Read Online To Have and to Hold by Patricia Gaffney - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Patricia Gaffney
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been the late Mr. Wade's "ah, peculiarities." He entertained himself by imagining her in lewd sexual situations, but the man in his fantasies was always himself; when he tried to put a deviant or a pervert in them with her, someone who hurt her or degraded her—someone other than himself—the fantasies evaporated, leaving him with a bad taste in the mouth.
Whenever possible, he tried to shock her out of her brittle composure. One day, in the middle of a onesided conversation about a chimney fire in the best drawing room, he interrupted her to inquire casually, "Tell me, Mrs. Wade, did you kill your husband?"
Annoyingly, her face didn't change. Her hands tightened on the accounts ledger she always brought with her, but otherwise she didn't react. After scarcely a pause, she said, "No, my lord. But everyone in Dartmoor Prison is there by some terrible mistake; certainly I never met a guilty inmate in all the years I was there. The English penal system was built to incarcerate innocent victims—were you not aware of that?"
He didn't know which was more discomfiting, her sarcasm or her indifference to whether he believed her or not. He sent her away with a curt word. This time the one who had been shocked was himself, and he didn't like it.
He wasn't sure why he tormented Mrs. Wade, why he had numerous new torments in mind for her in the future. It wasn't his usual style. But he'd seen a change coming in himself for a while now. Out of boredom and cynicism, he was starting to become nasty. He didn't approve of it, but in some ways he saw it as inevitable. Life, he'd decided years ago, was supremely, spectacularly pointless, and a wise man learned to deal resourcefully with that disappointing truth. Fortunately, Sebastian Verlaine had been born into wealth and comfort, two commodities that helped mitigate pointlessness no end.
But the older he got, the less fun he was having. It took more every day to divert him, and lately he'd begun moving gradually, with misgivings, into excess. There were no vices and few depravities he hadn't tasted, with differing degrees of satisfaction. He worried that when he ran out, he would choose a few favorites and indulge in them until they killed him.
In some ways, what he saw in Rachel Wade was what he couldn't see in himself anymore. She was like some raw, naked thing, stripped down to the basics, without illusions or hope, without vanity. The fire she'd been through had burned her clean to the bone. She knew something now; she'd learned a secret— maybe the secret—and he had some idea that if he could possess her, the essence of what he lacked and she had would be his. He would appropriate it.
It made no rational sense, but he told himself it was an instinct, and instincts were allowed to defy reason.
On a rainy Thursday morning, he sat at his desk in his first-floor study, paging through his correspondence while waiting for her to join him. She had a distinctive knock; he listened unconsciously for the soft tap tap — tap she always used to announce herself. But the appointed time came and went, and after only a few minutes he decided not to wait; he decided to go and find her.
He went to her room first. Cold gray light from the open doorway spilled onto the stone corridor, picking out every worn place and threadbare fiber in the thin carpet that ran down the center. He paused for the barest second, then entered without knocking. The sitting room was empty, but he heard a soft noise from the bedroom. Bad manners to walk in on a lady in her bedroom. Keeping his feet quiet on the meager rug, he moved toward the bedroom door.
She was coming out—they almost collided in the threshold. She started in surprise and backed up, begging his pardon. She had her white cap in one hand, the heavy accounts ledger in the other, clutching it to her chest. "I'm sorry I'm late, my lord. I was just on my way to come to you. There was a crisis in the kitchen just now, nothing terrible, but Clara
Whenever possible, he tried to shock her out of her brittle composure. One day, in the middle of a onesided conversation about a chimney fire in the best drawing room, he interrupted her to inquire casually, "Tell me, Mrs. Wade, did you kill your husband?"
Annoyingly, her face didn't change. Her hands tightened on the accounts ledger she always brought with her, but otherwise she didn't react. After scarcely a pause, she said, "No, my lord. But everyone in Dartmoor Prison is there by some terrible mistake; certainly I never met a guilty inmate in all the years I was there. The English penal system was built to incarcerate innocent victims—were you not aware of that?"
He didn't know which was more discomfiting, her sarcasm or her indifference to whether he believed her or not. He sent her away with a curt word. This time the one who had been shocked was himself, and he didn't like it.
He wasn't sure why he tormented Mrs. Wade, why he had numerous new torments in mind for her in the future. It wasn't his usual style. But he'd seen a change coming in himself for a while now. Out of boredom and cynicism, he was starting to become nasty. He didn't approve of it, but in some ways he saw it as inevitable. Life, he'd decided years ago, was supremely, spectacularly pointless, and a wise man learned to deal resourcefully with that disappointing truth. Fortunately, Sebastian Verlaine had been born into wealth and comfort, two commodities that helped mitigate pointlessness no end.
But the older he got, the less fun he was having. It took more every day to divert him, and lately he'd begun moving gradually, with misgivings, into excess. There were no vices and few depravities he hadn't tasted, with differing degrees of satisfaction. He worried that when he ran out, he would choose a few favorites and indulge in them until they killed him.
In some ways, what he saw in Rachel Wade was what he couldn't see in himself anymore. She was like some raw, naked thing, stripped down to the basics, without illusions or hope, without vanity. The fire she'd been through had burned her clean to the bone. She knew something now; she'd learned a secret— maybe the secret—and he had some idea that if he could possess her, the essence of what he lacked and she had would be his. He would appropriate it.
It made no rational sense, but he told himself it was an instinct, and instincts were allowed to defy reason.
On a rainy Thursday morning, he sat at his desk in his first-floor study, paging through his correspondence while waiting for her to join him. She had a distinctive knock; he listened unconsciously for the soft tap tap — tap she always used to announce herself. But the appointed time came and went, and after only a few minutes he decided not to wait; he decided to go and find her.
He went to her room first. Cold gray light from the open doorway spilled onto the stone corridor, picking out every worn place and threadbare fiber in the thin carpet that ran down the center. He paused for the barest second, then entered without knocking. The sitting room was empty, but he heard a soft noise from the bedroom. Bad manners to walk in on a lady in her bedroom. Keeping his feet quiet on the meager rug, he moved toward the bedroom door.
She was coming out—they almost collided in the threshold. She started in surprise and backed up, begging his pardon. She had her white cap in one hand, the heavy accounts ledger in the other, clutching it to her chest. "I'm sorry I'm late, my lord. I was just on my way to come to you. There was a crisis in the kitchen just now, nothing terrible, but Clara
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