father? Would he choose a
proper wife, a good woman, a warm and caring woman with no passion to offer?
“What about love?”
Simon had attempted to play it off as a joke, but she
wondered if he did not truly yearn to break with the customs of polite society
and marry for love rather than pedigree and profit. Surely he would marry, he
had a title to pass on to his heir. He had no brothers or sisters.
When Beatrice and Gerald arrived home, Bertie had not yet
returned from whatever business had drawn him from the house before dawn. She
was reluctant to go into the silent house where she would have only her own
thoughts for company. She lingered in the cool shade of the stables after she
had put away Lancelot with fresh water and oats. She removed her hat and sat
upon a bale of hay and leaned back to relax against the wall behind her. Gerald
went from stall to stall tending to Moorehead’s horses, singing an old ballad
that Beatrice remembered from her childhood. She had listened to Tom Jenkins
sing the very same song as he went about his work.
Beatrice closed her eyes and hummed along with him. She felt
herself drifting to sleep and thought to rise and make her way inside for a
bath and a nap. Instead she slid down on to the warm hay, rolled on her side
with a soft sigh and, utterly content in the stables surrounded by the sounds
and the smells of her childhood, fell asleep. She awoke some time later to find
Gerald crouched in front of her, gently shaking her shoulder.
“Miss Beatrice, you’d best wake up.” He spoke softly as if
afraid to startle her.
“Oh Gerald, I was having the most marvelous dream.” She
blinked up at him until he came into focus. “I dreamt I was home. I was in the
stables and Tom was singing to the horses.”
“A marvelous dream, to be sure,” he said. “Don’t you worry,
Miss Beatrice, you’ll be home soon enough.”
Beatrice took his hand and allowed him to help her to her
feet and lead her out into the sunshine.
“My goodness, it’s bright out here,” she said, shielding her
eyes with her hand to allow them to adjust to the sunlight. “How long was I
sleeping?”
“An hour or more,” he replied.
“Gerald, you are a dear to have allowed me to sleep. I feel
wonderfully refreshed.”
“Wait here,” he said and turned back into the open doorway.
He returned carrying her hat.
“You’ve hay in your hair,” he told her and proceeded to pick
the offending bits from her sleep-tousled coiffure. When he had groomed her to
his satisfaction he placed her hat upon her head and adjusted it at a jaunty
angle. Beatrice laughed softly and held out her hand to him. He clasped it and
bowed over it.
“Until tomorrow,” he said, grinning at her.
“Until tomorrow,” she agreed before turning toward the
house.
* * * * *
Beatrice reclined in the big tub in the bathing room
attached to her room. She had found that a good long soak in that great tub
could help to relax her natural restlessness. Most days she could find a
measure of peace and put aside her worrying and plotting, even if just for an
hour.
Unfortunately, now was not one of those times.
Her mind was filled with images of Simon. She thought back
to their time together yesterday. She had felt his eyes upon her all through
the afternoon, like a caress.
“I want you too .” She was amazed that she had found
the courage to speak the words aloud to him. But she had. And she did. She
wanted him desperately. When he was near, her desire was a living, throbbing
thing that made her heart race, her ears ring, and her skin burn. When she was
away from him and allowed herself to think of him, to remember the way he
touched her, as she did now, she felt lightheaded and anxious. Anxious for the
next time she could see him, kiss him and feel his warm body pressed so
intimately to hers.
“I want to come into you and hear you cry out my name.”
She had cried out his name in the dark shade of the maze and
he had demanded she repeat
proper wife, a good woman, a warm and caring woman with no passion to offer?
“What about love?”
Simon had attempted to play it off as a joke, but she
wondered if he did not truly yearn to break with the customs of polite society
and marry for love rather than pedigree and profit. Surely he would marry, he
had a title to pass on to his heir. He had no brothers or sisters.
When Beatrice and Gerald arrived home, Bertie had not yet
returned from whatever business had drawn him from the house before dawn. She
was reluctant to go into the silent house where she would have only her own
thoughts for company. She lingered in the cool shade of the stables after she
had put away Lancelot with fresh water and oats. She removed her hat and sat
upon a bale of hay and leaned back to relax against the wall behind her. Gerald
went from stall to stall tending to Moorehead’s horses, singing an old ballad
that Beatrice remembered from her childhood. She had listened to Tom Jenkins
sing the very same song as he went about his work.
Beatrice closed her eyes and hummed along with him. She felt
herself drifting to sleep and thought to rise and make her way inside for a
bath and a nap. Instead she slid down on to the warm hay, rolled on her side
with a soft sigh and, utterly content in the stables surrounded by the sounds
and the smells of her childhood, fell asleep. She awoke some time later to find
Gerald crouched in front of her, gently shaking her shoulder.
“Miss Beatrice, you’d best wake up.” He spoke softly as if
afraid to startle her.
“Oh Gerald, I was having the most marvelous dream.” She
blinked up at him until he came into focus. “I dreamt I was home. I was in the
stables and Tom was singing to the horses.”
“A marvelous dream, to be sure,” he said. “Don’t you worry,
Miss Beatrice, you’ll be home soon enough.”
Beatrice took his hand and allowed him to help her to her
feet and lead her out into the sunshine.
“My goodness, it’s bright out here,” she said, shielding her
eyes with her hand to allow them to adjust to the sunlight. “How long was I
sleeping?”
“An hour or more,” he replied.
“Gerald, you are a dear to have allowed me to sleep. I feel
wonderfully refreshed.”
“Wait here,” he said and turned back into the open doorway.
He returned carrying her hat.
“You’ve hay in your hair,” he told her and proceeded to pick
the offending bits from her sleep-tousled coiffure. When he had groomed her to
his satisfaction he placed her hat upon her head and adjusted it at a jaunty
angle. Beatrice laughed softly and held out her hand to him. He clasped it and
bowed over it.
“Until tomorrow,” he said, grinning at her.
“Until tomorrow,” she agreed before turning toward the
house.
* * * * *
Beatrice reclined in the big tub in the bathing room
attached to her room. She had found that a good long soak in that great tub
could help to relax her natural restlessness. Most days she could find a
measure of peace and put aside her worrying and plotting, even if just for an
hour.
Unfortunately, now was not one of those times.
Her mind was filled with images of Simon. She thought back
to their time together yesterday. She had felt his eyes upon her all through
the afternoon, like a caress.
“I want you too .” She was amazed that she had found
the courage to speak the words aloud to him. But she had. And she did. She
wanted him desperately. When he was near, her desire was a living, throbbing
thing that made her heart race, her ears ring, and her skin burn. When she was
away from him and allowed herself to think of him, to remember the way he
touched her, as she did now, she felt lightheaded and anxious. Anxious for the
next time she could see him, kiss him and feel his warm body pressed so
intimately to hers.
“I want to come into you and hear you cry out my name.”
She had cried out his name in the dark shade of the maze and
he had demanded she repeat
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