by Geraldine Hillis
"Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live - ashes to ashes, dust to dust - in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen." Mere fragments of the burial service penetrated Henry Fairfax's consciousness as he watched the coffin of his elder brother lowered into the gaping earth. But he was no longer just Henry Fairfax. Since George's death only four days previously, he had been Henry Fairfax, Earl of Connington. He allowed the damp soil to trickle through his fingers into the open grave, then abruptly turned on his heel, pausing only long enough to take the arm of his distraught mother, and lead her back to the house. Though he could not see Cecily's face, shrouded as it was in her black veils, he was acutely aware of her speculative gaze.
Back at the house, he mechanically accepted the condolences of friends and neighbours, and tried to comfort the weeping Dowager Lady Fairfax, almost prostrate with grief over the passing of her first-born son. "Poor, dear George," she crooned. "So young - such a good boy."
Henry gritted his teeth. Her Ladyship, of course had not been made fully aware of the circumstances surrounding the death. It would have destroyed her completely to know that her beloved George had died in a drunken tavern brawl - indeed, most of the details of his life, let alone his death, had been kept from his doting mother. Her heart, already broken, would have failed absolutely had she been told of the drinking and the gambling and the women of ill-repute. Henry patted her helplessly on the shoulder, then called for her maid to attend her. Having seen her safely escorted to her room, he excused himself and sought the sanctuary of the study - his study now.
George - big brother George ... how had he felt about him? He downed a brandy, and tried to sort out his feelings for the departed Earl. Had he loved him? Yes - he supposed he had. As children they had played together, fought together, got into mischief together. They had climbed trees, constructed boats, taunted their tutors, and generally enjoyed as carefree a boyhood as their position had allowed. But later, as they had grown up, the four year age difference had begun to make itself felt. George had gone away to university, and then on to his tour of Europe, and had come back a different person. No longer had wanted to hunt or fish or play cricket with his little brother - his interests now were in frequenting the low taverns, and in the women who haunted them.
Henry sighed, remembering his own disappointment when George had returned so changed. He had spent his evenings out of the house, coming home drunk and ill-tempered in the early hours of the morning. Rising at noon, he had moped around, snarling at the staff until it was time to return to the 'pleasures' of the town. And now - now it was over - ended by a knife in the belly during squabble over a sixpenny whore.
A tap at the door interrupted his reverie, and Cecily Palmer entered the study. She swept a deep curtsey. "My Lord," she said.
"Don't, Cecily." Henry frowned irritably. "I see no need for such formalities."
She shrugged her elegant shoulders. "As you wish, Henry," she replied, seating herself by the fireplace.
He studied her carefully. Without doubt, she was one the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Smooth chestnut hair surrounded a classically-featured face with high cheekbones and a finely chiselled nose. Her dark, heavy-lidded eyes - not even slightly reddened by tears - regarded him thoughtfully. "We have to talk, Henry," she said.
"Yes - yes of course, Cecily," he replied. "I realise that George's - untimely demise - has left you in a difficult position. I shall do everything in my power to assist you, naturally -"
She laughed, and he marvelled at her apparent lack of feeling over her fiance's death. "My position need not be difficult, Henry," she said lightly. "I was destined to become Lady Fairfax, Countess of Connington. I see no reason why that cannot still happen."
Momentarily nonplussed, he stared at her. "You surely don't mean - that we should be married?" he said at last.
"Why not? It makes perfect sense, you know. I shall be out of mourning in six months - a quiet wedding, of course, in view of recent events -"
"No!" Henry stood up suddenly. "How can you even contemplate such a thing?" he demanded angrily. "Did you care nothing for George at all?"
Cecily rose and came towards him, laying a hand on his arm. "George was a drunkard and a bully," she said. "Of course I didn't care for him - what woman could? Married to him I should have enjoyed a title, wealth and social position, and he would have been free to consort with his whores and his common friends." Her fingers traced upwards to caress his cheek. "But with you, Henry - things could be so different." She tilted her head, parting her lips in open invitation.
For a brief moment he gazed down at her, temporarily intoxicated by her beauty and her closeness. Recollecting himself, he shook her off roughly. "You disgust me, Cecily," he muttered. "Please leave - now! We shall not speak of this matter again."
Again she dropped into a graceful curtsey. "We shall see, My Lord. Perhaps you may find that other pressures will come to bear." With an infuriating little smile, she swept from the room, leaving Henry to stare after her.
He slumped down at the desk. He had never liked Cecily very much, and now he knew why. As lovely as she was on the outside, there was no depth, no character to be found beneath the surface. Perhaps if George had had a woman to love and care for him, to guide him - things might have turned out differently. But there was no point in thinking about what might have been. Wearily, he buried his head in his arms and wept - for his childhood friend, for lost youth ... for innocence.
"But you must marry Cecily, Henry. It is her wish - and mine."
Drawing on his reserves of patience, Henry answered quietly. "No, mother, I must do no such thing. The matter is closed." He bowed and strode from the morning-room before the Dowager Lady Fairfax could reply.
As he made his way to the stables, he thought over recent events. In the week since George's funeral, he had had been put under constant pressure to take the Honourable Cecily Palmer to wife. Cecily desired it: her parents wished it; his mother insisted on it; the vicar had cited Biblical precedent. Even his friends thought it right and natural that he should wed his late brother's fiancée. Only he himself seemed appalled by the idea. He did not want to pull rank on his own mother, but he was becoming very much afraid that he would have to remind her firmly that he was now Lord Fairfax, and she could not order his actions.
His horse was made ready and he set off towards the village. The morning was pleasant, mild and sunny, winter having at last given way to balmy spring. The sweet freshness of the April air served to calm him and lift his troubled spirits. Leaving his horse in the capable hands of the farrier, Henry strolled through the streets, acknowledging the greetings of the locals, the words, 'My Lord' still sounding strange to his unaccustomed ear. His feet led him, as he had known they would, to the Haberdashers and Drapers in the narrow main street.
The interior of the shop was cool and dim, a faint scent of lavender pervading the air. There were few customers at that early hour - a lady, accompanied by her maid, examined a length of violet silk; a young girl asked for pink ribbons to adorn her Sunday bonnet; two stout farmers' wives bought darning needles and strong thread. Apart from the shopkeeper, Henry was the only man present.
The lady, having decided against the silk, left the shop, and the said shopkeeper turned to replace the roll of material on the shelf. In doing so, he caught Henry's eye.
The Earl's smile died on his lips as the man's expression hardened. "Mr. Lewisham - Albert - what's wrong?"
Albert Lewisham stared at him coldly. "What should be wrong - Milord?" And Henry could not miss the heavy irony he placed on that last word. "I hear congratulations are in order, sir. Your very good health!" Lewisham turned away abruptly.
"Congratulations?" Henry looked puzzled.
"Aye, Sir - on your betrothal to Miss Palmer." He looked hard at the young Earl. "I would've thought you might have told my Susanna yourself, rather than have her hear it from other lips."
Henry felt a swell of anger rise inside him. "What other lips?" her asked, striving to keep his voice level. "Who has been spreading these lies?"
The older man raised his eyebrows. "Lies, Milord? Then you'd better tell that to Miss Palmer - for 'twas she herself who came by yestermorn to see about silks and suchlike for her wedding gown."
"She did what?" Henry's temper boiled over. "By God, I'll - tell Susanna I shall see her soon, Albert. And tell her that nothing has changed between us! I'm going to pay Miss Palmer a visit." So saying, he stormed from the shop, leaving Albert Lewisham and the remaining customers staring after him in astonishment.
The ride to Cecily's home did nothing to quell his fury. Forgetting the social niceties, he pushed his way past the surprised butler and burst unceremoniously into the morning-room. She rose. "What is the meaning of this outrage?" she demanded angrily.
Henry advanced on her and gripped her upper arm. "How dare you?" he hissed. "How dare you tell all and sundry that we are to be married? You knew that by going to Lewisham's shop, Susanna would hear your lies, and -"
Cecily pulled away from him and assumed a haughty demeanour. "Susanna!" she laughed. "What do the feelings of a shop-girl matter?"
"Susanna is not a shop-girl!" he snapped. "She is the daughter of a respectable business man. And even if she were a beggar on the street, she would still be worth a hundred of your kind."
A sneer curled her lip. "Really, Henry," she said. "You cannot possibly continue your association with the girl now that you are the Earl. It is your social responsibility to marry into a good family. Your mother and I have discussed this, and she is agreeable to the match." She paused. "Of course, you could always take your shop-girl as a mistress, I suppose. I would have no objections - many a fine lady has accepted her husband's whoring ..."
Before she knew what was happening, Cecily found herself grabbed roughly and carried to the sofa. Her struggles availed her nothing as Henry sat down and flung her across his lap. "Henry, let me go at once!" She kicked and squealed, but found her protests muffled as her skirts were tossed up over her head. "Ow!" A sharp smack! of his hand to her bloomers made her cry out. She continued to resist, squirming and writhing in a vain attempt to avoid the smarting slaps.
"You, Cecily," he muttered, as he belaboured her bottom through the thin silk, "know nothing about the manners and behaviour of fine ladies. It seems to me -" Smack! " - that you have the tongue of a shrew -" Smack! "- and the mind of a sewer-rat!"
In reply, she dug her long fingernails as hard as she could into his calf.
"That does it!" In one quick movement, he had her arms pinned behind her back, and her undergarments pulled down to her knees. Glancing round, his gaze lighted on the riding crop he had thrown down as he'd stormed into the room. He lifted it and brought it swiftly down on Cecily's buttocks. An angry red weal formed immediately, and she shrieked in pain. Again and again he thwipped the crop across her bottom and thighs, until her white skin was crisscrossed with livid stripes, and her screams of rage and humiliation had given way to uncontrollable sobs of anguish. Pulling her upright, he stood and held her at arm's length. "You will never," he said quietly, "cross the threshold of Fairfax Hall again. Is that clear?"
Still sobbing, she could only nod in wordless agreement, but as she watched him leave, and some of her senses began to come back to her. She made a silent vow that if she could not be The Earl of Connington's wife, then she would surely be his ruin.
Susanna Lewisham sat quietly listening to her father. "And so -" he finished, "it seems Lord Henry is not engaged to Miss Palmer. He left the shop in a towering rage, and shouted back that I was to tell you nothing had changed between you."
She smiled sadly. "But things have changed, Papa. You must see that I cannot -"
Here she was interrupted by the entry of the maid. "'Scuse me, Sir, Miss," she said. "Lord Henry Fairfax is here." She bobbed a curtsey.
"Thank you, Lucy," replied Albert. "Show him in, please."
Susanna had risen from her seat. "Papa, may I ask that you leave us alone? I think what I have to say to Henry should be said in private." She was pale and tense.
Her father hesitated, then nodded. As Henry was shown in, he excused himself quickly, and left the young couple facing each other. Susanna dropped a deep curtsey. "My Lord."
He moved forwards and raised her, holding both her hands in his. "Oh, my darling," he said huskily. "I am so sorry that you were hurt. Did you really think I would abandon you - without even coming to see you?"
She gave a shaky smile. "I didn't know what to think, Henry - Milord."
"Shh - no need for that," he whispered. "I love you, sweetheart, nothing can alter that." He drew her into his arms, and was stunned when she pulled away from him.
"No, Henry. You must put me out of your mind. When you were the second son, things were different, but now that you are the Earl, you must seek someone of your own station. I would not wish you to marry Cecily Palmer, but -"
He silenced her protests by taking her firmly by the shoulders and pressing his lips down on hers. She resisted for only a moment, then returned his kiss fervently, running her fingers through his hair, and down over the muscled hardness of his back. "Oh, Henry," she whispered between kisses, "I was so afraid I'd lost you."
"Mmm -" he murmured, nuzzling her neck. "Never, my darling - and you will make a beautiful Countess."
A quiet cough from the doorway interrupted them, and they broke apart to look somewhat self-consciously at Susanna's father. He smiled. "I take it things are well between you two, then?" he asked, noting the blush on Susanna's cheeks.
Henry again took Susanna's hand, and drew her towards him. "Yes, Mr. Lewisham," he replied. "In fact, I would now like to make that official." He cleared his throat. "Sir," he said formally, "may I have the honour of your daughter's hand in marriage?"
And Albert Lewisham stepped forward to embrace the young couple, and give his blessing on their union.
While Henry and Susanna were sealing their love with gentle kisses and champagne, Cecily Palmer was sitting, rather gingerly, in her drawing room. Opposite her sat a man - a handsome man, with rugged features, a charming smile - and an eye for the main chance.
"You always were an insufferable brat, Cecily," he remarked, leaning back in his chair and taking another sip of port. "I'm surprised this is only the first time some man has taken you over his knee and blistered that pretty behind."
She scowled. "It was a humiliating and painful experience," she snapped. "And I will thank you not to jest about it!"
Oliver Reynolds raised an eyebrow. "Who was jesting? I speak as I find, my dear cousin, and in our younger days I was often tempted to upend you. Now don't get upset -" as her expression became murderous. "I'm family - and it would be my right. But this Fairfax chap - well, that's another matter. What do want me to do? Beat him up? Challenge him to a duel?"
"No." She rose and paced the room restlessly. "I want much more than that!"
Oliver sat forward suddenly, a look of alarm on his face. "My dear Cecily, you don't expect me to kill the fellow, do you?"
"Oh, don't be ridiculous! Of course I don't want that. What good would he be to me dead? It was bad enough that George went and got himself stabbed - I don't need you to go murdering my last hope of a decent marriage."
"Your last hope? I don't understand. You're still young - beautiful - a bit of a shrew, I admit, but I don't see why this Fairfax should be your only chance of a husband." He stood up and crossed to face her. "You're not - you're not with child to his dead brother, are you?"
Cecily laughed without mirth. "Hardly! George was always too drunk to - oh, you know what I mean. No - the truth is that we are very minor aristocracy, as you know. My marriage prospects were always limited, especially living here in this backwater. Father and Mother seldom take me to London for the season, so when George asked me to marry him, I saw my opportunity of a title and wealth and some social excitement." Here she poured herself another drink and resumed her seat. "George was - well - he drank and gambled, and was too fond of women. On the odd occasions he took me to town, I'm afraid I was - less than discreet." She flushed in annoyance as Oliver chuckled. "Let's just say I was seen to frequent places a lady should not frequent. You know what London society is - once the gossips got hold of it, my reputation was in tatters. So -" she finished despondently, "Henry really is my only chance of a decent match. He is a country squire at heart, and does not much care for society. He is unlikely even to hear the gossip."
"But he does not care for your company, eh? And his affections are engaged elsewhere?"
"The first I can remedy," Cecily replied. "I can be as sweet and charming as any simpering shop-girl." She pointedly ignored Oliver's derisive snort. "As to the second - well, that is where you come in, Cousin."
And Oliver Reynolds listened attentively to Cecily's plan.
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.