‘Let us have some tea and then we ladies must make ourselves beautiful.’
‘You are already beautiful.’ Tom takes Mary’s hand before it reaches the teapot and holds it to his lips.
Liz finds her reflection in the window so she does not have to watch Tom’s affection. The bones in her neck stick out like rail-road lines, her lips are pursed tight, and the shadows in the hollows of her cheeks are too black. She must relax and breathe. This is what she wanted, after all; this is what she agreed to. She must do nothing but sit and be quiet and follow Tom’s lead. It will be over soon enough, if only they stick to the plan.
She straightens her spine and forces herself to smile.
‘That door leads to the smoking room.’ Mary gestures with a nod to the far end of the room as she pours hot liquid into delicate china cups. ‘Then past there is the study. Daddy never liked me to go in there. You can explore for yourself, Tom. I’m sure there are many things you would like to change.’
The briefest of smiles flits across Tom’s face.
‘It is a beautiful house,’ Liz says before Mary notices him.
‘Thank you, Elizabeth, I am glad you like it. I hope we shall all be very happy here.’
Now the ladies have gone, the drawing room is quiet but for the grandfather clock in the corner, ticking like a lullaby. The tea has left a sour taste in Tom’s mouth, and he walks to the fire, spits into it, and watches the sizzle.
His reflection looks very well within the gold framed mirror atop the mantelpiece. The clothes suit him, as he knew they would, and the house is far grander than he imagined; he has done better than they could have expected.
But, what must Liz make of it all? He imagines her in the bath upstairs, naked. Will she be able to stomach it? Perhaps he has pushed her too far too soon, but he can’t dwell on that now. It is too late, they are here.
He shies away from the mirror and stalks to the study.
With no lamps lit, his candle flickers in the gloom. Amidst the covered furniture, he finds a desk. He peels back the sheet to find a pen and ink pot. The pen gleams golden in the light, and the engraving on it comes through clearly; George Buchanan.
‘Nice to finally meet you, sir,’ Tom whispers and smiles at his silliness.
He tries the drawers. They are locked, but he can guess where the keys are hidden.
The painting above the fireplace is of a young man, an old man, and an ethereal woman playing a harp. The painted inscription reads fugit irreparable tempus, something about time passing irreversibly, Tom discerns from the Latin he can remember. It is a good painting, it is apt. He smiles as he finds the key to the desk secured behind the painting’s frame, and winks at the old man who stares back at him.
Papers lie like dead leaves in the first few drawers, all of no importance, but in the very bottom drawer, black, title-less books are neatly stacked. Tom slips one out from its place, opens it, and finds it is George’s diary. All of them are George’s diaries; a wealth of knowledge.
He sits back and takes his time to read them.
It is undoubtedly the largest chamber Liz has ever had. The floorboards are hidden with thick woollen rugs, the four-poster bed has covers of fine silk, and oil paintings of virginal women line the walls.
A bath steams before the grate; the scent of lavender pervades the air. It is a luxury to have a bath in the privacy of one’s room, without having to worry about the residue from those who have gone in before.
She unfastens the hooks of her dress and slips off her clothes. In just her chemise and drawers, the coldness of the room presses upon her, so she tiptoes to the fire. For someone so used to being exposed, she doesn’t like the idea of it. Glancing around, she knows the eyes of the virgins watch and judge her, and she feels the ghosts of Floreat peek out from the shadows. She peels the chemise over her head timidly, her body curled inwards to keep her breasts covered, and then the door clicks. She tries to shield herself, but it is too late.
Turning, she finds Bet at the door, mouth gaping, too shocked to remember her manners. The firelight has shown Liz’s back, has illuminated all too clearly the silver scars that crest her skin in thick, sluggish lines; a sight which can never be forgotten.
Liz holds the chemise to her chest. Bet stands half-hidden behind the door, her hand twists the knob back and forth, back and forth, and the metal squeaks and shudders. The air between them could snap.
‘Wanted to know if you needed any help,’ Bet stutters.
The squeak of the metal grinds louder.
‘Stop that,’ Liz says.
Bet’s hand stills. The old woman's eyes trail down Liz’s body, taking her all in, searching for other stains, as if Liz is a slab of rotting meat.
‘You may go now,’ Liz says.
Bet drags her eyes away, turns, and gently closes the door. Liz listens to the soft pads of the maid’s feet retreating, and only when all is silent does she release the breath she has been holding. She closes her eyes and imagines lapping blue water and beating hot sun until her pulse slows.
Her bath is ruined, but she is so chilled that she slides into it anyway, and winces as the heat sears her skin.
‘Tighter.’
Bet pulls harder on the strings of Mary’s corset. Mary has washed and perfumed herself and wears a new dress of sky-blue silk. She likes the colour, believing it sits well against her chestnut hair and brown eyes.
‘Tighter.’
‘Ma’am, I fear it is tight enough.’ Bet frowns at her mistress’s waist.
It is small enough, she supposes, although not as small as her new sister’s, which is barely the size of Mary’s thigh. She will begin tighter lacing henceforth.
‘Ma’am, I …’ Bet is flushed as she brings over a necklace.
‘What is it?’
Bet fiddles with the clasp and the cold diamonds tickle and scratch at Mary’s collarbones.
‘Put the necklace down, Bet, and tell me what is wrong.’
‘Ma’am, are you sure about Mr Oliver? And Miss Oliver.’
Mary sighs. Her maid, who is almost fifty years old, is of the same opinion as her aunt – the classes should not mix. Deep down, Mary feels the same, but … Tom is Tom.
Mary motions at the necklace again and turns her back on her maid. ‘I do not want to hear it, Bet. Mr Oliver and I are married. Happily.’
Bet finally fixes the clasp and retrieves the matching earrings.
‘His sister is somewhat of a burden, I agree, but I believe she is of a fragile nature. What kind of a wife would I be to turn away my husband’s sister when she is in need?’
Bet nods, but the twist of her mouth remains.
‘May I ask,’ Bet says, ‘what Miss Oliver did for a living?’
‘She was a dressmaker for a while, I believe.’
The space between Bet’s eyebrows creases, and her mouth opens to speak again.
‘That is enough, Bet. It is no concern of yours what either of the Olivers were doing before they came here. All you need to know is that I am in love with Mr Oliver, and we shall all live here, as a family. If you do not like it, you can go back to Aunt Emily and I shall find myself a new maid.’
Mary strides into the drawing room to find Tom and Elizabeth together near the fire, heads bowed in conversation which ends on her arrival.
‘My darling, you look divine.’ Tom strolls towards her and kisses her on the cheek.
Elizabeth wears the magenta dress that Mary bought her as a welcome gift. The colour makes her look anaemic. ‘Elizabeth, that dress is a marvel on you.’
The gong bellows and the three of them make their way to the dining room.
Mary smirks as her husband and sister-in-law stare in awe at the grandeur of the room. Vibrant burgundy walls are bedecked with glittering gold lamps, gilded mirrors, and floor length, silk curtains. Two chandeliers hang from the ceiling and cast shards of sparkling light around the room. A polished table, which seats no less than fourteen people, heaves with a display
of glittering glassware and bouquets of white hellebores.
‘What a marvellous room.’ Tom takes his place at the head of the table, flanked by Mary to his right and Elizabeth to his left.
‘Bet has outdone herself,’ Mary says, with a fleeting feeling of guilt, and smiles at Bet as the woman emerges from the inner door and hobbles between the guests. Her guilt does not last long, though, for Bet smacks into the back of Elizabeth’s chair as she pours the white wine.
‘I must apologise for my maid,’ Mary says, once the woman has left. ‘She can be quite bullish at times.’
‘I have been thinking,’ Tom says, ‘that we must employ new staff. This house is too big for one maid and one hired cook who walks in from the village.’
‘I agree. This house was full of servants before daddy died, but you see, there was no point in keeping them on while I was in the city.’ Mary sips her wine. ‘I shall begin interviews this week.’
‘But darling, I do not want to trouble you with the task of finding staff. Liz and I can take care of it.’
It is a preposterous idea, but she must be patient with Tom; he does not understand how such households operate. ‘Don’t be silly. I am the lady of the house. I shall organise the staff.’
Tom lays his napkin across his lap, and when he looks up, he is smiling. ‘My dear, you are quite right, of course. Now, let’s eat.’
The dinner has left Liz with an uncomfortable lump in her stomach. Too much suet pudding and too much wine. She has not drunk so much in a while, and her head feels fuzzy as she climbs the stairs with heavy legs.
She enters her cold room. The fire in the grate is nothing but a tiny patch of orange embers surrounded by shrivelled, grey ash. The bathtub has been removed, as has the towel. There is no evidence of what passed only a few hours earlier.
She removes her dress too hastily and tears one of the seams. It is for the best – she has never liked the colour purple. It reminds her of toes almost falling off, of stinking old men, of dead babies.
With a sigh, she lets out the laces on her corset. She prods her stomach gently. It is still sore inside, but she likes to feel the ache, she wants to know the pain is not just in her mind.
The candle beside her flickers and casts dancing shadows upon the walls as she slips into bed. She will not look around; it is best to close her eyes and tuck her chin under the quilt and dream of sunshine and summer. She will not think of how alone she is, stuck in a strange room at the end of a mansion where the silence is suffocating.
Indeed, isn’t this what she has longed for? A room all to herself without fear of being disturbed? No one will come to her here. There will be no tap on the door, no footsteps flitting along the corridor outside, no noises at all. The only other living creatures are together in another room at the other end of the landing; no matter how much she may long for him, Tom must be with his wife tonight.
She blows out the candle and tries to sleep. In the silence, she realises that she would prefer to hear the familiar muffles of passion than nothing at all.
Tom guides his wife to her chamber like a blind woman. Inside, a decanter of wine and two glasses have been set on the bedside table, and the fire has been stoked. The room is stifling.
‘How efficient Bet is.’ He removes his hand from his wife’s waist to pour their drinks. ‘Come and sit, my dear.’ Tom pats the bed before him, and Mary does as she is told. ‘Let’s toast. To us!’
‘To us.’ Mary clinks her glass against his and downs the drink in one. Her head is level with his navel, and she glances towards his trousers. He takes her empty hand and kisses the top of it as the wine’s fiery tendrils bite at his nausea. He should have drunk more at dinner.
‘I have been looking forward to this night.’ He kisses the inside of her palm and hears her gasp. Bringing her to her feet again, he begins to unfasten her dress, stooping to run his lips across her neck as he does so. He sees the movements of her chest, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, and has to close his eyes.
‘You are a marvel.’ His breath traces her décolletage. He pulls at the corset laces so that she sways with his strength. ‘This is too tight. It is no good for you, my love.’
‘I like it tight.’
‘I fear Bet is doing you harm,’ he says, as the corset falls to the ground. In the same moment her stomach churns, and her cheeks flare scarlet. ‘I think it is time that Bet, perhaps, went back to your aunt?’
He turns her around to face him. The outline of her body is clear beneath her thin cotton undergarments. He pulls her towards him so that her breasts press against his silk waistcoat.
‘I hope I did not offend you earlier when we spoke about finding new staff?’
Mary licks her lips, swallows, and shakes her head as Tom presses her against one of the bedposts.
‘I only thought that Liz may like something to do.’ His thumb trails across her collarbone. ‘I thought it might make her feel more useful.’ His fingers trace the side of her breast. ‘But of course, if you would prefer to do it all?’
‘She can do it,’ Mary says.
His right hand begins its journey down her body, bumping over the ridge of her drawers until he finds the start of her thigh. ‘I would not want to put you out, my love. I only thought it might be nice for Liz.’
‘She can do it!’
He grins, and without allowing himself a second thought, he thrusts his fingers between her legs and kisses her. Her glass crashes on the floor.
Chapter 2
Mary wakes with a crick in her neck. The pillow was too hard, too high, and now there is a dull throb behind her eyebrows. She throws off the bed covers and feels the chill of the January morning. Pulling her body up, she is suddenly struck by an unpleasant heat between her legs, an unusual sting, as if the skin has been ripped.
She is now a woman.
She turns, smiling, but finds the space beside her empty; Tom has gone. She did not hear him wake or dress or leave. Disappointed, she looks about the room, wondering if he might be hiding somewhere, but she is alone. The only proof of their liaison is the empty tumbler and the empty glasses, which have stains of wine like droplets of dried blood upon them. The headache is not only from the pillow.
She yawns, clicks her neck, puts her bare feet on the rug, and makes her way to the window. She has not bothered to look at the clock, and so it comes as a shock when sunlight slams into her eyes as she parts the curtains.
Furious, she runs for the lever and yanks the bell.
‘Ma’am.’ Bet curtseys as she pants and wipes her forehead.
‘What time is it, Bet?’
Bet’s eyes flick towards the clock. ‘Just after half-past nine, ma’am,’ she says as if her mistress might have suffered a blow to the head.
‘Why have you not woken me?’
‘I was told to let you sleep. Mr Oliver’s sister said you might be tired after …’
‘Yes, yes.’ Mary swats the air and looks out of the window so she does not have to see her maid’s stupid face. It is a glorious morning, with silver frost glistening over the fields, the sky a clear, pale blue, and the sun like a spot of watercolour paint on the horizon. ‘But you do not take your orders from Elizabeth. You take them from me.’ She faces her maid again. ‘Go and fetch me water to wash with.’
Mary inspects the bed sheets once Bet has gone. A few pink spots lie halfway down. With her fingers, she checks herself, wondering if there is any blood on her, but she finds nothing out of the ordinary. The sheet, then, is her trophy. She will instruct Bet to remove it, wrap it up, and store it in the base of her trunk.
‘Find my riding dress,’ Mary says when Bet returns with a tray containing a washbowl, a jug, some fine cloth, a towel, and the slop bucket. ‘I shall show Tom the estate this morning.’
Bet clears her throat. ‘Mr Oliver and his sister have already gone, ma’am.’ Bet picks at the cuff of her dress infuriatingly. The habits of a maid! Mary watches the fabric tighten and release, tighten and re
lease. Any moment now it will tear.
‘Stop that!’
Bet’s hands fall to her sides.
Mary inhales slowly, rolls her head from side to side. When she speaks again, she has control of herself. ‘Gone where?’
‘They have taken the horses and gone exploring, so they called it.’
‘When was this?’
‘Eight o’clock.’
Why would Tom not wait for her? It is her house, her estate – he does not have the right to explore without her.
She stalks back to the window. From this angle, she can just see the deep blue line of the sea almost two miles away. There are no horses or riders in the parkland. Her glance shifts towards the woods, of which she can only see a part, but again, all appears still.
‘I told them you would most likely wish to show them around, but they didn’t listen to me.’
‘And why should they?’ Mary prowls towards Bet, then fixes her attention on her reflection in the looking glass. ‘He is the man of the house now, you would do well to remember that.’
Bet presses her lips together, shakes her head ever so slightly. Mary chooses to ignore her stubbornness.
‘Tom wouldn’t have wanted to disturb me, that is all.’ She will not spoil her first day as a wife with anything so lowly as anger. She forces a smile. ‘Bring my pink dress and my pearls. There is a new bottle of scent I brought back from London in one of the trunks. Find it.’ She will make herself pretty for Tom’s return, and she will hold her tongue as wives are supposed to do, knowing that it is only his ignorance to blame for his insensitivity.
‘Would you like some breakfast, ma’am?’
Mary dips the cloth in the bowl of water then pats her neck. ‘Have the others eaten?’
‘Yes. They had eggs, ham, and toast before they left.’
‘I will not have breakfast,’ she says and soaks the cloth again. She brings it to her collarbones this time and flinches from the soreness there. She will have bruises from last night. The memory of Tom’s kisses makes her cheeks flush, and she closes her eyes so she might remember his naked flesh against hers, his urgency, the swell of pleasure cresting through her body.
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