Wind groaned in my chimney, and upstairs, Marianne dropped something else.
Janet rose and came to me. Her cotton gown smelled of soap and clean things. “I remember the first time I saw you. You were ready to murder those soldiers for playing cards for me.”
“They had no right to.”
“You had no right to break up the game before I found out who won.”
I chuckled. She leaned down and brushed my lips with hers.
I put my arms around her waist. My mouth remembered hers, my hands remembered her body, and we came together as though the seven years between this kiss and our last had only been seven days.
I took her to my cold bedroom and stoked the fire there, putting to flight my plan of conserving the rest of that week’s coal. We sat on the bed and touched and kissed each other, our hands and mouths discovering again what we had once known so well. I eased the hooks of her dress and chemise apart and slid my hands to her bare torso. She nuzzled my cheek, and my desire stirred, pressing aside my darkness.
Not long later, we lay tangled together in the firelight that spilled across the bed, the heat warming our skin. My senses embraced her—the smell of her hair, the sound of her breathing, the press of her body, the remembered taste of her mouth. I hadn’t known how much I needed her. I lay for a long time in her arms, managing to at last find a small bit of peace in that stark bedroom in the April night.
*** *** ***
The Beauchamps occupied a small house in a lane not far from Hampstead Heath, in a quiet turning with brick houses and tiny gardens. The afternoon sky was leaden as we approached, but a steady breeze kept mists from forming.
The sweet sounds of a pianoforte drifted from the right-hand window as Grenville and I approached and cut off when I plied the knocker to the black-painted door. A middle-aged man in butler’s kit opened the door and stared at me inquiringly. I gave him my card.
“Who is it?”
A woman, small and plump like the marsh thrushes from my corner of East Anglia, hovered on the threshold to the room with the pianoforte.
The butler held the card close to his eyes. “Captain Gabriel Lacey, madam.”
She looked blank. Grenville fished the letter from his pocket and held it up. “We’ve come in answer to your husband’s letter. About Miss Morrison.”
“Oh.” She peered at both of us in turn. “Oh dear. Cavendish, go and fetch Mr. Beauchamp. Tell him to come to the music room. Would you follow me, please, gentlemen?”
I limped after her to the music room, which was dominated by the pianoforte. A violin and bow lay on a sofa, and sheets of music littered the floor, the tables, the top of the pianoforte.
“Please sit. My husband will be here directly. I knew he’d written you, but I did not expect an answer so soon.”
I moved aside a handwritten sheet of musical notes, with “Prelude in D; Johann Christian Bach,” scribbled across the top.
“We were anxious to speak with you,” Grenville said as he sat on a divan and smoothed his elegant trousers. “So we thought it best to come right away.”
I eyed him askance but said nothing. Mrs. Beauchamp hastened to me and took away the violin and sheets of music. “I beg your pardon. We are a very musical family, as you can see.”
“I heard you play as we arrived,” I said. “You have much skill.”
She blushed. “It does for us. Charlotte—Miss Morrison—plays a beautiful harp. Many’s the night we had a trio here, with me on the pianoforte, Mr. Beauchamp on the violin, and Charlotte there.” She glanced at an upright harp covered with a dust cloth. Her face paled, and she bit her lip and turned away.
“Gentlemen.”
Mr. Beauchamp stood on the threshold. He was small and plump like his wife, putting me in mind of two partridges in their nest. He went to Mrs. Beauchamp and dropped a kiss on her raised cheek then held his hand out to me.
Both Beauchamps were past middle age, but beauty still lingered in the
Janet rose and came to me. Her cotton gown smelled of soap and clean things. “I remember the first time I saw you. You were ready to murder those soldiers for playing cards for me.”
“They had no right to.”
“You had no right to break up the game before I found out who won.”
I chuckled. She leaned down and brushed my lips with hers.
I put my arms around her waist. My mouth remembered hers, my hands remembered her body, and we came together as though the seven years between this kiss and our last had only been seven days.
I took her to my cold bedroom and stoked the fire there, putting to flight my plan of conserving the rest of that week’s coal. We sat on the bed and touched and kissed each other, our hands and mouths discovering again what we had once known so well. I eased the hooks of her dress and chemise apart and slid my hands to her bare torso. She nuzzled my cheek, and my desire stirred, pressing aside my darkness.
Not long later, we lay tangled together in the firelight that spilled across the bed, the heat warming our skin. My senses embraced her—the smell of her hair, the sound of her breathing, the press of her body, the remembered taste of her mouth. I hadn’t known how much I needed her. I lay for a long time in her arms, managing to at last find a small bit of peace in that stark bedroom in the April night.
*** *** ***
The Beauchamps occupied a small house in a lane not far from Hampstead Heath, in a quiet turning with brick houses and tiny gardens. The afternoon sky was leaden as we approached, but a steady breeze kept mists from forming.
The sweet sounds of a pianoforte drifted from the right-hand window as Grenville and I approached and cut off when I plied the knocker to the black-painted door. A middle-aged man in butler’s kit opened the door and stared at me inquiringly. I gave him my card.
“Who is it?”
A woman, small and plump like the marsh thrushes from my corner of East Anglia, hovered on the threshold to the room with the pianoforte.
The butler held the card close to his eyes. “Captain Gabriel Lacey, madam.”
She looked blank. Grenville fished the letter from his pocket and held it up. “We’ve come in answer to your husband’s letter. About Miss Morrison.”
“Oh.” She peered at both of us in turn. “Oh dear. Cavendish, go and fetch Mr. Beauchamp. Tell him to come to the music room. Would you follow me, please, gentlemen?”
I limped after her to the music room, which was dominated by the pianoforte. A violin and bow lay on a sofa, and sheets of music littered the floor, the tables, the top of the pianoforte.
“Please sit. My husband will be here directly. I knew he’d written you, but I did not expect an answer so soon.”
I moved aside a handwritten sheet of musical notes, with “Prelude in D; Johann Christian Bach,” scribbled across the top.
“We were anxious to speak with you,” Grenville said as he sat on a divan and smoothed his elegant trousers. “So we thought it best to come right away.”
I eyed him askance but said nothing. Mrs. Beauchamp hastened to me and took away the violin and sheets of music. “I beg your pardon. We are a very musical family, as you can see.”
“I heard you play as we arrived,” I said. “You have much skill.”
She blushed. “It does for us. Charlotte—Miss Morrison—plays a beautiful harp. Many’s the night we had a trio here, with me on the pianoforte, Mr. Beauchamp on the violin, and Charlotte there.” She glanced at an upright harp covered with a dust cloth. Her face paled, and she bit her lip and turned away.
“Gentlemen.”
Mr. Beauchamp stood on the threshold. He was small and plump like his wife, putting me in mind of two partridges in their nest. He went to Mrs. Beauchamp and dropped a kiss on her raised cheek then held his hand out to me.
Both Beauchamps were past middle age, but beauty still lingered in the
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