Again and Again

Chapter 17

Leaving his hosts a note of apology for his early, precipitous departure, Simon was soon on his way back to London. Slumped in the corner of his coach, his greatcoat pulled up around his ears, he drank from his flask and cursed women in general and one woman in particular for making his life a holy hell.

Bruno feigned deafness as any good valet would. But he’d not seen his master in such a black mood since the last time Lady Caroline had disrupted his life. A shame they couldn’t come to some agreement, but with two such stubborn personalities, perhaps any hope for harmony was a dream. On the other hand, at least, Lady Caroline was back in England without a husband.

He and Bessie would have to put their heads together.

The ruling classes occasionally needed a helping hand to manage their lives.

Responding to Simon’s curt order to open another bottle, Bruno set aside his musing, although he wondered what would give out first on their southward journey-the duke’s capacity for drink or the supply of brandy. Since they had orders to stop for nothing but post changes, the bottles in the coach would have to do. At least the trip home would be swift.

Caroline survived that first morning by sheer will, refusing to think of Simon, concentrating on the children’s lessons as though they were the most important mission in her life. She focused all her attention on their studies, explaining all the constellations visible in the northern skies, tracing with them Alexander the Great’s campaign to India, and when they began getting edgy, she played word games with them in all the languages they were learning, offering bonbons as prizes.

She ate more than her share of bonbons too, but after the nastiness with Simon this morning- which was inevitable, of course, he couldn’t stay forever-she needed solace… ten large bonbons of solace as it turned out.

When she brought the children down for tea late that afternoon, neither Ian nor Jane made mention of their departed guest. Scrupulously avoiding the subject, they offered Caroline tea as though she were a member of the family, and spoke instead of the coming holiday season. They discussed the numerous guests and family members they were expecting, and outlined the tentative schedule of activities that would take place at the house, in the village, and at the parish church.

Caroline was invited to each and every one of the events. “Please, think of yourself as part of the family,” Jane offered, her tone so sympathetic, Caroline blushed at the implication.

“Thank you. I will,” Caroline replied, wishing she could have avoided having tea with her employers, wishing desperately to escape to her room and never talk to another soul.

And perhaps cry for a month.

Although, she quickly jettisoned that irrational thought. She wasn’t about to cry over Simon. Not again. She’d already cried enough tears for him to last a lifetime.

It had been sensible not to allow herself to care.

He hadn’t changed one whit

On his return to London, Simon resumed his bachelor life with a vengeance. But what had been pleasure in the past, no longer pleased and what had formerly amused him, struck him now with ennui. He went through actresses and courtesans, society ladies and serving wenches by the score, changing his bed partners so often, the women became a blur on his retinas. He even thought about paying Daphne a visit just to break the monotony-and inquire how her romance with her stable boy was doing. But he couldn’t bring himself to care enough to make the effort.

After a fortnight in London in which he did nothing but drink himself into oblivion in the company of different women night after night, he called for his coach in the wee hours one morning. Bruno was wakened and given five minutes to pack a bag for the duke. He was off to Dover-alone. He had no wish to take Bruno from his family over Christmas.

As Simon climbed into his coach, he was hoping a change of scene would clear his head and obliterate the persistent images of a hot-blooded, auburn-haired beauty who preferred her independence to his company. Dropping onto the carriage seat, he rapped on the ceiling and reached for his flask. As the coach lurched forward, and began picking up speed, he gazed out the window at the street lamps flashing by, lifted the flask to his mouth and emptied half of it down his throat.

Damn her to hell. Didn’t she know independence was much overrated? Didn’t she understand independence for women didn’t actually exist? It was a fucking unobtainable vision, for Christ’s sake. Some nominal freedoms existed for bluestocking women he supposed. But only if they had money and only because no man would have them. Damn it, neither instance applied to Caro. Her father had much to answer for, though, in terms of her unorthodox notions. He’d raised her like a man.

At least in Paris, women knew how to act like women. Not that he hadn’t had his share of feminine wiles in London. He grimaced at the thought, suddenly unsure whether he cared to reenter that jaded sphere.

Then again, if he were truly looking for diversion, maybe he could pay a call on Louvois.

The crossing was horrendous, the December winds at gale force, the waves so high the captain of Simon’s yacht was certain they were going to take on water and sink to the bottom of the Channel.

With mast-high waves washing over the decks and the yacht pitching and yawing, Simon took over the wheel and fought to keep the vessel afloat.

Half-drunk, lashed by the wind and rain, he tied himself to the wheel and battled the storm out of sheer rancor, pitting his fury against the elements. After weeks of an unyielding, elusive bitterness, at last he had a recognized enemy to conquer, a foe against which he could launch his silent rage. He welcomed the pitiless cold and violent seas, the harsh winds that took his breath away. At least he was feeling something after weeks of mind-numbing nothingness.

At least he remembered what it felt like to be alive.

Late that afternoon, they limped into Calais, the mainsail in shreds, the sprits and mizzens barely holding them on course. On docking, the crew fell to their knees and kissed the ground. As it turned out, their gratitude was well founded. Simon’s yacht was the only vessel that had made the crossing without loss of life. The packet had gone down with all hands, six other vessels had crew members washed overboard, and a Dutch merchantman had been run aground just south of the harbor and his vessel was being broken to bits by the heavy surf.

Simon accepted the congratulations of the local seamen with a bland neutrality those viewing it ascribed to English phlegmatism. They didn’t realize it hadn’t mattered to him whether he lived or died. They didn’t understand how joyless was his mood.

After making arrangements for his crew in his absence and after a last discussion with his captain, the duke boarded his coach that had been lashed to the deck, offloaded, and set off for Paris.

Not up to the usual holidays with his mother and sister’s family, he planned on spending Christmas in the French capital.