|
Scene #30
Martha counted stripes in the canopy and sought for something to
say to the man stretched out beside her. What did such men like to
speak of? Disreputable things, no doubt. "Do you have a mistress
in London?" she finally asked. "I did have." His breaths
sounded regular again. "I closed with her before coming into
Sussex. She's free to find a new gentleman now." He spoke readily
enough, and if he felt any melancholy on the subject, he kept it
out of his voice. "Did you ask whether she would prefer to
wait for you?" Maybe the melancholy had been all on the mistress's
side. "Didn't have to ask." Amusement rippled quietly
through his words. "She's not a waiting kind of woman."
"What kind of woman is she?" "A thoroughly delightful kind."
Sidelong, she could see his smile, rich and remembering. "The very
devil's eyes, a laugh like rushing water, and a body made for
bedding." "What does that mean?" Body made for
bedding. Already she disapproved. "Generous, it means."
He laced his fingers before him and stretched his arms out, palms
to the ceiling. "Any place you might lay your hand, there's
something to grab hold of. By the handful, most places."
Handful. Indeed. She considered her own body, its shape
discernible through the sheet. Perhaps what she'd always taken for
spare elegance might be merely insipid to him. Stingy. Poor.
Parsimonious. "You're made from a different mold," he said,
seeming to read her thoughts even as he studied his outstretched
hands, "but equally delightful, for all of that." He let his arms
fall. One brushed against her. He took up so much of her bed.
His scent came to her, too, when he moved. At the forefront
was something not his own. Sandalwood. His shaving-soap, most
likely, since it had been strongest when his face was near to hers.
Behind that were scents more mysterious and male. Her bed would
smell of him when he had gone. So would she. "Do you miss her?"
she said. "Who, my mistress?" His eyes cut over her way.
"Yes, your mistress." Of whom else could he possibly suppose
her to be speaking? "Such questions! Do you miss your
husband?" "No." She took a breath. "I'm sorry for him, of
course, and I hope he has gone to the best possible reward. But I
don't feel his absence, any more than I would feel the absence of a
stranger." To say so felt fresh, and sudden. Like a drink of cold
water on a hot dry day. "Ah," he said. "I did wonder."
"We began as strangers—he was a good deal older than I—and in
ten months of marriage, never quite ceased to be." Confidences
came with surprising ease when one addressed oneself to the canopy.
"How much older?" "I was twenty when we married. He
was thirty-eight." "Good God." She could hear his disgust.
"Sold to the highest bidder, were you?" "I chose that
marriage." She turned finally to face him. "I didn't marry for
love." He turned too. Calm attention, fixed on her from
inches away. "What did you marry for, then?" His eyes all but
glittered, such an intricate blue. "Please don't say security.
The irony will break my heart." "My father was dying."
She'd make him sorry for his flippant tongue. "My mother had died
long before. Without I married, I should have had to live as my
brother's dependent." "Well, that's a brother's duty, isn't
it? I'd gladly take any of my sisters in." An eldest son. No
inkling of what it meant to face a parasitic existence. "I
preferred to be married." Her brother hadn't understood, either.
"Thirty-eight, though, and a stranger." Still he watched her.
Bits of gold scattered throughout the blue; that was the source of
the glittering effect. "A widower, too, you said. What did you
do; accept the first man who offered?" She looked away to the
canopy. "You did, didn't you? Poor foolish girl." He spoke
softly. She heard his hair brush on the pillow as he turned to
gaze skyward with her. "Save your pity. I'm not romantic.
I'm sure one husband is very like another." "Not very like.
You ought at least to have held out for someone younger." So sure
of himself, the man for whom thirty-eight was but a distant notion.
"How old are you?" She eyed him again. "Twenty-six."
His lips twitched. "And no, I won't marry you." "Indeed you
will not. If I ever cared to be a wife again, I should choose a
respectable man." "There's your first mistake." His arrogant
classical profile gave way to his arrogant full-on stare. "Didn't
your marriage teach you better?" "Have you become an expert
on my marriage now?" She'd remember, in future, not to tell him so
much. "I know enough." No man's eyes had business to be that
blue. "I know your husband didn't make you happy. Not the way a
husband should." Of course it would all boil down to that for
him. "Your ideas of happiness almost certainly differ from mine,"
she said. "And I find you very forward in your remarks."
"You're the one who began with questions about my mistress. You're
the one paying me to get you with a child. I shouldn't speak of
forward if I were you." "Do you miss her? You never
answered." Not that it mattered at all. "No." He gave a
tremendous cat-like stretch of all his limbs. "I've never yet
missed a lady from whom I parted. I have a habit of forgetting all
women save the one who is directly before me." "That is
unfortunate." "That depends on which woman you are." "I
should think it unfortunate for any woman who relied on your
constancy." "Yes. I avoid that kind, as a rule." He sat up
and reached for his trousers. "The same time tomorrow?" he said.
| 
