Wherever the idea for Petruchio and Kate originated, I will be long-grateful to Shakespeare for putting them to paper and on stage and to Sally Wainwright for moving them forward into modern times and much hilarity on the TV screen. But almost as important to my enjoyment of their antics is the work of other Fanfiction writers who have expanded the famous duo's fictional lives and revealed their secrets. Writing my own work featuring the couple involves remaining as true to the efforts of Ms. Wainwright as possible, but I find I must also take into account these other concepts as I advance the story line in my own peculiar way.
Occasionally, circumstances arise in which these Fanfiction offerings do not mesh perfectly. "Showing Her" is such an instance. And so I ask forgiveness from my Fanfiction and Rooftop friend, encourager and "fact editor" for all things British – Roofran411 – as I deviate slightly from story lines she (and others) have created in the past. I trust true fans of the Cricks will concentrate on the characters and their relationship and not on details that may advance the story in slightly different format but would never abuse their true roles.
This story is a step back in the couple's history for me. It was written not so much to amuse – although I sincerely hope there will be moments when readers smile – but to "show" something essential in Petruchio's relationship to Kate and to provide her with some things she has missed. All her life.
Showing Her"Even for you, my love, I can only be kicked in the arse for so long. There simply comes a time when a man must say, 'Enough.' Trust me when I tell you, that time is now. So I expect that you will bend all your quite commendable energy and considerable power to putting an end to this state of affairs immediately."
The reclining Earl waited expectantly on his side of the bed . There was no response.
He twisted to look over his shoulder. His limited view took in a wild tangle of long dark hair that gave every appearance of growing out of his bare back.
"Kate?"
Silence reigned.
"Kay-ate."
The quiet void expanded.
"KATE!"
The arm thrown over his side shifted. The fingers that had last been employed in tracing lacy circles around his belly button and up his chest trailed away and lost contact with his skin. It was a loss he regretted immediately.
At last, his lady spoke: "One last chance, boys. Make it good."
And she pressed her enormous belly even more firmly against the seat of his pajamas, where it had rested lightly most of the night.
His unborn children — the trio they had fallen into the habit of thinking of as sons — obliged their mother by beating repeated tiny tattoos against Lord Charlbury's backside.
He grinned into his pillow.
He considered his past, present and future in a blink of time.
He absorbed, with the fingertip that was hidden from his wife's view, a single trail of moistness that persisted in leaking from the corner of his eye.
He growled, "You overestimate my patience and strain my affections, woman."
"As to the former," Lady Charlbury sighed against his spine, "I fear you speak the truth, my lord. As to the latter, I have cause to doubt. And the evidence is kicking you in the bum, even as we speak."
And she pushed her hair away from her sleep-dewed face, hoisted herself with some difficulty further up in the bed so that the persistent tap of little heels provided stimulation along much of her husband's back bone and began to nibble his ear.
"You'll never get your breakfast if you keep this up," he threatened with a lazy smile as he shifted his position just enough to force her to minister to his lips instead of his ear.
"Did you hear that, my boys? Your da's putting you on short rations. And as for you, my lord, you may want to rethink your position," she suggested between kisses. "They have you outnumbered and they can be little devils when aroused."
"Then I have no choice but to mollify them. Kisses first, breakfast coming up."
And he completed his turn toward her. He framed, with long and graceful fingers, the parturient belly his old T-shirt now draped around instead of over. Then he covered the mini-mountain with sloppy wet lip smacks, finishing off his performance by attacking his wife's newly "out"-ed navel with a lover's nip and a tongue tickle.
And he laughed against her baby-cradle — something he'd been doing on a regular basis for many weeks now.
"Get up, get up, get up. And then help me, you beast. I can't think why I let you get me on my back again," the Leader of the Opposition huffed from her new sprawling position in the middle of their bed.
"You never used to say that," the Earl sniffed.
"And look where it got me. I'm an elephant. No, I'm a whale. I'll never be normal again. Had I known you were so potent I would never have agreed to have all your babies. Because you didn't play fair, you know. You never told me you expected me to deliver them all at once."
"But I put in the order all at once."
"Hm-m-m, yes. I remember that quite distinctly. One of your most excellent performances, my lord. Now stop grinning as though you're the only male ever to have produced offspring and get me upright," she ordered in her best Westminster voice.
It wasn't his preference, but common sense and future plans eventually carried the day.
Kneeling above his petite wife with the giant belly, he rolled her onto her side and eased her up into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, where she slid off and waddled — for there really was no other word for her eight-month navigational skills — toward the bathroom.
And the Earl took himself off to scramble eggs and fry bacon and bread.
Twenty minutes later, while serving up man-sized portions of dietician-derided gastronomical goodies for breaking one's fast, the father-to-be leaned over the table, close to his spraddle-legged wife, and whispered, "I have a treat in mind for you this afternoon, my love."
"I'm truly not in the mood for cowboys and Indians today, Crick," she sighed, "and I already know all about your prowess with your arrow thing-y, so you'll have to think of some other game we can play. Preferably something that involves you responding to my slightest whim. And the first one I have is for an immediate back rub."
"Well, as to that, my pet, I am a little pushed for time," the Earl explained. "You see, we really need to be on the road within the hour."
"On the road! Are you insane?" she glowered at him. "I can barely get in the car and I'm not going anywhere with anybody for any reason today. Got that?"
Lightning quick mood changes, Piers noted, had been singularly unaffected by his wife's pregnant state.
"Oh, ho, my Kate," he said, wagging a finger in front of her nose. "You've misplaced your 'nice' pills again, haven't you?"
She shoved her plate across the table and fixed him with a steely stare guaranteed to bring lesser men to their knees.
"Listen to me and listen closely, Mr. 'Nice' Guy. I don't sleep well. I don't sit well. I don't stand well. I don't walk well. I don't digest well. I don't ride well. The only thing I can truly do well at the moment is imagine you sharing the load. So don't push me. Or I'll imagine you giving birth, as well. Naturally. And with your standard-issue equipment."
His options, he calculated swiftly, were two-fold: to top her taunt or to make allowances for her "condition." The latter won out — for he had popped his own brand of "nice" pill in the form of earlier tummy licks and was still enjoying the warm glow — so he took a deep breath and summoned up a smile.
"Why don't I get some lotion and meet you in the bedroom? Oh, and, were you going to finish your eggs, my love, because if not …" and his voice trailed away wistfully as he eyed the remains of her breakfast.
"Be my guest," she said sweetly as she struggled up from her chair. "And stuff it!"
With plates mopped up and dishes washed in double-quick time, the Earl headed back to the bedroom to jolly his wife into cooperating with his plans for the day. He found her in bed again, propped on a small army of pillows and aiming the remote at the TV screen.
"Vanilla or lavender?" he called from the bathroom as he rummaged among her bottles of lotion.
"M-m-mh?" she responded.
"Do you fancy vanilla or lavender for your back rub?"
"Oh, strawberry will be fine."
He looked at her, puzzled, through the open door and could not help but notice that she was breathing shallowly through open lips and her eyes were very bright.
"Are you OK, my love?" he asked with concern.
"I'm fine," she sighed and pointed the remote toward the screen again.
"You seem a little — I don't know …," he frowned, leaning against the door, and considered his wife carefully. "No, you don't just seem, you most definitely are — lustful. And you're not even looking at me."
"M-m-mh," she responded, her eyes still fixed on the screen and her fingers busy with the remote.
He crossed the room, flopped on the bed beside her and turned his attention to the TV.
"What are you watching that has you so entranced?" he asked.
"What? Oh, it's history," she mumbled.
He looked closer. "History of what?" he demanded. "Because what I'm seeing bears a striking resemblance to some bloke's bucking backside. Why don't you come into the present and concentrate on a bum you can actually see and feel?" he asked with a suggestive lear.
But she appeared not even to have heard him.
"Woman, I'm speaking to you. Pay attention!"
"Sh-h-h. This is the best part."
Bus so far as he could tell, there was nothing that should have absorbed her attention so completely. Even the actress, who seemed to be trying to recover from some vigorous form of exercise, was far too robust to attract his interest. And as for what he supposed was the male lead, it was anybody's guess why he should have entranced Kate with his shorn head and silly costume. And he ran distracted fingers through his own crisp dark curls and curled his jean-clad legs behind Kate so she appeared to be sitting in his lap while propped on her side.
Flipping the cap on the bottle open, he pooled some sweet-smelling lotion in his palm, pushed his old T-shirt up Kate's back and began spreading the creamy lavender on either side of her spine, working from the hard little knob centered between her shoulders down to the cleft that defined her adorable bottom.
She should, he thought, have been putty in his hands at that point. Instead, she was pointing that damned remote again and replaying some scene.
"Woman, I'm warning you now. I won't be wasting my time feeling you up if you've only got eyes for old what's his name," he growled. "And what is his name, by the way?"
"Charles," she whispered. "Charles the Second. And it's not what you think. I'm waiting for Flora McDonald and the famous escape scene."
"You'll be waiting a proper long time then, my love. Wrong Charlie."
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is."
"No. It's. Not."
"Yes. It. Is."
"No!"
"Yes! Flora's Charlie never made it beyond princehood. Whereas this Charles the Second bloke … I say, is that a new hussy in his bed?" he demanded.
Surely there was something not quite properly maternal about such entertainment for the mother of his children.
"You are most certainly mistaken about that," she said sanctimoniously, "and if you'll just be quiet, I'm sure that will become clear momentarily."
"Not unless the BBC has rewritten history again, it won't," he muttered. "And besides, I didn't know you were that interested in England's past."
"Oh, I am. I am," she protested, her eyes glued to the screen where the Merry Monarch was sucking the air out of yet another courtesan's mouth. And Piers could have sworn his Kate was panting, as well.
"Then this is your lucky day," he said, grabbing the remote out of her hand, flicking the movie off and hauling her off the bed with him.
"No! Wait … stop it, your moron. I want to …," she protested, slapping at his hands as he deposited her next to the bed and proceeded to divest her of the T-shirt that served as her late-pregnancy nightgown.
"I won't warn you again, Kate. Be nice to me or I won't take you to Hazlington today and you won't be able to indulge your love of history because you will miss – entirely - seeing the very decanter from which your esteemed king drank what I have always been told was several glasses of my great-great-great- — well, somewhere back there — grandfather's best whiskey. And you won't get to hear the story of the little slap and tickle Becky Tanner's great-great-something-grandmother had with the Merry Monarch. And you have quite convinced me you would be desolate to have such gaps in your historical knowledge. So, let's get you dressed and get going."
He was simply too much for her lately, Kate thought lethargically. It was probably something to do with her pregnant state, but she had definitely lost her edge in matching wits or energy with him. So she simply stood and allowed him to dress her, while she replayed the Charles scenes that suited her best in her mind.
He pawed through the closet and emerged with a long, softly-gathered multi-colored skirt in gentle spring splashes of color. It was a cast-off of Bianca's, one she had some time ago insisted spinster Kate could hem up and wear to some unspecified casual social event — provided such an unlikely event should become part of her calendar.
It had somehow found its way to the back of her closet, scrunched behind her no-nonsense Westminster suits and jackets.
Piers slipped it over her head and pulled the elastic waist past her shoulders and her bare breasts and settled it just above the bulge that defined his offspring. Her toes peeped out from the front, while the back of the skirt drifted into a small train on the floor at her heels. He thought it draped beautifully.
"What do you usually wear with this, my love?" he demanded, turning back to the closet.
"Nothing," she answered dreamily, her attention still focused on the memory of Charles' remarkable eyes. They reminded her of someone. She was virtually certain she would remember whom at some point. But at the moment, the effort seemed beyond her.
"I'm sure that can't be quite right, sweetest heart; however, I suggest you let me choose something for you. Just this once. And only in the interest of saving time. Because we really should be on our way to Hazlington if you're determined to steep yourself in knowledge of old Charlie."
Though what the attraction was, he certainly couldn't see.
Nothing seemed quite right in Kate's carefully managed closet, and the hour was drawing near, so he turned to his own wardrobe and hastily pulled out a simple, soft, white shirt with a relaxed collar and a generously cut bottom.
She protested not at all, but allowed her husband to pull the shirt up her arms and begin buttoning it over her bare breasts.
"I think you may have forgotten something, sir," she suggested with a bemused smile.
"I think not," he responded with a grin. "I can keep a secret if you can."
And he managed to get three buttons secured before the rise of her belly put an end to further closure.
The effect, however, was rather charming, he thought. And he bent to kiss the hollow of her throat, trailing his way down her chest another four inches before the first button got in his way.
He rolled the cuffs over several times to reveal her soft little arms and then lifted her dainty feet one at a time, while she balanced against his broad back, and slipped her toes into the single pair of soft little leather-strip sandals she owned.
Surveying his handiwork, the Earl grinned happily at his Madonna, but then narrowed his eyes and pointed a determined finger in her direction.
"Don't move. I'll be right back."
A moment later he returned from the bathroom, moved behind his little kitten and released the twist of hair she had pinned out of her way at breakfast. A curtain of dark strands fell down her back and he resisted the impulse to bury his face in the silky softness. Instead, he brushed with gentle but hurried strokes and then caught up some strands from just above her adorable ears, pulled them back into softly draping wings and secured them with a simple barrette.
He had seen her in a variety of poses and an array of attitudes in the months he had known her, but he had never seen her lovelier than she was at that moment, he thought.
And he kissed her with the lightest feather of touch all over her face, ending with her very obliging lips.
Thoughts of the second Charles fled her mind completely at that moment and when her husband backed away, leaving her breathless and slightly disoriented, she suddenly remembered why green eyes held such an attraction for her.
Kate napped for most of the drive to her husband's ancestral home, which was just as well since she might otherwise have commented unappreciatively on his heavy foot. But he was a man on a mission and there was precious little time to waste.
When he wheeled into the church yard next to the cemetery where generations of Cricks were buried, he surveyed what appeared to be a deserted scene with approval and slammed on the breaks with such relieved energy that Kate was jerked immediately — and not very cheerfully — awake.
"And here we are, darling. The beginning of the adventure I promised you. Right here at dear old Hazlington. I'll show you the decanter and we'll go round to see Becky and satisfy your admirable historical curiosity very soon, my love, but first I want to visit the church."
Kate stretched and rubbed her eyes and frowned at him.
"Go ahead. I'll wait here and finish my nap," she muttered.
"No, Kate," he pleaded, head tilted to one side and eyes beseeching. "Now do be nice to me. There's something I want to show you."
"Oh, very well," she agreed ungraciously and made her equally graceless way out of the car, wincing and wondering if her children could conceivably have put on weight on the drive from London.
"Is this where your family worshiped when you were young?" she asked casually, trying to determine some reason why the place should draw him. Compared to other village churches she had seen, it was terribly small. But it did have a certain golden-stoned charm.
"Not very often," he admitted. "Not as much as we should have, anyway. But I used to come here by myself," he said as he reached for her hand and started up the path.
"Really. Whatever for then? Were you looking for the ghosts of martyred saints?" she suggested with a smile.
"Actually I came to pray. Sometimes."
"For extra pudding at dinner, no doubt.' she laughed.
"No. For my mum to be home at dinner," he said quietly and slowed his steps, looking out over the requisite graveyard bordering the property. "But she never was," he said finally. "God only knows why. Maybe I didn't have enough faith."
"Maybe she was a faithless woman,' Kate growled and threw herself into his arms. "But be assured you've seen the last of those, my lord."
He squeezed her as best he could, considering the lump between them, and covered the top of her head in kisses.
"Come on, my Kate," he whispered when he was sure his voice would not betray him.
And they made their way to the ancient iron-banded door of the house of prayer, which stood slightly ajar.
"I want you to close your eyes now," he said. "I want you to do that for me. And no peeking until I say. Will you trust me?"
She looked deep into his beautiful eyes for a moment, certain he was asking something more of her than the words themselves revealed. "Always."
Obligingly blinded, she heard the door squeak open wider, and then she was swept up into his arms and she giggled delightedly.
"No peeking. You promised," he reminded her. She heard the smile in his voice.
So she turned her face into his chest and squeezed her eyes more tightly shut, trying to imagine what boyhood joy he could possibly want to share with her in the old church.
She heard his boots click against the cold stone floor, backed by a faint rustling noise she couldn't identify. And then he was setting her down and whispering to her to honor her pledge just a moment longer. So she stood quietly, her chin raised toward where she sensed he stood looking down at her.
She felt him gently clasp her hands and bring them to his lips and she wished fervently that he was pressing his mouth to hers instead.
"I brought you here — my darling, my love, my precious Kate — because I want to show you something. Something I want to show everyone else, as well. Open you eyes now, my lady," he whispered.
For a moment, all she saw was his perfect face, his lips still hovering over her hands, his soft breath tickling her fingers.
Then movement caught her eye and she turned her head slowly to her right.
They were not alone. Her mother. Bianca. Harry. Tim. And enough others to fill every seat in the house. Her gaze swept back to him just as a figure detached itself from beneath the cross at the front of the church and moved toward them.
"There are some things I need to say to you. Some things you need to know about me," the Earl of Charlbury said. "I asked these people who love us to be here because each of them will now become a witness and a living assurance of my intentions toward you, Katherine Minola Crick, Lady Charlbury.
"We stood together once before in a church and we made vows to each other. But they were words someone else wrote. They were sentiments someone else penned. I consider them binding, but I do not consider them sufficient. Nor to convey what you need to know about me.
"Father Frederick," he said with a nod to the priest, "I asked you to join us not because I believe those prior promises need to be repeated, but because I need you to sanctify some new promises. Honored guests," he said as he turned toward those who filled the pews, "I asked you to join us not because we need to receive your good wishes again, but because I want you to understand that all my wishes have been fulfilled … in this woman. And sweet Kate, I asked you to join me so the memory of your true wedding day may always be a thing of joy to you."
She knew tears were running down her face, but he held her mesmerized and she could only gaze up at him in adoration.
He bent and brushed the evidence of her emotion away with his lips and then murmured softly into her ear, "I adore you. I worship you. I love you with all my heart."
And then he stood erect and repeated the words, loud enough for the congregation to hear perfectly.
"I adore you, Kate. I worship you, wife. I love you with all my heart, mother of my children. You are what I longed for all my life without being able to define the need. You are my past redeemed. You are my present perfected. You are my future secured.
"I had a name to give you — tarnished though it was — and you have given it new meaning.
"I had a man's desire to please you — imperfect though it was — and you have taught me new depths of passion.
"I had a mind to challenge you — limited in imagination though it was — and you have stretched its boundaries.
"I had a heart to love you — somewhat hardened though it was — and you have made it beat in steady rhythm with your own.
"I had children to share with you — a challenge though they may be — and you have multiplied the gift.
"I had no wealth, no fame, no bright and shining future, no guarantees — a less than promising beginning though it was — and you have made me wealthy and famous and fulfilled and secure in ways that I not only never imagined but are far more valuable than I ever conceived.
"Look at these people, Kate," he commanded gently and turned her to face them. "They have many blessings, many delights, many joys among them. But none of them has you. That wonder — undeserved though it is — is greater than anything they possess and is mine alone."
She felt him move to stand behind her and wrap his arms around her. He called the priest by name and that good man moved forward and took his place beside them.
"I will love you all the days of my life, my beloved, and into what lies beyond. I will madden you and enrage you and frustrate you and frighten you and thrill you and delight you and please you and protect you. And through it all, I will still gladly lay my heart and soul at your feet. And I swear to you I will never pick them up again, so help me God. Pray for us, Father," the Earl commanded on a ragged breath as his arms tightened around her and their children.
Kate knew she could not name those who witnessed her wedding day, for tears were blinding her eyes so that she could not see.
Kate knew she could not repeat a single word of the prayer, for blood was thundering through her veins so that she could not hear.
Kate knew she could never forget what her husband had shown her that day, for the gift of his heart could never slip her mind, even if all other sensibility should fade away in some distant future.
She recognized that the service was at an end when the priest removed his hand from her bowed head and her husband swept her up into his arms again and kissed her as though he were a parched and dying man and she were a pure, sparkling fountain.
There were so many words she wanted to say, but they were for his ears alone. And so she smiled up into his face and demanded: "Did you perhaps plan a reception , my lord?"
His expression was puzzled just for a moment. Then he nodded with pride and grinned. "I did. A grand one since we missed the first."
"And I fear," she said, in the only words he would later clearly recall from her lips that day, "that we will miss this one as well. For you have moved me to tears. And your children to birth."