Forever and Ever (24 page)

“No, something in particular I came to
ask
you.” He coughed again, a nervous habit, and fixed his intelligent brown eyes on Connor’s face. “I’ve been authorized to inquire on behalf of the party constituency organization if you have any interest in standing for Clive Knowlton’s seat at the by-election.”

For ten full seconds, Connor couldn’t do anything but blink. All the individual words made sense, but the sentence wouldn’t gel; it sounded like gibberish. He tried a laugh, expecting Braithwaite to join in, but he just blinked back, like an owl, behind his spectacles. “Clive Knowlton’s seat?” Connor finally got out. “The Tavistock borough? The House of Commons?”

“That’s it.”

“But—what by-election? Knowlton’s leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Why? He’s been in forever.”

“Precisely. He lost his wife last year, and it seems to have taken the fire out of him. He says he wants to study for the Anglican ministry. I’m telling you this in confidence, of course. The party knows, but Knowlton doesn’t want to announce his retirement publicly for a few more weeks. Not until Parliament reconvenes in November, you know.”

He was speechless again, his mind in turmoil. He kept staring at Braithwaite, trying to see him as a trickster, a practical joker, but it wasn’t possible. He was earnest, serious—he parted his hair in the middle.

“As a matter of fact, the conservative branch of the party association is already fronting a man for the seat,” he was saying. “You may know him—Robert Croddy.”

Stranger and stranger. “I know Croddy.”

“Yes. Well, then you can probably understand why we’re looking about for someone else.”

Connor grunted. “But—why me?”

“The party likes you. From your writing and from our discussions in Exeter, we think you’re on our side of the issues. Like you, we favor the manhood suffrage, vote by ballot, annually elected Parliaments, as well as gradual reform—
gradual
reform, that is—of working conditions for the lower class.”

Connor had to stand up. “But I’m new here,” he protested weakly, going behind his desk for another drink. “I’m not known.”

“On the contrary, you’re extremely well-known.”

“But what I’m known for—is it helpful?”

“We think so. The district’s been sleeping. It’s long overdue for reform, and men are starting to wake up to that. Knowlton’s like an aging father, well liked and respected but not strong anymore, no longer innovative. Even he knows it. Now, you, you have a few handicaps to overcome, but we think you’re closer to Knowlton’s philosophy than Croddy. Croddy calls himself a Whig, but he isn’t—he’s an opportunist. He’d call himself a Papist if he thought it would get him elected.” His mouth curled under his soft brown mustache, giving away his dislike. If nothing else, thought Connor, they had contempt for Robert Croddy in common. “The fight won’t be for the election,” he went on, “it’ll be for Knowlton’s endorsement. It’s a safe seat, in other words; the Whigs have owned it for the last half century. In this case, selection means election.”

“So whoever Knowlton chooses to succeed him . . .”

“Will probably be the new Member. Croddy’s a natural ingratiator, and he’s had a head start. He’s also got a strong organization behind him.”

“And I don’t.”

“Not yet,” Braithwaite said cheerfully. “But these are very early days, and since Knowlton’s abdication is still officially a secret, there’s not that much Croddy can be doing. So,” he said, standing up, too. “The question I’m to put to you is this: Are you interested?”

Maybe he was still in shock, maybe it was the reckless streak in his character, maybe it was the deep-down sense of alignment, of everything fitting together smoothly and perfectly for the first time in his life. Or maybe he was simply out of his mind. In any case, Connor said, “Yes, I’m interested,” without thought and without hesitation. But as soon as he said it, his knees felt weak and he had to slug down the rest of his brandy.

Ian laughed. “Good. That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

“You mean it’s done? That’s it?”

“Ah, well. No, not exactly. I’m the party agent, but there are still a few others who’ll want to look you over before we make our decision once and for all. Quite a few others, actually. I’ll try to make it as painless as possible—dinner meetings, you know, so you don’t feel so much like a schoolboy at an examination.”

Connor streaked his hand through his hair, nervous already. “I can’t get used to this,” he said frankly—something in Braithwaite’s forthright manner encouraged frankness. “And for the life of me, I can’t think why you’ve chosen me.”

“Can’t you? Perhaps you underestimate yourself.”

He shrugged, but in truth he didn’t think that was it. If anything, he’d underestimated Ian’s branch of the Whig party, by writing them off as too conservative for him.

“I’m not saying you won’t have your work cut out for you, Connor. But the war in the Crimea is over, this business with China is nothing but a skirmish, the Indian mutiny is petering out—it’s a peaceful time, relatively speaking. Reform is in the air, and the constituency is in the mood for change. And you,” he finished, eyes twinkling, “would certainly be a change.”

“Drink to that,” he muttered—and he would have, but there was no more brandy. Besides, he didn’t want Ian to think he had a drinking problem.

“I hope you don’t mind my telling you that your recent marriage made you more attractive to us as a candidate,” Braithwaite said, reaching for the hat he’d set on the desk. “It’s added a certain, how shall I say, cachet of respectability. And it will serve you well with Knowlton, who’s conservatism itself when it comes to matters of personal conduct. By the way, your wife receives above three hundred pounds annually from her property, doesn’t she?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s the property qualification—something else we’re in favor of abolishing, by the way. A man standing for the Commons must, either by himself or through his spouse, earn three hundred a year from his property. You meet that standard, we’re assuming.”

“I couldn’t say,” Connor answered stiffly. “I’m newly married; I haven’t the least idea how much money my wife has.”

“Really? Well, find out, will you? Ways can be got around the qualification, but we’ll need to know early on. Well, I must be off.” He put out his hand to shake. “I’m glad it’s turned out this way. Awfully exciting, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Connor agreed, feeling overcome again. “Do you have to go? Stay and speak to Sophie—stay the night. It’s late—”

“No, can’t, I’m riding back to Plymouth tonight, in fact. There’s much to do, as I’m sure you can appreciate. So I’ll be off, thanks all the same. And you’ll be hearing from me again in the very near future, probably only a day or two. In fact, if all goes well, you’ll be spending so much time with me, you’ll groan when you see me coming.”

Connor showed him out, watched him trot off on the back of a chestnut hackney mare. Then he went to find his wife.

She wasn’t upstairs in their room. He clattered back down, calling her. Not in any of the downstairs rooms, including the little sewing nook off the sunporch. Oh—of course. He knew exactly where she was, and mentally smacked his forehead for not going there first. The kitchen.

Correct. He found her sitting at the table, reading a book by the light of two candles. And eating. This time it was potatoes left over from dinner, cold, mashed, and liberally sprinkled with pepper. Last night he’d found her here eating asparagus spears with her fingers, and pieces of a cold beef pudding. Amazing.

She blushed a little. “Huh,” she said for a greeting, her mouth full, wiping her fingers on her apron. She swallowed, and daintily touched her lips with the dishrag. “Hungry? There’s plenty.” She started to get up. “I’ll—”

He pressed her back down with his hands on her shoulders, and then he kissed her. She looked so pretty then, her smile so pleased and surprised, he had to kiss her again. “Sophie, the most remarkable thing has happened.”

“What?”

He sat down in the chair beside hers. “That man, Braithwaite, he’s an agent for the Whig party association in Plymouth.”

“Robert’s organization?”

“No, they’re in Devonport,” he said, laughing. “That’s the reactionary branch.”

She laughed with him. “I think they prefer the term ‘conservative.’ ”

“If the shoe fits.” He took a deep breath. “Good thing you’re sitting down. In your condition, you might faint when you hear this.”

“What?” she cried, mystified.

“Braithwaite and his men are thinking of me for Knowlton’s seat at the by-election.”

She was floored. “Knowlton’s seat? In the Commons?”

“Yes.”

“For Tavistock?”

“Yes.”

“The seat Robert wants?”

“Yes.” So she knew about that. It irked him, but he wasn’t going to let Croddy spoil this moment.

“But—that’s impossible! I can’t believe it!”

He wasn’t going to take her incredulity as an insult either. He was only just getting used to the idea himself, after all. “It may not happen. The constituency party association wants to meet me—look me over, see if I spit on the floor, you know, or have three eyes.”

“But I don’t understand! Why would they choose you?”

“Well, thanks, darling.” He felt the edge in his smile and tried to make it more natural. “Your confidence in me is an inspiration.”

“I’m not joking, Connor.”

“I’m not either.”

She bowed her head, contrite. “I mean, how do they think you can win? You’re not known in the district.”

“Braithwaite says I am.”

“But that’s . . .”

“Infamy rather than fame? Apparently I’m not held in quite as much ill repute as you think I should be.”

“I didn’t mean that. I’m surprised, that’s all.”

“Don’t you think I’d make a good MP?”

She narrowed her eyes. He’d asked the question in jest, but she was considering it in earnest. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I don’t think patience is your best virtue, and so you might find it frustrating. And . . . I’m not sure I can see you making compromises.”

He stood up, uncomfortable with her unsolicited candor. “Well,” he said brusquely, “it probably won’t happen. Braithwaite’s probably a raving lunatic—he must be, to have thought of me in the first place. And as you’ve had the goodness to point out, no one’s ever heard of me anyway. Perhaps the whole thing is a joke of your friend Croddy’s.”

“You’re angry.”

“Not in the least. I value your realism, darling. Where would I be without you?”

“Connor—”

“How much money do you have, Sophie?”

“How— I beg your pardon?”

“Ha, that’s exactly what I said. Ian wants to know. You have to make more than three hundred a year or I can’t stand for the seat. Guelder pulls that much down in a year, doesn’t it?”

She pushed her chair back, got to her feet slowly, never taking her eyes off him. “You met him before, didn’t you? You knew him.”

“Ian? Yes, we met in Exeter. He and another chap took me out to a meal. Talked politics.”

“Talked politics.” He eyes glittered. She turned her back on him. Now
she
was upset, and he couldn’t fathom why. “What would have happened,” she said tightly, “if you hadn’t married me?”

“What?”

“What would have happened to your political ambitions if you hadn’t married a woman with three hundred pounds a year?”

He reached for her arm, forcing her to face him. “What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t have any political ambitions until half an hour ago!”

“Didn’t you? Or was it in the back of your mind all along? Come, tell me the truth—you’ve got me now, what difference does it make?”

He was too angry to speak.

“I’m not saying that’s the only reason you married me,” she said wearily, reasonably, as if she were making a great concession. “But come, admit it—wasn’t the pill a little easier to swallow when you realized you could make an honest woman out of me and meet the property requirement at the same time?”

“Damn you.” If she had spat on him, she couldn’t have offended him more, and if she’d stabbed him he would have felt less pain. “Damn you, Sophie,” he whispered, and walked out.

XVIII

They stalked around each other for days. Not speaking made them feel childish, so they said the necessary things and no more—“I’m going out now,” “Pass the salt, please,” “Good night.” In a way, it was worse than the hostility with which they’d begun their marriage, because they’d had an interlude of peace, and this time they knew what they were missing. But neither was capable of breaking through the barrier of hurt pride and new distrust. They were too angry.

Sophie went to the mine early every day and stayed late, even though her constant presence wasn’t necessary. She did it to avoid Connor in the house. At night, they didn’t go so far as to sleep in separate rooms, but they were careful always to retire at different hours, so that one was either asleep or pretending to be when the other came to bed. That way they didn’t have to talk at all, and the possibility of making love, already remote, was eliminated entirely.

Connor had his first meeting with Ian Braithwaite’s political associates, and it went well. Extremely well; he was bursting with relief and excitement when the evening was over—but there was no one to share his triumph with. It was a dinner meeting in Plymouth at George Thacker’s home, and three other men from the party association. Where was Mrs. Pendarvis, they all wanted to know, and he lied and said she was ill with a cold and not allowed out of the house. Well, they looked forward to meeting her next time, they said, and he felt exultant because there was going to be a next time, and chagrined because Sophie probably wouldn’t be there again. Not the way things were going. It wasn’t that she’d refused to come. In fact, he hadn’t even asked her. Would’ve cut out his tongue before asking her. If she really believed he’d married her for her frigging three hundred pounds a year, she could rot at home forever for all he cared, and he’d take his political chances without her.

An end to the war, or at least a truce between battles, came from an unexpected source: a letter from Jack. Connor put off speaking to her about it for as long as he could, repelled by the thought of the subject he would have to raise with her—money. But that night he couldn’t postpone it any longer; he went up to their room, where she’d retired a little earlier, and confronted her.

“I need ten pounds right away. And tomorrow I’m going to Exeter.”

She was sitting at her dressing table, taking off her jewelry, unpinning her hair. She turned around slowly, hairbrush in midair, and stared at him. “Why?”

“Do I have to clear all my expenses with you? Maybe it would be easier if you gave me an allowance. Weekly or monthly, at your convenience.”

“I meant,” she said coldly, “why are you going to Exeter? All the money’s yours now; you hardly need to ask me for it.”

He made an effort to be reasonable, rein in his temper. He’d goaded her into this skirmish, even he could see that. He sat down on the end of the bed, smoothing his hand up and down the tall post. Sophie swung back to the mirror huffily and scowled at her reflection. She was still lovely, though. In fact, she never looked more beautiful to him than at times like this, preparing for bed, brushing her hair at her mother’s old dressing table. He pressed his temple to the hard wood of the bedpost, swamped with a sudden longing. These moments came and went, he’d discovered; there was nothing to do but wait them out. “I have to go to Exeter to see my brother. The money’s for him. He’s fallen ill and can’t take care of himself.”

She turned again to face him. “Bring him here.”

“What?”

“You can’t take proper care of him in Exeter. Bring him here. He can have my old room. Maris is here in the day, and Mrs. Bolton at night. And you, and me—with four of us tending him, it won’t be difficult.”

He got up from the bed. He wanted to say something, but all the words he thought of sounded trite and inadequate.

“Is it his lungs again? His consumption?”

He nodded.

“Dr. Hesselius has experience with tubercular diseases. There’s a clinic in Somerset, I’ve forgotten where—Bath, I think. He went there for a few weeks last year for a course of study of some sort, I can’t remember the details. At any rate, he knows something about consumptive lung diseases. You wouldn’t be bringing your brother into—a medical wilderness, in other words. Well?” she said when he still didn’t speak.

“I’ll do it. I’ll go tomorrow and bring him home.” He went toward her. “Sophie.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

She looked down, started playing with the brush in her lap. “It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s far from nothing.” It was like crossing a battle line and walking, unarmed, into the enemy’s camp when he put out his hand and brushed his fingers against her cheek. Her eyelashes fluttered. He saw the loneliness and yearning in her still face, and it gave him the courage to tell her the truth. “Sophie, I miss you.”

She said, “I hate it when we fight,” and he took her hands and pulled her up, into his arms. When they pulled away to look at each other, she blurted out, “I’m sorry for what I said. I don’t think you married me for the money, and it was cruel and stupid of me to accuse you.”

“Never mind, it’s over.”

“I don’t know why I did it! All of a sudden I was just so
angry.
And afterward, even when I knew I’d been wrong, I couldn’t tell you, couldn’t apologize. Because you were so angry with
me
, and that just—fueled the fire. Oh, Con, let’s not keep doing this. It’s awful, and I can’t stand it.”

“We’ll make a rule,” he said, squeezing her hands between his. “When we make each other mad, we’re only allowed to sulk like pouty children for twenty-four hours. One day. After that, like it or not, we have to talk. Or shout, or throw plates at each other—anything, but no more silence.”

Her radiant smile blinded him. “I love that rule. Especially the plate throwing. I can hardly
wait
for our next quarrel.”

Their laughter was as therapeutic as the kisses they lavished on each other, and the soft, reassuring touches. They drifted to the bed and sank down, never letting go. She smelled like the lavender water she bathed in, and he put his face in her hair, filled his hands with it, murmuring to her that he’d missed her, that he wanted her. “But we should talk,” she argued halfheartedly, while her hands went inside his shirt and stroked him, making his skin tingle. “About Jack.”

“No, later.” He kissed her bare shoulder, sliding her dressing gown down her arms, thinking what a miracle it was to be touching his wife again. She sat with a rapt, passive smile, and let him run his hands over her arms and her stomach, her thighs, and when he caressed her breasts she put her head back and sighed.

“We should talk about the seat,” she tried next while he kissed her long, soft neck.

“The seat?” he repeated blankly.

“Knowlton’s seat. I want you to win.”

“Thank you, darling,” he said, laughing, making her stand up so he could get her out of her nightgown. “But let’s talk politics later, hmm?”

She stood in front of him, naked and eager. “All right,” she said, helping him with his shirt buttons, “but I wanted you to know. That I’d vote for you if I could.” They came together and fell back on the bed, rolling and turning in a tangle of ardent arms and legs. Sophie landed on top and covered his face with kisses, whispering, “Missed you,” between each one. “We’ll never fight again, never for the rest of our lives.”

“Never,” he promised, and he saw the wry, rueful knowledge in her eyes that they were both lying. She kissed his palms, then laid them on her breasts. “So pretty,” he murmured, meaning everything about her, but especially her face when he gave her pleasure like this. She was smiling through half-closed eyes, her head tilted to the side, golden hair falling down her shoulder. She made soft humming sounds, and quick little gasps, and when she licked her lips he said, “Come down here,” because he had to kiss her.

While they kissed she squirmed on him, kneeing his thighs apart, rubbing her stomach against his. She had his wrists over his head; he pulled one hand free to stroke her long back and her cool, silky bottom. She was playing with his hair, pulling it up and out, arranging it on the pillow to her liking. The result made her laugh out loud, and he laughed with her, not caring at all how silly he looked.

They rolled again, changing places. He lifted her with an arm under her waist, and came into her on a strong, smooth glide. “Con,” she breathed, welcoming him, holding his face in her hands. She couldn’t say it, but he knew that she loved him—the truth was as plain in her face as smooth pebbles through the clear water of a stream. He took her gently. “We’re both inside you, Sophie,” he whispered against her lips. “The baby and me, both of us inside you now.” That made her cry, and he kissed the tears away with all the tenderness in him.

They rolled to their sides, the better to touch each other. He pulled her knee up and clamped it to his side, pumping into her steadily until she arched her back, moaning. They kissed, and then he broke away so he could watch her come undone. She made that sound he loved, low and desperate, indescribable, and bit her lips into her mouth. With her eyes shut tight, she savored it, keening softly, opening and closing her hands on his chest, and her intense pleasure lit the fuse to his. He drew her closer, tightening his arms around her. “God, Sophie,” he gritted out before the storm took him, tossing him like a twig into the wild, swirling place where there was nothing but sensation. He felt her arms around his shoulders, heard her panting gasps, the echo of his. It was too much, he couldn’t bear any more—and in that instant the release came, like clashing thunder and blinding light, and the blessed, drenching downpour. In the aftermath he lay still, wrecked on the shore, drowned in her arms. A happy dead man.

They rested. The candles guttered; the moon rose. The room grew cold, and they got under the covers.

“We’re too much alike.” Sophie sighed, snuggling against him. “That’s our problem, Con. We’re too much alike.”

“A blessing and a curse.” He lowered his head and took a lazy swipe of her nipple, just because it was there, with his tongue.

Her surprised squeal turned into an interested hum. “We have the same temper. The same pride. Exactly the same things make us angry.” She had her nose in his hair, nuzzling him. “And we’re both snobs, but in reverse.”

He was listening, but the shapes and puckers her little peak made against his lips had part of his attention, too. “Sometimes you do the stupidest things,” she said tenderly, “and they make me furious. But then I think, ‘But that’s just what I’d have done,’ and the anger drifts away. Sometimes.”

“Sometimes.” He traced a light path from her breast to her navel, and tickled her there until she laughed. The intimacy and the sweetness of this moment made him bold. He said, “I think you love me, Sophie.” Before she could agree or disagree, he added, “But I don’t think you always approve of me. And I want that. Need that.”

“Con . . .”

“Don’t say anything, sweetheart. I just wanted to tell you.”

“I feel the same,” she whispered, shy, stroking his temple over and over. “I know I’m not the sort of woman you’d have married if you’d had a choice. No, I’m not,” she insisted when he tried to interrupt. “You’d have chosen someone smarter—”

“Impossible.”

“—and more liberal. A socialist, probably.”

“Hmm, I’ve never met a lady socialist. It wouldn’t have been easy.”

“I’m serious, Connor.”

“Maybe Karl Marx has a sister.”

“Someone with a social conscience. An altruist, a—philanthropist.” He had his fingers twined in her private hair, and he was drumming them softly against her most sensitive places. This was a fun conversation, but the drowned man was reviving. “I’m trying to make you respect me,” she said in a high voice, locking her thighs around his wrist, “but I can’t—change everything about myself, I—”

“I don’t want you to change. Nothing.”

“You do, though.”

“No, I don’t.” Ever so slowly, he slipped his longest finger inside her. “You’re perfect. Look at you. You’re the one I’d have chosen, no matter what. Our baby’s twice a blessing, because without it we would never have known. We’d have both been too stupid to see.”

“Yes,” she agreed on a breathy inhale. The drowned man’s liveliest part pulsed against her thigh, and she reached for it, blind. “Let’s make love again,” she suggested, as if the idea had originated with her.

“We could,” he ventured, as if he were considering it.

She had more energy: she rolled on top, and they came together again. This time it was different, slower, sweeter. Dreamier. She moved over him like water, fluid and warm, her voice a quiet murmur of love words and soft inducements. He took his hands over her body, searching out the places she liked. Boundaries faded, became insignificant. Her skin, his skin, it was all one, and he didn’t care so much now about the ending. He just wanted her close.

But then it changed. She went from water to fire, a radiant flame flickering hot over him, teasing him with the promise of immolation. He caught her fire through his hands, burning on her, and the blaze spread fast, fanned by her quickening breath and the passion in her voice when she sighed his name. They kissed for the last time, and then the fire consumed them, both together, burning up space, time, self, everything. He had a vision: he saw a Roman candle and it was his own body, and Sophie was the dark night all around, and the candle was shooting bright, blinding flashes of fire into the night. He began to laugh before it was over, because it was so grandiose, so marvelous. “Did you see it?” he wanted to know, holding her limp, damp body, blowing strands of her hair out of his face. “Did you see the fire, Sophie?”

He could feel her lips move on his throat in an exhausted smile. “The fire? Mmm.”

“No, but did you see it at the end? Fireworks. Pyrotechnics. I was a firecracker and you . . .” It was hard to explain.

“I was the match. No, I was a firecracker, too. I was a Catherine wheel.”

He liked that. He laughed again, and she humored him, moving to his side and pulling the covers up, throwing her arm across his middle. He felt like talking, but she was yawning, burrowing against him, her body heavy with fatigue. He held her elbow, stroking his thumb across the soft, soft skin of her inner arm. He put a kiss on top of her head, and she mumbled something sweet and unintelligible. “Sophie,” he whispered. No answer. “I love you, Sophie.” Her lashes fluttered, but otherwise she didn’t move. She’d fallen asleep.