water gently soothing on feet that had not felt the bare ground for many years. A draught of cool air tossed her hair around her face. On tasting its tangy sea saltiness, she was transported back in time. Once again she felt the sand between her toes. Just as she had in Barbados, she began to run towards the source of the sea breeze. It felt as though she were flying, yet she staggered as she ran, slowed by the heavy dress she wore.
Cinders began cutting into her feet and the sandy beach was gone, her surroundings greyer and drab, rain soaking her dress to her body, her teeth chattering from cold. Her breathing rasped in her chest and her hair, usually so neatly fastened, flew around her face.
‘I’m going home,’ she cried on seeing a pair of double gates ahead of her, the branches of trees hanging over a wall. Frangipani, she thought, and sniffed the air. Their scent was non-existent except in her mind where the smell of the trees was as sweet as ever. She stopped running and spread her arms over the gates, closing her eyes…
The scene faded. Suddenly, she was inside the Workhouse, smelling the disgusting stink of bones, overcooked food and mouldy clothes.
She woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed. Someone was tapping at the door and calling her name softly.
She remembered where she was. Soaked in sweat, though shivering beneath the cool cotton of her nightgown, she swung her bare feet out of bed and went to the door. It was no surprise to see Tom standing there, a concerned frown furrowing his sweet, handsome brow.
‘I heard you scream.’
‘I had a nightmare,’ she said, felt herself fainting and leaned against the door frame for support, but slowly, like melting snow, sank to the floor.
Strong arms picked her up, carried her to the bed and drew the coverlet over her. She saw the worry in his eyes.
‘I think I should send for the doctor.’
She shook her head. ‘No. I’m all right now. It was just a nightmare. I was in the Workhouse.’
She raised herself up on her elbow. Her hair was loose and tumbled over her shoulders. Her skin glistened and, although her cheeks were warm, he sensed her skin was cool. He imagined the smell, the feel, the taste of it beneath the bedclothes. His loins tensed in reaction to his thoughts, the longing he had hidden for years tightening his stomach, a throbbing and hardening that his wife had
never aroused in him.
‘I think I should leave,’ he said gruffly, tearing his eyes from the sight of her, lest he allow his desire to overrule his sense of chivalry.
The feel of her hand on his sent his pulse racing. ‘Don’t go, Tom.’
The sound of her voice was like balsam to his troubled soul. She had risked her reputation in meeting him here. He had risked his marriage and the possibility of blighting the lives of Emerald and Max.
‘Are you sure about this?’ Tom said, his hand closing around her arm.
‘What have I got to lose?’
‘Your reputation?’
She laughed. ‘Tom, what price a reputation to someone who sees eternity staring her in the face?’
He pressed a finger against her lips. ‘Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.’
She reached for his dear face, her palm warm upon his cheek, her fingers cool as she delicately traced the shape of his eyes.
He leaned his head against hers so that their foreheads touched. She felt the wetness of his tears and knew he wasn’t just crying for her, but also for the years they’d lost, years when they might have had children together and lived for them and for each other.
‘I should never have left. Things would have been so different.’
‘We have now.’
He shook his head, his forehead still against hers. ‘It’s not enough.’
‘It has to be.’
She kissed his forehead, his nose, his cheeks and then his mouth. ‘I’m not made of porcelain.’
He stretched out beside her and kissed her gently. She looked into his eyes and saw his hunger. It overwhelmed her. She felt lost in the intensity of his eyes. Although they were barely touching, she felt the deepest, most pleasurable sensation flood over her. She reached for him, closed her eyes, opened her mouth and pressed her body against his.
He kissed her more deeply, more passionately than she had ever been kissed before. Working his way down her neck and throat, he kissed her shoulders, his tongue and lips caressing each sensitive nipple, as his hand caressed her belly and moved down to her thighs.
Moaning and closing her eyes, she moved her hips, rolling them in obvious pleasure as his hand invaded the warmth between her thighs, a cry escaping her lips as he touched the ache he found there.
Sucking her nipple, he forced his leg between her thighs as he’d done with Horatia, but felt no resistance as he did with his wife. He struggled to contain his urge, slowly caressing and kissing until she was gasping against his ear, begging him to do once again what he had only done just once before.
Without any need to guide or impress, he pushed into her. Unlike Horatia who lay flat and unmoving, Blanche rolled under him, gasping and moaning in pleasure, her legs folded around his back, inviting him to dig deeper, to pleasure her more, to fill her with his seed just as he filled her with his love.
They cried out together, a fusion of ecstasy as spasms of simultaneous pleasure flooded over them; like the warm waves of the Caribbean, like the tropical breeze of an evening long gone.
Chapter Twenty
Edith decided that two determined women were better than one, so when she went to confront Mrs Tinsley, Abigail went, too.
They found her gossiping in the laundry room with a woman they called Big Bertha, who had forearms the size of tree trunks. She was presently wringing out a sheet by hand before feeding it into a cast-iron mangle. Very little water trickled from the wet sheet. Big Bertha’s strength had done the job already.
‘I’d like a word, Mrs Tinsley,’ said Edith.
‘Go on then. Have yer word,’ she said with a snigger and an exchange of looks with Big Bertha.
Edith sensed there’d been gossip and that she, and possibly Abigail, had been the subject of it.
‘In private,’ said Edith.
‘You can say what you want in front of Bertha. She’s me friend.’
‘Pah!’ said Edith. ‘You ain’t got no friends. You just like to think you do. Even thinks yer a bit of a picture, don’t yo? Give over! Seen yerself in the mirror lately? I’ve seen better features on a pig’s rear end, and I’m sure that the Reverend Smart thinks the same, however much you might fawn over the dry old stick!’
Mrs Tinsley’s mouth dropped open. ‘Well, I never did!’
‘Yes, you did,’ said Edith with a grin. ‘Makes a bit of a noise that Reverend Smart when he’s rutting away like a prize pink boar. Anyone else want to hear more about it?’ she said, raising her voice and eyeing the laundrywomen working on the other side of the room.
Not having heard what she’d first said, they looked up, their faces full of curiosity.
Edith had guessed correctly. Mrs Tinsley was suddenly all of a jitter. ‘There ain’t no need of that.’
They went into the Reverend Smart’s office, which was empty.
‘He’s gone to visit a sick relative,’ said Mrs Tinsley.
‘The way that bloke carries on, they’re likely to get sicker – dirty old man,’ said Edith with an amused aside to Abigail.
Abigail grinned back at her. They got on well, these two, and had done since the moment they’d met. They’d both led a harsh existence.
The frills of her mob-cap flapping around her face, Mrs Tinsley moved behind the desk out of their way.
‘So what do you want?’ she asked, her small eyes darting between each of them.
Edith pushed up her sleeves again and Abigail stood behind her, hands firmly fixed on her hips.
‘I want you to tell me exactly what happened to the black baby that was in here a while ago, the one Mrs Heinkel was asking about.’
Mrs Tinsley regained her nerve, folded her arms and sniffed imperiously. ‘I don’t know what yur on about.’
Edith rolled up her sleeves. ‘The Reverend Smart had trouble finding out what had happened to the poor little sod. Now then, we ain’t going to have the same problem ‘ere, are we?’
Mrs Tinsley looked from one to the other, weighing up whether she should be awkward or not. She relished being difficult with those she considered her inferior. Being wife of the Workhouse warden had given her a status she’d never enjoyed all the years of her life. She regarded ordering people around and being obnoxious as part of her duty, but faced with a glowering Edith and the stern Abigail, she gulped and came to a rapid decision.
‘It’s no secret,’ she said, the words tumbling out now as fast as she could say them. ‘It’s just that it wasn’t recorded in the Reverend’s book. That’s all.’
Edith slapped her hands down on the desk. Both Mrs Tinsley and Abigail nearly jumped out of their skins.
‘So what happened to him? Tell me. Tell me now or I’ll take you back down to the laundry room and feed you through the mangle meself!’
‘The father has him. He came and took him away.’
‘What the bloody hell are you talking about?’ Edith demanded.
Before Mrs Tinsley could make a move, Edith grabbed her long chin and used it to tilt her head upwards so she could see the hairs of her nostrils.
Mrs Tinsley pointed. ‘There! In the drawer. There’s a letter.’
Edith looked. Abigail tried the drawer. It was locked.
‘I’ve got the key.’ Mrs Tinsley fumbled with the chain that hung from her waist on which dangled keys of various sizes.
She caught her breath in a deep gasp when Edith let her go, and careered on shaking knees towards the desk. Fumbling at the keys with nervous fingers, she found the right one, cursed and swore until she could aim it properly into the keyhole, then wrenched open a drawer and pulled out a letter. She passed it to Edith who unfolded it and read it slowly. It hadn’t been that long since she’d learned how to read.
Her knuckles whitened, and her face turned pale. Did she understand its contents correctly, or was her reading too bad to understand it at all? She passed it to Abigail, who scanned it quickly. On seeing her expression, Edith knew that she had read every word correctly.
‘I have t
o go to Bath,’ said Edith, tucking the letter into her pocket and heading for the door.
‘I’m going with you,’ said Abigail.
‘That letter’s Workhouse property,’ Mrs Tinsley shouted out behind them.
Neither paid any heed. Silently they ran from the Workhouse and all the way to Temple Meads Station. From there they caught a train, the letter seeming to burn a hole in Edith’s pocket. She turned over the facts again and again in her mind. In little under an hour they would be in Bath. Both she and Abigail were shocked to the core. Blanche would be shocked too, but goodness knows what Tom Strong would do once he knew the truth.
* * *
Max locked himself in the study and again perused the legal document left by Mr Jay, re-read the particulars and pondered what he should do. The horror of discovering his father was not the man who had brought him up was bad enough, but to find out he was the product of an incestuous relationship was far worse.
And yet I’m being asked to accept it along with the Strong name, he thought and frowned. His mother was a Strong, though born on the wrong side of the sheets. And one hundred thousand pounds was a lot of money. He thought of what he could do with it. But you can’t, he told himself. You can’t.
The study had a fireplace, an arched, iron affair with a slate surround. If there’d been a fire burning, he would have crumpled the offending document and thrown it in. There were two things that stopped him: one, he wanted to check the truth with his mother; and two, something about this whole thing was decidedly wrong. Why hadn’t it been put to him immediately following his twenty-first birthday last September? Why now?
With one swift movement, he crumpled the crisp paper between his palms. ‘Damn!’
Raising his head, he eyed the crumpled paper and took a deep breath. What would his father – he corrected himself – what would Conrad have done? Nostalgic memories of the big, bluff man who still spoke with a German accent, despite his many years in Bristol, flashed into his mind.
Think of it as business, my boy. What are its advantages, what are its pitfalls? What can you gain by accepting, and what can you lose?
