by Tamara Gill
Looking at him, so genuinely distressed, as if it were he, himself, who had insulted her in front of the whole household, she couldn't help but agree to his request. She'd never seen a man, and a man of his standing, so affected; had never believed that there could be such a man, with such an apparent depth of feeling. Yet here he was.
“I will. And thank you your Lordship.”
Constance rose from the chair – as if it was she who was closing the interview – and as she did so, he stood too, and coming close to her, so close that she could admire the tight silk of his dark emerald-green waistcoat, he silently held out his hand.
She offered hers and he took hold of it lightly but securely, his long fingers wrapping completely, if briefly, around hers. Her heart began to race as if trying to stem the strange flood of heat which rushed through her, threatening to make her drop to her knees. What was it that made this man affect her so strongly, just by his very presence?
~~~~~
“Thank you, thank you very much indeed, Mrs Leslie.”
Perry went back to his desk and leaned against it once more, gripping its rim, and watched as she closed the library door behind her.
He remained, leaning there, for quite a few minutes more, after Constance had left. Still seeing her face, her beautiful figure before his eyes, like the after-image of the sun or a candle; and realising, with a shock, that she was the first woman since the death of his beloved Lydia who had seriously affected him.
Chapter Six
Though Constance had been deeply impressed by the heartfelt force of the Earl's apology for the behaviour of his daughters, when she left his presence, she began to doubt whether she'd done the right thing.
How could her pride allow her to have anything to do with Lady Amelia again?
As she lay in bed that night, she tried to think of ways to circumvent this problem, while simultaneously trying not to think of the Earl, and how closely, massively, he had towered over her, holding her hand, and how fast he'd made her heart race, so thunderously fast that he had surely heard it?
But she soon dropped off to sleep, exhausted by the day's highly emotional events, and the next day her problem regarding Lady Amelia was solved, temporarily at least.
Wondering at the bustle apparent in the house, Constance approached Mrs Templeton and asked her what the reason for it was.
“Ladies Clara, Harriet and Amelia are going to London this afternoon to stay for a week at Blackwood House. Their grandmother, his Lordship's mother the Dowager Countess of Blackwood, is to supervise the purchase of a complete set of new clothes for the girls in preparation for the Season – you can imagine how happy and excited the girls are – they'll be gone for around a week. And, just between you and me, Constance, their absence will give all of us a much-needed rest.”
Constance assisted in the packing of the girls’ trunks, mostly Lady Harriet’s, and was so busy with the fine details of this exhausting process that she barely had time to notice Lady Amelia. Though Lady Amelia, her mood transformed by the prospect of the imminent departure for London, could spare none of her attention for anything so lowly as a housemaid, and kept mostly to her own room.
Late that afternoon, peering cautiously over the first-floor balcony, Constance watched Ladies Clara, Harriet, and Amelia sweep, with an air of importance, one by one toward the main door, where they allowed themselves to be kissed farewell by the Earl. Then they moved eagerly through the door and down the steps to the waiting carriage. The Earl, after seeing them off, came back, closed the door slowly, and then, with what appeared to be a momentous sigh of relief, leaned his back against it.
Over the following days, it became obvious that Mrs Templeton was right. Though the routines of work continued as usual, the absence of the Earl's daughters seemed to lift a deep burden of pressure from the house. The staff, particularly the upstairs maids, went about their duties with an easier step, not having to be continually on the alert for the sharp voice of Lady Clara, Lady Harriet, or Lady Amelia.
Constance heaved more than one or two sighs of relief when she woke up each morning, knowing that she could get her work done at her own pace, without the risk of being called on at any moment to solve some petty problem which the girls could easily have dealt with themselves.
The very timbers and stones of the house seemed to be at ease and Constance, in between her duties, drifted happily through its centuries-old halls and galleries admiring and envying the generations that had lived in them. Though she could barely admit it to herself, she was hoping, at every moment, with every soft carpeted step she took, that she might see his Lordship going about his business.
The merest glimpse would do. It was ridiculous of course, for as soon as he found a replacement for her, she'd be gone, and she'd never lay eyes on him again. So why was she so consumed with eagerness to catch sight of him?
On the Thursday afternoon before their ladyships were to return from Blackwood House, Constance was dusting in his Lordship's library. It was a beautiful day, and the motes of dust that she was disturbing as she worked were transmuted into flecks of gold in the sunbeams lancing through the windows. It was peaceful and quiet, the ranks of books standing like regiments of soldiers at ease on the parade ground, their spines glinting with silver and gold. Constance ran her fingers lightly along them, reading the titles.
If he’d read all of these, his Lordship was extremely well-read, she thought; a man as intellectually capable as he was sensitive and cultivated, if all of these historical, philosophical, geographical, and literary works were any indication.
Her finger stopped at one small slim blue-leather bound volume and she drew it out with a smile of delight, it was Sir Thomas Browne's 'Religio Medici and Urn-Burial'.
One of her father's favourite books, and her own, though she hadn't seen a copy since the day she'd left Edinburgh.
Entranced, she sat down on one of the stools used for reaching the higher shelves and opened it.
“'Certainly, there is no happiness within this circle of flesh, nor is it in the Opticks of these eyes to behold felicity'” she murmured, grinning at its truth, Sir Thomas was such a comfort. “'...we are happier with death than we should have been without it: there is no misery but in himself, where there is no end of misery; and so indeed, in his own sense, the Stoick is right.’” She murmured on, reading, becoming so immersed in Thomas Browne's mellifluous prose that she was completely unaware of the opening of the library door. “'...Whoever enjoys not this life, I count him but an apparition, though he wear about him the sensible affections of the flesh...'”
Suddenly, aware of a presence in the room, she lifted her eyes from the little book. The Earl was standing next to the bust of the Emperor Augustus by the door, staring at her.
She jumped up, flushing, her mouth, without any control, bubbling out apologies, 'so sorries' and 'what must you think of me's' while his Lordship, his surprise quickly melting into pleasure, approached.
“I'm so sorry your Lordship, Agatha, the downstairs maid has sprained a wrist and I offered to... to do her work, just for this afternoon.”
“Please calm yourself Mrs Leslie – may I call you Constance? Yes, thank you – please don't be agitated. I'm certainly more thrilled than annoyed to find one of my staff perusing my library with such earnestness. What is it that has distracted you so magnetically? Ah! Sir Thomas Browne, one of our finest prose stylists. Are you familiar with him?”
“A little, through my father, your Lordship.”
“Your father must be quite an enlightened man.”
“He is, your Lordship, and he is a strong believer in the education of women.”
“A sound idea, though not one which meets with widespread approval, unfortunately.”
“No, though he did at least achieve some success with me.”
“Obviously so.”
His Lordship’s eyes were wide and glowed with such intentness that Constance wondered if it were really her educational attributes
he was impressed by.
It was another very warm day and she suddenly recalled that the dress she was wearing was a simple round gown with a rather loose and low-cut front. She surreptitiously drew her hands over her breast and turned to replace the book on the shelf.
“No Constance. Please take it. It will give me great pleasure to think of you turning its pages.”
“Thank you, your Lordship. It's most kind of you. But I must get on with my work, thank you.”
“My 'take it' was not meant as a dismissal, Constance. Would you do me the honour of sitting here for a few moments to converse? Do tell me what effect Thomas Browne has upon you? Does his Christian Stoicism appeal strongly to you, or do you prefer the purer, perhaps harsher waters of the stoic source – I mean Epictetus, or do you perhaps prefer Marcus Aurelius?”
“Both have helped me with life's troubles your Lordship, but I think that I prefer the more melancholy tone of Marcus Aurelius to the more aggressive one of Epictetus.”
“Yes! I know exactly what you mean by Epictetus' aggressiveness. But come, sit here.”
Excited by the discovery of another educated and philosophically curious mind under his roof, apart from Mr Collins, the Earl indicated one of the two leather armchairs before the fireplace and, once Constance was comfortably seated, sat down himself in the other chair.
“And do you prefer the Stoics exclusively? Do the Epicureans have no appeal for you?”
“Well, I think that they both have things in common. The importance of the mind for instance. The Stoics stressed that we must control the mind, the Epicureans that we should cultivate the pleasures of the mind rather than the body. I think both have their place.”
“And you think the... pleasures of the body to be nothing?”
She noticed a slight quaver in his voice as he said this, and was conscious again of her less than ideal dress.
“They are not nothing, far from it. But I'm no Cyrenaic. I think Aristippus went perhaps too far.”
“Yes, he did dwell on... carnal pleasures… to an inordinate degree... but there is so much in Greek philosophy is there not? Do you think that we would have Leibnitz without Plato for example?”
The Earl leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands drinking in the vision of this beautiful young woman, frowning with seriousness as she gathered her wits to answer his question.
As the afternoon advanced, philosophy gave way to more personal issues. Constance had been brought completely out of herself, stimulated by the Earl's philosophical questions, and felt that she could tell this, by turns sage, by turns almost boyish, gentleman absolutely anything that came into her head. She felt as if a window had been opened within her, expanding her, letting in air and light. Somehow, she found herself telling him the story of her life, and in more detail than she had given to Mrs Templeton during her interview. The shock of finding her betrothed's body, his face contorted by the lethal intensity of the apoplectic seizures of his heart failing; how she had agonised over her decision to marry George, her young soldier husband, and how her grief at his death was tempered by the knowledge that at least she had given him some happiness before he fell in battle for his country.
She also touched on her experiences working as both a companion and a governess, and of her distress when the son of one of her employers had tried to make unsuitable advances.
There was simply something about this man which made her trust him, which made her relax in his presence, and forget the disparity of their social positions. He was so very different from any man that she had ever known.
~~~~~
Perry, though he’d had something of the outline of this biography from Mrs Templeton, was profoundly moved by its details. He understood, now, how she had been driven, by pride, and by misfortune, to her present position, and marvelled at her bravery, courage and tenacity.
'She has a beauty, a nobleness of spirit to match the beauty of her body. She is a unique combination, a prize for the right man indeed!'
The thought slipped through his mind, unbidden, and he set it aside, returning his attention to what Constance was saying.
~~~~~
It was dusk when they eventually fell silent. There was a slight rap at the library door, and his Lordship, rather than calling for whoever it was to enter, went to the door himself, and only partly opening it, whispered an order to the person outside.
Constance remembered herself. Here she was, a serving maid, lounging in an Earl's armchair. What would it be next? Brandy and cigars?!
“I must be going your Lordship - Mrs Templeton will be furious. Everyone will be searching the house for me.”
“Not at all, they know exactly where you are. But I suppose it is getting rather late, and I have one or two items of business upstairs that can't be put off.”
She stood up and stepped tentatively past him toward the door. He stopped her progress with his voice.
“I cannot thank you enough for our conversation. Not only for indulging my appetite for philosophy – poor old Collins is my only interlocutor here, and we both know each other's opinions rather too well now – but for trusting me with the story of your life. You leave me much to contemplate, much. Though I confess, it's hard for me to accept that you will leave me just now.”
She looked up at him, startled, but not surprised by this last phrase. She stood quite close to him, and while he spoke, she could feel their two bodies being drawn together – it was as if, the closer she was to him, the closer she needed to be. She did not understand the cause of it, but the impact was so strong that she nearly swayed on her feet. She felt weak, and it wasn't simply her lack of food, it was a kind of dizziness, a lack of balance, as if, like some massive magnet, he was physically uprooting her, pulling her against him, into him. He too seemed to be struggling to maintain control of himself, to continue as if that force did not exist – yet she was sure that he felt it too.
“I cannot thank you – your Lordship - enough for indulging me this long afternoon.”
“Would you call me Perry, when we are alone?”
His voice was thick, uncertain, but then his arms spoke decisively. He pulled her to him and she felt her breath, already struggling to stay within her, drawn out of her abruptly by the force of his kiss. She felt the roots tying her to the earth snap, and, grasping him as tightly as he gripped her, she returned the kiss with all of the hungry ardour of the months of sensual deprivation since George had gone to war.
They stood, locked together, her breasts crushed against him, his male hardness quite apparent against her abdomen, their eyes closed, sensation swirling hotly through her, and she was certain, through him as well, bound in the same darkness...
On the brink of losing her last shred of control, Constance opened her eyes and moved her lips away from his, drawing the breath deeply back into her chest.
“I must go.”
“Indeed, I too, I...”
But she was through the door before he could find words to complete this formal phrase.
Back in her room Constance lay on the bed, a wild excitement battling as wild a disbelief within her.
'He! In love with a housemaid! Impossible! The stuff of cheap French novels! Surely it is not love at all. It must be some passing whim, what else could it be? Some desperate whim. After all, he has no wife to... slake his passions. Though surely, he must have mistresses to spare in London. But why me? Convenience? Having one in the house rather than in Covent Garden?... I can't allow that to happen! If I... as I'm not stoical enough to resist – if I give in to him, I'm lost. Once he becomes bored with me, I'll be cast aside, and doubtless without that 'glowing reference' he promised. And what then? Where then?... No, no. The only thing to do is to leave before I get into more trouble. In the morning, early, before anyone is awake.'
Chapter Seven
Constance awoke well before dawn, but already the reverberations of the bustling household seeped through the thin walls of her tiny cell-like room. Today would se
e the return of his Lordship’s exacting daughters, and the short era of calm would be over. Constance lay under the sheet, idly playing a finger across her nakedness, it had become so stifling in the room that she had been forced to sleep without her nightdress.
There was only one thing on her mind - the incredible event of the previous evening. Her mind played and replayed it with a frustrating persistency. His Lordship's eyes bent upon her... his arms around her... the feel of his muscular frame straining, pressing into her... she had to stop this, to get her things together, and leave before any further amorous disasters befell her. She got out of bed and stepped over to the washstand.
She listened to the intensifying bustle downstairs and in the other maid’s rooms along the passageway as she sponged the cold water over her breasts and stomach. How could she leave, now? Today of all days? There were so many things to be prepared, particularly in Lady Clara, Lady Harriet, and Lady Amelia's rooms.
Without her, the work would take much longer. How could she arbitrarily load the work that she was supposed to do onto the shoulders of her friends?
For she did regard many of her colleagues as friends. She'd developed a good, amicable, and very flexible relationship with Mrs Templeton and Mr Collins and, she gathered, even the inseparable curmudgeonly duo of Anne and Rosemary had been won over, along with the kitchen staff, when they'd learned that she had 'stood up' to the Earl's daughters.
There was a rap at the door, and Rosemary's voice sounded through the wood.
“Constance, we're going down for breakfast, then we have to start the polishing in Lady Clara's room, are you coming?”
“I'll be right there Rose!”
How could she leave Rose and Anne to polish that plethora of mirrors in Lady Clara's room by themselves?”