Season of Light (6 page)

‘You turned him down? In what way did you turn him down?’

His arms were folded and she had to look away from his blue gaze to the plain knot of fabric at his throat. ‘There was … a type of proposal.’

‘And would you turn down every other man in Paris?’

A gardener was clipping the monastery hedge. Asa could imagine the snip of metal through leaf and twig, the smell of the cut leaves. When Didier got up she thought for a moment that he would pick up her cloak; instead he stood behind her chair, brought his mouth close to her ear and let his hand fall softly on her shoulder.

‘Had you not come, I would have died,’ he whispered.

He placed a kiss on the side of her neck over the cloth of her little muslin scarf but immediately afterwards, as if to distance himself from his words and the momentous kiss, he stepped aside. ‘We should leave this room or at least talk of other things.’

She looked out at the monk in the garden. ‘Yes. We’ll talk. Then I’ll go.’

‘And yet you and I have nothing more to say. We understand each other completely, having both drunk from the same cup. You and I, we want the same things.’ As if unable to help himself he drew closer, brushed the back of his fingers against her neck and smoothed her hair from her forehead. The gardener on the other side of the monastery wall made a little heap of cut leaves with the side of his foot. Didier raised her chin with the edge of his thumb. The expression in his eyes melted her bones. His kiss cracked her open.

Nobody had taught her this. She had not understood, as a witness to the decorous embraces of Philippa and Morton, that a kiss might be this extraordinary exchange of lip and tongue. She stood in his arms, broken by the dark hot place he had opened inside her. He said, caressing her cheek, stroking her hair: ‘I have nothing for you, Thomasina, except my love. The last thing I anticipated when I came to Paris was you. I am amazed at myself. I had thought, if ever I married, it would probably be to a girl from my home town and in the meantime anything to do with love would have to wait. But now there is you. I can’t make you promises, I don’t know where I will be next week or even tomorrow. It is your choice whether you go now or stay. If you want, I will take you back this minute to your sister.’

His face, with the upward quirk of his lips, was too beautiful and she was too stunned by his kisses. She put her mouth to the corner of his lip and this time he locked her in his arms and drew her so close that her breasts and stomach, through the soft layers of muslin, shaped themselves to him. His body was hard and unfamiliar and the scent of his skin tangled her thoughts. His tongue made quick, soft strikes against her teeth and his hand shifted from her waist to her buttock, pressing her closer still so that his fingertips produced shocking flames in her flesh. As he kissed her ear and throat she opened her eyes and saw the blue sky and the green, blowing tops of trees.

Again and again the voices in her head tried to speak but were answered by just one phrase: There is so little time. She stroked the top of his head as he kissed her neck and breast where the fabric of her under-shift was loosely gathered. When he looked at her again his eyes were blurred by desire. ‘I have felt, until this moment, that in France we might as well be slaves, we are so stifled,’ he said. ‘Your love has liberated me. You make no conditions, you give yourself freely.’

‘I can’t help myself.’

‘I want you to choose, every time.’

‘I do. I choose you.’

His hand slipped from her breast to the small of her back. She was sure his touch, even through her dress, left a trace on her skin. ‘You must think very carefully. Perhaps I ask too much. I’m going to take you back to the hotel, before it is too late.’

The sudden pulling away felt like rejection. They straightened their hair and clothes, but as he gathered a sheaf of papers, he seized her elbow and kissed her again, clasping the back of her head so there was no escaping the astonishing demands of his mouth. He said: ‘Think. Choose. Remember, there is only this. I can’t even be sure, from one day to the next, whether it will be the last time I walk free or if I shall be clapped in irons.’

‘Are you in such great danger?’

He laughed. ‘Ah, don’t look like that or how can I bear to part from you even for a moment? But listen. You should know the truth. At the moment the government is treading carefully because it is nearly bankrupt and therefore desperate to see a rise in taxes. It has to make concessions to the people. But we all know, those of us who write in radical newspapers and make our voices heard, the likes of me and Brissot and Danton, that at any moment we are likely to be arrested and slammed into the Bastille. And who knows if we would emerge from that place alive and whole? That’s why I can’t make you any promises.’

Asa kissed the beautiful, intact face of her living, bold lover, then he led her back down the dark staircase, this time pausing to embrace her so that her head was pushed against the rough plaster wall and her mouth ached. They parted at the crossroads and she hurried back to the hotel, sprayed with dirt thrown up by horses, battered by collision with other bodies and the press of traffic that forced her into the gaps between buildings. In her room she curled up on her bed, touched her bruised lips and held her arms tight across her breast as she thought of Didier, by now on his way to court, where he was to represent a woman at risk of being imprisoned for debt. She knew that when he pleaded his case, the taste of her mouth would be on his tongue.

That night she wrote a brief note to Georgina about the improving state of Philippa’s health. A letter to Caroline was composed out of a confused desire to conceal and confide.

In Paris, the rules that we are used to do not apply. Some beautiful new order is struggling to emerge. I can feel the city rattle its chains. And something else is happening. I cannot give you details. I cannot even tell you his name. But Caroline, I have fallen in love
.

And oh, Caroline, love is not as we always thought it would be. In my head, I thought I understood what Shakespeare meant, and Rousseau. I didn’t know it would be body and soul, night and day. I didn’t know I would look at myself in the mirror and wonder how I could ever deserve him. I didn’t know that my sense of self would dissolve, and that instead, all I would want is him. But don’t be alarmed. I’ll come to my senses at any moment. And then I’ll tell you his name. When plans are made, when Philippa knows, then I’ll tell you
…

The Mortons were annoyed to discover they had missed Shackleford. ‘Had I known he was in the hotel of course I would have made an effort to come down,’ said Philippa. ‘What did he say, Asa?’

‘Only that he did not expect to see us again because he was going to Italy, then farther afield.’

‘I had such high hopes. Mr Morton said he was very taken with you.’

Having attended to his wife’s pre-dinner needs – Was she warm enough? Did she require an extra cushion? Should he fetch another shawl? – Morton could at last give his full attention to Asa.

‘Imagine what joy it would have given your sister if she’d been able to write to your father to tell him you were engaged to Mr Shackleford. He suggested that he might propose to you, informally, of course, until your father’s permission had been sought. I presume nothing of that nature took place?’

‘I could not bear to be in a room with him, let alone marry him. I’m sure I made that clear.’

Philippa glanced anxiously at her husband. ‘There is no need to be so extreme, Asa. You talk such nonsense. It would have been a great opportunity for you.’

‘You know why any such match would be impossible, Philippa. His wealth comes from slavery.’

‘I’m sorry that you have allowed your prejudices to blind you to the advantages of such a connection and to the very great honour it was for Mr Shackleford to have taken an interest in you,’ said Morton, who had never spoken so sharply in the presence of his wife. ‘His family is extremely wealthy and influential and he is a man with whom I should like to have done business. Only this afternoon I was talking to an acquaintance of his who plans to deepen the links between French and British interests abroad.’

‘What do you mean,
abroad
?’ cried Asa. ‘Mr Morton, surely you don’t wish to involve yourself in the West Indies?’

‘I export cotton. Indirectly, I’m already involved. And I’m concerned that my trading interests should be protected. Had you been prepared to pursue your acquaintance with Mr Shackleford, you would have done me a great favour, Thomasina.’

Philippa, who was looking quite healthy that evening, glowered at Asa. ‘I’m sure Thomasina did not mean to offend you in any way, my dear Mr Morton, and would do everything in her power to please you. I will speak to her later. If only I had been in full health, I might have …’

‘Dear Philippa, I’m not blaming you. Never. Please don’t upset yourself.’ He patted Philippa’s hand and cast another reproachful glance at Asa. ‘We shall speak of other things. Tell your sister about your letter from Georgina.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Philippa, dabbing her eyes and giving Asa a look which said, Be grateful I have saved you from my husband’s wrath. ‘Georgina writes that she has met a gentleman called Mr Warren who has very good prospects indeed, and whom she is sure may propose at any moment. I do hope Father will pay attention and look into this Mr Warren. But at least Georgina is excited and cheerful. And thank God I shall soon be well enough to go home – perhaps in time, if necessary, to prevent lasting damage.’

Five days later, Asa again fled the hotel to meet Didier, although she stood for some minutes in the shadow of the wall opposite his apartment before she dared go in. It is the time, she thought, the time leaves me no choice. Morality, in Paris, was turned on its head. To be a patriot was to despise the king. To be a peacemaker was to accept the status quo and force years more suffering on the poor. To be pure in heart was to long for tumult. Besides, it seemed to Asa that she had been committed to this moment long before she first set eyes on Didier; in fact ever since she had been chosen, rather than Georgina, to come on this wedding trip.

Staring up at Didier’s window, she thought of the screen which divided his room. Her own body, in the dappled shade of the beech tree, felt young and intact. Nineteen years old. What was she thinking of? There was only one possible way forward: the right thing to do was to wait.

So she climbed the stairs slowly, heart in mouth, telling herself that she was here simply to drink a cup of coffee; that was all. And perhaps Didier had come to the same conclusion, for he sat at a distance while they talked of Philippa’s improved health and the wrangling that was still going on about how delegates to the Estates General might be elected. Asa had not seen him as self-contained and remote. After a while she thought miserably: perhaps he doesn’t desire me at all. There he sat in his shirtsleeves, one arm hooked over the back of his chair, so beautiful with his bare throat and dishevelled hair, a faint sheen of perspiration on his upper lip.

As the conversation died between them, she got up abruptly. ‘I’ll go, then. My sister might be missing me.’

‘As you wish.’

Struggling to hold back tears, she walked to the door, but at last he reached out and caught her hand. ‘Why did you come?’

‘You wrote to me. I thought you wanted to see me.’

‘And you. What did you want?’

‘I wanted to be with you.’

‘Here you are.’

‘Why are you being so cold, Didier? I don’t understand. We have so little time.’

‘Yes, we have little time, as you keep telling me. But what am I to do about it? There is nowhere for us to go. It seems to me that we have reached the end. I don’t have anything to offer you. Not a penny. Certainly not a roof over your head or any kind of future. I wish I had never met you.’

‘Don’t say that, Didier.’

‘For God’s sake, Thomasina, I am flesh and blood. To be with you in this room is torture. Yes, I invited you, but the truth of you, your beauty, the way you are looking at me … can’t you see what you are doing to me?’

‘Didier. Why do you think I’m here? I’m perhaps not as foolish or naive as you think.’

‘You are unprotected. I have been totally in the wrong. It’s madness. If I had met you some other time, last summer or next, everything would have been much clearer. We must wait …’

‘I can’t wait.’ She kissed the back of his hand. ‘I love you, I love you. That’s all. What does anything else matter?’

She clung to him, wrapping her arms about his waist so that she felt his hot body under the fabric of his shirt, burying her face in his neck and inhaling the lovely scent of him. Soon he was caressing her waist and breast, kissing her throat, drawing her towards the bed. ‘Is this what you want?’

‘Don’t ask. How can you ask?’

They fell amid the crumpled sheets and thin blankets and she shuddered as he kissed her breast and began to unhook her gown, kissing the newly exposed skin between each fastening, working at the billows of her skirts with his knee. Didier’s touch on her naked breasts was reverential. Asa’s bare toes traced a vertical bar on his bedstead and her skin contracted beneath his hand. He smelt delectable; of hot damp flesh, coffee, of Paris. How astonishing that this great brave soul should be, at this moment, absorbed completely in Asa Ardleigh, so that as he kissed her, as his hand made soft, long strokes along her stomach, she felt almost sacrificial. This moment, this country, this body, all were Didier’s, and she made no resistance but gladly embraced the sharp pain of union, the shocking motion of flesh. His face was glistening with sweat, his eyes closed, and he was absorbed in some passionate, unstoppable race that was both animal, as he groaned and seized a handful of her hair, and spiritual, for when he opened his eyes he studied her with such mystified love that she curled her legs and arms round him and reached up to be kissed.

For a while afterwards she lay beneath him, smiling, astonished at herself, grieving at his slow withdrawal. But then, as he lay with his mouth pressed to her throat, and she looked again at the cracked ceiling and the edge of the screen, and heard the clatter of the street, she felt corrosive flickers of guilt. What had she done? What would she say to Caroline? Philippa trusted her. She turned her face into Didier’s arm.