Memory's Bride

by Decca Price

  The way he handled her made her feel real and solid, but the memory of that pressure on her body sometimes kept her awake at night and her mind would fly back to that unaccountable kiss in the cottage. She tasted again his lips and felt his hot tongue thrusting into her mouth, followed by the surge of heat down below. She would toss restlessly in bed and touch herself until she couldn’t stand it, then throw the sheets back in frustration and stand at the window gazing at the moon until her racing heart and ragged breathing returned to normal.

  Somewhere out there on the dark lawns, invisible to her, his mastiffs would be patrolling. It was almost as though he were watching her, could reach into the room and touch her through her thin nightgown. She shivered as the sweat chilled her body, and she ached for relief but couldn’t say what it would be.

  By day, she would shake those fancies off, and they would ride, two landowners casting proprietary eyes on their holdings, strengthening the bonds of mutual interest forged by their status as gentry. And something else. Try as she would to tell herself she imagined it, she would catch him studying her, much the way he did the first day they met in the lane. His measuring eye should have been offensive, but it wasn’t.

  It simply made her conscious of the mystery her body refused to yield to her understanding. It made her want to reach out and touch him, to stroke his cheek where the faint burn scar ran from eyebrow to lip, to stroke her fingers across his firm lips, to know again what it felt like to press close against the length of his body, to feel his breath tease her throat and face and ears.

  It was very confusing—and intoxicating. Colors were brighter, bird song louder, when she was with him. She was sure she could hear his heart beating even though he stood apart from her. Yet all their talk was commonplace and neither reached to bridge the physical distance between them.

  For a dissolute lord, she mused, he displayed an unusual depth of knowledge and interest in land improvement and animal husbandry. On both, he talked as though she were an equal—that is, a man—and she hoped he never noticed how she reddened and grew silent when he discussed the more intimate activities of the breeding shed. He was a great advocate of using scientific methods to improve livestock, and while he could illustrate his points in the pastures around them, she kept up with his train of thought through her once-forbidden reading of Mr. Charles Darwin’s works, which she had found in Josiah’s library.

  Montfort was also steeped in the lore of the land and seemed to take it as seriously as he did current agricultural science. They were walking through a small orchard rustling with sound as the breeze agitated the leaves overhead and stocky, cream-colored Ryeland sheep cropped the grass below.

  “But surely these are just old wives’ tales now!” she laughed as Montfort finished describing how young girls thereabouts used apples to identify their future husbands.

  He reached up and plucked a green apple.

  “Try it.” He held the apple out to her at arm’s length, but as she reached to take it, he crooked his elbow, making her step closer, and closer again as he raised it just out of her reach. The corners of his eyes crinkled and a grin split his face as she hesitated.

  In an instant, getting the apple away from him became of paramount importance, and she knew he could read it in her face.

  Claire lunged and snatched at the fruit with both hands before he could dance away, and their bodies collided solidly. Their eyes met and for an instant Claire thought he was going to kiss her again. Instead, he stepped back and tossed the apple to her.

  She examined the small greenish-pink apple critically. “Surely it needs to be ripe?”

  “Now who’s taking a silly folk tale seriously?” Drawing a sharp knife from his boot, he handed it to her. “Make the longest peel you can and then throw it over your shoulder.”

  She labored over the task for a full minute. When finished, she triumphantly raised a strip nearly four inches long and waved it at him. “Which shoulder?”

  “Left? Right? Does it matter?”

  “If I’m going to do this, I should do it properly.”

  “Left, then.”

  She tossed the peel and spun around to see where it landed. Before either of them could make out whether it formed a letter—the initial of her future husband—a sheep intruded and the peel dangled from its mouth as the animal chewed contentedly.

  Claire laughed. “I think I should stick to science—or accept the fact that I’m not meant to see into the future. Three months ago, I could have told you what the next three years of my life would bring. Or even the next thirty.” She sighed and switched her crop through the ankle-high grass. “Now I’m not sure about the next three days. Or hours.”

  “Best never to know,” he said. “Expect the worst and not be disappointed.”

  Claire had no response to that. She stepped closer to the apple tree and touched a bright green bushy branch that sprouted downward from the trunk.

  “What’s wrong with this tree?” she asked, intending to change the subject.

  Montfort barely glanced at the tree before answering. “That’s mistletoe. It’s considered good luck hereabouts, and a lot of the farmers will even try to gather the berries for the seeds to see if they can get it to grow. It does better if it’s left to itself, though.”

  “But surely it kills the tree?”

  “On the contrary. Where there’s mistletoe, the trees bear better and live longer.” He warmed to his subject. “Look around you and what do you see?

  Claire considered, knowing the obvious answer wouldn’t satisfy.

  “Trees. Grass. Sheep. Mistletoe, of course.” She looked up. “Birds, but I don’t know what kind. And I can hear bees, or insects of some sort.”

  He took her by the arm and drew her closer to the tree, then pulled a low-hanging branch close to her face. “Turn the leaf over.”

  She revealed a bright green caterpillar. “Oh!”

  “The caterpillar lives on the apple tree,” he said, stating the obvious. “The moth it becomes—and it’s unique to these orchards—helps the tree bear fruit. It’s a drab thing, but beauty is as beauty does, my nanny used to say. It’s called the mistletoe moth. That bird you see up there”—he pointed high in the tree—“that’s a mistle thrush. It lives on the berries that bear the seeds that grow more mistletoe on more trees and bring more moths. They all live on one another. They can’t live without one another, in fact. Even the trees, Miss Burton. Every orchard has mixed varieties, with hardier types planted on the windward side of a field to protect the tender ones.”

  “Everything working in harmony, nothing standing alone—that’s fascinating! I’ve not come across anything like that in my reading.”

  “You won’t find most of what’s worth knowing in books, Miss Burton. Haven’t you sensed that yet? The physical world is the best teacher, but men and women disregard the lesson.”

  The pressure of his hand on her arm compelled her to look up into his face. His eyes, dark amber pools, searched her face and for a moment again, she hoped he would kiss her. Then he blinked and pivoted, breaking the spell.

  “I have business to attend to,” he said hoarsely. “I trust you won’t be offended if I leave you here?”

  A sudden chill washed over Claire as she watched him ride away and, hugging herself for warmth, she turned her back abruptly and studied the trees before her. Where did she fit in?

  As the days passed, Claire became more educated in the ways of nature and more like a true countrywoman, though she unconsciously shied away from making any connection between what she observed in the fields and what men and women did together to procreate. She also caught herself puzzling more often on what, in nature or the physical world, had created a man as mercurial as Rhys Fitzgordon.

  In conversations with Carey, she found herself dropping a comment here and there that Montfort had made, just to see whether the steward thought they made sense. They always did, and finally she had to confess where the clever ideas were coming from
.

  “How would you feel, ma’am,” Carey said to her after one of these discussions, “if you and I and Lord Montfort and his steward, Mr. Grindle, had a meeting of sorts, to see if we could do more together? The drainage down by the spinney wouldn’t have worked half so well if only one or the other of us had done it. I know it’s a sore subject, but the two estates were managed as one for centuries before Oak Grove was divided off.”

  “Yes, I see,” Claire said slowly. “I will suggest it to Lord Montfort the next time I see him.”

  Carey walked away pleased, for he was a traditional man as well as an engineer at heart. He was troubled, though, by the viscount’s sudden amiability where Oak Grove was concerned. But he didn’t know how to put Claire on her guard, so he said nothing.

  Edward Latimer had no such compunction, however.

  “People in the village are talking about you, Miss Burton!” He fairly hissed. He had ridden over on a Wednesday evening, thus underlining the seriousness of his purpose. Claire and Simmie had finished tea and Claire was alone with him in the drawing room.

  “They say you’re seen riding all over the countryside with him, alone,” he continued. “Don’t you understand what they’re thinking or don’t you care?”

  “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Latimer, but Lord Montfort is a perfect gentleman toward me. And as the two biggest landholders in this part of the county, we have many practical interests in common. We’re talking business, not love. He’s never so much as made an improper comment to me.”

  “Leave business to your men of business. It’s not ladylike, this riding around that you’re doing. With him. You must be aware of his reputation. And how being seen with him is confirming society in their worst beliefs about you! ‘Love!’ I can assure you ‘love’ is not the word being bandied about.”

  “What people? That’s so vague. Tell me who is saying such things.”

  “That does not signify. Even if they aren’t saying it openly yet, they will be if you don’t stop. I’ve told you what the man is like! He is just out to use you, and he’ll cast you aside when he has what he wants.”

  Unable to sit still under his harangue, Claire began to pace about the room. “I should point out, Mr. Latimer, that I spend a great deal of time alone, unobserved, with you. At least with Lord Montfort, I’m under the public eye. Are ‘people’ gossiping about us?” she asked with heat.

  “That’s different.” He looked at her hungrily. “Besides, I care about your welfare. Probably more than I should.”

  “Whatever do you mean, ‘more than I should?” she asked, although she could have supplied the beginnings of an answer from the green fire she saw in his eyes.

  “Miss Burton, this is hardly the way to spring a declaration on a lady, but surely you must know by now that I am fond of you, that I could wish someday to put you under my protection, if circumstances allow.”

  “I see,” Claire said. “Fond. Someday. If circumstances allow.” This was not how she imagined a love scene between them would play out.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Latimer. I can scarcely form an appropriate response. I thank you for your concern. I thank you for your interest in me, and your—your patience. But I think we’d better drop this subject, both subjects, that is, for the time being. You already know my views on marrying...”

  Latimer made as though to reach for her hand and she eluded him with as much grace as she could manage.

  “I had hoped,” he said, his gaze boring down on her, “that you could overcome your feelings for a thoroughly unworthy man, a man who wouldn’t even marry you when he should have, and let me save you from a lifetime of loneliness and scorn.”

  “Mr. Latimer,” she said sternly, “I sincerely hope this regrettable scene will not undermine our friendship and that in a day or two we’ll return to cooler heads. In the meantime, I will try my best to receive your harsh words in the spirit which you intended them.”

  She rang the bell, and Noonan appeared almost too promptly.

  “Mr. Latimer finds he must leave already,” she said. “Please show him out. I have another matter to attend to.”

  Latimer paused by her side as he left the room and spoke low so that only she could hear.

  “I will persist,” he said. “I cannot stand by and watch the ruin of another woman I care about.”

  “Oh, Simmie,” Claire moaned as she sprawled across the chaise in Beatrice Simms’s sitting room. “He all but said to my face that I was a fallen woman. What am I to do? I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

  “He may have been tactless, but he does have a point, dear.”

  “And that is?”

  “I fear we both sometimes forget how restricting country life can be, how unforgiving of the unconventional. If we were in town, there would probably much less remark about your free behavior and the company you keep. Not so many people would know you.”

  “Free?” Claire sat up abruptly. “Is that what you think, too, that I am ‘free?’”

  “Don’t, Claire. I know better than anyone that you’re not bad or wild, but you have to admit you can be impulsive. And now that you are independent...”

  “This is your roundabout way of saying ‘yes’ to my question.”

  “Yes—and no. I’m trying to step outside myself and see how others who don’t know you might assume, based on the little they see and hear.”

  “And the verdict?”

  “Not what you would wish, I’m afraid. Not that either of us would wish.”

  “But pupils still come to the school, shopkeepers don’t turn away my custom.”

  “Ah,” Simmie said. “That’s the money. They don’t necessarily care for Lord Montfort either, but they love his power and his money. I’ve heard enough chatter since we’ve been here to also know that Mr. Carter was more tolerated than loved.”

  Claire looked thoughtful.

  “Power,” she repeated. “I’ve always looked at my money as giving me the ability to do good, to make the lives of others better or easier, if they’d let me. I hadn’t thought about power. How some of them must loathe me, if they smile when they’d rather snub me when I walk into their shops and hand over my filthy money. Simmie, how awful! Do I have no friends in this place but you?”

  It was Simmie’s turn to ponder.

  “Edward Latimer came as a friend today, Claire. How do you feel about that?”

  “That he was cruel and said hurtful things and confessed—very unwillingly! -- that he was ‘fond’ of me. Fond! Is that the way a man talks to a woman he all but proposes to? I’m ‘fond’ of Kip and Dickon, and of this place”

  “Don’t be angry with me for what I’m about to ask, Claire,” Simmie said hesitantly, watching her friend’s face closely. “I used to be able to say anything to you, but you’ve changed.”

  “Never to you, Simmie. You know that.”

  “Well then.” She took a deep breath. “Are you angry with Mr. Latimer because he criticized you—most harshly, we’ll agree—or because he expressed his feelings toward you rather—let’s say, tepidly.”

  “You’re saying he hurt my pride in more ways than one,” Claire said flatly.

  “And?”

  “I don’t know.” She got up and walked to the window, where darkness was falling across the garden. Annie would be looking for her soon, since the household was in the habit of retiring early. Not this night, Claire thought absently.

  She turned and rushed to Simmie, sinking awkwardly to her knees before her friend and taking both of Simmie’s hands in hers. Searching her face anxiously, she said again, “I don’t know, Simmie. He’s a fine man and I admit that I can’t help but admire his face and figure, his learning and his good character. Everyone in the parish respects him. But he frightens me sometimes, Simmie. He is so certain about right and wrong, and so often he makes me feel like a naughty child.”

  She sighed and turned her gaze toward the bright coals burning in the fireplace, resting her head on
Simmie’s lap while the older woman placed her arm around Claire’s shoulder.

  “I can’t help wondering how much longer I can manage on my own. The world is hard, Simmie, and it’s particularly hard on women. How much more could I do, how much safer would I be, if I were married?”

  “No one can answer that question, Claire, not even you. The world may be hard but it’s also uncertain. What seems a blessing one day can turn to ashes the next, yet the most beautiful flowers can bloom on stony soil. You take a leap a faith and hope your heart steers you true.

  “Mr. Latimer must see life the way he does,” Simmie added. “He wouldn’t be able to teach others and offer guidance if he had doubts. And he can’t be entirely hard. Have you forgotten about Lucy?”

  “No, I haven’t forgotten that poor girl. He can’t hide how it pains him whenever her name is mentioned,” Claire rose. “I’m sorry to be weeping on your dress like I was a little girl again. It’s time for bed, don’t you think? I don’t know about you, but I have to be out early tomorrow to inspect the new barn.”

  “You go to bed,” Simmie said. “I’m going to stay up a while longer and finish next week’s lesson for my girls.”

  Claire dropped a kiss on Simmie’s forehead. “Good night. You are such a true friend.”

  At the door, though, she stopped and turned around. “Simmie?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Everyone loved Lucy Latimer. Yet she ran away.” She spoke the last sentence half as a question.

  “Unless she comes back, we may never know why,” Simmie said. “The human heart is mystery. We sometimes have difficulty understanding ourselves, much less other people. She must have had her reasons, even if they were poor ones.”

  “It was a terrible thing to do, to leave behind everyone who loves you without a word. No explanation”

  Simmie’s gaze fell on Claire’s hand and watched her absently twisting the heavy gold ring.