But she had him now. And his skin was warm, and the sound of his sigh when she touched him was full of longing. Randolph’s depravities mustn’t be allowed to linger or to poison what was between them. But he wouldn’t reach for her first—the brutality of the story she’d told had appalled him and made him careful, wary of touching her. So she touched him. The silky skin over his hipbone. The hardness of his thigh. And she tasted him. The salty-sweet hollow in the base of his throat. His mouth. The palm of his hand and his long, sensitive fingers.
Gasping, he tried to pull her down, but she slipped out of his grasp. She needed him this way, receiving instead of giving. She couldn’t speak the words, but she had to show him what she felt. She had to make love.
“He made me do this to him,” she whispered, letting her hair graze his stomach.
“Rachel—-”
“I hated it. It made me gag.” His strong, narrow hips were beautiful; she rested her hands on the sides and stroked the tops of his thighs with her thumbs. Dark hair grew in a line from his navel to his groin. She brushed the length of it with her tongue.
“Rachel. God, Rachel.”
“He said it was good. He said it gave him pleasure. Do you like it?”
He had his fist on his forehead, grinding it between his eyebrows. All he could say was her name.
She took him in her mouth. “I can taste both of us,” she murmured after a moment, and he brought his fist down on the sheet beside them with helpless violence. She knew everything, all the refinements that would please him, but she listened, listened, watched and felt, alert to the subtlest nuance of his pleasure. When he couldn’t stand any more, he reached for her—but she shifted away again, wouldn’t let him take her. “Let go,” she whispered—exactly as he’d whispered it to her. She smiled into his startled face. If he had eyes to see, he must know that she loved him. “Don’t hold back. Give yourself to me, Sebastian. Because I want you.”
She let him keep her hand when he grabbed for it. He squeezed it tight, so tight he was hurting her—but then his punishing grip slackened and a groan tore from his throat. Panting, he lifted his head from the pillow and dropped it back heavily, twice, too stunned to speak. She could feel him trembling, feel the tension in his muscles and the light sheen of sweat everywhere she touched him. His fingers tangled in her hair. “Rachel,” he said on a sigh, and he sounded sated, resigned, almost hopeless. “Too much. Oh God, Rachel.”
She rested beside him, her arm across his waist, thinking, Ah, then you know how it feels. It was good that he knew. When she left him, they could feel, at least for a time, the same loss.
XVIII
RACHEL WAS LEANING over the arch of the stone bridge, tossing sprigs of pimpernel into the river and watching the sluggish current carry them away, when she heard a light footstep on the dusty stones. Looking up, she saw Sidony Timms, smiling shyly, coming toward her from the direction of the house.
“Saw you from out the window,” she greeted Rachel, taking a place beside her. “Thought I’d come out and say good afternoon t’ you. I don’t get to talk to you as much now that I’m workin’ in the dairy.”
“Mr. Holyoake tells me you’re doing very well, Sidony. Do you like it?”
“Yes, ma’am, I like it fine. I can never say thank you enough for thinking of it for me.”
“But I didn’t think of it, William did.”
Sidony ducked her head, acknowledging that. “He did, didn’t ’er He’s been ever so kind to me, Mrs. Wade. You ought to see the place he fixed up in the barn for me to sleep in. It’s nicer’n my room at home! These last weeks, I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy.”
She looked happy. Healthier, too, and there was a new confidence in the way she moved. Her limp was improving, but Dr. Hesselius had examined her again recently, and his judgment was that she would always be lame.
“I’m glad you like your new job,” Rachel told her. “It was kind of Mr. Holyoake to fix the place in the barn for you.”
“It was,” she agreed.
Rachel hesitated, then asked, “Do you ever see your father?”
“I saw ’im in church last Sunday. He wouldn’t look at me, so I didn’t speak to ’im. It’s hard on him, I think, me being gone from home. Not just the work. I expect he’s lonely on his own.”
Rachel tried to dredge up some sympathy for Marcus Timms, but found she had none to spare.
“I could never go back, though. Even though I forgive him, I can’t be his daughter anymore. Sometimes . . .” She sighed, resting her forearms on the ledge and leaning over to look at the water. “Sometimes I feel like I’m an old, old lady. Mrs. Wade?”
“Yes?”
“I was wanting to ask you about something.” She sent her a quick glance from under her lashes. “It’s kind of personal. It’s about me, not you,” she clarified hastily, and Rachel relaxed, smiling to think Sidony could read her so easily.
“Go ahead,” she invited. “Ask me anything you like.”
“Well, ma’am, it’s about Mr. Holyoake. He’s been ever so nice to me, as I said, what wi’ the place in the cow barn, and talkin’ to me in the evenings when I can’t sleep and he can’t either. He’s probably the best man I’ve ever known. He’s not a real gentleman, I know that, not like is lordship or anything—but to me he is, you know, because he’s good. And strong, and he would never tell a lie nor do a dishonest deed.”
“William has been kind to me as well, Sidony. He is a gentleman. In the truest sense.”
“There, ma’am, I knew you would understand. I don’t know why I can talk to you, you being educated and a lady and all. But I can.”
Rachel knew why, but she didn’t tell Sidony the reason. She was ready to receive the girl’s confidences, but not, regardless of how much their unhappy pasts had in common, ready to share any of her own. Not with anyone but Sebastian.
So she only smiled and said, “I’m glad you feel you can trust me. Is something troubling you about William?”
“Well . . . ‘troubling’ bain’t the word, exactly,” she said slowly. “Here’s how it is. I talk a lot to ’im at night, sometimes in the barn, other times walkin’ on the grounds, and I been telling him things about myself. Things about my father, but not just that. Once I told him what I wished would happen to me—that I’d find somebody who could love me, and we’d get married and have a family. And I told him why I know it will never happen.”
“Why?”
“Because,” she said simply, “I’m a cripple.”
“Sidony. You’re not a cripple. You walk with a limp, that’s all. And you’re pretty, smart—any man would be lucky to have you for a wife.”
“That’s just what Mr. Holyoake said.”
“Well, then. Two wise old adults have given you excellent advice. I hope you listen to us.”
Instead of returning her smile, Sidony looked troubled. “Now that’s just it. How old a man would you say Mr. Holyoake is, ma’am?
She thought. “Forty?”
“That’s what I’d’ve said, too. But no, he bain’t but thirty-five. I know because he told me last night when I asked. And here’s the next thing. Last Sunday Bob Douthwaite asked if he could walk home with me from church. I said no thank you, and that night I asked Mr. Holyoake if I’d done right to say no.”
“What did he say?”
Sidony turned her back to the river and perched her elbows on the stone ledge. “What he said—do what I think’s right, all that—it’s not really . . . that’s not exactly what I wanted to tell you. The way he looked, the way he said I must do what was best for myself, so on and so forth—Mrs. Wade, you’ll hardly credit it, but I had the strongest feeling just then that Mr. Holyoake might be fond of me himself. And not in the way of an old man caring for a child. The other way.”
“I see.” Rachel kept her face mild, to disguise her astonish
ment. But as the seconds passed and the idea had time to sink in, she grew less amazed and more intrigued. “Did he . . . say anything that would make you think he had feelings for you?”
“Not in words. To tell you the truth, I don’t think he ever would. Ever will. He thinks he’s old, and what’s worse, he thinks I’m a little girl. No, that’s not right—he thinks he ought to think I’m a little girl. I don’t know why; it’s part o’ him being a gentleman, I suppose. But the truth is, Mrs. Wade, I stopped being a child a long time ago. I just don’t know how to tell something like that to Mr. Holyoake. Or if I should. Or what I ought t’ do. Or if I ought t’ do anything a’tall.” She heaved a massive sigh and turned back around, dropping her forearms over the bridge, gazing down into the river.
Rachel gazed down at it with her. Advice-giving was even newer to her than decision-making. Sidony seemed to want advice, but did she really need it? In truth, she wasn’t a child; the longer Rachel knew her, the more she thought her wise, and certainly experienced in life’s random cruelties, beyond her years. “How do you feel?” she asked hesitantly. “About William, I mean. Could you care for him as a man?”
“Oh, ma’am, I already do.”
“Oh.” Rachel smiled with surprise and pleasure. “Well, that simplifies things.”
“Does it? But I don’t even hardly know him. And how can I get to know ’im if he keeps on behaving to me like I’m twelve years old?”
Her frustration told Rachel the case was more serious than she’d thought. “Could you say something to him? Would it embarrass you to tell him how you feel?”
“Well . . . I don’t mind being forward so much. What I’d mind is him thinking I’m forward.”
“Hmm. But on the other hand, he might be relieved to have it out in the open. If you wait for William to speak first . . .”
“I might go to ’is funeral and then die an old maid myself,” Sidony finished with a laugh. They lapsed into thoughtful silence. “The main thing I was wanting to ask,” she said at length, “is if you think he’s too old for me.”
“Sidony, I can’t tell you that. It’s not for me to say.”
“No, but—if you was to hear that me and Mr. Holyoake was together, like, and you didn’t know anything else, just that. Would you be slanderized?”
“Scandalized? No,” she said slowly, thinking she wasn’t the best person to ask such a question. One dubious lesson penal servitude taught was a vast, perhaps an extreme tolerance for every human frailty except heartlessness. Still, the more she thought of sweet Sidony and sturdy, honest William together, the more the idea appealed to her. “No, I wouldn’t,” she said more forcefully. “Because I know you both to be good and decent people who would never take advantage of another, never betray anyone’s trust. If I heard you were together . . . I would be glad for you. I would think, how grand that these two friends of mine have found each other. And I would wish you happiness.”
When she smiled, Sidony’s small, piquant face lit up like sunshine on a daisy. She reached impulsively for Rachel’s hand and squeezed it. “Oh, ma’am. Oh, that’s—I think it’s just what I wanted to hear. Thank you. For listening to me rattle on, and for saying such a kind thing.”
“There’s nothing to thank me for.” She’d have said more, but Sidony was backing away from her with a little dance step, looking like an excited pixie.
“I know where he is—in the stables wi’ Collie. I’ll go talk to him right now.”
“Well, if you think you should—”
“Oh, now’s the time, while I got my courage up! Don’t worry,” she called from the end of the bridge, “I’ll go slow and careful. I wouldn’t want to scare ’im to death!” With a wave, she whirled, gathered up her skirts, and dashed for the stables.
In a thoughtful mood, smiling to herself, Rachel began to stroll along the thin path that edged the far side of the riverbank. As unexpected as it was, the conversation with Sidony had cheered her. How lovely, really, if William and the dairy maid could find a little happiness together. But what a surprise! And how unpredictable life could be! Something else she’d acquired from ten years in prison was an inability to believe, really believe in the possibility of change—which must, she thought, be the very definition of despondency. But change was not only possible, it was constant—-great, weighty, life-altering changes occurring all the time, not to mention the slighter, less dramatic changes you barely noticed. Her own circumstances proved it. The difference between the woman she’d become and the one she’d been four months ago was the difference between light and dark, hope and no hope. And for good or ill, regardless of whether it could last or not, she owed the change to Sebastian.
Lost in her thoughts, she saw that she’d wandered out of sight of the house. She had no watch, but by the August sky she reckoned it was about eleven o’clock. Time for her meeting with Monsieur Judelet. They met every morning to talk about the day’s menu; or rather, she listened while he talked. She picked up her skirts and hurried back toward the Hall.
Cory, one of the stable lads, was loitering in the courtyard, holding the reins of two horses, one a swaybacked pony with a half-eaten tail. She recognized it; it belonged to Constable Burdy. She hadn’t seen him in weeks. What would he be doing here? She crossed the courtyard uncertainly. As she approached the steps, Burdy and another man came backing out the door to the Hall; she had to sidestep smartly to get out of their way. She started when she recognized the second man. It was Chief Constable Lewes, the policeman she’d had to report to once a month in Tavistock.
The cause of his and Burdy’s clumsy haste was Sebastian, who was bearing down on them like a baited bull. His voice preceded his black, angry countenance. “It’s a mistake, I’m telling you. Even if it weren’t, she’s in my custody. It’s not as if she’s plotting an escape, for God’s—” He stopped short when he saw her.
She came closer. “What’s the matter? What’s happened?”
Lewes was a stout, red-faced roman with small, black, unkind eyes. She’d disliked him on sight, and hadn’t changed her opinion over the course of their acquaintance; the combination of callousness and stupidity with which he went about his job reminded her of almost every prison guard she’d ever known. “Mrs. Wade,” he exclaimed, rounding on her. She stepped back involuntarily, but he closed the gap and stood over her. “Mrs. Wade, I’ve got here a warrant for your arrest.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. Throwing a panicky glance at Sebastian, she asked, “Why?”
“On account of you violated the conditions of your release.”
“No, no, I didn’t.”
“Where were you on Friday, then, and the last three Wednesdays running? And where’s the pound and ten shillings you owes the Crown for your fine?”
She stared at him. “But I don’t have to do that anymore!” She realized she was shaking. “My ticket of leave was remitted. I have a letter.”
“What letter?”
“From the Home Secretary. It came—”
“If you got a letter from the Home Secretary, the sheriff would’ve got one, too,” he said stolidly. “I’d’ve seen it, and so would Burdy. Nobody in the county knows nothing about a letter.”
Sebastian stepped in front of her, and his tall, hard body blocking the constable steadied her a little. “If Mrs. Wade says she received a letter, then she received it. I wouldn’t advise you to call my housekeeper a liar.”
“Nobody’s calling nobody a liar, my lord,” Lewes said quickly, his ruddy cheeks turning redder. Beside him, Burdy seemed to get a little smaller. “I got this warrant for the woman, which I duly drew up on account of Mrs. Wade not abiding by the conditions of her release. Mayor Vanstone signed it,” he added, jabbing the air with a folded piece of paper. “If there’s a remittal letter, I’d like to see it, because otherwise it’s my duty to execute this warrant.”
“I’ll get it,�
�� Rachel said before Sebastian could speak. She raced up the steps, leaving the three men in the courtyard.
It was silly to run, but she couldn’t help it; by the time she reached her room she was out of breath and panting. She flung the door open wide and strode to her desk, jerked out the middle drawer. She kept her personal papers under the accounts ledger—not that she had that many, just her original release document and the two letters her brother had written to her years ago from Canada. And the Home Secretary’s letter.
It wasn’t there.
She searched again, feeling her palms dampen with perspiration. The two side drawers were for pens, pencils, stamps and envelopes, bills and receipts. She searched them anyway.
Not there.
She kept the housekeeping money in a strongbox. Her lingers trembled while she fitted the key into the lock—because she knew the letter couldn’t be in there.
It wasn’t.
Her mind went dangerously blank. She hated the tight, icy feeling under her breastbone, the chill vise of fear. They couldn’t arrest her again; Sebastian wouldn’t let them. He was a magistrate—he was a viscount! Anyway, the letter must be here, there was no place else it could be. She started her search over again, and when it was as futile as the first time, she widened it to her bedroom—the drawer in the little table beside her bed.
Nothing.
She made herself walk slowly back down the hall, calming herself with deep breaths. Outside, Sebastian and the two constables looked grim, as if they hadn’t exchanged a single word since she’d left. They turned when they heard her in the doorway. Girding herself, she told them the news.
“I can’t find the letter. It isn’t where I put it.”
Sebastian’s mouth hardened; she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. She needed to touch him—but of course she couldn’t. Lewes, whose job was to take her into custody now, looked at once self-important and uncomfortable, as if the hazards involved in arresting Lord D’Aubrey’s mistress were just occurring to him. “Well, now,” he said uneasily. “In that case, it appears I’ve got no—”