Woman Who Gave Birth to Rabbits - Donoghue [35]
Past ten o'clock: Blair Atholl at last. Effie is so stiff, Hobbs has to lift her out of the carriage. The inn is almost empty, on this Lenten Monday. Their hostess finds some syrup of violets for John's throat, and brings them some cold beef for a late supper.
Then John and their hostess exchange significant glances, and he stands up and holds out his curved arm to Effie. The newlyweds leave Hobbs downstairs warming his toes at the fire, and follow their hostess's lamp up two flights of creaking stairs. "This is quite the genteelest room in the house," she assures them, poking the fire, "and the rest of the floor is quite empty tonight, so you won't be disturbed."
Effie studies the drab watercolour of Ben Nevis that hangs over the mantelpiece.
"Might you need any help, dearie?" asks their hostess, nodding at Effie's travelling case. "Shall I send the maid up?"
The bride shakes her head.
Their hostess sets the lamp down beside the bed with a reverent air, nods to the gentleman, and shuts the door behind her.
When they are alone, John smiles at Effie. "You must be tired. I confess every joint in my body is aching. Aren't you tired?"
"A little," she says.
He goes to the window and checks that the heavy velvet drapes are quite shut. "Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night!" he says rather nasally.
Effie stares at him.
"Juliet's speech after her wedding, don't you remember?"
She nods, smiles tightly. She examines the tall screen, with its enamelled wading birds, then goes behind it to undress.
John's brows draw together as he tries to recall the lines. "There's another piece about fiery-footed steeds," he mutters, tugging at the knot of his black silk cravat, "and something about being sold but not yet enjoyed ... and then I do believe she says,
Come, gentle night, come, loving black-brow'd night,
Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun..."
He stands in his long nightshirt and cap; a tear glitters in his left eye. Effie emerges in her voluminous nightgown and comes up close to him. "So beautiful," he murmurs. "So beautiful, that image of the stars, and all the sharp little ' t's in the third line." He reaches out his hand and undoes Effie's plait now, reverently unwinding the three thick loops that encircle her head. She arches her neck like a cat. "My dear," he says, halting, "would you put your veil on again for a moment, as you promised? I barely saw it during the ceremony, in your parents' drawing room; I had my eyes shut almost throughout."
She laughs a little, and goes to fetch it from her case. "There," she says, turning with a flourish.
"Oh, Effie. Oh, my love," he murmurs, beckoning her to him and pressing his mouth to the fine white lace that lies against her eyelids. "If I look any longer I may die of joy..."
She shivers.
"But what am I thinking of, letting you catch a chill?"
Obedient, she plucks the veil off, folds it away, and scurries to the high bed. She has to climb up two mahogany steps. John gives his nose a final wipe and gets in the other side. They stare at each other like children, laughing under their breath. John starts to say something, then hushes, reaches out towards the ribbon at her neck.
But Effie, gathering all her nerve, pulls the nightgown up and over her head in one long rush, and lays herself entirely bare.
A pause, and then John moves close, very slowly, close enough to see her, smell her, drink her in. Effie feels her cheeks scald with shame and pleasure. She squeezes her eyes shut.
Nothing happens. Nothing stirs in the room, and she opens her eyes again.
Something has checked him. His reddened eyes are wary, puzzled.
"What is it, John?" Effie's voice is a squeak. "What is wrong?"
"Nothing, my dear."
The cold is dimpling her skin, sharpening her nipples now. "Was I immodest? I only wanted—"