Читать книгу Starling - Virginia Taylor - Страница 8

Mr. Seymour’s carriage smelled of new leather. Starling stepped in, taking as little space as possible on the dark blue seat. “What should I call you?”

He sat beside her, placing his hat on the space between them. “Mr. Seymour. Perhaps Alasdair. Yes, that would be more convincing.”

Starling mulled using his first name as the carriage trundled through the dark whispery parklands and turned onto a street off the park road, not five minutes out of the city. The wall in front was red brick with one arched entrance to the front of the house and another larger one to the coach house, where the conveyance headed as soon as Mr. Seymour assisted Starling out of the carriage and into the warm night air.

Through the heavy gate, a façade fronted by two white pillars glowed in the lamplight. Heart racing, about to take a role for which she had no experience, she breathed in the night-time scents from his garden and followed him up a flight of four marble stairs to the front door, which was opened by a lace-capped, upright lady in black.

“The bride.” She smiled. “Welcome to your new home, Mrs. Seymour.” Her expression didn’t slip even when she saw Starling in the light of the marble-tiled hall.

“She’ll want a bath, Mrs. Brighton,” Mr. Seymour said, handing her his hat. “She’s been traveling for days.”

“I’ll organize one immediately.” Mrs. Brighton didn’t need to snap her fingers for a pretty maid to appear. “This is Ellen.”

Starling glanced at the girl. Ellen, a young, round-faced female of medium height, bobbed a curtsy, took the holdall from Mr. Seymour, and whisked Starling up the main stairs. Reaching the last room around the landing, Ellen opened the door to reveal a huge bedroom, dominated by a tester bed covered in gold and blue brocade. Windows were positioned at the side and back of the room. A polished table and two blue velvet chairs sat in front of closed gold curtains.

Starling entered the room practically holding her breath. An arrangement of ferns sat in the marble fireplace, the mantelpiece set either end with a gilded horn held by a barely draped lady.

“You must be so tired.” Ellen placed Starling’s gowns into the bottom drawer of the tallboy. “It’s a long journey from Ballarat. Mrs. Brighton thought I oughta bring you a meal and tuck you into bed after your bath. She said she’d show you the house and introduce you to the rest of the servants tomorrow.” She pulled the brown paper wrapping off Mr. Seymour’s parcels and put them in a drawer above Starling’s gowns. Then she began to set up a bath behind a screen painted with bright, exotically swirled flowers.

Starling would have given the world to have worn a uniform as becoming as Ellen’s—dark blue, beautifully cut, and embellished with a white linen cap and apron. “Who is Mrs. Brighton?”

“The housekeeper.” Ellen giggled. “Me and the other servants’re glad that the master finally has what he needs.”

Starling stared at the maid.

“A wife.” Ellen put a palm on her blushing cheek. The first two fingers of that hand were missing. “He should’a got you from Ballarat in his coach, though, rather than leaving you to travel all alone on the rattler.” She shook her head as if in rebuke. “I better get the water.”

Within ten minutes, Starling was sitting up to her neck in the first hot bath she’d had in a week. She let her head drift under the water, enjoying the gurgling block to everyday sounds that allowed her to hum and assume she was tuneful. Finally, she washed, and then she soaked, dreaming about being someone’s daughter, loved and cherished. But like the Starling she’d been named for, she had no uncommon attributes. Perhaps her sense of the ridiculous was too highly developed, but she kept that well under control. She saw herself as practical and diligent, perhaps a little obstinate with her opinions. That would be why, when the whores had listened to her advice on colors, her head had swelled and she had thought herself an expert. She now knew the folly of overconfidence.

The bath water cooled. She wrapped herself in a thick white towel and ate her apple, never one to waste good food. Ellen had whisked away her discarded underclothing and put her gown in the long drawer. Not prepared to be tucked into bed naked, she inspected the drawer in which Ellen had placed Mr. Seymour’s trimmings.

Her eyes widened. On top sat three new sets of underwear. Nightwear, too. Not silk or satin, just plain linen, though much finer than her usual calico. The realization that Mr. Seymour had handled her underwear sent a rush of embarrassment through her body. Closing her eyes against her fantastical thoughts, she slipped on a nightgown that covered her from her neck to her toes, and she wished she also could cover her hands. The damage done by the lye soap at the inn would likely never heal. Clean and cozy, she tugged the bellpull beside the fireplace as Ellen had asked her to do.

Almost instantly, the maid arrived and began emptying the water. “Mrs. Brighton wants to know if you’d prefer wine or tea with your supper?”

“Tea, please.”

She stared at the maid’s retreating back while she combed her hair with her fingers. Mr. Do-As-I-Tell-You Seymour hadn’t let her get her belongings, among which was a new comb. She glanced around the room and spotted a silver-backed brush in front of the tallboy mirror. The rich provided every kind of luxury.

Luckily, her hair was easily managed. She brushed her locks through and fluffed her curls to dry, then she went back to the bed and sat cross-legged. She sank inches deep in the down-filled mattress.

Ellen arrived within moments bearing a heavy silver tray. Efficiently, she set the table, uncovering the food dishes with pride. “Cook’s been preparing most of the day.” She pulled out the velvet-covered chair for Starling. “We’re all that excited. She wanted to do something special for you. She hopes you like the food.”

Starling sat, her disappointment in Mr. Seymour making her chest ache. He’d prepared his obliging servants for his bride, and instead he’d presented them with a shopgirl, a former laundress. How used they would feel when the charade ended. Mr. Seymour wouldn’t have thought of that, nor would he have cared. He lacked respect for them and his sister, too. A man like him didn’t deserve a sister.

Ellen put a white linen napkin on Starling’s lap.

“Soup and pie. Lovely. And cream. My favorites. Thank you.”

The maid beamed. “Cook’ll be glad to hear that. Ring when you’ve finished, and I’ll clear up. Then you can pop into bed.”

Starling doubted that she’d ever tasted a meal as good. The vegetable soup slid smoothly down her throat. The meat in the pie hardly needed chewing. She also devoured a rich custard covered with cream and decorated with tiny sugared violets. Had everything tasted rancid, she still would have enjoyed the prettiest meal she’d seen.

After Ellen had cleaned up and said good night, Starling turned down the gas lamp and sank into the luxurious bed. She could have been dead and floating to heaven on a cloud. Her hands supporting her head, she gazed at the ornately decorated ceiling. Surely through the gloom she could see gold paint on some of the leaves. She sighed contentedly. Heaven.

This was her night, the best night of her life. She’d had hours of pampering and kindness. And the bed, the bed, the bed, she thought, turning over on her face and breathing the freshly laundered smell of the sheets. A girl would do anything for a bed like this, huge and unshared. She turned down the lamp and snuggled into a guiltless sleep.

* * * *

Starling didn’t wake suddenly. At first she felt an awareness of someone in the room. Before opening her eyes, she caressed the linen sheet and let her head roll on the feather pillow. She remembered the night before and luxuriated in the safety and comfort. Inside, she smiled. The unmistakable smell of a lit candle made her realize that darkness surrounded her, not the morning light. She opened one eye.

The rotten, dishonest dog turd! Mr. Seymour had lied to her. Everyone had lied to her.

She squeezed her eyes tight again, hoping she’d been dreaming. But she knew she hadn’t been. The candle smell was as easily recognizable as the perfumed soap on her skin. Her welcome had been a trick. The servants had connived with their master to lull her into bathing, perfuming, and climbing into bed. A lamb for the slaughter, a sacrificial offering for this man’s foul lusts. She’d seen him, almost completely undressed.

Through her slitted lids, she absorbed his wide, straight shoulders, bunched with muscle; his tapered waist; and his hard, tight bottom. He had a powerful, dangerous body. She remembered her last thought before she’d gone to sleep. A girl would do anything for this bed. She feared the words might be true.

She eased the sheet to her nose, squinting at him in the candlelight while not wanting to see his hard body, not wanting to see his lustful face. She stayed completely still. If she moved or tried to escape before she had to, she might warn him of her intentions.

With her heart beating in her throat, almost choking her with its rhythmic thundering, she waited, stiff with fear.

He turned. She saw his pecker. Not a little pointed thing as she thought a pecker might be, but a blunted rod of flesh. As he slid a white robe over his head, she quickly closed her eyes.

She heard his approach—the whisper of his feet on the carpet. Her breathing halted. The blankets lifted. The bedsprings sagged. If he took her, she would scream the walls down.

He moved. He sighed. The acrid smoke of a candle assaulted her nose. The sheet was tugged a little from her body. Then nothing. When she resumed breathing, her chest ached.

Naked or clothed, he was the most magnificent man she’d ever seen. The man with everything except principles. He’d said he didn’t plan to tup her. Why, then, did he share her bed?

* * * *

Breezes sent leaves scurrying in the street. A night bird chirruped. In the distance, a dog barked. Alasdair closed his eyes, too aware of the fresh aroma emanating from the body beside his. With nowhere else to bathe tonight, he had conceded his daily luxury to her, regrettable but imperative. The working classes were called “the great unwashed,” and he knew why, having had a limited income himself until seven years ago.

These days, now rich, he saw being clean as symbolic. Each lathering removed the years of poverty, and in his case, the clinging dirt of the mines. With each bath, he cleansed himself of his past.

He eased out a breath as he relaxed for sleep, hoping his fake marriage would thwart his sister long enough for her to understand that he was no eligible bachelor needing help to find a bride. Marriage was definitely off his agenda. Telling Mary so was like fighting a curtain. He’d suffered her two previous aspirants, pretty enough and well connected, but neither had inspired in him anything other than a desire to lie face down in a stagnant puddle.

Because he would never love any woman but Lavender, he did not contemplate a life sentence with another. He had always known Lavender’s parents would not consent to her marrying a man in trade. He had always known he was not gently born; yet when she’d told him both, he took her rejection like an angry child...until sanity rescued him. He had nothing to offer the well-bred beauty, nothing but a head full of dreams and a home he shared with his mother and young sister, nothing but love and the will to better himself, both of which she had spurned.

Soon after, she’d married a wealthy banker.

Determined to prove himself good enough for anyone or die trying, he left for the goldfields in Ballarat. Within the next two years, he’d earned enough money to leave his parents’ dilapidated warehouse and begin the empire he now owned. However, no amount of money could replace the haughty beauty whose smile had brightened the dreariest winter, whose body had warmed the coldest bed.

And nothing could make him trust another woman with his dreams.

* * * *

“Water’s hot, Mr. Seymour.”

Alasdair grunted. He rolled onto his back as the bedroom door closed behind Ellen. As always, he raised his arms, stretching and lacing his fingers together, turning his palms uppermost. Then he eased each arm to the side, connecting on his right with a fleshed presence.

“Sorry. I forgot you were there.”

“I shouldn’t be,” said the shopgirl, the supposedly ex-laundress, the assuredly ex-whore, her expression guarded. “In a house this size, no one needs to share a bed.”

“To convince the servants of our hasty marriage, we do.” He yawned. “That’s why I needed a female like you. I could hardly ask an innocent to sleep with me.”

“You let me think—”

“I don’t enjoy sharing any more than you do. I’m used to sleeping in the middle.” He sat up and glanced at her. “What happened to your hair?”

Her assessing eyes examined his face. “Lice,” she said finally, sliding out of bed. “Little crawly things. When they breed in your hair, you get your head shaved.”

“I wasn’t wondering why you don’t have long hair. I meant your hair looked...” He could hardly say “pretty.” In this forced bed-sharing situation, a compliment could be misconstrued. “Softer.” He scratched his neck, hoping the itch wasn’t due to a bite.

She pressed her lips together and averted her gaze. “What should I do today?” she asked in a casual voice.

“Stand beside me. Smile when you meet my sister.” He swung out of bed, tangled in the nightshirt. Normally, he slept naked. “For the next two weeks, you’re my dutiful wife.” He walked over to the hot water, hauling the blasted nightshirt over his head. After tying a clean towel from the rack around his waist, he picked up his hairbrush, which had snagged a few long, curly, brown hairs. He put the brush down again.

As he stropped his razor, his conscience pricked him. “Perhaps you ought to use the water before I shave.”

“I had a bath last night.”

“And you’ll wash every morning, too. Hurry. I don’t want to stand around half-naked.” In the future, he would get Ellen to fill two basins.

He turned toward the window. Low brick walls and paths sectioned the back area into herb, vegetable, and flower gardens, with fruit trees along the sidewall of the coach house and stables, from behind which the sun was emerging. From where he stood, he could see straight ahead to the trickling river.

Derry, the gardener, had begun to weed. The housemaid, Ellen, walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. She smiled. Derry stood, shading his eyes and grinning back. The two were clearly smitten, although no betrothal had been announced as yet.

After a little splashing, Starling said, “Thank you for the new underclothes.”

“I said I’d buy the trimmings.”

“The trimmings are pretty. With ribbons.”

“Good.”

She splashed without speaking, then she said, after clearing her throat, “Need the chamber pot.”

He turned to face her. “I need the chamber pot.”

“After you.” She tilted her head to the side, like a big-eyed bird hoping for a morsel.

He crossed his arms. “Don’t throw orders at me. If you want the chamber pot, say, ‘I want the chamber pot,’ and if you expect me to listen to you, say ‘please.’”

“I need the chamber pot, please.”

“I don’t have one.” Fortunately. As her employer, he was already forced into more intimacy with her than he wanted. “There’s a privy room near the stairs. I’ll show you where if you’ll just wait for me to put my trousers on.”

“Be pleased.”

“I’d be pleased.”

Her eyes widened. “Well, then, you should’ve put them on before.”

He laughed, surprised by her neat trap.

After her trip down the passage, she didn’t dress, and she showed no signs of preparing to do so before Ellen entered bearing the best silver to set his table for breakfast.

“Was the bed comfortable, Mrs. Seymour?” Ellen asked.

“Lovely.”

“I hope the master—”

“Careful,” Alasdair warned. “It might be safer if you brought in breakfast without speaking.”

“I was just going to say that I hope that the master enjoyed—”

“Ellen!”

“Supper last night, by himself. I thought he shoulda—”

“For God’s sake, bring breakfast!”

Ellen scuttled out of the room.

Alasdair couldn’t imagine why he’d assumed Ellen was asking about his wedding night. Maybe she had meant to. She could be scurrilous at times.

His “wife” sat silently while the maid served breakfast. Alasdair watched in amazement while Ellen set a slab of butter beside Starling, a full toast rack, and three eggs. He was left with one slice of toast and one egg. Ellen left the room with her nose in the air.

He rested his hands in his lap. Starling waited. He cleared his throat. She stared at him.

“Use the butter. The toast is getting soggy.”

“I was waitin’ f’you.”

He wondered why she had suddenly developed a strange accent when he had hired her because she spoke well. Or was she trying him again? If she continued, he would simply make sure she kept that rather lush mouth of hers closed most of the time. “Perhaps you don’t know that ladies begin first.”

She picked up her knife, cut off a portion of butter, and began to spread it on her toast. Fortunately, she had graceful movements. She would pass as respectably born should she behave with the modesty and decorum he expected.

When she reached for a second piece of toast, he noticed her chapped hands and ragged fingernails. He lifted his eyebrows. At least their work-worn condition showed that she could do something other than spread her legs.

She piled her butter high, her shoulders lifted with expectation. “The food ’ere’s good. Do the cook serve lunch’n, too?”

“Yes. Ladies have luncheon, gentlemen have a midday repast, and we all have dinner at eight.”

“Will I be ’avin’ my lunch’n in the bedroom, too?”

“I find it strange that you’ve suddenly lost your aitches and your gees. Unless you pick them up again, I’m going to find it mighty difficult to let you out of here.” He dropped his napkin on the table and stood.

She stared at him, her top teeth clipped on her bottom lip and her eyes gleaming.

Determined not to show a chink in his armor, he exaggerated the sternness of his expression and rearranged his neckcloth. “My sister will arrive sometime this afternoon.” He checked his appearance in the cheval mirror as he buttoned his jacket.

She began eating her third piece of toast. “Is she older than you?”

“Four years younger. Mary is twenty-three.”

“Is she pretty?”

“She’s tall and dark. Personally, I admire shapely blondes.”

The slender-framed woman nodded and, assuming he had put her back into her place, he turned and strode out of the room, meaning to catch up with his paperwork. In a matter of hours, his sister would see his choice of bride as the final irony, being the antithesis of Lavender.

“Mrs. Brighton,” he called as he paced down the hall. “Come and see me in the library.” He would send the housekeeper off to Seymour’s to get a suitable dressing set for Starling Smith.

That would stop the wretch using his brush.