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Authors: Bronwyn Scott
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parents want me to be financially secure and not need to worry for anything. They are older, you see, and there is my younger sister to consider.’
Channing did not like the way she said it, as if she were trying to justify the choice to herself.
‘It appears they have succeeded.’ Channing smiled. ‘Have you been married long?’
‘Nearly a year.’
He’d missed her by a year. It was illogical to think of it in those terms but the thought came anyway. ‘Is the marriage all you hoped it would be?’ Channing asked quietly. It was an intensely personal question to ask on short acquaintance.
The blue of her eyes met his. She smiled but there was sombreness in her gaze. ‘ Monsieur le comte is away much. I do not see him often, but I am well provided for.’ She looked past his shoulder. ‘Our guest is ready to begin his reading. I need to go and play hostess.’ She gave him an apologetic smile for her upcoming absence as if she sensed he would not stay long now that he was deprived of her presence. ‘Do you read much, Mr Deveril?’
‘On occasion,’ Channing answered vaguely. He wasn’t a reader, it was not something that came easily to him. But he’d become one if it mattered to her.
‘Then perhaps you’d like to come tomorrow? We are discussing one of Voltaire’s letters, purely an academic exercise and a chance to debate. But the group will be smaller, just a few of my intimates, and afterwards we’ll walk in the garden.’
‘I would be delighted.’
The part of him that knew he was dreaming wanted to pull her into his arms, anything to keep her from going back inside. But that part of him knew, too, that such a move would end the dream, it always did because nothing of that nature had happened in the real memory, not then anyway. So, he let her go....
* * *
Channing awoke with a start, his brain still foggy with sleep and wanting. Even seeing her in dreams took his breath away. He’d peppered Henri with questions about her all the way back to their lodgings that evening. Henri answered each of them with a laugh. What kind of flowers did she like? What was her favourite colour? But always Henri’s answers became vague when he asked about her marriage and the comte . Something was not right there. His sleep-fogged brain didn’t want to contemplate those reasons at the moment, it wanted only to drag him back into pleasanter thoughts and pleasanter times and he let it take him back to his days in Paris....
* * *
The comte seemed to matter very little, though, in the weeks that followed. The man was merely a technical spectre that lay on the periphery of his growing relationship with la comtesse . In the month Channing was in Paris, the comte did not make a single appearance and it was easy to forget he even existed. It was easy to forget a lot of things existed, so entranced was he with la comtesse . And it seemed she was entranced with him.
She invited him everywhere and he delighted in showering her with little gifts; beautifully wrapped bon bons, a rare copy of Voltaire’s English letters. All appropriate of course, nothing that would cause the errant husband any anger. His father had raised him well. He knew the rules. But Channing had anger aplenty as his time in Paris drew to a close. His business for his father was concluded and he had no excuse to stay longer. How dare le comte neglect his wife!
‘If you were mine,’ he’d told her on their last afternoon as they strolled the Luxembourg Gardens, ‘I would not leave your side for a minute. I think it’s a shame your husband is so perennially absent.’ By English standards it was a shocking thing to say. The French were much more given to such exaggeration as a form of flattery and flirtation. He was not her only admirer.
The comtesse had turned to him and put a firm hand on his sleeve, her blue eyes intense. ‘You must not think such things. It can change nothing,’ she scolded, seeming far older than her years in that
Channing did not like the way she said it, as if she were trying to justify the choice to herself.
‘It appears they have succeeded.’ Channing smiled. ‘Have you been married long?’
‘Nearly a year.’
He’d missed her by a year. It was illogical to think of it in those terms but the thought came anyway. ‘Is the marriage all you hoped it would be?’ Channing asked quietly. It was an intensely personal question to ask on short acquaintance.
The blue of her eyes met his. She smiled but there was sombreness in her gaze. ‘ Monsieur le comte is away much. I do not see him often, but I am well provided for.’ She looked past his shoulder. ‘Our guest is ready to begin his reading. I need to go and play hostess.’ She gave him an apologetic smile for her upcoming absence as if she sensed he would not stay long now that he was deprived of her presence. ‘Do you read much, Mr Deveril?’
‘On occasion,’ Channing answered vaguely. He wasn’t a reader, it was not something that came easily to him. But he’d become one if it mattered to her.
‘Then perhaps you’d like to come tomorrow? We are discussing one of Voltaire’s letters, purely an academic exercise and a chance to debate. But the group will be smaller, just a few of my intimates, and afterwards we’ll walk in the garden.’
‘I would be delighted.’
The part of him that knew he was dreaming wanted to pull her into his arms, anything to keep her from going back inside. But that part of him knew, too, that such a move would end the dream, it always did because nothing of that nature had happened in the real memory, not then anyway. So, he let her go....
* * *
Channing awoke with a start, his brain still foggy with sleep and wanting. Even seeing her in dreams took his breath away. He’d peppered Henri with questions about her all the way back to their lodgings that evening. Henri answered each of them with a laugh. What kind of flowers did she like? What was her favourite colour? But always Henri’s answers became vague when he asked about her marriage and the comte . Something was not right there. His sleep-fogged brain didn’t want to contemplate those reasons at the moment, it wanted only to drag him back into pleasanter thoughts and pleasanter times and he let it take him back to his days in Paris....
* * *
The comte seemed to matter very little, though, in the weeks that followed. The man was merely a technical spectre that lay on the periphery of his growing relationship with la comtesse . In the month Channing was in Paris, the comte did not make a single appearance and it was easy to forget he even existed. It was easy to forget a lot of things existed, so entranced was he with la comtesse . And it seemed she was entranced with him.
She invited him everywhere and he delighted in showering her with little gifts; beautifully wrapped bon bons, a rare copy of Voltaire’s English letters. All appropriate of course, nothing that would cause the errant husband any anger. His father had raised him well. He knew the rules. But Channing had anger aplenty as his time in Paris drew to a close. His business for his father was concluded and he had no excuse to stay longer. How dare le comte neglect his wife!
‘If you were mine,’ he’d told her on their last afternoon as they strolled the Luxembourg Gardens, ‘I would not leave your side for a minute. I think it’s a shame your husband is so perennially absent.’ By English standards it was a shocking thing to say. The French were much more given to such exaggeration as a form of flattery and flirtation. He was not her only admirer.
The comtesse had turned to him and put a firm hand on his sleeve, her blue eyes intense. ‘You must not think such things. It can change nothing,’ she scolded, seeming far older than her years in that
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