A Lady Awakened (11 page)

That was the end. He slipped out of her, he knew that much; slipped right out as useless as a dead eel. The rest was something of a blur. His hands, pushing blindly at the legs still crossed behind him. He must have got free because he staggered, under all the weight of masculine disgrace, to the nearby wall. Her fatal last remark rang in his ears and
No
, he thought,
It’s not as though you do anything at all
!
I may as well be swiving a propped-up corpse
!

Those were the words he thought. Or … maybe … the words he said.

He breathed hard, ragged, in the silence, and worked to bring the wallpaper’s fleur-de-lis into focus. Christ. Shit. Had he said that out loud?

He ventured a look at her. Damnation. He’d said it out loud.

“Hell,” he muttered, now leaning his forehead against the wall. “I’m sorry.” He glanced back.

“No, it’s …” She sat very still, drained of color, staring at the floor. “I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.”

“No!” He wheeled away from the wall. “For God’s sake, can’t you see? What pleasure do you suppose there could be for a man, in bedding a woman who has to
try hard
to bear it?”

No reply came. Of course none came. She withheld herself at every opportunity; why should she give it up now? Even to look at him appeared to be more than she would grant: she merely sat, watching the toes of her slippers, with all appearance of waiting for him to finish out his indulgence of temper and get back to work.

That was more than he could do. With a shake of his head, he leaned down and picked up his trousers where they lay on the floor.

She saw. “What are you—”

“It’s gone.” He cut off her panicky words with pleasure. Let her panic. Let her be the uncomfortable one in this bargain, just once.

“Is there no way you can—”

“No. No way. It’s gone; it’s done.” He watched her sidelong as he stepped into his trousers; saw her thinking hard, quickly as she could.

“I believe there are some erotic novels in the library,” she said at last, her gaze fast on her slippers. “Perhaps you could—”

“No. I could not.” One hand held up his undone trousers; the other scrabbled for his shirt, waistcoat, and cravat. “If I can’t stay hard with my cock in a woman, I surely can’t expect to look to erotic novels for the remedy.”

She flinched at the language. Good. With his clothes gathered up he went away to the mirror. In the glass he could see her, as he pulled the shirt over his head and thrust his hands through the sleeves. A strange bawdy spectacle she made, skirts still bunched above her stockings, legs still splayed. If she had other ideas for how he might arouse himself again, she did not offer them. She only sat with her head bowed, and finally, slowly, drew her knees together and plucked at the skirt to cover herself.

She looked … so small, sitting there alone. He closed his eyes.
Do not pity her, you idiot. Do not
. But his temper had always been a quick one: by the time his waistcoat buttons were all done up, he felt sorry to have made her look like that.

Still she did not speak. He wound his cravat without the usual flourish. What must it have cost her to mention the erotic novels? How many were there? And how did she know? Had she come across them by accident one day? Or were they perhaps flaunted before her?

Damn his stupid sympathetic heart. What accommodations had she ever made for him? If he’d been her husband, he probably should have resorted to erotic novels too, sooner or later.

He wished he hadn’t called her a corpse, though. That outburst had in no way alleviated his mortification, nor was it likely to inspire any feelings in her that could help him with what was proving to be a labor worthy of Hercules. And it ought to have been, he thought, now sitting in an armchair to pull on his boots. The first labor, to make all the later ones seem easy. Even the Hydra would be as child’s play, against the memory of breeding Mrs. Russell.

His clothes were all on now, save for the hat. He sat for a moment longer. Perhaps he would think of something to say. Perhaps she would speak.

The silent seconds ticked by. Finally there was nothing to do but stand and reach for his hat. He cleared his throat. “Shall I come again tomorrow?” The words sounded so loud in the room’s leaden stillness.

“If you please,” she said to her toes.

He left, then, and heavy thoughts of tomorrow went with him. Tomorrow and the tomorrows beyond, nearly a month of them to get through before his commission was complete.

Chapter Five

S
URELY THIS
congregation would run her out of church and chase her down the road with torches, if they knew what was the substance of her prayers. But she’d reckoned with that likelihood from the start.

Please forgive me as far as You are able
. Martha opened her eyes to see the pale knuckles of her hard-clasped hands, and shut them again.
Please take into account that I am not, if one defines the word precisely, guilty of Lust. Please understand why I had to do this, and what was at stake. In addition, please compel Mr. Mirkwood to glance this way and notice that I am without my fichu
.

Not that she expected the sight to galvanize him with such desire as would sustain him into their appointment this afternoon. But he would see it, one hoped, as a signal of her willingness to … not
try
, because he didn’t want her to
try
 … but to step away from her fixed position and meet him somewhere along that distance separating her wants from his.

Was that the same as trying? Why must this business have so many arcane rules? Don’t try. But don’t do nothing; else you are no better than a
corpse
. Even in her own inward voice, the word slapped her. Not so painfully as yesterday, when it had come like a hard open hand to her face. Given time its power might fade further. One hoped.

She opened her eyes again, angling her bowed head to peer across the aisle. He wasn’t looking at her. He sat straight and attentive today, his dress subdued, his countenance solemn, his prayer book opened to the right place. No one would ever guess he was a man who put women on top of odd furniture and expected them to enjoy it.

She couldn’t enjoy it. Exotic acts with an unprincipled stranger. He oughtn’t to expect that of her. But he did have a right to expect civility, and there, admittedly, she’d been remiss. She’d do better next time. If there was a next time. She’d be polite, and solicitous, stifling all uncharitable sentiment for the duration of his call.

If only he would look at her! She might even smile, quick and private, and he would know to expect a better welcome this afternoon than he’d had in the past.

But he didn’t look. When the service ended he slid from his pew and made for the door without once turning his eyes her way.

Would he even come to call today? He must—he’d asked if he ought—and yet what if, upon reflection, he’d decided he just couldn’t continue with her?

She sat still in her pew, last to leave the church again. Mr. Atkins might notice her missing fichu, and wonder at her. As well he ought. She was a crude, grasping woman, reduced to attending Sunday services uncovered in hopes of catching a man’s eye. She’d disgraced herself, stooping to such a ploy, and gained nothing for her disgrace. Desperate as it was, it hadn’t been enough.

T
HEO PLUCKED
at the roadside hedge as he walked home from church, crushing its leaves and throwing them away. Someone would have a devil of a time cleaning his gloves. Perhaps he would ruin them altogether. The prospect left him strangely unmoved.

He sighed aloud and scattered a handful of broken leaves. She’d robbed him of the one thing he did well, the widow had. That was the worst of it. He could laugh off his own ineptitude in those pursuits for which he cared nothing, as long as he could count himself a virtuoso in more important matters. But how was he to think of himself, faced every day with the way she shrank from his practiced touch? If he wasn’t a man who knew how to please women, then what was he at all?

The rumble of cart wheels came up behind him: he stepped closer to the hedge and lifted his hat as some farm family drove past, festive in their Sunday best and animated as though they were bound for a pleasure-party instead of just come from a sermon about a farmer struck dead while celebrating his bountiful harvest. The man and several of the boys raised their hats in return. One girl waved, and ducked her head shyly when he waved back.

Such charming looking people. Why couldn’t their sort live on his land, instead of the sullen Weavers? But some of the laborer families had seemed congenial enough, and perhaps even the Weavers improved on acquaintance. He ought to give them that chance. He might expend a little energy on duty today, and see where it took him. If he met with more disaster in the afternoon’s appointment with Mrs. Russell, he could at least have some sense of effectuality in other areas.

The plan coalesced as he finished his walk home. Call on the laborers and pay them attentions, the widow had said, and this much he could certainly manage with competence. He set the cook to wrapping up some parcels of beef and tea and even a few lumps of sugar while he went about the house gathering up other odds and ends. A sense of benevolent purpose swept through him, bringing his first real relief from that debacle of yesterday afternoon. He would win these people over with his gentlemanly condescension, and reports of it would surely reach Granville’s ears and help his greater cause.

An hour later he climbed the rise to the Weaver cottage with a slowing step. The calls had not gone precisely as he’d envisioned. He’d made a beginning, to be sure. No one could doubt the pleasure and surprise with which each humble housewife had received his parceled gifts. But neither could anyone miss the lingering distrust that met his visit. The husbands were all away at work—he ought to have anticipated this, by the absence of these families from church—and the wives answered his polite remarks and queries with uneasy monosyllables, for the most part.

Well, one more stop would finish his tribute to duty, for better or worse. He pushed the gate open and went in.

Even from this distance the baby’s cries were audible, making no great incentive to approach the house. The eldest daughter stood at one side of the yard, emptying a pail into the pig’s trough. She glanced up as he latched the gate, and dropped her eyes again before he had time to tip his hat. Poor thing. She must have come to expect neither courtesy nor any notice at all from such callers as the family did have.

He crossed to that side of the yard and took off his hat. “Good day,” he said.

The girl curtseyed silently, never raising her eyes from the pig, who applied itself to the trough with fierce purpose.

“How do you do?” He replaced his hat. Perhaps she was a mute?

“Well, thank you.” She spoke without expression, as though it were a practiced response, and still her head was inclined swineward.

So he considered the animal too. “How is your pig?” he asked after a moment.

Here was a question for which the girl hadn’t any rote answer. She pursed her mouth, concentrating. “She’s wicked,” came the eventual reply.

“Really?” She certainly smelled wicked. “What wicked things does she do?”

For a half-second her eyes rose to his. “She sits on her young sometimes.”

“Well, that is wicked indeed.” To say the least. “What can be done?”

“I hit her with a stick. Then she might get up.”

“But she doesn’t, always?”

She shook her head. Theo took a moment to imagine it: the sow’s impassive bulk, the squeals of the desperate piglets, and this girl, powerless, despite her stick, against the brute whims of nature. Every day spent in the country made London look a little better, and no mistake.

“Well.” Enough about the pig. “I’ve come to call on your family, and brought some things. And I brought something in particular for you.”

She did not ask what it might be, or look anywhere but at the pig. Only her posture betrayed a heightened attention.