Angel in Scarlet (54 page)

My knees gave way then and Hugh gathered me up into his arms and carried me over to the old brass bed. He carefully lowered me onto the quilted white satin counterpane and the satin was cool and slippery beneath me and I arched my body, lifting my arms, and he stood at the side of the bed gazing at me with something like awe, and I knew he loved me, really loved me, as I loved him, and I knew he had dreamed of this moment, as I had, and couldn't believe it was ours now after so many years. He placed one knee on the bed and leaned over and began to kiss me, those warm, moist lips covering every inch of my body, pausing here to savor the smoothness of inner thigh, lingering there to nuzzle the softness of my belly with his nose, my legs writhing, my arms thrown back, fingers curling tightly around the cool brass bars of the headboard.

Sweet, sweet torment, delirium of bliss, delay divine torture that must end soon or sanity would shatter. Lips warm, burning my skin, hands stroking flesh, kneading it gently, an urgent ache inside, swelling, spreading, a moan escaping, another, smothered by his mouth, his tongue thrusting inside mine, the weight of his body pinioning me, my hands clutching his buttocks and feeling the hard muscle beneath black broadcloth, feeling soft silk as my hands slipped up his back, clutching his shoulders, my body undulating beneath him, my legs spreading as he kneeled and tugged at his breeches, the room in darkness now, now the warm hardness of him entering slowly, slowly, plunging then to fill, holding for a moment and then slowly withdrawing, so slowly, plunging again, flesh filling flesh, his hard and strong as steel and soft as velvet, my own clutching, clinging, my body arching to meet him, to bring him closer still, the first pale rays of moonlight streaming into the room as senses soared, higher, higher, building, bursting, soft silver brushing the walls of the room as his teeth sank into my shoulder and the oblivion of bliss claimed us both.

And in the night, more love, he nude now, lazy, lethargic, loving leisurely as, outside, the leaves rustled in the darkness, and in the morning a thin gold-pink light streamed into the room and he was asleep, sprawled over me, clutching me, and it was right, it was real, no dream, yet I still couldn't believe he was here, his leg thrown over mine, his skin warm, moist with perspiration, his hair damp, too, his breathing deep, even. He opened his eyes and looked at me, and I smiled. He kissed me sleepily and I felt him swell, felt him grow harder, grow longer, and I shifted beneath him and he shifted too and there was more splendid love as the sunlight grew stronger and a bird chirped merrily in a tree outside. And later, in the kitchen, dressed in last night's garments, the ashes of aftermath glowing within, limbs sweetly sore, I cooked breakfast and he came into the kitchen, looking weary and worn and wonderful in black breeches and wilted white silk shirt with limp laces. He looked with some consternation at all the food I had prepared.

“I can't possibly eat all that,” he said.

“You're going to need your strength,” I told him.

Hugh was with me now, and never, never had I known such happiness as during the weeks that followed. London and the life I had lived there seemed the dream now, seemed to have happened to someone else. Hugh was with me, and we fed the chickens and he watched critically as I milked Matilda, squirting him once after he made a sarcastic remark about my technique. We took long walks over the countryside and discovered a dilapidated stone bridge spanning a small stream, and I recognized it from one of Gainsborough's paintings. Hugh told me about his life at sea, and I told him about my life in the theater, but neither of us mentioned Lord Blackie, nor did he ever refer to Italy and his dream of becoming Lord Meredith. We went to the village on market day, and he bought me bright ribbons and I bought him a red gypsy scarf he immediately tied around his neck. We watched the Punch and Judy show and the trained birds and came home with fresh fruit and vegetables and a lovely glazed ham and a set of dishes I couldn't resist.

The days were long and warm and filled with simple pleasures. I cooked for him, delicious meals, and he put on some weight and looked better although still too lean. How content I was, beating eggs, adding sugar and cream and flour and pouring the batter into a pan, baking it in the black iron stove, washing sheets and hanging them out to dry in the sunlight, gathering wildflowers and arranging them in bowls, simple domestic tasks suddenly suffused with meaning because Hugh was here and he would eat the cake and sleep on the sheets and admire the flower arrangements. We made love, in the barn, on the damp hay, beside the stream after a picnic one day, the summer sunlight bathing his bare buttocks as he plowed away with breeches tangled about his knees, in the kitchen and in the parlor, in the broom closet once when he caught me putting away mop and pail. It was joyous, and it was beautiful, and often he simply gazed at me with love in his eyes and took my hand and squeezed it, conveying his love without words.

Frequently, in the evenings, after dinner and after Matilda had been put in her stall, we would sit in the parlor and read, me curled up on the pink sofa, a novel in my lap, Hugh sitting at the small mahogany desk, poring over a newspaper he had purchased from the stationer's in the village, both of us quiet, content to share the silence and serenity. The post brought letters from Megan and Dottie, from Boswell and Gainsborough and others, but I wasn't at all interested in theatrical gossip, in chatty news of doings in London. That busy, frenetic, frenzied world full of tensions and temperaments, crises and conflict held absolutely no appeal for me now. I was through with it. I knew what living was all about, knew my reason for being here, and, as June melted into July and day followed day, I began to nourish dreams of a future that would be as serene, as fulfilling as these weeks had been.

In all this time Hugh had never once mentioned Greystone Hall or his dreams of proving his legitimacy and claiming the estate, and I began to hope that perhaps, during these past weeks, he had finally seen the futility of his obsession and given it up. Nevertheless, I was still hesitant about discussing the future with him, not wanting anything to endanger the harmony between us. It was with some apprehension that I brought up the subject one afternoon in late July. We had lunched, had taken some surplus eggs to a family living in a nearby cottage, and we were strolling idly back down the lane. It was an overcast day, the sky a misty gray, promising rain. A cool breeze ruffled the purple and mauve rhododendroms, a few blossoms drifting to the ground. After all the warm days, this cool spell was most welcome. Hugh was silent, lost in thought. He had seemed preoccupied all day long.

“Thinking?” I inquired.

“About us,” he said.

“These past weeks have been wonderful, haven't they?”

He nodded. “The happiest weeks of my life, Angie.”

“There—there's no reason why it can't always be like this,” I said carefully. “You love the country as I do. We could buy a place of our own, a farm. You could work it. We could have chickens and cows and—and horses and everything. We could have a large, lovely house and a few tenant farmers to help you with the crops.”

“You actually believe you could be happy living like that?”

“If—if I had you,” I replied. “I'm a wealthy woman, Hugh. I received a letter last week from Richard Bancroft, my banker. Jamie—” I hesitated a moment, biting my lower lip. “My former partner has made an accounting of profits from
My Charming Nellie
, and my portion has been deposited in my name. I could easily afford to buy a place, a fine place.”

Hugh didn't reply at once. He thrust his hands into his pockets and kicked a stone out of his path, walking in a long, lanky stride. “I want more for you, Angie. I want to see you in silks and velvets, not cotton dresses with an apron around your waist. I want to see you pouring tea in a lovely drawing room, not tossing feed in a chicken yard. I want your hands to be white and as smooth as silk, not red and rough from peeling potatoes and scrubbing floors. I want you to have servants and carriages and jewels. I intend to give them to you.”

“When you win your case,” I said.

“When I win my case and acquire what is mine.”

He hadn't given it up at all. The obsession was still there, held in abeyance these past weeks, and a voice deep inside told me that I had been living in a fool's paradise. Nothing had changed, nothing at all. He loved me, yes, but the dream of inheritance meant more to him than the happiness we had shared, and he was prepared to risk that happiness in order to see the dream through, no matter the odds against it. He had been a pariah in his youth, reviled and taunted because of his birth, and he had to prove to himself and to the world that he was worthy, a person of note. I understood, I understood all too well, but that didn't make it any easier.

“Give it up, Hugh,” I said quietly.

“I can't do that, Angie.”

“I know what it means to you, Hugh, but—you don't have to prove anything. Can't you see that? It isn't
who
a person is that counts, it's what a person is inside. It isn't who you were born, it's what you make of yourself. Wealth, a title, an estate—those things aren't important. What's important is what we have right now—our love, our health, our ability to work and make a future for ourselves. We don't
need
anything more.”

“I'm going to win,” he told me.

His voice was solemn, and I saw that it would be futile for me to say more. The dream obsessed him, and my words might as well have been spoken to the wind. We went on home, and a light summer rain began to fall. I cooked a lovely meal, and later we sat in the parlor reading, the rain pattering down, and later still we went upstairs and made love. Everything was as peaceful, as pleasant as ever during the days that followed, but I felt as though an invisible cloud hung over our happiness now, and I sensed it was only a matter of time until it ended altogether. I felt a sad resignation inside, even as we strolled hand in hand over the sunny fields and through the woods, even as we kissed before the dilapidated stone bridge and made love in a small clearing lavishly bestrewn with wild crimson poppies. When, a week later, he walked into the kitchen in the morning and told me he was going to London, I went right on buttering the toast, beautifully composed.

“I assume you'll have breakfast,” I said.

He nodded. “I'll walk to the village and take the horse and rig. I should be gone most of the day.”

“You intend to come back, then?”

He gave me a look, surprised. “Of course I'm coming back. I have some business I need to tend to, that's all.”

We ate breakfast and he left, and I milked Matilda and put her out to graze. I fed the chickens and came inside and tidied the house and time seemed to creep, each hour an eternity. What was he doing in London? Was he planning to pull another robbery? Not today. Lord Blackie worked only under cover of darkness. He had “business to tend to.” What kind of business? Did it have something to do with Italy, with the people he had working for him there? Why, after all of this time, did he have to make a trip to London? The afternoon stretched ahead of me, and I thought I might as well answer the latest letters from Megan and Dottie. I discovered I was out of stationery, and that gave me an excuse to walk to the village. At the stationer's I purchased elegant creamy-tan paper and envelopes and, on impulse, one of the London papers, although I hadn't bothered to read the ones Hugh had bought earlier.

Back at the cottage, I wrote to Megan and wrote to Dottie, bright, cheerful letters that belied my true state of mind. I sealed them and sighed and glanced at the clock. It was barely four. Would the afternoon never end? I picked up the newspaper and began to turn the pages idly. What cared I what was happening at court, what was happening in the Colonies, what Lady Claymore had worn to the opera, who Lord Duff had visited in Scotland? I turned the page and scanned one of the articles and started another … and then I began to read closely, carefully, gripping the paper with hands that suddenly began to tremble. Who is Andrew Dawson, the writer asked his readers, where is he now? Is he Lord Blackie? Andrew Dawson was the name Hugh had been using at The Blue Stag.

The writer then recounted, in vivid prose, the events of June the eighteenth, when Lord Blackie had scaled the wall of Newark House on Grosvenor Square and climbed into an attic window and made his way through the darkened rooms to the chamber where blonde and lovely young Lady Newark was fast asleep, her jewel case on the dressing table. As he was removing the exquisite diamond and ruby bracelet and earrings her doting husband had recently given her, Lady Newark awoke and let out a terrified shriek that brought her husband and two stalwart footmen running. The thief in black tackled one of the footmen, shoved Lord Newark aside and made his escape down the staircase and out the front door, the second footman in hot pursuit.

A chase through the streets of London ensued, and the footman lost sight of his quarry. He continued to prowl around, searching, and later on he thought he saw a man in black slipping into the courtyard of The Blue Stag, a huge building on Holywell, off Fleet, housing some two hundred tenants. Bow Street was alerted and inquiries were made the next day. One of the tenants, a woman named Rose Pickering, a plump middle-aged blonde in pink wrapper with maribou trim, hostess by trade, said yes, she 'ad seen a gent in a black suit, 'e was comin' 'ome just as she was, but it was only that nice Mr. Andrew Dawson, 'andsome chap, real refined. Yes; it was around two in the mornin' and no, 'e 'adn't been wearin' no black silk 'ood, 'ow'd she be able to recognize 'im if 'e 'ad been? The journalist succinctly captured Rose Pickering's character and did a splendid job of reproducing her speech.

Accompanied by Miss Pickering and the hefty, disgruntled concierge, the gentlemen from Bow Street went up to Dawson's rooms, only to discover that they had been hastily vacated, all personal belongings removed. Dawson had disappeared, no trace of him to be found anywhere in the city, and while this provided no conclusive proof of guilt, the journalist writing this article firmly believed that if Bow Street found the mysterious gentleman calling himself Andrew Dawson, they would find Lord Blackie. I set the newspaper aside, gazing into space, thinking about what I had just read. The events so vividly described had taken place on the night of June the eighteenth, and … yes, Hugh had arrived here on the morning of the nineteenth. He had undoubtedly begun to pack soon after meeting Rose Pickering on the stairs, leaving The Blue Stag before dawn, renting horse and rig when the livery opened, under another assumed name, of course, paying in cash, then storing the reproduction and his other personal effects under the same name and driving directly out here. The time elements fit perfectly. Andrew Dawson had disappeared, leaving not a trace, and … and Hugh had come to stay with me here in the country not because of his undying love for me but because he felt it was no longer safe for him to remain in London.