“But what do you mean,” asked Mary, “it’s the other way around?”
Sabine nodded. “As part of this new... er, closeness between Stoker and myself, we have shared a kiss. Or two.” She took a deep breath. “I believe we both felt the kiss was rather... er, lovely, but he resisted the kiss at first. He was strangely resistant to embarking on anything remotely like, well, like physical affection—despite his obvious, at least to me, desire. Er, desire for it. He seems to believe—he seems tostridentlybelieve—that all affection leads to sex, and that all sex takes advantage of the female in a way. As a result she must be compensated with a gift or protection or some favor. Hefurtherbelieves that this transaction, thistrade, even in a loving marriage, is always damaging to the woman. Or something.” Sabine looked at Mary Boyd and shrugged.
“Really?”marveled Mary. She tapped her index finger to her chin.
Sabine told Mary some of Stoker’s terrible childhood and his years of crashing in and out of brothels. “He uses these experiences as his proof,” she said. “He has seen the worst of humanity, I’m afraid.
“And so my question was,” Sabine finished, “could his view possibly be accurate? For all couples? Every time? Is there never mutual pleasure for pleasure’s sake?”
“Absolutely,” enthused Mary lightly, taking up her polishing rag again. “You are right, and he is wrong, God save him. I can assure you, as a married woman of some thirty years,andas a woman who left a respected family to marry a carpenter who could offer me nothing but pleasure for pleasure’s sake, these sorts of relations happen all the time. Every night and day.”
“I knew it,” said Sabine, a little breathless. She stared out the window at the treetops of Belgrave Square. “I knew Willow did not feel that Cassin takes advantage of her. Tessa, of course, was sorely abused—but not by Joseph. Joseph treats her like a queen. But I never got the sense that he did it to repay her for... for...”
“There is no payment for sex in a happy marriage,” stated Mary, dipping her cloth in sticky mahogany stain.
“But what about in aconvenientmarriage?” asked Sabine, the words out before she’d realized.
“That is more difficult for me to define,” chuckled Mary. “My marriage was entirely inconvenient. My family disowned me, as you know. But perhaps this question is less urgent. And I can think of two women very dear to you who might expound on this at length by letter.” She winked and nodded to Willow’s envelope. “In the meantime, I believe you will be surprised how quickly you discover the answer for yourself. Assuming you can challenge Mr. Stoker’s notions about this bartering nonsense, whatever it is.” She applied the wet cloth to the chair and began to rub.
Sabine watched her work for a moment, sipping her tea. “To him, it’s not nonsense. That is my fear.”
“Yes, but you are hardly nonsensical, my girl. You are confident and proud and clever and your opinion will matter to him. If he truly wants you, it will matter.”
“Oh, he doesn’t—”
Mary cut her off with a tsking sound. “I’ve only met Mr. Stoker on two occasions, but I saw the way he watches you in both instances. Trust me when I say that he very much wants you. The real question may be, do you want him?”
The real question.
Indeed.
Do you want him?
“Well,” Sabine began slowly, “it has been far more pleasant having him here than I expected. He is very useful to the research I am doing on my uncle. He is not oppressive or demanding. I enjoy spending time with him—that is, near him.”
She laughed. “I want to be in his room all the time.” She looked up. “I can’t believe I’ve just said that.”
“Is it true?” Mary asked.
Sabine considered this, trying to find truth in her jumble of feelings and fears and desires.
“It is not untrue,” Sabine began. “And when I am in his room, and we are talking or he is taking his meal, I... I want to touch him. I’ve never been so overwhelmed with the desire to put my hands on another person.” Sabine stood up. “Does this sound mad?”
“Not at all. It sounds very natural, in fact. There is a name for what you are describing, but I dare not say it. Not yet.”
Sabine barely heard Mary as she began to pace. “But he will not stay in London. When he recovers, he’ll show his gratitude in some detached, informal way, and sail away. That was our agreement, and he speaks daily about recovering his ship and his crew. When he leaves, it won’t matter what I want. He only married me because I swore we would always live apart. He... he’s told me he is in the market for a piece of property to call home—his first ever home. He is hoping to settle down and find some peace after a lifetime of restlessness. It won’t be in London. It won’t be in England at all.”
“Oh, lovely,” said Mary brightly. “Please remind him that I should be happy to design the interiors when he settles on a place. We’ve clients around the world. I’m so very good at helping wealthy men spend their money on peaceful first homes. He’s said to be one of the richest men in England, isn’t he?”
“That is what is said,” said Sabine.
“Imagine, one of the richest men in the country, convalescing in my cellar.” Mary glanced at Sabine. “Of all the places for him to recover. I wonder why a man such as this might linger... here... with us? When he could be anywhere?”
“Oh, he is very ill,” Sabine assured her. “Far too ill to relocate.”
Mary gestured to the letter again. “Forgive me if I don’t think he sounds quite as ill as one might be led to believe.” She gave another wink.
Sabine considered this, drifting among the stacks of half-completed furniture.
Mary called, “Will we see you tonight at dinner, dear?”
“Perhaps not tonight, thank you,” said Sabine. “I... I will send Perry for a tray.”
“Very well. Carry on. Lovely chat.” Mary Boyd smiled, took hold of the chair, and flipped it. “I’m always here when you have need of me. Do not forget.”
“Thank you,” Sabine mumbled, drifting out the door.Thank you, thank you, thank you.
