"Oh, terrible things," he said. "Do you not
remember when you said you would give your life for a month's
happiness with me, and you would be a glutton for it?"
"Yes!" she cried eagerly.
"Well, you don't have to give your life for
it, it is about to happen! We will keep Hugh entertained with notes
asking for impossible things, and all the while you and I are going
to be very, very happy!"
"Oh, John, it is my greatest wish come true
-- but is there no danger that anyone will find us?"
"No, my darling, because we are going
somewhere very far away, where they don't even speak English!"
"Where?"
He smiled down at her, "To Ireland!"
Ireland was beautiful, even greener than
England, and that June the weather was fine, and rains scarce.
The cottage which Marcus had procured for
them was in the middle of a valley, with fat cows and white sheep
grazing around it, and fields of flowers within sight. Every
morning Georgiana opened the windows above their bed, breathed
deep, and smiled.
She would have thought a hovel in hell
beautiful if she had been with John, but it did seem like he had
found heaven for them, with the help of his friend.
Georgiana had dressed as a boy to make her
way to Ireland with Marcus. She wondered how many women had used
that stratagem to elope with a lover, or find some freedom. When
she had put on the breeches she was meant to wear, and turned
around to look at herself she had been shocked. How could she go
anywhere, with her buttocks and legs showing, and with a coat that
opened behind and revealed her form as she walked?
She had walked out quite stiffly before John,
Marcus and their men, and John had smiled at the blush on her
cheeks. He had kissed her and whispered, "You make an adorable boy.
Remind the Irishman I will cut him into pieces if he so much as
looks at you."
And in the carriage, as they bumped over
Irish roads after crossing the sea and she leaned out the window to
look at the country, she did turn to find Marcus' eyes on her
bottom, and a large grin on his face.
"John told me to remind you..." she began
heatedly.
"Oh, let him cut out my eyes!" Marcus cried
without shame. "Is it every day one sees such sights? Look at
Ireland, milady, and let me look where I will!"
Georgiana couldn't help liking Marcus, a man
who would make a disgraceful husband to any woman, as he loved to
drink, embellish stories and had an eye that roved so much it might
need a passport. But he made her laugh, a very great deal, never
took anything bad to heart, shared whatever he had without
affectation, and clearly cared for John.
She had wanted to change into a woman before
they arrived at the cottage, and Marcus had seen no harm in it, as
no one would know them now. They were too far into a country where
Englishmen did not much venture, and locals were not very keen to
share any information with the red coats or the police -- if anyone
even suspected who they might be.
Georgiana wisely sent Marcus far away from
the carriage and closed the curtains well, as he would certainly
have peeped. It was the least of rewards, Marcus thought, for his
trouble. He stood whistling outside until she was ready, and then
entered the carriage again to take her the rest of the way, his
eyes on her breasts this time.
"Mr. Brennan!"
"Oh, shoot me through the head, will ye, I
hear my eyes will stop working if you do!"
Now she and John were alone, except for a
woman and her husband, who brought them food sometimes, though John
went hunting for game and found summer fruit. He had also started
an orchard, as he meant to be a farmer and was trying to learn how
to plant things, even in a small way. They did have a struggle
against a cow before they managed to get any milk out of it, and
had tins of tea and sugar.
There were the days when they walked over the
countryside to lie on the ruins of a castle, or rode to a small
town to attend the feast for some saint; or the days when they sat
in the shade after eating, and he would read to her, or she would
play a small viola and sing to him, as she had a pleasant, clear
voice full of feeling.
Ombra mai fu
di vegetabile,
cara ed amabile,
soave più.
And there were the nights, when they lay in
bed by the light of the fire and made love, tenderly or savagely.
There had been only one thing that John had told her, before he
even touched her.
"We will be careful -- but you must promise
me, George, that if you do conceive a child you will not think of
anyone else but the baby, and you will come to me. You will bring
your sisters, and we will find a way. Swear it to me, or I can't
touch you."
"I swear it," she said, almost wishing that
all of it would happen.
He made her swear again, on his life, and put
many curses on himself should she break her word, and then he knew
that she never would break it.
One month,
he had said. It was
what she had asked for, and now she wished she had said a year --
how cheaply she would have sold her soul to be with him, but she
knew that reality awaited, and that she could not leave her sisters
with Hugh for too long.
And yet every beautiful morning told her that
this moment would end, that time was running through her fingers,
and that she couldn't stop it or slow it down; that, in fact, the
more beautiful their days and nights were, the more quickly they
passed.
They talked as well, but they did not talk of
anything sad: they did not talk of the deaths of their parents, or
her marriage and what happened in it, or of the war. She did ask
him about India, as she had never left England, except to come to
Ireland.
"It's a land unlike anything you have ever
seen,” he told her. “They have been around for much longer than us,
and there is so much there -- so much history and color. The light
is different, sometimes so bright you can't open your eyes,
sometimes so soft it makes everything come alive."
She remembered the things he had written to
her, about cows being sacred, and the many gods the Hindus had,
about elephants, lakes as smooth as mirrors, and palaces
everywhere.
"I wish I had seen it with you!"
He looked at her with a light in his eyes and
stood up suddenly, running out of the room. She heard him rummaging
in the closet where they kept their trunks and sat up, puzzled.
He came back with a large black and white box
of intricate inlaid work, and set it on the bed.
"It's beautiful," Georgiana said, inspecting
the box.
John opened it, turning it toward her. It was
full of things, silks in red, dark pink, yellow, and peacock blue,
silver and gold jewelry with enameled pieces, small flasks with
perfume and oils, and all sorts of curiosities.
"What is all this?"
"Your wedding chest!" John said.
She looked at him, and saw that his smile was
a little sad, and had to bite her lip so that a tear wouldn't blind
her. He had been buying all these things for her, during the war,
and had meant to come back bringing them for their wedding.
He had probably at one point thought that she
had preferred the diamonds and precious stones which she would get
from her marriage to Hugh. She could not begin to tell him how
incredibly precious everything in that box was to her -- small
scissors in silver, an ivory comb, a perfume bottle -- because they
were things that he had found for her, while he was thinking of her
and she of him.
She managed to compose her expression and
John was lying on one elbow now, smiling at her in earnest. "How do
you like it?"
"Would these things be used in a wedding
there?"
"Oh, this and much more, I suspect. I never
really saw an entire wedding in Bengal, they last for days, you
know. But I think the bride would be covered for most of the
ceremony and then surprise the groom." He lifted his eyebrows in
mock apprehension. "And I heard there were many promises to be
made..."
Georgiana knelt on the bed, "Then go
outside!"
"What?"
"Go outside! We will get married now, in the
Hindu way."
John smiled and leapt up from the bed. He
left the room and closed the door.
"Don't come until I call you," she cried out
after him.
She lit candles and placed them all over the
room, so she that could see better. Then she started taking things
out of the box, and at the very bottom there were watercolors of
India, of cities every bit as beautiful as John had described.
There were water colors of people, too, and she saw an Indian woman
decked out in her finery, and began to find the equivalent of what
she was wearing in the box.
She found a small shirt in dark pink which
followed the shape of her breasts and left her belly bare but fit
her well, then a red skirt, and finally the red and gold scarf that
she was meant to wrap around herself and, judging by the drawing,
carry elegantly over her head as well. It took her a bit of
frowning and turning around, until she understood how she was meant
to wrap it.
John was knocking, "Are you ready?"
"No!"
He kept drumming his fingers on the door,
"Well, hurry!"
"Go away," she said, muttering under her
breath,
"You impatient man! This is our wedding!"
She started to put on jewels, a brooch like a
half moon on the exact place where her hair parted, bracelets,
earrings, necklaces and anklets.
Then she opened some of the small vials in
the box, putting a little dab of perfume that smelled like jasmine
behind her ears; she found kohl in another vial, which she
experimented with before understanding that she had to run the
small stick inside the vial over her eyes. Inspecting herself in a
small mirror, she removed the powder that had ended up on her
cheeks and smiled. She looked exotic and mysterious.
There were some pots with red and yellow
powder, and she did not know what they were for, so she left them
on the table by the bed.
Finally she thought that she did look like an
Indian bride, and she sat on the bed, with a sheer veil over her
head and called, "Come in!"
Georgiana heard John's quick feet coming to
the door, then it opened dramatically and he stood there with a
makeshift turban on his head, his chest bare except for an
extravagant chain on it, and loose Indian trousers.
She started to laugh, but he stood looking at
her with wide eyes. "You are frightening me a little now..."
She laughed harder.
"Is it really you, under that thing?
Georgiana?"
She became quiet. He started to approach
cautiously.
"Don't make any sudden moves or I may strike,
you know I don't control my reactions very well," he warned
her.
He was now was quite close to her, and could
make her face through the veil.
"It
is
you," he said
softly.
He bent his head to her upturned face and
kissed her through the red veil. Then he lifted it, his eyes
scanning her face. He would have kissed her again, but she put her
hand on his chest.
"And what would happen in an Indian wedding
now?"
He narrowed his eyes, trying to remember,
"There would be offerings to the gods, seven turns around a
fire..." He looked around at all the things that were strewn over
the room. He saw the pot with red powder and took it.
"You would put this on the parting of your
hair and I would put a dot on your forehead, like this.” He touched
her forehead after dipping his finger in the red. "This is called
a
bindi
, and it means happiness in marriage, and
awareness. And you would do the same to me."
She did. "And then?"
His voice became softer, as he looked into
her eyes. "And then I would say that Kama, the god of love, had
given you to me. I would say,
I take thy hand in mine, yearning
for happiness.
Love is the giver, love is the
receiver..."
Georgiana thought how true it was, this time.
This was her marriage of love.
"I would say,” John continued, almost in a
whisper,
“May she remain mine, god of love
…"
He leaned forward and kissed her, and she
took his face between her hands. They did not recall, for a moment,
that she was not his. He was bending her backward so that she lay
in bed, and he lay with her.
They would only remember that they did not
belong to each other in the morning, amidst the remains of their
Hindu wedding.
"I was the victim of a news writer who needed
to hand in his copy at short notice! I should have been the Danish
Doom, the Deadly Dane! Instead, I am the German Rogue!"
Marcus bent at the waist, a hand over his
heart to show how pained he was to his audience of two, John and
Georgiana, as they sat in the shade of generous trees.
"And then this man here dares to tell me I
exaggerate with my Irish poetry shite! At least we would know, in
this country, what to name a bandit!"
John was laughing.
"The Laughing Bandit," Marcus added,
motioning to him. "I suppose you like that one!"
John shrugged. "It has a ring to it!"
"That is just the point! The German Rogue has
none!"
"It's your fault for getting the accent
wrong," John said, "and, in any case, how could you hope that
someone in England might recognize a Danish accent?"
“Well, the most famous Dane in the world was
an Englishman,” Marcus said, referring to Hamlet. He shook his
head, narrowing his eyes over the field, "These nuances are beyond
the common man," he added, aggrieved. "It's just no use trying to
do anything well!"
Georgiana was also laughing, but John became
a little more serious, knowing that he had to address the point of
Marcus' visit.