those my stockings you’re wearing?’
‘I thought they were mine, and then when I put them on they were so warm, I didn’t want to take them off.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t. I had no idea they could look so well. Nor my jumper, for that matter.’
‘I must look a sight.’
‘For sore eyes.’ He leaned over to kiss her softly. ‘I’m glad you’re here. I know we didn’t really quarrel, but it felt as though we were at odds, and I didn’t like it.’
The sky was grey-blue, covered by a thin layer of cloud. The distant stars played peekaboo through the gaps, glinting rather than twinkling. The sea shushed quietly, the waves growing smaller as the tide receded. Ainsley leaned closer to Innes, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, staring out at the water. ‘It wasn’t that he lifted a hand to me, not once, but I was afraid of him. Partly it was his fault, but partly it was my own. I told you that it was the debts,’ she said, ‘but it wasn’t just that. When you feel worthless, it’s difficult to have a say in other things, even when they concern you.’
‘Why would you feel worthless?’
She hadn’t planned this at all but it seemed right, somehow, to match Innes’s vulnerability by exposing her own. ‘The obvious reason,’ Ainsley whispered. ‘I could not give him what he married me for.’
‘You mean a child?’
She nodded, forgetting he could not see her. ‘Yes.’ She was glad of the dark. Such an old story, such an old pain, she had thought it long healed, but it seemed it was not. She could blame her tears on the wind, so she let them fall silently, biting her lip.
His arm hovered at her back. She could feel him, trying to decide whether to pull her closer or let her alone. She was relieved when he let it fall, let her wrap her own arms around herself, hug his jumper to her.
‘Ainsley, forgive me, but I know from how you were with me at first. I know that things between you and—and him— They could not have been conducive to your conceiving.’
He did not ever say John’s name, she noticed. He did not call him her husband. He was being absurdly delicate. If they had been discussing one of Madame Hera’s letters, he would have been much more forthright. If she had been one of Madame Hera’s correspondents, how much more of the truth would she have told? Ainsley shuddered. ‘When we were first married,’ she said, ‘things were—were normal between us.’ As normal as they were for many of the women who wrote to her, though she was not as fortunate as Mrs J-A, for John’s idea of traditional ministering took no account of her pleasure. For some reason, it was important that Innes know this. ‘Not as it is between us. He was not a—a gentleman in the sense you explained.’
‘No,’ Innes said gently.
So he had guessed that much, too. Ainsley tried to work out what it was she wanted to tell him. Not all. The memory of Donald McIntosh’s curse made it impossible to say it all, for though he had not actually cursed her, she felt as though he had. And though she knew it did not really diminish her, her flawed state, still she felt as though it did, and she couldn’t bear to reveal herself in that way to Innes.
Ainsley felt for his hand, seeking comfort and strength. ‘He was not a cruel man, not really, though some of the things he said and did felt cruel,’ she said. ‘It was when I first discovered the debts. That’s when he accused me of failing him. Until then, I had thought—told myself—hoped—that it was just a matter of time. Then, later, when our relationship deteriorated, he could not— He could not perform.’
It was not easy, but she had the words now; she understood so much more about herself now, and about men, since meeting Innes. ‘He blamed me. The worse things got between us— He said I unmanned him, you see. But I knew I had not because I saw him. Alone. I saw he could be aroused, only not by me.’
‘I remember now. You asked me about it, whether it was the wife’s fault.’
‘Yes. Don’t be angry. He’s dead. If he was not dead I wouldn’t be here.’
She felt his reluctant laugh. ‘Then I won’t be angry, for I’m very glad you’re here,’ Innes said.
‘Are you?’
She turned, trying to read his face in the darkness. It was impossible, but there was no need. He kissed her softly on the mouth. ‘I thought it was obvious,’ he said, borrowing her own words from earlier.
‘We’re neither of us very good at seeing that, are we?’
‘Not very.’ Innes touched her cheek, his fingers tracing a curve to her ear, her jaw, her throat. ‘It’s true, what you said earlier. There are times when I want to lose myself in you, to forget all the things I can’t resolve, but it’s you I want.’
‘Truly?’
‘You must not doubt it. You’re thinking that it’s another way of doing the same thing, my wanting you, his not. That the end result is you’re left out in the cold?’
‘Yes. I hadn’t— Not until tonight.’
Innes kissed her again. ‘Never, ever doubt that I want you for one reason, and one only. Whatever it is between us has been there from the start. I have never met a woman who brings me more pleasure than you.’
‘If you carry on kissing me, this thing, as you call it, will be between us again, and I’m trying to be serious.’ Ainsley sat up reluctantly, pushing her tangle of hair from her eyes. ‘I did not love John. I thought I did, but I did not. I thought he gave me no option but to ignore his—our—problems, but the truth is, I was relieved to be told they were none of my business, and when our marital relations broke down, I was relieved about that, too. What’s more, what I’ve learned from being with you, Innes, has made me realise it wasn’t just John who could not perform. I’m afraid my performance was pretty appalling, too. Partly it was because I didn’t know any better. Partly it was because I didn’t want to know. It was a mess I couldn’t fix because there was simply no solution.’
‘You can’t possibly be sorry that he died.’
‘That’s what Felicity said. I would never have wished him dead, but I don’t wish I was still married to him. You see what I mean?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Ainsley laughed drily. ‘I know, I’ve told this in a very convoluted way. I couldn’t give John a child, Innes.’
‘You don’t know that. It may not have been your fault. The chances are...’
Nil, was the answer. ‘Slim,’ Ainsley said, because she could not say it. ‘It’s not my fault, but it feels as if it is. Do you see now?’
‘You mean my lands.’
‘You could not help the fact that you were raised without any knowledge of them. You did not know what your father was doing—or not doing—in your absence.’
‘My elected absence. Regardless of who is to blame, they are in a mess.’
‘No, you blame yourself for the problem and for failing to fix it.’
‘I’m
