Page 42 of A Rogue's Downfall
“He is handsome and slender and only two years my senior,” she said.
He smiled slowly at her. “And how old is that?” he asked. “Twenty-three? Twenty-four? And already aprosperous tenant farmer? He is an industrious man,or a fortunate one.”
“His father died young,” she said, “and left him everything.”
“Ah.” He chuckled. “I have heard that even the coolest corner of hell is a mite uncomfortable, littlebird.”
“You will never know, will you?” she said. “You are going to turn virtuous and spend your time onuseful accomplishments, like practicing the harp.”
He chuckled again and stretched out on the ground, one arm behind his head. With the other hand hereached out to touch her arm and ran it down to herelbow and then down to her wrist, which he encircledso that he could draw her arm away from her kneesand down to the ground. He clasped her hand firmlyand closed his eyes.
“I am weary,” he said. “And don’t tell me that you know the cause, little bird, and that I deserve to be.One day, when you are married to your young andvirile tenant farmer—yourprosperousfarmer—youwill discover that the cause of the weariness can beworth every sleepless moment. Talk to me. Tell meabout your life at the parsonage. At a guess I wouldsay you were happy there. Were you?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
He opened his eyes and turned his head to look up at her. “Tell me about it, then,” he said. “Tell meabout all the sinners you led back into the fold. I amsure there were many of them. You would havescolded them with your sharp tongue and made them stubborn, and then you would have gazed at themwith those too-large sorrowful eyes and melted awayall their resistance. Is that how you did it?”
“Yes,” she said. “Every Sunday morning before service all of Papa’s parishioners had to file past me outside the church and gaze into my eyes for thirty seconds each. The church was always full of weepingpenitents afterward.”
He chuckled and squeezed her hand. “Tell me,” he said. “Who was Patricia Mangan before she camehere?”
She was the much adored only child of parents who had both been in their forties when they were blessedwith her, as they had always put it. They had beenmarried for almost twenty years before she camealong. Her father had always likened himself and hermother to the biblical Abraham and Sarah. She hadplayed a great deal, both alone with her imaginationand with the other village children, and had gone toschool with them to be taught by her father, theschoolmaster. But there had been work too—household chores set her by her mother, parish chores sether by her father. She had never been idle.
She had never really thought about her happiness until everything came crashing to an end. She had notbeen conscious at the time that she was living throughan idyll. It had seemed to her a normal, plodding, unexciting type of existence if she ever thought of it.She rarely did. She had just lived it.
And then when she was seventeen Patrick had been killed in Spain.
“Who was Patrick?”
She had been hardly aware that she was talkingaloud, that she had an audience. Patrick was the younger son of a gentleman who lived in a smallmanor outside the village. He had gone to the warsas a young ensign and been killed in his first battle.Patrick had been her childhood sweetheart, the boyshe had loved. They were going to be married whenhe came home, a great hero. In her naivete she hadnot really considered the strong possibility of hisdying.
But she had learned a swift and thorough lesson about death. Her mother had died less than a yearlater of a fever, and her father of a chill a year afterthat. At one moment it had seemed that she had everything—everything to bring her contentment and acontinuation of the world as she knew it. And at thenext it had seemed that she had nothing. Though thatwas not true, of course. She must not complain. Herfather had had a sister who had done very well forherself by marrying Mr. Peabody, a prosperous gentleman. Patricia had been offered a home with them.
“Little bird,” Mr. Bancroft said, first squeezing her hand again and then lifting it to his lips. “I am sorry.Life often seems a very unfair business, does it not?”
“Not to me,” she said untruthfully. “Many women who are left destitute are forced to sell themselves,sir. I have not been brought that low.”
“And there is always your future with your lusty farmer to look forward to,” he said. “Tell me aboutyour future. What will constitute a happy life to you?”
A husband and a home. A gentle and a kindly man. A good friend and companion. She did not care aboutgood looks or social prominence or unusual physicalstrength or intelligence. Just an ordinary, honest, constant man.
“A rake would not do you, then?” he asked.
No, certainly not a rake. Someone she could depend upon. And a home of her own. It would not have tobe very large or very grand or even very lavishly furnished. Just so that it was her own with a garden forher flowers and vegetables, and perhaps a few chickens. Oh, and dogs and cats. And children of her own.More than one of it was possible. Loneliness could behard on children even when there were loving parentsand plenty of village children to play with. Childrenshould have brothers and sisters if it was at all possible. And she wanted to hold babies in her arms. Herown babies.
Nothing else really. She did not crave wild adventure or excitement in her life. Only contentment. She would wish too that her husband would live long, thathe would outlive her—and that she would not loseany of her children in infancy, as so many women did.
It was not a very ambitious dream. But it was as far beyond her as the sun and stars. She was notspeaking aloud now. It was an impossible dream. Heraunt would never let her go. She was too useful. Andshe had no dowry. And no beauty. Perhaps if she wentaway and tried to find employment ... But as what?A governess? A housekeeper? A lady’s companion?She was a lady’s companion already. None of thosetypes of employment, even if she could find any without any experience or recommendations, would findher a husband.
If only Patrick had not dreamed of the glory of being a soldier. But that was long in the past. He hadbecome a soldier and he had gone to war and he hadbeen killed. There was no point in indulging in if-onlys.
Mr. Bancroft was sleeping, she realized suddenly. His hold on her hand had loosened, and his breathingwas deep and even. His head was turned toward her.
He was so very beautiful. She let her eyes roam over his perfect features, over his thick, dark hair.Patrick had been blond. The folds of his cloak hid theshape of his body, but she knew that he was bothslender and muscular, that a broad chest tapered tonarrow waist and hips. One of his legs, encased inpantaloons and Hessian boot, was raised at the kneeand free of his cloak. She could see his thigh musclesthrough the tight fabric. For all his attention towomen, which had led her to imagine that he mustspend most of his life in bed, he must work hard atkeeping himself fit.
He was so very beautiful. She could feel the warmth of his hand about hers and told herself with greatdeliberateness that she would always remember thismoment. He was a dreadful and shameless rake, andshe must be thankful that her lack of beauty andcharm and fortune had led him into treating her likethis, like a younger cousin, perhaps, when he mighthave been trying to seduce her. She had had thesequiet minutes with him and would be able to treasurethem in memory for the rest of her life.
She was glad she had no beauty with which to tempt him. She was glad he had never tried to make love toher. She bit her lip and tried to believe her own verydeliberate thoughts.
