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Authors: Bronwyn Scott
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moment. ‘Besides, I prefer it this way.’
She preferred the comte ’s absence. The realisation hit him hard. His intuition had not been wrong. All was not right inside the comte ’s marriage. That was when he began to suspect, too, that she had not experienced the joys of the marriage bed and it fuelled his anger in a different direction. Neglect, it seemed, had many different forms.
In the next moment, her scold was gone. ‘In August, I will go to Monsieur le comte ’s home in Fontainebleau. It is beautiful in the summer. Perhaps you will come and spend some time? I am inviting several of my friends down or I shall be too lonely. Besides, what is the good of having a lovely country home and no one to share it with?’ She gave a little smile that suggested he was forgiven for his earlier transgression. This second chance served as a warning, too. He was not to make such enquiries again or there would be no more forthcoming visits to Fontainebleau or anywhere. He would be shut off from her.
Channing raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘I would be honoured to come.’ He’d have to lie about it, though, to his family. They would have too many questions about his newfound infatuation with France.
He did go to Fontainebleau that August, the best two weeks of his life. It was every bit as beautiful and as torturous as he’d expected, to be near her and know that near was all he could have. They spent their days walking the gardens, going into the village, picnicking in the meadows. He savoured every glance, every laugh, every light touch even though they were surrounded by others of her select coterie, men and women alike.
‘When shall I see you again?’ he’d asked as the visit came to a close. Monsieur le comte had written, requesting her presence in Paris at the end of August, something neither of them cared to speculate on.
‘Perhaps it is best you do not come again,’ she said softly. ‘It is hard on both of us, I think.’ It was as close to a declaration of affection as she’d ever got and he treasured it, each word a precious pearl.
In itself, the request was not odd. Everyone was returning to town, the summer was over, but as the days wound down, he knew she carried unease about the reunion. The comte himself had spent the summer months in a villa on the northern Italian lakes with friends she did not care for. ‘I will go to Paris with you,’ Channing had offered impulsively, his head immediately filled with ideas of challenging le comte to a duel, or spiriting her away to some far part of the world where no one would ever find them. Honour had kept him from her in the most carnal of senses, but he was regretting such ethics now. Perhaps shared passion would have bound her to him.
‘No!’ Her answer was vehement and swift, her eyes flashing. ‘You must never do that.’
He’d not been ready to give her up. When they said goodbye the next morning, Channing had a wild plan, as young naïve men often do when faced with the full throes of first love. The simplicity of it even now embarrassed him in the dark of his room. ‘Come away with me. We will go where we cannot be found. The British Empire is big and America even larger if it comes to that. I will wait in Paris for three days.’ He’d pushed a folded slip of paper in to her hand with an address on it. ‘Come to me and we will leave straight away.’
‘He will not let me go.’ But something akin to hope had flared in the depths of her eyes even as she offered the protest. There was a fierce set to her jaw as she debated the option he put before her. He’d not known then exactly what he’d offered her relief from, only that he could not live without her. It was a selfish young man’s invitation.
He’d gripped her hands with all of his passion. ‘I don’t care. You will be the wife of my heart with or without the sanction of law. We can go where no one will know, no one will mind.’ He’d heard of soldiers who kept
She preferred the comte ’s absence. The realisation hit him hard. His intuition had not been wrong. All was not right inside the comte ’s marriage. That was when he began to suspect, too, that she had not experienced the joys of the marriage bed and it fuelled his anger in a different direction. Neglect, it seemed, had many different forms.
In the next moment, her scold was gone. ‘In August, I will go to Monsieur le comte ’s home in Fontainebleau. It is beautiful in the summer. Perhaps you will come and spend some time? I am inviting several of my friends down or I shall be too lonely. Besides, what is the good of having a lovely country home and no one to share it with?’ She gave a little smile that suggested he was forgiven for his earlier transgression. This second chance served as a warning, too. He was not to make such enquiries again or there would be no more forthcoming visits to Fontainebleau or anywhere. He would be shut off from her.
Channing raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘I would be honoured to come.’ He’d have to lie about it, though, to his family. They would have too many questions about his newfound infatuation with France.
He did go to Fontainebleau that August, the best two weeks of his life. It was every bit as beautiful and as torturous as he’d expected, to be near her and know that near was all he could have. They spent their days walking the gardens, going into the village, picnicking in the meadows. He savoured every glance, every laugh, every light touch even though they were surrounded by others of her select coterie, men and women alike.
‘When shall I see you again?’ he’d asked as the visit came to a close. Monsieur le comte had written, requesting her presence in Paris at the end of August, something neither of them cared to speculate on.
‘Perhaps it is best you do not come again,’ she said softly. ‘It is hard on both of us, I think.’ It was as close to a declaration of affection as she’d ever got and he treasured it, each word a precious pearl.
In itself, the request was not odd. Everyone was returning to town, the summer was over, but as the days wound down, he knew she carried unease about the reunion. The comte himself had spent the summer months in a villa on the northern Italian lakes with friends she did not care for. ‘I will go to Paris with you,’ Channing had offered impulsively, his head immediately filled with ideas of challenging le comte to a duel, or spiriting her away to some far part of the world where no one would ever find them. Honour had kept him from her in the most carnal of senses, but he was regretting such ethics now. Perhaps shared passion would have bound her to him.
‘No!’ Her answer was vehement and swift, her eyes flashing. ‘You must never do that.’
He’d not been ready to give her up. When they said goodbye the next morning, Channing had a wild plan, as young naïve men often do when faced with the full throes of first love. The simplicity of it even now embarrassed him in the dark of his room. ‘Come away with me. We will go where we cannot be found. The British Empire is big and America even larger if it comes to that. I will wait in Paris for three days.’ He’d pushed a folded slip of paper in to her hand with an address on it. ‘Come to me and we will leave straight away.’
‘He will not let me go.’ But something akin to hope had flared in the depths of her eyes even as she offered the protest. There was a fierce set to her jaw as she debated the option he put before her. He’d not known then exactly what he’d offered her relief from, only that he could not live without her. It was a selfish young man’s invitation.
He’d gripped her hands with all of his passion. ‘I don’t care. You will be the wife of my heart with or without the sanction of law. We can go where no one will know, no one will mind.’ He’d heard of soldiers who kept
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