The Courtship - Catherine Coulter [45]
They spent the next two hours searching for more manuscripts that would help Spenser translate the leather scroll. “There,” he said at last, rising and brushing his dusty hands on his riding breeches. “We’ve got three sources. It is more than I expected to find. It will do.”
It was late afternoon when they left the lovely mellow peach brick vicarage, set just behind the old church amid a beautiful wild garden. There were three ladies having tea with the vicar. “The poor man,” Helen said in a low voice. “He is mercilessly hunted. His poor wife died just thirteen months ago, around the same time as his brother and your mentor, Sir Giles Gilliam.”
“I would say that vicar Gilliam is enjoying himself immensely.”
Lord Beecham didn’t lose any more of his guineas to Lord Prith at whist that evening because immediately after dinner Helen told her father that Spenser was her partner and she needed him.
Lord Prith said only, “I understand he is your partner in this lamp business, Nell, but the dear fellow is such an excellent loser at whist.”
“You can filch his guineas when he is of no more use to me, Father.”
“Ha,” said Lord Beecham, but his step was energetic, excitement rippling through him. He couldn’t wait. They’d had only a few moments when they’d arrived back at Shugborough Hall to look at the leather scroll before changing for dinner. They had looked just long enough to be absolutely certain that the scroll was written in Pahlavi.
When Helen left him at eleven o’clock that evening, he was still hunched over the manuscript, sometimes writing, sometimes cursing, sometimes humming with pleasure. She doubted that he had even heard her close the door.
She fell asleep immediately and dreamed she was holding a lamp tightly against her chest. She couldn’t breathe. She squeezed the lamp harder. Suddenly a strange thing happened. The lamp became a man, a large man who was smiling down at her even while he caressed her flesh. The man was Spenser.
She roared upright in her bed, her breath whooshing out. Oh, goodness, she thought. Every detail of the previous afternoon stood out stark and magnificent in her mind. She was shaking with the power of all those details. She swung her legs over the side of her bed.
It was one o’clock in the morning when she slipped into her study to see Lord Beecham fast asleep, his head on the desktop, not an inch from the leather scroll, the three manuscripts from Vicar Gilliam’s covering the remainder of the desk.
A candle was nearly gutted at his elbow.
There were pages on the floor beside the desk. She went down on her knees and picked up the top sheet. Written in his strong hand was:
From King Faval to his . . ? . . in Alexandria .... .. ? .. a holy man sought to secure my soul for his master . . ? . . the lamp is not real, it is from the other . . ? . . is it a gift from God or the devil? . . . he died screaming blasphemies, he cursed me for his end but he killed himself . . .
“Helen, why are you crying?”
“It is the lamp, Spenser, the manuscript is about the lamp. I’m crying because I’m so happy. It is good or evil? It isn’t real, it is from the other. . . . Oh, goodness, look at all you have accomplished.”
She jumped to her feet and threw herself onto his lap. He caught her to him as the chair collapsed and they sprawled onto the floor, Helen lying on top of him.
He was laughing so hard he couldn’t catch his breath. “I’ve never laughed like this in my benighted life. Get off me, woman.” His arms went around her. “No, I wish to change my order. Don’t move.” He grabbed a fistful of her loose hair and pulled her face down to his. He kissed her, lightly, then he rolled over on her. It quickly became something else, something urgent and frantic, and he wanted her so much that he knew, simply knew, that he would fall lifeless in a heap beside her if he couldn’t have her now. He didn’t stop kissing her as he jerked up her nightgown. His warm hands were on her thighs, her belly, caressing her. “Oh, my God, Helen, I must have you now.” He got his breeches open and