Regency Christmas Wishes(64)
“I have no quarrel with memories, Lady M, for they are all I’ve had for a long time now. Besides,” he added shrewdly, “I do not doubt that if you so desired it some closet or attic here in the main house could be found for me, but your other guests have memories too, and my face is bound to stir whisperings you would prefer not to hear again.”
“I don’t deny such selfish motives, for I would rather not spend Christmas with the household raking the coals over, or the New Year with the monde of London fanning the embers.” Lady Marchwell gave him a faint smile. “So the Retreat is agreeable to you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Very well, I will make arrangements for you to be rowed across.”
“I am capable of rowing myself, Lady M.”
She smiled. “Maybe, but the river is running a little high, and it is some time since you last made the crossing, brief as it is. A scandal about your watery demise would not please me either, so I would prefer James to attend to your safe arrival on the island.”
Good old James, Charles thought sourly.
“Wait here, and when all is in readiness James will come for you. You have luggage, no doubt?”
“Yes.”
“Everything will be taken care of.” With that Lady Marchwell went out with Jack, leaving Charles alone with the ticking of the clock.
5
The rowing boat bobbed halfway between the shore and Magpie Eyot, and Charles huddled in the stern with a lantern that threw little light as the storm raged mercilessly over the southern counties. The Thames was not only swift and strong, but choppy too, obliging James to work mightily upon the oars to prevent the boat from sliding downstream with the current.
Charles was uneasy on such deep, dark, swift water, especially on a night as cold and inhospitable as this. The joy and merriment of Christmas seemed a universe away, and danger brushed so close that England suddenly seemed more alien and hazardous than the Bengal climes he had known these past years. The swollen river sucked and gurgled along the bank, and gusts of snow stung his face as he listened to the wind rushing through the slender fronds of the great willows, the lowermost branches of which dragged in the water. Ahead lay Magpie Eyot, where the storm was in full cry through the tall Scotch pines.
How far away now that balmy summer day not long after their marriage, when he had rowed Juliet on the sun-dappled river, and gently maneuvered their little boat beneath the willows so he could kiss her in the secrecy of the leafy bowers . . .
“We really ought to return to the lodge, Charles, for everyone will be there by now and will be wondering where we are.” Juliet lay back lazily on a mound of cushions in the stern of the rowing boat, twirling a bright pink pagoda parasol over her shoulder. She wore a cream lawn gown, frilled and beribboned, and brown ringlets tumbled from beneath her straw bonnet.
“No one will even notice our absence,” Charles replied, handling the boat into the cool green shadows of the willows. “When Lady M invites her Whig friends to an afternoon at the Retreat, the gentlemen expect to spend all their time talking politics while attempting to rob the Thames of all its fish. The ladies desire only to sit in private little groups discussing—and inventing, I might add—matters of as scandalous a nature as possible.”
“Maybe they will think we are suitably scandalous for slipping away like this.”
He laughed. “Never! We will always be dull fare for gossips because we are so married and in love that we think only of each other.” Shipping the oars, he quickly rose to catch a sturdy bough that projected from a lightning-blasted tree, then made the boat fast to it. The little craft swung gently around on the current before lodging safely against the tree.
Juliet dipped her fingers into the shining water, her face suddenly thoughtful. “Will we really?” she murmured.
“Mm?” He paused as he took off his coat. “Will we really what?”
“Always be dull fare for gossips?”
“Of course.” But inside he was aware of a flicker of something, a vague restlessness perhaps. Whatever it was, it touched him now, reminding him of how young he and Juliet were to be man and wife. He had loved her for a long time now, to the exclusion of all others, with the result that while he devoted himself solely to her, his friends indulged in all the passions and peccadilloes young men do. Did he resent that? The thought shocked him, but could not be dismissed, for if of no importance why had it entered his head at all?
“Charles?”
He looked into Juliet’s lovely green eyes. “We love each other too much to be scandalous, my darling,” he said reassuringly, but was still pricked with a sliver of guilt, even though he had done nothing. Doubt had been raised in his innermost self, and he had to force a light laugh as he got down on the cushions with her. “I am certainly thinking of loving you right now, Lady Neville,” he whispered, leaning over to kiss the tip of her nose.