My Wicked Fantasy

by Karen Ranney

  “Peace, Bernie,” Peter Sullivan said, unbuttoning his tunic and eyeing her with a smile. “It’s a lonely place, London, I’m thinkin’.”

  “And a damn cold one,” she said, throwing back the covers. She smiled, a warm welcome, and their kiss, when it came, was nearly swallowed by their laughter.

  Chapter 30

  His smile was a daunting thing to ignore. After a moment, Mary Kate did not try.

  “So, you’ll not have forgiven me for tellin’ them where you were headed,” Peter said, as he helped her from the carriage. “I’d wondered, the way you’re forever scurrying away from me. You have to understand, the world can be a harsh place for a comely lass as yourself.”

  She rolled her eyes at his gallantry, then matched his smile with her own. “And you could charm the bees from the hive, Peter Sullivan, a trait I’ve no doubt Bernie has discovered.”

  To her amazement, his tanned face turned ruddy. She turned away to hide her amusement. She did not wish to take advantage of his embarrassment. After all, Peter had been the only one of the servants who had been willing to speak to her. The rest acted as though she were neither fish nor fowl, a crossbreed between lower servant and mistress, a category she fit too well in, but an admission she would never make to them. So, for the most part, she spent her days isolated from others, in that peculiar way nobility lived.

  Bernie insisted upon visiting every neighbor within traveling distance on their way back to Sanderhurst. An occupation, she explained, that was the only alternative to the boredom of Sanderhurst.

  Mary Kate sincerely hoped that this next visit would be better than the last. They had spent an eternal hour with the Misses Hasting, the three sisters who lived a few hours away from Sanderhurst in a drafty old house that looked to be part of an ancient monastery at one time.

  The five of them had sat in the dark parlor, rendered so because the sisters had not opened the draperies in the parlor since the day their father had died five years ago. God Bless His Soul. This had been repeated on every utterance of dear departed Papa’s name, being unfortunately one of the more favored of the Hasting conversational topics. The three sisters perched upon the opposite sofa like crows upon a bare branch, all dressed in black, all with high foreheads, hair scraped back into tight little buns, all exactly alike save for slight differences of appearance, not personality. The middle one had blue eyes, the other two brown. The one on the left was taller and two years older. The one on the right had once been married.

  This visit had been followed by one to the widowed Mrs. Dorset, a quite attractive woman just beyond the first blush of youth. She had spiced the entire conversation with questions about Archer. Mary Kate found herself quite irritated at the constant reference to the St. John fortune, but even more annoyed by the woman’s fawning insistence upon repaying the call the next day. “I shall enjoy seeing Lord St. John again. Oh, indeed I shall.”

  Mary Kate wanted to hit Bernie with something sharp.

  Now they were at yet another house, paying yet another call, a uniquely British invention for women of great means and few duties. Such boredom was not, Mary Kate thought, something to envy.

  “Straighten your bonnet, Mary Kate.”

  “I shall. You might note that there is blue icing upon your skirt, Bernie,” Mary Kate said with a smile.

  “Weren’t those cakes absolutely ghastly? At least the topping took the edge off the sweetness, but however did she make it blue? You must admit, however, that the tea was palatable. But that is the last time I shall eat Miriam Dorset’s cakes.”

  “Why do I think you are chattering, Bernie? Is it to prevent me from asking why we’ve not returned straightaway to Sanderhurst as you promised Archer?” Mary Kate had not spoken to him since the night before, when he’d simply turned and left her chamber. Nor had he visited her later, as she’d half expected. It had been a long and lonely night.

  “We are on our way home, child. This is simply an opportunity to meet some people I’ve not seen in a long while. I’m not a hermit like my son.”

  “Why does he secrete himself away, Bernie?”

  “You haven’t experienced any of our relatives, have you, dear girl? Be pleased, then,” she said when Mary Kate shook her head. “Bunch of bloodsuckers, forever beseeching Archer for this and that, naming babies after him, planting trees in his honor, all for the sake of a few more pounds per year. He supports over twenty families as it is, and every person in England with a dot of St. John blood in their veins has aspired to tap into the family fortune.”

  “No wonder he thought me an opportunist. Still, he should not take his family for granted, Bernie. Not everyone is so fortunate.”

  “There is yearning in your tone, my dear, but let me assure you, the St. John clan is nowhere near to being familial. Why do you think Sanderhurst is off-limits, and why Archer will only agree to meeting family members in London? They are a yipping litter, the St. Johns. If they would spend half as much energy utilizing their fortunes instead of begging for more, they would be better served. It’s what my father did, after all.”

  Bernie lifted the brass knocker and rapped sharply on the door.

  The woman was placing her needles back into the bag constructed for just such a purpose when Bernie swept into the room with Mary Kate in tow. The smile of welcome on her face froze as she saw who her visitors were.

  “Cecily, you’re looking well.” A bright smile lit Bernie’s face. “Come, don’t tell me I look as bad as all that? You stare at me as if I’m a ghost come to call.”

  Bernie began to remove her gloves, one finger at a time, that bright smile still plastered upon her face. “Mary Kate?” She turned and motioned her forward.

  “Cecily, I would like you to meet a dear friend of mine, Mary Kate Bennett. From London.”

  Mary Kate returned her hostess’s nod, feeling as though she were in a marionette play and the only person who truly knew what they were doing and why was Bernadette St. John.

  “It’s been a long time, Bernadette. A great many years.”

  “Indeed it has, Cecily, but I must tell you that the years have not found you overly changed. And Samuel? Has he weathered with such grace?” Another dazzling smile as she seated herself on the sofa.

  “My husband is well. Is that why you’ve returned, Bernadette St. John? To whore with my husband? In my daughter’s house?”

  “I’m not quite sure about which part of your question I object to the most, Cecily, referring to Sanderhurst as your daughter’s house when it has been in my husband’s family for seventeen generations, or calling me a whore.”

  Mary Kate stared at Cecily blankly, wondering later if she looked as owlish as she felt at that moment. She sat heavily beside Bernie, any lessons on grace and deportment forgotten in the shock of this moment. Bernie might have warned her upon whom they were calling. She sent a frown in the other woman’s direction, but Bernie’s attention was focused on Archer’s mother-in-law.

  “I label you what you are, Bernadette St. John.”

  “Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise: and he that shutteth his lips is esteemed a man of understanding.”

  “Nothing will be served by blaspheming, Bernadette St. John. God Himself hears you. ‘All manner of sin and blasphemy shall be forgiven unto men: but the blasphemy against the Holy Ghost shall not be forgiven unto men.’”

  “I have no intention of engaging in a battle of quotes with you, Cecily. You truly have not changed, then. Somehow I would have thought you softened over the years.”

  “To you? Is that why you came? To see if I’d forgiven you? ‘Such is the way of an adulterous woman; she eateth, and wipeth her mouth, and saith, I have done no wickedness.’”

  “I came home for one purpose, Cecily. To help Archer find dear Alice. And for that reason alone. I think it’s reprehensible that no word has come either from her or about her. Tell me,” she said, “have you heard nothing at all from your daughter in all this time?”

/>   Their hostess remained standing, hands gripped tightly together, lips pursed. In her eyes there was no welcome, nor had she offered either woman refreshments, as was customary of afternoon calls.

  Altogether, it was quite clear that they were most unwelcome at Moresham Farms.

  “Come now, Cecily. Don’t tell me she didn’t confide in you. Did she perhaps mention a destination she might have gone? Was there nothing about the weeks before her disappearance that seemed to you odd, or unusual?” At her silence, Bernie gritted her teeth and continued. “Will you at least tell me if she was happy at Sanderhurst?”

  “I have no intention of talking with you, Bernadette, let alone divulging anything my daughter may have confided in me.”

  Bernie stood, placed one glove on her hand, toyed with the other. “Is there no way, then, for us to breach our differences, for Alice’s sake?”

  There was no response to that question. Cecily did not even look in her direction. Instead, she sat at the chair beside the window and extracted her knitting again, studiously ignoring both women.

  She sat forward, her spine as inflexible as that of the chair, her starched white cap neither dampened by the humidity nor wilted by the fire. The small bow was tied in a perfectly symmetrical arrangement beneath her chin, her hands now industrious, the clicking of the knitting needles punctuating the silence in an oddly soothing rhythm. It would have been a peaceful tableau, but for the hatred in the air.

  Bernie nodded at her, a clipped, almost tense gesture, then sailed through the door. Mary Kate had no choice but to follow in her wake.

  “Excuse me.”

  Mary Kate blinked, staring up at the young man who solemnly addressed her. He was tall, almost as tall as Archer, but reed-thin, as if never growing the breadth nature had decreed for him. His eyes were hazel, warm, soft, unexpectedly kind.

  “I am sorry, but you seemed a bit distracted. I wondered if you knew where you were headed.”

  Mary Kate glanced around, realized she was almost to the stables to the left of the manor house. She turned and the carriage was still in the front drive, Bernadette chatting with the coachman as if nothing untoward had taken place in the last five minutes, as if the scene in the house had not occurred after all. And how odd she should not remember walking in this direction.

  “Not to mention that you should watch your step here.” He pointed down at the ground, and only then did Mary Kate realize she had barely missed stepping in a steaming pile of manure.

  “Oh dear.”

  “Shall I help you return to your carriage, then? I’m quite good at avoiding any surprises. We are a horse farm, after all.” He extended his arm and Mary Kate placed her hand upon it.

  The contact of her palm upon his coat was disconcerting. She seemed to be able to feel the texture of his skin through the cloth, the warmth of his flesh. Mary Kate knew without looking that his hands would be large, the fingers long and slender. The hands of a pianist, a musician.

  “You’ve come to visit my stepmama, then?” He led her to a well-worn path between house and stable.

  “I’m afraid I’m acting as companion only.”

  The arm she held flexed suddenly, muscles tightening. She glanced at him. His gaze was fixed upon the carriage. “That is the carriage from Sanderhurst.”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “And you are?”

  “A guest there.” It seemed the most plausible thing to say, after all.

  His eyes seemed infinitely mysterious, as if hiding a thousand secrets, a hundred truths. She felt drawn into the soul exposed by those eyes. There was pain there, resignation and a longing too deep to ever express. And above it all was a sense of loss so profound that it made her breath hitch in shared anguish.

  He looked so stricken that Mary Kate wanted, strangely, to go to him, to put her arms around him, to pull his face into her lap. To softly brush back the blond hair that trembled over his brow and sing to him words of comfort, the way a mother would do for a restless child. She would be mother, sister, lover, friend.

  Her hand remained outstretched; she stared at it as if surprised by its presence. In truth, she was shocked. What was happening to her?

  From somewhere came a voice, masculine and concerned. “Are you all right? Shall I fetch you some water?”

  She shook her head from side to side, obeying the impulse to negate the awful strangeness of the past moment. She could not have spoken even if she were able to think the words.

  “Would you care to sit down here? You look a bit pale,” he was saying, his gentle features etched in concern. That, and a reluctant compassion. “I can summon someone from the house.”

  “I will be fine in a moment,” she said, hoping it was the truth. She was beginning to feel more herself, more in control of her body’s movements, her mind’s thoughts.

  She pleated the fabric of her skirt between her fingers, wondering what was the correct conversational gambit for a situation such as this. She would move when her knees had stopped shaking, when her stomach no longer felt so unstable. She would not humiliate herself further by becoming ill in front of a perfect stranger.

  “My stepmother has some degree of knowledge in the healing arts, madam, if you feel you have need of them.”

  Mary Kate looked up at the earnest face only inches above hers. “I am certain I will not. I am feeling much better already.”

  “You were very pale before. There is a spot of color on your face now. You look vastly improved.”

  “It is, no doubt, embarrassment that makes me flush so.”

  A sound broke their gaze, a jingle of harness, a muffled voice, the sound of horses restless upon the gravel of the drive, the solid slam of a carriage door. All these things Mary Kate knew and felt and heard, and yet none of them had the power to alter the direction of her gaze or the pull of her heart. With great reluctance, she moved away, toward the carriage and Bernie.

  “He has grown into an exceedingly handsome young man, James Moresham.”

  Mary Kate was still so shaken by her encounter with him that she could only nod. How very odd to have had that reaction. What did it mean? Was she ill? She brought herself back to the conversation with a jolt.

  “He and Alice were very close as children. There was never one but the other around. I used to think she could have had no better brother.” There were not that many miles separating the Moresham farm from Sanderhurst. An easy canter on horseback, a longer walk.

  “Does Archer know about you and Samuel Moresham?”

  “My dear, I have been shocking Archer from the moment I dismissed his nurse and took to rearing him myself. Nothing he might hear about me would startle him.”

  Bernie should have looked subdued by the rudeness with which she had been treated. Instead, her eyes sparkled brightly, her skin was rosy, and there was a broad smile on her face.

  “Samuel Moresham was my first love, my dear. We were too young and too silly, and I was just recently widowed. I will confess to stealing a kiss or two from him, yet that is all that ever transpired between us. I fancy, however, that Cecily thinks I left England because of some great unrequited and desperate love I bore Samuel.”

  “And did you?”

  Bernie sighed. “Eleven years is quite a long time to decide to take action against desperation. No, I left England for two reasons, Mary Kate. The first was that Archer was just becoming a young man, the type of man who no longer needed to remain in leading strings. Yet he feels a great sense of obligation toward me. It can be very lowering, my dear. So the only way to free us both from this obligation of love was simply to leave England. The other reason was that I will admit to a certain type of loneliness, but not for a conventional relationship. I wanted to find out what life was about, my dear, and my way of doing that was to see the world.”

  Since she had experienced the very same kind of curiosity, Mary Kate could say nothing to that confession.

  “I admire a great many men, but that does not mean that I bed each an
d every one of them.” At her look, Bernie laughed. “I play cards with Jonathan, my dear, and listen to his woes. He is madly in love with the housekeeper, who will not entertain his suit unless under the influence of a goodly portion of Madeira.”

  “And Peter?” Mary Kate asked. She had not been blind to the looks between Bernie and the handsome footman.

  Bernie had a distinctly cheeky smile, Mary Kate thought. “None of your concern, my dear.”

  “But why visit the Moreshams?”

  “Because frankly, I am running out of suggestions as to where to look for Alice.”

  “You might have let me know, Bernie.”

  “Is that a note of censure in your voice, my dear? My only defense is that the idea came to me only moments before we actually stopped. Not that the visit proved to be at all useful.”

  Mary Kate had not liked Cecily Moresham. Her voice alone, with its twangy nasalness, had grated on her nerves, like the sound a cat will make when scratching his punishing claws against upholstery.

  There had been a vicar in the village where she had spent her early childhood. Pastor Gastonby was a wizened old man with twinkly blue eyes, a genial air, and a mouth that looked as though it had smiled its way through life. His mild-mannered face transformed, however, once he was standing behind the rather imposing pediment near the altar of the church. He became a vengeful messenger, promising God’s retribution, fire and brimstone and rigid justice, threatening all within his hearing of the punishments meted out for unwed debauchery and unclean thoughts.

  He was rarely called upon to usher in death—most terminal penitents were too woefully conscious of just how many sins they were guilty of to be comfortable in Pastor Gastonby’s presence. The good reverend, however, never missed the opportunity to say a prayer at the grave site, endless sermons that also included enumerating the departed’s many faults, as if annoyed that the sinner was beyond his justice.

  This was not the man Mary Kate would have sought out, had she wished a spiritual adviser. She could not imagine telling Pastor Gastonby of hearing Alice St. John’s voice, or feeling impelled to aid the woman, for fear that he would denounce her as a tool of Satan.