The Lady's Tutor (26 page)

They had much to talk about on Sundays. The upcoming week of
social and political events, synchronizing their schedules . . .

“No, thank you, Mother. I have correspondence that must be taken
care of,” she lied.

Rebecca’s emerald-green eyes glittered through the black veil.
Elizabeth tried to remember if those eyes had ever lit up with laughter or
love. She could not.

“There are certain changes in our schedules—”

“We will lunch on Tuesday, Mother. We can go over the changes
then.”

“Very well. I, too, have things to take care of this afternoon.
Your father speaks on Wednesday.”

“I remember.”

“I will drop you off at your town house. Andrew and Edward are
taking the other carriage.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Thank you.”

Andrew and Edward always took the Petre carriage.

A spattering of laughter came from the church steps. She did not
have to see or hear Andrew and Edward to know that they were charming the
congregation. That, too, occurred every Sunday.

Knowing her role by rote, Elizabeth turned and mingled with the
lingering church members. Andrew and Edward would not leave their public until
there was no public to leave.

Later, in the carriage, Rebecca surprised Elizabeth by keeping up
a light stream of gossip. And then, “Are you seeing a doctor, Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth turned her face to the window and watched the passing
buildings. “No. Why should I?”

“You have not been yourself lately. Perhaps you need a tonic.”

Perhaps she just needed to be loved.

“Why did you never have more children, Mother?” she asked
impulsively.

Silence greeted her question. Elizabeth turned away from the
window.

Rebecca gripped her Bible. “I could not have any more children.”

Elizabeth felt a pang of remorse. “I’m sorry.”

“My mother, your grandmother, had one child, too. You are very
fortunate in your two sons.”

Elizabeth had never known her grandmother; she had died years
before Elizabeth was born.

It
was on the tip of her tongue to ask Rebecca if she thought Elizabeth was fortunate
because she had two children as opposed to one, or if she was fortunate because
her children were sons as opposed to daughters. Then it occurred to her that
perhaps Rebecca’s mother might have preferred a son to a daughter. Unloved
herself, perhaps Rebecca could not love her own daughter.

“Yes, I am,” Elizabeth said quietly.

The carriage jerked to a stop.

“I will see you on Tuesday, daughter. I expect you to be punctual.”

Elizabeth tamped down a spark of anger. “I expect I will be.”

A footman—the new footman, Elizabeth noted—wrenched open the coach
door.

“Good day, Elizabeth.”

“Good day, Mother.”

Standing, back stooped, she held out her hand for the footman to
help her down.

He
stood rigidly at attention beside the coach, as if Elizabeth were a gunnery
sergeant and he a foot soldier. She half expected him to salute.

A
smile tugging at her lips, she stuck a foot out, down, found the step. No
sooner had she attained the sidewalk than the carriage door closed smartly
behind her.

“Thank you, Johnny.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

“Johnny ...”

He continued staring straight ahead. “Ma’am?”

She
had thought to instruct him on the proper behavior of a footman. She thought
better of it. It was a kind thing he was doing, working in his cousin’s stead
while Freddie took care of his mother.

“You have never before been a footman?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You are doing a fine job.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Elizabeth turned and walked up the two steps to the door of the
town house. Sighing, she reached out to open the door herself.

Instantly, a white-gloved hand was there before hers. The heat of
Johnny’s body caged her shoulder.

“You did a brave thing, ma’am, walking the horses in the fog.”
Leaning forward, he pushed the front door open.

Suddenly, the sun was a little brighter. “Thank you, Johnny.”

Beadles waited in the foyer; he wrung his hands. “Mrs. Petre! Are
you not well? Shall I ring up the doctor?”

The smile faded from her face. So much concern . . . from everyone
but her husband.

“No, Beadles. I am not lunching with my mother because of
correspondence I need to take care of. Please send up Emma.”

But once Elizabeth had changed clothing—there was nothing to do.
She wrote letters to her sons. She thumbed through a book of poetry—English
poetry. There was not a vulva or a meritorious member to be found.

Kisses, yes, but no tongues; sighs, but no climaxes; love, but no
coition. Flower petals fell off in symbolical death, but nary a one of them
unfurled to disclose a hidden bud.

A
woman in Arabia . . . has the right to seek divorce if her
husband will not satisfy her.

She threw the book at the wall.

A soft knock followed the explosive
whop.

“Mrs.
Petre.” The knock was repeated more insistently. “Mrs. Petre.”

Smoothing her hair, Elizabeth opened her bedroom door. “Yes,
Beadles?”

“You have a caller, madam.” Bowing, Beadles extended a small
silver tray.

A card lay on it. The right-hand corner was bent, signifying
whoever it was waited to be received.

Curious, Elizabeth picked it up.
Countess Devington
was
printed in dark, ornate scroll.

The Bastard Sheikh s mother.

Her head jerked up. “I am not receiving callers, Beadles.”

“Very well, madam.”

Elizabeth closed the door and leaned against the wood.
How dare
she call uninvited.
She had abandoned her son at an age when he most needed
a mother’s love.

The wood between her shoulders vibrated.

Elizabeth’s heart skipped a beat. Surely the countess would not be
so brazen as to—

“Mrs. Petre.”

Beadles.

She cautiously opened the door.

Beadles bowed again; his dignified demeanor was marred by the
labored sound of his breathing from climbing the stairs twice in such rapid
succession. A folded piece of paper lay on the silver tray. “The countess bade
me give this note to you, madam.”

The countess’s handwriting was bold, the message plain.

You may have the pleasure of my company now or the pleasure of my
son’s
company later.

Elizabeth’s lips sealed in a tight line.
She knew.
So much
for
siba.
Elizabeth should be incapable of feeling any more pain from a
man’s betrayal: She wasn’t.

“Please show the countess to the drawing room, Beadles. Have Cook
prepare a tray.”

Countess
Devington stood in front of the white marble fireplace in the drawing room,
warming herself. She wore an elegant dark crimson day dress and a smart black
velvet hat jauntily perched on her golden blond head.

Gray eyes snagged Elizabeth’s in the mirror above the mantel. “I
see by your expression that you realize I am aware of your liaison with my son.”

Elizabeth
felt all the blood drain from her head. The countess was as blunt as was the
Bastard Sheikh. “Yes.”

The countess turned in a graceful swirl. Her gray eyes warmed with
understanding. “Please do not be angry with Ramiel. It was Muhamed who told me,
not my son.”

“There was no need for this visit, Countess Devington. My
so-called liaison with your son is over,” Elizabeth said frigidly.

The countess tilted her head to one side so that her hat sat
perfectly straight. “You do not understand why I sent Ramiel to Arabia to be
with his father.”

A tide of hot mortification flooded Elizabeth’s face. “That is
none of my concern, surely.”

The countess peeled off slender tan gloves. “Elizabeth—I may call
you by your first name, may I not?—my parents sent me to a finishing school in
Italy when I was sixteen. I was abducted one day when I wandered away from a
class tour. My abductor put me aboard a ship that was filled with other blond
women—blond women are highly sought after in Arabia, you see. In Turkey we were
put on a slave block and stripped naked so that men could see us and even
examine us, as a horse is examined before purchase. One by one we were sold.
The Turk who bought me raped me brutally. But I was fortunate. Because the Turk
got tired of raping me and sold me to a Syrian trader.”

Elizabeth stared, speechless.

“The Syrian taught me how to survive in a country where women are
worth less than a good horse. Eventually, he sold me to a young sheikh. I
learned to love that sheikh with all my heart, and I took from him the thing
that an Arab values most—I took his son. When Ramiel turned twelve, I could no
longer deprive either him or his father of each other’s company. It was not out
of convenience that I sent my son away, but out of love.”

“But—his father gave him a harem when he was thirteen!” Elizabeth
blurted out.

“It is certainly not an English tradition, but I assure you, in
the court of Safyre it is what fathers do for their sons.”

“And yet you sent him there, knowing the type of education he
would receive.”

“As you deliberately sought out my son, knowing the type of
education he
had
received.”

Elizabeth’s chin shot up. Her mouth opened to object; instead, she
acknowledged the truth. “Yes.”

“I cannot cast stones, Elizabeth, because I would not trade one
single moment I spent with my sheikh for a lifetime of English virtue. I am
very glad that Ramiel was spared the hypocrisy of becoming a man in a country
that denigrates one of the true pleasures of life. Now that we have that out in
the open, may I sit down, please?”

Elizabeth should be shocked. She should be outraged. Instead, she
wondered what it would be like to be loved as the countess had so obviously
loved. Openly. Wholly.

She wondered what it would be like to be able to accept one’s
sexuality without guilt.

“I am sorry for your misfortunes, Countess Devington,” Elizabeth
said quietly. “Please sit down.”

A blinding smile lit the countess’s face.

Elizabeth blinked.

The countess was a beautiful woman, but it was a mature beauty.
That smile made her look as if she were sixteen again, young and innocent. It
did not belong to a woman who had been brutally raped and sold into slavery any
more than it belonged to a woman who by her own admission had given herself to
a man outside wedlock and borne his illegitimate son.

She sat across from Elizabeth with a sigh of silk and a whiff of
tantalizing perfume—Elizabeth had never smelled anything like it. It smelled as
if an orange had drowned in a bowl of vanilla.

The
countess confided with ease, “Ramiel would not be happy if he knew that I was
here.”

“Then I am afraid I do not understand,” Elizabeth said carefully, not
wanting to like this woman but finding that she did. “You said that if I did
not see you today, your son would call later.”

“You threatened to revoke Ramiel’s citizenship if Muhamed did not
let you into his house.”

“I have told your son I never intended such an action,” Elizabeth
disclaimed stiffly.

“Nor did I intend to threaten you with my son.”

Hazel and gray eyes locked unflinchingly. “I made a mistake, Countess
Devington. I am sorry for it. I never intended to cause your son harm. I do not
know what Muhamed told you, but I can assure you that our association is over.”

The gray eyes darkened. “Perhaps you will best understand Muhamed’s
position when I tell you that he, too, had been sold to the Syrian trader. He
was a very handsome boy who had been abused by his former owner. I am not at
liberty to disclose exactly what had been done to him, but suffice it to say
that perhaps Muhamed has his reasons for disliking women. If the Syrian trader
and I had not nursed him back to health, he would have died like so many
European boys sold into slavery do. Upon gaining my freedom, I returned to
England; Muhamed chose to stay. When I sent Ramiel to his father, Muhamed watched
out for him. Try to remember that Ramiel is the son that Muhamed never had and
perhaps you will better understand his position.”

Muhamed—European! The Bastard Sheikh had deliberately allowed
Elizabeth to assume differently.

“It is not up to me to understand your son’s servants, Countess
Devington.”

“You think I am interfering.”

The countess was full of surprises. “Yes.”

“You have not yet been to my son’s bed.”