by Karen Ranney
Chapter 11
Bernadette Aphra St. John, known to her intimate friends and lovers and one or two occasional relatives as Bernie, and to the rest of the world as the Dowager Countess of Sanderhurst, eyed her weary lover with something very much like irritation. Twenty years her junior and gasping like a beached trout. The sounds he was making were quite unlovely, really, and if she hadn’t been so replete at this particular moment, she would have shoved him off the bunk and demanded that he leave her cabin. It would not have been an extraordinarily difficult feat, since she outweighed him by at least two stone and topped him by three inches. She was, as her mother had often told her growing up, a rather large girl.
Still, he was a pretty thing, if a bit out of practice. She was quite willing to engage in the act repeatedly so that he might master the skill of it, and therefore his stamina while doing so. It was quite a generous offer, she thought, even though he was the only male passenger left on this St. John ship. The others had departed at Macao, and since there was nothing between their present position and England but a few paltry ports and a long stretch of water, it seemed the most prudent course to give him another opportunity to impress her.
His name was Matthew. That, she had learned before he’d come into her cabin for a glass of brandy. Of his antecedents, she knew little; of his future plans, even less. But he had a warm and golden tan and he seemed quite smitten with her. He was now mumbling something into the feather pillow, in such heartfelt tones that it brought a glow of satisfaction to her face. There was something to be said for experience, after all. Not to mention years of travel. She had picked up a few hints here and there.
She stretched, pulled both arms above her head, wriggled delightfully. She had lived a singularly hedonistic lifestyle, enjoying her food, a glass of good wine, the company of articulate, entertaining people.
She made her temporary homes where the scenery was lovely and the mood was right, and the natives seemed friendly enough, even though India had been frightfully hot. But there had been a dashing colonel, quite an attractive man he was, what with his bright silver hair and his crinkly smile. He was, however, too enamored of her title and the fact that she represented all that lovely St. John money. Pity, if he’d just liked her for being herself, they could have made a go of it. Wasn’t it odd the way people kept trying to force her into respectability, when she truly wished to be seen as daring and innovative and odd? It was a little like forcing a square peg into a round hole; too much shaving and shaping had to be done in order to make it happen. She truly didn’t want to lose that much of herself. She’d had all the stifling propriety in her childhood, when she’d done exactly what she was told, and in her adulthood, when she’d married someone she didn’t like only because it was a good match and her new husband was an earl and rich.
Still and all, it hadn’t been that onerous a relationship. The good man had the sense to die early, leaving her alone with a delightful son to raise. And Archer, thank heavens, only occasionally reminded her of his father.
During the last decade she’d finally obtained a certain liberty of the senses, but otherwise she had remained a relatively staid individual. Well, there was the training with the bow and arrow, a skill she was happy to have mastered, since her instructor was a delightfully athletic-looking man in North America. And the sessions with firearms could not help but come to good use one day. Not to mention the knife strapped to her ankle. She had become quite proficient in the use of that. After all, a lone female did have to protect herself.
The men in her life had been relatively few, until the last year, when she’d finally thrown off the mantle of respectability and done whatever felt comfortable and right. After all, men had been doing it for centuries, it was time for women to engage in the same moral freedom.
All in all, she quite enjoyed her widowhood. There was something to be learned each day, something to be shared each moment, some beauty to be found, some joy to be dispensed. A thoroughly novel attitude that Bernie would have been delighted to share with the world. Except that, of course, in the year 1792, the world was not quite ready for Bernie. Especially England.
She’d left fifteen years ago, determined to find a place, a country, a town, where she belonged, only to discover the most elemental truth of them all. There was no home more suited to her than the one she created, a turtle’s self-sufficiency independent of place or location. But the intervening years had not been wasted; they’d exposed her to the cultures of the world, given her a great respect for the dynasty that allowed her such financial freedom. She’d traded the English habit of superior thinking—believing the world bowed willingly at England’s doorstep and supped greedily from her spoon—for a more realistic view of the world. The greatest knowledge revealed was that of herself, however, the essence of Bernadette Aphra St. John.
She had learned that bright, vivid colors complemented her, to dress in Indian saris often because the style flattered her large-boned, tall frame. She kept her black hair cut short, to her shoulders, affecting the Japanese adornments she so admired. She was fluent in seven languages, could eat quite adequately with chopsticks, had studied Buddhism, the Koran, the Talmud. The contents of her trunks indicated her eclectic lifestyle and interests. In addition to her wardrobe, she carried home bolts of Cambrai cambric, Laon lawn, Ypres diapered cloth, a well-used hookah, a manuscript of haikus written in her honor by an elderly Japanese admirer, four different types of shallots indigenous to Southwest Asia, and a collection of heavy, black Indian rubber balls she adored because of their bounce.
She was quite aware that she scandalized most of her relatives, some of whom had managed to keep a wary eye on her all these years. What letters had not accomplished, hired watchers had, informing her many and too interested kin of her scandals and her achievements. The former unfortunately outweighed the latter.
Still, she was glad to be returning to the country of her birth. Perhaps it was a function of age, instilling in her a wish for the stability of a life she’d once found staid and uninteresting. She missed the constancy of English life; traditions once taken for granted now seemed almost inestimable: Christmas crackers, plum pudding, rolling hills held captive by mist, a perfectly tended formal garden.
For all that, she didn’t regret leaving England. Archer had been grown and utterly independent, and she’d been desperate to become herself, not simply the widowed Countess of Sanderhurst, wealthy, eccentric and deadly bored.
But oh, she did miss her son. Correspondence had kept them close, and they’d been able to meet in a foreign capital or two over the years. But she’d been stuck in some dusty hamlet in India when she’d finally gotten news of his plans for marriage. By the time she could have taken ship and arrived in England, she would have been three months late for the wedding.
Perhaps it was for the best, for all that. She remembered little Alice as a child, dressed in yellow and as sunny as the day was bright. What kind of wife had she made for her son? Not good enough, that was certain. No woman would have been. Another benefit, then, for staying away from England. Archer would not have applauded her behavior as a mother-in-law.
What would her son say if he knew that it was because of him she was returning after all these years? He needed her now, for the first time since he was twenty; she could almost touch the loneliness in his letters, the despair in his search for Alice. She would join her not inconsiderable resources to his and together they would find his missing wife.
Chapter 12
He didn’t knock, didn’t allow her to bid him enter or deny him leave. There was only the whisk of the key in the lock and Archer St. John was there, dwarfing the doorway with his presence, showing her by his actions and by the implacable mask of his face that he was her jailer.
Mary Kate was seated in a chair before the fire, her legs covered with a silken blanket. In her hands was one of the books he’d sent to relieve her boredom.
“Why are you staring at me in that way?” he asked. “Hav
e I grown horns, or are you measuring the limits of my credulity?” A veneer of politeness was stripped away by his tone.
“I have been trying to think what danger might befall you.”
“An earthly guardian angel, charged by a voice from the great beyond? Shouldn’t you be demanding payment for this entertainment? Although I must congratulate you, madam. It is an interesting ploy, this talk of whispering voices and visions, but I would have thought you’d put your mind to more productive pursuits, such as admitting your complicity in this little plot of yours and Alice’s. After all, truth would be so much easier, don’t you think?”
“I’ve already told you the truth.”
“You’ve divulged a unique version of facts, madam, but I would not necessarily call it the truth. My wife is dead and sending you ghostly dreams. Visions of my life in infinite detail. Now she’s sending you warnings of impending doom. Do I have it correct?”
At her slight nod, he smiled. It was a gesture totally lacking in humor.
“Then I am supposed to do what, madam? Be so grateful to you that I part with half my fortune? Pay you off? Why have you concocted a story between you that possesses neither truth nor reason? What could you possibly have to gain?
“You don’t have a bevy of spirits in your reticule, waiting to fly forth and speak through you? Pity, think what gullible dupes you could find to finance your living. You could announce yourself as Madame Bennett, Mistress of Cryptaesthesia.”
“I don’t particularly want to be haunted, St. John.” She looked at him directly. “It is the first time such a thing has happened to me.”
A twist of his lips formed a half smile, something derisive and not at all kind, but then, Mary Kate suspected that Archer St. John was not known for his compassion.
“You and Alice are to be congratulated for your creativity. Such a tale is evident of a mind better suited for children’s stories and fables, however. It is wasted on me. Where is my wife, madam?”
“I don’t know.”
It seemed a parody play they engaged in, the question, the answer, both quick, tight-lipped, uttered by two people who’d grown tired of the necessity for both the question and its rapid response.
Mary Kate decided to go about this differently. It was quite certain that Alice was concerned about her husband’s welfare. As concerned about Archer St. John as the earl was desperate for news of his wife. Perhaps if she solved one riddle, she could find the solution to the other.
“Have you any enemies?”
He looked at her as if she’d lost the remainder of her reason. Perhaps she had, to be as honest with him. “I’ve a score of enemies. None of them would be enriched by my passing. However, they are of a professional, not a personal, nature. Until my wife left me, madam, I have enjoyed a rather benign effect upon people.”
“Do you ride?”
He raised one eyebrow.
“An English gentleman rides, of course. But are you competent?”
A second eyebrow joined the first.
“Very well,” she said, casting down her eyes. It did not seem quite fair to think him so amusing.
“Do you have any other pursuits that could be considered unhealthy?”
“There is no disturbance in my existence, Mrs. Bennett, but the disappearance of my wife. I don’t know how you’ll get a message to her, but I’m certain you’ll manage. I’d be more than happy to have your letter franked myself. Tell Alice that I want an end to this. Now.”
One corner of her lip turned up. She picked up her cup and buried her nose in it.
“Do you find something humorous about that statement?” he asked.
“I shall convey your wishes,” she said, unable, finally, to mask the totality of her amusement.
“You are laughing at me. Tell me the jest and I’ll join you.”
She glanced at him. Did he realize that he was so stiffly correct? Yet sometimes she almost saw a glint of humor in those night eyes, and a glimmer of something not proper and certainly not stuffy.
“It’s just that we are an odd pair, you and I. You, incensed with your errant wife because she’s not present; me, rather grateful because she is.”
At his look, she continued.
“I am used to the company of others, St. John. The only people I’ve seen in the last few days besides you have been the maids, and they stayed no more than a moment or two, performing their duties in such silence that I suspect they were warned not to converse with me. The spirit of your wife has been my only companion.”
“You speak of ghosts with such ease, madam. Would it not be more provident to be frightened, if such were the case?”
“If I were of your station, perhaps. But death is nothing new to me, St. John. I’ve helped at the burial of two of my brothers, prepared my father’s body for his shroud. When you’re of the working class, death is not a thing to fear as much as a constant presence, almost a friend.”
“Even more reason for me not to believe you, presented to me on a platter of lies. You could only profit from this game.” He walked to the window, trailed a hand down the fabric of the draperies hung there.
“You expect only lies from me, but all I’ve given you is the truth.”
“And you never lie, of course.” He turned and speared her with a glance.
“I’ve lied,” she conceded, placing her cup back upon the tray. “Not just white lies, either, I’ll confess. There were times I’ve said I’d done something when I hadn’t yet completed my task. Label that one a sin if you will, but only of timing.”
“And the sin of omission? Are you guilty of that?”
“Not telling all I know? What else would you have me tell you?” Her fingers pleated the edge of the throw that covered her legs.
“Why Alice sent you, instead of returning herself. What you have to gain by pretending she’s dead.”
“I don’t suppose that it would do any good to tell you again that I never knew your wife?” Her look was earnest and somber.
“None.”
“Do you only believe in things you can see or touch, St. John?”
“I’ve found it to be the sanest way of dealing with life, madam.” His fingers moved a small and delicate figurine of a shepherdess from the edge of a table.
“And yet you leave no room for faith, or hope, or even coincidence.”
“I will not argue religion with you, madam, and coincidence is merely a word to describe inattentiveness. That which links circumstances together can easily be seen by those who pay attention to their surroundings.”
Wasn’t it odd that her attention was caught by the delicacy of his touch, a brush of finger against a bisque skirt, a slow stroke on a shepherd’s crook? “Then I do not suppose you are about to admit that you might come to believe me?”
“There is not a chance of that, madam. I shall only hope you continue to think the accommodations to your liking,” he said, ceasing his gentle benediction of touch and bowing slightly.
“I would be a fool to scorn these accommodations. You’ve given me a magnificent cell.” She looked around her, and then smiled at him. “Such ease with wealth amazes me. It also shames me a little because I feel envious, another of my faults too easily illuminated. Or perhaps it is not simply your wealth I envy, but the nonchalance with which you treat it. You will never wonder where the next meal is coming from, or what occupation will allow you to maintain your pride and still garner enough for a small room and one meal a day. Have you ever worried about your future, St. John?”
“So this ploy is punishment for my position?” His smile was not at all friendly. “Is this your idea of deference?”
“Because you’re an earl? Or because of your wealth? Neither of these because of your own industry, St. John. As to respect, you lost that the moment you became my jailer. Why should I defer to you, now?”
He strode to the door, opened it with an economy of movement that betrayed his irritation.
“You do not have a servile bone in yo
ur body, madam. I suspect you would be cheeky to the King himself.”
“Servitude is not a choice I would have made in my life, St. John.”
“No, instead you choose to play interpreter for a ghost only you imagine.”
“And one who loves you very much.”
In that second when he turned, he was changed.
His anger was buried, his irritation flaming out, extinguished, his ebony eyes solid, glowing like agates. There was nothing about his face to indicate that bone and flesh and muscle dwelt within that space, or anything less brittle than hard, carved granite. Even his hands stilled, kept at his sides, his shoulders maintained a military precision, his spine as rigid as if strapped to a saber.
“She loved me? Is that what you call it?” In his voice was an incalculable weariness, emotion that spoke of acceptance, regret, and in a curious and startling way, despair. “Is that why she took a lover? Is that why she labeled herself adulteress? If Alice loved me, I pity the man she hated.
“I propose that you confess your duplicity, thereby ending your imprisonment and allowing me to continue on with my life. Tell Alice that I will give her anything she wishes, including whatever funds she needs, but that I wish my freedom with all due speed. If she wishes a bill of divorcement, I will petition Parliament myself.”
It was not his parting rudeness that kept Mary Kate staring after him, but the look upon his face before the door had closed, studied indifference, calculated apathy, rigid and hard as stone. But stone can crack and she’d seen the evidence of it, the glimmer of pain in the blackness of Archer St. John’s eyes.
Chapter 13
“Give him an extra measure of mash, Raymond.” Archer turned and cast a weary look at the western sky. It was nearly dark and he’d spent most of the day on horseback. A futile and almost desperate search for some type of peace.
“Aye, sir.” The groom pulled off his hat one more time, a nervous gesture more than a subservient one. Archer suspected he frightened the liver out of his servants. It was not by reputation that he had managed to assemble the finest servants ever to leave London—the power of his purse did that. Strange, that he did not inspire such fear in Mary Kate Bennett.
