Authors: Valentines
I must tell you that I do not intend to stay a soldier, if you will have me. I do not intend for you to follow the drum any more today than I did four years ago, and
now there is no reason. I have proved myself in my own eyes, if not the eyes of the world, and I have prospered. I might not afford to buy you the moon, but I can purchase a small estate for us somewhere, with a few acres to farm. No more paltry cottages. My saved-up pay, a tidy competence I receive, and an unforeseen inheritance make me a man of substance, if not wealth. Yes, I am puffing off my prospects, sweeting, in hopes that you will look more favorably on my suit.
Other officers spoke of their futures, of travels and Town life. I have had enough excitement to last the century. I want nothing more than to settle down, to put roots into the land, to see things grow finally, instead of the death and destruction of war. I want to watch our children run and play where the air is clean and good, with you by my side. I would take you to London if you yearn for the glamour—I would take you anywhere, dearest—but oh, how I have dreamt of the peace and quiet and contentment of a country home, a family. In three days I’ll ask you to share that with me.
A home, a family, a loving husband—and two presents! What more could a woman want? Martine swore she would not weep, not again. But she hadn’t received a single present since she’d been in Chelmstead, except for the occasional dead mouse from George. Now here was Digby Hines, the man from her past, offering her a golden future, showering her with gifts.
The combs were intricately carved ivory masterpieces that demanded she unbraid her long auburn hair and try them in different styles. The book was Shakespeare’s love sonnets, in hand-tooled leather with gilded pages.
Martine’s resources hadn’t extended to books, so this was even more precious. She’d even had to let her subscription to the lending library expire, because Mrs. Arbuthnot declared novels to be the devil’s own handiwork. Oh, the old dragon would love this! “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day” indeed!
Of course, Mrs. Arbuthnot must never see the book.
Martine could leave it here in her bedroom, among her old volumes on the shelf, for Bess couldn’t read and wasn’t interested in learning. But the combs had to be hidden. Even if Martine swore they were hers from before, Mrs. Arbuthnot would instantly recognize them as something foreign and heathen, therefore improper. With sore regrets, Martine buried the beautiful ornaments under the velvet lining of her jewelry box. She went back to sewing on her dress, a smile on her lips.
She had to have Bess’s help pinning the hem that afternoon.
“Oh, you do look a treat, Mrs. Barrett,” her housekeeper cooed. “Will you be going to Friday’s assembly up in Wolford then? They’re having a special do for Valentine’s Day, don’t you know. You’re sure to take some handsome gentleman’s fancy, I swear.”
“No, we won’t,” Mrs. Arbuthnot answered for Martine with a thump of her cane. “It’s not fitting. Anyone with a few pence can attend the assemblies. A lady could find herself dancing with turnip pickers and plowmen. That’s whose eye she’d catch in that indecent gown anyway. No, we shall not attend.” She glared at Martine, daring her to challenge the decision.
Martine loved to dance, but no, the festivities in Wolford were not part of her Valentine’s Day plans. She was more concerned with the style of her gown. Indecent? The dress was velvet, not some filmy, near transparent gauze, and it had long sleeves and a high neckline. There were no flounces or scallops at the hem, no embellishment at all beyond a darker pink ribbon at the high waist.
Even Bess was taken aback. “Why, I seen Squire’s wife wear a lot less fabric, with a lot more to put in it, iffen you catch my drift. Even her daughters as is just out of the schoolroom wear their thin muslins cut down to there, with less to show off than Mrs. Barrett. Nothing improper as I can see.”
Mrs. Arbuthnot snorted. “It’s pink! Pink is for debutantes—or harlots.”
That night Martine put a folded paper outside the front door and hoped the snow would hold off another day, or that Digby would come soon to fetch it. Her efforts at watercolors were never quite successful, but today, in her haste—well, a dampening could not improve the picture. She’d wanted to leave him something, to give something back to the one who was giving her so much, in tokens and in joy. Even if her finances permitted, though, and Chelmstead’s shops provided, she wouldn’t know what to purchase for him, to show she shared his hopes and dreams. So she’d painted a landscape of a white house on a hill, with six, no, ten chimneys, surrounded by fields and cows. At least she’d meant them as cows, but they ended up looking more like trees, so she’d put apples in them. Yes, an orchard would be lovely. The sky was blue, with no clouds; the grass was new-green, except for one corner where the colors ran together, so she made a pond. And flowers everywhere, dabs of bright colors, at any rate. She’d put a tiny couple in the doorway, watching even tinier children who were chasing a dog, a ball, and a water drop. They all wore pink.
Wednesday
He’d left her a music box. The music was unfamiliar, but two porcelain doves turned on the base when she wound the key.
You make my heart sing,
the note read.
Oh, how I wanted to hold you close to me when I saw the painting, but I have wanted to hold you, touch you, kiss you, ever since we parted. I can wait the two more days, my dear heart.
Was that your light I saw late into the night? I watched from outside, wondering if you were lying abed, reading the poems, thinking of your humble, hopeful suitor. We should have been together in your white house, reading aloud by the fireside, sharing a cushioned sofa. But I fear my imaginings wandered, and I confess we would not stay long on that sofa, reading. Too well do I remember your exquisite body. How I ache to hold your rosy softness against me. There was no softness in Spain,
querida,
only you in my dreams.
Let there be no untruths between us: there were other women. I am just a man. But none were you, none moved me to my soul, with none did I feel the love in lovemaking. Two more days, my darling. Two more nights.
Martine’s cheeks were flushed, even under the bedcovers. Goodness, she thought, Mr. Shakespeare was not half so stirring as Digby Hines. Her rosy softness? Oh my. Yes, her bones were turning to mush at the very thought of…of what he was thinking. She must be a fallen woman indeed, to become overheated by a letter.
Martine was a bit surprised at Digby’s ardor. They’d only made love twice before her father found them. The first time was messy, awkward, painful, and uncomfortable. The second time was simply uncomfortable. Just when she was beginning to feel there might be something appealing about this act, it was over. And messy. From the giggles and snatches of conversation at the ladies’ sewing circles, she gathered not every woman felt that way. She was willing to try to enjoy herself. From her reaction to Digby’s warmish letter, Martine doubted she’d have to try very hard. At the very least, she vowed, if he got so much delight from the act, she could gain her own pleasure from giving him his.
That night she left out a valentine. Two pink velvet hearts, scraps from her new gown, trimmed with lace bits and ribbon roses, were firmly joined by enough glue to hold together a piano.
Thursday
When Martine broke the seal on the letter, a gold heart on a chain fell out.
Please wear this, until I can lay my own heart at your feet tomorrow.
When shall I come? Must it be a proper morning call lasting a proper twenty minutes, or shall I come for tea with you and your duenna? I am wishing you can be rid of her, so I can take you in my arms, but I want no blot on your reputation, my dearest. Should I meet you at the assembly in Wolford then, and greet you among strangers? Tomorrow would be the longest day of the year in that case. Tell me your wishes,
cara,
I’ll make them mine.
Tomorrow was going to be the longest day in history if Martine had her way, but only because it was going to start the earliest. She was not about to meet him for the first time in four years in full view of the population of Chelmstead or Wolford, or under the gimlet stare of Mrs. Arbuthnot. That harridan would never leave them alone long enough to pledge their love, much less seal the pledge. Martine fully intended to give Digby the only valentine she had left to offer, herself in her new pink gown.
Martine put an extra measure of medicinal rum in Mrs. Arbuthnot’s tea that night. Then she let George in, but didn’t lock the door, and didn’t snuff the candle in the upstairs hall. Outside was an old, broken clock, as if left for the trash. The hands were set to a minute past twelve. She wrote “midnight” above the twelve, to make sure he understood. Then she went upstairs to change.
The pink gown whispered around her hips, the gold heart nestled between her breasts, the combs pulled her auburn curls back off her forehead before letting them tumble down her back. Would he still think she was beautiful? Her figure was fuller now and her face thinner, paler, except for the spot on her chin from eating all that candy. She blew out another candle.
The fire burned low in her sitting room, a bottle of wine and two goblets waited nearby. George was snoring. Martine was pacing. The ormolu clock on the mantel must have stopped running, so she shook it to make the hands move faster.
Then she heard what she’d been waiting for, the
sound of the door handle turning. She waited at the head of the stairs, in the shadows, merely whispering “Shh” when he appeared. She could just make out the scarlet uniform as she beckoned him up the steps and into her sitting room. Then she turned and threw herself into his waiting arms. His lips came down on hers as his hands pressed her against his firm length. Her hands wove through his hair, pulling him even closer, and the earth shook.
“Oh, Digby,” she sighed against his chest some minutes later, just as he murmured, “Rosalyn, my Rosalyn,” into her hair.
Martine’s eyes snapped open. “Rosalyn?”
His arms dropped to his sides. “Who the hell is Digby?”
“D-digby Hines,” she sputtered uncertainly, “the man who has been sending me valentines and presents.” She fingered the chain around her neck.
“I’ve been sending the blasted valentines!” he shot back in a harsh whisper. “But who the deuce are you? They told me in the village that the Widow Farrell still owns this place.”
“She does; I lease it from her.”
The look on his face was so comical, Martine had to laugh. It was either that or cry. She crossed to the mantel and brought him the glass of wine, “Here, sir, I think you are in need of this.”
He took a swallow, then ran his hand through his hair, making even more of a mess than Martine had. It was dark hair, and curly, nothing like Digby’s, she realized as she studied him while he drank the rest of his wine. He was taller, too, broader-shouldered and more muscular, with a bronzed complexion from his years on the Peninsula. Digby had always appeared pale, colorless from his hours in drawing rooms and gaming parlors.
The officer put down the glass and gave her a tentative smile. “I’m afraid it will take a deal more than a glass of wine to fix this argle-bargle. I’ve really made a deuced mull of it, haven’t I?”
Martine shook her head. “Not by yourself, sir.”
“You are too kind, Miss…?”
“Barrett. Mrs. Barrett.”
“And Mr. Barrett? No one in the village mentioned him. Is he going to come bursting through the door at any minute demanding I name my seconds? It needs only that.”
“No, Lieutenant Barrett won’t be coming, Captain.” She figured out his insignia.
“My apologies, ma’am, for being so clumsy. I should have known, for everyone spoke of the pretty widow lady at the edge of town. I just assumed they meant…”
“Rosalyn.”
He nodded. “Do you know where Mrs. Farrell is now?”
The poor man was already so devastated, Martine hated to give him more bad news, but she had to tell him that Mrs. Farrell had married a wealthy merchant from Wolford. “All of Chelmstead was still talking about the wedding when I moved in, four years ago in April.”
“April! I just left in February!” He moved toward the window to stare out at the night. “She hardly waited for my ship to sail.”
“I’m so sorry.” And Martine was, seeing his shoulders droop. “You must have loved her very much.”
He gave a hollow laugh. “I loved a dream. I was miserable, lonely, and afraid, so I found a memory to cherish, that was all. Do you know, I should have realized something was wrong when I overheard those men in the pub singing your praises. They said the young widow at Farrell’s place was kind to everyone despite her own hardships, full of goodness to those less blessed. A real lady, they called her—you. I was thrilled, you may be sure, thinking that Rosalyn had changed for the better, for that was precisely what I wanted in a wife. Rosalyn was a selfish, greedy minx. She made no secret of the fact that she married her first husband for his money.”
“Then you are well out of it.”
He turned back to Martine, where she had taken a seat next to the fireplace. When she nodded toward the matching chair the captain sat and asked, “But what about you, ma’am, waiting so patiently for your Digby? This must have been a crushing blow. By God, I am sorry. What, was he missing in action, that you thought he’d been returned to you?”
“Digby, missing in action?” Martine was confused.
“Lieutenant Barrett, your husband.”