“I won’t ask such a sacrifice of you. No, you go ahead to Bath. Ellie and I will rusticate here a while. Perhaps we’ll join you later for a few weeks.”
She was about to persist, but upon noticing a certain rigidity settling in along the line of Clay’s jaw, she refrained. “I shall do what I can to scotch the rumors in any case.”
“How many times tonight have I thanked you, Mama?”
“More times than the rest of your life put together. You are become a pattern-card of civility.”
“And
you
are behaving very much like a mother. You weren’t used to, you know.”
“Ah well, I grow old. I can feel the rust creeping into my hinges; that’s what my mother used to say—seems like a million years ago. But she lived twenty years after that. I may be back to my normal unmaternal self by tomorrow and renege.” Glancing at his tired face, she changed tack. “Go on up to bed, Clay. You look dog tired.”
“Yes, I will. Where is Ellie sleeping?”
“In the master bedroom. I had it prepared for the two of you. You see how you have misjudged me? I moved out, just as I ought.”
“I am embarrassed to say thank you again. What shall I say instead?”
“Say good night, before you fall on your face. All this cordiality is tiring me out. I’ll go up with you.”
They proceeded together up the staircase, each half dragging himself, and half dragging the other. “Quite a pair of relics,” the Dowager said. “It’ll be good to get into my snug little cottage.”
“Bath will rejuvenate you.”
“Let’s see if marriage rejuvenates you.”
At the top of the stairs the Dowager turned left to what was now her suite. A sad come-down from the master bedroom. Still, it suited her age and encroaching infirmity. Smaller, and less draughty. It could be the north wind howling through the windows in her old room that gave her those painful twinges in the knees and shoulders.
Clay turned to the right and went to the door of the master bedroom. His mama had not turned it over to him upon his father’s demise, as she should have done. He would have felt an intruder had the room been vacant. Knowing that his wife was within, he felt the veriest interloper. He supposed she was asleep, and wanted only to take a peek; to reassure himself that she was really there, under the same roof as himself, after all these weary days of pelting about England looking for her.
She was there, and she was asleep, her dark curls spread out on the pillow, the shadow of her lashes elongated on her cheek. She looked about six years old. He stepped in and closed the door behind him, but as deep darkness followed this step, he reopened it to light the single taper by her bed before closing the door again. Perhaps the sound of the door awoke her, or perhaps her troubled spirits allowed her only a fitful doze. In any case, she opened her eyes and blinked twice at him, before springing up to a sitting position.
“Clay! Is it really you?” she said, her voice sleepy.
“I didn’t mean to awaken you,” he apologized, yet he was not sorry to have this glimpse of her with her eyes open. He came closer to have a better look. “I think it’s me, but I am so tired I hardly know.”
“You look haggard,” she agreed. “You had better sit down.
Here!”
she added, patting the bed, as she noticed he looked around the room for a chair. “And tell me what has fagged you so.”
“Well, Ellie,” he began uncertainly, “it is chasing from here to kingdom come looking for
you
that has fagged me so. What did you think?” He perched, rather tentatively, on the outermost edge of the bed as he spoke.
“I didn’t think it would take you so long to find me, for I told Meecham where I was going.”
Their hands slid along the coverlet toward each other, stopping just as they were within ames ace of meeting. “Yes, Meecham told me.”
“Well, then, why didn’t you come?” Something between doubt and a pout puckered her lips and tilted her chin up.
In spite of his fatigue Claymore felt the old urge to pounce assert itself. “You said you would not come here, if you recall. ... . .”
“You know I didn’t
mean
it,” she challenged, and her lips began to tremble, till she pulled them together between her teeth.
“You had already peeled off on me once that day.”
“What did you expect when you went ranting on about that horrid Gloria Golden in your sleep, and—
everything.”
“What?” He let his hand inch forward and grabbed her fingers. They felt warm and soft. “What else did I do to give you so poor an opinion of me?”
“Nothing. You didn’t do
anything,
Clay. That’s just it.”
“It’s not that I didn’t
want
to!” he defended himself, squashing her little fingers till they ached, and peering at her through the dim light of the only candle to determine whether they were discussing the same thing.
“It is certainly not that
I
didn’t want you to. I am not so strange as that.”
“You looked as if you didn’t want me to. You looked so very young, frightened.” She still looked young, but not, he thought, so very frightened. He brought out the diamond ring. “This is what delayed me so long the morning you left.” He took it out of its plush box and slid it over her finger. It was still too big, so that the diamond slipped around to the underside of her hand, and she had to clench her fingers to keep it upright. She smiled, but did not go into raptures as though she had been craving it. He was rather glad.
“There, now we are
really
engaged,” he said with quiet satisfaction. “And it’s bigger than Wanda’s, too.”
“We are really married, Clay,” she reminded him.
He scrutinized her pale face closely, and smiled softly to himself, before he raised her diamond-studded hand to his lips and kissed it. “Yes, you are
my wife,
and to hell with Homberly,” he replied enigmatically.
“Oh, what has Rex to do with anything?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” He put an arm around her shoulders, gently, and pulled her toward him. When he met with no resistance, but quite the contrary, felt her lean against him, he forgot he was half dead with fatigue, and said masterfully, “Now, Ellie, there will be no more of this dashing away from me, understand? I was wild with worry.”
“Were you, Clay?” she asked happily. “I am so very sorry, and
you
must not talk about Gloria in your sleep.”
“It was a
nightmare,”
he explained, just that very moment visited with the marvelous inspiration. “I had a horrible nightmare that I was married to Gloria. I often get nightmares of that sort—witches chasing me, and houses burning down, and being married to someone I detest. That sort of thing.”
“What a whisker,” she jeered, and fell into a fit of giggles, more from nervousness than mirth.
“It’s good to see you smile again, Ellie,” he said, peering down at her happy face. She instantly turned serious, but the trick was already done. They were face
to face, only inches apart, and in a second he was kissing her lips, fighting back the impulse to pounce.
“The shy one,” he whispered into her ear, as she put both her arms around his neck and proceeded to tighten her grip.
“Oh, I think
you
are the shy one,” she chided, as he nuzzled her ears, her neck, even her shoulder.
“Ellie,” he said dangerously, and went on to attack her in a manner that gave her a much better impression of him, for it was clear the deceitful girl hadn’t a shy bone in her whole body.
Copyright © 1977 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Crest (0449230929)
Electronically published in 2009 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.