It's Marriage Or Ruin

by Liz Tyner

  He grinned. That might not have been his finest moment, but few memories equalled that one.

  Her secretive moments. He’d sensed them.

  He would have to open the portfolio of flowers.

  * * *

  Marcus waited in the sitting room, relaxed on the sofa, watching as the sun faded from the sky, bringing the darkness into the room. He held a bottle from the batch Cook had mixed.

  ‘Do you not need a light?’ Emilie spoke from the threshold.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Where is Robert?’ she asked.

  ‘I sacked him, for the moment.’

  She clutched her chest. ‘You cannot. You cannot let him go. He saved you when you disobeyed his instructions. He is an upstanding valet. And he has a limerick for every occasion.’

  Marcus deliberated on her words. Surely Robert had not shared those poems?

  ‘You will let him return?’ she asked. ‘It would be cruel to send him packing after he has sacrificed so much to be at your service.’

  Marcus wondered what other tales Robert had shared with Emilie that had no basis in fact. ‘He is at my home in London.’

  ‘Is he returning?’

  ‘I have told him I will think about rehiring him.’

  ‘He’s not a bad person. He’s flawed. And you have to look past that.’

  ‘Sage advice. Applicable to any of us, I suppose.’

  She shifted on her feet. ‘What is wrong? I should have asked earlier, but I didn’t. I thought the visit with your parents would help, but now you have sacked Robert.’

  ‘Do you want to share a future with Michelangelo, or me?’ He brought the spectre hiding inside him into the room and offered it a place at the table. ‘Or anyone other than me?’

  ‘That’s a ghastly question. I pledged to you and I meant it.’ She halved the distance between them.

  ‘Yes. You did. And I forced it. In a time when you were struggling, I used your weakness to gain access to you. That was wrong and I am paying for it.’

  ‘Marcus, you wound me. You wound me terribly to say that you forced my vows. You did not. I agreed. I know my views on marriage and I’m adept at making decisions for myself.’

  He stood and moved so that the exotic scent she wore earlier in the day invaded him again. But he didn’t sway.

  ‘You didn’t answer the question.’

  ‘Artists are passionate people.’ She raised a hand to the sky. ‘I did not know how much until I married you. The feelings are stronger now than ever.’

  ‘Artists don’t have the sole entitlement to sentiments.’ Emotions simmered inside him. He locked his grip on the bottle, then relaxed his hand and put the container on to the table.

  ‘I have not changed my opinion of you from the first time I saw you,’ he continued, ‘or the second or the third. You have always been like a little flower. Or perhaps, a field of flowering thistle. Vibrant. Dangerous. Alarmingly enchanting and the blooms are petal soft, but you cannot get too close to the stems or you will feel too much.’

  He departed, stirred with the same drive that could cause a sculptor to chisel at stone, hour after hour, with no promise that when the sun rose he would not examine his creation and see it as nothing more than a chipped rock.

  But Emilie would never be less to him because he saw her with his head, his heart, and every part of him.

  Marcus strode to his bed, removed the unlocked box and opened it. He again read the letter he’d written and placed in his waistcoat pocket, and added it on top.

  Emilie,

  I cannot see the colours of the world. Some colours blend so they appear drab to me, yet I suspect there is more to them.

  I married you in the hope I would see the hues through you, but it is not so simple. If you desire to have a marriage, then you must come to me not as an artist, but as a woman. I will not walk along behind your art. I will be first, or I will not be with you at all.

  You may let me know your decision.

  Life is not about art. It is about love.

  Marcus

  Chapter Nineteen

  Marcus watched the sunrise and returned to the house, not slowing until he rapped at Emilie’s door.

  He didn’t wait for her to call out, but entered as she opened her eyes.

  She pushed herself into a sitting position.

  ‘Emilie, the box under my bed is unlocked should you decide investigate. I don’t want secrets between us. And you should understand, I have no list of the many things I want in a wife. Only one. In the box.’

  Sleep evaporated from her features. She smoothed the hair from her eyes and touched one foot to the rug.

  ‘I’m working with Jonas this morning. I’ll be back soon in order to take you to the woodland.’

  ‘You’re willing to explore with me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Yes. ‘If you will consider the list.’

  Leaving, he closed the door and listened to the sound of her getting out of bed.

  He could not ever see her tousled again. He could not and walk away. If she saw something in him, as he’d seen in just those moments, he could not blame her for her fascination.

  He imagined her in the room, dressing, and pushed himself from the door.

  * * *

  After leaving Jonas, Marcus returned through the servants’ entrance. He didn’t want to see Emilie just yet.

  He went to his room, took the cold water he’d requested the maid leave behind and bathed in it, surprised that the drops didn’t evaporate on his skin.

  He would find Emilie and discover what she’d decided.

  * * *

  Marcus lifted Emilie’s easel, the satchel and searched her out, beckoning her to follow him.

  They walked along the trail Marcus had once raced as a child.

  Breezes blew through the trees which canopied above them. He heard the sound of the leaves and noticed how it made the light twinkle upon the ground.

  When they arrived at the stream, he slid the pack from his shoulder and she turned away, lost in her own adventure.

  ‘Don’t rest now, Marc. Down the stream is much better. There is even a boulder there.’ She spoke as if imparting a treasure’s location.

  He took the load back. He couldn’t help smiling at the excitement she exhibited. ‘Lead the way.’

  And she did. She went along the edge of the brook and seemed to be taking an inventory of nature.

  As they walked, he noticed the water skaters skittering along on top of the water. And she revelled being beside the pool, finding glory in the day.

  ‘See.’ She pointed to a large rock. The boulder’s top was flat and it jutted wide from an outcropping. She could have easily sat on it with her legs across the top of it and dangled her feet in the brook.

  She stopped. She reached to pull a shoe off and he noticed she wore no stockings. ‘I think I have a pebble in my shoe.’

  She hopped on one foot. ‘Could you help me? I may lose my balance as I try to put the slipper back on.’ She held her foot out, toes wiggling.

  ‘Brace against the tree.’ He rested the easel on the dirt, but didn’t move in her direction. ‘And you will be able to slip it on easily.’

  She pressed her lips together and did as he said.

  He had never seen a woman linger so when rubbing her hand against her foot to brush the grass from it. She near scrubbed the skin from her toes and held them towards him. ‘Did I miss any grass?’

  He pressed his lips together, hiding a smile, then answered, ‘Those are five extraordinarily lovely toes. The best-looking toes I have ever seen.’

  She smiled. ‘You like them?’

  ‘Of course. They are a part of you.’

  He sat the parcel on the grass, opening the pack and removing the corked, never-touched bottle, and got a cup and poured
himself a small drink while he watched Emilie.

  She grabbed her skirt, twisted it as one might a hank of hair and pulled it up and held it out of her way. Then she knelt down, tucking the twisted part behind her knees, and letting her legs hold it snugly as she bent to cup her hands and drink.

  He watched her wipe her mouth and stand. If he had come up on her unawares and not known who she was, he would have perceived her an exotic peasant. She fitted into nature as easily as the leaves on the trees.

  ‘That is a good place to sit and watch the pool. I put my easel in front of it. But I don’t feel like painting today.’

  The trees shaded the edges and water rippled over pebbles to continue down the stream. He could see many stones and in places he could tell how clear the water was because he couldn’t judge the depth.

  ‘How deep is the pool?’

  She put her hand to her waist.

  ‘And you discovered that how?’ he asked.

  ‘The easiest way. My dress is heavy when it is laden with water, but it cools me.’ As if to prove it, she waded into the water.

  He turned to the side so he could see her. She seemed engrossed in some magic only she could identify. Butterflies flitted about and birds sang in the trees. Sunlight dappled, altering the patterns on the ground.

  On the other side of the stream, she picked something up from the ground. He could not tell if it was a twig or some insect or something else. But she examined it carefully and held it up to the sun before carefully placing it on to the ground.

  He’d married a sprite. A faerie. He had married the girl who played among the oaks.

  Then he went to the largest trunk and lowered himself against it. He spread the cloth from the satchel and put the cheese, bread, sweets and dried meats on to it, eating as she explored the day.

  He took a piece of the meat and savoured the meal, watching her.

  When he had quelled his hunger, he wrapped the remaining food and stored it away.

  She was on the other side of the pool, lying in the grass and paying him no mind, and he thought she might be asleep. Her bare feet were planted and one knee was rocking back and forth and the skirt of her dress was wet where she had waded through the water. She could have crossed without the water touching her skirt, but he was sure she preferred her own way.

  Fingers interlaced, he used them as a cushion to rest his head against the oak.

  He was sure she slept, until she slapped at her cheek as if something had tickled her.

  She sat, covered a yawn and stretched. His breath caught in his throat. The dress she wore could not have been uglier. He was surprised anyone of her age would even own a dress of that making. But, when she stretched, his eyes told him the dress was not there and he could see the woman beneath.

  She pushed at her hair, moving a pin out and sticking it back in. It made no difference that he could tell. Her hair moved as it wished, but so did she.

  She waded back to him, raising her skirts, and he didn’t mind the sight. This time, she lifted them much higher than needed and he appreciated it.

  She sloshed back through the water and reached her hands out to him. ‘Take off your boots, Marcus. If you cannot see the colours, then you can feel them with me.’

  He removed his boots and stockings and walked into the water. The pebbles under his feet were carpeted in moss which wisped over his toes; the stones were rounded from centuries of water rushing over them.

  Then he led her back to the oak. ‘I have explored your pool, now sit with me for a moment.’

  He wondered if she might try to seduce him. Or appraise him for a sketch. Both affected him the same.

  She took the wine bottle, poured some in the cup, and quenched her thirst. Then she refilled the cup, offering it to him.

  He reached out to her and pulled her on to his lap.

  Wisps of her hair brushed him and he tried to keep his mind on her feet. He tried to imagine them for the opposite reason she would have assumed. He had noticed that they were tipped with mud and he had not even realised that mud could stick to the feet of a woman. None he had ever known would have let mud near their feet.

  But Emilie didn’t mind at all.

  She passed the cup to him. ‘My hands are full, Em,’ he said, teasing her.

  She took his chin, put the cup to his mouth and tilted, watching him carefully.

  The touch of her hand made his heart go soft.

  He grunted from his throat to let her know to take the cup away before she choked him, but he knew some droplets had escaped his lips.

  He swallowed.

  ‘You could kiss away the wine,’ he told her. He put a hand at her temple and released two hairpins, letting her hair tumble over her shoulders. He wove his fingers into it, enjoying the silken threads, combing the locks, letting them fall to her shoulders, and then repeated the movement.

  ‘If there is anything you want to know—ask.’ He lightly put his arms around her. ‘Ask me the questions you’d like answered. You may not always like my response. But I vow to tell you the truth as I know it. To become one person, we cannot lie to each other. We must speak honestly, so beware of enquiring if you don’t want to hear the truth.’

  She snuggled against him. ‘Why do you not lie with me?’

  ‘I am sure I had a reason, but at this moment it escapes me.’

  ‘Is it because...?’ She hesitated. ‘Is it because I am somehow different from other women?’

  ‘You are different from other women. I know that well. But not in the way you surmise. Your body is perfect, at least as I remember it. It has been a duration since I have touched it and I have not even begun to learn it.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘We need a marriage before we share a bed. I want you enough for that.’

  She touched his cheek and, when her fingers moved over his lips, she stilled and he kissed her hand.

  Studying Marcus, she added, ‘Art is a language I comprehend. And you should not dismiss a language because you can’t fathom it. Painting gives me a chance to look at everything closer. To study it. To feel it. To see if I can recreate it.’

  ‘But if you captured me on a canvas, it’s but one layer. One side of me. The outside. You could have more, Emilie.’

  She was the only person he’d ever wanted to share his thoughts and his dreams with. The only one he wanted near him every day.

  ‘You cannot understand my nature and I savour life more if I recreate it. I look at the moments of animals behaving freely and sometimes like humans.’

  ‘Because they leave their mates after a season? Is that how you see it?’

  ‘No. I want to be a part of your heart, Marc, always. And I want the game of life. To play. You did the same in London with the nights at the club. But this isn’t idle play. It is what we are meant to do. To live as fully as we can, along with the earth.’

  ‘I recognise what it means to you. I didn’t sense it would matter to me to come in second in your love. But it does. I will not be only someone who stands aside and provides a place for you to pursue something else. I rationalised that was enough, but I know now it isn’t. I worked hard not to have a marriage like my parents and then orchestrated one. I love you and want you to love me.’

  ‘I cannot stop painting. That would be senseless. It would mean nothing. And you cannot care if you would suggest I give up something I love.’

  ‘I ask you to add more love to your life. I wanted to become a better man. A man of substance. And I feel that I am. But you don’t want me to change. You want a plaster cast of a man whom you can pull out when you need him and put him away when you are done.’

  ‘Isn’t that what everyone wants in a mate?’

  ‘Not me. I’m reminded of a black widow spider who might kill her spouse after they mate. It is all well and good for her—she has her pleasure,
her family and a nice meal.’

  ‘That is a horrific thing to imagine.’

  ‘It is how I feel we are progressing. First, I wanted a marriage and didn’t mind that you would be dancing along with your fancies in the clouds. I don’t mind your creativity. But I want to be a person for you, Emilie. Not a husband who provides shelter and supplies. Not a model for your sculpture plans.’

  She rose and turned to the water. ‘What if there is no more to me than this? What if I am a person to dabble at paints and that is all I am?’

  ‘One heart cannot beat alone in a marriage.’

  She touched both hands, clasping them over her breasts. ‘I can feel you in the wind and in the water. You aren’t only the muse for my passion,’ she said, ‘but my inspiration.’

  The wind ruffled her hair and she stood alone and proud. ‘You are the man to be the other half of me and I’m the other half of you. Together we will each be more alive. Our hearts should be the halves of each other. Not two halves of a marriage. Two halves of one beating heart.’

  He must hear the answer and he must believe he came first or he would never achieve the satisfaction of marriage. He must believe it and so must she. A lie would get them no further. He stood. ‘Tell me. Do I come first?’

  ‘Yes. You are first. In all ways. I love you. Beyond the depth I have felt for anything. You are inspiration come to life for me. You surpass creation by more than I could ever foresee. You are the ultimate masterpiece.’

  No. She was the masterpiece.

  ‘Em,’ he said and found the hooks of her dress, but he stopped. ‘Are you ready to study me again, or perhaps jostle me?’

  She grasped his arms, pulling him closer.

  He touched the hooks of her gown and they fell open in his hand.

  This was not what he had in mind. He slipped his hand down her back and found the ties of her chemise beneath the dress, but he didn’t untie them.

  She gave a happy sigh and wriggled against him.

  His tongue roved the skin at her ear, moving to her neck, and she shivered in his arms.

  ‘Em. It pains me to say this. It does. But I would prefer our first—the first time we unite completely, to be in our chambers...’ he kissed her ear and she shivered against him ‘...as husband and wife. As partners.’