"The Slightest Provocation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rosenthal Pam)

Chapter Two

Peggy was clever with a needle; she’d quickly stitched up the torn hem after helping Mary scrub away the worst of the grime and dressing her in dry stockings, clean shoes, a fresh gown of pale green chambray, and a soft India shawl around her shoulders.

“But I can brush my own hair,” Mary told her now, “after I lie down for a little rest.”

The inn was as charming and comfortable as Lady Rowen had pronounced it, the landlord affecting the requisite astonishment to hear them drive up: sacre bleu, and after such a day of rain and wind. But it was all for the best; in good weather, his establishment was often full up to the garrets. He’d shrugged his shoulders admiringly (the gesture gone a bit stale with repeated use, but English tourists would expect a soupçon of Gallicism from him). You English with your très formidable coachmen, spitting through their teeth like fierce beasts. Eh, bien, no wonder they have such a mortal hand with the horses.

Still clucking over the charming barbarity of the occupying nation, he’d led them up the stairs to a simple chamber, walls freshly whitewashed and lace curtains swaying at the half-opened window. A young woman brought clean hot water and a bar of lavender-scented soap. Thomas did a splendid job of banking up the fire. Her books and portable writing desk were near to hand.

Stretching her neck and curving her back like a pampered housecat, Mary cast a greedy eye over a high, wide bedstead and thick feather bed. Just a little rest, she thought-a little stillness and serenity in which to anticipate a good meal-and it will be as though today’s spell of bad humor never happened.

“Yes, dear, I’m sure I’m all right,” she told Peggy now. “Run downstairs and have your supper. If you hurry, you can catch up with Thomas. Just make sure he’s told the kitchen to save some food for me.”

The girl didn’t need to be told twice. A brilliant smile, a lightning-quick curtsy, and she scampered down the back staircase, while Mary propped herself up against the pillows and cast her eyes over Jessica’s latest meandering, cross-written, and much-underlined letter.

A troublesome daughter, recently become a beauty: … So tall, like Mama, so graceful and willowy and with Mama’s “goddess excellently bright” quality that none of us three ever quite managed, though I daresay we’re all quite all right in our ways.

I thought of sending her to town, to give the two of us a respite from each other. I might have asked her aunt Lady Grandin to take her, but Philamela’s coming out right now, and Philamela isn’t the prettiest of girls; her mother wouldn’t have wanted such a lovely cousin within eyeshot-bad enough having to hide Phila’s sister, Fannie, when suitors come calling. Maybe we’ll bring her out next year, Betts and Fannie have always been good friends, they’d be charming together and this year we’ll content ourselves with a cozy, merry country time for midsummer.

Or so I try to tell her, when we manage to speak at all. When she’s not running over to Rowen, to make insipid conversation with the young marchioness, who encourages her to be a ninny, I fear.

A host of responsibilities, to her estate:

… When I’m not half distracted by accounts.

And to the neighborhood as well:

… And when I’m not worn out trying to help the people in the village, as Mama would have done and as they rightly expect of me-but hungry children make me weep, the present Marchioness Susanna Stansell does her charitable duties most ineptly, and damn and double damn, Mary, I still miss Arthur so terribly. Two years, I can’t believe it. It’s bloody, sodding awful how much I miss him, Mary…

Her eyes had smarted a bit at that, even while she smiled at Jessie’s awful language. The family joke was that the Penley women needed to withdraw after dinner in order to spare the delicate sensibilities of the gentlemen at table.

I am all right, she thought, and I’m doing the right thing too. The least she could do, to hurry home after lingering too long on the continent. Jessie and Julia had taken care of her when she’d needed it. It was time she did her part for Jessie.

Very kind of Lady Rowen to have remained her friend all these years; profoundly generous to lend her the coach. What good fortune to be making the trip so comfortably, with coachman, footman…

And now this marvelously comfortable bed. A very big one too, for just one person. Which tended to lead one’s thoughts in a certain direction. Besoin d’aimer-the need to love. She’d learned the phrase in France, though it was probably Peggy and Thomas who’d brought it to mind today. One of the strongest of needs, even if people wouldn’t think it of a lady.

Whereas no one would wonder if a gentleman traveling alone might be thinking of more than his supper right about now. He’d be wanting warmth, consolation, diversion. And if none of the maids suited, he’d inquire whether any of the local girls were pretty and in want of a bit of blunt, with a consideration thrown in for the landlord’s recommendation. No need for a gentleman to travel without all the requisite comforts, while Mary would have to depend upon a particular book she’d purchased in Paris.

As always, Peggy had buried Les Bijoux Indiscrets on the bottom of the pile on the nightstand. Perhaps she’d picked up a bit of French on their travels, and had guessed what Monsieur Diderot had meant by a woman’s “indiscreet jewels.”

Or perhaps Thomas had. In any case, it wasn’t a book to read at table-a habit Mary and her sisters all practiced when they ate alone, and to hell with anyone who might deem it vulgar. She picked up Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s Letters Written During a Short Residence in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark, and put her spectacles in her reticule.

Yawning and stretching, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. It was getting late, her hair still needed brushing, and-besoin d’aimer or not-she also wanted her supper.

The dining room was almost deserted. And Thomas, who usually watched over her while she ate, was nowhere to be seen. She glanced at her pocket watch; the inn’s other patrons would be in bed by now. Perhaps Thomas was on his way up the back stairs, to watch over her things. He must have decided that she’d be safe enough with hardly anyone to bother her down here.

The lights had burned down. With or without spectacles, it was much too dark for reading. But the glassware and linen in front of her were clean, and excellent smells still issued from the kitchen. There’s a last capon on the spit, the serving girl told her. We saved it for you, madame, as Monsieur Thomas requested. It’s fat and crispy, basted with brandy from Calvados, its juices drizzling into a pan of good local onions, turnips, and potatoes.

Will you have some, madame?

She nodded eagerly.

And will you be drinking cider or wine?

Cider, she was about to say, when her eye caught a glint of ruby across the room in the direction of the fireplace. Seated alone at a small table, face and body almost obscured by the shadow of low ceiling beams, a man was holding up a glass of wine, quite as if he were toasting her health.

Ah. Yes. Well.

She could barely make out his features. Surprising, then, the strength of her first impressions: a powerful material solidity, excellent tailoring and very good linen, a taste for mischief and a flair for the theatrical.

Her last night in France.

Ridiculous.

Dangerous.

And thank heaven she hadn’t taken out her spectacles.

He held himself muffled in darkness, wineglass between long, elegantly squared-off fingers, its stem angled so the dark red liquid would catch the firelight.

“Wine,” she told the girl standing at her elbow. “A small pitcher of red wine, s’il vous plait.”

It would only be polite to return his toast.

And impossible to shy away from his challenge.

She raised her glass, he nodded, and they sipped their quite passable Bordeaux with rectitude and calm conviviality.

Her eyes must have adjusted to the room’s dimness. She could make out a few more details, even in the flickering light of a few low candles.

His chair was tipped back against a plastered wall, but even so, she could see thick black hair curled charmingly over his forehead. The sharp edge of a high, white collar, under a well-tied, almost dandyish cravat.

Perhaps she should have let Peggy brush out her hair. It usually fell into a fetching enough mop of ringlets, but with today’s rain and that awful wind…

The food the serving girl was setting down in front of her looked wonderful. A large leg of the chicken and a slice of the breast as well, hot and glistening from the spit.

She took a bite-oh, Lord, she was sad to be leaving France. The sauce especially, made with apple brandy… she hadn’t realized quite how ravenous she was.

Was he smiling over the rim of his glass?

She’d probably wolf down the food without doing it justice.

On the contrary. She felt herself eating it most extremely slowly and deliberately, under the steady greenish gaze from next to the fireplace.

His eyes were still in shadow. She’d felt their color rather than actually seen it. Lichen on rock, under a brook’s swift-moving water. Winter barely turned to spring.

He must have finished his supper. But he didn’t appear in any hurry, refilling his glass now from the pitcher in front of him and evidently content to watch (certain things, it seemed, remaining quite unchanged. She’d been so interested in the ways he’d changed that she’d quite taken for granted the ways he hadn’t).

Well, then. For she still had a pretty mouth, with gracefully bowed lips, a single dimple in the right corner, and small, even white teeth. She looked well when she was eating, even something as dodgy as spaghetti. She remembered a midnight supper in Italy, with a highly amused Lord Byron and his glowering Venetian mistress.

Very quickly, she flicked her tongue over her lower lip to catch a stray bit of carrot. A sip of wine, to cut the food’s richness. A long swallow, dark perfume swirling at the back of her throat.

The sauce was splendid. She mopped up a bit more of it with a crust of fresh bread and ate it slowly.

Her belly was starting to feel full-the next few bites would be for the pure pleasure of it. Just one more mouthful now; she needed to save some room. One wouldn’t want to come through Normandy and not sample every inn’s own particular apple tart. Especially an inn that Lady Rowen had recommended.

Though this wasn’t exactly the moment to be thinking of Lady Rowen.

The serving girl had returned to see if she wanted any dessert.

Oui, s’il vous plait, mademoiselle.

With sauce Chantilly? Sweetened fresh vanilla whipped cream sauce?

Bien sur. And, um, beaucoup. Lots of it, s’il vous plait.

A bit embarrassing, to be so straightforward about one’s greediness. But not so embarrassing that she’d do without the extra sauce.

He’d put down his glass and made a quick, almost peremptory gesture-no abashed, tentative s’il vous plait for him. The girl hurried to bring him his own large slice of the tart, with its proper little dab of cream. Placing it on the table in front of him, she twisted her sharp gamine face into an expression compounded of admiration (for monsieur, at least) and impatience, it being all too clear that this wearisome pair of anglais were going to be taking their time over their tarte tatin, and that it would be far too long before she herself could quit work and get to bed-alone, hélas.

Yes, it is rather a pity, Mary thought. But that should teach you, mademoiselle, even to think such thoughts about my monsieur.

If so he could accurately be called.

The morsel of tart passed through her lips in a cloud of fluffy whipped cream and dispelled the little moment of pique. The food deserved her full attention. Or as much of her attention as she could spare from the sight of his mouth moving slowly above that dazzling high collar.

The food and wine’s taste, texture, and perfume melded perfectly, sliding past her tongue and down her throat. She paused to watch him bring his fork to his lips again; he’d moved closer to the table now, and she could see, rather than guess, that he was looking into her eyes.

She felt herself tempted to eat more and more slowly. To flirt with downcast eyelashes from behind a napkin pressed to her lips, as though from behind a painted fan in a box at the opera. And then, almost as an afterthought, to bring another bite to her mouth, sucking sweetness from the apples and raisins, sinking her teeth into buttery crust, licking up any unctuous morsel of cream that might have stuck to her lips.

At this rate, they’d be here all night.

Which would be unfair and rather cruel to the serving girl-even if she had been a bit impertinent.

She put a few sous on the table, took a candle to help guide her way back upstairs, and rose slowly from her seat.

He caught up with her at the bottom of the stairs.

“Mary…” She’d been trying to imagine what it would feel like to hear him speak her name. It was more difficult than she’d expected. As though in a dream, she turned to face him.

“… Wollstonecraft’s Letters Written During a Short Residence in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark.”

Book in outstretched hand, he looked cordial and entirely at his ease. “Splendidly composed by an eminently reasonable creature. And an excellent choice for a lady traveling alone.”

“Yes,” she heard herself say. “Yes, I admire the author excessively. I was named for her, you know.”

He bowed slightly. “Indeed,” he said. “And are you an equally reasonable creature?”

If she were, she wouldn’t be speaking to him.

But the best means of self-defense were to take the offensive, wasn’t that so? And just as well, because she had a question of her own.

“Is it a coincidence,” she asked, “that we’re both here tonight?”

“Alas, it isn’t. I planned it when I heard you’d be traveling through here. Not the least bit coincidental… what say we call it fate instead?”

She laughed, in part with relief-surely she could manage this sort of nervous chatter. “All right. Certainly. Let’s agree that we were fated to meet here. Because if it’s fated, we’re hardly responsible for the consequences.”

He nodded. “Exactly so.”

They were silent for a few instants now, considering each other from a shorter distance than across the dining room.

“You kept your hair short,” he said. “I should have thought you’d go back to those elaborate braids and coils you were so fond of.”

“They never really suited me; this is so much easier. And I’m a bit surprised at the dandy you’ve become.” He’d also put on about a stone of muscle; the clothing he wore tonight would have overwhelmed the raw-boned young man he’d been, all sinew and nervous energy.

“The French have very clear expectations of what an English gentleman should look like. Mustn’t disappoint ’em while we’re occupying their country.”

“No, I suppose not. I’m a bit disappointed, however. I should have liked to see you in your uniform.”

“Sorry, too late. Cashed out quite suddenly.”

She supposed she should ask about his plans. Or tell him of hers. She found that she didn’t wish to have that conversation at the present moment. Nor did she wish that anything existed outside of the present moment.

“Do you think this is wise?” she asked.

But he also knew how to parry a question with one of his own. “Were we ever wise?”

She reached to take the book from him.

“I’ll bring it,” he said. “And look.” He raised his other hand. “I’ve got another bottle of the Calvados, too, that you liked so much in the sauce. You manage the candle, Mary, and lead us up the stairs.”

It seemed a very long way to her bedchamber. Long enough to convince herself that a certain giddiness was entirely to be expected, with all that food and drink in her. She wondered what Thomas would think, when she arrived at the door of her room with him at her side.

Not that it mattered. “Go to bed, Thomas,” was all she’d need to say.

But Thomas was nowhere to be seen. Nor, when she threw open the door, was Peggy waiting to help her to bed.

Her companion nodded. “I told Thomas you wouldn’t be needing either of them tonight.”

“You spoke to Thomas?”

“When I called on my mother in Paris. The day after she promised you the loan of her coach. And then again just before you came down to supper.”

She opened her mouth indignantly.

“No, don’t blame her ladyship. She had no part in it; she was angry enough at me that I hadn’t gone to see you. As for tonight, well, I worked the whole thing out with Thomas. He’s a good, loyal fellow.”

An angry pounding started up from one of the neighboring bedchambers. They shouldn’t be disturbing their fellow lodgers by talking out here in the corridor. Kit turned a dour, puritanical-looking face in the direction of the noise and put a finger to his lips.

She thought of the tiny gesture he’d made downstairs and how it had brought the serving girl running. At Rowen, the servants were equally attentive, as though honored to feed and dress the neighborhood’s first family. Most natural thing in the world, she supposed, for him to describe it as loyalty.

But she wasn’t as loyal as that. Nor as complaisant.

He was speaking so softly that she found herself obliged to lean forward in order to hear him. “A pity,” he said, “to pull little Peggy out of bed at this late hour, wouldn’t you agree?”

As though it were all a rather bouncy bedroom farce.

For what if she’d demurred back there at the bottom of the stairs? Hadn’t he considered that she might have murmured a polite “No, thank you”?

Of course not. He’d taken it all as rather a lark-this business of men and women, of urgent desire, and of a stupid, passive, even servile eagerness to forget the wrongs of the past. As though it should be an easy, rather jokey matter for her to fall back into bed with him.

She shrugged.

It had been an exhausting, confusing day. It was her last night on the continent.

“Indeed,” she replied-a little too loudly; the pounding started up again. She found it difficult to control her voice; at this moment she was finding it difficult to control-or even to comprehend-a great many things.

She whispered, “Quite unnecessary to fetch Peggy, now that I’ve got you to undo my stays for me.”

Her mouth had taken an ironical curve, but her hand was firm around her husband’s as she drew him into the room and shut the door behind them.