June 1763: Part Seven
1807 Words
June 1763: Part Seven
It rained for the next two days, steady rain that meant they couldn’t go riding, but on the third day the sky cleared in the afternoon. Will saddled Dancer and led the mare to the mounting block.
He heard footsteps and turned his head. His heart kicked in his chest. His pulse sped up. Rose.
She walked across the courtyard towards him, as she had done a hundred times before, dressed in her emerald green riding habit. Black ringlets curled beneath the brim of her hat. Her skin was pale and smooth, her lips rosy, her eyes lustrous.
Will did his best to appear expressionless as she approached. “Good afternoon, ma’am.” His tone was polite, respectful, impersonal.
“Good afternoon, Fenmore.”
The sound of Rose’s voice brought a flood of memory: the taste of her mouth, the scent of her skin, what it had felt like to bury himself in her body and come to a shuddering, heart-stopping climax.
Will swallowed. He helped Rose to mount and rechecked the stirrup and girth, methodical, businesslike, forcing himself not to look up and smile at her, not to show that their relationship was anything other than mistress and servant. Then he swung up on his own mount, where the picnic hamper was strapped behind the saddle.
Once they were within the woods, Rose halted and turned to him. “Will . . .”
He saw her shyness, her nervousness, the doubt in her eyes—as if she thought his love for her had evaporated in the past two days.
Will brought the gelding alongside Dancer and reached for Rose, tipping her chin up, leaning across to kiss her. “I love you.”
Rose’s stiffness melted away. She kissed him back, shy and sweet and eager.
After they’d galloped the horses, they rode to the lake. Will undressed Rose in the little Grecian temple and made love to her slowly, gently, until they were both breathless with pleasure. Afterward, he held her in his arms. “Rose, I’ve been thinking about money.”
She stirred, lifting her head to look at him. “Is there not enough for the voyage?”
“There’s more than enough.” He wondered if she understood how much money two hundred guineas was. “But I’m wondering what to do with the rest of your rubies.”
“What do you mean?”
“Will you get a better price for them here in England, or in the colonies?”
“Oh.” Her brow creased. “There’d be more of a market here, don’t you think?”
“I think so . . . but I don’t know, Rose.”
Her lips pursed thoughtfully. She was silent for a moment, and then said, “I think we should sell at least one more piece here.”
Will nodded. “So do I. But not in Falmouth. Someone might remember, put two and two together. If Quayle should suspect—” He felt her shiver, and tightened his grip on her. “And that’s another thing, Rose. We can’t call ourselves Fenmore.”
“I like Fenmore. It’s your name.”
He felt an absurd flush of pleasure. I would like you to have my name, too. “We need a plain name, Rose. Something ordinary. Something no one will remember. What was your mother’s maiden name?”
“Elphinstone.”
He shook his head. “Your godmother’s name?”
“D’Alpuget. She was French.” Rose stroked his chest lightly, tracing a circle around one of his n*****s. “What about your mother’s maiden name?”
“Cobb.”
She tilted her head back and smiled at him. “I like Cobb.”
“You do?”
She nodded. “It’s simple and strong.”
“Then Cobb we shall be.”
The next week passed swiftly. They rode to the lake for the last time together. Will watched Rose feed the squirrel, sitting on the ground with her skirts spread around her. She’d removed her riding hat and gloves. Her ebony ringlets gleamed in the sunlight. “Do you think there are squirrels in the colonies?” she asked, once the squirrel had scampered off.
“We’ll find out.” He held out his hand and pulled her to her feet.
“You’ll never see this in daylight again.”
“No.” Will looked across the lake to the woods, the hills. He’d lived his whole life in Northamptonshire. He felt no regret at leaving, just a keen eagerness for what lay ahead.
“What will you do to be dismissed?”
“Pretend to be drunk. I saw it often enough as a lad.” He discovered he was rubbing his left forearm, and forced himself to stop.
They climbed the steps to the folly. “Will,” Rose said, once they were in the cool, round room. “I brought this.” She drew something from her pocket.
“What is it?” He unwrapped the linen handkerchief. Pillowed in the middle was a necklace of rubies and gold. His mouth dropped open. “Rose?”
“Take it when you leave tomorrow. Sell it in London or . . . or Birmingham or wherever. Somewhere nowhere near Falmouth.”
Will reverently touched one ruby with a fingertip. “Rose, do you realize how valuable this is?” If the brooch had been worth two hundred guineas, the necklace must be worth at least a thousand.
“It’s the best Paris workmanship,” Rose said. “It should be enough to buy us a farm and some horses, don’t you think?”
Enough to buy a dozen farms, more like.
“Sell it, Will. It’ll be one less thing we need to do. We can go straight to Falmouth and be gone from England all the more quickly.”
She was right.
Will carefully placed the necklace in his pocket, and took out a folded banknote. “And you must take this, Rose.”
Her brow creased. “Why?”
“In case something happens to me.”
Fear blossomed on her face. “But Will—”
“I’ll be back, Rose. I promise.” He gripped her shoulders, holding her gaze. “Even if the gates of Hell themselves open, I’ll come back for you. Trust me.”
She inhaled a shaky breath. “I do trust you.”
“Take the money. I’ll feel better knowing you have it. Just keep it hidden from Boyle.”
She took another breath and nodded jerkily, clutching the banknote. “I’ve found a place to hide things.”
“Good,” Will said, and then he pulled her gently into his arms. Rose clung to him. He felt her tension, her fear.
Will kissed her brow, her eyelids, her lips, and felt her gradually relax. “One last time?” he asked, touching his fingertips to the topmost button of her riding jacket.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”
He slowly removed Rose’s clothes, marveling in her beauty—the smooth, creamy skin, the rosy n*****s, the slender curves of waist and hip and thigh. He wanted to tell her how lovely she was, but held the words back between his teeth. Instead, he pressed light kisses to her skin as he bared it: throat, breasts, belly. When she was naked, she sat on the blanket spread on the divan and watched him undress.
“Will,” Rose said, when he was naked. “May I . . .” She hesitated and blushed vividly, visibly gathering her courage. “May I kiss you there?” She reached out and lightly touched his erection.
Will lost all ability to breathe. He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again. After a moment he managed to say, “If you wish.”
Rose met his eyes shyly. “I do.”
Will stretched out on the divan. His heart began to beat faster. “Come here,” he said softly.
Rose blushed even more deeply as he drew her to kneel between his legs. “What do I do?”
“Whatever you want. There’s no right or wrong, Rose.”
She moistened her lips and nodded. Will inhaled in anticipation as she bent her head—and then her mouth was on him. He tried to hold himself still, but his hips moved slightly.
Rose explored him with her lips, with her tongue, kissing him, tasting him, slowly gaining confidence. Will clenched his hands in the blanket and stared up at the ceiling. His hips lifted a few inches off the divan when Rose drew him into her mouth. She sucked lightly. He grunted, fighting for control. She did it again. His lungs squeezed. He stared at the ceiling, panting, gripping the blanket, his body tight with need. Finally he could bear it no longer.
“Stop,” he said hoarsely.
Rose raised her head. ”Did I do it wrong?”
“No.” Will could barely get the word out. “Quite the opposite.” He reached for her, pulling her up on his body. “Come here. Ride me.”
“Ride you?”
He spread her legs until she straddled him. “Like this.”
Rose gasped when he pushed inside her. She was ready for him, hot and slick.
Will held her hips, showing her how to move, how to find the rhythm. He managed to hold onto his control long enough for her to come—and then he tipped over the brink of a shuddering climax, his back arching up, a groan torn from his throat.
It took him a long time to find his breath again, and even longer for his heartbeat to steady. He opened his eyes. Rose lay on top of him, held tightly in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder.
Will stroked her back, feeling the tracery of raised scars. Rage surged inside him, bunching his muscles. He forced himself to relax.
After a moment Rose stirred and sat up, still straddling him. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips soft and rosy, her eyes lustrous. She had bloomed in this past month. She was growing into the person she was meant to be: stronger and more confident, happy.
Will brushed his knuckles lightly over her cheek. “That’s the last time, until I return.”
Rose washed in the lake and then helped Will to dress her. She loved watching the concentration on his face, loved watching the blunt, strong fingers fastening the ties and laces. When he was finished, she took hold of his hand, interlacing their fingers. Henry’s hands were soft and plump and cruel. Will’s were calloused and sun-browned and incredibly gentle.
“I hope we have children.” Children with white-blond hair and eyes as blue as the sky.
“I hope so, too.”
Rose looked down at their linked hands and made a confession: “Henry says I’m barren.”
Will’s fingers flexed, tightening their grip. “I doubt it.”
“I was with him for eight months, Will, and I didn’t fall pregnant.”
“That’s his fault, not yours.”
She raised her head. “How can you know that?”
“Quayle’s forced himself on a number of the maidservants. Master’s rights, he calls it.”
“What?” She stared at him, appalled.
“It mostly stopped after he married you.” Will’s hand tightened around hers. “The thing is, Rose, none of them fell pregnant. Not one. So I don’t think you’re barren. I think it’s him.” He bent his head and kissed her. “And even if we don’t have children, we’ll have each other.”
They repacked the picnic hamper and carried it outside. “Next time I’m here, it’ll be with one of the other grooms,” Rose said, staring out across the lake. She shivered. “I don’t like them. They look at me the way Henry does.”
“That’s because they’re only seeing this.” Will touched her face. “Not this.” He placed his hand over her heart. “They don’t see who you truly are.”
Will did. She saw it in his eyes every time he looked at her.
“Two weeks, Rose.” Will held her gaze, his hand still resting over her heart. “And then we can be together as man and wife.”
Rose nodded. She inhaled a shaky breath. “How will I know which night to meet you?”
Will glanced around, and then walked across to where she fed the squirrel, beneath a young oak. “Here,” he said, crouching, laying his hand in a hollow formed by the tree’s roots. “When you see a stone placed here, you’ll know it’s time. Come at midnight.”
Rose nodded.
Will straightened. “Rose . . . you’re certain about this? Absolutely certain?”
She crossed to him with quick steps. “Of course I am!”
“We’ll have money, but nothing like you’re used to.” His gaze was intense, serious. “You’ll never see your family again.”
“I know.”
“You can still change your mind, Rose. It’s not too late.”
“I’ll never change my mind.” Will was her future. She knew that with fierce certainty. “Never.”
Will’s expression relaxed. He pulled her into an embrace. “Then I shall see you in two weeks’ time. Here. At midnight.”
- Writer
