Part VII: The Spectre of Twelfth Night
Chapter Eight
It was a Christmas holiday that felt both hot and cold, Henry thought. Their days were spent in each other’s company, in a proper manner, under the watchful eyes of the servants. He strived to behave properly, as he would not expose Anne to malicious gossip. They talked, they read, and sometimes they played chess. Upon occasion he even managed to win a game. Sometimes she played the piano for him, with those graceful fingers of hers that stroked the keys with the same abandon as she stroked his own skin at night. She was a talented piano forte player, he’d already known that, since she’d been the one to teach his girls the rudiments of playing, until they were old enough for a piano teacher. But, he saw now, she’d always played correctly and dispassionately in front of him. There was a passion to her playing now that had not been there before.
Or perhaps it was now that he was discovering this about her. It was already the 29th of December, the Day of St Thomas Beckett, and he already felt like a martyr. He longed to touch Anne during the day, just as he was able to do at night. Instead, he contended himself to listen to her playing, pretending to be engrossed in his book.
“I really cannot bring myself to like the character of Thomas Becket,” she suddenly told him after she closed the lid of the piano forte, referring to an earlier conversation that they’d had in the day.
He gave her a half-smile.
“This might be blasphemous to say for a clergyman’s daughter,” he pointed out.
She shrugged.
“All this martyrdom business…It seems to me that there was only a struggle for influence between him and King Henry. And King Henry emerged the villain in this story…”
“Well, the king did have Thomas Becket assassinated…,” Henry told her drily.
“I’m not condoning what the king did. All the same, I think that sometimes history has a funny way of recording only one side of the matter,” she told him.
“I’ve always known you were an astute woman,” he murmured. “Still, I begin to fear that it is mostly you, not me, that my girls have started to get their unconventional ideas from.”
The smile she had on her lips died. He realised he had made a faux pas. Clearly, she thought that he was alluding to her having become his lover. She thought that now that he’d bedded her, he would think her an unfit teacher for his girls.
“I don’t mind that my girls are unconventional. After all, as you yourself said, they can afford to be so,” he said placatingly.
She nodded, but he noted that there was now a strain between them. He cursed himself and the situation they were both in and wished simply to take her into his arms.
He did not. Instead, he asked her.
“Do you recall that one of Beckett’s assassins was called William de Tracy?”
“Certainly, along with FitzUrse, de Morville and le Breton,” she told him, displaying once again her excellent governess’ memory.
“William de Tracy is among the ancestors of my mother’s family,” he said.
“Really?!”
“Indeed. So you could say I have a tiny bit of assassin’s blood running through my veins,”
“We probably all do, to some extent,” Miss Archer pointed out.
“How so?” he queried.
“Well, think about it…History is just a long list of pillages, murders and rapes. And all our ancestors partook in this. So I suppose that there are murdering ancestors to every family…”
He laughed.
“You take such a grim view of history!”
“No, just truthful,” she told him quietly.
She was right and he was beginning to get to know her better. She was simply truthful. And maybe she was reminding him that what was now happening between them should be straightforward, uncomplicated by anything further. Just passion. Just what it was. Henry wished he could take the same view as she did.
“I suppose you are right,” he told her, sighing. “Have I ever told you about one of my most infamous ancestors? He was called Quentin Renfield. But you might know him by the name of Fair Quentin.”
“Not Fair Quentin of the ballad?” she asked in surprise.
He nodded.
“The very same.”
“That’s why the girls kept playing highwaymen…Georgie, of course, always played Fair Quentin, while Jane was quite content with playing the villain characters. Alas, I always had to settle for the role of the damsel in distress…”
Henry burst out laughing.
“It is a game that was probably inspired by my stories of their ancestor. I always depicted Quentin as a noble highwayman, a sort of Robin Hood, who defended the poor and fought against the corrupt…”
“But that’s what the ballad also says.”
“Indeed. Although I very much doubt that this was the full truth. It’s been more than one hundred years, and the family was always reluctant to talk about him. He is our black sheep, you understand. He was disowned by his father, so technically the taint should not fall upon our family.”
“But he was such a dashing character!”
“Well, yes, but he was also finally hanged, drawn and quartered for treason against the Crown.”
She shook her head in disbelief.
“But the ballad tells us he got away!”
“Yes, but the truth is much grimmer than that.”
“Fine. You were right, history is indeed very cruel,” she conceded.
It was his turn to shake his head.
“No, you were right. Some days ago you told me that all gods are not cruel, that they are just gods. So I suppose that, as you said, history is just history.”
He spoke all this in soft tones, but he could not stop himself from asking her next.
“What will you do when this is all over?”
She looked at him levelly.
“Leave, I suppose.”
He looked at her, in shock.
“We had an understanding,” he told her. “And we established that you would not be required to leave after our Christmas is over. It would not be fair to the girls.”
“No, it would not. But nor would it be fair if I were to remain in their house, after I was their father’s lover,” she said in the same quiet tones.
“But you love the girls…”
She gave a bitter smile.
“Certainly I do, and it will be hard to leave them. I will of course stay long enough to make my proper goodbyes to them and make the transition easy. But the truth is that they really no longer need me. They will be fine. And knowing they are going to be fine, I can leave with my heart at ease.”
She was going to leave. Of course, she did not really care about the girls, he told himself in anger. Nor did she care too much about what was happening now between them.
“You knew you had to leave, when you made your proposition to me,” he accused her.
“I suppose I already did. And it is a sacrifice and a choice I made. I sacrificed the little time I had left with the girls to become your lover. It is a selfish thing to do. But, you see, I knew already that there was not much time left anyway. Georgie and Jane are already grown and already their own young women. And I have already become superfluous.”
She spoke in pleading tones, which betrayed her true anguish. He had wronged her, and he knew it too well. She did really care for his daughters. And leaving them would be difficult enough for her, as it was. Still, he could not bring himself to let go of his resentment.
She was leaving. And, at this moment, he hated her for it.
Not really knowing what he was doing, he strode towards her. She sat in front of the piano, with a pained expression on her face. He would not comfort her. What was happening was her own fault, he told himself. He pulled her roughly into his arms, not caring about the servants outside the door.
He kissed her punishingly, meaning to bruise her lips. It incensed him even further when he found that she was returning the kiss with the same intensity.
He briskly seated her on the piano’s closed keyboard, crudely hoisting the skirts of her merino dress. When he probed the inside of her sex, he found she was already wet and ready for him.
Cursing both her and himself under his breath, he simply thrust into her, hating her as he felt her clenching her hot warmth around him. She wanted him, yet the sex felt like vengeance to him in a way, intense and reckless. He took her hard and fast, marvelling at how quickly they both climaxed, crying their release at the same time.
Belatedly, he realised he had unwittingly spilled his seed inside her. In a flash, he thought of it with grim satisfaction. Maybe he would give her a child. The image of yet another daughter briefly visited his mind. He dismissed this quickly. He had behaved like a cad.
“Forgive me,” he told her, disengaging himself from her and fumbling with his clothes.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” she told him in that infuriating, almost dispassionate voice of hers.
He wondered how she could be so passionate at one moment and so callous the next. He almost started telling her so, but stopped himself in time.
“I simply forgot myself. I should not have come inside you,” he told her instead, coldly. “It would be unfortunate if there was a child.”
She shook her head.
“I do not think there will be one. I bled a little this morning – which is usual for me. I expect my moon time will be upon me tomorrow.”
He nodded, telling himself he should feel relieved. He did not.
The dismay must have shown on his face, because she told him:
“I’m sorry. I should have already thought of it. I know we only have until Twelfth Night and that this will be an inconvenience for you. I expect you will be able to visit me in four days’ time…”
Yet again, he hated her for the dispassionate way in which she referred to their nightly encounters. He strived to be as indifferent as she was.
“It’s not such a major inconvenience,” he told her.
As if nothing untoward had occurred, he resumed his seat by the window, picking up the book he’d earlier discarded. In her turn, she resumed her piano playing. For the rest of the day, they reverted again to being Miss Archer and His Grace.
Chapter Nine
And soon it would be New Year’s Eve, Anne thought, gazing at the white but bright view in front of her. It was the 31st of December already. In five days from tomorrow, Twelfth Night would come upon them, and the girls would be returning home. There would be stories and laughter. She could not wait to hear what they had to tell her about their first Christmas party. She already missed them, she thought sadly. She could not wait for them to come home.
Still, one part of her wished that Twelfth Night would not come upon her. She wished it were years away. Henry had been cross with her and almost cold in this last couple of days. She could not blame him. What she was doing was selfish. She had chosen to leave the girls only so that she could enjoy her tryst with their father.
She sighed, closing her eyes. For him, an experienced man of the world, this of course would be the memory of a little tryst with the governess. Once he’d get over his resentment over her departure, he’d see the wisdom of her decision.
She smiled bitterly. But for her, this was, of course, not a little tryst at all. It had begun as an indulgence, as the realization that life was passing her by and that she wanted a handsome man’s hot kisses and warm arms around her. However, now that she knew how it felt to be in Henry’s arms, she could not bring herself to forget the feeling.
She had been dreaming about him for so long. Not about him, she corrected herself, about an ideal man she’d conjured up and that wore the duke’s face and body. But now, that she’d really come to know how it really felt to be with him, she realised with certainty that she had true feelings for him. She loved him. For so long she’d been in love with him, from afar. And now she’d really learnt how it was to love him. It was not so surprising, really.
She sighed again. She should not dwell upon this. It was impossible, and she should be content with things as they really were. She would always have this. She would always have the memory of these days that they’d shared and this had to be enough.
It was a bright day and they decided to go outside. She no longer cared that the servants would gossip about them and, apparently, neither did Henry. Not anymore. They silently trudged through the snow that was covering the paths of the park. They did so together, in almost companionable silence.
She hoped he had let go of his resentment against her. She wanted him to smile upon her and just encapsulate the rays of his smile in a secret compartment within her, which she was going to open later, when she left this place and was finally alone.
“I thought on what you told me earlier,” he suddenly said.
It was the first time in days that he was referring to her departure.
“It does not have to be this way,” he continued.
She shook her head.
“But it must.”
He took her frozen hands in his. She was not wearing gloves and she felt grateful for the careful way in which he started to warm her skin with his own large hands. He rubbed her fingers until they pleasantly came to life.
“I could provide a house and an income for you,” he told her gravely.
Anne knew what he was offering and was immediately tempted to say yes. This way she could be with him. As his kept woman, she would still enjoy the privilege of being held in his arms.
She opened her mouth to answer him, but she thought better on it and clamped it shut. She shook her head. No, it was not meant to be. It would be unfair to Georgie and Jane. And it would be unfair to him. She did not want to burden him with the responsibility of her upkeep. And besides, it was for the best that she remain her own woman. It was best that all this remain untainted by the ugliness of life.
“You would soon tire of me,” she told him and she realised that she believed what she was saying.
“No,” he told her categorically.
She sighed. She did not believe him for a single second.
“I will not take money just for making love to you,” she told him in earnest. “I did not do this for gain. Just for my own pleasure.”
“It will not be like this. I…I enjoy your company. Not just the lovemaking,” he told her, rather awkwardly.
She shook her head. It was not meant to be. She realised she could never be his kept woman. It was a position that would make both of them bitter, that would destroy what they’d already shared during these days of Christmas.
“No,” she told him firmly.
She expected anger from him. He was entitled to be angry with her, as she’d just refused a perfectly reasonable offer. Instead, he shook his head in consternation.
“It was not as if I’d really expected you’d accept,” he murmured.
“You did not?!” she asked in surprise, as moments earlier she had been tempted to say yes to the proposition.
“I’ve known you for eight years, Anne Archer. And I’ve become intimately acquainted with you in these last few days. You have a mind of your own. And you would hate to be at a man’s beck and call.”
She felt extremely puzzled.
“But, as a governess, I am already at my employer’s beck and call,” she told him.
He smiled.
“Yes, but it is only a position, which means that your employer owns only part of you.”
“Oh…So you wanted to own the whole of me?” she asked him, rather breathlessly.
“Of course,” he told her quietly.
She felt absurdly flattered. He might remember her fondly after she was gone, which was touching. Impulsively, she placed her head against his chest.
“Just hold me,” she murmured.
He did, making her feel, if only for a moment, warm and safe in his arms. He did not bring up the delicate topic of her upkeep again and she was grateful for it. Instead, he proposed that they look for strips of hazel and bramble.
“Whatever for?” she asked.
“For our ashen faggot. We’ll have to burn it for Saint Sylvester’s night,” he told her.
“Is this like the Christmas Yule log?” she asked.
“Yes. We always had a log for Christmas, but also made an ashen faggot for New Year’s.”
“A family tradition?”
He shrugged.
“Not really. My family were never here for Christmas.”
She looked at him, in puzzlement.
“Who did you spend your Christmas with then?”
“My governess, Miss Cross.”
They did manage to collect some nice-looking twigs for an ashen faggot. And for New Year’s they watched what they’d made burn and melt into the crimson embers of the fireplace.
It was then that she decided to ask him more about the way he’d spent his holidays as a child.
“Were your parents never at home for Christmas?” she queried.
“I don’t recall them ever being here. Maybe they did spend Christmas with me, when I was younger,” he told her pensively.
He must have seen the look of pity in her eyes, because he added rather too cheerfully.
“Do not feel sorry for me. I always had the most wonderful of presents. They did make sure of that.”
“Yet, you did not have your parents with you,” she told him quietly.
Henry felt suddenly unnerved by the way she was looking at him. Really, it was as if she was pitying him and, in truth, he had had a happy childhood. Probably much happier and much more fortunate than hers.
“I did have Miss Cross,” he told her.
“She was your governess.”
“Yes. And she was rather wonderful. She made up all sorts of games and entertainments. Although she was no longer in her prime, she always found the energy to entertain me.”
“But were your parents never here?” she persisted, as if she found that very strange.
“My mother was a very elegant woman, much admired in society. My father was much older and he doted on her. There always seemed to be some important social event that they had to attend. In truth, I did not miss them that much. My nanny and later Miss Cross were always here,” he explained.
He felt rather vexed that they were having this conversation on New Year’s Eve.
“It was all perfectly fine,” he repeated.
She nodded, yet she did say something that he found vexing.
“Yet, you make a point of always being here for your daughters. In fact, this is the very first holiday that they’ve spent without you.”
“Your point being?”
“Forgive me for saying this, but it is plain that you are a parent who wants to let his children know that he is fond of their company. Quite unlike your own parents.”
He was rather annoyed at her for this familiarity, but remembered that they were already intimately acquainted. He supposed she had the right to tell him such things. And she was right. His parents had not treated him with excessive fondness. They had been there, but just as cold, distant figures. When he thought of maternal affection, he thought of his governess.
“Miss Cross cared for me, you know,” he said, remembering now all those small insignificant gestures of fondness and unprompted kindness that his governess had made for him.
“I am certain that she did,” Anne told him and, unexpectedly, took his hand in hers.
It was an endearing gesture. Just like the one she’d made when he’d confessed to her that he was afraid that his children would go away. She obviously thought him a lonely frightened child, hungry for affection. And maybe that was what he’d always been.
He smiled, realizing the peculiarity of his situation. He was, yet again, alone for Christmas in the company of a governess. He’d been fond of Miss Cross. He’d mourned her sincerely all those years ago when she’d passed away. It was to her that he owed his love for all things ancient, his passion for the classical languages. Because, just like Anne Archer, Miss Cross had been one of those few women who were familiar with Latin and Greek.
He’d trusted Anne Archer with his children, because that first day he’d seen her, he’d instinctively felt that she would be worthy of his trust. And she had been so. She still was. She’d unobtrusively been by his side all these years. And now he was getting to know her. Intimately so. She was vexing. Always truthful. Very stubborn. Straight as an arrow. Exceedingly passionate. And now she just wanted to go away. As if she did not care about what had just happened between them at all. As if that would make things right between them.
Her hand was still clasping his, firmly, and his heart suddenly skipped a beat. It was plainly written in the way her skin was touching his, in the melancholy way she’d laid her head against his chest this morning. It was not just passion. She cared. And still, she would go away from him.
He stared at her, frowning. The answer was plainly there in front of his eyes. It was then that he logically decided that she did not have to go at all.
Stay tuned for the last episode of this story, Part VIII – A New Year’s Resolution.
