Once Upon a Tower

Page 11

He was brought back to the near side of sanity by the sound of Bardolph coughing.
Gowan froze, uncomfortably aware that his breeches were stretched to the utmost by one of the hardest erections he’d had in his life. Thank God for the desk between them.
Slowly he reached out and took the letter that was waiting for his signature.
“The Chatteris wedding,” he said, glancing down at the page, gratified to find that his voice was steady, if rather guttural.
Bardolph nodded. “Your gift of a rack of venison and twelve geese has already been dispatched from the estate. This note accepts the invitation the family extended to stay at Fensmore itself. I gather that the guest list is so long that many of them will be housed in nearby inns.”
Gowan dipped his pen into his inkwell. He held it a second too long, and a large drop rolled from the quill and splashed on the letter. His secretary made a noise that sounded like a dry twig snapping underfoot.
“I’ll travel with a small retinue: you, Sandleford, and Hendrich,” Gowan said, pushing the letter back so it could be rewritten. “I finished reading Hendrich’s research into the textile factory in West Riding last night, so we’ll discuss. When we reach Cambridge, the three of you can return to London. Sandleford can return to the Royal Exchange, but first I’d like to hear his opinion about acquiring shares in that glass lighting utility in Birmingham.”
“A full complement of grooms,” Bardolph said to himself, making a note. “Three carriages rather than four, I would think. The sheets and china must go with you for the journey, though not, obviously, for use in Fensmore.”
Gowan stood up. “I’m going for a ride.”
Bardolph summoned up one of his ready frowns. “We have yet fourteen letters to review, Your Grace.”
Gowan did not care for dissension; he strode from the room without answering. Perhaps the Scot in him had taken over. He felt stronger and more alive than ever before, and his mind raced with tender words and wild images. He wanted to take his wife into the woods and lay her on a white cloth in a field of violets. He wanted to hear her voice in the open air, the cry of a pleasured woman, like that of a bird. He wanted . . .
He didn’t want to be sane any longer, or to sit in that airless room reading fourteen more letters before he affirmed each with his long and tedious signature.
He told himself in vain that Edith was a humorless dormouse. Frankly, humor did not come into many of the plans he had regarding her. Images blossomed in his heart like roses, each one in feverish counterpoint to the solemn intelligence of her letter.
He wanted to shower her with gifts, yet nothing he could conjure up seemed good enough. If he had the heavens embroidered on a cloth, wrought with gold and silver light, he would lay it at her feet . . .
Nay, he would lay her on top of it, as tenderly as if she were Helen of Troy, and then he would make slow love to her.
He had lost his mind.
His imagination bloomed with metaphors describing a woman whom he’d seen for scarcely an hour. Later, that night, he woke from a dream in which Edith raised her arms to him, the liquid gold of her hair tumbling almost to her waist.
“Ah, darling,” he had been telling her, “I am looped in the loops of your hair.” Had he said that aloud? He would never do something so imbecilic.
He really had lost his mind.
He knew why, too. Obviously, he had kept himself away from women too long, and now he was deranged as a result. Abstinence wasn’t advisable for a man. It had enfeebled his brain. What’s more, although he’d never before thought twice about performance, he suddenly had an image of himself fumbling about in the act, not knowing what he was doing, being foolish.
Damn.
Then the letter arrived.
Your Grace,
I was happy to read your response to my query about extra-matrimonial cavorting. It is gratifying to know that although Nature pricked thee out for woman’s pleasure, you intend to reserve some sixty years’ worth of said activity for myself.
Gowan read that paragraph three times and then broke into a crack of laughter. She’d picked up his Shakespeare reference and tossed another back at him.
I write with the worry that you have formed a false impression of me. I smiled a great deal on the night of my debut ball . . . because I was so ill that night that I could not bring myself to speak.
I mentioned this concern to my stepmother, Lady Gilchrist, who is firmly of the belief that it is inadvisable for a couple to learn of each other’s character before marriage. But as she is not on speaking terms with my father, I consider her a less than reliable source of advice about marital happiness.
If Gilchrist hadn’t been able to ascertain his wife’s disposition by a quick glance at her, Gowan didn’t think that all the time in the world would have helped them to a greater understanding of each other’s characters. He was sorry to hear that Edith had been ill, though.
I also write to assure you that I am not mad, although my claim is of dubious value because I would likely insist upon my sanity regardless. We shall have to leave the question of my judgment or lack thereof to our next meeting, at the Chatteris wedding. You shall find me sane, but, alas, not as winsomely silent as I was during our dances.
The words were so lively that Gowan could hear a woman saying them, except he couldn’t remember what Edith’s voice sounded like. He was burning to meet her when she wasn’t ill.
For a moment the serene angel with whom he had danced wavered in his imagination, but he pushed her away. He had much rather be married to a woman who considered him pricked out for her pleasure. A thousand times better than being married to a placable dormouse, no matter how peaceful.
I should also confess to finding Edith a name without music. I prefer Edie to Edith.
With all best wishes from your future wife, who has good reason to pray for your continued health . . . given my expectations of sixty-five (seventy!) years of marital bliss,
Edie
Eight
Fensmore
Home of the Earl of Chatteris
Cambridgeshire
Edie was aware that she wasn’t acting in a normal fashion. She was accustomed to feeling strong emotion only in response to a musical score or a battle with her father. She prided herself on maintaining tight control over her sensibilities.
But now, with less than an hour remaining before she was due to join the Earl of Chatteris, his fiancée, and their guests in the drawing room before dinner, she was overwrought, for lack of a better word. She felt as if she were about to burst out of her skin, too edgy to settle down.
She found herself pacing the floor of her guest chamber, rejecting out of hand every gown Mary offered her. Edie was not the sort of woman who spent time worrying about her attire. But that did not mean she was ignorant the power of clothing to wreak havoc on the minds of men.
She hadn’t paid much attention yesterday when Mary had packed her trunk for a few days at Fensmore and the Earl of Chatteris’s wedding; her attention had been fixed on the Boccherini score. But now that she was here, and Lady Honoria Smythe-Smith (soon to be the Countess of Chatteris) had just informed her that the Duke of Kinross was already in residence, she felt vastly different about what she would wear.
The duke would be at the evening meal, and she would see him for the first time since his proposal. The very idea made her feel feverish all over again.