The Changeling Bride (11 page)

He dropped his head back onto the pillow, his mind roaming. His hand soon followed suit, lightly tracing her thigh and buttocks, all that he could reach without shifting the arm wrapped around her. She was soft and rounded in all the right places, and he could feel her breasts pressed up against him.

The desire that he had felt earlier came back in a tingling rush, and he forced himself to keep his hand still on her hip. There was no use torturing himself. He was not about to wake her and try once again to seduce her, not when she had turned to him of her own volition in an expression, however unconscious, of trust.

He was logical; he was a tactitian; he was engaged in a battle that would be won by patience and planning.

That did not mean he could not think about it, though. He drifted off to sleep with fantasies of his wife pinned beneath him, accepting his thrusts with great moans of pleasure. A man could dream, after all.

Chapter Nine

Henry was gone by the time Elle awoke the next morning, and a feeling of dread nestled deep in her gut. Marianne, oblivious, was bustling about, a knowing grin on her plump face.

Elle sat up, noticing that all the blankets were back on the bed, albeit in a rumpled mess. It did indeed look like they had had a wild night of it, which was no doubt the cause of Marianne’s cheerful amusement. Elle’s mind slowly sought an answer for how she had ended up in the bed, and when the image from her dream returned she whimpered and squeezed her eyes shut, burrowing back beneath the covers.

“Here now, milady,” Marianne said. “No need to be embarrassed.”

Elle ignored her and pulled the sheet over her head.

With the memory of the dream and all it implied, her vague sense of dread found its proper shape. She was never going to see Jeff and his growing brood of monsters
again, never going to see her friends, never going to drive a car or watch the news on TV. She had lost everyone and everything.

She sat up suddenly, pulling the sheet off her head. “Marianne, where’s Tatiana?”

“His lordship took her outside, milady.”

Elle threw back the covers and got out of bed. Tatiana was all she had. She couldn’t trust the dog’s care to anyone but herself. “Do you know where my clothes are?”

“Yes, milady, of course. Do you not wish to break your fast?”

“No, no time for that.”

“Very well, milady.” Marianne led her to the dressing room, where she had laid out Elle’s clothes and accessories. Elle quickly used the chamber pot behind a screen, and realized that she’d never again hear the rush of flushing water. She felt tears sting her eyes.

On a stand behind the screen there was a basin and a pitcher of tepid water, and she took the time to give herself a brief sponge bath, tossing her chemise over the screen. She smelled of sweat, and she realized she’d have to wash herself three times a day to keep from exuding any trace of body odor. The thought of her underarm hair growing long depressed her even more.

“Marianne, a fresh chemise, please,” she called, putting one hand out from behind the screen. Her mood made it easier to give orders, something she had been having trouble with. She stepped out from behind the screen and went to the vanity, picking up a brush and taking it to the snarls that had twisted themselves into her hair overnight.

“The fairies have been at you good,” Marianne said.

Elle’s hand stopped midstroke. “What was that?” she asked sharply, the blood draining from her already wan face.

“The fairylocks, milady. The snarls in your hair. Do you need some help?”

“No . . . no, I’m used to doing it myself.” She continued brushing, more slowly, then without even thinking, sat down and began to put her hair into a loose French braid. It was a simple task for her practiced fingers, and in a few minutes she was searching for something with which to tie off the end. The best she could find was a ribbon, which she tied as tightly as she could, knowing that it would most likely slide off. They didn’t even have rubber bands here.

She stood and let Marianne help her dress, knowing that she couldn’t do it herself, and knowing as well that none of Eleanor’s clothes would have a prayer of fitting her without the painfully tight stays. As Marianne tightened the laces and the pain increased, she felt a small bitter smile form on her lips. She’d spend every remaining day of her life bound in this device, unable to bend at the waist, unable to eat more than a few bites of food. It seemed a perverse, cosmic revenge for her dislike of exercise.

Marianne tied on her petticoat, the bustle, rolled on her stockings and tied the garters, then helped her into her dress. It was dark blue, of a thicker material than the wedding gown had been. It was embroidered in black along the hem and the edges of the overskirt, which was open in front, curved to the sides in an inverted V. The bodice was tight, as were the sleeves. Marianne poufed the handkerchief over Elle’s bosom, the folds of linen reaching to just below her chin. Elle sat again for Marianne to put on her shoes, for she could not bend over to do it herself. She continued to sit as Marianne picked up a large, high-crowned, wide-brimmed black hat with ostrich plumes sticking up from the blue ribbon that circled the crown, ending in a fluffy excresence of flounces.

“Are you certain you do not wish me to do your hair, milady?”

“We’ve taken enough time already.”

“Yes, milady, only . . .”

“What?” Elle asked, impatient to be gone, cranky in her misery.

“Nothing, milady.” Marianne stepped forward and arranged the hat on Elle’s head, carefully poking hat pins through it and the braid.

Elle stood and turned to go, catching sight of herself in the mirror. She looked awful. With her hair pulled back and close to the head, it made the pouf of handkerchief over her chest and the oversized, overdecorated hat look out of proportion. The styles were made for a great mass of frizzed and ringletted hair. Her face was but a small white blur caught between hat and kerchief.

Her heart hurt, her body hurt, and she looked terrible. Grief crept like arthritis through her bones. Her muscles were stiff with it, her joints creaked, and as she looked in the mirror, she could see the hollow loss in her eyes, deep and dark and without end, the flesh beneath her wounded eyes shadowed in violet.

Without another word to Marianne, she left the room, finding her way to the main staircase and down to the ground floor. Each detail of the house that differed from the familiar was a reminder that she was far from home, a reminder that she was trapped alone in an unknown world. For all that these people spoke English and lived in a culture that had given birth to her own, she did not know how to live amongst them.

She did not know how the house was cleaned, or the food cooked. She did not know how to mail a letter, or travel alone from one place to another, or what to wear at what time of day, or for what occasion. She did not even know how she’d deal with her period when it came.

Tatiana found her as she was plodding down the steps of the terrace, and bounded over to her in canine high spirits. Elle sat on the stone steps and let Tatiana lick her face and rub her white fur all over the dark blue gown, a reluctant smile coming to her lips. Tatiana at least would think this place a wonderful improvement over
Portland. No more cramped apartment; no noisy, smelly cars and trucks to run her over; no visits to the veterinarian; and she would never be left alone while Elle went to work.

“The beast has found her beauty.”

Elle looked up. Henry stood at the base of the stairs, hands clasped behind his back. A small clump of white fur was stuck to his breeches, marring an otherwise perfect sartorial statement. He looked well rested and in as complete control of himself as ever.

“Good morning,” she said, bending her face to Tatiana’s, letting the hat hide her from his view. She dimly recalled having sought comfort in his arms last night and didn’t want to think about it. Anyone would have done just as well, as long as they were warm and alive. Henry just barely qualified.

“Good morning. It is rather odd, but no one seems to have any recollection of your dog before yesterday.”

Elle peeked up from under the brim of her hat. What explanation could she possibly give?

“Still,” Henry continued, “it is quite evident that she knows you. Curious, how such a remarkably noticeable animal could have so thoroughly escaped notice.”

“Yes, quite curious. Are we leaving soon?” The longer she remained in Eleanor’s home, the more likely she was to do things that Eleanor wouldn’t, and have them noticed. At least when she was alone with Henry, he wouldn’t know what was normal, and it would be the most natural thing in the world for her to ask questions.

“I had thought to give you some time in which to wish your family farewell, and then to be gone by the noon hour.”

“Then I should go pack.”

“Surely your maid has seen to that by now? I believe that several of your trunks have already been loaded on the coach that will carry both her and your belongings.”

“Oh. Of course. It’s just the good-byes that are waiting, then.”

“Eleanor—”

“Elle, Henry. If you’re going to call me anything, please call me Elle.”

“My apologies. I thought you might wish to rescind that verbal intimacy after our wedding night.”

“As I recall, it was intimacy of only the verbal sort that I was interested in pursuing.”

“So it was. And now you have a full day in a closed carriage with me to indulge your wish.”

Elle frowned at him. Was there humor in his voice? The man was so damn unreadable. “Right. I can hardly wait. Where are we going for our honeymoon?”

Although his answer came in a cool, disinterested tone and nothing in his composed stance changed, she had the feeling that the question made him uncomfortable. “A wedding trip will not be possible at this time.”

“Oh.” She wondered if money had anything to do with that decision. “So we’re going straight to your place. Where is it again, exactly?”

“Dorset, near the Frome.”

She had no idea where either Dorset or the Frome were. Or what, exactly, the Frome was. “What else is nearby?”

“Dorchester is not far.”

She was afraid to ask any more. Something in his look told her she should know all this already. “Mmm. Well. I’m very much looking forward to seeing your home.”

“Our home, now.”

“Yes. Ours.” It was a strange but not completely unwelcome thought.

The family good-byes, when they came, were remarkably easy. There was the same well-wishing, the same confusion of voices, the same promises to write as there were in the modern world. Several guests had come down to the front hall for the final farewell, adding a note of
merriment to the more somber mood of the immediate family. The only person she was sorry to leave was Louise, who pulled her aside for a semiprivate tearful and melodramatic good-bye.

“My dear sister, you are married, and must now live under the rule of a man you despise! You shall write to me, and never fear but that I shall be here when you are in need of succor.”

“For heaven’s sake, Louise, he’s not an ogre. He’s not going to beat me.”

“But you despise him, and how can the tender heart of woman survive in such a cruel, loveless environment?”

“I think the tender heart of woman will do just fine.”

“Do you mean you have found some tenderness for him?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I must admit, I was surprised when I saw him. You had led me to believe he was most uncouth, and disagreeable to look upon.” Louise’s voice dropped as she continued, “And he does look to be a cold man, but he is not without appeal. One wonders what goes on behind those black eyes, whether there are wicked thoughts that he hides from us.”

Elle realized that Louise had never actually met Henry before the wedding: Whatever she had known of him had been based upon discussions that Eleanor had had with her. “I’m sure with a little training, he’ll make a most civil husband.”

“I am glad to hear I am not an intractable case,” Henry said from behind her.

She felt the warm weight on his hands on her shoulders, a proprietary gesture that bespoke an intimacy they did not share, although she could not deny a reluctant pleasure at the touch. She smiled weakly at Louise, then turned. “They say that the first step in change is to recognize
that you have a problem. I am encouraged to hear that you have surmounted that obstacle.”

“With the patient guidance of your gentle hand, no doubt I will soon overcome all barriers to domestic bliss,” he replied.

Elle narrowed her eyes at him. She was deeply suspicious he had meant that as a double entendre, only he couldn’t have known she caught it. She set her jaw and suffered through the remainder of the good-byes, ignoring her husband as well as she could.

The carriage that awaited them was nowhere near so grand as the one that had taken her to the church, even to her untutored eye. There was no gloss to its black exterior, and the coat of arms on the door was faded and chipped. She realized with a queer feeling that that heraldic symbol was now hers, as well. Her family back in Oregon could trace their family tree for three or four generations at best, in only a few directions. Some of her great-great-grandparents were completely unknown, shadowy figures with neither name nor face. Henry probably had records of his family going back several hundred years.

The interior of the coach was no better than the outside. The leather seats were cracked in places, the cushions indented from the pressure of years of behinds. Tatiana promptly sat herself upon a seat near a window, panting happily at the bright scene outside. Henry followed the dog inside, apparently not caring that he was to share the carriage with a shedding canine. Elle reluctantly gave him points for not asking her to put Tatiana in the servant’s coach, as someone like the loathsome Toby would have done if he could. Then again, it wasn’t as if there was much damage the dog could do to the decrepit conveyance.

Elle sat beside Tatiana, her back to the front of the carriage. Henry sat across from her, his legs stretched out on a diagonal that, while not interfering with her own
legroom, all the same left her very aware of his presence. There was a final chorus of farewells from the steps of the house, and then they were off, hooves clattering and springs squeaking.