Remembrance

But he always came back to her. He missed her so much when he was away. When he was away from her he felt that part of him was absent, as though he’d left part of his body or his mind in another place.

So why could he not perform in bed with her? He had no idea, but no matter what he tried, nothing happened between them.

So Catherine had tried to get his attention by writing letters that said she’d been seduced by every man in England. Tavistock had read the letters and laughed, but then Aya mailed two of the letters to the newspapers, and that had stopped the laughter. She mailed some of them to the wives of the men with whom Catherine said she’d had torrid affairs. She sent others to the men whose names were at the top of the letters.

Tavistock didn’t know who was worse, himself or the men who knew that they’d never touched Lord de Grey’s pretty little wife. Each man liked for others to think that he had cuckolded the man who often made their wives weak-kneed with lust. There wasn’t a man in the salons of England who hadn’t heard a wife or mistress mention the beauty of Adam Tavistock, or the virility he exuded when he walked across a room. Not one man hadn’t heard how Lord de Grey looked at his little wife so hotly her hair might catch fire, and why didn’t her husband look at her like that?

The letters gave these men an opportunity to get back their own. Often, they denied having touched the pretty little blonde, but they all said the words in a way that actually said they were lying, that they were being noble and trying to save the woman’s honor.

So what did Tavistock do to save his own honor? Did he remain married to Catherine, unable to make love to his own wife? He would rather like to have children. He’d like to have a son to carry on his name, then he’d like to have some girls who looked just like Catherine. Girls to tell him stories and look at him as their mother did. The only thing he could think of that would be better than having Catherine would be to have half a dozen Catherines.

But that wasn’t

going to happen. He was never going to have children with her.

Coldly, after the letters were sent, he had made the decision to divorce her. And who better to marry than the lovely Fiona? Appearing with such a beautiful woman on his arm would show the world that he was still a man, even though his wife had humiliated him in front of that world.

But every time Tavistock thought of marriage to Fiona, he felt sick. He wanted Catherine. Wanted her with all his being. But he couldn’t take her.

The horse, tired now, stumbled again, but Tavistock kept pushing the animal. He had ridden this way many times and he knew the way well. Soon he would come to the road, then turn and start back to the house; he had reached the end of his property.

Catherine, he thought. Catherine, Catherine, Catherine. What could he do with her? What would he do without her?

He thought he would die when the doctor had told him that Catherine had fainted twice and he felt sure that she was in the family way. “Find out,” Tavistock had snapped, then drunk half a bottle of brandy while he waited for the doctor to return.

When the doctor told Tavistock that his wife was still a virgin, the look on the man’s face was all Tavistock needed to see to know how the outside world would view him if this information became common knowledge.

When Tavistock had confronted Catherine with knowledge of her virginity, she had shouted at him in a way she’d never done before. In fact, in the last few days she had been different. Not so frightened. Not so shy. She didn’t look at him with eyes that begged him to be nice to her, to pay attention to her, to love her. She didn’t seem to be asking, What did I do wrong? Why don’t you love me?

He didn’t think it could be possible, but he seemed to love this Catherine more even than he did the other one. Maybe his inability with her stemmed from her goodness and her innocence. Maybe he thought he was soiling her by committing such a carnal act as lovemaking.

Even to his own ears, he knew that was a pile of cow manure. The truth was, he had no idea what was wrong with him.

He was so deep in thought that when he came to the pile of logs and rocks in the road and his horse balked, he hadn’t the presence of mind to catch himself but instead went sailing over the head of the animal, landing on his back on the hard ground.

It took a moment to clear his head from the fall. Dazed, he sat up on his elbows just in time to see his horse disappear over the ridge toward the house. The animal knew the way home well, since this was the spot where he always turned, here at the edge of his land.

“Damnation,” he said, trying to stand but finding himself so dizzy he almost fell again. Stumbling a couple of times, he made his way to the pile of brush and rocks, thinking that he’d have the hide of the person who did this. Why would anyone put a four-foot-high pile of rubble in the middle of a road that is used every day? he thought. Someone could be—

He didn’t think anymore because he heard a sound, a zzzzzt that piqued his curiosity. Leaning over the largest log, he looked toward the source of the sound. He saw a tiny bit of light, a fuse that had been lit and was burning toward a cylinder that seemed to be leaking gray powder.

“Gunpowder,” he said aloud, then turned away just before there was a burst of light and an explosion that almost deafened him. A flying rock hit the back of his head and he remembered nothing after that.

“Where am I?”

“Hush,” a woman’s voice said in an accent he didn’t recognize, but it sounded decidedly uneducated. “You just rest now and I’ll take care of you.”

It was pitch dark in the room and he could see nothing; his head hurt so much he thought death might be the only way to end the pain, and there was a roaring in his ears.

“No! Keep your hands off the bandage,” the woman said. At least that’s what he thought she said. It sounded more like, “Keep yore hans off’n the bandin’s.”

Tavistock was too tired to try to figure out what was going on as he dropped his hands to his side. “Am I blind?” Blindness would seem to be a suitable ending to his worthless life.

“Just a little explosion, is all. A bit of gunpowder, that’s all. Nothin’ to worry yore little self about. Here, honey, you jist drink this and you’ll feel better.”

The bandage was tight about Tavistock’s eyes as she lifted his head, her arm under his neck, the side of his face pressed into her soft bosom as he drank the warm liquid from the rough, thick cup. “What is it?” he asked dreamily, for he rather liked his face against her breasts. She didn’t seem to have bothered with a corset.

“Willow bark tea,” she answered, “the precursor of aspirin, laced with some dark rum.” She mumbled something about not knowing if aspirin had been invented yet.