Chapter 18 #2
When the weather was good, Argyle ventured as far as the small orchard behind the inn, where the landlord had set out an armchair under an apple tree.
Even this small exertion tired him—nevertheless, he was getting a little stronger every day.
His back straightened and his shoulders stopped slumping.
He almost looked as strong and broad as before the accident.
Marguerite was discovering a side of his character she had never suspected, or, at least, never seen before—he was calm, and tender, and appreciative of anything she did for him.
She saw her fear that he didn’t know how to be affectionate was unfounded and hoped this would not wear off once he had recovered completely.
Meanwhile, she got her wish of getting to know him better: during the long, empty hours they told each other stories of their childhood, and described their likes and dislikes.
They endlessly went over the course of their ‘courtship’, trying to explain their feelings and actions to each other.
Marguerite never tired of hearing the episode of his awakening after the accident, a scene she had not witnessed.
She sat close to him, holding his hand. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I was in a state of semi-consciousness, everything was jumbled in my brain. I have told you before. But I had a strange feeling of…peace, as if the hurt had gone away. It must have been your presence.’
She tightened her hand on his. ‘And then?’
‘Then I felt a strong pain, and that jolted me into consciousness. I opened my eyes and saw a strange man bent over me, poking me in the ribs.’
‘Dr. Peel.’
‘He asked me how I felt, looked into my eyes, and then called Jack in, to see if I recognised him.
Of course I did, at once. Jack said, ‘I am so happy to see you alive, Your Grace—when they brought you in I thought you were dead already. And I have good news. Your fiancée is here to see you. She came last night.’
Marguerite giggled a little. ‘And?’
‘I said, ‘Which fiancée?’ They both looked at me as though I was brain-damaged, and then Jack said, ‘I will just fetch her, Your Grace, shall I?’ I thought he had gone mad, then you walked in. When I saw you, I still thought I was imagining you.’
‘You glared at me.’
‘I so wanted you to be real. But when you said you loved me, it was as if a boulder had been lifted from my heart.’
‘Oh, Thomas, that is so romantic!’
He laughed. ‘No one has ever called me romantic before.’
* * *
And there was kissing—Marguerite had got her wish in that, too.
When they were alone, they kissed—fiercely, passionately, sensually, but also tenderly, lightly, and in fun.
She bustled about him and dropped a kiss on his hair, if he was sitting up in the armchair, or on his forehead, his nose, or his lips, if he was lying on the sofa.
After a few of those butterfly kisses he would pull her down, his arm surprisingly strong, and growl, ‘For God’s sake, woman, kiss me properly.
’ But if she leaned against his chest, he still winced.
Sometimes his eyes darkened with desire, and his hands strayed beneath her skirts.
Sometimes he pulled the fichu away from her throat and put his mouth on the tops of her breasts, and his fingers edged beneath her neckline.
She put a stop to it, saying, with mock severity, ‘Doctor’s orders.’
She smiled at him, and he mumbled, ‘This is torture.’ And, ‘I want you.’
‘I know.’
‘Don’t you want me, too?’
‘Of course I do.’ It was torture for her also—she still burned at his touch.
‘Then how can you be so calm?’
‘Because I know I have you. Be patient. You are not well enough yet.’
He knew she was right but still laughed at her look of serene wisdom. She had found out he did have a sense of humour, and that delighted her, because she loved to tease him. She was determined to teach him to laugh at himself.
Sometimes his ironical take on things veered into his habitual sneering, but she scowled at him so ferociously that he had started taking care to avoid it.
Only once did he revert to his old manner.
She came into his room to find he had dozed off in bed, half sitting up.
She bent over him to straighten his pillows, and he opened his eyes and pulled her roughly to him, holding her face in a vice-like grip.
He kissed her, open-mouthed, a hand on her throat, and said, ‘You are mine, do you hear me? Mine.’
She looked into his dark, hooded eyes and said calmly, ‘I am.’
‘Do you swear it?’
‘I do. And you are mine.’ She smiled at him, and said, ‘Mind your ribs.’ She had kissed the corner of his mouth quickly, and he had smiled too, and relaxed the tension in his shoulders.
He said, ‘I dreamt you were marrying Barnfield.’
‘I still might, if you do not behave yourself,’ Marguerite said, frowning at him. He shrugged and gave a joyous bark of laughter.
* * *
They were peaceful in their private parlour, a large and comfortable room at the back of the building, with beams on the ceiling and a stone fireplace with a picture of a hunting scene above the mantlepiece, and a window looking out into the orchard; but the inn was busy with passing trade and could be noisy at times.
While Argyle was resting, Marguerite liked to spend time at the window of her bedchamber, which looked out onto the courtyard, and watch people coming and going: families with tired and fractious children, men walking into the inn for a glass of ale while the horses were changed.
Sometimes there was a smart curricle driven by a gentleman in a coat with multiple capes, accompanied by a groom or a tiger; and once a private chaise with a gilded crest on the door, from which a lady emerged wearing a huge and hideous hat.
Marguerite described these people to Argyle in a comic manner—she liked to amuse him, although he complained his ribs still hurt when he laughed.
She loved being silly, and egged him on, until one day they were both laughing helplessly at some idiotic joke she had made—something she had picked up in the kitchen.
He said, his hand on his side. ‘Stop! You are cruel.’
Marguerite said, wiping her eyes, ‘You know, you look much younger when you laugh. I had never seen you laugh like that before.’
He said, suddenly serious. ‘I haven’t laughed like that since my mother died. She loved being silly, just like you.’
‘You must have loved her very much.’
‘I did. But now I love you, and I can be silly again. Although it hurts like hell, you abominable creature.’ He smiled, and she kissed him quickly, still surprised every time he said he loved her so easily, almost matter of fact.
It was as if he had been released from a spell which had made him cynical and aloof.
She said so, and he answered, smiling with his dimple showing, ‘You have released me, you witch.’
* * *
Argyle, to his own astonishment, realised that he was happy—a feeling he was not used to having.
A window had opened and let sunshine into his austere, lonely life.
When contemplating marriage before, considering it a duty and a necessity in a remote future, nothing more, he had not thought of a wife as a possible companion and friend—more as another possession, animate, certainly, and necessitating a certain amount of conversation and consideration, but without impinging on his inner life in the least.
He had few friends, and his mistresses had always been chosen for their physical attractions combined with discretion and a lack of curiosity about his life beyond their social dealings.
He now saw that his obsession with Marguerite had been a symptom of his falling in love with her, a feeling he did not recognise and did not know how to deal with.
His instinct had been right in choosing her, but his manner had been all wrong.
He smiled to himself, recalling how clumsy and obnoxious he had been, and how she had cut him down to size.
He understood now why she had kept refusing him, although she had been in love with him too—the life he had been proposing was indeed bleak.
He thanked God and Providence for the stroke of luck—or misfortune, for he was still in a lot of pain—that brought them together.
Now he relished every moment with her, finding her enchanting in every way.
She was generous in showing her affection: ruffling his hair as she went past, stooping to kiss him quickly, holding his hand when she sat near him.
She was unafraid of his moods and lost no opportunity of teasing him—it made him laugh at himself and brought out an innate sense of humour which he fortunately possessed.
She still called him ‘Your Grace’ when she wanted to mock him, but mostly she called him Thomas—the name his mother had called him.
He never tired of hearing it.
She was curious, and interested in everything, and surprisingly well-read.
They were both only children, but in his case that had made him spoilt and self-centred and lonely, whereas her parents’ loving regard and attention had helped her blossom into an accomplished, extroverted young woman.
She would turn her hand to everything, from helping Mrs Mowatt prepare the food to reading poetry aloud; she never complained but was quick to express a difference of opinion.
She was at ease with all sorts of people, from the lower orders to the nobility.
Argyle was more taken with her each day and lived in anticipation of the time their lovemaking could resume—he’d had a taste which promised him untold delights.
The knot which he had been carrying in his stomach was dissolving and he slowly allowed himself to enjoy their developing relationship with no reservation.
His great aunt had written, inquiring about his health, and he wrote back reassuring her and telling her of the latest developments in his courtship of Marguerite.