Linden

The North Sea was calm today, and we swanned up the coast. I sat in the owner’s cabin of my new paddle steamer and rotated the small box in my hands while I waited for Felicity to wake. She would protest—too many gifts! But like me, she was not an accomplished liar. She seemed equally pleased with every new item she received, no matter how humble—from handkerchief to bonnet to gown. Her transparent delight only encouraged me. 

We’d patronised several modistes in our scramble to prepare for Scotland. It would be cold even in July, and the conditions of the latter part of our journey promised to be as rugged as my adventure-hungry wife could desire. 

We would probably end up travelling by coach over bad roads on this wild goose hunt, but we were determined to enjoy the journey, which was part wedding trip, part familial errand. At least our start was auspicious—we moved towards our destination at speeds of up to twelve knots, even while we slept—in a suite with gleaming furniture and rich textiles. No carriage could have provided a better view than the beautiful angel asleep in my bed, all creamy shoulders and silk gown and pale, gold hair spread across the pillows. 

It was early morning, and the day was overcast, but as time passed, more and more light pierced the closest window and set my wife—and her white peignoir—to glowing. As if I did not already understand that I was witnessing a miracle. My heart beat faster just to look at this woman who had become so necessary to my happiness. And yet, less than a month ago, I’d seen her for the first time. How could this be? 

Every self-made man, no matter his place of origin or his sphere, possesses a certain token (as well as luck) which enables him to rise above his circumstances. It might be a talent, or an obsession, or a head for strategy. My gift is as simple as intuition. There is a quiet voice which prompts me in decision making, and when I heed it, I am likely to succeed. 

I do not mean to say that it took any miracle of discernment to conclude that Lady Viviana was not the answer to my social problems. But since I had travelled so far, I was loath to give up on at least the earl’s iron mine. While he weighed my offer to buy it, I understood that he would continue to shove his daughter under my nose, and I would continue to hope he eventually accepted my terms.

However, everything changed the second time Lord Runcliffe presented Lady Viviana to my notice. Not because I suddenly wished for a wife who detested the sight of me, but because of the lady standing next to her—the tallest female I had ever seen.

I am just a man, as susceptible to beauty as any other fool that walks the earth. Oh, how I liked the way she looked!

Because I had learned to appraise the cost of garments at a glance, I knew her gown was not in the first—or even second—rank of fashion. It was likely a few years old. A lacy cap hid her hair, perhaps intending to convey that she was not the young woman at Runcliffe Hall that one would wish to marry. (I was not fooled. I had never seen a more unconvincing article of clothing.)

The countess confirmed that Felicity—Miss Farouche, as she erroneously called her—was a poor relation. I wondered whether I might stick closer to my own sphere, after all. Miss Farouche would be much more likely to understand where I had come from instead of despising me for it, although her birth—no matter how distantly removed from the earl—was infinitely more respectable than my own. 

My outlook on the neighbourhood had brightened considerably, but when we parted after that first meeting, I realised that I’d set my hopes too high. I asked to call upon her, but she gave a vague answer and avoided eye contact. 

I usually anticipated disapproval, but it was a blow to discover that Miss Farouche—so far from returning my liking—could barely tolerate me. 

A few days later, when I had all but decided to leave Derbyshire with my tail between my legs, a plain straw bonnet appeared outside the mine—head and shoulders above the fancier hat worn by her companion. When the tall woman wearing it saw me, her face broke into the sweetest smile ever turned in my direction. What if…she hadn’t rejected me a few days before? Could it be that she was shy? 

At that moment, I was utterly done. My gut instinct told me that it was this lady or no one, titled or not. Hang the earl and his Barcliffe dowry! No matter how messy things got, I was determined to have Miss Farouche, and I sent Helen a letter that very day, begging her to use her connections to procure me a special marriage license…

A swish interrupted the quiet of our compartment. Felicity had swept one of her hands across the empty bed linens where I had lain, as if she already missed me. My eyes faithfully committed this tableau to my dragon hoard of memories. 

Last night the lady had told me she loved me. I doubted I would ever recover from the experience, or forget exactly how she’d sounded.

That same refined voice, now rough with sleep, said, “What occupies your mind so, Mr. Black?”

“You.”

A blush suffused my wife’s face, and I stood to open the curtains to allow even more light in.

“Fiend,” she accused. She fell back on the pillows and covered her eyes with one silky, smooth arm.

“A patient fiend,” I answered, though I barely resisted the urge to toss aside the box and climb back into bed. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up and open your present.”

She dropped her arm away from her face and tried to frown. “Another one?” 

One moment I observed her prim mouth, determined to withstand it, but in the very next, I admitted defeat. It was all too easy to kneel beside the bed and catch her lips with my own.

Then I reminded myself of my mission and drew away. “You are incredibly distracting.”

She laughed. She didn’t yet believe she was the most beautiful creature in the world.

“Tea?” I asked. She smiled and nodded.

My wife slept later than me, and since she enjoyed a cup first thing after waking, I had taken to brewing a pot for her each morning. She’d told me that she did not know any gentlemen who made tea, but when I assured her that I was not really a gentleman, and I would truly like to learn, she was happy enough to share her methods. I poured the hot water onto the waiting leaves, and then handed her the gift box while they steeped.

“Are you attempting to spoil me, sir?”

“Is it working?”

“You know it is.” She smiled up at me as she untied the ribbon. 

She was dishevelled and gorgeous and pink from sleep, and I decided that I really must join her on the bed after all. The mattress dipped under my weight, she obligingly scooted to the middle, and I pulled her feet onto my lap.

“How are your toes this chilled?” I covered them with my hands just as she lifted the lid off the box.

“Linden!” she gasped, and held up a necklace—a finely wrought golden chain with a Roman solidus for a pendant. Her fingers trembled, and her voice was no more steady when she said, “You—! It really was a Roman coin? This is the one from the cave?”

“No. It’s still there waiting for you. This is a placeholder until you fetch it yourself.”

A smile lit up her face like lightning. “What a lovely idea! But I haven’t swum in ages. What if I cannot reach the bottom of the pool?”

The lady had no idea what she was capable of. “You certainly will be able to. But we are in no rush, sweetheart. It just so happens, I know the owner of the mine.”

Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Do you?”

I lifted an ankle to my lips and kissed it. “Intimately.”

She shook her head at me and blushed again. “Sir.” 

“We shall practise swimming.” But perhaps not in Scotland. Cold loch now or tropical beach later? The better course seemed obvious.

“A wise suggestion.” She moved her pretty hair to the side, and turned her back to me. “Will you assist?”

I sat up and waged a battle with the tiny clasp.

“Which emperor am I wearing?” Her voice came over her shoulder like an audible caress.

“This is Justinian I. Do you know the story of Justinian and Theodora?” 

She shook her head and held the coin up close to her face, studying the golden man on the front, whose edges had been blurred by time.

“He loved Theodora, but she wasn’t of his class. They weren’t allowed to marry.”

“Ah,” she said. “Star-crossed lovers?”

“He didn’t allow society’s rules to dictate his life. He rewrote the law and made her his empress.”

The medallion settled above her heart. “That’s very romantic,” she said with approval. “To wear a piece of history! Thank you, husband. I shall treasure it.”

“You are very welcome, wife.”

Before I could kiss her again, she held me off, mischief in her eyes. “Your turn, Mr. Black.”

She laughed at my surprise. “You authorised me to make frighteningly large drafts upon your bank, sir. I hope you do not come to regret it.”

She jumped out of bed and ran over to the mahogany wardrobe, (which had been nailed to the floor) and spent a good two minutes digging through the contents before she reappeared with a scroll. It was tightly rolled and tied with a string. 

“A treasure map?” I asked.

“Nothing so exciting.” 

I slid the string off the roll of paper. A gold ring fell out, and I caught it as I spread the parchment open on the table. It was a signet, with a coat of arms on the onyx face. Carved in relief, a bird rose out of a bed of flames, and a ribbon under them read, EX TENEBRIS LUX.

I looked up at her and smiled. “From out of darkness, light.”

A fitting inscription for two people who had been buried, and found life in each other.

I held out my hand and she took the signet, sliding it onto my pinky. I turned our hands over so that I could admire her emerald wedding ring. In a primitive manner of speaking, I had stamped my ownership on that pretty hand, and I rather liked that she had now done the same to me.  

She said, “There is already a Black family—originally from Scotland—with the motto, ‘Non crux sed lux’. I thought we could adapt it a little.”

I looked back down at the paper, which echoed the coat of arms on the ring, but with the name Black emblazoned across it.

“This is the initial sketch,” she said quickly, “but we can make any changes you like.”

I pulled her back against me so we were looking down at the table, and took both of her cool hands in mine. “I have little knowledge of heraldry, sweetheart. Tell me about the symbols.”

“You’ve probably guessed that the phoenix represents new beginnings.”

“Very fitting, since we are firmly of the nouveau riche camp.” 

She made a sound which could have been a strangled laugh.

I pointed to the left side of the shield with her fingers. “And the dog?”

“It’s a wolf. His strength is in his adaptability and wit. He’s from the fringes of society, but he carves a safe place for himself and his pack.”

I chuckled and ran a hand over the paper. “It’s perfect, Felicity. Thank you.”

She turned around with grave eyes. “You told me that you could only give me the name you had made yourself. But you’ve done more with nothing than most men who start out with everything. I am proud—so proud to share your name and be your wife.” 

This dear lady—!

The satiny fabric of her peignoir slid across my arms like water as I pulled her even closer to me, locking her to my chest. She rose on her tiptoes, and I bent down, and my heart thundered against hers as our mouths met in a melting kiss. For a moment, her arms held me as tightly as I held her, and then she lifted her hands to run them through my hair. Goosebumps raced down my neck, and I lifted her higher and closer still, without parting our mouths for one moment. When a lack of oxygen forced me to pull away, I dropped kisses across her cheekbone and into her glorious hair, and when my lungs had just enough air to carry on, I returned to her sweet lips. 

We kissed again and again, until, from the murky recesses of my mind, a thought intruded. A quick glance at my watch confirmed what my subconscious had known, and I handed my wife back into bed so I could pour her tea before it spoiled.

The spoon shook as I added the milk and sugar, but I made sure I was steady when I passed her the cup, only about half-full of steaming liquid, in case any swells should take us by surprise. “Careful, now.” 

Looking even more pink and delightful than she already had, she took a sip, and her eyes went heavy-lidded with contentment. No need to ask if my tea had passed muster today.

“Where shall we go after Scotland?” I asked, trying to hide how out of breath I still was. “We can practise diving in the Canary Islands. Or Barbados. Corfu?”

Her face lit up more with each suggestion, but she said, “But your sisters? Are we not on a mission to find them?”

“We will find them,” I promised. “But they’ve spread across the globe. We’ll have to cross oceans and mountains—there’s no reason we cannot have a stupendous adventure along the way.”

Voice delightfully proper, and totally at odds with her impassioned expression, she murmured, “I like the way you think, sir.”

I winked. “‘Rely upon me, who am ever yours.’”*

My beautiful wife drained her tea cup and set it by the bed. She held out her arms to me and smiled, her magnificent eyes—green, blue, and gold—dancing with happiness. 

I scooped her up so she could murmur in my ear, “So I shall.”

*Quotation from the letters of John Donne

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