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The Major's Lady

Page 7

by Mia Easton


  She removed the floorboard of the wardrobe which revealed a compartment where they'd stored Elizabeth's things. "We couldn't leave her things lying about," she explained. She stood with a pile of clothing and handed them over.

  He looked at them curiously. "What does this prove?" he challenged, handing them back. "It's unusual clothing. And I have to tell you, if I was going to come up with a cock and bull story like the one she came up with, I'd come up with a few bizarre items of clothing or paraphernalia, as well." Suddenly, a bundle of shiny objects was dangled in front of his face. They were keys. Oddly shaped keys.

  "Car keys," Maggie repeated what Elizabeth had told her. "A car, properly referred to as an autobill, is a means of conveyance that everyone uses where she comes from. It has wheels and travels all by itself."

  "All by itself, you say? Nonsense."

  "And this is a celfo," Maggie said, handing him the object she'd seen earlier. He took it in hand, studied it for a moment and then pulled it open. Maggie was gratified to witness his shock at the color that flashed at him. "Through that, which is a common thing where she comes from, a person can speak with anyone, anywhere."

  "What?" John Paul blustered.

  She nodded. "Yes. You push in a number and—" She paused. "I'm not clear on how it works, but she told me that you can speak with anyone in another home or another town. I could have pushed in a certain number or perhaps a sequence of numbers and spoken to my mother in London, provided she had one, too."

  "Then I'm glad they haven't been invented yet," John Paul replied tartly, handing it back to his wife.

  "John Paul," she replied in exasperation.

  "Oh, all right," he gave in. "I won't say another word."

  "I suppose I'll believe that when I don't hear it." She refolded the clothing and stowed everything away again. Standing back up, she said, "We've hoped Wesley would find someone to care about, to love, and we've introduced him to everyone we know."

  "And everyone they know."

  "Perhaps she's the one for him. He looks at her differently."

  "I've noticed."

  "He already feels a responsibility toward her."

  "Do you want him committing himself to someone merely because he stumbled upon her and feels her helpless?" Maggie gave him a look, and he started to say something more and then changed his mind. Granted, that line of reasoning was silly. There were too many ways to see her taken care of without getting personally involved. With most any other person, that's what he would have done.

  "What are you really afraid of?" she asked. "That you'll lose your friend? That he won't be here as much if he finds someone to love?"

  "Don't be foolish," he retorted. "Let's go."

  Maggie followed and she even managed to contain a smug smile. She could tell she had him thinking.

  "Are you all right?" Wes asked as they neared the house.

  "Tired. That's all." It wasn't exactly true. She was suddenly feeling so exhausted, she could have plunked herself down on the grass and slept. She felt drugged with fatigue.

  "You should go rest. We'll have you awakened for tea if you wish."

  "Thank you."

  "Can you find your way?"

  She smiled. "I can." I suck at directions, but I can find my room, which is just up the stairs. She turned to go.

  "Elizabeth?"

  She turned back.

  "Remember, you're among friends. Everything will be all right."

  Friends. The word hit with a dull clunk at the base of her heart. She gave him a wan smile and nod and went inside, blinking back tears. Which was stupid, she told herself. So, so stupid. You just met him. But it didn't matter. She did not want to just friends. In fact, if she'd believed in the notion of love at first sight, she would have sworn that's what she was feeling. Of course, there was no such thing, and twenty-first century women knew that. There was chemistry and physical attraction and a lot of other factors, but there was no such thing as love at first sight. She needed to remember that.

  In her room, she dropped her shoes and made a beeline for the bed. She grabbed a throw blanket from the back of a chair on the way and lay down. She curled on her side and pulled the blanket over her. She felt so strange, like she was sinking, and she was glad. She just needed to sleep.

  Chapter 10

  As the clock struck six times that evening, Maggie watched Wesley pace the length of the salon, continually glancing toward the door in hopes of seeing Elizabeth. "Why don't you play a hand?" she suggested. "We'll start the game over."

  "We will not," John Paul complained. "I'm winning."

  Maggie raised a brow at her recalcitrant husband.

  "I don't want to play," Wes replied.

  Elizabeth had not joined them for tea. Mrs. Tidwell had checked on her and found her sleeping so soundly, she hadn't woken her. A decision Maggie agreed with.

  "Do you think she's all right?" Wes fretted.

  "I do," Maggie replied. "I think she's worn out from her experience."

  "I suppose. Perhaps we should—"

  He stopped speaking as Elizabeth stopped in the doorway, looking uncertain and fragile. She'd slept in her clothes and they were creased. Her face was flushed, her eyes looked soft with sleep. She looked adorable, and Maggie felt a strong urge to go to her aid. She would have if Wes hadn't already started toward her. "There you are," he said with obvious relief. "Do you feel any better?"

  "I feel like Rip Van Winkle," she said in a husky voice. Then she frowned with consternation. "Do you know who that is?"

  "I do not."

  "Never mind. I'm still a little dazed from sleep. I don't know what came over me."

  "May I get you a glass of sherry?"

  She nodded. "Please."

  As Wes went to get it, Maggie rose and started toward her, gesturing her toward the fire. "Come." She met Elizabeth halfway, took her arm and led her to the most comfortable chair before sitting cattycorner on the settee. "Some journeys take longer than others to recover from."

  "Maggie," John Paul groused. "We're in the middle of a game here."

  "You win, dear."

  Wes was back with a glass of sherry for Elizabeth.

  "Thank you," Elizabeth said, taking it.

  Maggie noticed the self-conscious glances between Wes and Elizabeth. Clearly, they were already smitten with one another. "When I was fifteen," she said, in hopes of smoothing over any awkwardness, "I went to visit my mother in London. My brother had refused to go and I didn't want to, but I allowed myself to be pressured into it. I hadn't seen my mother in almost three years." Wes put his hand on the back of Elizabeth's chair. It was a curiously intimate, almost possessive gesture that was utterly out of character for him. The sight of it gave her heart a lift, although she pretended not to notice.

  John Paul plunked down next to her. "We'll pick the game up later," he said.

  "If you insist."

  "I do. You won last time. Rather brutally, as I recall. I simply must have vengeance."

  "The voyage," Maggie said, getting back to her story. "Was less than pleasant, but then I was there, in the place I'd been born." She frowned thoughtfully. "The servants all knew me. They seemed to care about me. It felt so peculiar since I didn't remember them. And my mother was, well, she is as she is. She was certain I could be talked into staying permanently. It's where I belonged, she kept saying. It was my home. But it wasn't. I'd promised to stay a month and I did, but I could not wait to get back home. Oh, but the crossing back."

  "A voyage from hell," John Paul said sadly.

  Maggie agreed. "It was. It was smooth for the first few days and then the storms hit, one after another. The ship rolled side to side. I was so sick. We all were. When we finally got into port, I had to be carried off the ship. I could not walk. For days, afterward, I stayed sick. When I finally managed to get back on my feet, it felt like I was still on the ship. Sea legs, they call it."

  "Darling, what is the point of sharing this now?"

 
"I'm talking about difficult journeys and the toll they take."

  John Paul looked at Elizabeth. "Do you have sea legs, Miss Gordon?"

  "I think she does," Maggie said to her husband with a lift of her chin. "So to speak." She turned back to Elizabeth with a sympathetic smile. "It passes. That was my point."

  Elizabeth smiled back and nodded.

  When Liz returned to her room for the night, she was feeling better. The fire was stoked, tall tapers burned on her bedside table and dressing table, her bed had been turned down and everything was neat and orderly. It was so weird to be waited on, especially by a staff of servants who went about their lives and their work mostly out of sight.

  At mealtimes and teatime, food and drink would always be served. Afterwards, it would be cleared away. Sometime during the day, her room would be cleaned, her chamber pot emptied, her clothes cleaned, pressed, mended if need be. If she wanted a bath, the tub would be filled with warm water, which meant carrying in water, heating it up and then lugging it up the long flight of stairs—all done by the hard work of servants.

  She unbuttoned the gown, still somewhat muddle-brained. Was she also numbed by all that had happened? If not, why hadn't she grieved? She'd lost her former life, all her friends, and all the conveniences of the twenty-first century. That was a terrible loss, wasn't it? Why didn't she feel the loss?

  She'd been told to ring for a maid when she wanted help undressing, but she didn't need help. They probably thought that was odd. She undressed, hung up the gown, blew out the candles, and slipped in between crisp sheets. The flames of the fire gave out more light than she was used to, but she was so tired.

  She turned on her side, wondering again what Jordan and the others had thought when she was nowhere to be found. "A mysterious disappearance on Halloween," she said quietly. It had probably made national news. They would have flashed her picture on the screen and asked, 'Have you seen this woman?' She wondered what photograph they'd used. 'Disappeared without a trace.' That's what they'd say. There were always people disappearing without a trace. Had any of them stepped over into another reality in another time?

  She wondered if anyone had informed the Gordons yet. They would probably make a big pretense of caring. They'd make a real show of it. The thought left her cold.

  She'd been adopted when she was four. Jeremy and Carol Gordon had been the only mother and father she'd ever known. She had good, although vague, memories of the first few years, a general feeling of being happy, but that had all changed when Carol became pregnant when Liz was almost seven. The Gordons had never been able to conceive, so it was a shock to all of them. The addition of Morgan, the real Gordon daughter, and of Matthew, three years after that, changed Lizzy's value and relationship to the Gordons. She became a burden they resented.

  When she was ten, she'd decided if they didn't want her, she didn't want them. She made an elaborate plan to run away and live in the mall. It had everything she needed. She'd seen beds there and there was food there. At nighttime, when no one else was around, she'd have the run of the place. So, one fall evening when the moon was full, she tossed out a packed suitcase, climbed out her second story window and began clamoring down the ivy-covered latticework against the house. Unfortunately, it gave and she fell to the ground landing on her side, smack dab on top of an iron rake that had blown over. The thought of the pain and the blood and the sound of her screams still made her feel sick. She'd broken four ribs, and it had taken sixteen stitches to sew her up.

  For a while after the incident, things improved, which was why it was such a shock when the Gordons decided a local boarding school was the best option for all of them. It was yet another shock when they explained they'd taken legal steps to emancipate her when she was eighteen. "It's not that we don't care," Jeremy had said. "It's that we have to think of finances. You'll have advantages this way. There are scholarships and all kinds of assistance."

  She'd hated herself for the tears that rolled down her face when they told her.

  "We're not abandoning you," Carol spoke up. "This is just…protocol. It's just a legal arrangement that—"

  She'd gotten up and walked away and they'd stopped speaking.

  A boyfriend in college once suggested that she had an attachment disorder. Her comeback was that if she did, it was only where he was concerned, but she'd secretly wondered if his theory was right. Something made her less lovable than most people, or she would have been loved more. Was that why Wes had suggested being friends? Was he already sensing it? Tears filled her eyes and spilt over, traveling across the bridge of her nose and soaking into the pillow beneath her head. "Stupid," she chided herself. "Stupid girl."

  Chapter 11

  Eunice knocked on Tidwell's bedroom door once and then stepped in without waiting for an answer. Inside, she closed it again and lifted her chin. "I'm here as bidden. Shall I strip naked and bend over your chair?"

  Rachel Tidwell was seated at her dressing table brushing out her fair hair. It was graying, but it was hard to tell except in a certain light, which, naturally, she tried her best to avoid. Her hair had always been a point of pride for her. At thirty-eight years of age, it still was. "Would you care to explain first?" Tidwell asked without looking away from her reflection. "Exactly what you are up to."

  "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  Rachel met Eunice's defiant gaze in the mirror. "Oh, but you do, which means you're lying and that's another offense you'll have to be punished for."

  "Well, since you live to punish, that should make your night." Go ahead, spank my ass, you old witch. I'll be out of this house sooner than you know.

  Rachel put down her brush and twisted around to face her recalcitrant charge. "I know exactly what you're up to, my girl. You should admit it, though."

  "Admit what?"

  Rachel stood. "The answer is yes and hurry up about it."

  "What?" Eunice asked, not understanding.

  "You asked if you should take off your clothes and bend over the chair, and my answer is yes. Or would you rather take care of that lying offense first?"

  Eunice swallowed. She suddenly wasn't feeling as defiant as she had been.

  Rachel came toward her. "It's your choice. There is going to be punishment for your insubordination, for lying, and for sneaking off to the major." Eunice gasped and her eyes widened. She quickly recovered her wits, but it was too late. It had been a guess on Rachel's part after seeing the way she'd behaved in the morning room, but now it was confirmed. She felt a delicious flutter of excitement realizing how the punishment was going to be compounded. "Did you fuck him?"

  Eunice shook her head.

  "I will find out the truth," Rachel said. "And, as always, for every time you lie to me, there will be a new and separate punishment."

  "I'm not lying." She was nervous now.

  "So, what did you do?"

  "I…performed oral pleasure on him."

  "At his request?" Eunice paused too long, trying to decide what the best answer would be, and Rachel continued. "So, I think we both agree you have three separate offenses to be punished for. Do we agree on that?"

  Eunice experienced a tremor of fear. "Yes."

  "Yes, what?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "We'll start with your punishment for lying. But go on. Take off your clothes."

  "All of them?" Eunice stammered. She'd been facetious earlier. She'd not been made to take off all her clothes before.

  "All of them."

  Rachel went and sat to watch Eunice undress. For all her earlier insolence, she'd begun to tremble now. Good. Fear always added an element of enjoyment for her. When Eunice was naked, Rachel rose and gestured for her to follow. She walked to the basin and rolled up her sleeves. "For that very active, lying tongue of yours—soap," she said, holding up a bar of soap. "This soap is valuable to me. It's a luxury, really one of the few I indulge in." She held it to her nose and sniffed appreciatively. "It cleanses the skins and has a pleasant scen
t, but, like other soaps, it is made from potash and lye. It is not enjoyable on the tongue. However, I care about your reformation, even when it costs me." She paused and waited.

  "Thank you," Eunice managed.

  Rachel nodded. "Open your mouth."

  Eunice cringed but obeyed.

  "No, wait, I have an idea," Rachel said. "Pretend this is the major's cock and give it, what did you call it? Oral pleasure." She handed the soap to Eunice. "And I want a show of it. Moan. Take it deep in your mouth. Lick it all the way around."

  Eunice tried to do as told, but the soap was vile tasting and she was making a terrible face in reaction.

  "I don't imagine it looked anything like that at all," Rachel said as it began to bore her. "And I've believe I've made my point. You may rinse your mouth out."

  It took several minutes and half the water in the pitcher, and even then, Eunice tasted soap where it had caked in her teeth. "I'm going to be sick," she complained.

  "You should feel sick with that lying tongue in your head. Now, punishment two, for the insubordination. Assume the position."

  "I can't. I'm sick."

  "Quickly," Rachel warned.

  Eunice walked to one of the two armchairs and bent over the back of it, grabbing onto the arms as she'd been instructed to do for past offenses.

  Rachel stood a moment, enjoying the view, and then went for the instrument she'd decided on earlier, a riding crop.

  "Are you using the hairbrush?"

  "Don't speak unless I've asked you a question." She let the crop fly. It landed across both buttocks and Eunice cried out at the sudden bite of pain. "Tell me this, did you want the major to fuck you? And be very careful about lying. We can always do this again tomorrow."

  "Yes," Eunice replied through a clenched jaw.

  "Yes, what?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "You will say yes, mistress."

  "Yes, mistress."

  "It's good you told the truth." She raised her arm and brought down the crop again. It made a satisfying swish and smack, and the resultant cry from Eunice was even more satisfying. She struck again and again. She varied the landing places, mostly concentrating on the buttocks but also treating the back of the legs. After a dozen lashes, she stopped and surveyed the red marks she had inflicted. "I think that will do."

 

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