Chapter Eleven
Within an hour of Perry’s arrival, Sabine had dispatched the maid to the servants’ quarters and holed herself up in her study for what she considered to be the “foreseeable future.” Perhaps she would never leave. Perhaps she would grow old in the study, eating food brought in and out by servants, growing pale and wizened like a crone. Sir Dryden would carry on, unchecked, with his smuggling, and country tourists would wander the streets of London with no guide. Her dog would go blind for never seeing the light of day.
All of this, she thought, would be better than reckoning what had just transpired with Jon Stoker.With her husband,she reminded herself. Well, herconvenienthusband. The phrase had suddenly taken on new meaning. Not convenient to marry, but conveniently located in her bedroom to kiss whenever she willed it. Clearly, she willed it very much.
Was it wrong that some part of her wanted to return to his room and carry on kissing him again? Was it wrong that she wasn’t scandalized or ashamed by the kiss but really rather invigorated? Was it wrong that her lifelong vow to live independently and solitarily suddenly seemed very shortsighted?
Oh God, the kiss.While her friend Tessa had spent far too much time fantasizing about kisses, and her other friend Willow had devoted an entire childhood to vowing she would never do it, Sabine had not really thought of it one way or the other. She’d not had a featherheaded, beau-chasing youth. She’d been so taken by her father’s cartography, so interested in travel and sketching and maps, there hadn’t been time to fantasize about kissing. And then Sir Dryden had put her off men in general.
Now she wondered if she’d ever think of anything else. No, that wasn’t true; there was plenty to think of—smuggling, Stoker’s health, getting back to Park Lodge—but the thought of intimacy with Jon Stoker had elbowed in with significant prominence among her other interests and pursuits.
Perry came and went with a supper tray, and Sabine sat down with a stack of clean parchment to compose a letter to Willow. She must make some show of gratitude for sending Perry. And she must apprise Willow and Cassin of Stoker’s progress. And she might also...
Well, obviously, she had only just kissed Stoker, so it was too soon to draw conclusions or even put too fine a point on what had just happened. But would a few carefully worded questions allow her to cast around for some generalized answers about... well, about intimacy among husbands and wives? Hiding in her study felt safe and prudent at the moment, but she would run mad if she did not communicate with someone.
Dear Willow,
How to begin this letter?
There is the obvious: Perry has been a godsend, thank you.
But also, perhaps more accurately: Perry? Willow, how could you?
(I hope you’ll consider this in the good humor in which it is intended.)
Of course, Perry is a godsend. There has been more of every kind of household chore since Stoker came to Belgrave Square, and I haven’t had the time or energy to train someone new. My travel guides and my investigation would have fallen so far behind if Perry had not arrived. Her constant chatter and general enthusiasm will be a boundless reminder that patience is a virtue. Would that we all were as guileless as Perry.
But of course you knew that, which is why she’s come. Thank you. Truly.
Perry has mentioned your regret that Cassin himself was not able to race to London to look in on Stoker. Please put this concern out of your mind. Stoker is comfortable and recovering nicely. Surprisingly, it has been far easier than expected for me to accommodate his care.
If anything, I wish for your presence—this is not a cry for help, merely wishful thinking—as I find Stoker’s time here to be marked with... oh, how can I say this?
I find Stoker’s time here to be marked with... philosophical questions and behavioral challenges I could not have anticipated.
(And now that I have your full attention.)
I run the risk of misleading you or misrepresenting the situation when I allude to this, but before you galloped away to fall in love with your husband and his castle, you and I did speak freely about such things.
“What things?” (I can hear you speaking to this letter.)
Indeed. Plainly put, I have one or two questions about marriage and, in particular, so-called “marital relations.” Ahem. I dare not commit these to paper in specific terms but in general, (and here is the real point of this letter, I suppose):
Would you say, as a happy wife, that relations with your husband feel like a... sort of... trade-off for “things”? And by “things,” I suppose I mean tangible gifts or for preferential allowances that you would like? That is, is... congress among the two of you always a matter of his bed in exchange for... oh, let’s say, a new piece of art or having your way in some conflict?
Or, in contrast, would you say marital relations are more of a joint effort that ushers in, well, joint contentment, with no sought-after prize for your participation?
It is my great hope that you can consider this question without jumping to conclusions. Stoker is very ill and determined to recover both his health and his brig with no distractions, marital or otherwise. I am committed to unmasking my uncle’s smuggling plot, whatever it is, and to my travel guides. Our “arrangement,” which is the only one of the “Brides of Belgravia” unions to align with your original vision, is unchanged.
This is an idle question that has simply come up, and Stoker feels one way, and I know very little on the topic, but had always been led to believe the other. Let’s call it a debate that I am bullishly motivated to win. (You know me.)
Please do not share this with Tessa as she will never believe my question to be theoretical, and I cannot tolerate her gushing and romanticizing. As I’ve mentioned, Stoker is a very sick man, and I...
Here Sabine paused, raising her pen. She looked over her shoulder at the open door to her study, auditioning denials in her head.
Stoker is a very sick man... and I hardly know him.
Stoker is a very sick man... and I remain averse to all men in the wake of Sir Dryden’s abuse.
