Sleeping Beauty (13 page)

Adopting certain native ways was a horrible thing to European minds, and uncovering one’s body was without doubt among the most horrible of all. No one he knew would comprehend his reasons.

“It was hot,” he said inanely. And every other soul was naked and clothing grew to be an encumbrance and they had wanted his. So he had let them have his clothes, piece at a time, day at a time. It had just happened. “I never thought to be in England again,” he added. Which, considering he sat here at an English table on the edge of an English
university, seemed to say he’d been fairly soft in the head.

Indeed, his fellow Englishmen would think such behavior purely insane. King Lear running mad across the stage. An inmate of Bedlam who would not wear his pants.

He laughed. “What a private thing to tell you.” He’d embarrassed himself. He looked off, self-conscious. “I had yet to share this particular information with anyone. I’d never intended to at all. I’m, ah—sorry. I shouldn’t have said.”

“No, no, it’s all right.” And oddly enough it was. Even though she widened her eyes and said, “Dear Lord. Well.” He’d taken her breath away. Which, strangely enough, warmed him to the backs of his eyeballs.

He’d taken the breath away of a woman who was worldly in the most attractive way. Worldly enough not to mind the idea of him naked. And attractive, Lord God. He watched her smile and shake her head at him, thinking whom else in the world could he possibly have told this to? And who would have responded so benevolently?

While Coco sat there trying to imagine Mr. Stoker here shedding his shirt and vest out in the middle of nowhere, stripping down his trouser braces, stepping out of his trousers. Naked.

To a woman who wore layers of clothes—layers of self-protection—it was beyond thinking. Madness. Yet, equally crazy, the idea was momentarily beautiful to her: The tall, long-limbed James Stoker standing in the sun, his skin everywhere as tan as his face, the muscular smoothness of him, from one end to the other, smooth, brown, golden.

Then he tried to travel on the strangely intimate moment. Into their cozy quiet, he said softly, “That wasn’t your aunt whom you met yesterday afternoon.”

She bristled. “You followed me.”

He lifted his shoulders as if to say: The temptation was too much, beyond his control or responsibility. How could she expect him to resist?

Well, she most certainly did. She puckered her mouth into a twist. Then said, “That was David. He maintains my property for me here. He’s the one who killed the bees.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “That explains it. You were overjoyed to see a young man who’d ruined your roof.”

David was none of his business, and she told him so with a quick, sour look.

He frowned down into his coffee, relenting a little. “You have a lot of men friends.”

“Some.”

“And do they all tell you their most intimate secrets, as I do?”

She frowned, conflicted, before she said, “Sometimes.”

“Often,” he asserted.

She lowered her eyes, running her finger along the foot of the sugar bowl. “Yes, often. I don’t know why.”

“How do you do it?”

“I don’t do anything,” she said quickly. She left a pause before saying, “Other than…well, I know how to make myself approachable.”

He laughed humorlessly. “And how not to.”

They were both silent. He had changed something
by pushing their conversation in this direction. She tried to hide the melancholy that had come over her, but couldn’t quite manage it. Her defenses were down; she was unable to dissemble. And she deeply resented whatever part James Stoker had played in this. She said nothing. He drained his coffee cup. She stirred her tea, but didn’t drink it.

“Well,” she said at length, “a delicious breakfast. Thank you.” She took her napkin from her lap and placed it on the tabletop. She glanced up, past his head, then, startled. The wall clock across the room said eleven thirty-three. Abruptly scooting back her chair, she said, “Lord, I was supposed to meet—” She broke off.

“David,” he finished for her.

She stared at him.

He said, “You were to meet David. Where?”

She bit her lips together, as if she might clamp the answer in her mouth. Then released it combatively, a dare to disapprove: “In Grantchester three minutes ago.”

James stood as well, reaching to pull her chair the rest of the way out. “Who is he?”

She slid from the chair, glancing over her shoulder as she picked up her parasol. “He is a good friend.”

“I’ll bet.”

She stopped to glare at him. “Not that kind of friend.”

“Then why do you avoid his mention as if he were a dirty secret?”

She felt a flash of pain, sharp enough to make her angry.

He must have seen her distress, for he took his
words back. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t—” His face held a kindness that was almost terrifying. A genuine compassion that made something quake deep inside her.

Damn it, no, she told herself. She found her smile, wide, direct, blithe. She made light of the whole issue. Turning away, she said over her shoulder, “Don’t be naïve.” She walked with premeditated ease, a saunter, toward the stairs. “He’s a decent young man. I wouldn’t want to…well, I want him to be allowed the right sort of associations here, to be happy—”

Outside, with James right behind her as they came up and out of Tolly’s, he asked, “And you aren’t the ‘right sort’?”

She opened her parasol, a burst of pale yellow she arced up, then over her shoulder: hiding within it to say, “I’m a realist, Dr. Stoker. A realist who was thrown out of her last English ball.”

Below ribbed and gored parasol silk, she could see his legs. Despite the parasol and her formal use of his name, meant to set him back, he followed. She walked quickly. He didn’t even ask where they were going, merely refusing wordlessly to be left behind.

The day had clouded slightly. The sun shone, but the sky was gray. Rather like herself, she thought, trying to bear up under a cloudy mood. Why didn’t he leave now? But, no: They walked together without speaking down King’s Parade, then onto the grounds of King’s College, its famous old chapel soaring to their right.

She took them along the sidewalks, then over spacious, green lawns, heading toward the Backs
and the river. She detoured toward King’s Bridge—the porter at Queens’ would not have given her, or any other woman, access. It was a good, long walk without their saying a word. They crossed the river Cam, then walked along its west bank, under trees, over rolling grass, with gothic and Tudor colleges limning the east horizon, architectural marvels from centuries past.

As they started across Queens’ Green, he said suddenly, “Are you
walking
to Grantchester?”

“Yes.”

“You know the way?”

“A footpath follows the river.”

“Almost, not quite. And it’s going to rain.”

She tilted her parasol to look from under it at him, about to argue. But, as if to prove his point, a boom of thunder rumbled in the distance. She waited for it to fade to silence, before she said, “I’ll be fine.”

“I could show you a short-cut to the Grantchester grind”—the path’s colloquial name—“if you like.”

She tipped her parasol back, looking at the sky. It was darker than she’d realized. Stiffly, she agreed, “All right.”

Beyond Silver Street, the grassy greens and courts and Backs gave way to fenced pastureland. A double-armed turnstile in the fence—sets of arms that pivoted on a post—allowed people to cut through, while keeping placid-faced cows confined to their meadow.

He pointed. “From here, if you cut across this field—” He stepped back to let her file into the turnstile.

She wasn’t sure if he planned it or it just happened. In all fairness, the idea seemed to take him as much by surprise as it did her. As if he thought it; he did it. She had no sooner entered the stile, one wooden arm across her belly, one at her knees, then it stopped. The rotating arms wouldn’t move.

She twisted, peeping around the edge of her parasol to look back over her shoulder, puzzled, at first asking his help: till she realized he was the source of the problem. He held the rear wooden arm, immobilizing the whole contraption. She was trapped in the little wedge of space, unable to move forward, unable to step back.

Her heart began to thud, hard in her chest. Uncertainly, she offered a smile, a chance to be reasonable. Let go now and she’d dismiss what he was doing as a joke.

James Stoker met her eyes steadily, his knuckles moving in the silk bustle of her dress. He held firmly to the stile arm: no longer the sweet, predictable young man she thought he was. He looked confused, but buoyant—and absolutely determined—a man riding a kind of elation like wind under wing.

The moment became instantly and openly sexual. It said he wanted to hold her, even in this indirect way, more than either of them realized and that he might leap both their preconceived notions to do so.

The beat of her heart spread into her veins. She could feel her own pulse at her wrist, her neck, her stomach. Lord, he was so close and so much taller than she. Likewise, stopping the turnstile was a display of strength, not very subtle but effective. He’d made her aware of his physical vigor—a virility in him—that wasn’t the least bit young. Just terribly,
terribly attractive all at once. Coco remained motionless, afraid to move, afraid she’d give herself away. He’d know. Then God help her….

Turned partway around, she contemplated him from under her parasol, tilting her head to the side, glanced down at his hands, then up at his face again: trying to gauge his intentions.

His intentions. Dear God, James thought. What were they? he wondered. Here in full view of a pub, a row of shops, several fellows punting the river, and a herd of cows?

His eyes found the rise and fall of a glittering, malachite broach on her breast, the gentle pull and release of her breathing against darts and small mother-of-pearl buttons. He watched her breasts where they pressed one against the other, their fullness crushed together by her simply holding the parasol before her in both hands. Breasts…breasts so full, so globular, that naked, they could not help but brush the insides of her arms every time she reached, no matter how directly, in front of her. He wet his lips. His mouth was dry.

She reached out to the fence post, bracing herself. In a soft, fully cognizant voice, she murmured, “What are you doing?”

He slowly shook his head. He couldn’t say; she probably knew better than he did. James only understood it felt marvelous when he lifted the parasol out of her hand. She grabbed once, but too late; she’d lost it before she’d realized what was happening. He collapsed it with a click of his thumb. “I want to see you,” he said. “Don’t hide.”

He meant the words literally; he wanted the parasol out of the way. Of course, he wanted every
thing out of the way—her clothes, the turnstile, every creature, human and otherwise, within view. He wanted to be alone with her. He wanted close, deep, direct physical intimacy…emotional intimacy…intellectual, every kind of intimacy…. He wanted to be up against Coco Wild, as close as he could get, in every way possible. And with such a longing, it made him dizzy.

He tried belatedly for humor. “I do not think,” he said, “that a few passing references to bees, a young fellow you’ve befriended, your aunt, and some sisters are in any way commensurate with my telling you I’ve run naked for the last year or so.”

She made a dry grimace. “We’re not children playing tattle-secret. I don’t owe you a confidence.”

“No, we’re two adults, one of us being candid, one of us being evasive and self-protective. I’m not asking you to violate confidences or give me incriminating information. Although”—he laughed as it occurred to him—“you probably have some I would enjoy knowing.” From nowhere, his enemy Nigel Athers sprung to mind. The thought that Athers might have something to fear here elated James for a moment, then disconcerted him. He had to reorient himself. “It’s you I’m interested in,” he said. “Just you. There must be more to your life than a boy and two sisters who, I gather, are not as nice to you as your aunt. Why? Why aren’t they? Do you mind that they aren’t? Tell me something, anything about your real life, what really matters to—”

“Concerts,” she said, cutting him off. “Concerts matter to me. And the opera. And bouquets of flowers. And education. I believe in education for every
one, that it could be the salvation of the human race. I think every woman with any money should invest in real property for the highest returns. That’s my present. That’s what matters to me.”

“No. That’s the surface—”

“Well, you aren’t entitled to more than the surface, just because you decide to pin me in place till I answer—”

“Who is David? How is it that you own property here and—”

She shoved her hip into the front arm of the stile, very hard, so angry suddenly that, after one quick reflexive grip of the wood, James let it—and her—go. He made a show of raising his hands, one holding up a pale silk umbrella. An attempt to recapture his innocence.

She paid no notice, one way or the other. Released, she was off like a shot, out the turnstile before he could explain or soothe or undo whatever damage he’d done: marching out into the pasture as if a pack of wild boars were after her. James pushed through the stile. He had to trot to catch up.

She walked toward the storm in the distance, her small figure a contrast against a sky of dark, roiling clouds. Her dress, another in the light pastels she often favored, was pale-as-cream yellow today. The color delineated her against livid purple thunder-heads that climbed the sky and dimmed the horizon. The rain was closer than he had imagined.

James came up on her, tugging her arm, thinking that they should find shelter. Yet when he felt the anger in the muscles of her arm, saw it in the stiff, defensive set of her spine, he quickly digressed. All, every one of these people, mattered to her. The boy,
the sisters, the aunt, perhaps even the likes of Nigel Athers. It occurred to him: those whom she cared about she protected. She held them back from herself, letting no one too close, thereby making any exclusion from society strictly her own. Such a course seemed to James the loneliest of existences—a kind of ongoing, living sacrifice. It made him anxious for her; it made him angry on her behalf.