"There's no penalty—"
"Yeah, there is. And it's huge this time, Lid." He
cocked his head, looking at her again out from under the brim of his hat, the
way his mouth pulled, his grin, rather reminiscent of the moor.
She shook her head. "No, no, I
gave
them to you. You can't complain now—"
"Oh, I can: It took more than a week, and, though here I
stand, it was such a hardship getting up here to claim them. To get up here
past your mother, father, and brother, who all, by the way, have told me to
pack my bags and get on out of Dodge, I had to climb out my window, down a
trellis to the library, then sneak up the hall." He glanced around her
dressing room as if there might be someone else he'd have to sidestep.
What his eyes found, however, was the valve by the door to the gas
jets. He reached and with a turn closed it, cutting the gas to the lights.
After a few seconds, along the walls the fixtures
whiffed
. They went out in a little concatenation of popping air,
puff, puff puff puff
… all the way down
one wall, behind Lydia – the room growing dimmer – across and up the other.
She only knew Sam had stepped forward into the dressing room by a
sense of movement somehow: in utter darkness. Her dressing room had no windows.
There was a grill high over the door for circulation. If she stared, she could
see twenty feet overhead a scrollwork of gray, muted moonlight coming from her
bedroom. More a delicate reminder of light's absence than anything else. In
front of her somewhere, Sam laughed his low, dirty laughter, the one that
didn't always mean something was funny, but she couldn't see him. And she
looked, turning in the dark.
She could only follow the path of his sound – his rough sigh as he
brushed his hand across the back of her skirts, her buttocks, then moved away,
then the knock of a hanger as he came round her shoulder. Blind.
"S-Sam?" Lydia called.
He said nothing, though she had a sense of his circling her.
She stammered, "I – I'm afraid of the dark."
"I know." His deep voice, a whisper, was right beside
her.
She jumped when he took her face, but let him turn it, raise it
toward him. She could smell his breath, the tang of after-dinner cognac,
faintly stale, deeply stirring. She realized, there in the dark, she was
frightened, fascinated: excited. Oh, Sam. His mouth brushed her bottom lip,
stopping to catch it in his teeth, pulling a second, then letting go to brush
his mouth, warm and soft, against hers again. When he laughed again in the
dark, that evil laugh of his that could sound so truly wicked, she could feel
his warm breath on her neck.
"Liddy," he murmured near her ear. Oh. His sweet name
for her. How good to hear it; thank God he said it. Because it eased something
just enough that she didn't scream, when he kissed her shoulder, just the touch
of his mouth in the crook, then his low voice murmured, "Get down onto
your knees and forearms."
The hair on her arms stood on end. On the moor, they had given
each other directions. They were regular magpies when they made love. Do this.
Try that. I want you here, like so.
Her knees and forearms? In a dark little cupboard of a room? It
felt different. "W-what?" she asked. Except she knew she'd heard
correctly. "No." She laughed, a jittery laugh. Nerves.
She knew him to be right beside her, but she kept misjudging
exactly where he was. She reached toward where she thought she'd find his arm,
and nothing. Then she'd startle and run into his chest at her back.
When his hands took hold again, she leaped, half-glad to their
solidness, half-alarmed by the way they turned her, then his arm came around
her, pulling her into the front of him, as he put the flat of his warm palm on
her abdomen and pressed, sliding his hand down.
She let out another giddy laugh. What ambivalence. She found all
this thrilling, blast it. She wanted it somehow; she wanted him. Yet it all
felt so doomed; as lovers, partners, they were both too hardheaded.
"Come on," he encouraged. "Down on your hands and
knees." As he smoothed his palm down to her pubis, rubbing the heel of his
hand against her. He ran it up her belly to her ribs, over a breast, cupping
it, then over her collarbone to her neck. She didn't stop him. She dare not,
she told herself, as if he wouldn't allow it. He turned her face toward him, to
face him over her own shoulder, and kissed her, open-mouthed. A lascivious
kiss, deep, wet, full-mouthed. Oh, heaven…
He kissed her as he pinned her arms down and behind her, so she
could neither fight nor embrace him. It was oddly frightening, thrilling, in
tenor with that crazy dream several weeks ago. He turned her by her arms,
kissing his way around till his mouth was at her neck, his breath going hotly
down the vertebra of her spine. She closed her eyes, floating down into dark delirium.
He used his braced weight to push them both down onto the floor.
He pushed her down into exactly the position he'd said, though now she was half
in love with sensation. He put something – a bunched dress or petticoat – at
her face and neck. "Hold on to this."
Delicately, he undid hooks. She had no idea how he could do it in
the dark, but he released her clothes, as efficient as Rose. He didn't take
them off though. Once they were loose, he simply put his hands inside, feeling
under her to her breasts, freeing her completely, then downward – where she was
bare because she'd given him her underwear.
Bare. He moved her skirts up. What a mess of her he made. He drew
back. She was aware he was undoing his trousers – and shamefully happy to
recognize the movement. He pushed her legs wider, touched her between them, and
she leaped and called out.
"H-h-oh."
She caught her
breath as his fingers entered her.
He bent and kissed her then, at the base of her spine, off-center,
first on one side, then the other. He muttered fond words,
"beautiful" … "soft" … "the sweetest." His hands
worked her buttocks, smoothing over them, kneading. Then he took hold of her at
the bend of her thigh and thrust himself inside her.
"H-aa!"
It was a feverish coupling. Pleasure pitched. It was odd; it was
strong. She knew, too, that he intended to stay inside her to the end, and she
anticipated it with a kind of relief. Oh, good, I won't lose you, not then, not
at that perfect moment.
When it arrived, it wasn't as she expected. He grew excited in a
way that made him groan and clench his jaw, his teeth snapping together. His
body seemed to touch something, a place inside her, and a new sensation … more
than before somehow … inside pleasure, spasms… She felt her body grip him as
surely as if her fingers had reached out and squeezed. He called out softly,
trying to muffle his noise. Sharp, sweet contractions of pleasure began at the
core of her, then carried deeper, joined him, the two of them jerking and
panting into fulfillment that lasted and lasted and lasted, then echoed in a
way that left them still and waiting.
What a position to discover oneself in. Her bum in the air. There
was no dignity in sexuality, she decided. Nor did she wish there to be.
Lydia collapsed on her side into the pile of satiny fabric. Sam's
body, his arms, came around hers, his knees tucking up into the backs of hers.
She could feel him at her bare backside, his open trousers, his naked member,
still thick, but spent, his vulnerable genitals tucked under her bum, so warm
and sweetly fitting up against her. She must have dozed. For when she came
aware again it was with his jostling her shoulder.
The dressing room door was open. There was light, a lamp, coming
from the bedroom. He murmured, "Liddy, I have to sneak out of here before
I get us into more trouble. Before I leave, though, I'll go face your father.
I'm going to offer for you. He'll tell me no, but tomorrow you tell him why. Or
do you want me to?"
"God, no—" What did she want? From the floor of her
dressing room, she looked up at Sam's silhouette sitting beside her.
He said, "You shouldn't have to worry about any of this. I'll
take care of it." He'd save her.
She grabbed his arm – not because she was glad he would. But
because it occurred to her: He wouldn't do it to her liking. She didn't want
him to rush around fixing anything. "Let me tell them," she said.
"I'll tell them everything. Where will you be staying?"
"The inn at Crawthorne, I guess."
She nodded. Yes. She wished he'd say he loved her. She wished they
were on better terms. They had managed their usual cooperation – the physical
sort. No two people knew how to make love better than they did. Yet she felt
more worried than anything else.
On the moor, she'd learned what her life could be like if she
herself directed it as best she could. Independence. Now she felt the threat of
being overrun again. She feared the idea of Sam, the rich ambassador, in league
with her parents, the viscount and viscountess. Plans. They would all have
plans for her. While she wasn't sure what she wanted. She felt shoved along by
them, by fate, and her lack of understanding of herself, her own indecision –
if she couldn't make a choice of her own, she would be forced to swallow theirs.
The dream. She remembered the crazy dream she'd had when Sam had
first arrived. The dream of the madman making medicine for her. No medicine,
she thought. And a little whiff of the strength and freedom she'd felt out on
the Dartmoor was with her again, just a little breath of it.
No medicine, she thought again. Why should I need it? I don't want
it. I'm not ill.
I'm just me.
23
It's
a bad idea to give advice. If you have to, though, just remember, no bending
things to suit your own ends, 'cause, see, people never use advice the way you
aim it. If it isn't plumb as an oak, in their hands it can curve and hit
anything anywhere, including you.
A Texan in
Massachusetts
H
er father's estate agent had an office in a manor house near the
property's front gate, the first building of the estate after passing under the
gatehouse. That was where they all met the next afternoon: Her father and his
solicitor sat at the long table, her father's main estate agent and amanuensis,
plus two bookkeepers. Her mother stood by the window, her back to the room,
quietly livid,
Lydia
thought. It
had helped Lydia that the viscountess had insisted on being present, because
the bride also insisted. "The strong women of my house," her father
had grumbled. And Sam. He pulled out a chair and sat at the table as soon as
Lydia had settled into a stuffed chair near the window off to the side. Sam
didn't wear his hat, but rather a pressed and tailored English suit of clothes,
vest, high collar, a necktie, dressed respectfully for the occasion of the
groom's shearing.
Then, no, one of the "bookkeepers" turned out to be his
solicitor. Likewise, the amanuensis was not her father's but rather worked for
His Excellency the U.S. ambassador extraordinaire and plenipotentiary to
Britain. It made Lydia frown every time she realized this was Sam.
And thus they began: her parents, with their representative army,
meant to convey how difficult it would be if Sam didn't cooperate; Sam and his
representatives, their presence and attitude saying that, if the English
intended to drive the American into unfavorable terms by using their position
and power here, at the very least he would not go lying down. A marriage
contract – forced due to pregnancy – was not the cheerful negotiation it might
otherwise have been.
Her father began, "We are all here to assure that Lydia is
well taken care of in this marriage settlement. I hope we are agreed. It is her
welfare that comes first."
Ah, yes, her welfare. The family drum – let us take care of the
weak and defenseless girl. Here's your tonic. Don't go out in the cold. You
can't go off to school, because – why? – we love you and you don't need it.
With Sam added now, there to save her, who, according to the cowboys she was
reading now furiously, really needed a white hat.
Control. She had so little. She should simply accept that. Yet
Lydia bristled. She crossed her legs one way, then the conversation at the
table – dry lawyer conversation – stopped when she kicked up a leg to cross
them the other way, the chum of her skirts being loud enough to draw attention.
The weak girl, she kept thinking. What was annoying was that she
was weak. Politically. Economically. Her parents were right to worry. A husband
could do great harm if the woman and her property weren't protected from an
unscrupulous man. The implication, of course, was horrid as her parents went
over everything, point by point. They didn't know Sam, their concerns said.
They couldn't trust him: He wasn't of their own.
And she was weak, gestationally speaking. Even her powerful
parents found her being six weeks pregnant a huge negotiating disadvantage.
Though – for the benefit of the solicitors and other strangers involved – no
one was mentioning her state. So English. So much unspoken. Like code.
Yes, yes
, she thought,
carry on. I don't want to raise a child
alone. I don't want to be an outcast. Yes, I'll marry him. In fact, I love him.
I'm in an awkward position (rather like last night,
she thought,
amused by the irony).
So she listened at first, as her father, mother, and Sam discussed
the marriage arrangements. Money, property, who received what, what she had
coming, what they would give. Business. Sam accounted for his money. Billions.
She thought she'd heard wrong and asked for the number of zeros. Nine. Which,
at first, made everyone else in the room look at each other. In Britain, a
billion had twelve. Only a small cultural misunderstanding, however. In America
a billion did have nine zeros, and Sam was nigh onto the tenth. And, given his
assets and their growth, why, in time it might well become a British billion.
Meanwhile, he had property in Texas, Massachusetts, Illinois, and Virginia.
Rich as Rockefeller, in fact, for which – oh, Sam of the insane modesty – even
apologized.
"I know I told you, Lid, I wasn't as rich as John D. I was
surprised myself when these wires came in this morning. It's that doggone oil
on my land and the partnership I got into a year or two ago." He shook
head.
So did her parents. They're information had been old. As Sam liked
to say, things sure could change quickly in that growing, thriving country on
the other side of the Atlantic.
When her father couldn't complain, when in fact he'd been left
speechless for the third or fourth time after being handed telegraph wires,
bank statements, evidence of stock certificates, bonds, partnerships,
corporations, the viscount grew gruff and slightly impossible. "And you
have to live here," he asserted.
Sam frowned. "I can't. I mean, I can live here a lot – we can
– but I can't be chained here. I like what I do with the State
Department."
Her father brought his bottom lip up, tight against his upper.
"And her property? What do you intend to do with her property? You can't
carry England with you as you travel the world. She comes with a house in
London, an estate near York. How will you manage those?"
"I – ah – I don't know. I haven't even seen them. I'll get to
them as I can."
The viscount wasn't happy.
"You certainly have a modest life-style for so much
money," her mother said over her shoulder from where she stood by the
window.
"Do I?" Sam smiled, then dared a glance in Lydia's
direction. "I think she's going to be expensive. I'm glad I have it."
Insane. Indeed, Lydia thought, Sam had a crazy streak in him. A
streak she understood by extrapolation: She certainly knew lately what it was
like to be angry with herself, but he was hard on himself most of the time; he
couldn't stop. His style was different. He didn't fret or cry. Sam became
angry; and, when in emotional pain, he sometimes distracted himself by running
someone over the rails.
While a voice inside him was always running Sam over them. She
could have sympathy for him, but – she had to own up – she couldn't do anything
about it.
Control
, she thought
again.
Oh, how very little I have.
Her parents segued into wedding arrangements.
"I'll marry her anywhere," Sam said.
"If you show up," her mother threw from across the room.
Oh, she was seething – forced into a monied match, so lucrative in the
filthiest sense: Goodness, some of his
riche
was so
nouveau
he hadn't even counted
it yet.
"I'll do what's right," he told her parents, his face
sober at the criticism of his past.
What's right
. The words
again struck Lydia. "Right," she said from her chair. "We must
all do what's right. Why, if this got out, it would be an international
incident: U.S. ambassador gets House of Lord's daughter pregnant."
They all looked at her, her parents and Sam chagrined to hear
their worst fears put into words. While the solicitors' eyes widened as they
leaned forward – juicy things were going on here, things that could feed a
battalion of lawyers. For years.
"Well, don't worry about me," she said. "
I
won't tell anyone." To Sam,
"And you needn't feel you have to marry me." What was she saying?
Everyone blinked.
Do right
. She
didn't want him to marry her because it was "right" – she didn't want
him to have to swallow anything unpalatable either. She wanted him to live with
her, stay with her, because he loved her.
"Why not?" he asked.
"You're unhappy about it. Businesswise, it's turning into a
rousting."
"Well, I have to admit, it would make me happier if you'd own
up—" He stopped, rephrased, "You're not humble here, Liddy—"
"That's what you want? Humility?" Then she caught what
he'd censored and asked, "Own up to what?"
His brow drew down, Sam's quintessential dark look. "It would
be, ah – it would be nice to hear you admit you – you're in love with me."
She wasn't going to at first. She balked – he'd admitted nothing,
an emotional mute. She caught herself, though. She said quietly, meaning it,
"I'm in love with you." There. It was out.
His mouth opened. He looked down, up, then across the room at the
bookshelf, all the while his smile growing. It was lovely to see it. He looked
at her parents. "She's in love with me," he repeated, as if just to
hear the words again.
Quiet reigned in the room for five or six ticks of the mantel
clock. Then her father asked curtly, "Well?"
"Well what?" Sam asked.
"Do you love her?"
Sam blinked. "I'm marrying her."
Her father, wiser than Lydia had ever given him credit for, grew
unceremonious on her behalf. "Listen, you, you—" He clamped his lower
lip over his upper till it was white, bit down a minute, then continued.
"Who cares that you intend to marry her. Do you love her?"
Sam blinked as if Jeremy Bedford-Browne were mad to ask the
question. "Well, yes," he said like an obvious fact.
Lydia leaned to sit, her elbows on her knees, at the front of her
chair.
Sam stammered, "I – I've wanted her, I think, from, from the
moment I first sobered up across from her." He laughed nervously. It
seemed a declaration was forthcoming. Then it wasn't. He looked down at the
papers and said, "I can't promise that amount on the Yorkshire property
until I see it. It's too much. I could buy and sell half the places in England
for that."
Her father immediately took exception – you couldn't buy what
Lydia's property was. Heritage, tradition, England… And they were all at it
again, her father adding, "One of the reasons we don't like an outsider's
marrying our daughter is you will take her away from us." An outsider.
Don't take her away. It was the burden and pleasure of being well loved. Then
he came back to, "And you aren't marrying her if we can't work out the
terms, and part of the terms are that you love her."
Testy, Sam snapped, "Which is actually none of your
business."
Her father stood, his chair scraping back. "Whether you will
care for my daughter is most certainly my business. If you aren't smart enough
to love her, you can't have her. Not even in her present condition, which
you" – he leaned across the table – "couldn't have been thinking too
clearly about when you put her into it."
Sam's eyes narrowed. Then he said in as rapid-fire drawl as she
had ever heard from him, "Well, for God's sake, of course I love her. I
love her. I'm delirious. I'm wild for her. Why else would I marry her?"
"She's pregnant."
"Fine. I love that she's pregnant. I love her. I'm in love.
I'm very in love. I'm head over heels. Is that enough?"
From her chair, Lydia blew out a long, flummoxed sigh and stood
up. Enough.
She herself had butted heads with everyone here, trying to
maintain her independence, just as Sam was doing. Yet the heart of such
struggle was wrong. They were both calling contrariness independence, when
these weren't the same thing. She didn't have to fight for control of her life.
She only needed to take it, have it, live it.
"Excuse me," she said. "These negotiations and this
marriage are off. I don't want them." She took a deep breath, "Sam,
you find it easy enough to humiliate me in front of people, then you dicker
over terms, while you can't even say you love me in a civilized fashion.
"I want someone who can proclaim he loves me to the world,
without shame, despite the fact that I'm far from perfect. I need your loving
gestures to be as large as your mean ones.
"Which I am beginning to believe is a lot like coupling
between a man and woman: to have the most fun, one can't cling to a lot of
ceremony." To her astounded parents, she said, "I trust Sam. That's
not the issue. I just don't think we'll make good mates. I know this is going
to be hard for you to accept, but I think I'm going to have the baby on my own.
It will probably be hard on all of us, but I don't want to marry Sam this way.
That would be worse."
She walked around the chair's arm and proceeded toward the door;
she had things to do.
"What way? I thought this was your way," Sam asked
behind her.
"Lydia?" her father called.
"Lydia!" her mother demanded.
"What?" Sam asked. "What!" He sounded
desperate. Good. Maybe a little desperation would help him stop being so
protective. Commit, Sam. Commit to me. Trust me. And for God's sake do what I'm
going to do: Trust yourself.
As she got to the door, almost in unison – it was laughable – her
parents said, "Where are you going, Lydia Jane?"
With the knob in her hand, she turned and told all of them,
"To the Grand National. I've missed a lot practice. I'd best get back to
it."