Jessie began to laugh after her fourth glass of champagne, thank the munificent Lord. She waved her hand to ward off a bee and James said, “Careful, Jessie, you nearly knocked over our remaining precious bottle.”
She shoved the bottle down between her legs. “There, now it’s safe.”
He looked at that bottle and knew he had to act before he was too drunk to do more than belch. “Do you think you’re feeling silly enough now to lie back and let me kiss you?”
She stared down at him. She looked worried, eager, and more afraid than a sinner in a roomful of preachers. “Yes,” she said, “let’s kiss.”
“Put the bottle over there. Yes, that’s right. Now, just relax, Jessie.”
“Just one more small glass, James,” she said, poured it, drank it down in one gulp, and then gave him the silly smile of a girl who, sober, would have been terrified out of her mind. She lay on her back, stretched out, and arranged her hands over her chest as if she were dead. He felt he should pick a foxglove and put it between her fingers.
He leaned over her and kissed her closed mouth, smiling even as he said, “Open up, just a little bit. Pretend I’m a small but succulent piece of something good to eat, say a bit of Badger’s garnished tongue.”
She opened her mouth beneath his, and James felt as though he’d been struck in the gut. She tasted of champagne—he’d expected that—but she also just tasted sweet and strangely exotic, and he wanted more. She didn’t taste like a brat. He was careful to keep his hands on her arms, careful not to stick his tongue in her mouth, careful to control himself. He feared he’d kiss her yet again and really get things started when suddenly she’d turn into the fourteen-year-old again—a girl, not a woman.
He stopped a moment and pulled back. Her eyes were open, as was her mouth. She was staring up at him.
“What is it?”
To his surprise and amusement, she flushed. She actually turned red and looked away from him.
“What’s the matter? Come now, I’m your husband and you’ve known me since you were barely able to ride a horse.”
“The champagne is wonderful, but I have a problem.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t be obtuse, James. I have to relieve myself.”
He tried not to laugh; he couldn’t help himself. “Undone by a bottle of champagne. Well, I’ll wait for you here, Jessie. There are some lovely bushes just over behind that stand of maples.”
She struggled to her feet, smoothed down her skirts, and turned to walk with exaggerated care toward that stand of maple trees. She never looked once at him.
He lay back against that sun-heated rock and began humming one of the Duchess’s ditties. He hummed another ditty, and then a third. He drank another glass of champagne. Then he frowned.
He rose, cupped his hand around his mouth, and called out, “Jessie? Are you all right?”
There was no answer, only the soft rustle of the summer leaves in the light afternoon breeze.
“Jessie!” He was on his feet, worried now, surprised that he wasn’t all that steady. He dumped the rest of the champagne on a bed of nestergroot, hoped they wouldn’t croak, and went to the trees.
He found her on the ground, on her side, her face pillowed on her hands. She was in a sodden stupor.
“Well, hell,” James said. Now he’d have to do it all over again. He wondered if she’d be ill when she came out of her stupor. He was willing to bet Badger hadn’t thought this would be the outcome of his generous gift.
Jessie wanted to die. She didn’t want to say good-bye to anybody. She just wanted to breathe her last, slowly, gently, and then waft away. She opened her eyes just once, but the intense bright light made her head pound so violently and her belly twist in gigantic knots that she knew the end must be very near.
“It’s a hangover, Jessie. Here, Mrs. Catsdoor made you a special brew that should help a bit. I’ll just lift you, there, that’s it. Now drink it all down.”
“James? You’re here with me?”
“Yes. Drink.” He got it all down her but it was a chore because it only seemed to make Jessie sicker. The concoction kept dribbling down her chin, and she kept choking. It was a foul brew; he knew that because he’d had a glass of it himself. But it would help in the long run.
“Poor Jessie,” he said, and laid a cool, damp cloth on her forehead. “No, keep your eyes and your mouth shut. You’re at Candlethorpe, in your bedchamber. I managed to get both of us on top of Bertram though he didn’t want to volunteer for the duty, the selfish sod, and complained most of the way home, slapping that long tail of his against my leg. I held you, all boneless, your head falling over my arm, and held the reins to Esmerelda in my left hand. That mare found the entire ride to Candlethorpe something of an adventure. She was also eyeing Bertram with a good deal of filly interest.”
Jessie wet her lips with a dry tongue but was wise enough to keep her eyes closed. She had to know. Because she felt ready for death, because she knew a person couldn’t bear this agony for very long, she was able to ask, “Did you mount me, James? Is it all over now? Was it all right? I didn’t make a spectacle of myself, did I? You will remember me fondly, won’t you, once I die?”
He was so surprised he just stared down at her, quickly pulling the cloth down a bit farther to cover her eyes. He knew he couldn’t lie to her any better than she could to him if she were looking at him. What to do?
“Oh dear, was it that bad? You can tell me the truth. Was it horrible for you? Do you want me to leave? I don’t think I can because I’m sure the end is near, so that will be just as well, won’t it?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say it was horrible—no, not at all. And yes, I’ll always remember you fondly, Jessie.”
“That’s a lie. You’ve cursed at me more than you have at your horses.”
“Perhaps, but death softens and blurs memories. I’ll wager after you’ve been gone only six months or so, I’ll have only fond memories of you.”
“How did you manage to mount me with all my clothes on?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it difficult. You were very pliable, very cooperative. Don’t you remember how you wanted me to get it all over with so things could get back to normal between us?”
“The last thing I remember is thinking the hollyhocks were the brightest pinks and reds I’d ever seen. I don’t remember anything else. And now it’s too late. I’ll die a virgin in spirit if not in flesh.”
“You are a very nice virgin.”
“What do you mean ‘are’?”
“Well, actually, I was thinking spiritually.”
“Was my fleshly virgin part acceptable, James?”
“Well, you must remember that you were extraordinarily pliable, Jessie. It required a lot of skill and concentration on my part just to accomplish everything and get us back to Candlethorpe.”
He watched as she lifted her left hand and touched her fingers to her nightgown. “You took off my clothes? You undressed me and put me in my nightgown?”
“Well, someone had to make you more comfortable. We are married, Jessie.”
“Oh dear, I don’t like this at all, James. I can’t even remember your taking off my clothes there in the meadow, much less remember your doing it again here. Did you even pull off my boots and stockings? However did you get me to stay up on my hands and knees so you could mount me? I would have thought I’d collapse.”
“Well, one doesn’t always have to pull off all of one’s clothing. Boots can stay on sometimes. It’s occasionally seductive, as are stockings held up with garters. Another thing, Jessie, men don’t always mount women. Men and women aren’t horses all the time.”
“I suppose I should thank you for getting it done so adeptly that I don’t remember a thing about it.”
“If you will remember, Jessie, I did tell you to trust me.”
If he wasn’t mistaken she suddenly turned a vile shade of green. He wasn’t stupid and he was fast. He got the basin to her just in time. She s
huddered and heaved and retched while he held her, careful to keep her braid from falling in her face. When finally the spasms were over, he said, “Poor Jessie, I’m sorry. Here, rinse out your mouth. You’ll be better now, you’ll see.”
She lay back against the pillows, moaning, her hands clutching at her stomach.
“Let me die now, James, please. Go away. I want to breathe my last by myself. Please say good-bye to Esmerelda for me. You will take good care of her, won’t you?”
“Yes, I swear I will.”
“Good-bye, James. I’m sorry you have to be a widower again, but it’s for the best.” She sighed deeply, saying in a whisper, “For you to become fond of me in six months isn’t bad.”
“It might not even take six months.” He laid the cloth over her eyes again, gently folded her arms over her chest, and said, “The six years went quickly, Jessie.” She moaned as he rose. He waited until her breathing evened into sleep.
Mrs. Catsdoor was waiting for him in the corridor. “How is she, Master James?”
“She wanted to die alone.”
“Aye, it’s like the darkness before the dawn. That was my granny’s special brew. She always said that my grandda was a man who couldn’t hold more than a small dram of demon rum but that she knew he couldn’t help himself and thus if she wanted to have a husband for longer than a year, she had to invent something to ease him.”
“Did your grandda last longer than a year?”
Mrs. Catsdoor looked philosophical. “Yes, indeed, Master James. He’s all of seventy-two now, no teeth at all in his head, and drinks like a thirsty goat. We buried my granny twenty years ago. We found gallons of her brew in the cellar. He finished the final one some five years ago.”
“There’s something passing strange if that’s the moral to that tale, Mrs. Catsdoor.”
She sighed. “I’ve always thought so, Master James. Your new bride isn’t used to spirits, is she?”
“No, I believe, though, that the bottle and a half of champagne she consumed today will keep her free of intoxication for a good ten years.”
“That’s what my grandda used to chant like a monk when he felt particularly revolting. His vow never lasted out the day.”
James decided he wanted to meet grandda. “We’ll let her sleep through the night, Mrs. Catsdoor. If she does wake up, though, could you make something she could eat and keep in her belly if she’s hungry?”
James didn’t particularly want to eat either, but he liked Mrs. Catsdoor’s porridge with the honey she mixed in it. He finished the bowl just before he took off his clothes and climbed into bed next to his sodden wife.
He leaned over her for a moment, lowering his ear to her chest. Her heart was slow and steady. “You’re not dead yet, Jessie.”
19
I’M ALIVE, JESSIE thought, reasonably pleased, and then unutterably relieved once she realized she wasn’t still so vilely ill that she wanted to die. She raised a tentative finger, then her whole arm. She was wearing her own nightgown, one James had put on her the day before.
Was it still the day before? Bright sunlight shimmered through the light muslin draperies. She remembered Mrs. Catsdoor’s brew and how she’d believed it unjust to die with that vile taste in her mouth. But she didn’t die, and James had known she wouldn’t die. She’d made an ass of herself and he’d let her do it. It was morning. She realized that now.
And James had done everything a husband was supposed to do, and she had no memory of it, so that was all right as well. She heard a snort, jumped, then turned to see her groom lying on his back, one arm flung over his head, the other hand on his belly, which was barely covered with a sheet. He gave two more short snorts then fell silent.
Everything that was deep within her responded to the sight of him lying there beside her. He was her husband. He had thick gold hair on his chest, all crispy-looking and a tuft of soft gold hair beneath his upflung arm. He was hard and lean, lightly tanned from working in the sun without his shirt, and she wanted more than anything to shove that sheet down just a little bit more. She wanted to see just how much like a stallion he really was so she could try to remember what he’d done to her.
She moved her legs. Nothing hurt. Recalling how she’d seen mares teetering around after mating, she began to wonder. She didn’t think she was going to teeter at all. James must have been very careful with her. She eased out of bed before she could resist the temptation to pull that sheet down no longer and walked across the bedchamber. When she did, she didn’t teeter at all.
She whistled to herself as she stripped off her nightgown, then bathed in the basin of cool water on the dressing table. Every few minutes, she looked back at the bed. James hadn’t moved a bit. Well, perhaps that sheet was just a bit lower. She took a step toward the bed, then stopped, and settled for craning her neck a bit. The sheet was lower. She saw the narrow line of golden hair that disappeared too soon for her taste beneath that dratted sheet. He had a flat belly, but she’d already known that, still seeing it in the flesh pleased her. His flesh was whiter here, and she found that fascinating though she couldn’t begin to explain why.
She dressed quickly, still whistling, took one last look at James, and regretfully left the bedchamber.
“Mrs. Catsdoor?”
“Good heavens! Mrs. James. Now, don’t you look like a lovely little summer posy, all bright and eager and ready to blossom for the sun.”
Jessie thought of those foxgloves and smiled. “Your brew was excellent. Thank you very much. I thought I loved champagne, and I surely did, but it did me in. I’m sorry I wasn’t quite attentive enough when I arrived here yesterday. Goodness, I’m starved.”
“Of course you are,” Mrs. Catsdoor said, grinning as she remembered Master James carrying in his bride in his arms, and she looked dead. Dead drunk was more like it. “Come eat some porridge. Master James tells me it’s the best porridge in all of England and the Colonies. It’s my honey, you know. I have a special breed of bees, and no one else knows of their hives. Just three of them and all the honey’s for me. Just sit down here, Mrs. James, and I’ll fix you up right and tight.”
James awoke with a start. He’d dreamed he was kissing a woman who was moaning into his mouth, whispering how magnificent he was, how much he pleased her, how she enjoyed him touching her and coming inside her and he was so big and so—James shook his head. A typical man’s dream. Nothing but a damned dream.
Something wasn’t quite right. He was in his bed, but he wasn’t sleeping on the left side. He was on the right side. He never slept on the right side; it made him have strange dreams, although this most recent one wasn’t bad at all. Then he remembered he’d placed Jessie there sleeping like a drunken stoat, convinced she was going to die, and he’d slept beside her. The pillow was still pressed down, the sheets rumpled.
She was gone.
“At least she didn’t die,” he said to the empty bedchamber, climbed out of bed, and shrugged into his dressing gown. An hour later, he found her grooming Esmerelda, chatting to Sigmund as if she’d known him all her life. She wasn’t wearing breeches as the old Jessie would have, but the pale blue gown was of sturdy cotton, plain and functional. So this was the new Jessie in her working mode.
She’d braided her hair atop her head with those streamers curling lazily down over her ears. He wondered if she’d brought her old leather hat to England.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning to you, Master James,” Sigmund said as he continued to pick at Bertram’s left front hoof. “Got a pebble here. Ah, there, got it. Nasty thing. Ye got it from yer long ride yesterday, didn’t ye? Good old boy, all right now.”
“Good morning, Jessie. You seem to be no worse from your excesses.”
Jessie had wondered about this moment of truth. James had told her that once it was done, then they could return to normal. So be it. She grinned at him. “Doesn’t Esmerelda look grand? She’s ready for a ride, James. Would you care to join me? We could try w
histling a duet.”
“No, Bertram, ye just stay away from Esmerelda,” Sigmund said.
“She was teasing him mercilessly yesterday,” James said.
“She ain’t interested today, that’s fer sure,” Sigmund said. “Come outta heat, she has, with a vengeance. She’s already bit poor old Bertram, jest for being a mite friendly to her.”
“Females,” said James, shaking his head. “Jessie, I can’t ride with you. I’m expecting a Mr. DeWitt this morning with a mare for Minotaur to cover.”
She just shook her head, saddled Esmerelda, and was gone. He looked after her.
“Don’t ye worry, Master James. Mrs. James knows wot she’s about. I took her all around and introduced her all over again. She spoke to each one of ’em, gave ’em sugar and a sweet pat. I swear they all remembered her and gathered around her like little kiddies. I ain’t niver afore seen a female what know’d so much about horses, an’ she’s easy wit ’em, never makes ’em nervous. None of the horses screwed their heads about the way they do when they don’t trust somebody.”
“You should see her race.”
Sigmund guffawed, shaking his head. “That’s a kicker. Race, ye say? That feminine little bit of red hair and white skin can race? You’re jesting me, Master James. She grooms a horse well, never complained once, no she didn’t, but race? That little sweet lady?”
“So little you know,” James said, slapped Sigmund on his skinny back, and took himself off to see to Minotaur.
“We’ve got six stallions and three mares,” James said as he handed Jessie a dish of compote of gooseberries, one of Mrs. Catsdoor’s specialties. Badger, in a moment of weakness when the four martinets had come to force James to the altar, had presented the recipe to her and she’d now made it three days in a row. “Minotaur covered the DeWitt mare, a smart little Byerley Turk out of Tomikins from Croft’s stable.”
“I was reading the General Stud Book. Goodness, James, things are so very organized here.”
“It’s really nothing more than a genealogy of horses but needed, that’s certain. I’ve been talking with many men in racing back in Baltimore. None of them believes it’s all that important. For the most part, they’re content to just pass things along, word of mouth.”