Married to a Perfect Stranger (8 page)

Mary smiled at him. It was such a beautiful smile that John couldn't look away. He lost himself in its present loveliness, its promise for the future.

“Would there be anything else, ma'am?” asked a pointed voice behind him.

Mary realized that the remains of their dinner were congealing on their plates. They'd been talking for almost two hours, and without a single dispute! She'd been fascinated, and impressed, by her husband's exploits—the stories he told and the bravery and ingenuity so clearly implied in what he did not say. “No, Kate, you can clear up.” She turned back to John. “Shall we sit in the parlor?”

They moved across the entryway into the sitting room. Candles Mary lit from the ones burning on the mantelpiece shed a golden glow over the comfortable furniture. The day had been warm, so they had no fire. But when they'd settled on the sofa, half-turned toward one another, the easy rhythm of conversation had dissipated. The silence felt awkward, and their long separation yawned between them once again. Mary thought of asking more about his journey, but that seemed contrived. Did they have nothing else to talk about? “I met one of our neighbors in the square today,” she said finally.

“Before the dog?” John smiled slightly.

Mary wrinkled her nose at him. “Before, yes. An older woman, perhaps sixty. Have you seen her walking in the garden?”

“I don't know. Many of our neighbors seem to be elderly.”

“Her name is Eleanor Lanford.” John was looking at her so fixedly. She spoke more quickly. “Her house is on the other side of the square.”

John shook his head without shifting his gaze.

It was as if his eyes were lit from within. Like a gas fire Mary had once seen, they seemed preternaturally blue. She had to look down, but then her attention was caught by his hands. They were very attractive hands, strongly made, so much larger than hers. They looked…terribly skillful. “It's good to know somebody nearby,” she said inanely. It was silly to be nervous, alone with this man. They'd shared a bed on their honeymoon, lived together for weeks. But that was two years ago, and he was so changed. It occurred to her that a honeymoon now might be quite different from the awkward groping at their seaside lodgings.

Mary blushed. John shifted a bit on the sofa cushion. His shoulders were straining the seams of his coat, Mary noticed. And very fine shoulders they were. He needed a new coat to set them off properly.

He reached out and touched her hand, then he ran his fingertips lightly up her arm and down again. Sensation shivered through her, like a hot breeze. He turned her hand over and caressed the inner side of her wrist. Mary's breath caught as he raised it toward his lips.

The thunder of footsteps in the entryway could not have been more unwelcome if they heralded news of disaster. Perhaps they did. It was Arthur. He stood in the open doorway and said, “That dog is still out there.” He danced from one foot to the other, brimming with energy, as always.

Much as she liked the boy, at that moment Mary wished him a thousand miles away.

“He's walking round and round the garden fence. You think maybe he's lost?”

“I'm sure he can find his way back where he came from,” Mary replied. Her voice sounded sharp in her own ears.

“Why don't he go then?” Arthur wondered.

“I'm sure he will…”

“I feel like it's my fault he's out there, see. I shoulda been more careful where I was shooting. I do try to watch out. But it seems like things just go…” He flapped his hands to show he deplored the random eruptions of mayhem in his life. “Anyway, I think I oughta make amends.”

“Amends?”

“Help him get back home,” Arthur elucidated. “Or back where I saw him first, anyway.”

John stood up. Mary blinked at him, startled. “Let's find a piece of rope,” he said. “We'll tie him up behind the house for the night. And then in the morning, you can return him to where you first encountered him.”

“By myself, sir?” replied Arthur in a small voice. He looked at the floor and shuffled a foot. “It's only…he was that angry at me. For hitting him with the stone. Accidental.”

John looked down at him. Though Mary couldn't see her husband's face, she had the sudden sense that it was full of compassion. She heard it in his voice when he said, “I will go with you. It has to be quite early, mind.”

“Yes, sir! Early as you like. I'll be ready.”

They left the room together before Mary could speak. She didn't know what she would have said in any case, only that her heart felt full.

The capture of the dog developed into an epic chase around the square. Mary was amazed that no one came out of the neighboring houses to inquire about the racing footsteps and the barking and the coordinating shouts. The hour grew late, and what with one thing and another, the delicious moment that had been trembling between her and her husband was gone.

As the night ticked over into morning, John Bexley undressed in his bedchamber. He was tired yet keyed up by the chase around the square and by all that had passed between him and Mary. His senses remained full of her, and he wanted far more than sleep.

Shirtless, he went to the door of her bedroom and opened it. Mary was asleep. She always slept deeply; he remembered that. Breathing softly and evenly, she looked younger, with no sign of the “managing female” in her lovely face.

He could go over and wake her and assuage this ache. He was a married man. It was his right. He'd done it before.

John flushed a little, remembering those nights after their wedding. There had been a bit of fumbling, but mostly he'd simply taken what he wanted. If he'd thought about it then, which he had not, he would have said that Mary preferred it that way. His upbringing had given him the idea that women were not much interested in the physical side of marriage.

Talk among the men on shipboard had shown him his mistake. And now, gazing down at Mary's sleeping form, he was even more enflamed by the idea that she could want him as much as he did her. He'd glimpsed signs of desire in her eyes. Hadn't he? He craved more of that—to watch them blur and drown in the throes of passion.

John's hand went out of its own accord. His fingertips had nearly brushed her cheek, when he caught a whiff of sweat from his run after the dog. He didn't want to drag her from sleep and demand his rights. He wanted much, much more. Pulling back, he decided he would take the time, and the care, to get it. Jaw tight with control, he turned away and left her.

In the office they shared, William Conolly watched his colleague Bexley take off his coat and fold it carefully. He traded it for quite a different sort of garment from a portmanteau beside his desk. Though this new garment was still a coat, Conolly supposed, it was a shabby, threadbare example of the species, long and bulky and the color of mud. John buttoned it up so that it hid his good shirt. The cloth cap he pulled out next was equally disreputable. He'd already pulled off his top boots and donned ancient buckskin breeches instead of pantaloons; now he slid his feet into a pair of scuffed clogs. “Is it really necessary to dress like a beggar?” Conolly wondered.

“I'd make nothing as a beggar in a coat as fine as this,” John replied.

“You call that fine!”

“It isn't hanging in strips from my shoulders,” said John. “I have shoes. And no deformities or scars. Far too ‘prosperous' for a beggar. On the other hand, I don't appear worth the effort of robbing. That's the point. That, and the people I want to speak to can't be seen with a ‘toff.'”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Conolly asked.

“We need better information about the countries in the East.”

“We do.” Conolly watched, fascinated, as Bexley took a jar out of the portmanteau and unscrewed the lid. It appeared to contain dust. His enterprising colleague used a bit of it to smudge his face. He had clearly thought this through down to the last detail. “You really think you can find out anything useful?” he asked.

“Only one way to find out.”

“I'm not sure.” Conolly eyed the disreputable figure that had recently been his neatly dressed officemate. “Can you really trust this interpreter fellow?”

“
Bù hăo
.”

“What?”

“That means ‘no good,'” John informed him. “I can't trust him completely. But I've given him the impression that I know more Chinese than I actually do, which should keep him at least a bit honest. Along with the payments I make to him, of course.”

“Say something else,” said Conolly.

“
Nĭ hăo
,” said John.

“What's that?”

“How are you?”

“It sounds…do you sort of…sing it?”

John nodded. “The tones are as important as the words. Get the intonation wrong, and you'll be saying something completely different, as I learned to my cost a time or two in China.”

“Where you took the time to learn some of the language. Unlike any of the others.”

John shrugged. He wasn't ready to tell Conolly all his reasons for tonight's foray. The government did need a better information network, and he did believe this was a way to improve it. But he had other motives as well. He intended to show his superiors that he possessed the intelligence, the initiative, and above all, the ability to get results that could take the place of aristocratic connections in the hierarchy of the Foreign Office.

“Did you find this interpreter through Rolfe?”

“
Hĕn hăo
.” At Conolly's raised eyebrows, he translated. “Very good.” The captain of the
Lyra
knew all manner of seafarers and had given him some contacts to pursue. John made a quick bobbing bow.

“You're a marvel, Bexley.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at you. When you put on that gear, you stand differently, your face is…you look like another person entirely.”

“That's the idea.”

“Still, venturing into the slums… I suppose I'm to rally the troops if you don't show up tomorrow.”

“I'll be here,” John replied. But the truth was, he'd confided in Conolly for this reason exactly. Someone had to know where he'd gone.

John slipped out of the mostly empty Foreign Office building. He paused to make certain his coin was well secured and that the pistol in the deep pocket of his coat was easily accessible. Then he made his way carefully through dark streets.

London's Limehouse slums were full of sailors from across the world. Hired in their native waters for their knowledge of local currents and hazards in port, they were set down in London when the voyage ended, abandoned until they could sign on with another ship. They needed money, and many of them were willing to tell whatever they knew in exchange for small sums.

Over the years, some of these sailors had settled and opened grogshops or doss-houses or brothels to cater to this continually shifting population. They gathered news from the tide of men who washed through their establishments, and they might be persuaded to pass it along to John for a price. Only once they met and trusted him, however. Such men had an aversion to writing things down—those who could write. Notes could go astray. Throats were slit for less.

As arranged, John met his translator at a tavern called the Red Dragon at the edge of the district. He had discovered Henry Tsing, son of a Chinese sailor and a Limehouse whore, through an acquaintance of an acquaintance of Rolfe's. Henry had learned Chinese dialects as a potboy in a grogshop, and John judged him suitable as a general ear to the ground around Limehouse. “Shen may have something,” he said when John appeared.

John nodded. “
Hĕn hăo
.” And they set off.

Midway through the evening, it began to rain, turning the filth and litter in the narrow streets to a disgusting mush. John turned up his collar further and kept going. The hope for useful information just barely kept his spirits from sinking in the endless succession of dark, dirty holes, where men clutched their rotgut liquor or opium pipes in a desperate quest for solace.

The circuit Henry led him through took longer than John had expected. They couldn't hurry from place to place without drawing unwanted attention. Their progress had to appear dawdling and random. He'd planned to return to the office and change his clothing before going home, but by the end of the night, he was worn out. As he left Henry at the edge of a less disreputable district, John told himself that everyone would be asleep and he trudged homeward.

Well after midnight, he crept through the alley behind the house and let himself in the back entrance. Shedding the filthy clogs and shapeless hat, he was filled with gratitude for this warm and peaceful refuge. How many men had he seen tonight who would never know such a haven? He dropped the ancient coat and stripped off mud-spattered stockings. He'd come down very early tomorrow and gather them up before they were noticed.

Barefoot, he crept through the house and up the stairs. At the door of his bedchamber, he nearly jumped out of his skin when candlelight fell over him as Mary opened her door. “John?” she said.

She stood in the opening, the small flame throwing golden light over her thin nightdress, her dark hair tumbled about her shoulders. Even bone-tired and dispirited and cold, he was stirred to his depths by the sight.

“I was worried.”

“I told you I'd be out late tonight,” he said.

“Yes, but…where are your clothes? Why are you wearing…?”

“I…was caught in the rain. I left my wet things downstairs.” He would have to go back down as soon as he placated her, John thought, and hide his disguise. The scent of violets drifted around him. There could be no greater contrast with the places he'd passed through tonight. He ached to touch her, to feel her softness and warmth, but the sights he'd seen tonight had left him feeling soiled within and without.

“You went to a reception?” Mary said.

She was looking at his mud-spattered buckskins, obviously inappropriate for a Foreign Office gathering. He'd implied, without actually saying, that such was his destination. Her face showed bewilderment and hurt. John shook his head. “It was something else.”

“What?”

“It's confidential. I can't talk about it.” This wasn't absolutely true, but he didn't want to talk to her about the dark things that went on in other parts of their city. To link Mary, even in thought, to that bleak world of men bereft of home and family, of no women except whores… He shook his head.

“You don't trust me?” Mary said. The candle wavered in her hand.

“I do. But much of my work simply can't be discussed. That is its nature.”

“Work…in the middle of the night. Half-naked.”

That final word seemed to echo on the narrow landing. John became acutely aware of his bare feet and legs, his shirt hanging open. It would take less than a moment to shed the rest. The bone-deep chill of his long trek evaporated in a surge of heat, a wave of arousal. He had to have her. He couldn't wait an instant longer.

“You have dust on your face,” Mary said. She touched his cheek, her fingertips light as a butterfly on his skin, then she looked at the smudge left on her fingers.

Though that gentle touch enflamed him almost beyond bearing, John's hands fell to his sides and curled into fists. He'd been splashed with all manner of filth tonight. He'd held dirty glasses of rotgut that he had to pretend to drink. He'd been pawed by a drunken lightskirt and forced to endure one mucky kiss before he could be rid of her. A gin-crazed lascar had spit on his sleeve. He wasn't fit for his marriage bed, no matter how he ached for it. “I'm exhausted, Mary,” he said. “I must get some sleep.”

Mary's face fell. She turned away. John's hand came up of its own accord and reached for her. He forced it down, remorseful yet resolute. Mary's realm was this gracious house, this serene square, in the safe, respectable district he'd chosen for her. Mary was clean crisp linens, the scent of violets and baking bread, warmth and laughter. She must never be touched by London's black underside, the remnants of which spattered him now. He waited for her to close her bedroom door, then he waited another few minutes before retrieving the sodden clothes from the scullery.

* * *

Mary didn't see John the following morning. He was up and out earlier than ever, before even Mrs. Tanner could glimpse him. And oddly, when she inquired about his wet clothing to send to the laundress, none could be found. Whatever he'd been doing—certainly not a Foreign Office reception—he'd removed all signs of it. Just as he'd refused to tell her anything.

Sitting at the breakfast table, she broke a piece of toast into smaller and smaller pieces as she went over last night's encounter in her mind. She couldn't see how the work he'd described to her over dinner could ever require creeping around barely dressed in the night. But where had he been then? What were the secrets she couldn't be allowed to know?

She crushed the last bit of toast to crumbs. He'd been here for weeks on his own, after they'd parted in anger in Somerset. Had he found someone…? The thought made her feel sick. But she couldn't believe he'd be so clumsy and…blatant about it. And… Mary frowned. His look and manner had pointed to something more mysterious, and more sinister, than an affair.

Mary's cheeks burned with humiliation. She'd stood before him in nothing but her nightdress, offering…everything. He must have seen that in her face. How could he not? She'd longed to throw her arms around him, lose herself in the kind of kiss that had begun to tantalize her imagination in the dark hours. He'd been so alluring, half-dressed in the candlelight, his bare throat rising from the open shirt. When she closed her eyes—and even when she didn't—she could see him there, barelegged, primal. But he'd turned away.

Mary left her uneaten breakfast and went to sit in the front parlor. A bit of sewing unheeded in her lap, she watched rain run down the windows. The season was turning. Leaves had fallen in the square, and the garden looked much less enticing with bare branches tossing in the autumn wind. The flowers had withered; puddles dotted the gravel paths. It seemed a mirror of her marriage—waning. At one moment they had seemed about to come together, and the next they swung far apart. What should she do? Would she ever truly come to know this stranger who was also her husband of almost three years? What if she didn't?

When she'd agreed to marry, she saw now, she hadn't expected a great deal. An amiable companion, a settled home, her parents' approval for her obedience. She could hardly comprehend that Mary now. Why had she asked so little of life? Why hadn't she known, felt, that there could be so much more? The Mary she'd become since then yearned for…things she could scarcely define. A fervent, vibrant, passionate existence. If she couldn't have that, her heart would break. All would be empty and bleak and…

“Stop this at once,” Mary said aloud. She swallowed the threat of tears. John was her husband. He would be here every day for…forever. She would figure something out. Even the old Mary hadn't been a moper. She would not sit here feeling sorry for herself. There were plenty of tasks waiting to be done. She put aside the sewing, stood, and shook out her skirts.

In the kitchen, she found Kate and Mrs. Tanner sitting at the large wooden table near the warmth of the stove. The cook was peeling apples from a bowl. Arthur was set up in the corner blacking a pair of John's shoes. None of them rose when Mary appeared. The women's expressions, each line of their bodies, declared that she was no duchess. Well, she wasn't. But she was the mistress of this house and not the least bit intimidated. It was time to have a frank talk with her staff.

“You said you wanted a pie,” Mrs. Tanner remarked, making a small gesture with her paring knife. “But I told you I bain't much of a hand with pastry.”

“I am,” Mary responded. “I'll make it.” She enjoyed baking. Beyond the tactile pleasure of it and the delectable results, it had been one skill her mother praised in her.

“I'm mortal fond of pie,” put in Arthur, licking his lips.

“You're mortal fond of
food
,” replied Kate. “It's a wonder you're not fat as a flawn.”

“He needs feeding up,” said Mrs. Tanner. “I swear they must have starved the lad in Somerset.”