Page 35 of To Winter at Wildsyde

“I see you, Gordon Anderson.”

He’d believed her in that moment, and fear had lanced through him. He’d thought she’d seen the pitiful, desperate creature he hid so carefully; too needy, too afraid to be left alone again. God, no. He’d not have her pity, not let her have that power over him. If he needed her she’d own him, and he’d find no measure of peace ever again. It would be far worse than the longing for his family, for anyone, to give a damn. It would be the final humiliation, and more than his pride could bear.

“I see the good man you are trying so desperately to hide from me.”

He’d almost laughed with relief, straining every sinew not to react. Foolish lass. That at least was a comfort. It was her own heart that would be damaged if she persisted in such reckless delusions. Perhaps he was not cruel enough to use her callously, but it was nothing more than simple good sense, not tenderness, not caring. There was no pleasure to be found in an unhappy bed partner. It was easier to please her, that was all, so he could keep coming back until his seed took root. Then, he would tell her to go, and that would be an end of it.

The soft flutter of her breath whispered against him, cooling his overheated flesh and making him shiver. Well, they could not stay like this all night, he reflected, refusing to acknowledge that it would be no hardship to hold her in his arms until morning. He’d be crippled if he sat in this bloody uncomfortable chair a minute longer, though. With a grunt of effort, he slid his hands under her thighs and lifted her as he stood. She was warm and pliant, sighing and nuzzling his neck as he moved to the bed. His breath caught and, despite having just had her, his body stirred again.

Gritting his teeth with resolution, he lay her down, frowning in consternation as her hands refused to release his neck, forcing him to bow down over her. He reached back, unknotting their hold on him and pressing them firmly against the mattress as he leant down the bed for the covers.

“It’s c-cold,” she murmured, shivering.

“It’ll soon warm up,” he said briskly, needing to get the hell away from her.

She curled into a ball, clutching her arms about her body. Before he had time to steel himself against the sight, she opened her eyes and stared up at him, appealing to him from under her lashes. Something lurched in his chest, halting his retreat.

“It’s freezing, Gordy. Don’t go…. Please.”

He glared down at her, wanting to go, wanting to stay. He dithered too long, making his uncertainty obvious. Irritated by this show of indecision, his words were terse and impatient.

“Move over, then.”

Muttering under his breath, he pinched out the remaining candles, watching her wriggle across the mattress in the dimming light, and then got in behind her. The bed dipped, rolling her against him as he yanked the covers over them with sharp tugs to illustrate his displeasure. His wife seemed oblivious, burrowing against him, coiling about him like ivy around a tree. He grunted at that comparison. It was apt enough, for the way the ivy coiled tighter and tighter, weakening even the strongest of oaks as it damaged the ancient trunk and blocked out the light with its own leaves. Did the tree welcome its own demise, he wondered, wishing it did not feel so good to lay here with her? Did the mighty oak just revel in the contact of another living thing after so long alone, luxuriating in the touch and companionship even as it withered and died for it?

Well, not him. He’d not be felled, not again. Yet his body was weary after being worked so hard, and it was warm and comfortable, and the reassuring scent of her curled about him as insidiously as any creeping vine.

Within moments, he slept.

Chapter 15

Dear Bonnie,

How glad I was to receive your letter, though I have no notion of what you have to apologise for. I have wept for your loss and wish more than anything that I might have been some little comfort to you, but I see that you are very well cared for and rejoice in the knowledge. It was obvious that Mr Cadogan adored you and I am so pleased for your happiness.

There is no need to arm yourself with a spoon, my dear friend, nor any other utensil at present, though I am touched and cheered by the sentiment. I admit to picking up various household items with violence in mind over the past weeks and feel certain I need not explain my motivation. I have resisted—mostly—and I swear only a handful have suffered the brunt of my temper, sadly none of them found their target. He’s faster than one might imagine of such a big man, or perhaps I simply need more practice? However, despite the breakages I discover a secret about Gordon bloody Anderson that he has kept very well hidden from us both. His heart his not nearly so black as he would have us believe.

― Excerpt of a letter from Mrs Ruth Anderson to Mrs Bonnie Cadogan.

7th December 1814. Offices of Mr Gerald Briggs, solicitor. 9 Upper Gower Street, Bloomsbury, London.

The clock on the mantel chimed seven am. It was far too early for the offices of Briggs and Norton to be open, but neither Mr Briggs nor Jemima had any desire for his colleagues to interrupt these delicate negotiations. Jemima’s ruin was not in doubt, but Mr Briggs was not a man who usually dealt with such tawdry affairs, and his discomfort was palpable.

Jemima stared across the imposing desk, but could not meet Mr Brigg’s eyes, fixing her attention on the top button of his waistcoat instead. It was quite an unusual waistcoat for a solicitor, being rather frivolous, but then Mr Briggs was not entirely as respectable as she had believed. At least, she assumed most solicitors did not proposition young women on behalf of their friends.

It was some comfort that he appeared as utterly mortified by his current position as she was. He was an older man, with thick white hair and bushy eyebrows over intelligent blue eyes. She thought he must be near to retirement, so why he had dared to make the scandalous offer she still could not fathom. Not true, she scolded herself. If there was one thing Jemima would not allow it was to deny the truth from herself. From others, certainly, but not from herself. She would meet life head on, see it for what it was without the benefit of any romantic glow. She had lost the ability to see the world in anything but the glare of reality over the past months. Her world had been reduced to farthings and ha’pennies and the value of every item she could sell, until nothing remained, nothing but herself.

Mr Briggs had seen the inevitable as clearly as she had. He knew as well as she did that he had worked these past months on her behalf, settling her aunt’s affairs with no hope of payment. He’d been kinder than she had any right to expect, in the circumstances. Not that he’d ever mentioned anything as vulgar as her debts to him. The useless doctor who’d failed to save her aunt had taken what little had remained of her pitiful savings. At least she’d eaten these past days, thanks to Matilda, though escaping her friend’s house so early in the morning was not likely to go unnoticed. An excuse would have to be thought of.

She remembered her last meeting here, when Mr Briggs had tentatively remarked upon the gentleman he knew, the one who was seeking a discreet young lady for companionship. The word had lingered in the air with all its attendant strings. She’d almost felt them trying themselves at her wrists and ankles, like a real life mannequin to be positioned at will. Hunger had gnawed at her that morning, making her feel giddy and giving the meeting a strangely dreamlike quality. When had she last eaten before that day? It was hard to concentrate on when it had been, or what. The vague memory of a piece of cheese, of cutting off the green bits with resignation, made her shudder. Yet still she had told Mr Briggs what she thought of his offer and left the office with her head held high. Fool. Pride was all well and good, but you couldn’t eat it, nor burn it, nor find much comfort in it when you were cold and hungry and alone.

This was her last chance, then, unless she fancied the workhouse, and all she had to do was hand over her honour and self-respect. It was easier than one might suppose when the alternatives were so stark, or perhaps she was just easier to corrupt than most. To her mind, there was no option, no remaining opportunity for salvation. She didn’t doubt the workhouse held greater humiliation than could be found in a man’s bed, but then perhaps she was naïve. It wasn’t as if she knew much about either, only that the workhouse frightened her more, that her fate seemed inescapable once she set foot in such a place.

So that was her choice. There were no skills to fall back on, being a poor seamstress and having no capacity for languages. Her knowledge of geography was pitiful and, though history interested her, and books of any kind, she doubted she had a depth of understanding worthy enough to try her hand at teaching. She had some talent with pencils and paint, but that was hardly enough to find work as a governess, even if there were anyone willing to take a woman with no family and no references to recommend her. Though pride was ever her besetting sin, she would not throw herself on the charity of her friends, for where would it stop? Perhaps they would lend her enough to see herself through this difficult time, but then what? Should she allow them to keep her until her dotage? No, best face it now, head on. She must accept that she would lose her friends when the rumours began and her inevitable downfall came. She must accept the shame that would follow when it became known she was some man’s mistress, for it would become known. It was inescapable and foolish to believe otherwise.

“Tell me about him.”

There was no point in beating about the bush. They both knew why she was there, that she was desperate.