Rare and Precious Things: The Blackstone Affair
Rare and Precious Things: Part 2 – Chapter 12

23rd November

Somerset

MY office was the best room in all of Stonewell Court. I was convinced of it. Rich oak panels on the walls framed the most magnificent window view of the ocean. It reminded me of All Along the Watchtower, Hendrix’s cover of Dylan’s song. What princess kept her view here? How many servants did she have? I surely felt like a princess in this house.

The Bay of Bristol stretched out before me, and on a clear day you could see all the way to the coast of Wales at the other end of the bay. Somerset had stunning country in every direction. I’d discovered that the inland landscape had commercial lavender fields. Miles and miles of purple flowers scenting the air, and so beautiful, your mind could barely accept what your eyes were seeing. I loved coming here for the long weekends, and I knew it was good for Ethan, too. He thrived in the peace of the place.

When Ethan and I had searched through all the rooms of the house figuring what we would use them for, I’d known the instant we’d come into this one, that I wanted it. And the amazing thing was the impressive desk already in the room, confirming that others had thought of this room as excellent workplace long before me.

The desk was the second best part, after the view. A massive, English-oak, carved beast, but perfectly balanced with artful carvings that softened its bulk, making it perfectly designed in my eyes. I liked to imagine myself sitting in front of this splendid window view of the sea and working on my projects for the university, or just as a place to take a phone call, or surf the net.

Sheer perfection.

I sipped my pomegranate tea and indulged in the deep flashing blue of the ocean under the sky right out my window. I could sit here for hours I realized, but that wouldn’t help me get anything accomplished—and I had plenty of stuff to do. I think I was moving into pregnancy “nesting” mode a little early. Ethan teased me about my nesting when he read about it in the What to Expect When You’re Expecting he kept on his bedside table, and studied religiously. And my husband was not a pleasure reader like me. He read world and sports news, and trade publications, but not fiction. He read to learn and inform. I thought it was adorable the way he followed the website and read the book so he would know what my body was up to and what was coming. Ethan was so good at preparation and planning, and pretty much everything, but especially at taking care of me.

I sighed after another moment of daydreaming, knowing I had tasks that needed attention. Not my favorite, that’s for sure. But then, I doubt wrangling computer cords is anyone’s favorite. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled under the desk to see if there was a hole drilled in the back for a power cord to feed through. Somebody must have used it in the modern era I rationalized. But maybe not. I wondered if Robbie could help me. I braced my hand on the concave inner corner and pushed, backing myself out from under my desk, when I heard a mechanical click, and then the dusty slide of wood.

JOURNALS. Three of them stacked on the top of the desk. Leather-bound, gilded, and tied with a silk cord, the pages of which, shared the private thoughts of a young woman who’d lived a long time ago, in this very house.

When I’d untied the cord stiffened with age, and opened the first book, I was captivated from the first page. To the point I forgot about everything else and got lost in her words…

7th May, 1837

I visited J. today. I shared my news with him. More than anything I would wish to have his understanding of my regret, but I know that it is out of the realm of possibilities until such a time as I meet my maker. Then I may know his feelings on the matter…

…What shall be the price of Guilt? Just five letters in a word that buries me with its weight.

…My bitter regret that now must always be born in an endless silence that has broken the hearts of all those I ever loved.

…Today I also gave my agreement to marry a man who says he wants nothing more than to care for me and to allow him to cherish me.

…So I will go to live at Stonewell Court and make my life with him, but I am very afraid of what awaits me. How will I ever rise to the standard of what is expected?

…Darius Rourke doesn’t yet understand that I do not deserve to be cherished by any man. I am torn, but alas, I am unable to deny his wishes for me, just as I was unable to deny my beloved Jonathan…

M G

Marianne George, who later became Rourke, upon her marriage to a Mr. Darius Rourke, in the summer of 1837.

The hair on the back of my neck tingled as I looked up from the journal, and out at the picturesque view. The coincidence was unbelievable.

My book of Keats, the first edition of poems, given to me by Ethan on the night he proposed, had belonged to this same Marianne as well. How could I ever forget, For my Marianne. Always your Darius. June 1837, in the elegant ink scrawl of an earlier era, as an inscription? A lover’s gift. I cherished what Darius had written to Marianne. So simple, yet so very pure in the sense of how he saw her. He loved her, and yet, for whatever the reasons, Marianne had felt unworthy of his love. Guilt weighed down on her. As it does for me. As it does for Ethan.

And now we were living in their house? I could hardly believe it. She mentioned Jonathan—the name carved on the mermaid angel statue down in garden, facing soulfully out to sea. I realized now, the statue was a memorial for her lost Jonathan, and not a grave. Because he had no grave. Jonathan had been lost out there in the beautiful and sometimes terrible sea. She loved him…and then he’d drowned. And Marianne felt she was the one accountable for what had happened to him.

She loved him…and then he’d drowned. I understood Marianne’s pain better than most people could. I understood it because, I too, longed for the release of my own guilt. Probably wouldn’t ever happen for me. Some things just have to be accepted even so the outcome will never change. Because the fact remained; I knew what it meant to feel responsible for the loss of someone you loved…and would never see again in this life.

Yes, I sensed him watching over me, but that didn’t take away the enormous loss I felt from missing him. The hole in my heart that his death created was still a cavern. The guilt I wrestled with daily, still feeling it was mostly my fault, remained within me. I missed my dad. I hadn’t realized just how much his love and support had protected me until I experienced the loss of it. I missed his presence. I missed his love. I just missed him.

Dad, I miss you so much…

As if to shake me out of my sad thoughts, I felt a kick and then a nudge. I smiled and rubbed my expanding belly. “Well hello there, butterfly angel.”

My angel poked me in the ribs for an answer, making me laugh at the timing. The movements didn’t feel like butterfly wings anymore at twenty-six weeks, but the name had stuck in my head. “I suppose you’re telling me you want to eat, which means I need to put some food in, right?”

“Brilliant child we have, baby, and I agree wholeheartedly. You do need to eat,” Ethan said behind me, draping his big hands on my shoulders and inhaling deeply. He scraped his beard along my neck as he nuzzled the sensitive spot with kisses. I leaned back into him and tilted my neck for better access, and an inhale of my own—he always smelled so amazing. My man liked to smell me, too. Everywhere. A bit kinky, but it showed how he bared his honesty with me. I liked honest. I needed honest in order to function in our relationship.

“Ahh, you’ve caught me talking to myself again.”

“Not yourself, but little lettuce, and that makes all the difference. I don’t think we need to ship you off to Bethlem Hospital just yet,” he quipped.

“We have a lettuce baby this week?” I shook my head at how funny it was to me that he could memorize every fruit and vegetable on that prenatal website. He was right every single time, too. I was starting to think he might have a photographic memory. Ethan remembered everything, while I was getting “pregnancy brain” and forgetting just about everything I’d ever learned. I felt another jab. “Here, feel. Baby is kicking right now.”

He spun the chair and knelt in front of me, quickly pushing my shirt up and the waistband of my leggings down, to expose my bump. I pointed to the spot where the action was happening and we both watched. It took a minute, but then the slow roll of what was most likely a tiny foot, poked my skin out as clear as day, before retreating back inside the space just as quickly.

“Awww, did you see that?” he asked in wonderment.

“Um yeah,” I nodded, “I felt it, too.”

He kissed over the spot very gently and whispered, “Thanks for looking out for your mum and seeing that she eats on time.” Then he looked up at me with a serious expression—not stern, but not smiling either—just intense and full of emotion.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You are utterly amazing, you know that?”

I brought my hand up to his cheek and held it there. “Why am I?”

“Because of everything you’ve given to me. Of what you can do.” He turned his eyes down again, framing my belly with both of his palms. “Creating life inside here.” He flipped his eyes back up to me. “For loving me as I am.”

My heart hitched in a small stab of pain at the last part he mentioned. Ethan was struggling still, with what he’d revealed to me about Mike’s horrific torture when he was a prisoner. I hated to think about it, but I could only imagine how exponentially more painful it was for Ethan to remember, than it was for me to hear about and imagine. Ethan had lived it. And couldn’t forget, because his subconscious forced him to relive the terror at its whim. But I was working on replaceing a therapy placement for him through Dr. Roswell—something he felt comfortable with, and could lead him through helpful techniques and methods to ease some of his torment. I refused to accept any other alternative for him. Ethan was going to replace some relief, I was bound and determined.

“I don’t want you any other way than how you are. You are just what you are supposed to be.” I leaned down to kiss him on the lips, but he met me first, engulfing me in a deep kiss that left me breathless when he finally pulled away.

“Now, if little lettuce wasn’t insisting upon food right now, I would have to carry you off somewhere, missus, and show you a really good time.” He raised his brows at me saucily before restoring my leggings and shirt back to their original state with determined efficiency. “But, alas, that is not the case.” He stood first, then helped me up by the hand, and then bringing it to his mouth for a soft kiss. “After you, my lady.”

“Such the gentleman right now, Mr. Blackstone,” I said as I went ahead of him. “What’s the occasion?”

He smacked me sharply on the ass as an answer.

“Oh!” I squealed, “You did not just spank my ass, Blackstone!”

He laughed the deep laugh I loved to hear and leapt out of my reach. “I am afraid I did, baby, now move that spectacular American ass of yours down to the kitchen so we can feed you.”

“Payback’s gonna be fun for me,” I said, looking back over my shoulder and narrowing my eyes.

“Promise?” he said at my ear. “What are you going to do?”

“Oh…I don’t know. Maybe something…like this—” I spun around and grabbed his crotch, replaceing my target easily, giving a little squeeze to his prized possessions. “A tug on your balls for a slap to my ass sounds about fair.”

The look on his face was priceless. And the very surprised open mouth.

“I have you by the balls, Blackstone,” I reminded him.

He laughed and leaned down to kiss me. “This is not new information to me, my beauty.”

“IT’S a surprise, I told you. You have to trust me.” I led her along carefully, a silk scarf over her eyes serving as a blindfold. “I want to show you before everyone begins swarming down upon us for your Thanksgiving.”

My girl had decided that she wanted to do a Thanksgiving dinner at our place and invite everyone to join in the US holiday we didn’t officially celebrate in England, but with such strong influence from our American friends across the pond, was certainly gaining momentum in the UK. Brynne wanted a nice house party to serve as a housewarming of sorts, so we were hosting—and would be circled in another half day. My dad and Marie were traveling up together, as were Neil and Elaina. Fred, Hannah and the kids of course, plus Clarkson and Gabrielle. We’d have a house crammed with guests and I would have to share my girl with everyone else for a few days.

I never wanted to share her.

She sniffed the air. “I smell cloves so we must be near your office?”

No more smokes in the house.

I was back to my once-a-day habit after my slip the night of the Senator’s—cocksucking bloody serpent—ultimatum. Make that, Vice-President of the United States of America. Or he would be come January, once the new president was installed in the White House. Colt-Oakley had indeed won the US election earlier in the month by a sweeping margin. Having a hideously wounded soldier for a son was a helluva way to stir patriotism and win votes. And apparently, it was inconsequential if the same son abused young girls with his friends at parties, and made videos of it happening. The landslide was no surprise for any of us.

Brynne seemed resigned to putting her past behind her for good, and for that I was very grateful. She didn’t offer much about Oakley, nor of their meeting, to me. She had said she’d felt less troubled by the visit than expected, but I hoped she’d worked through it with Dr. Roswell, because I couldn’t bear the idea of her suffering anymore because of his problems. That hospital visit was hard enough on me, so I couldn’t imagine how she felt having to see him, speak to him…and touch him. I closed my eyes and shoved the thoughts of Lance Oakley down and away. I breathed in my girl’s intoxicating scent in front of me and focused on what I wanted to show her instead.

“You are relentless right now. I forget sometimes just how competitive you are.” Which was straight-up truth. Brynne was a scrapper at her core. A girl who went in with her fists up—ready to deal a blow, or take a hit on the chin. I loved it, and thought it made her just that much hotter. “And I think it’s fucking hot, baby.”

She laughed softly at my last comment, the sexy sound of her making my cock bone hard and my mind race with possibilities.

“All right, we’re here,” I said at her ear, positioning her body exactly how I wanted so the view would be the best it could be when she saw the surprise. “And I think you should know that I’ve been waiting for this for six months. Six long months I’ve thought about this moment,” I said dramatically.

“That is a long time, Ethan, I agree with you. Kinda feels like I’ve been waiting six months to get this blindfold off.”

I tapped her lips with a finger, and then traced around them slowly. “Such a smart mouth, baby, and I have busy plans for it later…but right now I want you to see the surprise, so I suppose I’ll take this blindfold off you now.” I began unknotting the scarf as her breathing picked up the pace. My words had turned her on. “This silk scarf is sexy as hell on you, by the way. I think I should remember to use it again sometime,” I whispered at her neck.

“Mmmm,” she moaned very softly. Just a low breathy sound that told me a lot about her true feelings regarding the blindfold. I wouldn’t forget.

“Your surprise,” I said, pulling the scarf away.

She blinked up at the portrait of herself, silently observing. I wondered if she saw it as I did. The mile-long legs pointing straight up with crossed ankles, the arm shielding her breasts, the strategically splayed fingers between her legs, hair spread out on the floor to the side.

The same image Tom Bennett had sent along in an email to me, when he asked for my help in keeping his daughter safe. The captivating photograph of her I’d seen in the gallery the night I met her, and bought on impulse, not knowing the gallery required six months of display before they would release it me. The portrait of my beautiful American girl—now in my sole possession.

Utterly breathtaking.

“You finally have it.” Her voice was low and soft as she studied the huge canvas taking up the dominant wall in my office study at Stonewell.

“I do indeed.”

“Having this picture of me really means a great deal to you, Ethan.” She leaned her body into mine as we both looked at the image.

“Oh, yes it does.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Well, this image was the first part of you my eyes ever looked upon. I saw this picture and knew I had to have it. It was just a defining moment I can’t really explain properly, but one I understand perfectly.”

I rubbed up and down her arms slowly, dropping my lips down to the base of her neck. I flicked my tongue out for a taste of her skin, loving how she tilted and exposed her neck for me. So generous all the time, she never ceased to amaze me.

“I had never met a collector before that night I met you,” she said wistfully. “The idea that you’d bought my portrait, and then were meeting me in person…was a very defining moment for me, too. That night—you standing there in your dark grey suit—the way you looked at me from across the room—was something I will never forget as long as I live.”

Her words shot straight to the center of me. “I couldn’t forget that moment even if I tried, Brynne. It’s seared into my memory.”

“Why, Ethan?”

“Come here.” I turned her so I could look into those beautiful brown-green-grey eyes of hers and rubbed my thumbs over her cheekbones. “I couldn’t forget you that night because when I saw you in person for the first time…it was the moment I came alive again.”

Her eyes got the glassy look in them. When she feels a great deal of emotion I see it in her, so I knew my words were something meaningful to her. They were true. Seeing Brynne that first time…brought me back to life somehow, some way, and none of it was planned or expected. It just happened that way.

“It’s true. You made me want to live, at a time when I knew I’d never really thought about, or cared much about, what the future held,” I repeated.

“I love you, Ethan.”

“I love you more, my beauty.”

Her expression changed from emotion to something else. Something just as wonderful in my opinion—a sultry, I-want-you look.

“So, you said something about plans to keep my mouth busy,” she hummed in a low voice, her eyes darkening as the lids lowered slightly.

“Are you offering, baby?” I managed to ask without my voice cracking too badly.

She dropped to her knees on the thick Oriental carpet beneath us, and gave me the most excellent response. With her equally excellent and very busy mouth.

“BRYNNE, my darling, you are to be congratulated for an outstanding meal. To Thanksgiving,” my dad toasted enthusiastically with his glass of wine, “which I say is a lovely idea that I think we should repeat every year. Make it a tradition for this family.”

“I wholeheartedly agree, Jonathan,” Marie began. “Yes, my sweet Brynne, it was so lovely. It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed an American Thanksgiving meal as you’ve prepared it with the yams and the cranberry sauce. Fetches back some really happy memories for me. I am so glad you decided to bring Thanksgiving to us, and I would love to make it our new tradition, as Jonathan said.” She glanced over at my dad with a look of total devotion.

I knew Brynne’s great aunt was half American by birth, but had spent all of her adult life in England. Marie had also caught the eye of my father. I wasn’t sure exactly what was going on between the two of them, but I had a pretty good idea. I’d know after tonight for sure, depending on what rooms they used or didn’t use for sleeping.

Everyone went ’round the table in turn, giving their toasts and acknowledging my girl for her efforts, as they should. Even Zara gave her sincere appreciation for the pumpkin pie, which reminded her a bit of gingerbread but much “squishier.”

Brynne thanked them all for coming to share it with us, blushing under their praise, so graceful and humble. She was an accomplished cook, but this I already knew. She had been cooking for me as soon as we’d gotten together and I just chalked it up to my tremendous capacity for luck in getting a girl who was good at everything she did.

There were two areas of my life when I’d been blessed with luck. One of them was at cards—for a time—until I left it behind me. The other was in replaceing her. And that gift was for forever—until I drew my last breath.

“I have a toast,” I said, raising my glass. Looking at all the faces of my family and our friends who’d come to be with us, and share in a celebration of thanks together, it all felt very fitting.

I realized thankfulness was my truth for the first time.

“To my beautiful American girl, for reminding us all to be thankful.” I put my eyes solely on her. “But mostly me…because she’s helped me to see all of the blessings in my life I didn’t notice before. She’s the reason I have anything at all to be thankful for.” I spoke the truth out loud for everyone to hear. “She is my thanksgiving.”