Chapter Twenty-Four
The Day will come that this Earth, and the Works that are therein shall go up in Flames.
If “kiss” were the right word for it. For what was happening now had nothing in common with the modest, model dabs of the lips to her ear or hair she had previously enjoyed. This was more like drawing the curtains in the morning to see if the sun shone and finding instead the world on fire.
Maria soon enough stopped trying to speak and, indeed, forgot she had been speaking because maybe she had always been crushed to him, his mouth on hers, her fingers twined in his dark hair and her own half tumbling to her shoulders.
When he released her to the length of his arms, he still clutched her so hard by the shoulders that she wondered if any blood were reaching her hands or if it was all in her face and rushing about her heart.
“This isn’t how I meant this to happen,” he uttered, breathless and jaw tight, and she would have sunk to the floor if his grip had not made sinking impossible.
“Did you mean, not—what you meant to happen?” Maria puzzled. Truly, the room spun, and that must be why she swayed toward him again, her head falling back and lips parting.
He loomed closer for one delicious, tantalizing moment, his breath warm, his person warm. Then, heartbreakingly, he straightened again.
“Not ‘what,’” he said. “‘How.’ Let there be no doubt about the ‘what.’”
“What?” she asked stupidly, wishing he would just kiss her again with this new sort of kiss, for how could she ever be content again with the other sort?
Gently he pushed her back into her chair, though she felt his hand trace the length of her bare collarbone. Winding one of her fallen curls about a forefinger, he lifted it, lightly, to his lips.
And then she was angry again, angry and confused.
Because what did he mean by it all? If he wanted to kiss her, why didn’t he kiss her?
Had he not intended to? Had it been only the impulse of a moment, done to shut her up and then abandoned when the goal was accomplished?
Or when the memory of Miss Allen rose up to accuse him?
Well, neither reason pleased her! She still had questions to which she wanted answers, and she did not intend to be got round that easily.
If—if he tried to kiss her silent again, she would simply dodge him.
See if she didn’t! And if he drew back for Miss Allen’s sake, Maria would have none of that either.
She was his wife, after all, and he ought not to toy with her feelings, whatever he felt for his lost love.
She snapped her fingers at his lost love!
Seeing her scowl, he gave an uneasy chuckle. “Merciful heavens. So much for ‘kissing it well.’ I seem to have made matters worse. See here, Maria, if I can forestall another row, would you allow me to apologize?”
“What sort of apology?” she asked stiffly.
“An apology for the accusatory manner in which I greeted your news. I let surprise—and dislike of Cheney, an attitude in which I am not alone, I fear—make me unjust, and I beg your pardon for it. I now understand and fully acknowledge the goodness of your motives in seeking employment.”
“Then—you do not forbid me from continuing?”
On the pretense of returning to his seat, he took a moment to answer, but when he looked at her again he was firm.
“An apology is an apology. That is, if you would like to continue to sit with old Mrs. Cheney, I have no objections. And if you would like to stop, I make no bones either. However, while the shillings are not unwelcome, nor the proposed second sofa, I admit I have pride enough to wish my own efforts would be enough. I know they are not—or will not be, when my fellowship ends—but I wish they were.”
“Oh.” Maria felt her resentment fading in the face of such a generous confession. How she loved him! More and more, unfortunately! Could he be so frank, so winning, in dealing with the other matter?
“Thank you, Benjamin,” she returned slowly. “You might simply have said all that, however, instead of—instead of…accosting me.”
“One was faster.” He took up his fork and resumed eating, but not before she saw the hint of a grin and heard him add to himself, “And a deal more pleasant.”
Her cauliflower ragout was stone cold by this point, but Maria picked at it for a few minutes so that Benjamin wouldn’t starve and so that he might be in the best mood.
She hoped he might tell her about his day just to make small talk, or ask her more about her own, but he did neither.
Therefore she must recommence from nothing.
“I already miss Mrs. Ellsworth’s company,” she said at last, when his pace slowed. “She knew of my post with the Cheneys and did not disapprove.”
“Of course she didn’t. You quite charmed her, Maria. I think she would have approved if you decided to stand on your head at the Carfax.” Refilling his glass he regarded her. “You have been lonely, I’m afraid. I am gone a great deal.”
For some reason, her throat tightened at this, and she wished she could say, “I wouldn’t be a bit lonely if I knew we were in the marriage together, looking in the same direction and sharing the same hopes!
” But instead she answered, “I did enjoy her companionship. And now that there is measles at Keele’s… ”
“There is still Miss Hancock,” he reminded her. “I assure you I have overcome my—misgivings—there. She seems a pleasant girl. Unless you think Chop or Pork would be better company until you can visit your family in Iffley again.”
He delivered this little joke with a flicker of the eyelid, and she smiled. With peace restored, she hated to throw the house out at the window again, but she would never know peace if she didn’t.
“Shall we repair to the parlor?” he suggested. “Rundell will want to clear the crockery and such, and I—have letters to write. Austin may call as well.”
Rising automatically to precede him into the passage, Maria’s thoughts ran like a mill race. She might only have minutes now!
She chose one of the armchairs before the fire and took up her workbasket, waiting for him to sit at the desk. Then she angled her chair, the better to converse with him, and nerved herself to begin.
“You know, Benjamin, sometimes I think I shouldn’t let myself be cowed by Mrs. Markham Dere.”
“What on earth brought that woman to mind?” he demanded as he arranged his writing implements with unusual care, setting the inkpot just so and inspecting the nib of his steel pen.
“It was you mentioning Iffley,” answered Maria.
“Mrs. Dere is the chief—nay, possibly the only—reason I have stayed away this long. I am a married woman now, after all, and of age, and it has been nearly two months since—the fuss—so why do I still hesitate? What would be the worst which could happen, if I stole into Iffley one day?”
“I would rather you didn’t.”
If he had been brusque a minute earlier, now he was positively curt, and she glanced over to find him staring at her under lowered brows. Goodness.
“I don’t mean that I would parade about, of course,” Maria felt compelled to explain. “Though I think it would be impossible to enter the village bounds without Mrs. Lamb the postmistress discovering it. I only mean I would sneak home to Iffley Cottage to spend a few hours.”
“Nevertheless.”
“Nevertheless what?” She felt her own brow knitting. This wasn’t even what she wanted to talk about! This was mere preamble! Why must he be so peremptory?
“Nevertheless, suppose we were to agree that we would not rush your return and my introduction to Iffley?” he rejoined, voice hard. “Suppose we considered our ultimate, lifelong aims and allowed things to take their time?” He struck the desk with the pen he held, resulting in a spatter of ink.
Thoroughly amazed by his outburst, Maria took furious stitches, struggling to school both her temper and her features, while Benjamin blotted the desk surface.
“I don’t understand,” she muttered at last. “You make no sense. In one breath you tell me you don’t mind that I secretly applied for a post and have earned money and possibly shamed you before your—colleagues—and in the next you positively disallow me to try and visit my mother?”
“I don’t positively disallow it. I only ask that you wait a little. Your mother and indeed anyone you like are welcome to call on us here in Oxford in the meantime, or even to stay with us, as my mother did.”
Maria mentally threw up her hands. What possible reason would her mother or Sarah or anyone have for staying in Pembroke Street, when they had a perfectly comfortable home not two miles away?
It didn’t matter. She must get to what mattered. Perhaps the whole visiting-Iffley controversy was meant, in fact, as a diversion. Well, she refused to be diverted. But she mustn’t dive straight in to Matter #2, if he was so touchy. She must approach in a roundabout way herself.
“Very well,” she agreed abruptly. “Never mind visiting Iffley for now. I will be occupied enough with Mrs. Cheney. I would not even have tried to trouble you at New College, if not for my panic. But Benjamin, I did make one curious discovery there, which I had better ask you about before Austin comes, if he comes.”
“Mm?” Bowing his head, he began to write very rapidly. “What was that?”
“That he is thinking of training as a land steward! You must know already, of course, because the pile of books was in your chamber, but I was surprised no one had ever mentioned it—certainly he never had, nor Maman either.”
The scratch of his pen stopped, although he did not look up from the desk. “Would…you be ashamed of such a connection?”
“Oh! It’s not that at all.” She was stitching at such a rate now that even the famous needlewoman Mary Linwood might have marveled at her.
“It’s that—seeing you and my new brother always in your academic gowns, it is hard to picture you studying crops and animal husbandry and keeping books and-and-and—riding about to consult with farmers. ”