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Authors: Cari Hislop
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He’s probably
spent all morning thinking of a way to get you to touch his
stinking shirt. You’re feeding his vanity. The next thing you know
he’ll need your help warming his bed.” Agnes’s eyes filled with
glee as John’s cheeks drained of colour.
“J…Joan?” The
word was a gasp of horror as John looked down at smiling lips only
inches from his own. “I thought your name was Jane…your name is
Joan?”
“Agnes…help…he’s fainted.” John cringed away from the smelling
salts and moaned into a silk draped knee as a feminine hand
caressed his cheek. “Mamma…”
“Your mother’s
in France with her new husband remember?”
“Go away Agnes
and spend your sympathy on your two hellions.”
“If Joan
wishes to befoul her skirts pandering to your theatrics you’ll be
replacing them, but don’t lie there all day. I’m expecting
visitors. I don’t want my friends to think I’d allow you to lie on
the floor to look up their skirts.”
John’s eyes
adjusted to ripples of light highlighting folds of black silk and
slowly looked up into cornflowers filled with concern. “It’s
alright Mr Smirke. You’re not going to die for a very long time.
I’m going to take good care of you.” The clock chimed half past
twelve as John closed his eyes and prayed for deliverance.
Chapter 7
John stared
out the large rectangles of glass framed by green and gold walls
watching the rain. He was reclining on a Recamier day bed facing
away from Agnes and her stream of visitors wondering if any man
could be so wicked as to deserve Miss Joan Lark’s company for
eternity. An eerie peaceful feeling mocked any attempt to deny she
was ‘the Joan’ he’d been searching for. His black eyes drifted to
his immediate left and devoured the sight of the innocent beauty
embroidering a large cornflower on her apron. His mouth watered at
the pleasurable prospect of examining virgin flesh in private, and
then his mouth went dry at the thought of waking up and finding
himself shackled in Bedlam.
There was no
way he was going to marry the girl. There had to be a spinster
younger than seventy somewhere in England who could love him. The
war with France was over; he’d send the girl off to see Europe and
if she disappeared into the pocket of an Italian prince so much the
better.
Woods had been
dead for almost two weeks and John hadn’t yet managed to get as far
as ordering the carriage. Every morning he opened his eyes and
promised himself that he’d escort her back to Bolingbroke as soon
as he’d finished his breakfast, but for some reason he couldn’t
follow through. His heart tapped happily his chest as he let his
eyes wander from golden curls down to black slippers peeping out
from under her skirts. Any moment she’d say something strange,
something maddening.
“How’s your
drawing coming Mr Smirke?” It was a perfectly innocuous question,
and just the one he most did not want to be asked. His eighth
attempt to draw the pleasant scene out the window was not coming
along at all. His amateurish renditions made him cringe. It didn’t
look anything like the image in his head. He felt like throwing his
sketchbook out the window followed by his pencil.
“Mind your own
business.” He turned the page in his sketchbook and started
again.
“You could try
sketching something else. Perhaps it’s too dull a subject.”
“What a good
idea Miss Lark. Perhaps if you took off your dress and stood in
front of the window I’d be inspired?” With burning cheeks she
silently picked up her chair and forcefully turned her back on the
wicked man and continued embroidering. After ten minutes of being
ignored John was seething. Determined to be kind, he successfully
refrained from screaming at his ward to turn around. “Alright,
you’ve made your point. I shouldn’t have said it, but I told you to
mind your own business.” There was no response from the back of his
ward. “I didn’t actually mean it. I was being
spent all morning thinking of a way to get you to touch his
stinking shirt. You’re feeding his vanity. The next thing you know
he’ll need your help warming his bed.” Agnes’s eyes filled with
glee as John’s cheeks drained of colour.
“J…Joan?” The
word was a gasp of horror as John looked down at smiling lips only
inches from his own. “I thought your name was Jane…your name is
Joan?”
“Agnes…help…he’s fainted.” John cringed away from the smelling
salts and moaned into a silk draped knee as a feminine hand
caressed his cheek. “Mamma…”
“Your mother’s
in France with her new husband remember?”
“Go away Agnes
and spend your sympathy on your two hellions.”
“If Joan
wishes to befoul her skirts pandering to your theatrics you’ll be
replacing them, but don’t lie there all day. I’m expecting
visitors. I don’t want my friends to think I’d allow you to lie on
the floor to look up their skirts.”
John’s eyes
adjusted to ripples of light highlighting folds of black silk and
slowly looked up into cornflowers filled with concern. “It’s
alright Mr Smirke. You’re not going to die for a very long time.
I’m going to take good care of you.” The clock chimed half past
twelve as John closed his eyes and prayed for deliverance.
Chapter 7
John stared
out the large rectangles of glass framed by green and gold walls
watching the rain. He was reclining on a Recamier day bed facing
away from Agnes and her stream of visitors wondering if any man
could be so wicked as to deserve Miss Joan Lark’s company for
eternity. An eerie peaceful feeling mocked any attempt to deny she
was ‘the Joan’ he’d been searching for. His black eyes drifted to
his immediate left and devoured the sight of the innocent beauty
embroidering a large cornflower on her apron. His mouth watered at
the pleasurable prospect of examining virgin flesh in private, and
then his mouth went dry at the thought of waking up and finding
himself shackled in Bedlam.
There was no
way he was going to marry the girl. There had to be a spinster
younger than seventy somewhere in England who could love him. The
war with France was over; he’d send the girl off to see Europe and
if she disappeared into the pocket of an Italian prince so much the
better.
Woods had been
dead for almost two weeks and John hadn’t yet managed to get as far
as ordering the carriage. Every morning he opened his eyes and
promised himself that he’d escort her back to Bolingbroke as soon
as he’d finished his breakfast, but for some reason he couldn’t
follow through. His heart tapped happily his chest as he let his
eyes wander from golden curls down to black slippers peeping out
from under her skirts. Any moment she’d say something strange,
something maddening.
“How’s your
drawing coming Mr Smirke?” It was a perfectly innocuous question,
and just the one he most did not want to be asked. His eighth
attempt to draw the pleasant scene out the window was not coming
along at all. His amateurish renditions made him cringe. It didn’t
look anything like the image in his head. He felt like throwing his
sketchbook out the window followed by his pencil.
“Mind your own
business.” He turned the page in his sketchbook and started
again.
“You could try
sketching something else. Perhaps it’s too dull a subject.”
“What a good
idea Miss Lark. Perhaps if you took off your dress and stood in
front of the window I’d be inspired?” With burning cheeks she
silently picked up her chair and forcefully turned her back on the
wicked man and continued embroidering. After ten minutes of being
ignored John was seething. Determined to be kind, he successfully
refrained from screaming at his ward to turn around. “Alright,
you’ve made your point. I shouldn’t have said it, but I told you to
mind your own business.” There was no response from the back of his
ward. “I didn’t actually mean it. I was being
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