The Admiral's Penniless Bride (17 page)

‘Lazy wretch,’ she told him, which almost made his toes curl with pleasure.

‘It’s your idea,
cara mia
,’ he said, holding up both arms.

They ate lunch on the terrace. Charles didn’t want her out of his sight, no matter what he had said about observing the niceties and thinking about matters before rushing ahead. She simplified his afternoon by declaring her intent to visit across the lane with the Brusteins.

‘Let me provide an escort,’ he said.

She had no objections. She didn’t mind when he offered his good arm, and she took it, taking her sweet time down their long driveway, where his yard crew attacked the weeds under the watchful eye of his steward.

‘Crowder tells me that tomorrow there will be a gravel wagon here to eliminate the more egregious potholes,’ he told Sophie. It was super-ordinary conversation, but it warmed him. He remembered his parents talking about fabric and ribbons for their daughters, or the price of good wool, when they sat together over breakfast, so many years ago. They were long in their graves, so he could only wonder if his father had enjoyed those mundane moments with his mother.

‘I think you should ask Crowder about replacing that banister on the steps leading down to the beach,’ she told him. Her arm was tucked close into him.

‘I will do that,’ he said. ‘What would you think about bluebird boxes on the back lawn?’

Maybe it was the way he said it, but Sophie stopped and laughed. ‘If only your men could hear you now,’ she murmured. ‘I would love bluebird boxes, your excellency.’

She was teasing him and fair game, so he ruffled her hair. The next thing he knew, she was in his arms. She gave him a quick hug, then released him, to his disappointment.

Overlook that
, he almost said, but he didn’t, because he knew they had gone beyond the silliness of that. As
he ambled beside his wife, neither of them in a hurry, he suddenly knew that he would never be happy anywhere but where she was. There was so much he wanted to say, but that cautionary angel of his, the one that had kept him from many a lee shore, reminded him of his words from yesterday.
We will think this through
, he repeated.
We will be thoughtful, reasonable, mature adults. Maybe.

With a rueful shake of his head, Jacob Brustein told them that Rivka was asleep. They sat with him in the sun-warmed parlour for tea, mainly listening, as the old financier admitted that his dear wife spent much of the time sleeping.

‘She loves to see you, Sophie,’ he said, holding out his cup for more tea. ‘If you could visit in the mornings, I think you would find her more alert.’

‘That is what I will do, then,’ Sophie said as she poured. She smiled at Charles and he felt his own heart lift. ‘The admiral is writing his memoirs. There is no reason why we cannot do that in the afternoons.’

‘None at all,’ he agreed.

Brustein beamed at him. ‘Admiral! You are going to favour the world with your account of our late misfortunes as playthings of Napoleon?’

‘Sophie thinks such a work will occupy me. I cannot see it being of much interest. I was no hero, just a persistent thorn in the Corsican’s side—one of many.’

Brustein drank his tea, and then gazed with bright eyes at Sophie. ‘Your children will appreciate the story, Admiral Bright. When they reach those trying years before adulthood, it will remind them that there was life in the old fossil, eh?’

The old fellow smiled at the modest way Sophie had looked away, her face rosy at his offhand mention of
children. ‘Sophie, too bad there are no adventures in the life of money lenders! My children have to love me just because. The admiral here has more going for him.’

Charles couldn’t resist a sidelong look at his wife. She was a tender soul and he knew it. The idea of children took hold in his brain then, and he swallowed against the emotion. He had never thought to survive the war. There had been bitter moments when he was younger and gripped by the reality that Napoleon had the ordering his life, which left no room for a family. He was fated to be a sea-going machine, answerable only to Admiralty House, where wives were unofficially frowned upon because they tended to soften the hard edges needed to fight a world war.

In a short week, things had changed. He had no chart now to make a path for him through a matrimonial sea that he had blunted from the beginning. He might argue that he caught Sally Paul in a vulnerable moment. She had sensibly turned him down once. Only in her desperation had she agreed to a marriage of convenience. They had gone far beyond the limits, but as he sat in Jacob Brustein’s parlour, on edge and uncertain, he began to grasp just how much he loved the woman beside him.

They could say what they wanted about thinking the matter through. He looked at Sophie, who had engaged the old man in conversation. Some day, perhaps he could tell her about the point of no return. It came on every voyage—that day when trouble came and a commander had to weigh the option of turning back or plunging forwards. Turning back often meant they could run out of victuals and water and die. Going ahead was an equally unknown quantity.

Sophie, my love, we have enjoyed each other’s bodies and we cannot return to our convenient marriage, no
matter what we might say to each other
, he thought.
You are a naïve female, if you think this is possible. We have passed that point of no return. Our voyage is now in the hands of fate.

He wished he felt more confident.

W
hether she knew it or not—and how could she?— Rivka Brustein gently ruled their days now. It was a mild dictatorship. She was an old woman—a dying one—who took pleasure from having Sophie read to her. He had no objection. Sophie usually returned from those morning visits with a smile on her face.

‘Charles, you should come with me and listen to Rivka talk about her childhood in what she calls the shtetl in Hamburg. Sometimes I think I could listen to people, take notes and write everyone’s life story,’ she told him in the bookroom, as he assumed his usual opening position at the fireplace.

‘My dear, I haven’t been on land long, but I do think confidences between the ladies are for their ears only! Besides, if you took notes on everyone, you wouldn’t have time for me,’ he added impulsively.

‘Their stories would all come after yours,’ she assured him. She smiled at him and he felt his heart melt. ‘Now, where are we?’

Lord, who knows?
he thought.
Ah, but you are speaking of my memoirs, are you not?
‘Let me see—we’re at Camperdown, are we not? I was a lieutenant then, and back on the
Bedford
. Things looked bleak for a while, but only a while.’ He grinned at her. ‘I love to beat the Dutch!’

‘Ah, yes,’ she said. She looked up, her eyes bright. ‘You don’t like to be on the losing side.’

‘I hardly ever was,’ he replied. He thought a moment, embarrassed. ‘That sounds so prideful.’

‘It’s the truth, though,’ Sophie said, and finished a note to herself before looking up. ‘You’re not one to lie.’

He noticed how suddenly she became quiet then, turning even a little pale as she bit her lip.

‘Sophie? Are you all right?’

She looked up quickly, the confusion on her face still there until she seemed to will it away. ‘I am fine. Just had a thought. It’s nothing. Pray continue. You were on the
Bedford
again at Camperdown.’

And so it went. After Charles spent a morning alone, chafing because Sophie was not there, they ate lunch on the terrace unless the weather was inclement—and it was a glorious summer in Devon—then adjourned to the bookroom. He narrated a portion of his life’s work, usually while walking up and down in the room, while Sophie took notes and asked questions.

More than ever, he realised what a soft heart she had, which required that he stop now and then to sop up tears at his ill treatment from the French when he was captured once, or assuage her anguish when his ship went aground in foul weather. She didn’t seem to take exception to the kiss he generally planted on her head or cheek after such trauma.

He discovered they could rub along pretty well, generally overlooking their previous, massive indiscretion, until
the morning she returned from the Brusteins to find her dresses delivered. After she had expressed such remorse when he had laid down what she considered such a large sum of money at their initial purchase, Sophie hadn’t mentioned the expected wardrobe. He wondered if she was a little relieved at the non-appearance of the multitude of dresses and other furbelows. Out of sight, out of mind, perhaps.

But there they were, stacked in neat bandboxes and pasteboard in the foyer where she could not fail to see them. Charles was watching for her from a front window. He had started doing that one morning when he had worked quickly through whatever had to be done, and found himself out of sorts because Sophie Bright wasn’t on the premises. He could think of nothing else that was making him crabby—his stomach was full, his smallclothes didn’t pinch.

After that, he had begun to look for her return. He observed how she usually idled down the driveway, which was now neatly gravelled and weeded to a fare-thee-well, stopping sometimes to talk to his steward, who was supervising the planting of bed upon bed of flowers. At other times when no one was around, she stopped to blow her nose and wipe her eyes. He knew he shouldn’t feel light-hearted at those moments, because they generally meant that Rivka Brustein was having a bad morning. The fallout from such sad tidings meant Sophie never objected when he put his arm around her. When she put an arm around him and leaned into his chest, his cup ran over.

He hadn’t reckoned on what new clothes would mean to a woman who had spent too many years living on the fringe. He hadn’t poked about among the clothes—no man was that brave—but out of idle curiosity, he did lift the lid on a bandbox to see what the ladies were wearing on
their heads these days. The bonnet that met his appreciative eyes was straw, with a green ribbon and bouncy little green-dyed feathers that would look especially good on a woman with brown hair and brown eyes. He applauded her choice and congratulated himself for money well spent.

When he saw her dawdling towards the house close to luncheon time, he couldn’t resist opening the front door and motioning her in. It flattered him to see her eyes light up, especially since she had no idea what lay in store for her. He flattered himself to think she was pleased to see him.

‘Your finery awaits you, madam wife,’ he said as he opened the door wider with a flourish.

She frowned, and he realised she had forgotten all about the clothing from Madame Soigne’s.

‘Your dresses, Sophie,’ he reminded her.

Her eyes wide, her hand to her mouth, she hurried past him and went to her knees by the pasteboard boxes. With his pocketknife, he slit the string and she opened the first box, and then the next, her breath coming more rapidly. With fingers that trembled now, she shook out a deep blue dress—a shade not far from the Pacific in mid-ocean—and held it up to her.

‘Oh, Charles,’ she breathed.

He had thought, tender soul that she was, that she might burst into tears. She came close to him and turned around. ‘Unbutton me,’ she ordered, her voice filled with excitement.

He was happy to oblige, moving in close and taking an appreciative breath of her sun-warmed hair, courtesy of a particularly brilliant July day. ‘Right here in the hall?’ he was foolish enough to ask, biting his tongue and suppressing a groan when he realised what a ninny he was.

He could have cried when she turned around and laughed softly. ‘Silly me,’ she said.

He was about ready to clobber himself with an imaginary stick when she totally floored him by grabbing his hand and towing him after her into the sitting room. She closed the door. ‘In here,’ she said, her voice urgent, her eyes bright.

He did as she asked, releasing each wooden button on her shabby dress. Her chemise underneath was shabby, too. He stood close enough to see where she had sewn the lace back on, feeling some pride to know that probably included with the new clothing were chemises that needed no refurbishing. He wondered if she had succumbed to the new fashion of underdrawers, but knew he would never have the courage to ask, even if it was his business, which he suspected it wasn’t.

The little vertebrae that delineated her spine still stood out in painful relief. He admired the pale brown freckles on her shoulders, remembering how they looked on her breasts, when they had been so intemperate last month.

Considering himself a paragon of virtue, given the degree of temptation he felt, Charles pulled the dress down so she could step out of it, her hand on his shoulder. She was fairly dancing about in her excitement, which made him think of her delight, more than of her body. She was like a child, which told him volumes about her skimping and sacrifice through some harrowing years.

He folded the old dress over the sofa back and turned around to see her enveloped in the new dress, her hands upraised. Without requiring direction, he tugged it down over her breasts until her face emerged. He didn’t think he had ever seen her happier.

As if his thought communicated itself to her, she grew sober, or tried to. ‘You must think I am a fearfully vain
creature to get so excited about clothes,’ she said, turning around so he could button her up.

‘No, not really,’ he said, entirely truthful. ‘Any man standing between his madam and a new dress had better be wary.’

‘You
do
think I am frivolous,’ she said.

He could tell she was not fishing for denial because he already knew that was not something Sophie Bright indulged in. He pressed the hook against the fabric and began to button her. ‘I think you have not had new clothes in a very long time.’

‘I haven’t,’ she said, her voice as soft as a child’s. She looked over her shoulder at him and he saw the tears in her eyes.

Charles kissed the corner of her eyes where the tears were forming, the saltiness making him acutely aware of how human she was and how she had suffered. She leaned her head against his shoulder and he knew that only an idiot certifiable in all of England’s shires would not take her by the shoulders, turn her around and pull her close, her dress half-buttoned. His hand slipped in the convenient gap and rested on that pleasant junction where her hip met her waist. To his delight, her arms went around his neck. He was disappointed when she didn’t kiss him, but she did something better, laying her cheek alongside his—they were much the same height—and breathing into his ear.

‘You are a good, good man, Admiral Bright,’ she whispered.

She pulled away then and turned around so he could continue buttoning her. He did, a smile on his face, then turned her around.

‘You’ll do, Mrs Bright,’ he said, his voice gruff with emotion that seemed to be creeping into his life, now that he was landbound and the war over.

She went to the mirror over the fireplace, tugging the puffy sleeves into place, and straightening the collar. She turned around twice, looking down to admire the flounce like a little girl. His heart full, Charles could see her as a small child, doing precisely that.
Or a daughter of our own
, he thought, enchanted at the idea—one he had never entertained before—of a dark-haired child dipping and swooping in circles. It was heady stuff, and it pleased him as much as watching his wife.

‘Another one?’ he asked, not wanting to break the spell.

Eyes bright, she nodded. ‘There was a pale yellow muslin. Just for summer. Can you find that?’

He could and did, marvelling at the softness of the fabric and how small it seemed in his hands. When he came back to the sitting room, closing the door again, she was all elbows, awkwardly trying to undo the buttons on the blue dress. Putting the yellow muslin over his shoulder, he took over the task until she had stripped down to her chemise again. He could see her dark nether hair through the washworn chemise, and the outline of her long legs backlit by the sun pouring in the window. While the sight aroused him, it also made him mindful of her innocent pleasure in new clothes and the trust that seemed to be developing between them.

‘Arms up now,’ he said as he lowered the simple frock over her head. ‘These are tiny buttons. Is there a shortage of mother of pearl we don’t know about and dressmakers are economising?’

‘Charlie, it is à la mode,’ she said.

Good Lord, his wife had given him a nickname. He smiled at her, thinking of the times his officers had called him ‘Capital Charlie’, but only—supposedly—out of his
hearing. He had thought them silly; coming from his wife, it was endearing.

She reached behind her, touching his fingers as she tried to do up the buttons. For just a moment, she clasped his fingers in hers, then continued on to the buttons she could reach.

He completed the buttoning expedition, took her by the shoulders and moved her towards the mirror again. ‘This is a keeper, Sophie,’ he told her. ‘I think primrose is your colour.’

She smiled at him in the mirror, made a little face just for him, then clasped her hands in front of her. ‘I do like it. Madame Soigne is a miracle worker.’

‘She had a lot of good material to work with, and I don’t refer to fabric. Sophie, you’re a beauty.’

She turned around, her hands still clasped, her face animated. He thought of a parched flower suddenly drenched in a spring rain. ‘I’ve never been accused of that before.’

‘Not even by your late husband?’ He had to ask.

She shook her head.

‘Well, then, he never saw you in yellow. Here. Turn around. Madame said something about a burgundy dress. I want to see that one.’

She could barely hold still for him as he unbuttoned her dress. As the tiny buttons fell away from the fabric, he found himself unable to resist kissing each small vertebra of her spine. She shivered, then made the smallest sound of satisfaction, something like a moan, but more of an exhalation of breath with a gentle sound attached to it.

When he encountered the chemise, he pulled it down, taking heart when Sophie pulled the unbuttoned dress from her shoulders and then unbuttoned her chemise in the front. It fell to her waist. Applauding his restraint, he concentrated on another kiss of her spine, then gave up all caution.
He gently reached around to knead her breast. For the first time in years, he yearned for two hands. She leaned back against him, the back of her head against his shoulder. It was easier than anything to kiss her neck, even as he lowered his hand to her belly and then further down.

Her breath coming more rapidly now, Sophie stepped out of the yellow dress. Fully aroused, he turned her around then, pressing her body into his. Her hands went to the buttons of his trousers as she tilted her pelvis forwards, ready to receive him standing up, as impatient as he was.

The door opened then. Looking over her shoulder as she made inarticulate sounds and released the last of his trouser buttons, he saw the horrified face of Starkey, who must have just returned from his leave of absence. Transfixed, Charles watched as his servant’s eyes widened and then narrowed into tiny slits before he closed the door as quietly as he had opened it.

Mortified, Charles felt the breath leave his body as palpably as if Starkey had strode across the room, yanked Sophie aside and punched him in the guts. He leaped back and began fumbling at his buttons, even as Sophie tried to undo the string to his bulging smallclothes.

‘No!’ he said, and it came out with far more force than he intended. ‘No, no,’ he repeated, his voice much softer, even though he knew the damage was done.