Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
Yes.
She said it again as he moved over her. Madelaine lay under him, naked and new. He’d never seen a woman before. This skin, this body, those eyes…
His wife.
“Yes.” She touched his cheek. He lay over her, his knee spreading her wide as he held himself there for a moment.
“You’ll marry me?”
“Yes.”
“You love me?”
“I do.”
He sealed that promise with a kiss. He thought stupid things; he’d have his sealing wax made in the colour of her lips; he’d paint his room in the colour of her eyes so he’d always wake to it…
Not that he’d need to because he’d always wake to her beside him in bed.
She’d be at his side forever. Breakfasts and dinners and drives and balls… a luxury of Madelaine.
And this…Madelaine under him, looking up at him, lips parted. He watched her face as he pushed inside her. She welcomed him so well, making a sound half-gasp, half-groan as he filled her. This was where he belonged. This woman was his home, his heart…
Then poetry turned to base pleasure. But it was all part of it too.
No point pretending this angel was a saint.
No point pretending he was. He claimed her fully, sank deep into bliss, and then kissed her as though she was fragile as glass, because she demanded everything, she deserved everything, all the sides and depths of him.
He wondered if there would be a child. He knew it worried her, that she might not be able to.
But she’d only been married two years and to a husband who spent months away at sea.
She didn’t need to worry. It didn’t worry him.
There were children aplenty in this world needing homes.
He’d tell her all this in the morning…he’d take away every last doubt and fear.
But for now, he loved her. He made love to her. She moved with him, tilting her hips. He slid a hand underneath her, angled her until the moans she gave sweetened, tightened…
Oh God. He could hardly last a moment more but let him give her this second pleasure… Sweat glowed on her skin, her breasts tipped up as her back arched. He bent his head, sucked and teased those deep pink buds.
She reached her peak with a cry. The way she tightened around him made him blank out for a moment.
He cursed, head buried at her shoulder. She wrapped her fingers around his neck, held him to her as he drove into her.
“I love you,” she whispered.
His release burnt through him, poured into her. There…yes…she took him; she let him fill her. Thank God. Oh, thank God she was his. He kissed her, slowly, deeply, keeping them joined.
They moved apart when they grew cool. With all the necessities attended to, they curled up again in that tiny bed.
Drowsy, he eyed the rough planks, the simple furniture.
Everything was shadows in the fire’s faint glow.
Outside, behind the thin curtains, the storm still darkened the sky though the rain only pattered softly now against the roof.
“You can walk back to your hotel later,” she said. Her back was against his chest, his arms tight around her. “Tell them you got lost on the marsh and fell in a ditch to explain your clothes. It happens often enough to visitors.”
“No.”
She turned her head as far as she could. “No?”
“No. We’ll stay here forever. Become fishermen. Pirates. Never leave this cabin.”
She laughed, quaking softly in his arms. Her rear jiggled pleasantly against him, and he moved his palm from where it cupped her shoulder, sliding it down to cup the soft fullness of her breast.
She made a small hum. Surprised. Pleased.
A few moments later, they were joined again.
He spent the night alone at his hotel, which was wretched but necessary.
She’d left the boat sometime after him, ushering him out while it was still raining and any potential witnesses still hiding away in their homes and fishermen’s huts.
Her story, she’d told him, was that she’d taken shelter here alone.
There needed to be something to explain the stove light and the chimney smoke, if anyone had seen it, and the firewood’s depleted store.
She told him all this, this clergyman’s daughter, this paradigm of charitable virtue, without the least trace of shame or guilt.
Had she told such stories before? Had she once snuck around this familiar patch of Sussex with a boy her own age, stealing kisses behind trees, tugged by the hand, breathless and laughing, into empty shepherd’s huts and fisherman’s shacks?
He’d walked the pitted road back up the hill to Rye realising he felt no jealousy. His own flesh had ceased to be sacrosanct even before she’d ever met that boy. And if her heart had been taken long before his…well…he was glad she’d been loved. He was gladder still now her heart was his.
The night and the morning were interminable. He had an early breakfast and opted to walk. It was three miles, only a pleasant hour’s stroll between the two towns. He followed the path along the canal, at the foot of the hills.
Napoleon would land here, on these flat, shallow beaches, everyone was sure.
A few years of urgent debates and high spending had driven this canal all the way along this stretch of coast. Now Napoleon supposedly set his sights on the Continent, abandoning his plans to invade Britain.
Sebastian eyed the canal. It was barely three yards wide. He wished there were fifteen more.
Still, with larks in the air and chamomile underfoot, it was hard to imagine war coming here.
The path was pale packed earth, cracked by the summer’s heat, only dark and damp in the hollows even after all yesterday’s rain.
Rushes trembled and whispered in the ditches, the cries of sheep came on the wind, along with their grassy, rank stink.
Crickets sought to drown everything out, and butterflies—orange, white, yellow, and red—danced and weaved around the insistent bees.
A buzzard circled high in the sky, a faint shadow of death, ignored by all but the rabbits.
Ahead rose Winchelsea on its wooded hill.
A redundant town, but stubborn, hardly seeming to care that it had been forgotten by time, tide, and industry.
It was too pretty to care, laid out with precision at Edward I’s boon.
He’d read the hotel’s guidebook that morning, an inadequate defence against pacing his room, watching the clock.
She’d told him to come at eleven. Her father would be at home working on his sermon. Her mother would be superintending a wash. She’d promised to ensure her brothers were there too, amused at the look on his face. Yes, perfect, her whole family lined up to cast judgement.
What had she told them? How had she explained it all—turning him away a few days ago, this man who had driven her from London, and now asking them to welcome him as…as son…as brother…
If she had. Perhaps this would be the social equivalent of getting pushed in the mud. He’d walk in, doff his hat, and be met by glares and pitchforks.
The buzzard overhead called, long and harsh. A heron took off with a beating of immense grey wings. The crickets kept chirping; the sun was sticky and hot. He was the pariah here, walking alone in this strange land.
A shady lane led off from the road, climbing to a steep hill.
He walked up it and met three children picking fruit.
A young boy was purple with blackberries.
An older boy climbed a tree, hunting for plums. A girl, about the same age, stood at the trunk, looking up, catching what he threw down.
The air smelt of fruit, heady and bruised after the rain.
He tipped his hat, the girl blushed, and he passed them, up and up the lane to the golden light where the tree canopy broke.
He had plenty of time. He’d made sure of it.
The church was easy to find, dominating the centre of the town.
It was low and ancient, built of the same flint and clay tiles as most of the houses he’d passed.
A large grassy churchyard surrounded it, tilted gravestones as ancient as the ruins clinging to the church’s sides.
He hadn’t asked Madelaine, but he’d suspected it would be here. After wandering among the graves for a while, he found a well-worn path in the grass and followed it to the churchyard wall. A dark stone plaque was set among the flint.
Alfred Charles Ardingly, beloved son and husband, lost at sea.
Sebastian took off his hat, studying the marker. It was stranger than he’d thought, seeing it for real. A pressure squeezed his throat.
“Hello at last.”
But he was Sebastian Thorne. He wasn’t about to wander around talking to himself like a madman. The convenient thing about the dead was that one could talk to them in one’s mind.
I won’t ask for your blessing. It seems cruel to demand that of you when you’ve already given up so much.
The church clock stuck a quarter hour, as though agreeing.
I’ll make you a promise though, to love her as she deserves. To try to deserve her. All the vows I’m about to make soon in this church or some other like it, listen to them. I’ll mean every word.
There was no reply. The man was long gone. He only lived in hearts and memories. And now, in a way, in Sebastian’s too.
With one last look at the slate-grey plaque, Sebastian bent and set down the flowers he’d brought. Then he turned, put on his hat, and made his way to the parsonage.
It was at the back of town, down a lane with three pretty houses, their fronts Dutch tiled, their wooden shutters painted blue and white and green in turn.
He paused at the parsonage gate. The wooden gateposts had been carved with faces at the top, the woodwork newer than the wood itself. One seemed to be the Greenman, a face buried in leaves. The other a wind spirit, a gust swirling from cherub lips. Strangely pagan for a clergyman.
He ran his finger over the carvings, fighting his racing pulse. There were voices inside the house, a hum of conversation through the open windows. He heard the creak of a mangle. The scent of laundry soap and hot water came on the breeze.
God. He’d sooner face the Regent and his inner circle. They he could charm with ease. All of London at his beck and call and he was scared to walk into this parson’s house…
The front door opened, the sound making his head jerk up. Madelaine stood there, smiling softly. She wore a cream dress trimmed with coral ribbons. It suited her beautifully.
“You’re early.”
“No.” He shook his head. “It took me far too long.”
With another smile, she took his hand and led him into the house.