He wished someone in the course of history had thought of striking that word and all its derivatives from the English language-happy, happier, happiest, happiness. What the devil did the words really mean anyway? Why not just the word pleasure, which was far more… well, pleasant.
“You know,” he said, “it may not be as bad as you think.”
Had he not said that to her on another occasion? When he proposed marriage to her, perhaps?
“It?” She turned her head and looked at him with raised eyebrows. “My marriage?”
“Actually,” he said, “it is ours, is it not? Our marriage. It may not be so bad.”
“Or,” she said, “it may.”
He pursed his lips and considered.
“Or it may,” he agreed. “I suppose we get to decide. Will we be happy or will we not? It will be one or the other, I suppose.”
“Is life all black and white to you, then?” she asked him.
“As opposed to varying shades of gray?” He thought again. “I do believe it is. Black is the absence of all color. White is the presence of all colors. I suppose life must be one or the other. On the whole, though, I think I would prefer color to its absence. But then black does add depth and texture to color. Perhaps certain shades of gray are necessary to a complete palette. Even unrelieved black. Ah, a deep philosophical question. Is black necessary to life, even a happy life? Could we ever be happy if we did not at least occasionally experience misery? What are your thoughts on the matter?”
“Oh,” she said with a sigh, “you can turn any topic into a convoluted maze.”
“Did you expect me, then,” he said, “to tell you simply that I prefer gray to either black or white? I would abhor a gray life. No real misery but no joy either, only endless placidity and dreary depression. Indeed, I must absolutely banish gray from my own particular palette. Never tell me you are a gray person, Katherine. I will not believe it.”
She smiled slowly-and he guessed unwillingly-at him.
“Ah,” he said, “this is better.”
“Will we ever have a sensible conversation?” she asked him.
He raised his eyebrows.
“That,” he said, “is for you to decide. I have tried to provoke a discussion on one of life’s deepest mysteries-the necessity of darkness in our lives as well as light-and you accuse me of having a convoluted maze for a mind. If you would prefer to discuss the weather, by all means let us do so. There are endless possibilities in that particular topic. If I should snore in the middle of the discussion, you may nudge me awake.”
She laughed.
“Better and better,” he said, half closing his eyes as he gazed at her.
If his eternal punishment was a beach to be cleared, he thought, perhaps one grain of its sand would be lifted every time he made her laugh in what remained of both their lives. But it would still take a million years.
Perhaps even a billion.
Perhaps it would be impossible.
But the thought brightened him. Nothing was impossible.
15
THEY stopped for the night at the Crown Inn, the best hotel in Reading, and took the best apartments there. Katherine could not fault either the private dining and sitting room or the spacious bedchamber adjoining it, with its wide, canopied bed.
They ate dinner-she even forced down some food-and talked at great length about the weather. At least, he did. She did not do much talking herself, but she did a great deal of laughing, despite herself, while he regarded her with those lazy, half-closed eyes of his and pursed lips.
He could be utterly absurd and vastly amusing. But she had always known that. It had always been a part of his appeal. Those facts did not make him into the man to whom she would have wished to find herself married, though. She had pictured someone altogether more serious, more romantic, more… loving.
She was afraid for the future and tried not to think of it. The future would come soon enough.
She was alone now in the bedchamber. He had told her that he was about to make an ingenious excuse to go downstairs for a while so that she might have some privacy in which to prepare for bed. Then he had proceeded to do just that-he thought he had detected a spot of fluff on the rump of one of the horses during the journey and would not be able to settle for the night until he had gone down to the stables to check and to remove the fluff if it turned out that he was correct. And off he had gone, the absurd man, after she had laughed at him again.
But she was not laughing now. She had undressed and washed and donned the silk and lace nightgown that was one of her new bride clothes, purchased during the past month-Stephen had insisted and had even threatened to take her shopping himself if she refused to go with Meg and Nessie. She felt half naked-which was silly really when the nightgown was no more revealing than either of the two dresses she had worn today. It was just that it was a nightgown, she supposed.
She was terribly aware of the large bed that was occupying much of the room, its blankets and sheets neatly turned down for the night. And of the relative quietness of the inn-even the distant sounds of voices calling and glasses and silverware clinking only served to emphasize the silence of the room. And of the darkness beyond the wide window. Their rooms were at the back of the inn and therefore away from all the light and bustle of the yard.
She sat down in an armchair beside the window. She should, she supposed, go to bed. Or she could get a book out of her valise. But she would be quite unable to concentrate upon it, and she would look a little silly when he came to join her. He would know that she was not, in fact, reading.
Oh, she hated this. She hated it.
A wedding night should be something magical, something shared, something… romantic.
The trouble was that she was strongly attracted to him, that part of her really was aching with the anticipation of what was going to happen here when he returned. But part of her despised her own need, which was entirely physical. A woman ought to despise any attraction to a man that did not involve her heart. She did not love him-she could never love a man who lived life so carelessly and aimlessly to say the least. And he certainly did not love her. She doubted he was capable of loving anyone with a steady and enduring devotion.
But they were married. Surely any feeling, even just a physical attraction, was better than nothing. Was not that what he had said a month ago to console her for the forced marriage?
She rested her head against the back of the chair and relived the day in her mind-getting dressed this morning, hugging her family, arriving at the church with Stephen, walking along the central aisle with him, and seeing Lord Montford waiting there for her, his eyes fixed on her and then slowly smiling, the exchanging of vows, the shiny new wedding ring sliding onto her finger, the…
“Hey.”
The voice was soft and low, and Katherine opened her eyes to find herself looking up at her husband. He had a hand on each of the arms of her chair and was leaning over her, his face only inches from her own.
Had she been sleeping?
He had removed his boots, she could see, and his coat and waistcoat and neckcloth. He was still wearing his shirt and pantaloons.
She lifted one hand without thinking and brushed back the lock of dark hair that was forever falling across the right side of his forehead. It fell back again as soon as she took her hand away, and he smiled and kissed her.
Very lightly and very briefly on the lips.
All her insides turned to jelly.
“I was mistaken,” he said. “No fluff. Now I can rest in peace.”
She had not heard him coming back into their apartments.