by Rachel Green
“You must be patient,” he was saying. “You know I can’t afford to make him angry at me.”
“But I was so surprised.” The second speaker was a girl, although Jennifer didn’t recognize the voice. Someone young, she thought.
“I know. I’m sorry.” Richard sounded anxious. “Don’t worry, though. It’s only until my inheritance is settled. I can’t afford to risk Robert taking me out of his will.”
“I understand, Richard, but how do think it makes me feel, hearing of your engagement to that woman?”
“Mary’s all right,” Richard said. “You’d like her if you got to know her properly.”
“I didn’t think you liked her very much either,” the girl said. “You never said before.”
“Let’s not quarrel.” Richard’s voice was soothing. “Let’s go back to the hotel and I’ll give you something to warm you up.”
Jennifer stayed where she was until the voices faded completely, bursting to tell someone the news.
* * * *
Jennifer got to the house just as Simon was pulling on his overcoat. “I’m glad I caught you.” She dropped her shopping bags on the old pew in the hall. “I saw Robert in town and guess what?”
“How should I know?” Simon checked through the contents of his briefcase. “Look, did you put the communion wafers and wine in here for the housebound old dears?”
“Of course. Don’t I always? Never mind that though. What about my news?”
“What about it? It can’t be all that important or he’d have told us yesterday.”
“Think again.” Jennifer was all but shaking with excitement. “Richard and Mary have got engaged!”
“What? They can’t have done. Richard doesn’t even like her.”
“Well, he does now.” Jennifer clutched his arm. “There’s more, too. I was walking home through the woods at the bottom of the manor when I heard him talking.”
“Heard who? Robert?”
“No, silly, Richard. I couldn’t see him because he was on the other side of the park wall, but it was definitely him.”
“So?” Simon closed his briefcase. “Do hurry up, Jennifer, I have to go.”
“He’s got another girl on the side,” she said. “I wasn’t far wrong about the Markhew harem after all. Like father, like son.”
“Stepson,” Simon corrected. “That’s ridiculous, though. Why would he get engaged to Mary if he’s already got a girlfriend? What was he saying to her?”
“He told her to be patient. He didn’t want to upset Robert in case he took him out of the will. Do you think that he doesn’t love Mary at all and is only agreeing to marry her for the inheritance?”
“I hope not.” Simon’s expression darkened. “I couldn’t allow a marriage like that to go ahead. It augers too much trouble for all those concerned, let alone the whole question of the sanctity of marriage.”
“Who do you think his mistress is?”
“How should I know? There are dozens of girls in the town.” Simon looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go. I’ll drop in at the White Art on my way back. See if I can talk to Richard about all this.”
“Good.” Jennifer straightened his lapels. “It’s about time you got some gossip for me.”
“It’s not gossip when it’s straight from the source.” Simon checked his hair in the mirror. “You know I don’t hold with gossip.”
* * * *
At The Herbage, Meinwen was begging for release. “Please?” She clenched her pelvic muscles in an effort to prevent her orgasm, twisting against the bonds in the effort. Ropes dug into her skin, the momentary pain bringing her back from the crest before building the anticipation higher.
“Not yet.” His voice was a monotone, almost menacing. “Wait.”
“Oh God!” Meinwen tried to think of mathematics? Plumbing? Anything to take her mind off it. “The bathroom tap is dripping,” she said, more to herself than with any intent of him hearing her.
“Is it?” At least she had elicited some emotion from him. “Then you’ll fix it…”
She groaned.
“Before I let you reach an orgasm.”
She looked up to see the same half-smile she’d fallen in love with over the internet.
* * * *
The White Art was beginning to fill as the locals finished work and dropped in for a pint on their way home. Father Brande was respected enough to be granted an easy passage through the throng, reaching the bar without difficulty.
“Good evening, Father.” Mike Chapman had owned the hotel for ten years and knew everybody. “What can I get for you?”
Simon grinned. “Nothing actually, Mike. I was wondering if you’d seen Richard Godwin.”
“Have you come from his stepfather?” Mike leaned in closer. “Only I can’t remember if I’ve seen him or not.”
“Robert doesn’t even know he’s in town,” Simon said. “I’m here as a friend.”
Mike nodded. “I’ll ring his room then. Can I get you a drink while you wait? On the house.”
Simon smiled. “That’s good of you Mike. I’ll have an Earl Grey.”
* * * *
Meinwen checked her email over a soothing cup of chamomile tea. Her hands felt chapped and raw from the physical labor and she mentally kicked herself for not asking Dave to stay over for a day or two, just while the donkey work needed doing. There was no way she could afford a gardener and her blisters already had blisters.
She yawned as she glanced out of the window at the gathering clouds. Was six o’clock too early to go to bed?
* * * *
“Father Brande.”
Richard slipped into the nook seat opposite Simon. “Mike said you wanted to see me?” He reached across and shook hands with the priest. Simon had a firm grip.
“I do. What’s all this about you getting engaged to Mary Markhew? You’re too young to get married yet.”
“I thought you’d approve.” Richard grinned and hunched forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “I thought all good Catholics were supposed to get married as soon as they could?”
“Supposed to, yes, and expand the glory of the Church.” Simon laughed. “It’s not so likely these days, though, is it?”
“Maybe not.” Richard drew circles in the coffee spill on the table. “Will you promise not to tell my stepfather that I’m here and not in London?”
Simon nodded. “I was a friend of your mother’s for many years, Richard. You can trust me.”
“Aye, I know that.” Richard’s phone beeped and he glanced at the incoming message before dismissing it. He dropped his voice. “Robert and I have had a lot of problems lately. Fights and that. I’ll do anything for a quiet life.”
“Even marry Mary against your better judgment?” Simon asked. “Or carry on with someone else at the same time?”
Richard shook his head. “You’ve known me all my life. You should know I’m not the kind of man to cheat on the woman he loves.”
Chapter 9
“They’ll be here soon.” Robert Markhew trailed his fingers down the rigid body, taking delight in the wild-eyed panic of the submissive woman bound in hemp rope before him. “What do you think they’d say if they found you like this?”
She grunted through the ball gag, the leather strap so tight the skin of her cheeks was white underneath it. Her breasts stood pert and hardened, confined within twin whorls of rope.
“What’s that?” Robert smiled. “I couldn’t quite hear you.” His fingers ran across her nipple and down over the bound torso, trailing over her mound. He could go no farther, for to prolong her agony and force himself to be patient, he had bound her legs, preventing access to that most precious area of her body.
She grunted again.
“It is indeed.” Whether Robert could distinguish her meaning remained unclear but he gave the appearance he had. Acceding or denying any request she might make was part of his enjoyment.
The alarm on his cellphone rang and he smiled.
> “Time’s up,” he said. “We’ll continue this at another time.” He circled the woman, taking a last moment of pleasure from her discomfort before pulling out the thick rattan cane holding the ropes in place. They fell off her, pooling around her feet like a shoal of eels.
“Get your clothes on.” He straightened his bow tie in the mirror. “You need to be serving aperitifs as soon as they arrive. I need to get a bit more work done.”
* * * *
“They’ll be here any minute.” Jean said as she opened the study door to leave. “You don’t have time for any more playing on your computer.”
“I know. I’ll be out shortly.” Robert Markhew tapped his status to “away” and pulled another photograph onto the graphics program. Robert considered himself old school and composed his work in the camera but was not averse to digitally cropping and enhancing the colors of his masterpieces. His last show at the Downstairs Gallery had been an acclaimed success and he’d sold forty thousand copies of his book Palimpsests after the review of it in The Times.
He zoomed in to ten-times magnification and edited out a slight blur on the ink used to write page thirteen of Joyce’s Ulysses across the naked torso of his model for the day. All in the best possible taste, of course, soft lighting and sepia filters and close-up shots of tonal skin.
He pressed a shortcut for his voice recorder. “Nicole, please remind me to talk to Amanda about inking the models. Today’s page had bled. Check what ink he’s using. She’s using, I mean.”
He zoomed out again and saved the file. “Page thirteen stored and completed with file name jay-jay-you-oh-one-three-see. Mark up and transcribe. Single plate, left.” Nicole Fielding, his secretary could access his dictation files on the network and transcribe his notes in the morning. He turned off the recorder just as the doorbell rang.
“Time’s up,” he said to himself, disconnecting the camera, and standing. “Be pleasant to the parish priest and his lovely sister.” He crossed to the mirror and adjusted his bow tie, brushed off his beard and rubbed a spot of ink from his cheek.
* * * *
“Here we are.”
Jennifer indicated to turn into the wide drive of The Larches, waiting for the approaching car to pass. She was a careful driver, having treated herself to a new Mercedes when her first book topped the million sales mark. At seven years old it looked as good as it did when she’d bought it.
“It was kind of you to drive.” Simon adjusted his tie in the passenger vanity mirror. “It means you can’t have a drink.”
Jennifer smiled. “I’d rather stay teetotal than turn up to The Larches in that battered old thing the church lets you drive.”
She turned into the driveway but had to slam on the brakes as a blue Vauxhall shot out of the drive and into the road, heedless of either the Mercedes or any other traffic that might have been passing. Simon caught a glimpse of a tear-stained face at the wheel.
“That was Susan Pargeter.” Simon stared after the car. “I’m sure she was crying.”
“Really?” Jennifer’s mind was racing. “Perhaps Robert’s kicked her out of his harem.” She slipped back into gear and eased forward.
“That’s not very kind.” Simon returned his attention to the gravel drive. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her quite so upset. I wonder what’s happened.”
Jennifer parked the car in the wide turning circle and stood back while Simon knocked on the door, waiting several minutes for a reply.
“We have got the right day, haven’t we?” he asked. “Robert did say tonight?”
“Of course he did.” Jennifer leaned past him and hammered on the door until it was opened by a flustered young woman.
“I’m so sorry.” She stood to one side to let them pass into the hall, decorated with paintings on either side of a paneled door. “I heard you knock but I was up to my elbows in entrails. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
Jennifer smiled. “Long enough to feel the chill. It’s purgatory out there.”
“Jennifer!” Simon’s feigned outrage was sufficient admonishment.
“Good evening, Father, Miss Brande.” Mary trotted down the stairs with a smile almost wide enough to reach her eyes. “Amanda! Don’t just stand there! Take their coats.”
“Hello there.” Simon shrugged off his mac and handed it to the maid. He turned to Mary. “I hear you have some good news.”
“You’ve already heard!” She grinned even wider. “Isn’t it wonderful? I can hardly believe it myself.”
“I’m so pleased for you.” Jennifer kissed the blushing cheek and threw a glance at Simon from behind Mary’s back. “You must tell me all about it.”
“I admit I was surprised when Richard asked me.” She looked from Jennifer to Simon and back. “I didn’t think he had much interest in marriage, at least not with me. Since we’d known each other for so long I assumed he just thought of me as a sister or something.”
“He certainly seems to think more of you than a sister now.” Jennifer folded Mary’s hand into the crook of her arm and led her into the sitting room. “When’s the big day?” She left Simon in the hall, aware he’d take the opportunity to look at the Victorian paintings.
* * * *
“There you are, Father. I thought we’d lost you.” Robert Markhew appeared from the direction of the kitchen, wiping a spot of grease from his beard with a napkin. “I saw Mary talking to Jennifer and wondered where you’d gone.”
“I was just looking at this Pieta.” Simon indicated a large oil depicting Christ on the cross, a tearful Mary Magdalene washing his bloody feet with her tears. “Our Lady of Pity.”
“It’s been in the family for years.” Robert put an arm around Simon’s shoulders and guided him toward the sitting room. “I’ll leave it to you in my will, if you like.”
“Ah, I’m flattered but I couldn’t accept. Vows of poverty, remember?”
“I’ll leave it to the church, then. Pity for St. Pity’s.”
“Splendid. Thank you.” Simon twisted to look back at the painting. “It’ll hang in the Lady’s Chapel.”
“As you wish.” Robert sighed. “You’ve heard the news, I suppose? Richard’s engagement?”
“Indeed I have.” Simon smiled. “Congratulations are in order, I believe.”
“I expect so.” Robert nudged Simon’s arm. “Sly little bugger, eh? Still, it keeps everything in the family. Shall we go in? I believe dinner is ready.”
* * * *
Nicole knocked softly on the door to Peter’s cottage. As the gardener and handyman he had the place to himself, a cottage built originally as an adjunct to the main house for visitors to occupy. It served Peter very well, leaving him free to work at any hour without disturbing the rest of the occupants.
It served Nicole well, too. No noise carried from Peter’s cottage to the rest of the house, leaving them free to pursue a relationship outside that of Sir Robert and the rest of the family.
He knew about it, naturally. Little went on at The Larches without Robert knowing the details, but as long as their activities didn’t impinge on either their work or his demands he allowed their relationship to flourish.
After no reply to her knock, Nicole tried the handle. The cottage was empty, Peter’s coat missing from the hook on the back of the door. She kicked off her shoes and went into the bedroom, switching on the two wall lights to bathe the room in a soft glow.
She pulled off her dress and put some music on, selecting a book from the shelves to read. Peter wasn’t one for fiction, preferring instead to acquaint himself with the intricacies of whichever cars the house owned or the complexities of maintaining a large garden for year-round color and cut flowers. Between the manuals for the lawn mowers and the Jaguar, though, was a slim volume of poetry. She took it out and sat on the bed in the uniform stockings and underwear Robert Markhew dictated his female staff should wear and began to read.
Much of the book comprised haiku, each one a glimpse into the life of the writ
er. Nicole flicked back to the cover, where the author was listed as Paul Oldman. She flicked back to the page she’d just read:
secretary smile.
she takes down all he dictates–
silk stocking, torn.
Nicole frowned. It sounded like her. Could Peter have written this under a pseudonym?
She read through several more of the poems. Here was one about Robert, one about love, one about sex between two men…
The minutes ticked by into an hour. The CD she’d put on had begun to repeat the first song and she realized she hadn’t heard the other tracks. She’d read the entire volume by the time she heard the outer door open and Peter’s gruff baritone.
“Who’s here?” He came into the bedroom, his smile when he saw her creasing the corners of his eyes. “Did we have an arrangement tonight? I must have forgotten.”
Nicole held up the book of poetry and his face fell. “Did you write this?”
He nodded, crossing the gap between the door and the bed to sit next to her. He fumbled for her hand. “Don’t tell anyone. We’re not supposed to profit from our positions here.”
“That depends how good you are.” She reached back and unhooked her bra. “Let’s make haiku together.”
* * * *
The dinner was a quiet affair if you discounted Mary’s constant monologue about her engagement. Jennifer was sick of hearing about it even before the main course was served. There were only so many times one could feign interest.
“Have you met Amanda?” asked Robert, when the girl who’d opened the front door came in to take away the remains of the soup course. “She’s staying with us for a little while for some training.”
“Briefly, at the door.” Simon half stood and held out his hand. “How do you do? I’m Father Brande and this is my sister, Jennifer.”
Jennifer smiled, noticing the maid’s honey complexion. “Where are you from, Amanda? Spain?”
“No, ma’am. Basingstoke. My mother’s Spanish, though.” Amanda had a soft, lilting voice and was clearly nervous in front of guests. She gathered up the bowls with an efficiency any restaurateur would envy.