Читать книгу Rules For Being A Mistress - Tamara Lejeune - Страница 7

Unlike the cold, dark hall upstairs, the kitchen was warm and inviting. Cosy dropped his bag next to the huge brick chimneypiece, placed the branch of candles on the big work table, and invited him to sit down. Though shabby and threadbare, the two chairs beside the fire were upholstered in brocade and must have graced a drawing-room at some point in their careers. As promised, a tortoiseshell cat was curled up in one of them. Benedict took the other.

Miss Cosy’s easy manners seemed better suited to the kitchen. He felt that he was now in her domain and that she, and not he, was in charge. Briskly, she stirred up the small banked fire with the poker, adding a few broken bits of wood to it. Then she stood on tiptoe to retrieve the whiskey bottle from its niche in the chimneypiece. She poured a generous measure into a glass.

“Get this in you quick as you can,” she said, holding it out to him.

He raised a brow. “You keep the brandy in the chimney, do you?”

Her eyes twinkled at him. They were green as the sea. He was less sure about the color of her hair. In this light, it looked more yellow than orange. “There’s no brandy in this chimney,” she told him. “It’s whiskey. And it’s doing you no good this side of your tonsils.”

Leaving him to it, she took the kettle into the scullery to fill it from the pump. “He’ll spoil the milk if he stays,” Nora warned her, taking the kettle from her.

Cosy was not surprised to find Nora hiding or, rather, spying, in the scullery.

“That is an ignorant superstition, Nora Murphy,” she said angrily. “Anyway, he can’t help being left-handed, poor man. He’s an amputee.”

“I had the notion he was foreign the moment I clapped eyes on him,” Nora said darkly.

“Aren’t you ashamed to be so ignorant?” Cosy scolded her. “He’s had his right arm amputated at the elbow, Nora. That means it was cut off by the surgeon. Now, go and make up the fire in my room before I lose my temper.”

Nora was shocked. “Your room, Miss Cosy!”

Cosy blushed. “I’ll be sleeping with you in the attic, of course,” she snapped.

When she returned to the kitchen with the kettle, the Englishman was sitting as straight as a ramrod in his chair, but he had finished his whiskey like a man. Encouraged by his thirst, Cosy set the kettle on the hook, swung the arm into the fire, and then refilled his glass. Not a word of thanks did he utter. She could only suppose that extreme privation had made him forget his manners. And, of course, being English, he had little manners to begin with.

She tied on her apron. “You’re hungry, of course,” she said brightly. “And if there’s anything I won’t stand for, it’s a hungry man in my kitchen.”

“No, thank you,” he replied.

“It’s no trouble,” she assured him.

Incredibly, he claimed not to be hungry.

“Are you sick?” she demanded.

“Certainly not,” he said coldly.

“Would you not have something?” she pleaded. “Even if it’s only bread and jam.”

Benedict sipped his second whiskey, accustoming himself to the smoky flavor. “You seemed to be having trouble hearing me, Miss Cosy,” he said. “I am not hungry.”

The sad fact was, she had little in the house to tempt a man’s appetite.

“You should have been here last week, sir,” she sighed. “The scallops were so nice. You wouldn’t have said no to them. God forgive me; I nearly forgot the pear! With a drop of honey, it’ll make you a nice tart.”

She looked at him hopefully, but he was unmoved. “I dined earlier in Chippenham.”

She retreated reluctantly. “If you’re sure you’re not hungry…”

“I am!” he told her curtly.

“Oh, you are hungry,” she cried, delighted. “Will it be the tart, then?”

“No, I’m not hungry,” he said, cutting short her pleasure. “I am absolutely certain of it.”

He sipped his whiskey.

“Sure that pear was bruised anyway,” she said, rallying. “Is it a pipe you smoke, Sir Benedict? I could fill it for you. My own father smokes a pipe, and, ever since I was a young girl, I’d always fill it for him, so it’s no trouble.”

“I don’t smoke,” he said.

She smiled incredulously. “You don’t smoke?”

“Not anymore,” he said with more accuracy. “The tax has become so impertinent, I have decided to give it up for a bad habit.”

“In that case, I’d say your coat’s been sneaking a few behind your back.” She laughed.

Benedict was horrified. “That is not the scent of my tobacco,” he said quickly. “I was obliged to take up some stranded people on the road. The gentleman smelled of cheap tobacco—and perfume, unfortunately. The carriage was utterly polluted. But I had no choice. In good conscience, I could not have left them out in the rain.”

“’Tis such a bother, indeed, taking in strangers on a cold, wet night,” she gravely agreed. “Sure they’re more trouble than they’re worth, them strangers, and never a word of thanks!”

“Quite,” he answered, in no way connecting her remarks to his own situation. “But one must always be charitable to those in need. I apologize if the odor offends you.”

“Ah, no. It’s myself that owes you an apology,” she said, sitting down on the brick step with her back to the fire. “Here I thought you’d been out all night, smoking and womanizing, like a proper gentleman!” Her green eyes danced.

Benedict could not believe the woman had sat down in his presence. Usually, his reserved manner was enough to curtail all such impudence. “No, indeed, Miss Cosy,” he said stiffly. “I told you I no longer smoke.”

She laughed out loud. “Just the womanizing then?”

Benedict stared at her. The women of his own class, ladies, never laughed with their mouths open. It was considered vulgar, but, perhaps more important, few women of this age had better than tolerable teeth. So, instead of laughing out loud, they smirked, they tittered, and they giggled behind their gloved fingertips or their fans.

He ought to have been disgusted by this vulgar, laughing Irish girl. Instead, inexplicably, her laughter aroused him. He suddenly wanted to make love to her right there, right where the cat sleeps. It was an irrational impulse, of course, like all sexual attraction, but to deny it would have been even more irrational, and, where irrationality could not be avoided, Benedict liked to keep it to a minimum. Recognizing the attraction was the first step in controlling it.

“I am too old for such exercise, Miss Cosy,” he said firmly.

“Ah, no. Your hair is still black, and your back is still straight. Why, you couldn’t be more than a hundred and ten.”

“Miss Cosy!” he said sharply. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Only for about the past five hours,” she said with mock exasperation.

“I am thirty-eight,” he said indignantly. “You cannot be more than twenty-two.”

The kettle whistled, and she jumped up to take it off the hook. “Are you sure you won’t have a cup, Sir Benedict?” she asked. “No sense wasting a boiling kettle, is there?”

“No; I thank you. One is obliged to drink so much tea in society that I never drink it in private life.” He held out his glass. “Whiskey will suffice, I think.”

Cosy hesitated. Having learned from bitter experience that a third glass of whiskey could turn even the most respectable man into a thorough blackguard, she had decided to cut him off at two. “That would be your third, sir,” she reminded him gently. “You might want to slow down.”

“Why?” he said sharply. “Is there something wrong with your whiskey?”

She stared at him blankly for a moment, then, for no reason he could detect, burst out laughing. Again, her laughter had its unsettling effect on his physiology. With tears in her eyes, she uncorked the bottle. “You’ve earned your third glass, so you have. ‘Is there something wrong with your whiskey?’” she repeated as she poured it out.

She sat down on the step again and wiped her streaming eyes with the corner of her apron. “It’s just the sort of thing Sandy would say, to get a third glass out of me. He could always make me laugh, Sandy. God forgive me, he’s the one I miss the most.”

Benedict felt absurdly jealous of the unknown Sandy.

“I’ve three brothers altogether,” Cosy said, after a moment, persevering in the face of his apparent indifference. The man had a face like carved marble. “They appreciated my cooking,” she added, giving him a look of strong reproach. “Of course, they’d eat their own fists if I let them, so it’s hardly a compliment.”

Benedict was pleased. “I see. Sandy is your brother?”

“One of three,” she reiterated.

The possibility of three Irishmen running tame in his house, eating their own fists, did not appeal to Benedict at all. “Are they in Ireland?” he asked, concerned.

“They are not. Larry’s in hell, of course,” she said matter-of-factly, “but there’s hope for Sandy, I’m thinking. I’m on my knees for him, anyway. They served in the Fifty-fourth, the Duke of Kellynch’s Own Regiment of Foot. Do you know it?”

He spoke gravely. “Yes, of course. Only four men survived the Waterloo action.”

She nodded. “My father was one. He’s in India now, with two hundred fresh recruits. Larry and Sandy were not so fortunate. They died there in Belgium, like so many.”

“I’m sorry,” he said gravely. “Especially in regards to poor Larry.”

“They were fighting men,” she said simply. “Were you at Waterloo?”

“Only as an observer.” Benedict held up his glass. “To the fighting Kellynch.”

The toast earned him an unprecedented fourth glass of whiskey. The drink seemed to be loosening his tongue, which pleased her. She thought he was the most interesting man she had ever met. She could have talked to him all night. She never wanted to go to bed.

“You said you had three brothers.”

“My youngest brother is on his way to India now,” she told him. “That’s Dan. He’s only eighteen, the lamb. When you knocked, I was afraid you might be bringing me bad news.”

Reassured that her father and brothers were all out of the way, he had no further interest in her family. “How long have you been acquainted with Lord Skeldings?” he asked abruptly.

“Skeldings?” she repeated in surprise. “Which one is he?”

“How many have there been?” he wanted to know.

“Too many,” she said frankly. “One more lordship, and I’m off to America.”

He frowned at her. “Lord Skeldings is the owner of this house, Miss Cosy.”

“Is he so? It was all handled by agents,” she explained. “I asked only for a nice, quiet place in a respectable street. So I did all right for myself, I think?”

“Certainly Camden Place is respectable enough for anyone,” he said.

She wrinkled up her forehead. “Pretty steep, though, I’m thinking?”

“Yes; but walking uphill is good exercise.”

“No; I meant the rent.” She laughed. “Don’t you think it’s exorbitant? Sure England is a dear place; everything is exorbitant.”

“Not everything, surely,” he murmured.

By strict definition, it was impossible for everything to be exorbitant, of course, but Miss Cosy did not seem to concern herself with definitions, strict or otherwise. Her fondness for the word “nice,” for example, almost amounted to a speech impediment. “Aye; everything!” she insisted. “I’ve not had a nice joint of beef these three weeks together. Eleven pence a pound! And now it’s Lent, and I couldn’t have it, even if I could afford it.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. If Miss Cosy was to be his mistress, she would have to learn to be more precise in her choice of words, and to elevate her conversation above these mundane matters in which he had no interest. To that end, he would recommend books for her, to improve her mind and refine her tongue. Her soft, creamy voice would remain unchanged. He didn’t even mind her Irish accent. It occurred to him suddenly that she might not be able to read at all; reading was widespread among women of the upper and middle classes, but most of the lower orders, both male and female, usually were illiterate. This was especially true in Ireland.

“What do your friends call you?” she asked him suddenly. “Benny? Or Dick?”

He was appalled. “Neither, I trust!”

“They can’t call you Sir Benedict,” she pressed him. “It’s unnatural.”

“It is not unnatural,” he said stiffly. “It is my name. My brother and, occasionally, my sister, call me Ben,” he added reluctantly. “I don’t encourage it. I believe nicknames are a form of degradation.”

“It’s a form of affection,” she argued, laughing. “Ben. I like it.”

Rather to his own surprise, he made no objection to this form of degradation.

She leaned toward him. “Did you know that, in the Italian language, ‘ben’ is an endearment?” she asked him.

He shook his head. To his astonishment, she began to sing to him softly in Italian.

“Caro mio ben,

credimi almen,

senza di te

languisce il cor.”

He had not been sung to by a woman since his nursery days. Her voice was light and pleasing, though by no means perfect. As she sang, she moved her fingers along her knee as if she were playing the melody on a pianoforte. The simple, plaintive melody tugged at him, body and soul. Without understanding a word of Italian, he was seduced.

She translated. “My dear beloved, believe me at least. In want of you, my heart languishes.” She laughed at his amazement. “Sure, I’m Italian in my heart.”

“You should have lessons.”

“Is it as bad as that?”

“I didn’t mean—” he began quickly, but she waved him off.

“It’s true, I’m no singer. All the lessons in the world won’t change that.”

“But you’ve had some education,” he said cautiously.

“Now that would be grievously overstating the matter! I’ll say this for my father: if ever any of his children wanted to learn something, he made it possible. Fortunately, hooligans like ourselves never do want to learn much.”

He frowned. “Why do you say ‘fortunately’?”

“We never had much money,” she explained without hesitation. “What we had, my father, in his wisdom, gambled away. He’d have been overwhelmed, poor man, if the five of us had been scholars! I remember, once it was so bad, we had to sell everything in the house, except for my pianoforte, and we ate our dinners off it because we had no table.”

“Oh?” he said. “You play the pianoforte?”

“At least as well as I sing,” she said. “My father won the pianoforte at cards when I was five. There was money then. I had lessons. It was the only thing he ever gave me that didn’t end up under the auctioneer’s hammer. Do you like music?”

“Very much,” he said, but with the air of one closing a subject. “Miss Cosy, shall we speak plainly?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Are we not speaking plainly now, Ben?”

“I have enjoyed our conversation very much,” he began, looking at her directly. “You know, of course, that I’m an amputee. Tell me now if it disgusts you. I will not be offended.”

For a moment she was too startled to answer, but her gaze did not falter. She said firmly, in a voice that rang true, “It does not disgust me, Ben. Why would you think so?”

“Some females do find it rather off-putting. I don’t blame them.”

“Then they don’t deserve the pleasure of your company,” she said indignantly.

“I’m a single man,” he went on, encouraged, “and, like all single men of property, I must marry. I’ve come to Bath to find a wife, in fact.”

“Then it’s London you want, not Bath,” she said knowledgeably. “From what I hear, all the English girls go to London on purpose to find husbands. So they’re halfway to the altar already, right? And you, with your good looks, and your fine, dry wit, you’d slay them.”

“I’ve tried London,” he said, a little disconcerted by this advice. “My plan in coming to Bath was to find some plain, dull, respectable woman to be my wife. She needn’t even be pretty. She could have a hump for all I care. All I ask is that she be young enough to give me a son, and sensible enough to leave me alone after that.”

Cosy burst out laughing. “Plain, dull, respectable, with a hump! Where exactly do you plan on finding this dream girl?”

“It is no laughing matter,” he said coldly, which only made her laugh more. “For myself, I wouldn’t marry at all, but there’s the baronetcy to consider, and the electorate. They will expect me to marry an unexceptional woman. The moment I saw you, Miss Cosy, I knew that all my carefully laid plans were in jeopardy. To put it bluntly, you are too beautiful.”

“Ben!” she said, hitting him on the knee. “Are you flirting with me?”

“I never flirt,” he said curtly. “I am perfectly serious. Your presence here can only mean trouble for me—trouble I can ill afford. How am I supposed to pursue a marriage with some dreary, good woman when you’re here? You look like bloody Venus!” he accused.

She laughed. “You’ve met Venus? What was she like? Was she as tall as me?”

“The point is,” he said sternly, “any woman I court would suspect me of harboring some secret, passionate regard for you. There would be gossip. I’m a respectable man, Miss Cosy. The last thing I need is gossip. That being the case, I have no choice but to make you an offer. I don’t like it; it is not the way I hoped to start things off here in Bath. But I have considered the matter very carefully, and it is the only logical thing to do.”

Her eyes were round. Hastily, she held up both hands. “I’m going to have to stop you right there, Ben, before this becomes awkward.”

He scarcely paused. “Obviously, you are a very desirable female. I am prepared to offer you generous terms. You would want for nothing for the rest of your life.”

He realized that he sounded rather like a corporation attorney but he couldn’t help that. To fly off into romantic rhapsodies would have been so out of character for him that it would have amounted to a form of deception, and, if she was to share his bed, Miss Cosy deserved to know his true character. He was neither passionate nor romantic.

“If it is the thought of intimacy that repels you, let me reassure you on that score. I would not presume to enjoy relations with you more than, say, twice a week. Twice a week is not unreasonable, surely, for a woman of your age.”

“No,” she was obliged to admit. She had already remarked the sad lack of children in the city of Bath; now she understood why it should be so. Where the adults came from remained a mystery to her. “Do you think you might be a wee bit drunk, Ben?” she asked him gently.

“I am not drunk,” he said, annoyed. “Consider this: if you accept me, it will be in my power to present you to a better class of gentlemen than you are likely to meet with in Bath. Nothing would be beyond your reach in London. I certainly wouldn’t stand in your way if you got a better offer and decided to leave me.”

Cosy was on her feet. “I’m afraid, sir,” she said indignantly, “that in Ireland we take marriage rather more seriously than this! Why, in God’s name, would I marry a man who couldn’t be bothered to stand in my way?”

Benedict blinked at her. “Who said anything about marriage?” he demanded.

“You did! Didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t asking you to marry me,” he said vehemently. “Do you think me a fool?”

Cosy was flabbergasted. “Well, I don’t know you very well, do I?” she retorted.

His eyes narrowed. “You may be a little piece of heaven, my girl, but I am not so bowled over by your beautiful eyes that I forget myself!” he said angrily. “I am a gentleman. Gentlemen don’t marry women like you. It would be a highly reprehensible connection, degrading to us both. I’d be a laughingstock. My career in Parliament would be over. I couldn’t very well present you to my family and friends, now, could I?”

“Oh!” was all she could say.

“Let there be no pretense between us, madam,” he said. “You know perfectly well I was asking you to be my mistress. Don’t become the outraged innocent with me!” he went on as Cosy choked on her own fury. “I am prepared to offer you a thousand pounds if you will come away with me tomorrow. The rest can be negotiated when we get to London. We’ll be drawing up papers, of course. You can have an attorney, if you like.”

“Papers! Attorney!” she spat.

“Of course. I suppose in Ireland things are not so civilized?”

Cosy pulled herself together. He had reminded her that she represented Ireland in this sordid little conflict. She must not allow him to get the better of her. “No, indeed,” she said coldly. “We’re savages!”

He shook his head. “I suspected as much. Rest assured, we will have a legally binding contract, Miss Cosy. It is as much for your protection as it is for mine. If I should fail to meet my obligations, you will have recourse under the law. And vice versa.”

“How nice for us! How civilized!”

“Yes. You will come to London with me for a thousand pounds.”

It was not a question. The Englishman really assumed that, for a mere thousand pounds, she would gladly leave her home and her family to become nothing more than his whore. He might say “mistress,” but that was just perfume. Nothing could disguise the stench.

For this insult, he deserved to suffer the worst humiliation of his life.

“Not so fast there, darling,” she said sweetly, her pleasant voice masking her anger. “I’ll have to see the goods first, you understand. How do I know you’re bona fide?”

Secretly, Benedict was disappointed by her cold, calculated response to his offer, but, without a change of expression, he reached inside his coat for his wallet. “I’m glad you mean to be reasonable, my dear. I am not entertained in the least by feminine hysterics. It is essentially a business arrangement, and I prefer to conduct my business without emotion.”

He took out a thousand pound note.

Cosy looked at it, her fury hardening like hot steel plunged into icy water. “That is not what I meant, sir,” she said, smiling angelically.

“Naturally, I am not adverse to establishing my good faith,” he said. “Forgive me! I do not have the pleasure of understanding you. What is it you want of me? As fetching as you are, Miss Cosy, you can not expect to receive a larger sum.”

“Money’s a fine thing, sir,” she observed, “but I’ll not be shagging your wallet, now, will I? No, ’tis your naked body I’ll be laboring like a slave to please. I’d be a fool, wouldn’t I, if I didn’t take a long, hard look at your dangler before I commit myself to such an arrangement?”

The crudity of her language shocked him. “You certainly are a soldier’s daughter!”

“Did you mistake me for a fine lady?” she returned coolly. “I wouldn’t buy a horse without looking it in the mouth, and I won’t take a man to my bed unless he passes inspection.”

“You expect me to—to undress?” he said incredulously. “Here in the kitchen?”

“It’s the warmest spot in the house,” she pointed out. “We could even do the deed here, if you like,” she added, her sweet, lazy smile at odds with the breathtaking naughtiness of what she was suggesting. “Sure! We’ll pile the cushions on the floor, and you can mount me any way you please, for I’m not at all particular, not when I like a fellow as much as I like you.”

She had gone too far; with his scarred face and his amputated arm, he knew he was no young girl’s dream. “Let us not be ridiculous, Miss Cosy.”

She looked down at her hands. “For all I know, you’re covered in sores. If I went to London with you, only to find out you’re scabrous—!” She shuddered delicately. “I’d be stuck in London with a scabby man, now, wouldn’t I?”

“I am not covered in sores, you hussy,” he snapped.

“Good,” she said. “Then you won’t mind proving it. You don’t plan on coming to my bed all buttoned up, with your boots on, I hope?” she added impatiently. “So I’ll be seeing you in the flesh anyway. Right?”

Her request, while startling, was not unreasonable, he reflected. After all, a lady entertaining an offer of marriage had the right to know the character of her future husband before she accepted him. Did it not follow that a woman in Miss Cosy’s position had the right to know that her future lover was physically sound before she threw herself into his power?

As incredible as it seemed, he was actually considering displaying his nude body to a strange female in a kitchen.

“Is it as bad as that, sir?” she said pityingly. “Is it scales? Carbuncles?”

Benedict abruptly stood up and began to struggle out of his coat. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with my body—apart from its obvious defect, that is.”

He threw his coat down, and stood in his waistcoat and shirt sleeves. The right sleeve of his finely pleated linen shirt had been cut short at the elbow and neatly hemmed, unlike his coat, which was tailored in the usual way.

“Of course, if you’d rather not,” she said quickly, “I’ll understand!”

“No. I insist. You are perfectly right to safeguard your health by making certain of mine,” he said, unbuttoning his waistcoat.

“You can keep your shirt on if you prefer.”

His lip curled. “I would not have you treat me any differently than you would your other lovers!” he said coldly. “You will find nothing wrong with me, however.”

Loosening his cravat, he tore off his collar and pulled his shirt off over his head.

She stared at him in dismay. While he was not covered in sores, the thick, bristling, black hair that covered his torso was scarcely more attractive to her than a nasty rash would have been. On his chest it grew in ugly, black whorls, and, on his belly, deep, thick chevrons plunged downward to his loins. She hardly looked at his amputated limb. That, at least, she thought, a little irrationally, is not his fault.

“There,” he said, slapping his belly proudly. “That, madam, is all muscle. I walk four miles a day without fail. I am as fit as a fiddle.”

A hairy fiddle! she thought with ill-concealed disgust.

In a few minutes more, after an embarrassing struggle with his boots, he was standing before her naked as the day he was born. As always, his posture was excellent. The hair at the joining of his thighs was especially bushy, and the pale flesh of his manhood retreated into it like a little bird into a nest. It was so ugly it was almost fascinating.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully. “You don’t look like the sort of man who’d be all furry under his clothes. I thought you’d be smoother.”

“As you can see, madam, there is nothing the matter with my private parts,” he said, taking himself in hand. “Normal in size and color. Scrupulously clean. Free of all disease.”

Cosy tried to look knowledgeable and interested. “Could you turn around please?” she asked. Her voice squeaked, and she cleared her throat to regain some control over it.

“Certainly.”

“Hmmm,” she said thoughtfully, as she considered what to do next. If she hit him on the head with the poker, there would be the danger of killing him, while the bellows might not be heavy enough to knock him out completely. It was a difficult choice. Meanwhile, the back side of the man was not unworthy of a glance. His shoulders, back, and buttocks were smooth and white. His muscular legs were as much like carved marble as she could wish. There was only a little hair on the back of his calves. If only the front of him matched the back!

“Well?” Benedict said.

“Hush, man! The angels are singing,” she said, stalling for time. Her eye went to the bottle of whiskey. That would knock him out as well as the poker, she reasoned, without breaking his skull. Perfect! “Shall we drink on it, sir?” she asked brightly, jumping up to pour him a glass. When he turned around, she saw with some surprise, that her disgust of him was not as strong as it had been. There was something odd and fascinating about his hairy body, now that she had seen his naked back. He was like a god and a beast joined into one being.

“There are better ways of sealing a bargain such as this,” Benedict grumbled. He was cold, and the cold had caused his manly flesh to shrink. Too proud to offer excuses for his poor showing, he was more eager than ever to give her a practical proof of his fitness.

“To Ireland!” she insisted. “You’ll not refuse to drink to Ireland?”

“To Ireland,” he agreed irritably. He wanted her so badly, he would have toasted France. Against his better judgment, he then drank to Father Murphy, who died for Ireland, and, then to the Boys of Wexford, who also, apparently, died for Ireland. Each time he drank, his glass was refilled as if by magic. She was amazed he was still on his feet.

“To Lord Edward Fitzgerald!” she said, finally, in desperation.

Benedict felt queasy, and the room seemed to be in motion around him. “Did this Lord Edward die for Ireland, too?” he asked suspiciously.

“He did!”

“Excellent,” he said. He drank, and then asked with disarmingly simple innocence, “What happens now? Do we go to bed?”

“Darling,” she said, “you’d never make it.”

The room began to spin around him like a carousel. “I see what you mean,” he mumbled as he slipped painlessly to the floor. “Let’s do it right here, where the cat sleeps.”

“Sleep well, caro mio ben,” she said, kicking him to make sure he was unconscious. “What kept you?” she demanded as Nora belatedly came flying out of the scullery brandishing a frying pan.

“I thought you liked him,” said Nora, staring at the man. “You sang to him and all.”

Cosima’s eyes blazed. “I did no such shameless thing!” she cried. “And if you tell anyone, old woman, I’ll kill you.”

Nora was a little near-sighted. “’Tis a good thing you threw that old carriage rug over him, the naked hoor.”

“I’ve got news for you, Nora,” Cosy retorted. “That’s no carriage rug!”