Love in the Afternoon (33 page)

extraordinary . . . pleasure filled, serene, imparting a sense of well-being that Christopher hadn't felt in years. There was something about the light in the Cotswolds, a smooth opalesence that covered the hills and farmland in a soft binding. The morning usually began with sun, the sky gradually thickening to clouds in the afternoon. Later in the day, rain fell on the brilliant autumn leaves and gave them a boiled-sugar glaze, and drew out a dark, fresh scent from the loam and clay.

They quickly fell into a pattern of things, a simple breakfast followed by a long ramble with Albert, and then they ventured out to visit the nearby market town with its shops and bakeries, or to explore old ruins and monuments. One could not employ a purposeful stride with Beatrix. She stopped frequently to look at spiderwebs, insects, moss, nests. She listened to out-of-doors sounds with the same appreciation that other people showed while listening to Mozart. It was all a symphony to her . . . sky, water, land.

She approached the world anew each day, living fully in the present, keeping pace with everything around her.

210

One evening they accepted an invitation from Lord and Lady

Brackley to have dinner at the manor. Most of the time, however, they secluded themselves, their privacy disrupted only when servants came from the nearby manor to bring food and fresh linens. Many an afternoon was spent making love before the hearth or in bed. The more Christopher had of Beatrix, the more he wanted.

But Christopher was determined to shelter her from the darker side of himself, the memories that he couldn't escape. She was patient when they came to stumbling blocks in their conversations, when one of her questions had veered close to dangerous territory. She was equally forbearing when a shadow crossed his mood. And Christopher was ashamed that she had to accommodate such complexities in his nature.

There were moments when her gentle prying spurred a flare of

irritation, and rather than snap at her, he withdrew into a cool silence. And their sleeping arrangements were a frequent source of tension. Beatrix could not seem to accept the fact that he wanted no one near him while he slept. It wasn't merely his nightmares--he was literally incapable of falling asleep if there was someone else next to him. Every touch or sound would jolt him awake. Every night was a struggle.

"At least take a nap with me," Beatrix had coaxed one afternoon. "One little nap. It will be lovely. You'll see. Just lie with me, and--"

"Beatrix," he had said in barely contained exasperation, "don't badger.

You won't accomplish anything except to drive me mad."

"I'm sorry," she had replied, chastened. "It's only that I want to be close to you."

Christopher understood. But the uncompromised closeness she desired

would always be impossible for him. The only thing left was to make it up to her in every other way he could think of.

His need for her ran so deep that it seemed to be part of his blood, woven into his bones. He didn't understand all the reasons for such

mysterious alchemy. But did reasons really matter? One could pick apart love, examine every filament of attraction, and still it would never be fully explained.

It simply was.

Upon their return to Stony Cross, Christopher and Beatrix found

Phelan House in disorder. The servants were still accustoming themselves to the new residents of the stables and the house, including the cat, hedgehog, goat, birds and rabbits, the mule, and so forth. The main reason for the disarray, however, was that most of the rooms at Phelan House were being closed and their contents stored in preparation for the household to be 211

moved to Riverton.

Neither Audrey nor Christopher's mother intended to take up

residence at Phelan House. Audrey preferred to live in town with her family, who surrounded her with affection and attention. Mrs. Phelan had elected to remain in Hertfordshire with her brother and his family. The servants who were either unable or unwilling to move away from Stony Cross would

remain behind to care for Phelan House and its grounds.

Mrs. Clocker gave Christopher a detailed report of what had occurred in his absence. "More wedding gifts have arrived, including some lovely crystal and silver, which I have placed on the long table in the library along with the cards that accompanied them. There is a stack of correspondence and calling cards as well. And sir . . . there was a call paid by an army officer. Not one of those who attended your wedding, but another. He left his card and said he would return soon."

Christopher's face was expressionless. "His name?" he asked quietly.

"Colonel Fenwick."

He gave no response. However, as Beatrix stood beside him, she saw

the twitch of the fingers at his side, and the nearly imperceptible double blink of his lashes. Looking grim and distant, Christopher gave the

housekeeper a short nod. "Thank you, Mrs. Clocker."

"Yes, sir."

Without a word to Beatrix, Christopher left the parlor and strode to the library. She was at his heels immediately.

"Christopher--"

"Not now."

"What could Colonel Fenwick want?"

"How should I know?" he asked curtly.

"Do you think it has something to do with the Victoria Cross?"

Christopher stopped and turned to face Beatrix with an aggressive

swiftness that caused to her fall back on her heels. His eyes were hard, bladelike. She realized that he was overwhelmed with one of the rages that happened when his nerves had been stretched to the breaking point. The mere mention of Colonel Fenwick had overset him completely. To his

credit, Christopher took a few deep breaths and managed to control his raging emotions. "I can't talk now," he muttered. "I need a reprieve, Beatrix." And he turned and strode away.

"From me?" Beatrix asked, frowning after him.

The coolness between them persisted for the rest of the day.

Christopher was monosyllabic at dinner, which made Beatrix miserable and resentful. In the Hathaway family, whenever there was conflict, there was 212

always someone else in the house to talk to. When one was married and childless, however, quarreling with one's husband meant one was, for all purposes, friendless. Should she apologize to him? No, something in her balked at the idea. She had done nothing wrong, she had only asked a question.

Just before bedtime, Beatrix recalled something Amelia had advised:

never go to bed angry with your husband. Dressed in nightgown and robe, she went through the house until she found him in the library, sitting by the hearth.

"This isn't fair," she said, standing at the threshold.

Christopher looked at her. Firelight slid over his face in washes of yellow and red, gleaming in the amber layers of his hair. His hands were joined together neatly, like a folding knife. Albert was stretched on the floor beside the chair, resting his chin between his paws.

"What have I done?" Beatrix continued. "Why won't you talk to me?"

Her husband's face was expressionless. "I have been talking to you."

"Yes, as a stranger would. Completely without affection."

"Beatrix," he said, looking weary, "I'm sorry. Go to bed. Everything will be back to rights tomorrow, after I go to see Fenwick."

"But what have I--"

"It's nothing you've done. Let me deal with this on my own."

"Why must I be shut out? Why can't you trust me?"

Christopher's expression altered, softening. He regarded her with a

hint of something like compassion. Standing, he came to her slowly, his form large and dark against the glow of the hearth. Beatrix set her spine against the doorjamb, her heartbeat quickening as he reached her.

"It was a selfish act to marry you," he said. "I knew you wouldn't find it easy to settle for what I could give you, and not push for more. But I did warn you." His opaque gaze slid over her. Bracing one hand on the jamb above her head, he brought the other to the front of her robe, where a hint of her white lace nightgown spilled over the neckline. He toyed with the bit of lace, and bent his head over hers. "Shall I make love to you?" he asked softly. "Would that suffice?"

Beatrix knew when she was being placated. She was being offered

sexual pleasure in lieu of real communication. As far as palliatives went, it was a very good substitute. But even as her body responded to his nearness, kindling at the warm scent of him and the sensual promise of his touch, her mind objected. She did not want him to make love to her merely as ploy to distract her. She wanted to be a wife, not an object to toy with.

"Would you share my bed afterward?" she asked stubbornly. "And 213

stay with me until morning?"

His fingers stilled. "No."

Beatrix scowled and stepped away from him. "Then I'll go to bed alone." Giving in to momentary frustration, she added as she strode away from him, "As I do every night."

214

"I am cross with Christopher," Beatrix told Amelia in the afternoon, as they strolled arm in arm along the graveled paths behind Ramsay House.

"And before I tell you about it, I want to make it clear that there is only one reasonable side of the issue. Mine."

"Oh, bother," Amelia said sympathetically. "Husbands do make one cross at times. Tell me your side, and I will agree completely."

Beatrix began by explaining about the calling card left by the Colonel Fenwick, and Christopher's subsequent behavior.

Amelia sent Beatrix a wry sideways smile. "I believe these are the problems that Christopher took pains to warn you about."

"That's true," Beatrix admitted. "But that doesn't make it any easier to contend with. I love him madly. But I see how he struggles against certain thoughts that jump into his head, or reflexes that he tries to suppress. And he won't discuss any of it with me. I've won his heart, but it's like owning a house in which most of the doors are permanently locked. He wants to shield me from all unpleasantness. And it's not really marriage--not like the marriage you have with Cam--until he's willing to share the worst of himself as well as the best of himself."

"Men don't like to put themselves at risk in that way," Amelia said.

"One has to be patient." Her tone became gently arid, her smile rueful. "But I can assure you, dear . . . no one is ever able to share only the best of himself."

Beatrix gave her a brooding glance. "No doubt I'll provoke him into some desperate act before long. I push and pry, and he resists, and I'm afraid that will be the pattern of our marriage for the rest of my life."

Amelia smiled at her fondly. "No marriage stays in the same pattern forever. It is both the best feature of marriage and the worst, that it inevitably changes. Wait for your chance, dear. I promise it will come."

After Beatrix had left to visit her sister, Christopher reluctantly

contemplated the prospect of visiting Lieutenant Colonel William Fenwick.

He hadn't seen the bastard since Fenwick had been sent back to England to 215

recover from the wounds he'd received at Inkerman. To say the least, they hadn't parted on good terms.

Fenwick had made no secret of his resentment toward Christopher, for having gained all the attention and homage that he felt he had deserved. As universally loathed as Fenwick had been, one thing had been acknowledged by all: he had been destined for military glory. He was an unequaled horseman, unquestionably brave, and aggressive in combat. His ambition had been to distinguish himself on the battlefield, and gain a place in Britain's pantheon of legendary war heroes.

The fact that Christopher had been the one to save his life had been especially galling for Fenwick. One would not have been far off the mark to guess that Fenwick would rather have perished on the battlefield than see Christopher receive a medal for it.

Christopher couldn't fathom what Fenwick might want of him now.

Most likely he had learned about the Victoria Cross investiture, and had come to air his grievances. Very well. Christopher would let him speak his piece, and then he would make certain that Fenwick left Hampshire. There was a scrawled address on the calling card Fenwick had left. It seemed he was staying at a local inn. Christopher had no choice but to meet with him there. He'd be damned if he would let Fenwick into his house or anywhere near Beatrix.

The afternoon sky was gray and wind whipped, the woodland paths

choked with dried brown leaves and fallen branches. Clouds had veiled the sun, imparting a dull blue cast. A damp chill had settled over Hampshire as winter shouldered autumn aside. Christopher took the main road beside the forest, his bay Thoroughbred invigorated by the weather and eager to stretch his legs. The wind blew through the lattice of branches in the woodland, eliciting whispery movements like restless ghosts flitting among the trees.

Christopher felt as if he were being followed. He actually glanced

over his shoulder, half expecting to see death or the devil. It was the kind of morbid thought that had plagued him so mercilessly after the war. But far less often lately.

All because of Beatrix.

He felt a sudden pull in his chest, a yearning to go wherever she was, find her and draw her tightly against him. Last night it had seemed

impossible to talk to her. Today he thought it might be easier. He would do anything to try and be the husband she needed. It would not be done in one fell swoop. But she was patient, and forgiving, and dear Lord, he loved her for it. Thoughts of his wife helped to steady his nerves as he arrived at the inn. The village was quiet, shop doors closed against the November bluster 216

and damp.

The Stony Cross Inn was well-worn and comfortable, smelling of ale

and food, the plastered walls aged the color of dark honey. The innkeeper, Mr. Palfreyman, had known Christopher since his boyhood. He welcomed him warmly, asked a few jovial questions about the honeymoon, and readily supplied the location of the room that Fenwick occupied. A few minutes later, Christopher knocked on the door and waited tensely.