Disclaimer: I am not Robert Rodat, screenwriter of The Patriot. Nor am I Thomas Gray, William Shakespeare, or Andrew Marvell.

Chapter 13: World Enough, and Time

Jane's bedchamber was indeed a very pleasant room, quite suitable for his purposes. A fire on the hearth, the candles lit and glowing—all combined to make the room very welcoming.

"I trust you do not expect me to sleep there," Tavington asked, with a quizzical look at the little narrow bed set perpendicular to the foot of the big one.

"Not if you don't want to—I could—I mean, that is Letty's bed. When you are not here."

Amusement twitched his mouth. "She will not be joining us, then?"

"No!" He was joking, she realized, after a moment of hair-raising horror. He was joking…

"Of course," he continued, "It would be very literary. Very like the Arabian nights, with Sheherazade's sister Dunyazade sleeping at the foot of the Sultan's bed, using her wits to help save her sister."

If he could joke, so could she. Nearly straight-faced, she asked, "Do you wish me to tell you stories?"

"I wish—" he said, and paused, fixing her with those wonderful, glittering eyes. "No—this evening is yours. You shall not do anything you do not wish to do. If you wish to tell me stories, I shall listen enthralled. If you wish to play cards—" he smiled brightly at her little laugh of astonishment "---I shall let you win. We shall rest when you like, talk when you like, and then—" he leaned over her earnestly, brushing her cheek with his fingertips, a delicate tracing over her firm jaw, as his voice dropped to the low purring of a panther tamed, "if you like, you may do as you wish with me."

Greatly emboldened, she ventured, "And what if I wish to banish you to the little bed? Or outside?"

He rested his hands on her shoulders, and stroked casually down her arms. "Than I shall obey without a murmur, But I hope you will not be so—" cruel, he had nearly said, but remembered, and replaced it with "--exacting."

She dropped her eyes, and then looked up again, to be absolutely certain. "And I shall not have to do anything I do not wish to do?"

"No. I give you my word."

Tavington was fairly sure he could keep such a promise. He was hardly suffering from deprivation. He had pretty Nan Haskins in camp, and there was Madeleine, a French Creole girl, who was traveling with the little parade of officers on the way to Charlestown. Nice, clean girls, and not the sort to blab his name about. He was not a whoremonger, like his late, unlamented father, but a man whose natural desires needed an outlet. No, he should not throw himself on his inexperienced young wife like a starving man at a feast. He must win her confidence, and teach her to feel pleasure in his company. If tonight yielded nothing but some kisses and caresses—a bit of fumblethumb between the sheets—that was quite all right. He had a few days, and could wait…

Jane supposed she should be pleased, with a handsome man in her bedchamber promising to be hers to command. Unfortunately, she found herself staring at him, at a loss as to what to do with him. She thought of playing music to him, but decided she had already done enough of that for a day. And he was her guest.

"Please—be seated. I am sorry to keep you standing about like this," she apologized.

To her dismay, he did not take a chair, but settled down on the edge of her bed, smiling innocently at her. Not so easily disarmed as she once might have been, she thought about what she would really like. What had he done in the past that she had liked?

"Well," she began nervously, "I don't want to play at cards. I hate cards."

"Very well," he said. She looked at him sharply, to see if he was laughing at her. He probably was, but was not doing it openly, so she decided to let it go. "Do you like to read?"

His brows lifted at that. "You wish to discuss literature?"

"No. I would like you to read to me."

He seemed amenable, cocking his head to the side, bemused. "Whatever pleases you, my dear."

She felt her way to her bookshelf, keeping her eyes on him, as if he were a beast of uncertain trustiness. Yes, there it was. "I should like you to read—this."

"This?" Hardly something to seduce a lady…

"I want you to read it. You went to school there, and when I read it, all I hear in my head is my own voice. It ought to be read by a man."

"If I must…

"Ye distant spires, ye antique towers

That crown the watery glade,

Where grateful Science still adores

Her Henry's holy shade…"

And she insisted he read every single verse of it. Tavington had never imagined reading "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College" to a lady in her bedchamber, still less his wife, but at least it was not trash. Jane walked about the room restlessly, while he read from her little dog-eared book.

And he liked it himself, especially some of the latter stanzas:

"Ambition this shall tempt to rise,

Then whirl the wretch from high,

To bitter Scorn a sacrifice

And grinning Infamy.

The stings of Falsehood those shall try

And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,

That mocks the tear it forced to flow;

And keen Remorse with blood defiled,

And moody Madness laughing wild

Amid severest woe."

At the last verse, she stopped pacing, and sat on the bed beside him, piercing him with such an intense look he was glad to focus on the printed page:

"To each his suffering: all are men,

Condemn'd alike to groan;

The tender for another's pain,

Th' unfeeling for his own.

Yet, ah! Why should they know their fate,

Since sorrow never comes too late,

And happiness too swiftly flies?

Thought would destroy their paradise.

No more—where Ignorance is bliss

Tis folly to be wise."

There was silence. Tavington dropped his next words into it, like pebbles in a deep well.

"Did you like that?"

Her breath came quick. She turned her head away, biting her lip.

"Yes. I loved it. It hurts me, but it fills me with great happiness at the same time." She looked at him again. "Your voice is beautiful. I shall always hear it now, when I read that poem."

Well, he thought with some satisfaction, progress has been made. Perhaps there is something in this poetry business. He thumbed back through the book, looking for something more to the point.

"Would you like more? How about this---

"Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments---"

"No!" she interrupted. "Not that one. It has nothing to do with us, and you know it."

Rather taken aback, he let her take the book and point out the spot. "That one, instead."

He knew the poem, very well. It had been something of his father's testament. He could recall the last time Father had quoted it, even now. Gravely, he sighed, and read the terrible words:

"Th'expense of spirit in a waste of shame

Is lust in action; and till action, lust

Is perjur'd, murderous, bloody, full of blame,

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust:

Enjoy'd no sooner but despisèd straight;

Past reason hunted, and no sooner had,

Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait

On purpose laid to make the taker mad:

Mad in pursuit and in possession so;

Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;

A bliss in proof, and prov'd, a very woe;

Before, a joy propos'd; behind, a dream.

All this the world well knows; yet none knows well

To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

A deeper silence: black, corporeal, and a fist to the heart. Tavington gritted his teeth, and spoke.

"You are not implying, I trust, that this is hell?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "It could well become so."

"No." he said firmly, laying the book down. "This is not hell, my dear. I've served four years in the American War, and I tell you that sitting in a candlelit bedchamber, reading poetry to one's cultivated young wife, is in no way to be described as hell. Hell is seeing one's friend spurting bright blood from his neck, and not being able to do a thing to save him. Hell is cutting one's way through the enemy, and trying to scrape a man's face off one's blade. No, don't flinch—you want to know about Hell? Ask some poor sergeant's wife, her only child dead in agony from the bloody flux, packing up and moving along with the camp the very next day, leaving an unmarked grave behind.

"What we are having, my dear Jane, are difficulties. I displeased you, and—caused you pain---I grant that. But not mortal pain, you yourself must admit. You dislike remaining under your father's roof. It is unpleasant, most obviously, but you are well fed, well sheltered, and protected from murder, rape, and robbery. There are many women who would envy you, and justly so."

She turned her head away, resenting his dismissal of her unhappiness. "You said you would do as I wished. Can you not be kind to me, even for one night?"

Brought up short, he grimaced. "Forgive me. Poetry is perhaps safer for us than everyday life. What else might please you here?"

"Pick something you like."

"All right." He paged through, sure he would find what he wanted. And there it was.

"Had we but world enough, and time,

This coyness, lady, were no crime.

We would sit down, and think which way

To walk, and pass our long love's day."

She rose, and paced again. Tavington read the poem clearly, sure that Marvell could plead his suit better than he.

"…But at my back I always hear

Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near:

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity."

Jane sighed, and Tavington glanced up at her, but she was listening, and he read it to its glorious end:

"…Now let us sport us while we may;

And now like amorous birds of prey,

Rather at once our Time devour,

Than languish in his slow-chapt power.

Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Thorough the iron gates of life.

Thus though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run."

Her eyes shut, and breathing deeply, she laid her hand on the book.

"Perhaps that is enough poetry for now."

"Then what next to please you?"

Jane quickly reviewed everything in her life that pleased her: music, literature, Letty, Biddy, her female cousins, lavender and lemon sachet, Little Ash—

"Tell me about your childhood. You must have been an adorable boy."

Tavington laughed, astonished at such a notion.

"No! I was a little hellion. My parents often and vocally wished I'd never been born. I chased my nurse with my father's sword when she refused me sweets, I broke my brother's arm wrestling, I played abominable pranks on my tutor, and I once fell in with a band of dirty little pauper boys and was swept along with them on a crime spree."

"No! A crime spree—" She shook her head in disbelief, laughing unwillingly.

"The truth, I assure you. I was rather fond of sneaking out of an evening and looking for adventure. I had met the boys before on my rambles and they liked the idea of rubbing elbows with a gentleman."

"How old were you?"

On impulse, he decided to tell her the tale, one that only Lucy knew.

"Hmm—I believe ten—yes, ten—just before my eleventh birthday. It was the summer before I was sent to school. That night, Dick told us that his sister had been kidnapped by an old pawnbroker in Cock's Lane. We were to go and rescue her. It seemed a gallant deed, and we all swore to stand by her, as true honest Englishmen."

Jane was entranced. "You little boys were going to save a young woman? How sweet, and how brave!"

Tavington snorted. "A little girl, actually. Dick told us his sister was all of nine. Still, such things do happen. There are filthy creatures who prey on children."

"All the more reason to help her," she cried anxiously. "Why did he not go to the authorities?"

"My dear Jane! I'm sure such a thing never entered his head. The last thing anyone of his sort would want would be to attract the attention of the 'authorities!' Besides," he continued, thoughtfully, "it's entirely possible Dick's father sold her to the old man. That happens often enough, too."

"As a slave?" Jane was bewildered. "But---"

"No," Tavington contradicted her. "Not exactly as a slave, but for his pleasure."

Jane flinched, and muttered, "Please go on with your story."

"At any rate, we made a great game of creeping through the lane and alleys to our destination. Of course, we could have simply walked down the street, but that would not have been so exciting. At length, we found the place, a mouldering old shop, with the pawnbroker's rooms above. He had a manservant to guard the place who was absent that night, no doubt the reason Dick gathered us for the fray.

"It was locked, of course, but Dick's comrade Budge had his own picklock. The alley was stinking and pitch black, save for the dark lantern Robin carried. Within minutes, we burst into the shop, shouting like—little boys. There were at least eight of us, and you can imagine the noise. Why the neighbors did not summon the watch sooner, I don't know, other than the area was so vile that the watch was loath to venture there.

"Dick dashed up the stairs to the floor above. Robin and I followed him. I had the little dress sword my father had given me, and Robin a knife. Dick had the simplest of weapons: a thick heavy cudgel. I remember my excited wonder at the squalid little rooms, and how we ran at the closed door with a light under it. That door was locked, too, and Dick shouted at the man to open. I did not even wonder where the rest of our fellows were, so thrilled was I at our adventure. I later found that they were busy downstairs, ransacking and robbing the place.

"The pawnbroker stumbled out of the room, staring down at the three of us pipsqueaks. He called us some names that I will not bruise your ears by repeating, though you probably would not understand them. I could see how he despised us, and for a moment I could imagine how the three of us boys appeared to such a man.

"He swung a fist and knocked Dick to the floor. I did not hesitate, but ran my sword through his body."

"But you had a toy sword!"

He was a little offended. "A toy! Never in this world. Small, yes: but my father would not so insult me. It was real enough, as the fellow found. He screamed, and Robin moved in and stabbed him. The pawnbroker tried to shove us aside and escape, but he tripped over Dick on the floor. We quite had him at our mercy."

"Like the Lilliputians and Gulliver!" she said, fascinated and horrified.

Another amused grimace. "Yes, now that you put it that way. None of us knew quite what to do. But Dick had looked further into the room and saw his sister, a tiny thing, cowering under the sheets. She did not make a sound, but peered at us silently with enormous, terrified eyes. Uttering a wordless cry, Dick smashed the old man's head with his cudgel."

"Good God!" cried Jane. She clutched at Tavington's hand. "Did he die?"

Tavington laughed impatiently, but decided not to tell her how long it actually took. "Well, yes, of course. Men generally do, when they have their heads battered in. We all stood staring. Finally, I addressed the little sister, whose name escapes me, though I thought it graven on my heart forever at the time. I believe I bowed and said, 'Your servant, ma'am,' or some such nonsense."

Jane laughed, very weakly. Tavington went on with his astonishing tale.

"I turned my back in gentlemanly fashion, while she dressed herself quickly. Robin searched the room for valuables, and Dick went through the man's pockets. I held myself above such commercial transactions, and gave the little girl my arm as we descended the stairs.

"On the counter below was an array of booty. It was divided quickly and roughly into eight parts—and then on Dick's—and my own—insistence, was rearranged to give the little girl a share. By now, the alarm had been given, and we could hear the shouts that the Bow Street Runners were on the way. As we fled the scene we could see them, lanterns weaving at the end of the lane, and we had to run. I stayed with Robin, Dick and the little girl part of the way, but Robin soon headed north, leaving the rest of us behind.

"It did not even occur to me that I had been party to the death of a man—for I never felt any guilt at that monster's death. I knew, however, that it was past ten, and that I should be in great trouble if I were to be caught sneaking into the house at that late hour. And there was the problem of getting Dick and his sister safely home. Dick was not certain of their reception, and told me that they would approach a woman in the house next to theirs."

He was uncertain himself as to how Jane would receive this part of the story, but soldiered on. "We reached the house, which proved to be an abbey." He snorted at Jane's lack of comprehension, and explained. "A brothel—a house of ill-repute." Jane's eyes widened. "The landlady knew Dick and his sister, and had been kind to them in the past. Don't look so surprised," he smiled, seeing her skeptical frown. "Do you not think a brothel keeper might not have a soft spot for children? At any rate, she did, and had them sent to the kitchen to be fed. Then she turned to look at me."

"'What have we here? A young gentleman about the town?' With a gesture, she led me to the best room of the place, and I found myself amongst her customers, many of whom were likewise gentlemen. Chief amongst them, I discovered," he said slowly, "was my own father, drinking at the long table, quite at his ease, with a doxy at either hand."

"Your father! He must have been so embarrassed!"

"Nothing ever embarrassed my father. He stared at me in disbelief, and then shouted for someone to get me a drink. Then he beckoned me over, and asked, 'What are you doing here, sir?'

"I countered with, 'What are you doing here, sir?'

"'Going wrong, my boy. Now tell me, what are you about on a dark night and so fearsomely armed?'

"And the abbess, thinking it all so charming, produced Dick and his sister, who told him something about my heroic deeds in saving her from a wicked old man. All the doxies sighed over me, telling my father what a manly little boy I was. He had had, it appeared, enough entertainment for the night, so he took it upon himself to see me safely home, ordering a sedan chair for each of us, and thus we traveled in state, with linkboys about us carrying their lanterns.

"I was never punished for this escapade, other than my father confiscating what he was pleased to call my 'prize money.' I ought not, he explained, to accept remuneration for an act of chivalry. However strange it sounds, that evening remains my fondest memory of him. He was not a good man, but I was his favorite, for what it was worth, and certain things appealed to his sense of humor."

"But what became of Dick and the little girl? What of the others?"

"I have no idea," he lied, remembering the fate of those that were caught and tried for the murder. "I believe they used their ill-gotten gains to purchase apprenticeships and live honestly thereafter."

Perhaps Robin would have. He had talked about a silversmith he knew who might take him for the right price. Instead, he had died at Tyburn with two of the others, his heels dancing to the hangman's jig. Dick had vanished, perhaps gone to sea, and the little girl was left at the brothel, for whatever fate might hold for her there. Tavington himself, a young gentleman and the nephew of an Earl, was never even questioned. He had gone, as his last act of fellowship, to Tyburn to see them off. His mother, watching from their coach, had found the spectacle rather diverting: his sisters were sorry for the 'poor little boys.' They knew nothing of his involvement, and he loved them the better for their kindness to his erstwhile partners in crime.

Jane sat still for awhile, trying to comprehend such a story. The picture of Tavington as a daring little boy unexpectedly softened her toward him. Tavington took the opportunity to sit closer and put his arm about her. She did smell quite nice, but she was so very thin. Did the girl never eat? He would have to watch her closely at meals to see if there was something wrong with her.

Finally, she said, "That was such an extraordinary story. I can't imagine a little boy of ten having such an adventure. I've never had an adventure at all, and I'm twenty-four."

"Not true, my dear. What do you call our elopement?"

"Oh—yes! I did think, as we were driving in the coach to Charlestown, that that was how having an adventure must feel. I liked it, even though I was worried about what everyone would say." More seriously, she added. "A fear justified by the event."

"Are you sorry?"

"That would be useless and foolish. We are married. There's nothing to be done but make the best of it."

"But that is exactly how I feel!" Tavington was relieved that they were understanding one another so well at last. Jane really was a sensible girl.

"Now," he purred, "is there nothing else I can do to please you?"

"The hour grows late," Jane sighed.

"Nonsense, my dear. The night is young."

Shyly, she whispered, "Then, I should like—I should very much like—I wish you to kiss me as you did that night."

"Kiss you?" he murmured in her ear.

"Yes," she answered decisively. "I don't want you to hurt me, but I should like you to kiss me. That was very agreeable. I had never been kissed by a man before."

He laughed again. She had such a direct manner. "Surely, my dear, your father—"

"No. I had never kissed by any man at all. It was interesting. You may do that."

"What charming ideas you have, Jane."

With his free hand he tilted her chin up, and turned his head a little, capturing her mouth with his. It was rather nice, he agreed. With his eyes shut, Jane's lips were as good to kiss as any other woman's, he found. She smelled pleasantly of her favorite scent, and her skin was petal soft under his fingers. He sustained the kiss for some time. Jane did not reject it, but neither did she move. She hummed faintly, but remained motionless, letting him do all the work. That made him smile, and he pulled back to smile more at her expression.

She cleared her throat, and asked outright. "Am I doing it right? Is there something else I ought to be doing?"

He did not laugh at her. "You should do what pleases you. You could try kissing me back."

"I am—a lady. I am not a wanton. I don't want to do wrong."

"Jane," he sighed. "There is no question of such a thing. We are married. It is quite all right to do as we please. Now," he said, "let us try that again. Do as I do."

"Very well," she said, very seriously, like a bookish schoolgirl at her lessons.

Tavington leaned in, and pressed her lips with his again, first the upper, then the lower, and then settled in for a deeper kiss, his mouth slightly open. Jane diligently responded. Tavington could almost hear her thoughts as she sucked lightly at him. It was not bad, though perhaps a little too studied. At least she showed a desire to improve.

"Very nice," he whispered. The room, lit by two candles, was not bright enough to show her blushes, but he sensed that she was warming. "But you need to relax, Jane. I promise I won't hurt you, but try this—"

Catching her about the shoulder, he lowered her back onto the bed, and brushed a stray curl from her cheek. Hesitantly, she put up a hand, not to push him away, as he had first thought, but to touch his shoulder shyly. His face lit in a half-smile. He kissed her again, then, on lips, on cheek, on forehead: soft, light kisses that awakened the blood beneath the soft skin. His lips traveled over that skin, nipping at her ear, trailing along her neck, and breathing softly onto her throat.

Jane looked up at her handsome husband, his face glowing and golden in the magical light of candles. He was smiling, a smile just for her. Her breath came faster, and she felt again that seductive melting thrill. He leaned on his left elbow, lying beside her, and his right hand lay softly on her breast.

She swallowed. "If we do that thing you like, do you promise you won't hurt me? Do you promise?"

Yes, he reflected, a man ought to be magnanimous in victory. "I promise, Jane. We have all night. I shall wait until you are perfectly prepared. It will not hurt you at all."

-----

It did not hurt, Jane agreed, lying awake in the comfortable bed afterwards. She turned her head, making out the dark shape of her husband. He was in deep sleep, and snoring a little. The sound was not unpleasant—rather like a cat's purring. Jane decided she could live with it. The experience of marital intercourse was still very peculiar, but she now believed she could live with that, too.

It was sweet enough to be kissed by her husband and to hold him in her arms. Sometimes, she felt a brief, exquisite sensation, as if something more lay beyond, but every time she felt it, something distracted her. The walls of their room were so thin: she did not want to cry out something stupid, the way Selina had, that everyone could hear and laugh at. At then, sometimes, she could catch the awful smell of the house, a smell she could not blot out entirely, even by pressing her face to her husband's pulsing throat.

And the way he moved on her made noise. She was terribly conscious of it. The bed creaked, and her husband breathed very heavily as he reached his crisis. She felt some sympathy for him at that moment, for he was obviously in the grip of some instinctive animal passion. She even wondered if it caused him pain, considering how desperately he sought his release. But all in all, it was not so terrible. In fact, it was quite--otherwise...

He had finished, and lain exhausted in her arms. It gave her a little feeling of triumph to feel him so weary, so utterly undone; to hold him as every woman before her had held her man. He had kissed her once more, and murmured kind words before falling sleep. And he was here, and not with Selina, or anyone else.

It will do well enough, Jane decided. And it is so much better than I ever expected.

-----

Notes: In the unexpurgated versions of The Thousand and One Nights, Sheherazade's sister Dunyazade slept in her sister's bedroom, and gave her cues for the stories Sheherazade recounted to Sharihar. The poems are: Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College by Thomas Gray, Sonnet 129 by William Shakespeare, and To His Coy Mistress, by Andrew Marvell.

Next—Chapter 14: The Lord General's Ball