Chapter 24

They arrived at Gretna Green in a better state than they’d set out for it. Belle’s arm was still in a sling, but, apart from that, they made an almost respectable party. Never mind that the two ladies, who were acting as the guardians of each other’s virtue, were undoubtedly fucking. The gentlemen, by contrast, despite also sharing a room due to limited means, took decorous turns with whatever bed they were provided. Rufus had no objections to any of these arrangements—he wanted Belle to have her freedom as much as she wanted the same for him—but he was surprised to miss the times when it had been just the two of them. Not, admittedly, the time when Belle had thrown a trifle at him or the time when an innkeeper had nearly made a pie out of him or all the times they had argued with each other over who was abducting whom and whose future, exactly, was being sacrificed by their union. He had, however, grown almost imperceptibly used to the idea that Belle was ... his .

His friend. His companion. His partner. His priority.

And this was a stark reminder that she wasn’t. Or rather, that neither of them belonged to the other. That Belle had other friends. That she would want, and should have, lovers. That she liked him, and she cared for him, but there was nothing particularly special in that. For all she sometimes pretended otherwise, she tended to like people—she even seemed to like his former fiancée, a woman with, as far as Rufus could tell, very few redeeming features. He was the misanthrope, concealing a general disinclination for humanity, or at least a fear that humanity would disincline him, behind a sharp tongue and the rudiments of sophistication. Not for the first time, he rebuked the version of himself who had lain beside Belle in the dark, insisting upon his right to live mournfully in the shadow of everything he’d never had. Those shadows still felt familiar—the closest thing to safety he had ever known—but how foolish to believe he wanted them. Especially now he had caught glimpses of, he hardly understood what, something else? Something he might truly want.

With their various disruptions, it had taken them almost a full tenday to reach the border—less fleeing, in the end, as was surely traditional for eloping lovers, so much as undertaking a leisurely journey from England to Scotland. The village itself was a small and unassuming one for the site of so much scandal, consisting of a few scattered houses, whitewashed and prettily thatched, a fairly modern church with a mediaeval window, a sizeable inn, and the blacksmith’s, where Rufus understood hasty weddings typically took place.

After Gil and Miss Carswile had departed together to stretch their legs and secure lodgings, Rufus and Belle were, at last, left alone. It had only been a couple of days, but to Rufus it felt longer, and he found himself unaccountably lost for words. Shy, as he might once have been with a lover, had his world ever allowed for such a thing.

Finally, he managed to unstick his tongue. But all he produced was “You know, you don’t have to do this.”

Belle’s look was unutterably weary, or maybe that was due to the fact she had clearly been too diverted to spend her nights sleeping. “Don’t let’s start all that up again.”

“I’m not. But with Miss Carswile’s intervention, you are no longer obliged to wed me because you feel you have no other choice.”

“Realistically,” she said, “I don’t have other choices. If I were to marry a different man, he might make husbandly demands of me, physically and legally. If I were to commit my life to someone and our relationship was not recognised by the law, the chances are very high that this person would be looking for something from me that I am incapable of giving. Either way”—and here she lifted a shoulder in a rueful half shrug—“the outcome is fairly miserable for everyone involved.”

“And you trust me not to make you miserable?”

The look she cast up at him was sharp and a little cool. “Do you trust me not to make you miserable?”

“Of course I do.”

“You are fully resigned, then?”

“Belle, I ...” He took refuge in a bewildered laugh. “I would not say resigned .”

“But you’ll go through with it? With me?”

He smiled, wondering if she was nervous and this was her way of concealing it. “Well, I could try my luck with Miss Carswile again. I doubt she’d have me, though.”

“She has learned better.”

Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips and kissed it. “So have I, dear heart. And as for Gil, I think even in Scotland the marriage laws are not so lax as to allow that.”

Whatever cloud had temporarily over-shadowed Belle’s mood seemed to be lifting. This time her glance was fully Tarletonian, which was to say sly and unlikely to take no for an answer. “I do not think our highwayman is on the lookout for a long-term prospect, do you?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Why not? Haven’t you spent the last few nights with him?”

“You are aware that it is possible for two men to share a room without fucking each other?”

“Aware, yes. But disproved by the literature.”

“Well”—Rufus gestured at himself—“here is your proof.”

Belle looked legitimately appalled. “Not even a little bit?”

“What would a little bit of fucking look like?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe you would rub off against each other while pretending to be asleep and never mention it again. Or you would lie in the dark together, suffused with passion, and reduced to frantic self-pleasure, apart but perfectly in harmony, even to the rhythm of your breath and the spurtings of your issue.”

“That sounded almost romantic until spurtings became involved.”

Unfortunately, that was just the sort of thing Belle would pounce on, and pounce she did. “So you are looking for romance?”

“No, Belle, I am not looking for romance. I simply chose not to insert my dick into one of our fellow travellers on the way to what is essentially my wedding.”

She looked genuinely stricken. “Oh, Rufus, I did not consider the matter in those terms. I’m afraid I have been inserting parts of myself into Verity, and having parts of Verity inserted into me, the whole way here.”

“It’s fine. I am not about to play the jealous husband with you.”

“That would certainly be verging on hypocrisy,” Belle agreed. “But I would not wish you to think I did not take our union seriously.”

“It’s fine,” said Rufus again, crushingly aware that the fine-ness of one’s fine diminished rather than increased with repetition.

“I also took it for granted that you and Gil would be entertaining yourselves.”

“Even presupposing he entertains that kind of interest in me—”

“He does.”

“Even,” repeated Rufus firmly, “presupposing that, I do not think we are compatible.”

“Because of the menacing?”

Not wanting to get into it, Rufus shrugged.

Tucking her arm through his, Belle suggested, “Shall we walk?”

“Aren’t we getting married?”

“Unless one of us loses our nerve, but it can’t hurt to do a little sightseeing, can it?”

Rufus glanced around the village. “What a lovely tree,” he offered.

“Which one?”

“Any of them. As far as I’m concerned, a tree is a tree.”

“How can you say that? Trees are as distinct as people.” They made their way past the small patch of grass that represented the village green. “When we had to move in with my aunt and uncle, I was adopted by an oak tree that grew in their grounds.”

“I’m just going to say mm-hmm ,” said Rufus. “Because I have no idea what to make of that.”

“There was a hollow between the roots big enough for me to crawl into. I felt so safe in there. Like it had seen so many days come and go, and still it stood. Do you know oaks can live for over a thousand years?”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“For a tree or in general?”

“Both. One must not forget Tithonus.”

Belle thought about this for a moment and then declared confidently, “It is probably different for trees. Six hundred years to a tree could be the equivalent of five and thirty to a human.” She thought again. “I’ve also long believed the moral of Tithonus’s story is not to forget to ask for eternal youth at the same time you ask for immortality.”

“Both seem a bad idea to me.”

“But you would remain perpetually fuckable.”

“It is only the young, Bellflower, who believe youth a necessity for fuckability.”

“Well,” she tried again, “think of everything you could see and do.”

“I am already struggling to find meaning within a life of average duration. Besides, what could be worse than everything and everyone around you changing while you remain the same?”

“Only physically.”

“We are creatures inevitably shaped by our sense of mortality. I do not know if it is possible to lose that and remain human.”

Her nose wrinkled. “This is a very depressing perspective, Rufus.”

“Is it?” Pausing, he turned to face her. Their wanderings had led them away from the village towards the river Esk, which lay low and flat and silver beneath the horizon as it wound its way, as lazy as a snake, towards the Solway Firth. Turned enquiringly up to his, Belle’s eyes were a storm-churned blue, not like Bonny’s at all. “I’m beginning,” he went on softly, “to find it quite the reverse.”

She tilted her head. “Oh?”

“To be so flawed and frail and fleeting, and yet to throw ourselves onto the thorns of life regardless. To try in spite of the probability of failure. To hope in the face of despair. To love always beneath the shadow of loss. No”—he shrugged—“I think I would rather find someone worth growing old with than live eternally without them.”

“For what’s it worth,” Belle told him, “I intend to be very good at being old.”

It was such an absurd, undaunted, quintessentially Belle response that he laughed. “Do you?”

“Yes, I am going to complain about young people running and being too loud and also too quiet. And say things like In my day literally all the time.”

“I am going to wear waistcoats at least twenty years out of fashion.”

“I will take up an extremely unpleasant hobby—”

“Such as?”

“Collecting bezoar stones. And I will entrap people in endless conversations about them until they are dying inside and ready to chew their own arm off just to escape me.”

Rufus considered for a moment. And then: “I am going to take up pipe smoking.”

“Good.” Belle nodded approvingly. “It must be enormous, for you are compensating for something.”

“For your information, I am more than adequately compensated. But yes. I will also be sure to smoke only the most disgusting tobacco I can find.”

“Of course. Guests must fear the house is burning down the moment you light up. And,” declared Belle, “I want a pair of absolutely enormous slippers.”

“I want a hat that smells of sheep and makes me look like a mushroom.”

“I shall use a million tinctures the moment my hair starts to go grey and yet insist it is my natural colour.”

“I will go bald and wear an unconvincing wig and yet insist it is my natural hair.”

They fell silent, almost at the same time, their eyes intent upon each other.

“I think I like our future,” said Belle softly.

The world was silent with them, the surface of the Esk lightly rumpled by a barely perceptible breeze, and the birds wheeling too high and free against the sky for their voices to be heard.

“What’s your home like?” Rufus heard himself ask.

“Swallowfield?” Belle sounded oddly self-conscious. “I mean, it’s not Blenheim or Chatsworth or anything.”

“What a shame, because I was fully expecting a palace.”

“Honestly, I can’t remember very well. It’s been such a long time since I’ve been there.”

“That must be hard.”

Stepping slightly away, Belle shifted her gaze back to the scenery. “I think it was easier for Bonny to stop caring. Even when we could have gone back, he handed running of the place over to Valentine.”

“People deal with painful things in different ways.”

“Of course they do,” returned Belle, sharply. “Yet Bonny never considers that.”

“It is not his strong suit.” It was true, but the words still tasted slightly of betrayal in Rufus’s mouth. Who he was betraying, though, he wasn’t quite sure. Some part of himself, probably, more than Bonny. “We should not roam too far,” he added, for Belle was following the curve of the Esk. “You’re still recovering your strength.”

“I can go a little further. The views towards Cumberland and Port Carlisle on a clear day are said to be quite pleasing.”

“As you prefer.”

They went along awhile, neither of them speaking, or looking at each other. In the distance, Rufus thought he caught the gleam of the estuary, reflections of clouds caught upon the pale waters, and smudges of shadow from the Cumberland hills.

“I seem,” said Belle, a little dreamily, “to recall we had a moat.”

“A moat? Somehow that is the most and least surprising thing you could have told me about your family’s home.”

“Only a small moat. But it’s only a small house. Apparently in mediaeval times there would have been a drawbridge, but now there’s just a bridge. I wish we still had a drawbridge. Then we could pull it up when we saw someone arriving we didn’t like.”

“You don’t think they might take that amiss?”

“They might, but what could they do about it?”

“That is a very good point.” And because she seemed to want to talk about it, he asked, “It’s a mediaeval building, then?”

“Bits of it? Though some is Tudor because it has black-and-white gables. There’s a courtyard in the middle, although it’s not a full one because the west range fell off. Years ago. Before Bonny and I were born.”

“Well, one prefers a house with a little character.”

Belle nodded eagerly. “I agree. I like places best when they’re a little bit of everything. It’s prettiest when the wisteria is in bloom and the north range is dripping with purple flowers. Sometimes we get swans on the moat. And in the summer the courtyard is in full bloom. Also we have three priest holes.”

“Three?”

“Yes, one is in a privy. Apparently it leads into the mediaeval sewer system, but we were never allowed to investigate. Wasn’t that so unfair?”

“On the contrary,” said Rufus, trying his hardest not to laugh. “I think it only reflects well upon your parents that they did not encourage their children to climb into a mediaeval sewer.”

“And we have several ghosts.”

“No abode is complete without them.”

“They’re quite boring, though.” Belle scowled into the distance, clearly taking the quality of her family’s hauntings personally. “One of our ancestors murdered a priest in a fit of jealousy, believing the priest was being untoward, well, toward his wife. He was convinced he would be barred from heaven for such an act and built a church to try and restore himself to God’s good graces, even going so far as to have himself buried beneath the flagstones of that very church. But it didn’t work and now he hangs about the house, lamenting his lack of restraint. Which must be very uncomfortable for the other ghosts, all of whom are priests who were tortured and killed during a raid by priest hunters.”

“Perhaps we can broker some kind of peaceful accord between the ghosts who are murdered priests and the ghost who murdered a priest.”

Belle paused, visibly intrigued. “How would we do that?”

“I’m afraid I have not thought that far ahead. Sage and sea salt, probably.”

“As long as we don’t accidentally banish them.”

“We will be nothing but respectful to otherworldly residents.”

To his faint alarm, Belle was blinking rapidly. And the next thing he knew, she had thrown herself into his arms. “Oh, Rufus, I am longing to go home.”

He held her tight, feeling a little prickly in the eye department himself. “Well,” he said, when he was sure he could speak lightly, “let’s get married and you shall.”