Chapter 15 #2
When they eventually called truce they settled for a less demanding activity—a few hands of casino. Then Beth played the piano for him, though she knew her performance to be competent rather than gifted.
It was superficially the most commonplace of evenings, but Beth’s nerves were stretched like the strings of the instrument she played.
Eventually, unable to bear the situation any longer, she announced her intention of going to bed. He rose. She looked at him in alarm. He merely opened the door for her, kissed her fingers, and bid her good night.
She desperately wanted to ask what his intentions were but dared not.
Redcliff prepared her for bed and left. Beth lay awake listening for movement next door, for the turning of the knob.
She didn’t know whether she would greet her husband’s appearance with alarm or relief, but as the clock ticked the minutes away she began to think it would be relief.
She couldn’t bear much more of this tension… .
The Marchioness of Arden drifted into sleep; she woke the next morning still an unsullied virgin. She told herself firmly it was exactly what she wanted and a sure way to foil the duke’s plans.
They stayed ten days at Hartwell and the first day was the pattern for the rest. Every morning they rode, and Lucien proved to be a surprisingly patient and understanding teacher.
Beth made progress but paid for it with aches and bruises.
He taught her piquet and won a small fortune from her.
She beat him at draughts every time. They sat in pleasurable silence reading books from the small but excellent library; later they indulged in fiery discussion of their reading, welcoming the sharing of ideas and insights but also seeking to gain points in the ongoing competition of their lives.
As they strolled in the garden or walked briskly across the fields, they discussed the international situation and the danger of Napoleon defeating the allies gathered against him and recommencing his attempt to rule the world.
Lucien was sure he would be defeated and clearly longed to be with his friends who were preparing for that fight.
One day he even quoted the words Shakespeare put in the mouth of Henry V.
“‘And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us—’”
He broke off. “The where and when are yet to be decided. I doubt it will hold off until Saint Crispin’s day, however.”
If it would have served any purpose Beth would have laid down on the grass and told him to take her and be off to fight.
But there was no guarantee that one act would achieve the end, nor that their first child would be the necessary son.
Nor, she supposed, that it would live. The burden of privilege demanded that he stay as safe as possible and breed on her until the line was safe.
As Nicholas Delaney had said, it was all barbarous.
Apart from that outburst he avoided high emotion and most personal or controversial topics, though they did, tentatively, share some of their views on the liberty of the individual and theories of government.
Beth was surprised to find him liberal for his class, though she was still tempted at times to blast him for arrogant shortsightedness.
He touched her only in the way a gentleman would touch any lady—to hand her over an obstacle, lift her down from her horse, or offer an arm when walking. Sometimes, though, Beth would catch him watching her, and the expression in his eyes would send shivers through her.
On June 15th, their last day at Hartwell, a lazy, sunny afternoon, they sat reading on the grassy bank of the stream.
Lucien was in comfortable country clothes.
His pantaloons were loose fitting, his jacket casual, and he had left off his cravat in favor of a knotted neckerchief.
A straw hat shaded his eyes. Beth herself was in the lightest and simplest of her muslins with a wide villager hat to protect her from the sun.
Birdsong surrounded them and the busy clamor of the insects. Occasional soft splashes announced the presence of feeding fish.
“Perhaps you should do some angling here, Lucien,” Beth said lazily. “You could catch our supper.”
He looked up from his book with a grin. “Not unless you want to feast on gudgeon and chub, a nibble per fish. There’s little in this stream worth catching.”
“Could you not stock it?”
“I believe my father tried. It’s not a good stream for sport fish. For one thing it almost dries up in a drought.”
They were interrupted by the demanding quacks of a family of ducks which paddled busily around the bend, mother in front and ducklings in an orderly line behind, all except one which straggled, lagging absentmindedly then putting on a mad dash to catch up.
Beth chuckled as she reached for the bag of oats she had brought to feed them.
“I do believe, our little sluggard is of a poetical disposition,” she said to Lucien as he came forward to join her at the edge of the stream.
“He is clearly so taken by the beauties of the scenery that he forgets to paddle.”
“We’ll have to name him Wordsworth then,” said Lucien, watching his wife as she scattered the food widely on the water.
Despite her bonnets, the sun had brought out a few freckles on her nose which he found charming.
Here in the country, living quietly, she had begun to relax and show him her spirit, her wit, and her humor.
He was rapidly becoming entranced. If he’d considered the matter he would have said days spent in country walks and evenings with just one person, reading and discussing ideas, would soon pall.
Now, however, he was reluctant to return to London and the social round.
There was something magical about Beth. On first acquaintance she seemed ordinary, and yet many things—the tilt of her head when she was curious, the twitch of her mouth when she was amused, the way her eyes lit up when she laughed—all transformed her into a spellbinder.
It was a fragile magic, however easily banished when she was unhappy.
He was desperately afraid of destroying it forever.
Watching her now as she talked nonsense to little “Wordsworth” and scolded his mother for snatching food from her infant’s beak, he longed to take her in his arms here on the sunny, grassy bank, and teach her the wonders of love.
Beth looked up and caught him studying her. Her eyes questioned him.
“I was just standing guard,” he said lightly, “in case your enthusiasm pitched you into the water.”
Beth hastily looked back at the ducks. It had happened before, this awareness. A perfectly ordinary moment would be broken by turbulent thoughts, disturbing sensations. Did he feel any of it, or was it just her own anxious mind?
He crouched down beside her so his breath warmed her cheek as he said, “Perhaps I should teach you to swim. There’s a place near Belcraven which is deep enough and safe.”
Beth felt her heart speed. She couldn’t imagine going into water with him, perhaps being held by him there, their clothes pressed damply to their bodies.
Or would he bathe naked as men were said to do?
Her mouth dried and she knew her face was red.
She kept her head down and concentrated on the ducks.
“I don’t think I would care for that, Lucien”.
“Tut-tut,” he murmured and brushed a curl back from her heated cheek. “Doesn’t Shakespeare say, ‘True nobility is exempt from fear.’? A marchioness should be afraid of nothing.”
Beth rose quickly to her feet and faced him, dusting the last few oats from her hands. “He also says, I recollect, ‘Sweet mercy is nobility’s true badge?’ I pray you, Lord Arden,” she said with mock appeal, “of your mercy spare me the water.”
He laughed as he rose gracefully to his feet. He touched her nose gently with one finger. “Will you always have a quotation to cap each of mine? You’ve spent too much time buried in books, my lady.”
“Apparently an excellent training for marriage, my lord.”
“Only to me, I suspect.” He collapsed down again on the grass near their books. “Come and sit by me, Beth.”
Before, they had been sitting feet apart, but it was not unusual for them to sit closer. Now, however, she sensed some significance in his request. She was very aware that today was their last day here.
Heart racing, but hoping she was outwardly composed, Beth did as he asked. As soon as she was settled on the rug on the grass, he tossed his hat aside and slid over to lay his head in her lap. “Read to me,” he said and closed his eyes.
The weight of him across her thighs was like a brand.
Beth’s mouth was so dry she doubted she could articulate at all.
But she was able to study him, laid out there before her in all his strength and beauty like an offering on an altar.
Her fingers itched to work through the golden curls that fell over his smooth forehead, to trace down his straight nose to the elegant curve of his firm lips.
His blue eyes opened and spoke a challenge. “No?”
“Of course,” she said hastily, not sure why it was so important to deny the effect he was having on her, the effect he surely knew he was having on her.
She picked up the new volume by Mr. Coleridge with unsteady fingers and began to read,
“‘In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure dome decree….’”
Though a strange work, it seemed innocent enough, or had seemed innocent enough on first reading.
Now, with her husband’s body stretched by her, his handsome head nestled against her abdomen, the poem took on new meaning.
Her voice trembled slightly as she read, “‘As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing….’”
It was the last lines which struck her most, however:
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honeydew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.