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London, Thomas found, was the true seat of the Antipodeans. Its seasons were direct inversions of those of Nature: when spring turned to summer, St James’s emptied out as if by magic, and then revived from its slumber with the first frost. And what would you know of the natural order of things? If he had a penny for every time he was asked that, he would buy Father a new philosophy in life.
Thomas stopped to take a deep breath of the cool, fragrant air. He knew that the warmth had already left the soil and dared not remove his shoes despite the distinct allure of a remaining patch of green to his left; his moment of prudence was not uncalled for, the present company considered. He also knew that this year, the apples had fairly spellbound him with their exquisite colour, aroma and presence, and none of his odes could possibly do them justice. He would not migrate back to the city without one last cider-and-apple pie picnic with Miranda, who was an apt fruit picker, putting the country lasses to shame. He regretted to say, not with gentleness but with a piratical gleam in her lovely October eyes.
(He must remember to expand upon that epithet, she would like it very much indeed.)
Father walked with a cane, which only added to his Olympian hauter. He would stop before a tree, select a specimen with his free hand, and sample it with all the due consideration that he reserved for his own property. Finally, the specimen would be thrown away after just one bite, and the process would be repeated - while Thomas was out for a pleasant stroll through the family orchard, the Earl was on an inspection of thereof.
Thomas had always felt sorry for the discards, contriving to round them up with the Earl none the wiser. By the seventh tree, it had become a routine. He bent down unthinkingly, failing to realise that Father’s coughing fit had ceased abruptly. As far as remedies went, it would not be the worst.
Thomas straightened himself, anticipating the question: “I thought Mrs Lamb might want them.”
It was a particularly fitting name for a cook - either particularly well or particularly poorly. The sharp-tongued Miranda liked to point out that the brooding old soul might have been a butcher instead. Mrs Lamb’s pies were mysterious perfect, though - that must be where all the joy went.
“Empty out your pockets,” His Lordship ordered, not fooled by the very reasonable explanation. “I won’t have you bringing beggars to our gates like flies to a cesspit.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows. “Now, Father, don’t be so hard on our dear old house.” To make the matters worse, he caught a glimpse of Miranda waving at him from the bedroom window.
She would catch her death of cold!
As if they were still in summer, she leaned out, arranging herself in a strategic pose somewhere between a painting model and a scandalous print.
With every appearance of acquiescence, he surrendered the apples, hoping to come back for them later. The pleasure of being lectured on one’s improper conduct with one’s wife in a state of Eve almost directly above his head was… well, truly indescribable. She was a terrible person.
Just as Thomas thought of a plausible escape at last, the conversation took a sudden new turn:
“The Duchess of Clare is planning to open the Season with an Assembly at her residence.” The Earl prodded Thomas with the cane unceremoniously, making sure that he was listening to every word. “I have put us on the guest list.” The meaningful pause for appreciation was rather wasted on Thomas. “Do you take my meaning?”
At the core of the great Antipodean migration were parliamentary sessions, and Father was right in the thick of it. To Father, the coming months brought no pleasures but that of wearing and reweaving political alliances and networks. Amidst the hectic visits, excursions, and balls, you must never forget that the family’s fortunes could be made or unmade at one stroke. Oh, the sheer tedium of it!
Like the shrewdest politicians of their age, the Duchess’s husband juggled the interests of both Tories and Whigs without siding with either. His caution served him well. Being a staunch supporter of whatever the status quo was, he disliked revolutions and counter-revolutions in equal measure, which appealed to Father’s exacting standards. Thomas and Miranda were convinced that such a grave and reserved public face must necessarily conceal some private indiscretions, but those speculations remained idle. The Duchess provided a neutral ground on which the two opposing camps met and sized each other up.
“Miranda and I shall be on our best behaviour,” Thomas murmured in answer to the Earl’s question.
Father rounded up on him, further aggravated by the levity in his tone. Honestly, there was nothing new under the sun. “Our enemies have been spreading rumours of an estrangement, Thomas!”
The enemies of the family were much like the beggars at their gate - a faceless, amorphous mass waiting to swallow them up. It was not enough that they had been Thomas’s childhood bogeymen - oh no, they must plague his every step!
“To be fair, you have been acting distant lately,” he replied, as mildly as he could, since he had no cause to complain of it.
“Egad, do you ever listen to yourself speak?”
Past a certain point, Father’s face tended to sort of swell up. Thomas had asked Miranda not to insult any innocent creatures on its account, but the clear resemblance was difficult to ignore.
About a year ago, a certain circle of friends sought to create an alternative ceremonial calendar to that of the Court. It had been a busy November: first, the Guy Fawkes Night, then the Ides - the Roman gods were formally invited in the forms of statues - and then the birthday of the wrong monarch. Actually tame by Thomas and Miranda’s standards, but not if you asked Lord Ashbourne.
“This Season, I shall have none of your disruptive inclinations or your wife’s roving eye! This family cannot afford any of that filth anymore, so you will damn well smile and do your part to present a united front. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Father.” He bit into a fresh apple with deliberate loudness. Miranda awaited.
As if having read his mind, Father looked up sharply, but the shutters were innocently closed. “Oh, and one more thing - the mantua maker will be approved by myself, and that is not up for discussion.”
As if the news reporters’ zeal could be so easily contained. “I’m sure Miranda will appreciate your concern.”
Whether Father’s black walnut juice stains would wash off before the set date or not, was a different matter. Thomas himself had not the faintest idea of how it had come to coat the cane handle.
* * *
An old misogynist, Lord Ashbourne could not be swayed even with Antipater’s On Marriage. Most women were utterly daunted by him, so - as hard as it was to believe these days - Miranda’s usual manner used to delight him. Right until the first nasty rumours had reached his ears, and from then on, there was no undoing the damage. On a good day, Father deign to acknowledge her presence and say another word, maybe two.
In public, of course, all was well.
The Clares resided in a proud, noble edifice befitting their station, with not an item or a servant out of place; more attention had been paid to detail here than in drawing up an average parliamentary bill. It was a bit too soulless for Thomas’s tastes, but he kept that to himself. By eight o’clock, a terrible crowd had gathered, and the latecomers went on arriving. Father was vexed to have presented himself too early.
“I like the new sconces.” Despite the mantua maker’s best efforts, Miranda was the shining jewel of the parlour, and ever the embodiment of grace. Instead of obscuring her presence, the tame colours of her gown put the emphasis on her bearing and the emerald-and-amethyst necklace that Thomas had smuggled in for her. “It must have been quite a hunt.”
The sconces imitated tree branches, with looking glass in the middle, and silver round about.
Thomas nodded appreciatively. “I wonder what the dining-room has in store for us.”
“Plenty of food, I should hope!” cried Miranda. “I’m famished.” Her carefree smile suddenly grew sharper, even as her eyes widened. “You’ll never guess who has made an appearance! No, no, no, do try before you turn around.”
“You needn’t outwit me to collect your winnings, dearest,” he teased. “Is it somebody nice to look at, or somebody to provoke Father’s ire?”
“Oh, the latter!”
He listed two names off the top of his head, until Miranda’s folded fan communicated her impatience to his shoulder.
He mock gasped. “Could it be... the Vulture? I don’t believe it!” He swung around at once. “What is he doing out of retirement?”
Lord Osborne had been a thorn in Lord Ashbourne’s side for as long as Thomas could remember him. The nickname originated from the persistent round of gossip that under the magnificent wig, the man was as bald as the eponymous bird. He was gaunt of face and tall of stature, with a strict, sever aspect that conveyed conformity to order and hostility to inferiors. If he and Father had not been such bitter rivals, they should have been bosom friends. While they bore no pronounced physical resemblance to each other, their spine-crumbling gazes were veritable twins, and when in each other’s line of fire, they were a spectacle to watch.
In tow with the Vulture was a young couple whom he introduced as his nephew and niece-in-law. They instantly struck an exotic, continental note, stealing everybody’s attention. Sidney had a twinkle in his eyes, that of an errant rake putting up an honest front for his uncle’s benefit. Irene was vivacious and Greek-born.
At the banquet table, Thomas and Miranda and the charming couple were seated snugly together. Naturally, he was delighted to inquire if the lady was also a painter, referring to the ancient artist with whom she shared the name.
“Yes!” She laughed like somebody who had not been in the high society for too long. “I have not found my Alcisthenes yet.”
Boccaccio might or might not have misattributed that particular painting, conflating several female artists in his writings, but Thomas would never say ‘no’ to more beautiful works by talented women.
“You are a rare gift, sir.” Irene shifted her gaze to his wife. “And married to a Calypso!”
Miranda had already nicknamed the poor fellow: El Cid of the card table. Thomas subtly adjusted his posture, trapping Miranda’s stockinged foot between his ankles. She looked at him, utterly unrepentant, taking a dainty bite of a ripe grape. He failed to suppress a smile. Soon, her foot was at it again, now sliding up and down his calf, now all but wedged between his thighs, but never there to be caught or tickled.
“I wonder how much His Grace has spent on the candles,” Sidney mused, glancing around himself. “Some five, six hundred pounds?”
Thomas was not in the habit of counting other people’s money, so he said: “Some rooms merit full illumination.”
Sidney took it to mean the culinary masterpieces in front of them: “I am almost sorry to eat them!”
Between the flow of the conversation and Miranda’s moves, Thomas missed the moment when the… uh, Father and the Vulture came to blows. The latter had no heir, his wife having died in childbirth some twenty years ago, so that was where Father had managed to score a definitive victory - until this very rout. With his typical bluntness, Father advised his rival on how to deal with impertinent fraudsters and fortune-seekers.
Thomas’s stomach churned with tension at the impending duel. Miranda smoothed things over with Sidney and Irene. The Vulture was not called that for his appearance alone: in the spirit of offence being the best defence, he returned it in kind: a useless heir was worse than none at all.
Thomas cut into his meat determinedly, as if to cut himself out of the epicentre. He was not a coward, but he did not always trust himself in certain situations.
Father rose to his feet, either for a toast or an act of war. “As a matter of fact,” he announced grandly, “I have entrusted my son with an important project pertaining some of our overseas interests.”
He nearly dropped the fork, his hand shaking. He hastily downed some wine, even as murmurs of speculation rose in the wake of the news, the Carolinas and Jamaica both being mentioned.
There was a whiff of Biblical times in the air. “I shall do my best not to disappoint.” He reached for Miranda’s hand, squeezing it tight.
With his wife, he knew himself like with no one else. But Father, he brought out the worst in Thomas. The man that he saw in his father’s eyes was such a wretched caricature that even a person of absolute self-esteem would be shaken by the disparity.
Such was the power that Father had over him.
Growing up, Thomas had often had his light temper - presumably inherited from his mother - mistaken for docility, so mischief from him always came as a surprise. The truth was, Father’s example had made him look upon anger with a kind of visceral revulsion, squashing his own or fashioning it into nobler passions. There was nothing more poisonous than an anger that remained, undirected and unformed.
When it was time for the ladies to withdraw, he was still reeling from being put on display without a warning or a clue as to what Father had decided to release from his own bulldog grip, after years of talking to a brick wall. He did not question the pull of Miranda’s hand, nor where they were going. The respite from the noise was more than welcome.
The hallway was shadowy and deserted, and the paintings did not seem to take kindly to the intrusion into their domain.
“Should we really be here?” he wondered belatedly.
“Of course not!” She gave him a kiss. “That rather defies the point of sneaking about. Do try to keep up.”
Another heavy oaken door turned out to be unlocked. Miranda pushed him into a lavishly-decorated bedroom, all gilt and tapestries. “This will do nicely.” She snatched his wig off his head before he could make a sound.
An understanding began to dawn on him. “But Miranda!” The entire assembly had been watching them hawkishly, not to mention his parents.
“I have asked a friend to cover our tracks, so as far as anyone else is concerned, we have just left.” She tested the mattress like a new home-owner. “There will be some stink, certainly, but nothing we haven’t dealt with before. Bolt the door, will you, my love?” She drew nearer again, her fingers ghosting over his neckcloth and lapels.
He never could resist her momentum. “Say no more.”
She required some help with her attire; when she was down to the petticoat, a discovery was made. In her pockets - a matching silk pair - there was a very indecent bulge.
“You have brought that with you to a rout? And carried it between yours skirts all night?” It was not humanly possible to fall more in love with one’s wife than he already was, but he still managed to do just that.
She chuckled, awfully pleased with herself and with his reaction. “Now, be a dear and lose all that clothing.” She laid out the toy and the vial of oil on the bed, and ran her finger along the pink seam of the pocket, that one little gesture more suggestive than her entire state of undress.
The petticoat did not linger, but she retained her stockings as she lit those expensive wax candles insolently. After doing as commanded, Thomas knelt on the soft rug and trailed his mouth along the curve of her hip, following the lines of her leather harness and checking that it did not chafe her skin anywhere. It consisted of a wide strap with buckles on it, and two narrower, shorter bands, also buckled on. With his final kiss, he fastened the toy in place.
“Good boy,” Miranda told him warmly, petting his hair.
She made a startled noise as he sucked the rounded, enlarged end into his mouth. He did not care what it would look like to an outside observer, nor was it a reflection on his preferences or her anatomy. He swallowed around the leather cylinder, just relishing the act. The base was a perfect fit for his hand because it had been fashioned to their original pattern.
Her fingers tightened around his shoulder, and he pulled away to ask: “How do you want me?”
“Just as creative as you are.” She winked at him.
“Are they really impostors, what do you think?” he asked casually as Miranda tied his wrists together with the length of his own neckcloth.
With her each movement, the tip gleamed and bobbed indecently in the candlelight, in counterpoint with her firm breasts. The glow spread over her pale and creamy skin, painting streaks in her dark hair. She allowed him to catch a nipple between his teeth, but briefly, pressing him to lie back down. “If they are, I salute their daring.”
Her mouth found a tender spot on his abdomen. “You were angry before dessert. Stop beating around the bush, be angry now, with me.”
‘Before dessert’ had been a long time ago. “Ah, so that is what the restraints are for. Am I truly such a dangerous element?”
“Oh yes.” She pinched him with a vengeance. “You frustrate me to no end.”
“What have I done now?”
She met his gaze, her fingers glistening with oil. “No, the question is, what haven’t you?” She nudged his thighs further apart, teasing him rather than putting them to work. “Take your time, there is no rush.”
His back arched off the bed. “I’m not a fucking breeding horse!” he erupted, panting. “Nor a child to be shown off at whim! That was not ‘entrusting’, that was-” He struggled to find the right word.
“Thrusting?” Miranda suggested.
He blinked. “Begging your pardon?” She smiled at him indulgently. “Right, yes, I am with you now.”
“If you need to vent some more-”
He shook his head with utmost urgency. “Please fuck me.”
Her smile widened. “Some say horsemen, some say warriors…” It was Miranda who had introduced him to Sappho. “Some say a fleet of ships is the loveliest,” her gaze was on him as her fingers hit the acute, sensitive place within him, “Vision in this dark world, but I say it’s/What you love. ”
“Oh my god, Miranda,” he groaned.
“You can still talk,” she pointed out. “And think!”
He would not flatter himself with any degree of coherence.
She lowered herself between his legs, and he rushed to meet her halfway. With her hand on his hip, she pushed him back and he obeyed, giving himself over to her rhythm. She rose and sank, and then again, scattering wet kisses and broken poetry over his skin. When he was almost spent, she suddenly unfastened the toy and knelt astride his face.
“See what you do to me,” she whispered hoarsely. “Is it to be borne?”
“Yet I am not one who takes joy in wounding,” he quoted triumphantly. “Mine is a quiet mind.”
She evaded him, inverting her position so that she could slide her hot, clever mouth over him while he did as bidden. Neither of them lasted very long beyond that, and they found a sweet, aching release together.
“Could we live like that?” he wondered apropos of nothing, basking in the afterglow. “In Europe, off gambling and friends?”
Miranda nuzzled his neck, tracing oily patterns over his chest. “I don’t see why not. The choice has always been yours.” She whispered in his ear: “What do you say? Shall we elope like newlyweds?”
He sighed, looking up at the canopy. “We don’t even know what exactly he wants with me yet.”
“It’s your father we’re talking about,” she replied crossly, tapping her hand against his side. “What good can it be? Which part of you was not satisfied just now?”
The part that yearned to forge his passions into a real change, not indulge in them like the Epicureans (not that there was anything wrong with that).
Miranda flashed him a heated look. “I dare you to repeat that after I am through with you, Sir Reformer.”
Men had the unfortunate tendency to embody their philosophy, and usually one philosophy only; women knew no such limitations, but when they chose to personify something, they became a force of nature.
They had meant to leave in an hour, but it was in the early hours of the next morning that they found themselves creeping past a confused chamber maid, pressing a bribe into her hand. As the lady of the house rounded the corner, Miranda pulled him along behind a set of curtains, barely stifling their laughter in time. Never let it be said that they should not be on a guest list.