“Georgiana, you disappoint me. Have you not fully comprehended the responsibilities of a child born into this family? Your son will be the seventh Earl of Covington. He cannot,mustnot, play such absurd games. You must make sure it never happens again. I remind you of your obligations. You are not Georgiana Darcy anymore. You are Lady Stoughton. You must do better.”
I must, I must. I must control my children and not lose track of time. I must stay out of the sun. I must not be too soft or too loud or smile too much or too little. I must not think about past mistakes, or someone who once loved me, or said he did. I must not think wistfully of being young and how exciting it was to be wooed, to have a hand brush mine unexpectedly or feel soft lips pressed under my ear. I must not remember a finger running along my collarbone or how a tress of hair, when lifted, once mademe tremble. I must not have memories or give in to meandering, nostalgic, or inappropriate thoughts. I must not have a body that craves something I don’t fully understand and someone who is not my husband. I must not be at a loss as to how to numb it. I must not be riveted when I come upon strangers in blissful intimacy in the center of a hedge maze.
For the rest of the visit, it takes all my strength to remain calm, despite my rapid pulse. I say “Yes, Aunt” and “Of course, Aunt” and “More tea, Aunt?”
When, finally, she leaves, I walk directly to the library, where I find the children practicing their letters with the governess. I tell her she is free to go.
“Have I done something wrong?” she asks.
“Of course not,” I say. “I want to play with the children.”
“You do?” Anne and Thomas say in unison. Miss Rookwood slips out of the room.
“Yes,” I say, sitting down and pulling Anne and Thomas close to me. “What shall we play?”
“Knights,” Thomas says, leaping up and pretending to brandish a sword.
I stand and jump back.
“You’ll never catch me!” I say.
For a moment, the children are too stunned to move, and I understand that they’ve noticed my dark mood of late and that it has changed. Then, laughing, they launch themselves into the game, chasing me around the room, imaginary weapons slicing the air.
“En garde!” Anne shouts, nearly catching me.
I fall onto the couch, pretending to be mortally wounded. The children are delighted.
“Again!” Thomas says. “I want you to die again.”
“It’s my turn to kill her,” Anne says.
We fence until we’re breathless and red in the face. Thomas is so excited that he’s spinning in circles.
“Let’s have a rest, my little puppies,” I say, which starts a new game. Anne and Thomas are animals, whimpering and scampering, standing on their knees and begging for food. They are fully immersed in their play, more devoted than the best of stage actors, deep in their worlds of make believe. And why shouldn’t they be? Their imaginings are as insubstantial as the air, invisible, existing only in their minds, giving them nothing but joy. They have taken themselves out of the library and into a battlefield, a kennel, a meadow. They are playing because it delights them. It is beautiful and pure.
At supper, I am still flushed and giddy from our games.
“You look well,” Edmund says. “Am I to infer that you had a good visit with Aunt Alice?”
“I wouldn’t call it good,” I say, smiling back at my husband. “But it was inspiring.”
“I don’t believe it. Aunt Alice, the esteemed Lady Atherton, inspired you?”
I take a sip of my wine, which is succulent and warm.
“Let’s just say her poor example was stimulating.”
Edmund, looking amused, raises his glass.
“To stimulation, then,” he says. “And to my lovely wife.”
The supper is ordinary, soup and venison and roasted potatoes, but the tastes hit my tongue with unusual pungency. I finish my glass of wine and ask for another.
“Is there an occasion I’ve forgotten about?” Edmund asks, smiling at my thirst.
“Just a good end to the day,” I say.
I carry the mood with me into my bed. I am buzzing with energy. I wait for Edmund to join me. He presses a palm to myshoulder, a gesture I have come to understand. I turn toward him, and he kisses me. It is familiar and not unpleasant. My mind goes to another kiss, barely a whisper, and others, more urgent, on the settee by the window in Margate. I roll toward my husband. He runs a hand down my side. I know where he will touch me and how. I am thinking about George’s hand on my thigh beneath my skirt as I press into Edmund and find his lips. I am not afraid of the scenes that play out in my head. They are memories, and fantasies, as ephemeral as make believe and as harmless. They are mine to do with what I wish.
