"But you must not go," he said. "Please stay."
"And who will do explaining in the morn? A doxy in a master's bed, an empty one, the master gone! Sir, don't look so cut, I'm jesting, but it is the truth. Forgive me, I mean ... Will."
She bent to pick her nightgown off the floor, and wriggled into it as lithe as any snake. It startled Will to see it happen, it was the first time in his life. One moment this warm thing that was somehow his, it filled his eyes and made him fearful with regret that it was parting, and then, as if instantaneously, it was gone. He remembered the breasts, the pale brown nipples, the mass of jet black curls that marked her Venus mound, but abruptly and irrevocably, they were no longer his, or concrete. Deb's face reappeared, and there was no alteration in the way she gazed at him, but William was bereft, forlorn.
"I will be back, Deb," he said. "Not long away, I promise you. And then we'll ... we will..."
She did not wait to hear him end the sentence, if he ever could. The women's quarters, as quick as legs could carry her. Perhaps the scullery to seek out vinegar, but in any case a very thorough wash. Deb tried to keep the good parts in her mind, and true it was he was a very lovely man. When he returned, who knew? There were worse ways to conduct a life.
Twenty-Two
Even in the morning, even in the lashing rain as they picked slowly down the London road, William could not clear his mind of Deb and what they'd done together. At first it was a warm euphoria; he awoke to it, snug in the bed they'd made love in, regretful only that she was not there still. He lay on his back, aware of noises in the house and rain upon the window glass, and touched himself, and felt sensations, and re-envisioned things. For the moment, all seemed marvelous, except perhaps the rain. He saw himself riding off with Sam, and doing things vaguely heroic, then coming back to Deb. Then what? Well, going back to bed with her. Then what? He tried to claw back to euphoric memories.
The rain was terrible, it had set in with a vengeance, as if it had been away too long but now was back for good. It was not so heavy as insistent, driven by a one-reef wind from the south west, the progeny of clouds low and dark and dense. Sam and Will got kitted in the house, with footmen helping them lugubriously, then completed their protection in the stables, with tarpaulin capes and three-cornered hats that would gutter excess water well off their necks on to their backs and shoulders. It was a point that they should not look like shipping men, or Customs officers, which filled both with some unease because they were not actors. "All I know's the sea," said Sam. "It was my father who could wear a wig as if he meant it. What shall we do if someone talks of business? Play deaf-mutes?"
The farewells were not aided by it, either. Sir A had tried for false brightness in the house, but outside the stable he ignored the umbrella Tony brought for him, and let his own wig saturate, the powder running down his face and neck. He clasped both firmly by the hand for just an instant, wishing them God-speed, then bade them turn away, and quickly. But when they reached the first bend in the way and Sam glanced backwards, he was still standing there, although Tony had managed to put the umbrella above his head. By the time they reached the gatehouse, where a keeper with a firearm acknowledged them through the open window, Will had water trickling down his neck and felt one foot was getting soggy. Yet thoughts of Deborah still kept him warm ... For the first part of the journey they said little. They knew they had to work out a strategy, but they'd agreed the first thing was to get along the road. In normal conditions they might have come to Petersfield in half a day or so, but progress in this murk and wet was going to be painful. There was not much traffic, but in almost every dip there was a quagmire, and in almost every quag there was a wagon or a cart or coach, either bogged down singly or in contention with another one, or two, or three, or four. Sometimes they could ease their way by going off the road, but more usually the fields were bogs, or the roadside densely wooded. And almost every hamlet was a bottleneck.
Why Petersfield, in any way? They were not going to the Bentley house, because one never knew who servants might be attached to, but they saw it as a point of no return, from where they could strike for the Hampshire coast or the West Sussex one, whichever they decided on. It was the point, also, where goods were gathered in' free trade' as well as more legitimate for despatch to London up the high road. A busy town, where William should not be recognised, except by extreme ill-luck. That was in both their minds. In the event, they guessed they'd find somewhere not far away, a country inn not on the beaten track, to do their planning in.
From time to time, when the road was good enough, they would fall in side by side and try some conversation, just to pass the time. Sam marvelled that people should choose a life ashore, when going was so much easier in a boat in general terms, and the food and drink went with you. He by now was wet from neck to navel-hole, as he put it, and cold as charity. On board, unless there was some emergency, he could have gone below at some set point, and took a glass or so.
It was just chatter, and Will paid little heed to it. As they moved further off from Langham Lodge the memories of the physical delight did fade under the onslaught of the dedicated rain, but his mind gnawed and worried at the larger elements of his time with Deb. The feelings that seemed to fill his stomach yes, he found them physical, quite definite were not for denying any more. Delight remembered, loss, pain, fear for the present and the future; it was a jumble and a whirl. And what was she? Some little maiden they had rescued from a mountebank, a traveller, a runaway, a whore. Before God, how could he think he loved her or whatever it was that burned inside his head? He had seen her naked, kissed her, done the thing with her. And she had said, she had acknowledged, she would have gladly gone to Wimbarton, to be his mistress, just to save her teeth. Which thought was followed on the instant, and drowned out, by shame he'd let it form.
"Sam," he said, in the third hour of their way. "Do you believe in love?"
He supposed that Sam would roar, or curl his lip, which with eyes averted he took care he would not see. But Sam did not answer for a while, squelching on beside him with his shoulders hunched, head bowed. Will wondered if he should repeat the words, or some words like it, or let it fade into the mist with gratitude. Then came an answer, but without contempt.
"Ah," said Sam. "So that's it then. La belle Deb's got her teeth in you that deep, has she? Forgive me, Deb," he added, to the air, 'for mentioning a painful subject like your teeth. Well, what d'you mean, by love?"
Great help, thought Will. So fine, that gets me off those horns. Why should Sam know, in any way? I guess he's near as green as me, although he's not so virginal. I will speak no more.
"Well, I don't know," he said. "That is the problem, isn't it? Last night I ... well, when we found her there at Sir Arthur's house. Well, I knew I'd be relieved, well, both of us. The poor girl's suffering ... But..."
"Aye, you looked relieved," said Sam sardonically. "You dug your heels in that poor horse the way I thought he'd stand you on your head. I don't know how you kept yourself from blurting out to Sir A, neither, but he saw through you soon enough."
"Nay! He thought 'twas you!" said Will. "I did not show myself at all!"
"He was playing with you, of course he knew, you fool. I'm surprised you did not ask him where she slept. I would have done."