Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  Selby didn’t like that. He didn’t like what it meant; that his sentiments when it came to Brenda Hartwell were somehow unmanageable. So profound, so powerful, that not even Matilda could untangle them into anything resembling normality.

  ‘Well?’ It was clear from Matilda’s face that she already knew the story; Selby grimaced as a mixture of relief and annoyance rose in his chest. Brenda had every right to speak to her, of course, the two of them were now friends… but oh, Brenda could do anything in the world, anything at all, and it would still feel as if she were stamping on his heart.

  He sat down at the kitchen table with a scowl. ‘I do not know what you mean.’

  ‘I believe you do, James Selby. I rather believe you do.’ Matilda sat with a flourish; Selby looked at his friend with equal parts irritation and hope, wondering if she really did have some sort of miraculous solution to Brenda’s reluctance. ‘I have been most attentive, and admirably restrained, but now I am forced to ask just what on earth is happening between you and Brenda—’

  ‘Nothing.’ Selby tapped a finger on the table; he felt so frenetic, so profoundly wrong in his own skin, that it was all he could do not to pace the room like a madman. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But that is not true! She told me what occurred at the theatre, James—why, it sounds magical!’ The eagerness in Matilda’s eyes cut Selby like a knife. ‘And I know I was rather conniving, leaving the two of you in the attic, but neither of you appeared afterwards for quite some time. You cannot tell me that absolutely nothing has happened between—’

  ‘Alright. Things have… occurred.’ Speaking the words felt like a betrayal, somehow. Selby kept his gaze focused on the table, trying not to lose control. ‘But the lady is not interested in continuing, Matilda, and thus I am forced to retreat.’

  ‘I… I do not know what to say.’ Matilda’s voice filled with sadness. ‘My goodness. If there is anything I can do, please tell me.’

  ‘Keep her away from me.’ Selby looked at Matilda, knowing how dramatic he sounded, not particularly caring. ‘Please.’

  ‘James… I am sorry.’ Matilda’s wide eyes let Selby know how haggard he must look. ‘I had no idea that things were so—’

  ‘They are.’ Selby swallowed, knowing that unburdening his soul would hurt as much as it would heal. ‘I love her. I believe she knows it—she must know it. I even believe that she feels the same way—or perhaps I am simply hoping she does. But she refuses to countenance the idea of marriage, and so I—’

  ‘Marriage?’ Matilda’s mouth hung briefly open. ‘James, you have never spoken of marriage in anything close to a positive light.’

  ‘I know. I also know that now, knowing her, it is the only thing I want.’ Selby tried to smile, but felt only bitterness. ‘But Miss Hartwell does not. She will not be moved. And so I must ask you, Matilda, in no uncertain terms, to… to keep her far from me…’

  He let the sentence trail away, aghast at the tears that had begun to fill his eyes. He hadn’t wept since childhood. Selby bowed his head, attempting to regain some self-control, gritting his teeth as Matilda’s cool palm gently enclosed his own.

  ‘Of course.’ The soft understanding in Matilda’s voice unmanned him completely; one tear fell, then another. ‘Do not fear. I shall never throw you two together again.’

  Choosing the path of righteousness wasn’t meant to be easy. Brenda knew this; she had read such a sentiment in any number of novels. But the path that she had chosen for herself—that of a strong, secure, single woman of means—had never felt quite so horribly unpleasant.

  She was doing the right thing. Wasn’t she? She had been so sunnily strict with herself; so many friendships, so many healthy ambitions, had been lost because of scheming over some marriageable male. It had been so enjoyable to turn over a new leaf, go against the grain, shock the ton with a professed desire to never marry…

  … Which didn’t explain at all why she was crying in the library. Crying quite desperately, in fact, with Winston snoring gently at her feet.

  Brenda didn’t want to look at Winston. He reminded her of Selby, and she did not wish to think of Selby. Above all she didn’t want to think of the look in his eyes as she had left him; not anger, not coldness, just… just sadness. So she did not look at Winston—did not look at anything in the room, because everything else reminded her of Selby.

  She couldn’t even look at her own hands. If she did, she remembered Selby holding them. Brenda, a sob rising in her throat, shut her eyes as tightly as she could.

  The door opened. A sick wave of dread rose in Brenda’s chest; it would be him, of course it would. But then, as she heard an apologetic clearing of a gentlemanly throat, she sighed in sudden relief.

  Matilda’s husband. If anyone had to come across her crying, she was rather glad it was him.

  She had always been a little scared of Harding. Older than the other dukes that had made up their infamous club, the man had always possessed a steely gravity which had frightened Brenda enough to ensure she never made advances towards him. His spectacularly scandalous marriage to Matilda, the infamous courtesan who had turned out to be so lovely that Brenda was incapable of disliking her, had only made Harding seem more mysterious in her eyes; the man clearly had great depths of passion, so at odds with the deliberate gentleness of his manner…

  Of course, he was nothing compared to Selby. Nothing at all. Brenda, who had always kept a detailed ranking of every gentleman in the ton, was shocked to realise that her detailed categories had abruptly burst into flames.

  ‘Forgive me, Miss Hartwell.’ Harding bowed; Brenda, too shocked to get up, jerkily inclined her head. ‘I shall leave you alone.’

  ‘No. No, that is not necessary.’ Of course it was necessary; why had hiding away suddenly become unnecessary? Brenda, awkwardly patting her hair back into place, knew that Harding could see her red-rimmed eyes and much-bitten lips. ‘There is no earthly way I can convince you that I have not been weeping.’

  ‘True.’ Harding’s careful gentleness almost caused yet more tears to spring to her eyes. ‘But it is certainly not my place to interrupt your solitude, if solitude is what you are seeking.’

  ‘I am not seeking solitude.’ Brenda knew that if she were strictly honest with herself, the only thing she wanted to seek would be Selby. ‘I am… I am in need of quiet, I think. Not silence. And… and generally comforting things, said in a soft tone of voice.’

  Harding’s slightly confused smile was enough to bring a little mirth to her own soul. ‘How very specific you are in your pleasures, Miss Hartwell.’

  ‘I wish I were less specific.’ Brenda sighed. ‘It would make things ever so much easier.’

  There was a moment of slightly uncomfortable silence. Harding looked as if he wished to say something serious; Brenda, swallowing, knew that there was no real way to refuse to hear him.

  ‘Miss Hartwell… allow me to say something frank.’ Harding turned to face her fully; Brenda found a small part of herself was cowering in fear. Grave, naturally serious men like Harding had always made her feel so utterly silly. ‘Have you ever thought that some of the choices you have made for yourself in recent months, worthy as they are, may have been made because you believe that you do not deserve happiness?’

  Such a statement was so unusual that Brenda did not know how to respond. She stared at Harding, unblinking, not knowing if she wanted him to stop or continue.

  ‘I am not speaking of increased independence, or the company of good friends, or the acquisition of a great number of hobbies. All of those things are a balm to the soul, I imagine. My wife has certainly encouraged me to pursue a wider field of interests, and I have supported her every time she has successfully climbed yet another mountain of the spirit.’ Harding’s slightly softer expression let Brenda know that he was incapable of speaking about his wife without showing all and sundry how much he loved her. ‘I am speaking about your desire to never marry. To never twin your soul with that of another.’


  Brenda was silent. Her usual defences, strong as they were when persuading lesser beings, seemed utterly useless when set against Harding’s gentle, remorseless logic.

  ‘I have already spoken too much, I feel. Any more, and I would overstep my post.’ Harding silently rose, bidding Brenda to stay seated as she attempted to rise. ‘Forgive my pressing, Miss Hartwell. I hope that we next meet under happier circumstances.’

  Before Brenda could ask him to stay, or tell him that his words were more than welcome, Harding had left the room as unobtrusively as he had arrived. She sat for some minutes in complete silence, too overwhelmed even to cry, carefully considering what the man had said.

  You believe that you do not deserve happiness. There was truth there; a simple, devastating truth. One that Brenda hid from, her eyes filling with tears once more, as she sat in the library with clenched fists.

  Did independence mean sadness? Did love mean happiness? And if they did… what was she meant to do?

  Being useful was always an option. One that felt especially difficult after a night spent dozing in the library, an old blanket wrapped around her, Winston biting her feet at an ungodly hour to wake her. Brenda, sipping coffee in the privacy of her room as the laughter and chatter of the other guests floated up from the morning room, wondered if today was the day to choose idleness again. But when Matilda appeared at her door, brisk and full of evident energy, Brenda knew that disappointing her friend would be worse than a thousand years spent regretting every one of her decisions.

  ‘I have a special task for you.’

  ‘Matilda.’ Brenda looked levelly at her friend, frightened at the excitement in her eyes. It could only mean more scheming, and she was in no mood to combat it. ‘I warn you, I am in no condition to—’

  ‘No tricks. I promise.’ Matilda paused; in that brief period of silence Brenda heard apologies, condolences, and her heart overflowed with gratitude. ‘But it is a task that I think you will enjoy, however much you pretend that you do not.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Brenda tried to smile. ‘And why shall I enjoy it?’

  ‘Well…’ Matilda gently, shyly gestured to her waist. Her slightly thicker waist, now that Brenda looked at it closely. ‘It involves a secret.’

  ‘... Really?’ Joy filled Brenda’s heart, briefly drowning out her despairing thoughts. ‘Oh, Matilda!’

  ‘I know. People treat it as the normal thing, I know.’ Matilda smiled wider. ‘But I am treating it as a miracle. A miracle, and an excuse to organise.’

  ‘Organise?’ Brenda smiled. ‘Organise what?’

  ‘Every garment that I own, dear. I must decide what will flatter me as I grow wider, and what must be consigned to cedar chests in the attic. You have wider hips than me—know, dear, that I am not insulting you—and will show me what I will look like in a month or so.’ Matilda laughed at Brenda’s expression. ‘Come now. It is trying on gowns, without the interference of a maid. It is every woman’s favourite thing to do.’

  Brenda did enjoy trying on dresses. She had tried not to enjoy it; taking pleasure in fabrics and trimmings seemed diametrically opposed to the changes she had made in her life. But Matilda had a beautiful dressing room, full of light and colour—and more importantly, she had absolutely glorious gowns.

  Gowns that included her wedding gown. Her wedding gown, which had mysteriously been the very first garment that Matilda had insisted she put on.

  Matilda’s old wedding gown was exquisite in every way. If it had been any less beautiful—if there had been even the slightest tear in the lace, or rent in the damask—Brenda would have stridently insisted on performing any other task. But a small, stubborn part of her had coveted Matilda Weatherbrooke’s wedding gown ever since Matilda had become Matilda Harding, and the chance of putting it on and looking at herself was not to be sneezed at.

  In truth, the gown had made Matilda look somewhat fragile. Virginal, even; something that the wedding guests had privately laughed at, given the woman’s colourful history. But on Brenda’s broader, thicker frame, the dress was attractive in a way that was almost… brazen.

  ‘My.’ Matilda took in the sight with widened eyes. ‘I do not think I looked quite this lovely when I wore it.’

  ‘You looked a thousand times more lovely.’ Brenda looked critically at herself in the glass, noting bunches and folds in the fabric that were incomparably ugly to her mind’s eye. She looked as if she were play-acting at being a bride—wasn’t that meant to be bad luck? ‘Tell me quickly. Can it be altered to accommodate changes, or must it be confined to the attic until use can be made of it again?’

  ‘I believe it will have to be thrown in the cedar-lined chest, and buried under a heap of lesser dresses, until I am fit to be seen in something slender again.’ Matilda gently caressed her own thickening waist, her eyes alive with a soft excitement that Brenda found herself obscurely jealous of. ‘Or… or perhaps I shall give it to you, dear.’

  ‘It would be a very lovely and very useless gift.’ Brenda spoke smilingly, the words causing a pang somewhere deep within her. ‘I shall have no occasion to use it whatsoever.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Matilda’s face was a strange mixture of caution and curiosity. ‘Can… can you really think of no occasion, Brenda? None at all?’

  She must have spoken to Selby. They must have discussed her. Brenda, suddenly feeling very constricted by the fabric of the dress, spoke in a tone that hovered perilously close to harshness.

  ‘None at all, dear. How many dresses do we have left to try on?’

  ‘Many, dear. Many.’ Matilda looked at Brenda with infinite gentleness. ‘Shall I leave you alone to try them on?’

  Brenda was very sure she was going to cry. ‘Please do.’

  Matilda’s soft nod almost brought a sob to her lips. With another quiet smile, her friend was gone.

  Brenda sighed, blinking away her. She should take the gown off immediately; consign it to the chest along with the other dresses. Stroking the skirts with a loving, distracted hand, noting how much better the gown looked in daylight rather than illuminated by the corridor chandeliers, she prepared to take it off.

  Her eye caught the vase of flowers resting innocently on the windowsill. Roses, tumbling ones; Matilda adored the blooms, filling the house with discarded petals and swooning scent whenever the plants had a flush.

  You are being foolish. Brenda, unable to take her eyes off the blooms, shook her head. Very foolish indeed.

  Slowly, as if trying to conceal her actions from an unseen onlooker, she sidled over to the vase. Gently wrapping her fingers around the neatly grouped stems, she withdrew the bunch from the vase. Letting it drip for an instant, letting the scent of the rich pink flowers wash over her, Brenda held the roses at her waist.

  As she turned back to face the mirror, she gasped. The flowers made the gown look different, somehow; made it look right. She no longer looked uncomfortable, or brazen, as if she were fighting with the fabric. If anything, she glowed.

  Was this what she would look like, if she were to marry? This glorious, light-filled woman, expectant somehow, as if she were on the verge of a discovery? Brenda closed her eyes, trying to control herself; she had dreamed so often, so deliberately, of weddings in her youth that she expected the desire to seem stale. She hadn't imagined the freshness, the deep throb of want, that would come from looking at herself in such a manner.

  She had not imagined marriage once since the day of her outburst. Since she had arrived at Poppy Grancourt's house, tearfully confessing her jealousy and rage, all thoughts of weddings had been determinedly banished. She had to live her life on her own terms; she had to practice solitude, discover her own talents and aptitudes and hopes, in order to be a woman worthy of true friendship... but really, had she ever thought that she would become a woman capable of being loved?

  That is what has changed. Her inner voice had never sounded quite so severe, and quite so sad. You have fallen in love with someone, you stupid girl, and now all dreams are
allowed.

  The enormity of such an idea was staggering. Being really, truly in love with someone was bad enough; being in love with James Selby was another thing entirely. A man who left her confused, angry, surrendered to a passion that seemed a thousand times stronger than any semblance of reason... oh, it was not to be supported. Not to be borne.

  The door slowly opened. Brenda turned, expecting Matilda, ready to fling the roses across the room if necessary. Instead, her mouth falling open, she stared into the shocked face of James Selby.

  Of course she would find her here. Of course he would find her here, in a wedding gown, holding flowers. Brenda, so shocked she could barely breathe, half-expected a sudden burst of orchestral music from the heavens themselves.

  'I did not plan it...' What a stupid thing to say. Brenda let the sentence trail away, barely recovering under the force of Selby's stare. 'I did not. Whatever Matilda may have said to you, whatever excuse she made to have you come up here -'

  'I have not seen Matilda. I came here of my own accord, looking for Winston.'

  'Oh.' Brenda swallowed. 'Winston is not here.'

  'No.' Selby hadn't moved. 'No, he is not.'

  He was so close. Close enough to grip the collar of his coat; close enough to bring her mouth to his. Brenda, eyes wide, found that she could barely breathe.

  ‘Miss Hartwell. Brenda.’ Selby’s voice was shaking; it was as if he had taken her by the shoulders, or cupped her face with his hands. Every word burned like a touch. ‘Please, for the love of all that is holy, do not try to tell me that this is not destiny.’

  ‘I… I do not believe that destiny rules our actions.’ Brenda looked down at the soft, creamy white and blue of the wedding gown, not daring to look at Selby while she lied. ‘I do not.’

  ‘I do not have to believe. I know.’ Selby took a step forward; Brenda stared, unable to blink. ‘Not that destiny rules my actions. I know that you rule my actions, my sentiments, my thoughts. My desires. All of me.’ He paused, brow furrowed, as if the weight of his words were crushing him. ‘But if you are determined to ignore it, or deny it, or simply choose to lead a different life, please tell me in no uncertain terms to leave you and I shall—’