Forever and Ever (22 page)

“I know. But . . . I’ve heard that once is all it takes.”

“Sophie.” He softened the pressure of his hand, made slow circles over her belly button. “Can I kiss you?”

She looked at him directly, her clear eyes direct and troubled. Last night she’d refused him, but tonight it would be different. “But that isn’t all you want from me, Connor. A kiss. Is it?”

“No,” he said, because they were through with lies.

“But nothing’s changed, not really.”

He fingered a bit of lace edging the buttons along the front of her gown, his eyes downcast. “I thought it had. It seemed to me that something had changed today.” She didn’t answer, and he could feel her indecision and her fear. He walked his fingers up to her throat and undid the top button of her nightgown, soothing his hand over her warming skin. “I don’t know what will happen, Sophie, but I think we have to begin sometime.” With his fingertips light on her cheek, he passed his thumb over her closed lips, watching them quiver. “We have to come toward each other.”

She murmured something he didn’t catch, and put the back of her wrist over her eyes. “This would be more than
coming toward
each other.”

He smiled in acknowledgment, because she couldn’t see him. Words weren’t his best friend right now, so he leaned over her, brought his mouth down until their lips were almost touching. She felt his breath, and took her hand away. Her eyes were still cloudy with doubt. She couldn’t say yes to him, and yet she didn’t want to say no. He touched her with his mouth, the barest brush of lips, stroking softly, back and forth. Her hand lay palm-up on the pillow by her head; she closed her eyes, and closed her fingers into a fist. He could feel her lips softening by slow, sweet degrees.

At the moment he skimmed the closed crease of her lips with his tongue, she broke the kiss and turned her face away. “Connor, I’m sorry. I can’t.”

He watched her a second, then sank down onto his own pillow.

“Good night,” she said softly.

“Night, Sophie.”

He heard the sputter of the lamp wick, the rustle of covers. Sophie thumped her pillow and settled on her side. She may have fallen asleep, but he didn’t. She’d been right about the rain. He listened to the sea grumble and hiss under a steady downpour for hours.

***

It stopped after midnight, but the moon stayed invisible behind a heavy, rolling mist. Somewhere out to sea a bell rang, ding-ding, ding-ding, faint but incessant, warning ships away from the craggy, fog-bound coast. There was nothing to see in the blackness around the wet balcony, nothing at all. Sophie hugged her arms around her waist, shivering, straining to make out a star or a light somewhere in the channel, but it was as if she were blindfolded. She put one hand on the slick railing, needing the cold wood to steady herself, anchor herself. She shivered again, because the loneliness inside was as deep and bottomless as the black, black night.

Barefooted, she padded silently back to bed. Connor lay on his stomach, one arm flung out across the mattress, his hair a darker blur against the pillow. Slipping under the covers, she touched him by accident—and that brief, warm brush unlocked all her yearning. “Con,” she whispered, and he woke up. She came into his surprised arms.

“You’re cold,” he said.

“Warm me.”

They kissed, and she made him lie over her, holding him close with her arms around his bare shoulders. “Sophie—”

“Let’s not talk.” She shut her eyes tight so she couldn’t see him at all, not even his dark outline. She wanted it to be like a dream, she wanted her will taken from her—she wanted her lover to be silent and invisible, unreal.

With her hands and her lips, she enticed him. She was desperate for him, had to have him, but she wanted it over with quickly. He wanted to take deep, slow kisses from her mouth, but she turned her head aside, murmuring, “No,” and she pulled her gown up over her legs and her belly, uncovering herself for him. She heard his sharp, helpless gasp when she reached for him, her fumbling, inexperienced hands urging him to hurry.

He moved over her, and she embraced him with her legs, and cried out when he came into her. He went still, whispering to her, filling her. He began to caress her with his mouth, pressing kisses to her throat, taking tender little bites along the line of her jaw.

She didn’t want tenderness, she didn’t want to be seduced. “Don’t,” she said, and jerked her hips against him, making him move inside her. She put her mouth on the muscled top of his shoulder and bit down, while her nails scored his back, his buttocks. She set the rhythm herself, fast and hard, purposeful. Losing herself to it, she held him tight, wouldn’t let him stop. Time stopped, and she cried out, something wild and incoherent, to tell him the—
flower
inside her was bursting, she could feel its passion-red petals opening and spreading wider, farther. And then it shattered, and she was lost in the blast of red, blinding pleasure.

Afterward she lay still and passive, determinedly empty-headed, not returning Connor’s soft, slow caresses. He said her name in a question, but she didn’t answer. “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

“Nothing’s wrong. That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?” She covered a pretend-yawn with her hand and turned over onto her side, away from him. “G’ night,” she murmured.

He didn’t answer.

Her body cooled quickly. She pulled the covers closer around her shoulder, drew her legs up, wrapped her night-gown around her ankles. But she couldn’t get warm.

XVII

They settled into a daily routine of sorts, satisfying to neither, but easy and bloodless, noncombative. The crux of it was that she went to the mine and he stayed at home, and at dinner they told each other about their days. That was when the flaw in the arrangement was most evident. If Connor had been enjoying himself, if studying his law books and drafting articles for political journals had truly absorbed his energies and engaged all his talents, then at least in one respect their lives would have been perfect. But he was restless, she could tell, although he tried to hide it, and his restlessness was undermining the surface placidity of their relationship.

“How was your day, dear?” he asked her one night at dinner a week after their return from Cornwall, in that ironic tone he took when he was being deliberately husbandly.

Between bites, she told him about progress in the various seams the men were currently working, the latest rumor at the coinage hall about copper prices, what Jenks had to say about extending the northwest gallery at the thirty level. He made polite noises, and poured himself more wine from the decanter Maris had left on the table. “Tranter Fox paid a call on me in the afternoon,” she went on, eager to find a subject that would engage him.

He brightened. “Did he? How is Tranter these days?”

“Much the same. He has a new partner, Martin Burr’s brother Thad. Apparently their pit rate is down this month, and Tranter came up to tell me that the reason is because his heart is broken and he’s lost all interest in his work.”

Connor grinned. “Rascal,” he muttered fondly.

“He still calls you Jack. He said, ‘If I’d of knowed young Jack were after stealing the gel o’ my dreams flat out from under my nose, I’d of nudged ’im off the ladder at eighty fathoms the first day.’ ”

She didn’t know if it was Tranter’s quip or her approximation of his Cornish burr, but one or the other made Connor throw back his head and roar with laughter. Happiness bloomed inside her; she chuckled along with him, delighted.

“What do you think he really feels about me now?” he asked after a moment, toying with a piece of haddock on his plate. “He and the others. Do they think I betrayed them?”

“No, I’ve heard nothing like that.”

“But you wouldn’t, would you?”

“You’d be surprised at what I hear,” she assured him.

“Still, I doubt you’d hear from your workers that they consider your husband a traitor.”

“Does it matter so much what they think?”

“It matters to me,” he said stiffly. “They were my friends.”

“Yes, of course. But truly, I don’t believe there’s any hostility. Tranter was joking, and he asked after you.”

“Tranter’s only one.”

“Yes, but he has a hundred friends. Everyone’s fond of him, and in his own way he’s influential. You were his partner. If he’s not angry with you, I doubt that anyone else is.” Besides, she thought, it wasn’t the miners Conner had betrayed: it was the mine owner. But she didn’t say that, because she didn’t want to fight.

“What about you, Sophie? What’s it like for you with Jenks and Andrewson and the others?”

She turned her spoon over and over on the tablecloth. “Really, it hasn’t been difficult. They were surprised, of course—”

“Surprised?”

She returned his skeptical smile. “All right, shocked. Astounded. I think,” she said slowly, staring at the spoon, “that Robert Croddy has been true to his word.” Croddy was a sore subject they studiously avoided; neither had spoken of him since the day Connor had knocked him down in her uncle’s front garden. “If he had—been indiscreet about me to anyone, the truth would have gotten around by now to every man, woman, and child in the district. And so—all Jenks and the others think is that I’m a very fascinating person, full of interesting surprises. They thought they understood me, but now they’re reconsidering everything they used to think they knew.”

Her light tone didn’t work. Connor stared moodily into his wineglass for a full minute, at the end of which he said, “Why did you tell Croddy about the baby, Sophie? What the
hell
were you thinking?”

She had wanted very much to avoid this quarrel, but the question galled her. “What the
hell
else was I supposed to do?” she shot back in a near whisper—there was no telling when Maris might come back in the room. “I didn’t even know where you were.
I had no choice.
If you’re angry because you think I had feelings for Robert, you couldn’t be more deluded. He’s
nothing
to me. Marrying him would have been the end of me, Connor. I knew it, but I asked him anyway because I was desperate, and because he’d proposed to me himself a few weeks before.”

He swore under his breath. “And the son of a bitch turned you down?”

“Emphatically.”

“I should’ve knocked his head off,” he said wonderingly. “I should’ve
killed
him.”

She closed her eyes, tired of it. “No more, Con. Please, can we let it go now?”

“All right.” A pause. “I’m sorry. About all of it.”

“Let’s drop it.” She wasn’t hungry anymore. They sat in silence until Maris came in with the coffee. “So,” she said, to lessen the obvious strain while the maid filled their cups. “How was
your
day—dear?”

He chuckled in spite of himself. “Well, I think I’m making progress. Mrs. B. still can’t stand me, but Maris is softening, I can tell.”

“Hmpf,” said Maris, trying not to smile.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure of it. This afternoon she brought me biscuits and tea without being asked. And this morning she didn’t grumble under her breath about what a mess I’d made of the bathroom. That was a first.”

Maris gave in and laughed out loud. “What I’d like to know,” she said with her hands on her hips, “is how one extra person in a house can make ten times as much work for the poor help. That’s what I’d like to know.” Smirking, she set the coffeepot on the table and loped out.

While he was still smiling, Sophie said, “The Michaelmas fair is on Saturday. In Tavistock.”

“Do you want to go?”

“Do you?”

“Only if you do.”

“Well, I don’t care. Not especially.”

“Let’s not, then.”

“All right.”

The truth was, they weren’t quite ready to expose themselves to the world yet. She would never have said they were in
hiding;
they just needed a little more time to get used to the idea of being a couple themselves before they had to go out and prove it to others.

The mention of Martin Burr reminded her of something she had wanted to say to Connor for weeks. Now seemed as good a time as any. “Do you remember what you said in your report for the Rhadamanthus Society about the ladders at Guelder?”

He looked up, wary. “Yes.”

“You said a man fell off the ladder at thirty fathoms and broke both of his legs.”

“That’s right. Tranter told me. It was his partner.”

“Yes. Did he tell you the man was flaming drunk at the time?”

“What?”

The look on his face told her he hadn’t known, and she was relieved. “Martin Burr—he was stumbling drunk. After he recovered from his injuries, I fired him.”

He sat back in his chair. “No, I didn’t know that. I swear it.”

“I believe you.”

“But . . .”

She knew what he was going to say. “But what?” she prodded. Now
he
was the one who didn’t want to start a fight.

“It doesn’t really change anything,” he said reluctantly. “The system is still antiquated and dangerous.”

She heaved a sigh. “I suppose you’re right.” He looked at her in sharp surprise. “Why don’t you come and see me at the mine one of these days?” she wondered in an idle tone.

“Come and see you at the mine? Why?”

“Oh . . . you might find it interesting. And it would get you out of the house.”

***

He came the next day.

She was sitting at her desk, pretending to work, brooding about him, mulling over the life they were leading. Sometimes, in spite of its furtive, unreal character, she found it oddly enjoyable. They were learning one another’s peculiar quirks and habits, likes and dislikes. Connor, for example, preferred to shave at night instead of in the morning. That seemed to her extremely strange, although she only had her father to compare him to. He was an early riser, and he liked to take long walks by himself. He talked out loud to Dash when he thought no one was paying attention. He didn’t snore, thank goodness. He jerked, though, in his sleep, and once he kicked her in the shin and woke them both up. He was quick in the bathroom, which was a good thing because she was slow. Or so he said. And he couldn’t understand what one woman could possibly do with so many clothes, or hats, or shoes. He liked to watch her brush her hair. They both preferred to sleep with the window open, exactly two inches. He preferred riding on horseback to driving the pony cart. He didn’t drink too much, or smoke, or dip snuff; in fact, he had no bad habits at all that she could discern. And he loved her house—she knew because he’d said so, straight out. Their house, rather. But it didn’t seem like his house to her, not yet. Would it ever?

“You look comfortable.”

She started, then smiled. He stood in the doorway, grinning at her, looking very handsome. She took her feet off the open bottom drawer of her desk and stood up. “You came,” she said gladly.

“Missed you. Are you busy?”

“No.” She came around the desk. “Are you? Can you stay for a little while?”

“As long as you like.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, pretending dismay. “You only came because you’re bored with your article.”

“It’s true that I’m bored with my article,” he conceded. “But I still missed you.”

Her heart had begun to beat faster, and it wasn’t because of his compliments. “Why don’t you go down and see Tranter? He’s at the forty, costeaning with Thad in the eastern seam.”

He made a face. “I didn’t really come to see Tranter.”

“No, but—think how surprised he’d be to see you. Why don’t you go down? Do you care about those shoes? I can find some boots for you if you like, and a hat.”

Now he looked confounded. “But I don’t want to see Tranter, at least not in the mine. Sophie, it’s you I’ve come to see.”

“Drat,” she muttered, torn between shaking him and laughing. “Then I’ll just have to go down with you.” She was aware of his astonished stare while she slipped off her shoes and stuck her feet into a pair of muddy boots she kept behind the door. “Where’s my hat, who took my hat? Oh, there.” Underneath her shawl, on the coat tree. She put it on her head, made a rueful face at the ruched hem of her rose-colored gown—why hadn’t she worn something dark today, something practical?—and turned Connor around by the arm. “Come on, then. It’s a perfect time, the cores are changing; you can watch the old men come up and the new men go down.”

“Sophie, what—”

“
Come.
You’ll like it, I promise.” She pulled him out the door and across the yard to the mine entrance.

She was right: he liked it. And she couldn’t have waited another day to show him. All week she’d been trying to think of a way to let him know what she’d done without really telling him, or a scheme by which he could find out for
himself
, with her not even being there. False modesty, of course, mixed with some strange, out-of-character bashfulness. But today, here he was, and she couldn’t stand it any longer: the suspense was killing her.

She preceded him down the twenty-foot ladders to forty-four fathoms, where the wonderful new machines began, wondering if he could hear the whir of the engines from here. She hoped not; that would give away the surprise too soon. She wanted to tell him to close his eyes until they got to just the right spot, but that wasn’t feasible when one was descending a slippery, steep-sloped ladder. So she just stepped off at the last sollar and waited for him to join her, pretending she was calm, not quivering inside with anticipation.

So far, she’d only had time and money to construct man-machines from forty-four down to sixty fathoms, ninety-six vertical feet of eight-inch square iron rods and twelve-inch platforms in constant motion. Eventually, though, there were plans to erect the moving seesaws throughout the whole mine, down to the deepest level and all the way to the top. It would take time, and in the meanwhile she was breaking up the great distances of the old fifty-foot ladders with levels and winzes, and new platforms for fifteen and twenty-five-foot ladders.

She backed off the sollar to stand with her back to the wall of the level—a good place from which to view the marvel—and watched Connor’s face when the truth of what she’d done first came to him. Foolish to care about his reaction this much, as if her very life depended on it. She couldn’t help it. And he didn’t let her down: his eyes went wide and his mouth curved in a soft, tentative, awe-struck smile that said everything he was thinking and went straight to her heart.

The changing of the cores was exactly the right time to watch the man-machines in action. Such simplicity, such cleverness. A man coming up stepped off a stationary platform onto a moving one at the end of a long rod, which took him up twelve feet in a smooth, jerk-free motion to the next stationary platform. He stepped off, and immediately onto another moving platform—or not; if he chose to rest on the fixed platform, he could, and, unlike the ladder system, no bottleneck of ascending miners collected behind him while he loitered. Descending miners did the same thing, only in reverse. It was fascinating to watch the men passing each other in the shaft, the rods zigzagging with wonderful regularity, one miner stepping off at one end while another stepped on at the other. Sophie hadn’t gotten tired of it, and she still came down every few days just to look at the amazing process. Truly, they lived in an age of miracles.

Connor was getting over his speechlessness. “Oh, Sophie,” she heard him say over the noise of the pumps and the steam engines. He was reaching for her hand when a gruff voice called out, “Hullo, Jack! Is it you?” In the dim light it was hard to recognize the man on the far side of the shaft, rising in midair to the next platform. Connor called “Hullo” back, waving. “Mooney?”