He grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the carriage, although she put up no resistance at all.
Lady Esther’s voice was a mere thread. “Beatrice, I shall not wait more than five minutes for you.”
“Very good, Mama.”
Bertram marched her behind the carriage, out of sight of the interested coachman and the footman standing at the back. Catullus had wandered that way, and was contentedly grazing an enticing patch of grass on the verge. Bertram stalked past the horse and a little way down the road.
“Well?” he said, turning to her. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I have not the least intention of marrying Lord Rennington. That was Mama’s idea, but it is an outrageous suggestion.”
“Then…?” Suddenly, he was floundering. “So what is all this about?”
“Did you mean it? About… about cherishing me? Loving me?”
He nodded. All his loquacity had dried up, as if the words that had bubbled up so readily in his anger, had all now leaked out of his head. What could he say to her? How could he possibly tell her how much he loved her, how distraught he was to lose her, how unhappy he would be without her?
But then she smiled, and it was as if he had been wreathed in clouds and now the sun had emerged.
She reached for one of his hands, and placed it on her cheek. Then the other, so that her face was cupped in his bare hands. Now he was glad he had left his gloves behind. He smiled back, thinking that a man could drown in those blue eyes of hers, the colour of the sky on a summer’s day.
He knew what to do next. It needed no thought, but it answered all the questions in his mind, and hers too, he realised now.
Bending his head, he kissed her.
It was not like the first time. Then, he had felt as if he were drowning, swept away by the turbulence of his own emotions. Now, it felt more like sailing a small boat across the water, the bow skimming the waves, the sails filled with air, the speed exhilarating. There were no words. Somehow, they were gliding above the words, in the realm where the meanings, the intent of the words, the very heart of them, rose to become pure poetry. Nothing existed, nothing mattered, apart from the two of them, their glorious united joy and their love.
When they parted momentarily, she murmured, “Te amo.”
“Mea vita,”he whispered back. And when other pauses arose, “Mea lux... meum delicium… meum solatium… mel meum… meum corculum.”
She giggled, and repeated each phrase and then kissed him again.
“Mama has gone,” she said eventually.
Surprised, he turned. The lane was empty, apart from their two selves, and Catullus waiting patiently. “Oh. What shall we do?”
“I had better go home,” she said. “Will you walk with me?”
He laughed. “I have a much better idea. We shall ride.”
Her hand in his, he led her towards Catullus, who turned his head towards them and gave a whuff of greeting. With one swift movement, Bertram put his hands around Bea’s waist and lifted her onto Catullus’s back. She gave a quick exclamation of surprise, then giggled. He liked her giggles, he decided. Some girls giggled in a silly way, but Bea was never silly. He mounted behind her, and found to his great pleasure that a lady sitting sideways in front of him was perfectly positioned for kissing. For some time, therefore, they did not move at all, and it was only when Catullus reached down for another tempting mouthful that Bea giggled again.
“Home is that way,” she said helpfully. “Just in case you have forgotten.”
He laughed, pulled Catullus away from the verge, and set him to a gentle walk. And so they walked and kissed, and kissed and walked, his arms wrapped firmly around his love, and she seemed content to snuggle against his chest and allow herself to be kissed.
After a while, words seeped into his brain again, and he began to recite. “‘Quaeris, quot mihi basiationes tuae sint satis superque. Quam magnus numerus Libyssae harenae lasarpiciferis iacet Cyrenis oraclum Iovis inter aestuosi et Batti veteris sacrum sepulcrum…’”
“What is it about?” she whispered, when he fell silent again.
“It is about kissing. One might translate it like this.‘You ask how many of your kisses are enough for me and more than enough. As great as is the number of the Libyan sand… or as many as are the stars… to kiss you with so many kisses is enough and more than enough.’There is more, but that is the heart of it.”
“Ohhh,” she breathed. “How romantic you are. You should say everything in Latin. It sounds so much better.”
“Very well. How about this?Te amo, Beatrice Franklyn. Visne mihi nubere?”
“Does that mean what I think it means?”
