Susan Johnson - Again and Again

Pulling some bills from his pocket, he tossed them on the table. “You were worth every shilling,” he said, silkily. “And I should know.”

Grabbing up the bills, she threw them at him. “I hope you burn in hell or better yet, have Daphne as a millstone around your neck the rest of your life!”

He stared at her briefly, ignoring the bills at his feet “Wake up to the realities of the world, darling. There is no hell and Daphne doesn’t stand a prayer of getting what she wants,” a wicked smile flashed across his face, “unless it’s her stable boy. Now, if you should ever tire of instructing children, let me know. We could probably work something out.”

He ducked as she threw a candlestick at him, the brass holder striking the door with such force it chipped the wood. “Temper, darling,” he murmured. “You don’t want to lose this job.”

“Get the hell out before I forget how much I need this job,” she hissed, the sound of servants moving around the house becoming more audible.

He bowed faintly, looking disheveled and irritatingly handsome in his rearranged evening rig. “If you’re ever in London, look me up.”

“If I’m ever in London, I’ll take every precaution to avoid you.”

“That’s not very friendly.”

“But then you’re not really interested in a woman’s friendship, are you?”

He hesitated, and his mouth formed in a grim line for a moment. “Let’s say, I thought I was.” He reached for the doorknob and faintly tipped his head. “But then we all make mistakes.”

The knock on the door echoed through the room.

Caroline’s pulse rate soared.

“It’s only a servant at his hour,” Simon remarked, unconcerned. Opening the door, he offered the maid holding Caroline’s breakfast tray a pleasant good morning and strolled from the room.

Flushing with embarrassment, Caroline wished she could disappear into the floor. Since that wasn’t a viable option, she covered her nakedness with the quilt and tried to be invisible.

“Oh, miss,” Betsy sighed, turning back after watching Simon stroll away. “You be so lucky. All us girls been hoping the fine lord would look our way, we were. Oh, my, he’s ever so splendid.”

So much for her concern about appearances. Now if only she could be as cavalier as Betsy, Caroline thought. But perhaps the maid had the right perspective after all. Enjoy the fine lord and then get on with your life. With luck and a very bad memory, perhaps she could do just that.

Leaving his hosts a note of apology for his early, precipitous departure, Simon was soon on his way back to London. Slumped in the corner of his coach, his greatcoat pulled up around his ears, he drank from his flask and cursed women in general and one woman in particular for making his life a holy hell.

Bruno feigned deafness as any good valet would. But he’d not seen his master in such a black mood since the last time Lady Caroline had disrupted his life. A shame they couldn’t come to some agreement, but with two such stubborn personalities, perhaps any hope for harmony was a dream. On the other hand, at least, Lady Caroline was back in England without a husband.

He and Bessie would have to put their heads together.

The ruling classes occasionally needed a helping hand to manage their lives.

Responding to Simon’s curt order to open another bottle, Bruno set aside his musing, although he wondered what would give out first on their southward journey-the duke’s capacity for drink or the supply of brandy. Since they had orders to stop for nothing but post changes, the bottles in the coach would have to do. At least the trip home would be swift.

Caroline survived that first morning by sheer will, refusing to think of Simon, concentrating on the children’s lessons as though they were the most important mission in her life. She focused all her attention on their studies, explaining all the constellations visible in the northern skies, tracing with them Alexander the Great’s campaign to India, and when they began getting edgy, she played word games with them in all the languages they were learning, offering bonbons as prizes.

She ate more than her share of bonbons too, but after the nastiness with Simon this morning- which was inevitable, of course, he couldn’t stay forever-she needed solace… ten large bonbons of solace as it turned out.

When she brought the children down for tea late that afternoon, neither Ian nor Jane made mention of their departed guest. Scrupulously avoiding the subject, they offered Caroline tea as though she were a member of the family, and spoke instead of the coming holiday season. They discussed the numerous guests and family members they were expecting, and outlined the tentative schedule of activities that would take place at the house, in the village, and at the parish church.

Caroline was invited to each and every one of the events. “Please, think of yourself as part of the family,” Jane offered, her tone so sympathetic, Caroline blushed at the implication.

“Thank you. I will,” Caroline replied, wishing she could have avoided having tea with her employers, wishing desperately to escape to her room and never talk to another soul.

And perhaps cry for a month.

Although, she quickly jettisoned that irrational thought. She wasn’t about to cry over Simon. Not again. She’d already cried enough tears for him to last a lifetime.

It had been sensible not to allow herself to care.

He hadn’t changed one whit

On his return to London, Simon resumed his bachelor life with a vengeance. But what had been pleasure in the past, no longer pleased and what had formerly amused him, struck him now with ennui. He went through actresses and courtesans, society ladies and serving wenches by the score, changing his bed partners so often, the women became a blur on his retinas. He even thought about paying Daphne a visit just to break the monotony-and inquire how her romance with her stable boy was doing. But he couldn’t bring himself to care enough to make the effort.

After a fortnight in London in which he did nothing but drink himself into oblivion in the company of different women night after night, he called for his coach in the wee hours one morning. Bruno was wakened and given five minutes to pack a bag for the duke. He was off to Dover-alone. He had no wish to take Bruno from his family over Christmas.

As Simon climbed into his coach, he was hoping a change of scene would clear his head and obliterate the persistent images of a hot-blooded, auburn-haired beauty who preferred her independence to his company. Dropping onto the carriage seat, he rapped on the ceiling and reached for his flask. As the coach lurched forward, and began picking up speed, he gazed out the window at the street lamps flashing by, lifted the flask to his mouth and emptied half of it down his throat.

Damn her to hell. Didn’t she know independence was much overrated? Didn’t she understand independence for women didn’t actually exist? It was a fucking unobtainable vision, for Christ’s sake. Some nominal freedoms existed for bluestocking women he supposed. But only if they had money and only because no man would have them. Damn it, neither instance applied to Caro. Her father had much to answer for, though, in terms of her unorthodox notions. He’d raised her like a man.

At least in Paris, women knew how to act like women. Not that he hadn’t had his share of feminine wiles in London. He grimaced at the thought, suddenly unsure whether he cared to reenter that jaded sphere.

Then again, if he were truly looking for diversion, maybe he could pay a call on Louvois.

The crossing was horrendous, the December winds at gale force, the waves so high the captain of Simon’s yacht was certain they were going to take on water and sink to the bottom of the Channel.

With mast-high waves washing over the decks and the yacht pitching and yawing, Simon took over the wheel and fought to keep the vessel afloat.

Half-drunk, lashed by the wind and rain, he tied himself to the wheel and battled the storm out of sheer rancor, pitting his fury against the elements. After weeks of an unyielding, elusive bitterness, at last he had a recognized enemy to conquer, a foe against which he could launch his silent rage. He welcomed the pitiless cold and violent seas, the harsh winds that took his breath away. At least he was feeling something after weeks of mind-numbing nothingness.

At least he remembered what it felt like to be alive.

Late that afternoon, they limped into Calais, the mainsail in shreds, the sprits and mizzens barely holding them on course. On docking, the crew fell to their knees and kissed the ground. As it turned out, their gratitude was well founded. Simon’s yacht was the only vessel that had made the crossing without loss of life. The packet had gone down with all hands, six other vessels had crew members washed overboard, and a Dutch merchantman had been run aground just south of the harbor and his vessel was being broken to bits by the heavy surf.

Simon accepted the congratulations of the local seamen with a bland neutrality those viewing it ascribed to English phlegmatism. They didn’t realize it hadn’t mattered to him whether he lived or died. They didn’t understand how joyless was his mood.

After making arrangements for his crew in his absence and after a last discussion with his captain, the duke boarded his coach that had been lashed to the deck, offloaded, and set off for Paris.

Not up to the usual holidays with his mother and sister’s family, he planned on spending Christmas in the French capital.

Guests began arriving at Netherton Castle a fortnight before Christmas. All of Jane’s family came; Ian’s parents as well. Even his brother stationed in India had arrived in time for the holidays. Then as Twelfth Night approached, the parties were enlarged to include the neighboring nobility and gentry. Wassail cups were raised; a yule log was dragged in from the forest and placed in the great hall fireplace; mummers performed for the guests; carolers caroled; plays were staged by the guests, the amateur actors taking to the boards with good cheer and high spirits compliments of the fine local whiskey.

Fortunately, Caroline was in charge of shepherding Hugh, Joanna, and their numerous cousins through most of the festivities, allowing her little time to interact with the visiting adults. With the children animated and energized by the multitude of gala events, they kept Caroline busy from morning till night.

In a way, she was grateful. She had little time to dwell on any unhappy thoughts. In the days since Simon had left, she’d had sufficient opportunity to come to terms with what might have been. But no matter how she rationalized-what he’d offered her was unacceptable.

As if she weren’t already touched with melancholy over her ill-starred relationship with Simon, she dearly missed having a family this time of year. Even in the midst of the cheerful company at the castle she felt alone, although, the busy schedule and great number of activities were a welcome distraction. Her opportunities to fall into moping were limited.

Furthermore, on her rare evenings of freedom, she’d begun working on her manuscript again, often writing late into the night. The heroine of the story seemed to be facing the obstacles in her life with a new determination these days, the imaginary world of fiction perhaps mirroring Caroline’s self-reliant spirit.

As soon as possible in the new year, she intended to send her manuscript off to London. If other indigent ladies could augment their income with great success, might not she? England had several female authors who had made tidy fortunes in the endeavor. It gave her hope. Or it gave her reason to hope.

Regaining her estate on a governess’s salary was unthinkable.

But with literary success, even such castles-in-the-air were possible.

On the fourth night of the Twelfth Night, shortly before dinner, Caroline received a summons from the countess.

When Caroline entered Jane’s boudoir, she found her mistress seated before her dressing table, her maids in attendance. One was arranging the countess’s hair, the other fussing with the sleeves of her gown. Gesturing Caroline forward, Jane dismissed the maids and turned from the mirror with a frown.

Employers’ frowns had taken on a new unwanted status in Caroline’s hierarchy of values. She forced herself to smile.

“I have a favor to ask,” Jane said. “My mother’s cousin, Viscount Fortescue has just arrived quite unexpectedly.” Her frown deepened. “He neither hunts nor shoots,” a small grimace was added to her afflicted expression, “so I was hoping you’d be kind enough to converse with him at dinner and save me the trouble. He’s been an undersecretary or something at some embassy or other,” she waved a dismissive hand, “and frankly-is… well… too educated,” she declared, a critical note in her voice. “I would be ever so grateful if you would take him off my hands for the evening.”