Salt Bride

by Lucinda Brant

  And while she was chatting and laughing and fluttering her fan very prettily, and holding court amongst the politically influential, she learnt an interesting piece of information from Lady Porter, whose favorite pastime was being up on all the gossip involving Westminster’s upper-servants. Diana had recently lost a very good upstairs maid by the name of Anne Springer to Jenny Dalrymple, and it just so happened that the elder sister of this Anne Springer was Lady Porter’s dresser. But it was Lady Porter’s adamant belief that Diana’s very good upstairs maid had not gone to Jenny Dalrymple at all but was here in this very house, newly employed as the Countess of Salt Hendon’s personal maid, to be closer to her betrothed, one Rufus Willis, under-butler to Lord Salt. Lady Porter was insistent. After all, her source, Anne Springer’s sister Janet, was impeccable.

  Come time for the ladies to retire to the Long Gallery to sip tea, leaving the gentlemen at table to their port, Diana St. John disappeared for half an hour. She found her way through the public rooms to the labyrinth of dimly lit passageways that led to the very private rooms occupied by the Earl and Countess one floor above. Here, in the freshly painted and prettily furnished rooms that were the Countess of Salt Hendon’s apartments, she discovered her very good upstairs maid Anne.

  The young woman was in amongst a plethora of exquisitely embroidered petticoats in a variety of rich fabrics and colors; a dozen pairs of shoes in matching fabrics were lined up along the polished wood floor and on the sofa were neatly stacked piles of stockings, and all manner of female fripperies. She was humming to herself and busily hanging, folding and putting away her ladyship’s extensive new wardrobe. With her were two dressmakers and a milliner sitting huddled together with needle and thread under the light of a branch of candles by the warmth of the fireplace, putting the finishing touches to a couple of bonnets and bodices.

  Diana St. John screwed up her mouth at such over-indulgent spending on a creature who in her eyes wasn’t worth her housekeeper’s cast-offs, and summarily dismissed the dressmakers and milliner to a back closet with threats of their bills remaining unpaid if ever they opened their mouths to her presence. She was pleased when her very good upstairs maid Anne dropped into a respectful curtsey, and delighted when she saw real fear in the woman’s eyes.

  “I don’t have time to waste on why you told my housekeeper a falsehood about your present employment,” Diana St. John stated coldly, circling the woman with a menacing swish of her wide hooped petticoats. “Suffice that if you render me a small service I will forget that you are a liar, and thus I won’t need to inform the Earl, and you won’t be thrown out on the streets where deceitful servants belong.”

  “My lady, I—”

  “Did I ask you to speak? I don’t have time, idiot! Listen. You can form your letters? Good. You will make a note of the Countess’s every move. And I mean every move. I want to know everything there is to know about her, from her favorite color to her preferred breakfast beverage; what time of the day she rests, goes riding; who gets her custom; in particular who visits her and why; but most importantly, when and how often his lordship avails himself of his marital rights.”

  Anne blinked and wondered if she had heard correctly. “My lady?”

  “You will also keep a detailed record of when Lady Salt has her monthly courses—”

  Anne shook her head vigorously, but kept her eyes lowered to the floorboards. “Oh, no, my lady, I couldn’t! I—”

  “—and, most importantly, when she stops menstruating. I need to know the exact day of the month.”

  “My lady! Oh please don’t make me! Please,” Anne protested, blushing to the roots of her brown hair. “I can’t tell you—I can’t report on them doing-doing that; on her ladyship’s courses. I can’t—”

  Diana St. John grabbed the woman’s upper arm hard and stuck her face in hers. “Yes, you can and you will or I will inform the Earl that the Countess’s new personal maid lifts her skirts for the under-butler.”

  Anne was horrified. She burst into tears. “Never! Never! Mr. Willis is an honorable man, my lady. We have never—Not before marriage. We are betrothed.”

  “Stop blubbering, girl! You won’t be betrothed for much longer if you’re both dismissed from service.”

  “Oh, please, my lady, no. Mr. Willis has worked so hard to get to where he is as under-butler. One day he hopes to—”

  “Stop whining!” Diana St. John demanded and let her go with a shove. “If you want this Willis to rise to the dizzying heights of butler you had best do as I say, or both of you will be out on the street without a reference and nowhere to go. No one will employ either of you, not if I have any say in the matter. The only vocation open to you both will be as whore and pimp.” She rested her chin on the closed sticks of her ivory fan and pondered a moment before glancing slyly at the quivering maid, “He availed himself of her last night, didn’t he? Do you know how many times he mounted—”

  “No! No! Of course not, my lady!” Anne interrupted, shaking hands to her tear-stained face. “I do not listen at doors!”

  “You will, if you want to keep your position,” Diana St. John stated unsympathetically. “Willis can then continue to dream of becoming a butler in some third-rate household, and both of you will be fed and warm the rest of the winter.”

  Tears were streaming down Anne’s face and she sniffed loudly. She knew she had to submit to Lady St. John’s outrageous demands. She had worked long enough in the St. John household to know her ladyship meant what she threatened. An uncompromising mistress who expected her servants to obey her without question, the St. John children fared no better than the servants; the little boy most of all. Most shocking was the fact her ladyship fed her son a strengthening medicinal that more often than not necessitated a visit from the physician to cure the boy of an ill he suffered needlessly at the hands of his over-protective parent.

  As for Lady St. John’s temper tantrums, very few of her servants had actually witnessed one at first hand, but those that had never forgot. Most sought other employment immediately. Anne had witnessed one such fit of temper and had pleaded with her father to find her another position. She could not stay in a house where the mistress tore up the bedclothes and pillows, scattering feather down everywhere, and slapped her personal maid’s face, all because she could not go to sleep without a sapphire and diamond locket that she kept under her pillow at night.

  Three upstairs maids and Lady St. John’s personal maid, with a red welt across her cheek, had been ordered to tear up the bedchamber until they found the precious piece of jewelry. Anne had been lucky enough to find the locket. It had slipped down the back of the carved headboard, and was lodged between the mattress and the carved backing board. It was an intricate piece of jewelry, beautifully wrought and with a large gleaming sapphire set into a gold back and surrounded by diamonds. Anne had it snatched out of her hand without so much as a thank you and the maids were dismissed with the screaming threat that if ever the locket went missing again from under her pillow, Lady St. John would dismiss her entire household staff.

  Anne had been miserable in that house and when her father found her the position of lady’s maid to the Earl’s new wife, who turned out to be a softly-spoken young woman with a sweet nature, Anne considered herself the luckiest girl alive. But there was no escaping the ruthless Lady St. John. Nor did she feel she could approach the Countess, who was young and inexperienced and unlikely to believe a new servant over the Earl’s particular cousin. And she certainly didn’t want trouble for her betrothed, Rufus Willis.

  Yet, the thought of watching the Countess’s every move, of recording her intimate relations with the Earl, turned her stomach and made her say bravely,

  “Please, my lady, don’t make me do this… Lady Salt has been so good and kind to me.”

  Diana St. John swept to the door. “So good and kind in fact that she’ll never suspect her maid.” With a flick of her wrist she opened out her ivory fan. “Did you know these are the worst January
frosts on record? People are literally freezing in the streets…”

  Salt had thrown on a red silk banyan and sat at his dressing table filing his manicured nails, glad the day was over. He had enjoyed the tennis immensely, particularly winning against that prosy dandy Pascoe Church, six games to three. But the dinner was tedious and the talk of the political maneuverings of Rockingham and Newcastle, and speculation over whether the King’s favorite, Lord Bute, would or would not resign held no particular interest for him that night; this, despite Diana’s attempts to keep him in the political argument. He was too distracted to be bothered offering more than the barest of comments; distracted with wanting to know what was going on at the far end of the long table where his wife held court with Ron and Merry, Sir Antony, his secretary and Tom Allenby.

  He had been unable to see past the tall silver epergnes, although he heard the odd occasional outburst of loud laughter from that end of the table. And twice the children came to visit him, which he thought charming; Merry sitting on his lap and Ron leaning against his shoulder, intent on telling him what a wonderful time they were having being with all the grown-ups. They assured him they were on their best behavior. He could ask Aunt Jane if he didn’t want to take their word for it. They told him simply that they liked Lady Salt very much and that her brother Tom was a capital fellow who knew a lot about ships and blue glass.

  Later, when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the Long Gallery for the recital, he was the last to arrive and found Pascoe Church deep in conversation with his wife. Sir Antony, Arthur Ellis and Tom Allenby all strategically nearby, not unlike mastiffs guarding the master’s bone. He had to smile to himself at the looks on their faces. None of them were pleased that the silver-tongued Pascoe was intent on monopolizing Jane’s time. Most of the ladies had gravitated to the opposite side of the room where Diana held court; Merry and Ron perched stiffly on the sofa beside their mother, and by their gloomy expressions, not happy to be there.

  Salt felt obliged to rescue them from their enforced good behavior. He spent the hour before the recital playing at snakes and ladders with them, at the far end of the Long Gallery, sitting on the rug in front of the second fireplace, where he and the two children could make as much noise as they wanted without disturbing the adults.

  By the time the last of the guests had left for the evening, Jane had retired and he sat over a brandy with Sir Antony in his bookroom. Finally, Sir Antony bid him a good night and went up to his rooms off the first landing. With Tom Allenby and his mother staying at the Earl’s Arlington Street townhouse, Sir Antony’s usual abode when in London, Salt had given him quarters at his Grosvenor Square mansion; a circumstance the congenial Sir Antony took in his stride.

  It was Sir Antony’s throw away comment about Jane as he bid him good night that decided Salt to seek out his wife before he went to sleep. No wonder the Countess was a slight little thing, what with her sparrow’s appetite. She ate nothing more than a bowl of pea soup at dinner, saying the food was far too rich for her, as she was used to very plain meals, and only one course at each sitting.

  “I ask you, Salt,” Sir Antony continued on a huff of disbelief as he set aside his empty brandy glass, the quantity of wine drunk before, during and after dinner loosening his tongue. “What rich merchant worth his moneybags eats plain meals? And one course only? Tom confided that his uncle permitted Jane a fire only every second day. Can you imagine such a frail butterfly eking out such a frugal existence? Not to mention Allenby leaving a will so bizarre it defies comprehension,” he added as he staggered to the door. “And it gets better, y’know. Wait till you read it! I mean, I would need to see it in ink before I believed your merchant neighbor left Caroline ten thousand pounds. Yes, I knew that would make you sit up and take notice! Yes, your sister Caroline, Salt. Young Tom confided in me that Caroline was bequeathed such a sum by his uncle, and for the life of us we don’t know why. If you ask me, two and two just don’t add up to four where Jacob Allenby was concerned. Good night.”

  Salt was of the same opinion. He was completely astounded by Sir Antony’s confession and was inclined to think too much brandy had fuddled his brain. Still, Jacob Allenby’s resentment went deep where the Earls of Salt Hendon were concerned and mentioning Caroline in his will was just the sort of squalid revenge the merchant was likely to make from the grave. As for keeping Jane cold and fed plain meals…

  He tossed aside the nail file on the cluttered dressing table, dismissed Andrews for the evening and padded through to his wife’s rooms, telling himself he hadn’t wished her a good night. Besides, he wanted to make sure she was putting liniment on his nasty handiwork of the night before. God he had been an unthinking ass… If the food was too rich for her, then why hadn’t she said so? He had a kitchen staff of twenty, not including the pastry chef, baker and scullery servants. Cook would’ve obliged her with a bowl of potatoes with lashings of butter, if that was to her fancy, silly girl!

  Not finding her in the bedchamber, he went through to the dressing room and discovered her just out of her hipbath and drying herself behind the ornate dressing screen. Puddles of water had followed her the short distance from bath to screen and there was the distinct smell of scented soap in the air.

  Salt propped himself by the fireplace to wait and was pleasantly surprised to discover that the long looking glass behind the screen was at such an angle that it was possible to view the candlelight goings on in the shielded dressing area from where he stood warming his hands. He would definitely have the looking glass repositioned tomorrow, but not tonight.

  He watched his wife drying herself by the light of a candelabrum, tackling an overlarge bath sheet that was clearly made for someone of his size and width. When she accidentally stepped on a trailing corner and it flew out of her hands to the floor and she scolded the towel as if it were animate, he smiled indulgently, and wondered why she had taken the prudish step of going behind a screen when it would have been much more comfortable and warm to dry herself before the warmth of the fire. But such thoughts evaporated when she bent at the waist to quickly pick up the bath sheet.

  His intention of scolding her for not eating her dinner, and wishing her a good night before returning to his cold four poster bed, vanished as he felt himself stir. Mesmerized, he watched her toss aside the bath sheet then turn to the looking glass. Catching a glimpse of something about herself in the reflection she moved closer and put up her hands to carefully remove the array of pins that held up her waist-length hair. Salt’s discomfort increased, as she stood on glorious display naked and unselfconscious before her reflection. And when she let down her hair, leaning forward before tossing her head back so the raven-black mane tumbled, untangled, to the small of her back, he was determined to share her bed.

  He wasn’t sure how long he stood by the fireplace admiring her, dazed by the fact that this most beautiful and utterly captivating woman was finally his wife, but it was long enough for her personal maid to squeak a cough and then run behind the screen with head bowed. He quickly turned to the fireplace, face aglow with embarrassment to be caught out furtively admiring his wife, the maid’s intrusion just as effective as an icy dip in the Thames.

  “His lordship? Here? Oh! Why didn’t you say you were here, my lord?” Jane called out, hurriedly wriggling in to a thin cotton nightshift and throwing on a silk dressing gown without bothering to button it up. She dismissed Anne with a smile, saying she should get some well-earned sleep she looked quite tired. She hoped she hadn’t given her too many tasks in the one day? She then thanked Anne for staying up so late and said she would decide what she wanted to wear tomorrow, in the morning.

  “You don’t have to thank your maid for carrying out her duties,” Salt told her with a laugh as Anne hurriedly left the room with head bent and quietly closed over the door, leaving it ajar. “She stays awake until her tasks are complete. If that means her ladyship arriving home from a ball at three in the morning and must needs be undressed, then so be it.”
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  “I truly do feel for Andrews’ position,” Jane quipped, standing beside him and warming her hands at the fireplace. “No wonder he’s so efficient. It’s fear, not devotion, that drives him.”

  Salt frowned, realized she was in jest and playfully tugged a long silky lock of her hair, saying with a smile, “And will fear make her ladyship eat her dinner? I’m told you ate only a bowl of soup. That’s not enough to sustain you.”

  “I assure you, the portions your servants dish up could feed me for a week. Well, not a week, precisely, but a bowl of soup and a handful of bread was my usual dinner. So you needn’t glare at me in that way.”

  “What sort of deprived household were you living in that a bowl of soup constitutes dinner?” he demanded incredulously. “Didn’t that man look after you properly? It’s just as well he was a chair-ridden cripple. His sort of ruthless economizing could not have sustained a wife, the expense of a mistress and the demands of any brats from both!”

  Jane’s throat constricted and she looked away. “I’m sure Mr. Allenby could have learned a thing or two from you. Susannah, Elizabeth and Jenny don’t have any complaints, do they?”

  He grabbed her arm and spun her to face him. “We weren’t talking about me, but that man—”

  “I would prefer not to talk about him,” she answered quietly, meeting his brown eyes. “Ever.”

  His brows snapped over the bridge of his long boney nose. “Did he mistreat you? Tell me.”

  She swallowed and shook her head. No, she wouldn’t tell him. Not yet. She couldn’t. She didn’t want his pity. She didn’t want him to be kind to her out of a sense of sympathy for the life she had led under Jacob Allenby’s protection. How he had treated her as a whore in need of solid correction; how she had had to listen to his endless sermons on the Earl of Salt Hendon’s immoral ways: that she was much better off as she was than as the wife of an unfaithful husband. So she held back her tears and kept the tremble out of her voice to say cheekily,