The Last of the Wine
by DJ Clawson
This is the last story in my series that began with "A Bit of Advice." At this point you should not be starting with this story, unless you really like a challenge. You should go to my profile page for links to the stories in order.
Chapter 14 - Well-traveled
Edmund Bingley put a hand down on his horse's mane to steady it. He was trained to ride just like everyone else was, but never had much passion for it, and so a long journey for him was haphazard at best. He could have used a carriage, but after reviewing the maps, he decided the established route was too meandering, and he would be at his destination by nightfall if he simply took a horse from the station.
His second and more complex assignment for his father's company involved a trip to Somerset, and a week's stay at a business partner's house. Mr. Wilkinson was trying to sign other local landlords looking for an increase in their investments into a contract, and Edmund would be there to assist and be the company representative. Though he had no doubt he would not fail in his mission, he was nervous anyway, a feeling he wasn't used to when it came to business. Perhaps that was why he was determined to get there as expediently as possible.
For early April it was quite pleasant, especially this far south. When he was far enough from the last shelter – but according to the map, some miles from his destination – did he remove his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow, only to feel a drop of rain. He had been looking forward, not up. No wonder his horse was so fidgety.
Should he ride it out? Edmund was not a good enough horseman to know. He could not presume to beat the rain in unfamiliar territory. Instead he kicked his horse and picked up pace, hoping for the best.
Within a few minutes, he was raising his hand to protect against the rain long enough to look for shelter. "A hopeless endeavor," he said to himself, or the horse. Spotting a barn, he directed the antsy filly to it. There was no light inside, and no one responded when he knocked, but a good push revealed that it wasn't locked, just abandoned. He had to kick aside fallen beams to get the door open enough before stepping inside. When he removed his hat, water fell from it like a bucket. He was soaked.
"Good girl," he said to the horse, guiding her to what once was a hitching post. She snorted at him, but that hardly made him any wetter than he already was. He doubted anything could, and after removing her saddle, turned his attentions to himself. There was a blanket in the bag that was still mainly dry, and he shed himself of his outer layers and wrapped himself in it.
It was not a barn so much as a house that was used as a barn at some point before being abandoned. There was a fireplace, and plenty of hay, so he started a fire easily enough. He just needed to keep feeding it fallen planks and it would burn for a long time. "At least I won't be cold. Wet, maybe, but not cold."
"Speak for yourself."
He spun around so fast as to almost trip himself into the fire, stopping himself in time by grabbing the wall. The woman facing him blushed, but it could barely be distinguished from her pallor. She had her arms crossed in some attempt at keeping warm. Her whole heavy dress was soaked, her bonnet utterly ruined, and she was visibly shivering. She curtseyed quickly, and he returned with a bow. "Excuse me," she said, "I didn't know how to get your intention."
She sounded as embarrassed as he felt. He closed the blanket around him. He was wearing a shirt and vest, but that did not excuse him. "Forgive me. I was distracted from your entrance." He stepped away from the fire, therefore inviting her to partake in it.
She curtseyed again and sat down on the hay bale in front of the fire, facing it and not him. "I was caught walking in the rain."
"So was I," he said. "I mean – riding. I was riding. To town. The Wilkinson's house."
"Cheswick Park?"
"Yes. That's the place."
"It's not far from here. A few miles – " Her speech was interrupted by a sneeze. She held her hands out to the fire, but they were still shaking.
"Excuse the impropriety," he said and removed his blanket, draping it over her. "I'll go, if you wish."
"It's still pouring! Do you know the way?" She had to remove her bonnet to let it dry in front of the fire. Her dark curls, probably once a beautiful arrangement, were all but ruined.
"I'm afraid not, except by map," he said. "I – insisted on arriving early." He heard thunder. "Now I suppose I'll be late."
"I know Mr. Wilkinson," she said. "My husband and his share a border of land."
"I don't know him, but I'm here on behalf of my father's company," he said, and then embarrassed, added, "Mr. Bingley."
She did not rise to curtsey, something he did not blame her for. Wet, her gown must have been very heavy. "Mrs. Wright."
He cleared his throat. "I will leave, if you wish me to."
"In all good conscience I cannot do that," she said. "You could catch your death out there."
He had to smile; she spoke like his mother chiding him, but she could not have been older than him. "I've been through worse. We Northerners are a hardy bunch."
"Where are you from?"
Because he had nothing else to do, he answered, "Derbyshire."
"Sussex, originally."
"My sister is married to a Sussex man, but I cannot say I have been, except in passing."
"And I have never been to Derbyshire, though I've heard it's quite pleasant."
"It is." He wiped his nose. "Wet, also. I should be more accustomed to it, but I've been living in Town."
"You are a businessman."
"This is true." Perhaps too much. His fancy boots would require some refurbishment after this trek. He opened the door again, and lo and behold, it was still as bad as it was when he entered, if not worse. He shut it and barred it against being blown open. "I have some biscuits in my bag, if you'd like any. Nothing else, I'm afraid. I didn't expect to be caught like this."
"I would not have strayed so far," she said. She shivered again. "Yes, I would appreciate your offer, Mr. Bingley."
He retrieved the saddle bag, and brought it to the fireplace, removing the remains of his snack, now mostly crumbled, and offering them to her. "You should eat something, to fight off the cold."
The biscuits were dry, but she accepted them. "Everyone assumes me meek and vulnerable because I'm so thin."
"No," he said, though it was true. He had assumed that. "My sister – my other sister – is tiny and she is the toughest person I know."
"Is she young yet?"
"Older, actually. She has three children. I am the youngest."
For the first time since her arrival, she looked directly at him. "You cannot be more than five and twenty."
"Four and twenty, to be honest. So you are correct."
She was sympathetic. "You carry yourself as if you're older." She added, "That is a compliment."
"Thank you." He would not do well to guess her age, at least not out loud. "Mrs. Wright."
They passed the time in silence. She sat and he paced, but they were trapped by the ongoing downpour. At last he remembered the flask of brandy his brother had advised him to pack, and seeing that she was still shivering, advised Mrs. Wright to have it.
"It's strong," she said after a swallow.
"It will warm you, hopefully."
This time she did not let him lapse into silence so easily, though he would not take any for himself. "What kind of business are you in, Mr. Bingley?"
"Investments." Realizing he'd have to add to that to pass any time, he said, "I have a share in the company my father started, trading with the East India Company. When he retires, I may inherit it. Before that, it was all just stocks."
"You stand to inherit?"
"Just that. My brother is the older one."
"Have you been to India?"
"No. I am not well-traveled. Only Ireland if you would count that."
"I have never left Britain," she said, "so I would count that."
If her husband was not a traveler, she was not. He could not recall Mr. Wright on the list of names of people in the area, but he had only skimmed it. Instead he looked at her, and their eyes meeting struck him somewhere that made them both look away.
They were silent for a long time.
"You will not tell my husband we met this way."
"No. Of course not."
"We will have to pretend not to know one another at all."
"I suppose we will." He laughed. "Just when I thought my reputation could not possibly be further tarnished."
"Oh?" She covered her mouth. "I should not ask."
"You have not heard? I suppose I overestimate my worth. Well, it is no secret – I am divorced."
"Recently?"
"Yes. Last summer."
"I do know you." She blushed. "Forgive me. I did read something about Parliament passing an Act of Divorce. It is so rare – "
"It was me. Hence my wandering about England but avoiding London, where I dare not show my face."
"And your former wife?"
"In France, I hear. Living with her lover." And yet, he could feel no shame in it. It had happened before everyone's eyes and another pair couldn't hurt him anymore than a thousand already had. "It could have been worse."
"English law is no stranger to unhappy marriages," she said, and looked down. He turned away. "You're shaking," she said. So she watching him, like he was watching her.
"My jacket should be dry by now," he said, and retrieved it, brushing the hay off it. It was damp, but not cold. "It will be soon." It was dry enough for him to throw over his shoulders and wrap around him like a blanket. He put another piece of wood on the fire. It was dark outside, darker than it had been before. "It will be night soon."
"I know."
"Your husband will be looking for you?"
"I imagine so."
"Did you tell someone where you were going?"
"No."
Edmund swallowed. "Are you running away?"
"No. I was just walking. He knows I have nowhere to go."
Edmund could not, and would not, properly respond to that. The rain was his answer, pounding away at the roof and threatening the little, warm world inside the barn. He forgot the chill, and the fire attempting to fight it, and everything else that stood in his path as he kissed her very warm lips, so much more comforting than a fire, which despite all its movement, was not a living thing.
She did not resist him. There was the brief moment of shock, when they sat with their faces inches apart, trying to comprehend if it had only been thought of so many times and not actually happened, before she said, "Are you normally this impulsive?"
"I can safely say this is the most impulsive thing I've ever done in my life," he replied, and for the first time since entering the barn, said something with no regret. He did not have time to feel any in the flurry of action as he kissed her and she reached out to him, pulling him closer by his necktie and unbuttoning his shirt. Her hand was so much softer than his probably were; he felt guilty about that much. Nor was he particularly interested in being gentle about the complex matter of removing the ties that kept her in her oppressive gown. She giggled and had to help him. He had never undressed a woman from start to finish before. Lucy was his first and only, and she had her lady-maid do most of the work.
No wonder she was still cold. Her gown was soaked through. He ran his hand along her clammy skin. "You are scared."
"You are very observant," she said, trying to laugh away her fear.
"Should I stop?" Not that he was entirely sure he could. When she did not answer, he had to insist, "Mrs. Wright – "
"Don't call me that."
"You haven't given me another name."
"Neither have you, Mr. Bingley." She added, "Julia."
"Edmund."
After that clarification, there was no need for any more.
*******************************************
Edmund awoke to the last crackling of the fire going out. Even with the morning chill and his own body covered only by the blanket and his shirt, they did not need it. The sun was coming up and the rain was over. Besides, he could not bring himself to leave his very comfortable position to tend to the fire. He would in a minute, he told himself, and stroked Julia's wayward strands of hair, her curls quite undone both by the rain and their evening's activity. He did it not strong enough to wake her, but enough to feel them between his fingers.
She opened her eyes, such a beautiful blue, and this time she did not hide them in shame, even though he was hardly dressed appropriately to look at. "Is it morning?"
"Yes."
"Is it raining?"
"Unfortunately not."
She did stir, but not away from him just yet. "I have just violated the sanctity of my marriage, and yet, I confess I feel no regret."
"I have heard much of violations of the sanctity of marriage," he said, "and therefore cannot bring myself to answer in its defense. I will add that I have potentially ruined my entire business endeavor and brought further disaster to my name."
"And you feel?"
Edmund answered by kissing her. He could not bring himself to say he never felt better in his life. The only sadness he felt was that it was coming to a close. "Should I ask you why you ran from your husband, or will it just throw me into some sort of protective rage?"
"I do not know enough of your character," Julia said, "but I do not wish to speak of it. Forgive me."
"You are forgiven." He wished he was strong, like his sister, and could forge his own way, but he could not. He had to let it go. "If it is any small comfort, you have given me every inclination to do right by you, were it within my abilities to do so."
"You say that, but do you mean it?"
"I always mean what I say," he said, wrapping his arms around her. "I am of that unfortunate condition."
She giggled and kissed his collarbone, the nearest available place. They made love again, with only the air of finality both heightening it and casting a small pale of gloom. They were both a bit like awkward newlyweds the first time, but not the second, or the third, or the last. Only when he was physically removed from her did it occur to him something had passed from him – not so much a substance but a feeling that he might never feel again. Or he would – he could hope.
Julia could not dress herself. He had to help her, and it was more complex than pulling it apart, but he managed and she chided him for being such an adept abigail. His own clothing he could handle, though his cravat and tie would be a bit misshapen until his manservant arrived to fix it.
"If we see each other," she said, as he had little doubt it might happen, "it will be as if we never met?"
"It shall be so," Edmund said, despite his inclination to say or believe otherwise. "I am not the sort of man my actions would lead you to believe I am. Or, I thought I wasn't."
"I did not think I was this sort of woman," she said, "who could fight for her happiness."
They embraced. "Goodbye, Julia."
"Goodbye, Edmund."
There was such an oppressive finality to it. He waited until she was gone before wiping his eyes and turning to saddle his horse once again. He waited a set amount of time before returning, clothed and bleary-eyed, to the road.
*******************************************
Sore for all the wrong reasons, Edmund was never happier to be off his horse as the footman escorted him to the entrance of Cheswick Park. An older, well-dressed man greeted him in the doorway. "Mr. Bingley. Welcome to my home."
He bowed. "Mr. Wilkinson."
"Do not be alarmed. I have no great spies. You simply look very much like your father, as I'm sure you are aware." They shook. "May I introduce Mrs. Wilkinson?"
"Mr. Bingley."
"Mrs. Wilkinson." Edmund bowed to the elderly woman who was overdressed and carrying a very small dog. "Thank you for hosting me."
"It is our pleasure. We so rarely have guests."
Mr. Wilkinson happily took him on a tour of the house, which was built over an ancient castle (or so he believed) and had a sort of eclectic charm to it. Only after that was there tea and finally lunch out on the veranda, overlooking the fields that separated his lands from his neighbor's, Mr. Wright, who could be somewhat standoffish but was a good shooter and better businessman, though his interests lay closer to home than the East. Mr. Wilkinson did not stay long on the topic and Edmund did not encourage him to, and began to question him on all things related to himself and his father. "I hope you were not held up by the rain, Mr. Bingley."
"No," he said. "I would not say it was an inconvenience." Edmund had many things to call it, both good and bad, happily romantic and actively gnawing at his heart, but an inconvenience was not a word he would use.
... Next Chapter - Cheswick Park