The Shadow and the Star (45 page)

Lady Tess had bade her wait alone in the room beside
the nursery. Leda could not settle; she wandered amid the old scent of long-lost roses and the faded flowers on the slipcovered sofas. It had once been a lady's boudoir, high up in the house overlooking the drive and front gardens, with chintz drapes drawn now over the wide windows.

She paused a moment at the sound of voices from the nursery—but it was only the new nurse and a maid, murmuring over Tommy as they put him to bed. The nurse came to the half-open door and peered in, saw Leda, smiled, and said good night as she shut it fully.

A hush descended. Leda felt like a ghost in the boudoir full of comfortable pillows and well-used chairs. She thought that a room such as this must have known much happiness; family had sat and laughed in the welcoming hollows of the love seat; children had played on the soft rug; a grandmother had worn the bare spot beneath an old rocking chair. Leda was only a brief visitor, an unfamiliar presence come and gone and soon forgotten.

Mr. Gerard entered silently; she turned from the case of books, the copies of
Alice in Wonderland
and
Grimm's Fairy Tales
, and found him there, a cold and potent angel in mortal dress.

She'd prepared a little speech, but it deserted her. Conventional cordiality seemed impossible with—someone one had last held conversation with in one's bedroom—in one's bed—in a most unseemly embrace. She flushed and stood silent, looking at him, trying to believe that what she remembered was true. This man, wintry and golden, had kissed and held and invaded her, slept with his arms around her.

"Miss Etoile." He made no attempt at civility, either. "We'll be married after Christmas, if that is satisfactory to you."

She looked away at the impersonal words. She clasped her hands together and sat down in the rocking chair, gazing at her fingers. "Mr. Gerard—please do not feel—that you must make such an—unalterable decision. Perhaps�you would wish more time to consider."

"What would I consider?" The bitterness showed through his detachment. "The decision was made last night. And it is unalterable, Miss Etoile."

"But… Lady Kai…"

"I no longer have her parents' consent. Or her�affection."

Leda twisted her hands together. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I am so sorry."

"Tell me one thing. Tell me the truth." His face grew taut. "I was the first?"

For a moment, she did not understand him. Then she felt the color coming into her breast and throat and face. She pressed her feet against the floor, pushing back in the rocking chair, a hopeless effort to hide herself in it. "Yes."

His eyes met hers with a flash of heat. Her face burned. The first. Did he think there would be a second? That she could bear to be touched in that way by anyone but him?

"I didn't know." He turned away. His brusque words held anger and chagrin. "I'm not—very experienced in the matter."

Leda pushed free of the rocker, drawing herself stiffly up. "Mr. Gerard, I would
never
have to do with gentlemen in such a coarsely familiar fashion."

"Wouldn't you?" He slanted an ironic look at her.

Leda had a sudden, intense recollection of his body pressed over her, his hands in her hair, the sensation of bared skin against hers. "I should not have!" she exclaimed. "It was very wrong of me!"

"I could wish you'd remembered these scruples last night."

"I thought that you were lonely! I did not know—that you meant—what you meant."

His glance raked her. She balled her hands into fists.

"I assure you, sir, that I never knew such a thing was even
possible
! I'm certain no one ever told me of it!" She lifted her chin indignantly. "I would not have believed them if they had!"

A peculiar smile traced his mouth. "I was led to expect I'd find you weeping, and pale from loss of blood."

"I'm sure anyone would weep. Out of astonishment, if nothing else. It was the most singular experience of my entire life."

"Yes," he said. "Mine, too."

She sat down again, and began rocking madly. "And now they all think—" She bit her lip. "It is so humiliating! Everyone looks at me!
Must
we marry, when you'll dislike me for it so? Lady Tess says that is how—that is�babies, you know. And I must wait several weeks to be sure!" She sprang out of the chair and turned away, squeezing her eyes shut, hugging herself. "I'm frightened!"

He didn't answer. When she opened her eyes, he was beside her, shockingly close.

"Oh!" She let out a startled gasp. "However do you do that, when the floors all squeak so abominably?"

He caught her chin, holding her as he looked down into her eyes. "You're panicking."

"No, I am not. I wasn't brought up to vulgar displays of emotion. But if I had been, I'm sure that being stared at, and whispered about, and pointed to, and expected to marry a gentleman who will hate me, gives me sufficient reason! And you needn't remind me to breathe, Mr. Gerard. I'm sure you'd be just as pleased if I didn't, and then you would be rid of me very shortly."

"No. You'd only turn blue, and faint, and afterward you'd be as alive as ever. And I'd still be obliged to marry you."

"You shan't, if you don't wish to! I tried to tell Lady Tess, if I could only have a letter of character—"

His fingers tightened on her chin. "You won't need letters," he said. "We're to be married in three weeks. I'll take care of you."

She swallowed. "Lady Tess said that you would."

"Did she?" He let go of her. "She knows me." His mouth curved in moody humor. "She knows I wouldn't disappoint her."

The wedding took place on a windy, cloudy day in January, in the private chapel at Westpark, with Lady Kai as Leda's maid of honor. It all seemed as unreal and fraudulent as the white satin gown and pristine tulle veil Leda wore, made up in haste by Madame Elise and sent down just yesterday from London, along with a personal note of congratulations from that commerce-minded lady, who wished that Miss Etoile might be pleased to honor the couturiere by allowing Madame to provide any gowns of fashion and taste that the bride-elect might require to complete her trousseau.

Leda wasn't certain who had paid for the gown, nor Lady Kai's new apricot organza with the big bow at the back, nor the dreadfully out-of-season real orange blossoms that perfumed the cool air. She feared that it had been Lord Gryphon, who was splendidly distinguished as he waited with her in the alcove, and who pressed her arm reassuringly as they started down the aisle. If he had not been there, supporting her, Leda knew that her knees would have failed her and she would have sunk to the stone floor in misery and fear.

The chapel was all light and white plaster, even on the dull day, an eighteenth-century ecstasy of carving and harmony. Leda knew that she didn't belong there—no aristocratic ancestor of hers had created this fairy-tale space.

Mr. Gerard, however, fit the elegant scene far better than his groomsman Lord Robert, who fidgeted with his boutonniere as music filled the chapel. Mr. Gerard stood unmoving, dressed in a black, close-fitting morning coat, watching while the sparse congregation rose, row by row, as Leda passed—and she thought that no one in imagination or reality could have been more precisely formed to create an image of cold, bright, ruthless perfection.

Then through her veil, she had a glimpse of Lady Cove—Lady Cove! Her eyes pricked; she had to bite her lip against the rush of feeling. They had all come from South Street: Lady Cove rose with rapt face and ready handkerchief, in a hat laden with what appeared to be a stuffed partridge—so new and fashionable as to be almost ungenteel—and there was Mrs. Wrotham, wearing her best cap, bought twenty years ago in Paris. But it was dignified Miss Lovatt, to whom tears were a weakness of the common classes, making a stern face and then plucking Lady Cove's handkerchief away to dab at her own eyes with a resentful grimace and her mouth all puckered up, who broke Leda's fragile composure. The scene went completely blurred. She clutched Lord Gryphon's arm, walking blindly ahead, with hot tears tumbling down beneath the veil.

They thought it was real. They had come all the way from London, must have taken the train, even though Mrs. Wrotham became so dreadfully ill with the motion of the cars. They were her friends; they were happy for her—and it was all a sham, even the white gown for purity.

Lord Gryphon released Leda's arm. Lady Kai took her bouquet, smiling with excitement. Then there was no choice�Leda had to turn and face him.

Through the veil and the blur, she saw only his shape, dark and gilt. She heard his voice, and it was steady, without emotion. Love, comfort, honor. How could he say it? She did not think she could make a sound.

And yet, when her turn came, the words emerged, plain and resolute. She did love him. She did. That was the one true moment in all of the ritual mockery.

In sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live.

He lifted her veil. She blinked, and saw him clearly. His eyes, dark-lashed, the gray of first light; his face so inhumanly flawless; his mouth that had tasted hers. She saw him perceive the tears. The faintest tightening came in his jaw as he bent his head and brushed his lips against her wet cheek.

Lady Tess moved about the room. She turned down the bed, twitched at pillows, tugged at the closed draperies, then smoothed the white gown that the maid had hung in the empty wardrobe. "This was my grandmother's room. You may redecorate it, if you like. I'm afraid it's sadly out of date."

"It's lovely, ma'am," Leda said.

"Call me Tess." She straightened an oval frame hanging by a ribbon from the picture rail, a photograph of a little boy fishing. Her restless motion made Leda even more nervous than she was already.

"Oh, I could not—"

"Please." She looked up. "Tess. It's short for Terese, which I must confide that I dislike immensely."

"Yes, ma'am—Tess."

An ivory box lay on the white-and-gold vanity. "This is from Samuel. He asked me to bring it to you."

Leda accepted the unadorned gift. She hesitated a moment, but Lady Tess—Tess, rather, though Leda doubted she could ever really bring herself to be so impertinent as to call Lady Tess that—watched her expectantly, so she sat down in an upholstered armchair and opened the lid. Inside, lying on pink satin, were a brush and mirror, dearly familiar, even down to the little speckled pattern in the vintage reflection that Leda had always thought looked like a tiny elf-face peeping out from the edge of the glass.

"Mr. Gerard found this?" She felt a lump rise in her throat.

"Leda"' Lady Tess sounded provoked. "I wish you will not cry again!"

"Yes, ma'am." Leda sniffed and bent her head. Then she looked up and gave a watery, squeaky half-laugh. "That's precisely what Miss Myrtle would have said to me." She touched the mirror, traced the pattern in the silver frame. "I never thought to see this again."

"Would you like me to brush out your hair?" Without waiting for permission, Lady Tess picked up the brush and began to pull combs and pins from Leda's hair.

It fell, curling heavily, onto her shoulders. Lady Tess worked silently, and none too gently, for a few moments. Leda tried not to wince.

"Well, I am going to meddle again." Lady Tess's voice had that faint exasperation that Leda was learning meant she was upset, or uncertain. "I didn't have a mother, either, when I married, but I had a friend. I'd like to be your friend, Leda. Will you mind very much if I sit down and tell you some things that I think you should know?"

"No, ma'am. Of course not."

" 'Tess,' please."

"Oh, ma'am—I just cannot. I'm sorry! It seems too pert of me."

Lady Tess sat down on the edge of the high bed, with her feet propped on the little step stool next to it, still holding Miss Myrtle's brush. "Well, Samuel has never brought himself to it, either, so I suppose it's all right. Though it makes me feel very old and stuffy. No one called me 'Lady' for the first twenty years of my life, and I think it's unkind and disagreeable of everybody to ma'am me to death now."

Leda instantly turned to her. "You aren't at all old, ma'am. Tess, I mean! I will try!"

"Thank you. I feel younger already." She tilted her head. "Now, I'm going to tell you what I learned from my friend, and you must not be shocked." She smiled. "Well, you may be shocked, if you wish—I suppose it's too much to hope I won't shock you—but after that you must promise to forget Miss Myrtle and propriety and all of that, and think about what I say."

Leda felt herself turning red. "Is it about…"

"Yes, that is what it's about. You and Samuel. It's all
right
, Leda—don't look away from me. You're a married woman now. You have it in your power to give your husband pleasure, or to make him miserable. It will be your choice, but I don't want you to make it out of ignorance."

"No, ma'am. Tess, I mean."

"My friend's name is Mahina Fraser. She is from Tahiti. And I can assure you, Leda, there's no one more conversant with the physical love between a man and a woman than a Tahitian."

"Oh," Leda said dubiously.

"Have you heard of Tahiti? It's an island. Mahina told me these things on a beach. We had hot sand between our toes, and our hair loose, just as yours is. Men are a little different, but I think a woman requires relaxation to make love properly. Our hair free, and no apprehension." Her pretty eyes narrowed teasingly. "There—I've shocked you already, and we haven't even begun. Are you afraid of Samuel, Leda?"

The question came so suddenly that Leda only blinked.

"Did he hurt you?" Tess asked gently.

Leda looked down at her lap, rubbing her thumb against the mirror's silver handle. "Yes."

"Believe me, please believe me—that is only temporary. It will not hurt after a little while; if it does, there's something wrong. Don't forget that. And do not—do
not
�allow Samuel to believe differently. Because I fear that he does. I'll tell you about Samuel presently, but on this point I'm right. I'm old and I'm stuffy and I know more than either of you about it. A girl's body takes a little time to become accustomed, and that's all the hurt or pain or bleeding that there ever is. Do you understand?"