Читать книгу A Regency Officer's Wedding: The Admiral's Penniless Bride / Marrying the Royal Marine - Carla Kelly - Страница 16

‘You must think me a very big fool,’ the admiral said, his voice still muffled against her breast.

‘I think nothing of the kind,’ she said gently. Truth to tell, she had felt the calculus around her heart loosen a bit. ‘I cannot imagine the burden you have carried through all those decades of war.’

He sat up, taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket. ‘I’m an attractive specimen,’ he murmured, not looking at her. ‘Do I wipe my eyes or blow my nose?’ He cursed unguardedly. ‘Pardon me.’ He pressed the cloth against his eyes, then blew his nose. ‘He caught me broadside, Sophie. I had no idea who Lord Brimley was.’

He looked at her then, embarrassment colouring his cheeks. Without even pausing to think, she touched his face. So quick she barely felt it, he kissed her palm.

‘Wasn’t I the kind man to marry you to lift your burdens?’ he said. ‘Oh, the irony. I don’t suppose you knew what you were getting into.’

‘Did you?’ she asked. Does anyone? she asked herself, feeling suddenly greener than the greenest bride.

They sat there in silence. ‘Penny for your thoughts, Sophie,’ he said finally. He stood up and pulled her to her feet, offering her his arm again as they turned towards their own manor.

She had no idea how to put into words what she was feeling, or if she even understood the emotions that tugged at her like a ship swinging on its anchor. ‘I suppose you are thinking that life on land is complicated.’

‘But what are you thinking?’ he persisted.

‘Precisely that,’ she said, a little surprised at him. ‘I don’t know that I was even thinking about myself.’

‘Thank you, then,’ he replied. ‘I doubt I deserve such attention.’

She was happy he seemed content to walk in silence. I think I have learned something this morning, she told herself as she matched her stride to his—not a hard matter, because they were much the same height. Maybe I am learning that my troubles are not the only ones in the world.

It was something to consider, and she wanted a moment alone to think about it. To her gratification, the admiral asked if she wouldn’t mind spending the afternoon by herself, as he wanted to go down to the beach and think about things. ‘Not at all,’ she told him. ‘Shall I ask Starkey to serve you luncheon on the beach?’

He nodded. ‘Have him put it in a hamper. You don’t mind?’

‘I just said I didn’t,’ she assured him. ‘Charles, if we are to rub along together, you need to take me at my word.’

‘I suppose I must,’ he agreed.

She ate her luncheon on the terrace, which Starkey had swept clear, then went upstairs to count the sheets in Lord Hudley’s linen closet—prosaic work that suited her mood. Thank goodness he had an ample supply was her first thought, then she blushed to think of all the activity on all the beds in the manor, at least once a year, when he held his orgies. No wonder he had sheets, and good ones, too. It was the same with pillowslips and towels. The old rascal practically ran a hotel for geriatric roués just like him.

The admiral hadn’t returned by dinner. After a solitary meal in the breakfast room, she asked Starkey about it.

‘He likes his solitude, ma’am, when he’s troubled,’ Starkey said.

She could tell by the look he gave her that Starkey considered her at fault for the admiral’s mood. Let him think what he will, she decided, after an evening alone in the sitting room, where she made lists of projects for the house and tried to ignore the cupids overhead, with their amorous contortions.

To her bemusement, she did not sleep until she heard Bright’s footsteps on the stairs. She sat up in bed, her arms around her knees, as she heard him approach her door, stand there a moment, then cross the hall to his own room. She lay down then, wondering if he had changed his mind about their arrangement. She knew he was embarrassed about his tears and doubted he had ever cried in the presence of anyone, much less a woman. ‘Well, I cannot help that,’ she murmured prosaically, as she composed herself for sleep.

She wondered if she would sleep, considering last night’s adventure with the old gentleman from Northumberland. Hopefully, he was well on his way home. What was that he had called her—‘his fair Cyprian’? She smiled to herself, pleased that for one night at least, she was not thinking of ruin or poverty, or where her next meal was coming from.

She woke in the morning to the sound of noise downstairs, and men talking and laughing as they hammered. She sat up and rubbed her eyes at the same moment the admiral tapped on her door.

‘Come in, sir,’ she said, wishing for a small moment that her nightgown was not so thin from repeated washings.

She shouldn’t have worried. In his nightshirt and dressing gown, the admiral was as shabby as she was. It was an elaborate gown, though.

‘My stars, did you find that in the court of the Emperor of Japan?’ she asked, by way of greeting.

He carried a tea cup and saucer. She noticed he had not put on his hook yet, and his left sleeve hung over his wrist.

‘You’re close,’ he said, as he nudged the door shut behind him and came to her bed. To her surprise, he told her to shift her legs and sat down. He handed her the cup. ‘I was given this bit of silk and embroidery by the Emperor of China, whose name I cannot at the moment remember, but who had a fondness for the otter pelts I had brought him from a quick raid up the coast of New Albion. I have no idea what those Yanks call it now. But that was years ago, and it is scarcely fit for more than the dust bin.’

Amused, she sipped her tea. He watched her, a smile in his eyes. ‘You look extraordinarily fine in the early morning,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know your hair was so curly.’

‘I usually have it whipped into submission by this time,’ she replied.

‘Well, that’s a shame,’ he told her. ‘I rather like it this way.’ He touched one of her curls, wrapping it around his finger. He didn’t seem at all uncomfortable and she decided she liked it.

She wasn’t sure why he had come into her room, because he seemed content to just sit on the bed while she drank her tea. She heard a thump from downstairs, grateful that it gave her something to ask him.

‘Sir, what is going on down there?’

Her question seemed to remind him. ‘Aye, madam wife, I did have a reason to come in here. Lord Brimley is not wasting a moment to help us. He has sent over an army of workers who are, as we speak, rigging up scaffolding in the sitting room, with the sole purpose of ridding us of randy cupids.’ He leaned closer and again she breathed his bay rum. ‘Mrs Bright, think how pleasant it will be to embroider in your sitting room and not worry about what those imps are doing overhead.’

She could tell his mood had lifted. ‘You feel better,’ she said.

He leaned even closer until his forehead touched hers. ‘I do, madam. Thank you for allowing me solitude.’

‘You only have to mention it and I will understand,’ she said softly, since his face was so close to hers. ‘That is our arrangement.’

Maybe an imp had escaped from the carnage in the sitting room below. For whatever reason, the admiral raised her chin and kissed her lips. ‘I’m not very good at this, but I am grateful for your forbearance,’ he told her, when his lips were still so close to hers.

On the contrary, he was quite good. In fact, she was disappointed that he did not kiss her again. He’s learned that somewhere in the world, she thought, as she sat back, careful not to spill her tea into his lap, since he sat so close.

And there they sat, eyeing each other. Sally felt herself relax under his gaze, which was benign. The imp must have still been in the room, because she found herself saying, ‘I like it when you bring me tea in the morning.’

‘I like it, too,’ he said, his voice as soft as hers, almost as if he felt as shy. ‘It could become a habit.’ He dispelled the mood by flapping his empty sleeve at her and getting to his feet. ‘If you are equal to the task, I thought we would abandon Chez Bright today and go to Plymouth. The under-steward that Lord Brimley sent is a paragon, and he so much as informed me in such a polite way, that I am a supernumerary.’ He ruffled her hair, which made her laugh. ‘So are you, madam. If we intend to cut a dash in the neighbourhood, we had better get ourselves some clothing that doesn’t brand us as vagrants or felons.’

‘I am certain you do not pay Starkey enough,’ Sally told Bright as they settled back into a post chaise that the butler had arranged to convey them to Plymouth.

‘You are most likely correct,’ he replied. ‘To show you the total measure of his devotion to me, he even enquired to find the most slap-up-to-the-mark modiste in Plymouth. His comrades in the fleet would never believe such a thing. Starkey is normally quite a Puritan.’

He hoped his wife would pink up at this news, and she did, to his pleasure. Amazing how a woman teetering on the other side of thirty could blush at the mention of a modiste, and still manage to maintain her countenance in a roomful of cupids doing things some people didn’t even do behind bolted doors. He did not pretend to understand women. Looking at the pretty lady seated across from him, he thought it politic not to try. Better to let her surprise him with her wit, and most of all, her humanity. He was beginning to think the most impulsive gesture of his life was shaping into the best one.

The first thought on her mind, apparently miles ahead of new clothes, was to seek out a bookshop. ‘I want to find something to entertain Mrs Brustein,’ she explained, as he handed her down from the chaise. ‘I intend to visit her as often as I can, and read to her.’

Even on the short few days of their acquaintance, he already knew it would be fruitless to pull out his timepiece and point out that they were already late to her modiste’s appointment, but he tried. She gave him a kindly look, the type reserved for halfwits and small children, and darted into the bookshop. Knowing she had no money, he followed her in, standing patiently as she looked at one book, and then another.

He knew he had been attracted by her graceful ways, but his appreciation deepened as he admired the sparkle in her eyes. He wasn’t entirely certain when the sparkle had taken up residence there, but it might have been only since early morning, when he had screwed up his courage and knocked on her door, bearing tea. His dealings with women had informed him early in his career about the world that few women looked passable at first light. Sophie Bright must be the exception, he decided. She was glorious, sitting there in bed in a nightgown too thin for company, if that was what he was. The outline of her breasts had moved him to kiss her, when he wanted to do so much more.

And here she was in a bookshop, poring over book after book until she stopped, turned to him in triumph and said, ‘Aha!’

He took the little volume from her and glanced at the spine. ‘Shakespeare and his sonnets for an old lady?’

‘Most certainly,’ his wife said. ‘I will love them until I die, and surely I am not alone in this. Have you read them, sir?’

He wished she would call him Charles. ‘Not in many years,’ he told her. ‘I am not certain that Shakespeare wears well on a quarterdeck.’

She surprised him then, as tears came to her eyes, turning them into liquid pools. ‘You have missed out on so many things, haven’t you?’ She had hit on something every man in the fleet knew, and probably few landsmen.

‘Aye, madam wife, I have,’ he said. He held up the book. ‘You think it is not too late? I am not a hopeless specimen?’

She dabbed at her eyes, unable to say anything for a moment, as they stood together in the crowded bookshop.

He took her arm. ‘Sophie, don’t waste a tear on me over something we had no control over. I saw my duty and did it. So did everyone in the fleet.’ He paused, thinking of Lord Brimley’s young son, dead these many years and slipped into the Pacific Ocean somewhere off Valparaiso. ‘Some gave everything. Blame the gods of war.’

She is studying me, he thought, as her arm came around his waist and she held him close. I try to comfort her and she comforts me. Did a man ever strike a better bargain than the one I contracted with Sally Paul? Bright handed back the book. He gave her a shilling and returned to the post chaise, unable to continue another moment in the bookshop and wondering if there was any place on land where he felt content.

Maybe he was not so discontent. He watched his wife through the window as she quickly paid the proprietor, shook her head against taking time to wrap the sonnets in brown paper and hurried back to the chaise.

‘I’m sorry to delay you,’ she said, after he helped her in. ‘I don’t intend to be a trial to a punctual man.’

He held out his hand for the book. ‘Do you have a favourite sonnet?’ He fanned the air with the book. ‘Something not too heated for a nice old lady?’

To his delight, she left her seat on the opposite side of the chaise and sat next to him, turning the pages, her face so close to his that he could breathe in the delicate scent of her lavender face soap.

‘This one,’ she said. ‘Perhaps Mr Brustein will want to read this one to her: “Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws, and make the earth devour her own sweet brood…”’ She shook her head. ‘It’s too sad.’

He brushed away her fingers and kept reading. ‘Sophie, you’re a goose. This is an old man remembering how fair his love once was, but that doesn’t mean he’s sad about the matter.’ He kept reading aloud, thinking of the woman beside him, wondering how she would look in twenty years, even thirty years, if they were so lucky. I believe she will look better and better as time passes, he thought. ‘Sophie, Mrs Brustein cannot argue with this: “Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong; My love shall in my verse ever live young.”’

Charles looked at his new wife, the hasty bargain he made without much thought, beyond an overpowering desire to keep his sisters from meddling in his life. Shakespeare could say it so well, he told himself. You will always be young, too.

She looked at him in such an impish way that he felt the years fall away from him, too, much as from the sonneteer. ‘There, now,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t Shakespeare read better at forty-five than he did when you were ten and forced?’

She was teasing him; at the same time he was wondering if he had ever felt more in earnest. I will frighten her to death, he thought. This is a marriage of convenience. ‘You know he does!’ Charles handed back the book. ‘You and Mrs Brustein can sniffle and cry and wallow over the verses, and I doubt a better day will be spent anywhere.’

Sophie tucked the book in her reticule. He thought she might return to her side of the chaise, but she remained beside him. ‘Perhaps when we finish the sonnets, we will graduate to Byron. I will wear thick gloves, so my fingers do not scorch from the verse,’ she teased. She nudged his shoulder. ‘Thank you for buying this.’

‘Anything, my dear wife, to further our connections in the neighbourhood,’ he said. ‘After years of riotous living coming from that house we laughingly call home now, we have a lot of repair work to do.’

As the chaise stopped in front of Madame Soigne’s shop, he knew he had been saved from blurting out that he would prefer she read to him. A man can dream, he told himself, picturing his head in Sophie’s lap, while she read to him. A pity Shakespeare never wrote a sonnet about old admirals in love. No, well-seasoned admirals. I can’t recall a time when I have felt less ancient.

She hesitated in the doorway, hand on the doorknob, and looked back at him, which must have been his cue to join her and provide some husbandly support.

‘Cold feet, madam wife? I expect you to spend lots of money. In fact, I am counting on it.’

Still she hung back. ‘A few days ago, I didn’t even have any thread to sew up a hole in my stockings.’ She let go of the doorknob. ‘You know, if I go to a fabric warehouse and buy a couple of lengths of muslin, I can sew my own dresses.’

Charles put her hand back on the doorknob. ‘You don’t need to! Don’t get all Scottish on me.’ He turned the knob and gave her a little boost inside, where Madame and her minions stood. From the look of them, they had nothing on their minds except the kind of service it was becoming increasingly obvious that his wife was not accustomed to. Sophie looked ready to burst into tears.

He took her about the waist with his hooked arm, which gave him ample opportunity to tug off her bonnet with his bona fide hand and plant a kiss on her temple. ‘You can do this. Be a good girl and spend my money.’

He left her there, looking at him, her face pale. He turned to the modiste, who was eyeing Sophie with something close to disbelief. ‘She’s Scottish and doesn’t like to spend a groat. Whatever she agrees to buy, triple it.’

‘Charles!’

He liked the sound of that. He tipped his hat to her and left the shop.