The Winter Rose (26 page)

Chatter, chatter, chatter, Freddie thought. He broke away and sat
down on the ancient Chesterfield at the foot of his bed, brooding. The
smell of roses and newly mown grass wafted in through his open windows.
June was nearly over. Parliament would rise next month. The Liberal whip
had told him it was all but certain that when they returned in
September, Salis-bury would call an election. He needed to be married by
then. His funds were frighteningly low. Longmarsh's ancient roof
required repairs, and Bingham had told him there would be little to give
him until the winter. That wouldn't do. He needed money now. But he
couldn't get it, because he couldn't get his bloody flanc�to give him a
bloody wedding date.

India was sitting next to him now, fixing him with that deadly earnest stare of hers, still assuring him of her feelings.

"Tell me something, India," he said abruptly. "Are we ever going to
marry? I have waited patiently for you for a long time. Your studies are
over, yet still you refuse to decide upon a wedding date. There can be
only one reason for this," he said, doing his best to look like a broken
man. "If you don't want me anymore, if there's someone else, you must
tell me and I shall step aside."

"Freddie, what are you saying?" she asked, shocked. "Of course
there's no one else! How can you even think such a thing? I am
completely faith-ful to you."

"What else can I think? What would you think? Why else would you possibly continue to put me off?"

"Freddie, there is only you. You have my word. How can I prove it to you? Will marrying you convince you?"

"You know it would. You know that is my fondest wish."

"Very well, then. Will October do? I think it best to wait until after the election. You'll be so preoccupied until then."

Freddie blinked at her, nearly speechless. "October would be wonderful," he said.

"It would be the most practical choice," India said. "I could ask Dr.
Gifford for a week's holiday, but I fear that with being so new to the
job, that would be all I could ask for. Did you have your heart set on a
long honeymoon?"

"A trip of any length would be difficult right after the election."

"Perhaps we could go to the west country for a few days," she said. "To Cornwall."

"That would be so lovely. Just the two of us." He took her hand. "India, are you certain?"

"I am," she said, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

Freddie turned and caught the kiss on his mouth. His fingers stroked
her cheek, her neck. "You have made me so happy. You are my life. My
en-tire life. I would be lost without you."

"And I without you. I'm so sorry I've caused you such pain, Freddie. I
had no idea. I've been terribly selfish. Far too preoccupied with my
work. Do forgive me."

"Of course, my darling," he said, putting his arm around her. "And
you must forgive my dreadful fit of temper," he said. "I know you didn't
mean any harm. I'm overtired, I think. Long days at the House. I'm to
give my speech on Home Rule next week and I still haven't finished it.
It's jolly im-portant. Could make or break me."

"Poor dear. I'm so sorry I worried you. It's the last thing you need. You've so much on your plate. You work far too hard."

"I do it for my constituents. And my country."

His pompous words almost made him laugh out loud, but they had the
desired effect on India. She nestled closer to him and said, "You're a
good man, Freddie Lytton."

"You make me good." He lifted her face to his, then said, "Kiss me again, India. I ache for you."

India shyly kissed his lips. He held her close, going slowly, being
careful not to spook her. It might well end in tears this time just like
all the other times, but if he succeeded, it would hardly matter. She
had given him a date, finally, but he was taking no chances. He would
make sure she could not change her mind as she'd done before. He would
make love to her, and with a bit of luck he would make her pregnant.

He kissed her again, softly and gently. When he felt her soften in
his arms, he moved his hands to her riding jacket and quickly undid the
buttons. He pushed it off her shoulders and started on her blouse, all
the time murmuring endearments to her.

"Freddie, I don't think--"

"Shh, darling, I only want to look at you. You're lovely...so lovely...."

There was a corset underneath the blouse, boned and stiff, hard
enough to stop a bullet. He would leave it alone. Too much work. He
opened the top of her camisole and fondled her small breasts. They
barely filled his hands. He bent his head to them so she could not see
his disap-pointment.

"Freddie, don't..." she said, pulling away from him.

"Please don't tell me no again, India. Don't be cold to me. You're always so cold to me, and I want you so."

"But Freddie, this is how babies are made."

"I have something. I'll use it." He grimaced, making a show of
adjusting himself. "My God, the pain... you've no idea what it's like."

She bit her lip. "Freddie, are you ...are you a..."

"Of course I am. I saved myself for you."

"Do you know what to do?"

He smiled. "Silly girl, don't you? Didn't they cover this in medical school?"

"I guess I do ...in theory. However, this is actual, not
theoretical," India said, pulling her blouse together and looking around
the room anxiously.

"Darling, we're quite alone, I assure you," Freddie said. He stood
up, locked the door, then returned to her. "There's no one here but us.
Let me make love to you. Here. Now. I want us to belong to each other.
Don't you want that, too?"

India's eyes searched his. "Yes," she whispered. "Of course I do."

Freddie took her hand, stood her up, and undressed her. He got her
riding habit off, her awful corset, stockings, and boots, and even her
bloomers, but when he tried to get her chemise off, she protested.

"Wait," she said. "I'm sorry... too modest, I guess." She climbed
into his bed, got underneath the covers, and took it off herself. Then
she closed her eyes and leaned back against the pillows.

Good God, Freddie thought. This is going to be work. He grabbed his
glass of gin and offered her a swallow. She took one, grimacing as the
alcohol went down. Then he peeled off his own clothes and got into bed
beside her.

He took her in his arms, murmuring endearments, telling her how much
he loved her. He pulled the comb from her hair; kissed her face, her
neck, her breasts; slipped his hand between her legs. He heard her
breath catch as he pushed one finger inside her, then another. She was
as dry as salt. He'd never known such a cold woman. There wasn't a spark
of passion in her entire body, not an ounce of desire. He wondered how
on earth he was ever going to perform. Then he thought of Gemma Dean,
with her magnif-icent bosom and her round bottom, and he was hard in
seconds. Relieved, he tried to slip inside India, but couldn't.

"Darling, this is impossible. You've got to open your legs," he whispered.

She opened them a little. Freddie pushed himself against her again.
Her knees came up, her heels dug into the bed. He looked at her face.
She was staring up at the ceiling, biting her lip. Patience, old boy, he
told himself, pa-tience. Men have worked much harder than this for
twenty thousand a year.

"Shh, my darling. It's all right," he said. "Everything's all right."

He kissed her lips again. He tugged at her breasts and told her that
he loved her. Then he pushed himself against her again, impatient to
have done with it. He felt her arch against him, heard her gasp. Not
with plea-sure, he was sure of that, but with pain.

He knew he had to finish this. Quickly.

"I want you, India," he said. "So much..."

And then he wrenched her knees apart and shoved himself inside her.
Something inside her gave way and she cried out. "Shh, my love, it hurts
for only a second," he whispered. "That's what the chaps all say." He
thrust into her again and again, covering her mouth with his own,
stopping her cries. He gave one final thrust, shuddered, and then lay
still, panting, his head on her chest. After a minute or so he sat up.
India sat up, too. Her limbs were stiff and shaky. Her face was pale.

He took her hand and frowned with feigned concern. "Did I hurt you awfully?"

"A bit."

"My beautiful girl. Please don't be upset with me. I'm an oaf. Truly.
I was mad with desire. I never meant to hurt you. Please say you're not
angry with me." He took her face in his hands and kissed her. "Please?"

"Of course I'm not," India said quietly, trying to smile.

"The first time is hard. It gets better." He took her in his arms again. "You've made me so happy, darling," he said.

"I'm glad, Freddie."

He smiled at her, then slowly let his smile fade. "Oh, no. Oh, blast," he said, panic in his voice.

"What is it?"

"I forgot."

"Forgot what?"

"The rubber johnnie."

"Freddie, you didn't!"

"Don't worry. I'm sure it's all right. I'm sure nothing happened.
And... and if it did, well, we'll be married soon, won't we? We'll just
tell everyone the baby came a bit early."

He was gratified to see her already pale face turn white. He was
about to say more when his mantel clock sounded. It was six. "Blast, is
it that late? We're going to have to get bathed and ready for dinner."

"Yes, I suppose we are," she said. She pulled her chemise over her head, got out of bed, and put her clothes on.

"I love you, India. So much. You know that, don't you? I can't wait to be married. To have a home, a family, a life with you."

She twisted her hair up, secured it with her comb, then turned to him and smiled. "I can't wait for those things, either."

"I'll hardly be able to live without you until dinner. Wear something lovely. Pick out something just for me."

India said she would, then unlocked his door. As soon as she closed
it behind her, Freddie collapsed back into his bed, heaving a long,
ragged sigh. He raised his glass to his lips and drank deeply. He'd done
it. Secured a wedding date and bedded that cold bitch at last. And with
any amount of luck, she was up the duff. How he'd relished the look on
her face when he'd told her he hadn't used anything. India fancied
herself an emancipated woman, but even she wasn't insane enough to bear a
child out of wedlock. The stigma, for both her and the child, would be
crushing. Gifford would sack her immediately, and the British Medical
Association would strip her of her license.

Freddie got up, shrugged into a dressing gown, and turned his gaze to
the open windows. Longmarsh's lands loomed in the distance, wild and
un-tended. There wasn't money enough for gardeners. His drunken father
had seen to that. Freddie remembered how it had been before the
accident-- creditors at the door. Things being sold. Small things at
first, rings and pill-boxes. Then larger things such as paintings and
furniture. Daphne in worn dresses, their collars and cuffs turned and
mended. Bingham called home from Eton because their mother couldn't pay
the school fees.

His gaze drifted to the music box again. He opened it, listening to
the sad, halting strains of Chopin, then opened the drawer and lifted
the drag-onfly comb out again. It was beautiful, the exact match to the
one he'd pulled from India's hair only moments ago. It had lived in the
secret drawer of his music box for a long time. Years, in fact. Ever
since the day he'd slipped it into his pocket as he handed its mate to
Hugh Mullins.

Take it, Hugh. No one will ever know....

Freddie saw Hugh again. Pale, frightened. Standing in the stables. He
hadn't slept in days. Bea, his sister, was in serious trouble. She was
preg-nant. It was a boy from the village, and he'd done a runner as soon
as she'd told him. She needed help. Needed money to pay a woman in the
village who could take care of it. Otherwise it would mean disaster for
her family. She'd lose her position; so would Hugh, and their father.
They'd be forced to leave their home, a cottage that belonged to Lord
Burnleigh.

Freddie had found all this out only days after he'd seen India and
Hugh together and learned of their plans to elope. Maud had told him.
She said India knew, and was trying to figure out how to get the money
from her par-ents without explaining what it was for. He hadn't thought
much more about it--he was too mired in his own misery over losing
India--until a distraught Isabelle asked him to help her find a pair of
missing hair combs.

"They've disappeared, Freddie," she said. "I can't think where I left
them. My husband will be furious with me if I've lost them. He had them
made especially for me."

"When did you last see them?" Freddie had asked, glad of a distraction from his own sorrows.

"I wore them to Cardiff yesterday, when I went to do some shopping. I
remember taking them out before I arrived home--they were hurting me--
and putting them into my reticule. I haven't seen them since."

Freddie had asked to see the reticule and discovered that it had
split along a seam. Isabelle had been very upset when she'd seen it,
convinced that the combs were gone forever, but he told her to remain
calm. Perhaps they'd fallen out as she walked from the stables to the
house and were lying in the grass. He himself would go look for them. He
looked everywhere-- in the grass, on the path, in the drive, and in the
stables themselves. Finally he thought to look in Isabelle's carriage.

There, he spotted them. One was on the seat, the other on the
carriage floor. As they glinted up at him, he had an idea. He would take
one. He would say he'd found only a single comb and then he would sell
the other. Quietly. To some London pawnbroker. He was desperate for
money. As al-ways. He'd put the first in his pocket and was just
reaching for the second when he heard a voice behind him.