Your Wicked Ways

  Halcrow Street must have been in the district of London devoted to the cloth-dying trade, because everywhere they looked there were huge tubs of bubbling reddish or bluish water and women dumping in armfuls of old clothing. Each load would send a choking cloud of colored smoke into the air, adding to the pungent stench of rotting vegetables and horse dung.

  Mrs. Fishpole wasn’t hard to find. An old man dozing in the sun nodded across the street. “Number Forty-Two, she’s at,” he said. “Though I do hear tell that she’s leaving Londontown and going back to somewhere else. I don’t know but what she might have left already.” And: “I thank you kindly, sir,” as he tucked the coin that Tom gave him into an inner pocket.

  They walked up three flights of stairs to the very top level. Meggin was clutching Lina’s hand fiercely and Lina—for the first time in years—found herself praying. “Please let her be there,” she said to that silent presence whom she used to know, but had put away with her childhood things. “Please, please, please, let Mrs. Fishpole still be here.”

  Tom knocked on the narrow door, while Lina and Meggin stood behind him on the stairs. There was no answer. Lina clenched her teeth and prayed harder. Tom knocked again, louder, and this time they heard the noise of feet approaching. Finally the door snapped open.

  Mrs. Fishpole wasn’t wearing a white apron anymore; she was dressed from head to foot in gray bombazine, and a shabby bonnet was jammed rather precariously on top of her hair. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth, but at that moment a sturdy little body scrabbled past Tom and butted the gray bombazine skirt. And then it was just a flurry of tears and exclamations.

  “My fiancée, Miss McKenna, told me the truth of it,” Tom explained, a good five minutes later. They were all seated around Mrs. Fishpole’s sister-in-law’s table, there being no sitting room or extra room of that nature.

  Mrs. Fishpole had Meggin on her lap and her arms around her as if she would never let her go. “I can’t believe I did that,” she kept repeating. “I must have been out of me mind. Clear out of me mind. Mr. Sigglet had been carrying on about the child, and then you appeared, and it seemed like Providence. But I knew within two minutes that I’d made a mistake. And then I was too late.” Her arms tightened around Meggin until it looked as if she might suffocate the child. Not that Meggin seemed to mind. Lina’s fur tippet, which she had carried with her every minute of the day and even slept with, was forgotten on the floor.

  “Too late,” Mrs. Fishpole kept repeating. “I’ll never get over it in my life, I won’t. I ran out into that street like a demented woman, but no one could tell me where you’d gone. I’d given my Meggin away, and I didn’t even remember your name for sure. Not even your name!”

  “I’m truly sorry to have caused you distress,” Tom said.

  “Well, as to that, you shan’t have her, of course,” Mrs. Fishpole said, narrowing her eyes and looking as if she wished that she had her giant rolling pin at hand. “I’ve left my position, and I’ll care for Meggin myself.”

  “Mr. Holland made a mistake,” Lina said, smiling at Mrs. Fishpole. “But he meant no harm to you or Meggin.”

  “I can see that,” Mrs. Fishpole said grudgingly, “but you shouldn’t as taken her,” she told Tom.

  “I gather you were planning to travel to the North Country to find Meggin?” Tom asked. “May I enquire whether you wish to continue to East Riding now that you two are reunited, or will you find another position in London?”

  “I’m going back,” Mrs. Fishpole said decisively. “I’ve given it a lot of thought over the past few days. London is no place for us. I’m going back and I’m taking Meggin with me. She’s to be Meggin Fishpole now, and anyone who says differently will have a taste of my tongue.”

  Lina was nodding encouragingly. “That’s a marvelous plan,” she said warmly. “Meggin is a very lucky little girl to have you as a mother, Mrs. Fishpole.”

  Mrs. Fishpole was blinking rather rapidly. “As to mother, well I never thought to be such a thing. But I suppose—”

  “You are definitely Meggin’s mother,” Lina said cheerfully.

  Meggin peeped out from the iron circle of Mrs. Fishpole’s arms like a sparrow waiting for a plump worm.

  “I believe that Father Rumwold in the Minster Church is in need of a housekeeper who can cook,” Tom said, not thinking it necessary to add that Father Rumwold had never had a housekeeper and showed few signs of needing one. “You would be an excellent candidate. If you are interested, I could send a note, suggesting your services to the father. It’s a small household, just himself and two clerics.” And, he thought to himself, Rumwold is just the sort to enjoy a good fish and sausage pie.

  “I’d be grateful,” Mrs. Fishpole said with a sharp nod. “I’ve never done any housekeeping, but I wouldn’t mind putting my hand in.”

  “Excellent,” Tom said, scribbling a note for Reverend Rumwold and giving it to Mrs. Fishpole. “May I pay for Meggin’s passage to the North Country, Mrs. Fishpole? I feel responsible for the distress that I caused both of you in the past few days.”

  “As to that, I won’t say no,” Mrs. Fishpole said. “Things are a bit tight, and I meant to borrow some from my brother-in-law, but he’s not a ready man.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Tom said. Lina was kneeling next to Mrs. Fishpole’s chair and saying something in Meggin’s ear without disturbing her snug place on Mrs. Fishpole’s lap. The little girl was smiling and then Lina put something in Meggin’s hand and closed her fingers around it. Mrs. Fishpole didn’t notice; she was busy pushing back all the money Tom had given her except one guinea.

  “This’ll be enough to get us to East Riding, and I thank you for that. I’m not taking any charity, not if my name’s Elsa Fishpole. Meggin and me will make our way with what we have, and a deal of hard work, and that’ll be enough. Right, Meggin?”

  Meggin looked up at her and then suddenly burst into tears.

  “We’ll be fine,” Mrs. Fishpole told her roughly. But she was rocking her back and forth with a manner that belied her curt words. “No crying, now. We Fishpoles don’t cry.”

  Lina and Tom finally tiptoed out of the room with whispered farewells, as Meggin seemed to be bent on proving that sometimes Fishpoles, especially the little ones, did cry. And cry.

  “What did you give Meggin?” Tom asked curiously, when they reached the street and climbed into their hackney again.

  “My ring,” Lina said.

  “Your ring? What ring?” Tom asked.

  She shrugged. “A ring your brother gave me.”

  “He gave you a ring?” Tom hardly recognized his own voice. That was the voice of a man about to commit homicide against a member of his family.

  Lina touched his arm. “Only when I dragged him into a shop and demanded it,” she said, smiling up at him.

  “Oh.”

  “It was a pretty little emerald, though,” she said cheerfully, “and since Mrs. Fishpole does not know my name nor my direction in London, she will have no way to return it to me. Therefore, I would guess that she will swallow her pride, sell the ring, and be able to set herself up with some comfort in Beverley.”

  Tom felt a reluctant smile curl his mouth. “You’ve solved it all, haven’t you?” he said. “You knew I’d done the wrong thing taking Meggin away; you forced Mr. Sigglet to give you the proper directions; you found a way to give some money to Mrs. Fishpole when I utterly failed in that respect. You are going to be a superb vicar’s wife.”

  “Hmmm,” Lina said. “Perhaps, if I chose to be.” Then she stretched up and for the very first time, under her own initiative, gave him a kiss.

  Thirty-three

  Because Rees Is a Very Good Student

  Helene burst into the music room looking as vividly happy as Rees had ever seen her. He took one glance and went back to his score, pounding out a cello accompaniment to the Captain’s aria he wrote yesterday. He didn’t look up until she stuck something in front of his eyes.

  ?
??Do you know what these are?” she burst out.

  “Flowers.” He played the first few chords again. They sounded pedantic. Perhaps they would flatten the exuberance of Come to the Ball! Perhaps he should try oboes instead of a cello.

  “Not just any flowers,” Helene said, pushing him over on the piano stool. “I had them on my bedside table, ever since”—she seemed to be turning a little pink—“since we walked in the woods, day before yesterday.”

  “Yes?”

  “And Saunders just told me that they are Star of Bethlehem flowers!”

  Rees looked at the wilting starflowers. He vaguely recognized them, but the fact was hardly interesting. “Do you think that oboes are too windy to accompany the Captain’s aria?” he asked her.

  Helene paused and cocked her ear as if she were listening to silent oboes. “I’d try cellos,” she said finally.

  “That’s what I thought,” Rees said with some relief. He played the first few chords again. A three-cello accompaniment would be right.

  “Rees, you’re not listening,” Helene insisted.

  “What?” he snapped. “I’m busy. I can’t accompany you upstairs at the moment, if that’s what you want.”

  “These are Star of Bethlehem flowers,” she insisted. “Saunders just told me that if a woman lies on a bed of Star of Bethlehem, she’ll have an easy childbirth.”

  “We’re hardly at that stage yet,” Rees said, trying to keep his mind on the sounds of invisible cellos.

  “Not yet,” Helene said, and the happy note in her voice made Rees want to smile. The sound of cellos died. He put a hand on her back, pulling her snugly against him.

  “So would you like to do our daily bedding?” he asked, dropping a kiss into her hair. She smelled faintly of flowers herself.

  “I’ve already asked Leke to have the coach brought around,” she said.

  “What?” He had started nuzzling her neck and wasn’t paying much attention.

  She jerked away. “Rees! There’s no need for that sort of thing. We aren’t in the right place.”

  He blinked. Yes, there is, he thought. But no. Their bedding was only for conception. Only for children. He reached up and pulled her back. “You’re my wife, Helene,” he said. “I’ll kiss you whenever I want. And I want. We weren’t in the right place last night either.”

  For such a practical woman, who eschewed caresses unless quickly followed by a practical bedding, for practical reasons, she melted into his arms with a gasp and a sigh. In less than a second, the blood was raging along his veins. It was as if the cellos had leaped from his script and began a fiery sarabande.

  Rees was just starting to think about easing Helene over to the couch when a voice said from the doorway, “The coach is at the front door, Lady Godwin.”

  “Oh!” Helene gasped, jumping away from Rees so quickly that he toppled toward the piano bench and slammed his knuckles. “Yes, Leke, we’re coming!” she called.

  “Helene, it was raining this morning.” Rees shook his hand, trying to get his wits together. How on earth could a mere touch of her lips turn him into a bumbling adolescent boy, all raging lust?

  “Good thought,” she said. “I’ll instruct Leke to place a blanket in the carriage.”

  “That wasn’t—” but she was gone, darting from the room.

  Rees rubbed his chin. He had bathed, but not shaved in the morning; shaving seemed like too much work since he’d been up half the night working on the tenor aria. And he’d forgotten to send a note around to Darby, although he thought he was working out the problem on his own. What would he ask? How does one tup a lady? It sounded absurd.

  Helene reappeared in the doorway. She looked like a graceful little linnet, her beautiful hair ruffled by his hand, her lips stained ruby by his kiss.

  “Will we have to make our way to the wood every day?” he asked warily, receiving a glowing smile in return.

  “Perhaps.”

  The woods were different this afternoon, soft and rain-soaked. They walked along, Rees inspecting the little spigots of water dripping off the oak leaves. The sky was distinctly gray. “It might rain,” Rees said, thinking about just how uncomfortable cold rainwater would feel on his ass.

  Helene ignored him. “Look at that fat redbreast!” she said. “He looks just like a plump squire scolding a recalcitrant stableboy.”

  Rees gave the bird a glance and it flew away instantly. The truth was he didn’t want to return to Helene’s narrow bed. He didn’t want to wait that long. He was burning, from head to foot, with the desire to get Helene’s clothes off and feast on that lovely body of hers. See her long pale legs spread under him again, hold a breast in his hand so that only a rosy nipple peeked between his fingers, slip another hand under her bottom…He walked faster, blanket thrown over his shoulder.

  The clearing looked very different today. All the starflowers were shut up, which turned the space to a muted green, very drowsy and wet looking.

  Helene paused. “Do you think that it counts if the flowers aren’t open?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Rees said, plowing into the meadow with no regard whatsoever for the water stains that instantly blotched his pantaloons. She was hesitating on the edge of the path, so he said, “You do want to have an easy childbirth, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, but it’s just a superstition.”

  He threw the blanket on the ground and went back and picked her up. She put her arms around his neck and smiled at him. Rees almost shook his head. Could it be that he was in a dream? Was this his sharp-tongued, hateful wife, the one who called him an animal and made him feel ten times more clumsy and idiotic than anyone else? She had her arms linked around his neck and she was rubbing her lips against his and then she slipped her tongue—

  He put her down quickly and started throwing off his clothes. “Be careful, Rees,” Helene cried. “It’s so wet here, and you just threw your coat onto the grass. It’ll be soaked.”

  A moment later he stood before her, all that broad, muscular body hers for the taking. Helene had never felt more dainty and feminine in her life. Without speaking, and without taking her gaze from his body, she pulled her morning gown over her head. She had deliberately chosen not to wear a walking costume. Instead, she was wearing one of her light, floating pieces from Madame Rocque.

  Rees made a hoarse sound in his throat and sank to his knees in front of her. Helene blinked. What a nice gesture. He had never gone on his knees, even when he asked her to—

  The thought was lost in a squeak. “What are you—what—Rees!”

  Helene’s whole body contracted down to a small area between her legs. She could do nothing but stand there, weak-kneed, mind blurred. It was a sin, what he was doing. She was sure of that. Some sort of sin, if not a crime. And yet she couldn’t hold onto any particular thought. They drifted into her head and then he would lick her again, sending a racking wave of fire down her legs, and the thought would disappear.

  “This isn’t—” she began. He put his hands on her bottom and pulled her closer. The sentence whirled away, lost in a moan.

  “I don’t think—” she began again, but his thumb had found its way there too, and now her knees finally did buckle and he lowered her to the ground, kneeling over her, his hand still moving.

  “One doesn’t do that to ladies, does one?” she gasped, even as her body writhed under his hand.

  “No,” he said briefly.

  She closed her eyes and a delicious smile spread across her face, and then she opened her legs even wider. “Good,” she said softly.

  “Helene,” Rees said hoarsely, a few moments later. She wasn’t listening. He slid in slowly. He’d thought a lot in the middle of the night, about how to turn Helene-in-Vauxhall into Helene-in-his-bed.

  He pushed in, a little way, and she clutched his shoulders.

  He pulled out. Slow, that’s what he’d decided to do. Very slow. She was, after all, a very delicate lady. If he just kept everything slow, perhaps she’d
feel some pleasure.

  So he did. Belying the jokes of his mistress, Rees had full control of his muscled body. He’d just never seen the point of prolonging the experience. But now he propped his elbows on the ground and slid in and out as if he had all day. At first she just lay there the way she had the last time they tried this.

  But after a while, she opened her eyes and said, shakily, “Rees, are you almost done?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he managed between clenched teeth.

  Her hand tentatively touched his back, slid down toward his buttocks and he involuntarily lunged toward her. And was answered by a moan. Her face was growing pink.

  He waited, and waited. Her fingers were wandering over his back, caressing every ripple of muscle. She asked him again, gasping, if he were almost done, and he shook his head. And then, as if she didn’t even realize what she was doing, she started moving a little. Tipping her hips up to greet him. Rees let himself go a little harder, thanked by a cry that broke from her lips.

  He went a little faster, and even harder…Helene’s breath was coming quickly and her eyes were dazed; she’d stopped caressing him and he could feel her fingernails biting into his shoulders. Then she started turning her head from side to side and straining against him.

  “Come, Helene,” he said hoarsely, praying for strength.

  Finally, when he couldn’t last any longer, he reared back and slid his hands under her sweetly curved bottom, pulled her toward him and thrust into her with all his strength, a broken groan coming from between his teeth.

  And then Helene opened her eyes and looked at him and said, in a tone of the greatest surprise, “Rees?”

  Rees knew perfectly well that he was an idiot where women were concerned. But on the other hand, he knew his wife. He’d never seen that particular look on her face, but he knew it.