Earls Trip

9 - Lady Pirate

9

Lady Pirate

She did not come to dinner. Yet another day passed with no sign of Clementine. It was maddening. Archie did not share Effie’s fancy that Quintrell Castle was haunted, but Clem might as well be a ghost for how much she was around. After an early morning walk during which he saw no evidence of her, and a late, leisurely breakfast at which he saw no evidence of either Morgan sister, Archie, Simon, and Effie rode past Doveborough and on to the next settlement, which was a market town of some size. Simon disappeared into a bookshop, and Archie and Effie walked an enormous hedge maze and got well and truly lost in it, so much so that Archie had to boost Effie up so he could attain a prospect of the thing and identify a route for their escape.

He couldn’t help but think how much Clem would have enjoyed it—the maze, but the long ride, too, lover of horses that she was.

Once again, though, he saw her at night. Which, come to think of it, rather bolstered the theory that she was a ghost. Had Clementine died without his noticing and now she was haunting him? He wouldn’t put it past her.

But no, there she was, the real, corporeal Clem, once again perched on the slanted roof beneath her gabled window. Every time he popped his head out of the window in the neighboring bedchamber and spied her there, he’d been torn between the urge to exhort her to go inside before she fell to her death and the opposite urge to join her.

The opposite impulse always won.

He consoled himself that even though she had not climbed a tree for years, that kind of nimbleness didn’t desert a person. It remained baked into one’s being, the same way the boxing moves he had practiced his whole life could be summoned by his muscles without his mind needing to be involved at all. Those had come in handy with Mr. Bull.

“Where have you been?” he asked as he squeezed himself through the window.

“What do you mean where have I been? Where would I be?”

“I haven’t seen you for days.”

“That’s not true. I saw you here last night, and the night before that.”

“That doesn’t count. I haven’t seen you in company.”

“Correct me, but I believe not seeing me was your express wish. You’re the one who keeps joining me out here.”

“Yes, but—” But what? Nothing he could say would make any sense. Clementine was doing exactly what he’d asked her to. “I brought you a telescope,” he said, suddenly remembering the putative reason for his appearance this evening. He handed over the small instrument. “There’s a widow’s walk on the guardhouse. Effie wanted to go ghost-hunting, and we found it mounted there. It was in terrible shape, but I’ve cleaned it up. Perhaps it will aid in your stargazing efforts with Olive, though for the record, I still think you should insist she climb a tree.”

It was too dark to properly see Clem’s expression—her lantern this evening was casting only the faintest of glows—but somehow, he could feel it. It was equal parts surprise, excitement, and . . . something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

When he passed her the telescope, their hands brushed, and he started. It was odd: he knew Clementine as well as he knew anyone, yet he could probably count on one hand the number of times they had touched. Their childhood ramblings had been conducted side by side, but Clem had never needed anyone to boost her up a tree or help her jump off a wall. There had been the odd time, in their teens, perhaps, when they’d been in company and their parents had expected a show of manners, and he’d taken her gloved hand and bowed over it, both of them struggling not to laugh at the absurdity of such formality between them. And of course there had been the dramatic ride away from the inn last week, but that had been different, somehow. That had been his body going through the necessary motions to make sure they reached safety.

And all those times there had been clothing between them. Gloves.

He thought it possible that this was the first time he and Clementine had ever touched skin-to-skin.

No, he didn’t think it possible. He was certain. He would have remembered this feeling. It was remarkably like the thrill of the hunt. Of that moment when, after riding hard and long in the cold, crisp air, one suddenly caught a glimpse of the fox. There it is. A thunderbolt of recognition, a jolt of elation.

He had been momentarily afraid he would fall off the roof.

“Are you quite all right, Arch?”

He gathered himself and changed the subject. “You and Olive seem closer than you used to be.” Though what did he know? He hadn’t seen them for years.

“I think we are. We grew apart after Mother died, but we’ve recently . . . grown back together.”

“Why did you grow apart?”

“I’m not sure. It’s something I’ve been pondering lately. We’re quite different in terms of our constitutions and interests, of course, and there is an age gap, but honestly, I don’t know. I suppose it’s like with us: life pulls you one way, and sometimes it pulls friends and family another.”

“Perhaps your mother was the glue that held you together.”

“I think you may be right.”

“What happened to change things? To make you grow back together?”

“Why, Mr. Bull, I suppose,” she said wonderingly.

“Yet from the outside, it would seem that Mr. Bull should have driven the two of you even further apart. She did run off with him, did she not?”

“She did, but I had already broken off my engagement to him—and I did think that would be the end of it, but of course it turned out it was not.”

He could not help but feel there was more beneath the surface of what she was saying, of what both sisters had said. That there was a piece missing.

“Why?” he asked, softly, carefully, trying not to betray how interested he was in her answer.

“Because I wrote him a letter crying off, and he sent me one in return saying he understood and wished me well. He did not protest or try to talk me out of it. So I naturally concluded that would be the end of it.”

“No, I mean why did you break it off?” She didn’t answer right away, and he began to think she wouldn’t. “You said earlier that you’d had ‘certain realizations.’ Tell me what they were.” He winced. That had come out sounding too commanding. He did realize this was none of his concern.

“My realizations are none of your concern.”

He smirked into the night. “Tell me anyway.”

Another long silence unspooled. She wasn’t going to talk. Which was her prerogative. He lay back on the roof. She did, too. That she was going to stay out here with him caused a kind of warmth to spread through him despite the chilly night. They would watch the stars together for a bit.

Just as he had come to relish the silence, she whispered into it. “Arch, I have anticipated my marriage vows.”

He didn’t know what to say. He swallowed his first impulse, which was to tell her that it didn’t matter. Well, no, his first impulse was shock. But that wouldn’t do anyone any good. He swallowed his second impulse. It wasn’t up to him to decide what mattered to her. He considered reassuring her that no one would have to know, but perhaps the fact that she knew was enough to distress her, and, again, he could hardly tell her how to feel.

He hardly knew how he felt.

She sat up suddenly, as if she were making to leave, and he realized that by not speaking, he was likely giving the impression that his silence was of the disapproving variety. “Well, I have anticipated my marriage vows, too,” he finally said, trying to infuse the remark with some levity.

“It’s not the same for you. For you, that phrase is mere shorthand.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Your saying you’ve anticipated your marriage vows means you’ve engaged in certain behaviors. You never intended to marry anyone with whom you were . . . doing your anticipating.” He could feel the afterthought rise in her mind. “Did you?” she exclaimed.

He chuckled. “No indeed.”

“See? It’s different for you.”

“It’s different for me because I am a man? An aristocrat? Wealthy?”

He had been asking which, meaning she should choose one of the three options, but she issued a universal “Yes.”

He wanted to add a fourth option, which was that it was different for him because nobody cared. Sir Albert might be oppressing Clementine with his insistence that she marry, but wouldn’t it be nice to exist on some middle ground between that and no one caring whatsoever about how one comported oneself?

But they weren’t talking about him. His shock was coalescing into something sharper. “Perhaps I should have killed Mr. Bull when I had the chance.”

* * *

One of the reasons it was so easy to talk to Archie, Clementine realized, as she considered how to respond to his murderous observation, was that he never rushed to fill silences, or pushed her to do so. He let her think. He seemed open to the possibility that sometimes she might not answer. He communicated, somehow, without actually saying anything, that things between them would go on unperturbed if she chose not to answer.

Which, paradoxically, made her want to answer. His willingness to be ignored made her want to tell him everything. His comfort with there being silence between them made her want to fillit.

Add to that the fact that they were perched on the roof together in the near dark, and Clementine was inclined to let all her secrets spill. It would be such a relief.

She extinguished the lantern. She didn’t want to see him while she spoke, or for him to see her. “Arch, I anticipated my wedding vows willingly.” That had been difficult to say. But he needed to know that if she was to explain everything. “That’s the beginning of the answer to your question about my so-called realizations, the prerequisite knowledge you need to understand the rest.”

“All right,” he said mildly, and Clementine reflected that Archie was perhaps the only person in her world who would react with mildness to such a confession. This was why she had known, somehow, that he was safe to tell.

Though she had to amend that thought: Olive had reacted with similar sanguinity.

“I don’t regret it,” she added, telling the truth but also perhaps trying to provoke him a little. She wanted to test the boundaries of his tolerance, to find out how safe she was here. He was her dear old friend, but that didn’t necessarily mean his equanimity was limitless.

There was a beat before he said the same thing: “All right.”

She smiled into the dark and laid back down next to him, returning her gaze to the sky. It was easier to talk lying side by side like this. “I don’t regret it, because if I hadn’t done it, I would not have discovered Theo’s true nature.”

“And what was his true nature?”

“Theodore Bull turned out to be a conniving, and, well, violent man.” She paused, trying to think how, and how much, to tell, to see how closely she could match up the edges of the truth with how much Archie could stand to hear. But no. Had she not just decided that Archie was safe? And now that she was tasting the beginning of the relief that came with telling someone the whole, unvarnished truth—more than she had told Olive—she found she did not want to stop short. “You heard the beginning of the story, earlier, about his charm, about how I’d hoped to be of use to his work, his cause.”

“Mmm.”

“I had truly reconciled myself to the idea of marriage to him. Well, no, ‘reconciled’ is not the right word. I was looking forward to it. Well, not precisely that, either.” She huffed a sigh. She was having trouble finding the right words. “You know when there’s something you have to do, so you set your mind to it, and once you’ve done that, you just want to get the thing over with? And perhaps there is even a kind of relief in the doing?”

He gave another murmur of agreement.

“Theo wanted to have the banns called immediately. I agreed, and Father was, of course, thrilled. The first of the three Sundays, we all went to church together. Well, I suppose I should say that Theo went to church with us, as he had not previously been a pious man.”

“I don’t imagine he was.”

“Yes, curious how he found religion just when he was hunting for a bride, isn’t it?”

Archie’s next “Mmm,” was decidedly less placid.

“I found myself at home alone with him after church. My father had lightened up on chaperonage requirements even before Theo came around.” She chuckled. “I sometimes thought he wanted something scandalous to happen. Very likely he was of the opinion that was the only way to get me married off.”

“Or perhaps it was that he trusted you.”

“Oh, Arch. You are too good.” He really did see the best in people. No wonder his friends were so loyal to him. “I adore you for saying so, but you think too highly of everyone. Father is like Olive: he knows how to scheme. As to Mr. Bull, I found myself at home alone with him, the banns having been called that morning, so I allowed things to . . . progress.”

“Did you, ah . . . know what that entailed?”

She paused. Archie was her friend, and she trusted him absolutely, but this was still discomfiting. “I did.”

“You’ll forgive me for asking, but I am under the impression that young ladies, perhaps especially motherless ones, are not always schooled in such matters.”

“I have been an observer of nature for quite some time.” He chuckled, though she had not been trying to amuse. “But I take your point. Olive, for example, speaks as if she’s worldly, but in some ways, I think she’s actually quite innocent about the . . . details.”

“I gathered as much from her lack of reaction to the topiary garden and from your later report that she thought Sir Lionel’s creations of the . . . fungal variety.”

It was Clementine’s turn to chuckle. “Olive was not the observer of nature I was.”

“Indeed.”

She considered what to say next. She had recounted the necessary plot. Olive would say there was no need to expound upon motivation. But the more they talked—the more Archie let Clementine talk without rushing to judgment—the more comfortable she felt. “In all honesty, I was interested in trying it. It is the act that underlies the world, is it not? It is the basis for all creation, for all the beauty in the world, for life itself.”

“That’s a very high-minded way of looking at it,” Archie said wryly.

“So I have learned.”

Archie let loose a sharp exhale. “Clem, I am endeavoring to remain calm, to remember that this is your story and not mine. But honest to God, if he hurt you, I will go to America myself, find him, and—”

“No. No. The, ah, act itself was . . . well, it was underwhelming if I’m being honest. He seemed to enjoy himself immensely, but . . .” He made an indistinct, strangled sort of noise, and she rushed to finish her story before she gave him an apoplexy. “So that was fine. Well, not fine, but, as I said, merely underwhelming.” A bit of pain followed by what felt like a purely mechanical act. “It was afterward that . . . gave me pause. He had barely, ah, rolled away when he declared that we would be going to Scotland after the wedding, and henceforth on to the Continent—permanently. I objected. We had not talked about that at all, and unlike my sister I have no wish to tour the great cities of the world.”

“Olive wishes to tour the great cities of the world?”

Drat. She should not have said that. Olive had confided in Clementine about her heart’s fondest wishes, and Clementine shouldn’t be sharing those wishes with anyone else, even Archie. Hoping to deflect, she returned to her story. “Mr. Bull also informed me that we would not be having children, which was also not something we had discussed. He had, ah, removed himself before spilling his seed, saying he did not wish to get me with child.” In the moment, she’d thought it an act of consideration on his part—his not wanting to get her with child before the wedding in order to preserve her reputation. “When I asked him about it after we’d dressed, it turned out he had ideas about the surplus population I did not share. This led to the discussion about children, which escalated into an argument. When I expressed my opinion, he grew enraged.” She paused and unclenched her fists. Her fists remembered what had happened next. “It was as if he shook off a disguise he’d been wearing, and I saw his true face. He told me all I had, including my person, was his, and that we would be going where he wanted us to go and procreating or not as he chose. He grew wild with anger when I would not stand down. He struck me.”

She sensed Archie tensing beside her. “All right, now—”

“Don’t worry. I struck him back.”

“Good girl.”

Just as she had sensed Archie’s going rigid a moment ago, she somehow knew he had relaxed, at least enough that he was done interrupting her. “I didn’t do much damage, but I shocked him enough that I was able to run out of the room. I locked myself in the library and waited. He must have seen himself out, because when my father and sister arrived home an hour later, there was no trace of him.”

“So that’s when you called off the engagement.”

“Yes. Or tried to. I wrote him a letter, he wrote back accepting my decision, and I thought that was the end of it, but . . .” Part of her wanted to turn over and look at Archie, but she was afraid. Not of him, precisely, but of the prospect that what she had told him might change things between them, just when she had gotten her old friend back. “You know the rest. Father wanted me to go through with it. He wrote to Mr. Bull assuring him that I’d merely had an attack of nerves and would come around.”

“Sir Albert wanted you to go through with it even with the bit about not having children? Did you tell him about that?”

“I did, and even then, he was not persuaded to my view of the matter.” She felt a stab of pain. “I understand that there are many happy marriages that do not produce children. And I realize it’s odd for me to say I want children, when I’ve also been saying for so long, and am saying again now, that I do not want to marry. It’s just that if I had to marry, especially if I were reconciling myself to a loveless union, I would want children. They would be a sort of . . . compensation. That sounds cold, doesn’t it? Trying to make the best of a less than satisfactory situation by bringing innocent children into it?”

“No. I understand. I think it is possible for children, for families, to be that to each other—to be compensation, and ballast, against the trials of the world.” He cleared his throat. “That is my impression, anyway.”

That is my impression, anyway. That sentence struck Clementine as sad, for it indicated Archie had no firsthand experience of such.

“Did you tell your father that Mr. Bull struck you?” Archie asked.

“I did! I must admit, it hurt me so very much when even that would not dislodge Father from his position that the betrothal must be salvaged.”

“Of course it did.”

“He said he would have a word with Mr. Bull about it. Of course I did not tell Father about the rest, about us having been intimate. I considered it, despite how mortifying it would have been, but concluded it would only harden his resolve that I must marry Mr. Bull.”

“I think that was a wise omission on your part. Besides, it isn’t his concern.”

What a friend Archie was. Was there another man in the world who would take her part so thoroughly?

Once again, she was seized with the desire to turn onto her side, to face him, but she did not. She did keep speaking the truth. The dark and the stars and the Archie-ness kept allowing it. “I don’t regret any of it.” She wanted him to know that.

Heturned onto his side then, as if he had heard and was granting her silent wish. But, no, more likely he was turning over because he was going to object. She had finally gone too far in his estimation, and he was not going to allow her defiance to stand.

She could not abide that. She was more than a woman Theodore Bull had hurt. So she turned, too, so they were facing each other on the cold slate roof. It was too dark to make out his features, but she could see the shape of him, and she could sense his nearness. “If I hadn’t gotten the true measure of him, I never would have broken it off. And if I hadn’t done that, I would be married.” She shuddered. “Is it not better I discovered his true nature before I married him, even if it means I’m ruined?”

“You’re not ruined, Clem,” he said quietly.

“Of course I am.”

“You’re not,” he insisted.

“Well, I suppose no one knows I’m ruined. It’s like that philosophical question about if a tree falls in the forest and there’s no one around to hear it, does it make a sound?”

“No. I mean you’re not ruined. The idea that the act of sexual congress imparts ruination only on unmarried women who partake in it is illogical. What if you had married Mr. Bull? Then you’re not ruined? And what about him? Why isn’t he ruined?”

Oh, Archie. “That is an exceedingly enlightened viewpoint. I have to say I agree, though I never expected to find anyone else who did. I have watched the coming together of all manner of animals. Birds and weasels and even deer. I’m not missish about it. I cannot truly believe the laws of nature should be so different for humans.”

“They aren’t.” His agreement was gratifying. She tried to make out his features in the dark. “’Tis merely that men have imposed their own laws, their own morality, their own sentiment, on the act.”

“That is precisely my point. I’ve seen how it is with grasshoppers. There is no morality or sentiment involved. It is quick and efficient, and it gets the job done. Why should it be any different with people?”

“Oh, but it is. You misunderstand me. It is very different.”

That gave her pause. So far, they’d been perfectly aligned in their views on the matter. “How can it be different, if one considers the natural purpose of it? It is an act that must occur to further the existence of mankind.”

“Yes, it is a necessary precondition for propagating mankind, but think of how often humans take pains to prevent such propagation.”

“Do they?” She hadn’t realized. But it made sense. Why did some families have only one child and others a gaggle of them? She’d always assumed it was chance, but it seemed reasonable that strategy could be involved, too.

“They do indeed.”

“The pulling out.” Theo had been very theatrical about that bit, groaning as if he were being tortured by the devil himself. She could almost have looked back on it with amusement if what followed hadn’t been so wrenching. “That is the method for such prevention.”

“It is one among several.”

“Hmm.” It was hard to imagine what else would achieve that goal.

“My point is that among humans, the act can be about so much more than the propagation of the species.”

“What? What can it be about?”

“Pleasure, Clem.”

Ah. She understood now. “Yes. For the gentleman.”

“For the lady, too.”

She snorted. “That sounds like a lie gentlemen tell themselves.”

“I see,” he said blithely, as if she were a child too obstinate to continue reasoning with.

That tone rankled, especially from him. “And I suppose you have a great deal to say on the matter,” she snapped back, trying to incite a quarrel—so perhaps she was being childish. It was just that she’d had a taste of Archie’s radical understanding, and she could not bear to revert to him thinking her silly, or simple, or both.

He did not rise to the bait, though, only said, a little wistfully, “Only that someday I hope you are proved wrong.”

* * *

Archie did not know how to extricate himself from this—from this conversation, from the roof, from any of it. The last two nights, he could’ve sat on the cold slate for hours, talking with Clem until the sun came up. Tonight, abruptly, he was talked out. He had the sense that saying any more, staying any more, would be akin to trying to drink from a stream rushing so violently that one couldn’t actually manage to swallow any water. He’d had to take in too much information, much of it distressing, and was inwardly reeling. He had been trying to see things from Clem’s point of view, to stretch the bounds of his beliefs and swallow his initial, outraged responses in favor of speaking gently. Calmly. So as to be worthy of these secrets she was bestowing upon him, these unearned confidences.

But in truth he was seething with umbrage toward Mr. Bull. That went without saying. But also toward . . . the world. Well, no, the human world. Clem’s grasshoppers had done no wrong. Her amoral birds and weasels were blameless. It was the world of men that had mucked everything up, and he wasn’t even—or only—thinking about the blackmail or the direct assault upon Clem’s person at the hands of Mr. Bull. It was patently unfair that the best Clementine Morgan, an intelligent, vibrant, lovely woman, could hope for was a disappointing-but-not-violent match, and that such a match was likely to be devoid of carnal pleasures.

Archie had never given any thought to the concept of ruination, but he believed everything he’d said to Clem on the matter. He was aware that this outlook was out of step with that of society at large, but why should what happened ruin her and not Theodore Bull?

The more he considered it, the more it sent him into a silent rage.

But not at her, he reminded himself as she sat up. He watched her relight her lantern and lift the telescope.

“You look like a lady pirate,” he observed, attempting to shift the conversation for his sake as much as for hers.

She laughed, and it soothed something inside him. “Do I?”

“Yes, with your long, loose hair”—it was truly glorious—“and your spyglass raised, you look as though you might be trying to evade a band of privateers.”

“Why am I not a privateer in this scenario?” she queried.

“You’re too wild to be a privateer. You’re clearly a pirate.”

He could sense her amusement, though she did not display it overtly. This was a good note on which to take his leave. A moment of lightness. He sat up. “Will you and Olive join us for dinner tomorrow?” His pride should have prevented him from asking yet again, but somehow it did not.

“I don’t think so.”

Oh, for Heaven’s sake. “Why not?” He was aware that he was being a pest, but once again, awareness was not enough to induce him to stop.

“I’m enjoying dining informally with Olive. And honestly, I’m enjoying the respite from eating meat, and from watching others do so.”

“What if we agree to forgo meat for an evening?” Yes, he did hear what he was saying. No, he did not understand why he was saying it.

“There is no reason for you to do so!”

“But—” But what? He just . . . wanted her. Up here on the roof but also inside. As much as the two of them had always felt caged in when they were forced into drawing rooms and such, Archie’s own drawing room was different. And he wanted her in it.

What he really wanted, he realized with a start, was for Effie and Simon to know Clementine, and for her to know them. More than just in passing. He wanted to know what she thought about the boys’ whimsical theory of family, for example.

“We are halfway done with the holiday,” he said, as if this had anything to do with anything. But the days were ticking away in his head like the beating of a drum. Seven days. Seven days. And since they’d all had their initial meeting, Archie still had not seen Clementine anywhere except this roof.

“How about Olive and I join you after dinner tomorrow?” she asked. “I can sit and work on my embroidery like a proper lady.”

He snorted. He would rather have the lady pirate than the proper lady. But that would do. “All right, then. Until tomorrow evening.”

It occurred to him that seeing Clementine in the daylight, with other people around, as much as he had lobbied for exactly that, was going to be very strange indeed. Up here on the roof, he and Clem had not only resumed their former friendship, they had exceeded it. Not that they had ever bothered with social niceties, but they also had never spoken this intimately. In three nights, they had discussed his mother and Clementine’s experiences with Mr. Bull. Concerns and fears and dashed hopes. The coming together of men and women. He supposed the newfound intimacy that had resulted from their time together was because these were adult concerns. The last time they had spoken meaningfully, they had been children.

“Until tomorrow evening,” she echoed, and just as he was about to disappear back into “his” bedchamber she called his name.

“Yes?” He squinted back into the dark to find her staring at him. She held the lantern next to her head, and it threw odd shadows onto her face, making him wonder for an instant if she wasn’t some kind of supernatural creature.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“’Tis merely a telescope,” he said lightly. “And probably not a very good one at that.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it.”

He did. What he did not know was how to tell her that no thanks were needed. Not because he was a saint who was above wanting gratitude, but because sitting next to her, talking with her, being the person to whom she told her secrets, was his pleasure. His honor. Not being able to vocalize any of that, he simply said, “You’re welcome, Clem. You’re so welcome.”