by Cach, Lisa
“What about the shell bodice? Did you make one of those, too?”
“Shells! Pah! You said yourself this is what men expect.” She dropped her hands from her fake breasts. He winced and turned his face away, taking unwilling glances at her from the corner of his eye.
“I want to wear this. It does everything you said you wanted. You have no idea how much time Hilde and I put into this, and I won’t have our efforts wasted. It’s a brilliant costume, and I’m going to wear it.” She crossed her arms under her breasts, the nipples peering over her forearms like the eyes of a lurking beast.
Tom hunched down in his coat, feeling queerly defeated and wondering just how he had gotten himself into this situation. “Anyone who sees you will assume they’re seeing you naked,” he tried once more. “They won’t think it’s a costume they’re looking at. I don’t see how that is any better than being naked to begin with.”
“I know it’s just a costume. And you know.”
Yes, he knew, but somehow he hadn’t considered the reality of his plan when he had proposed it to Konstanze. At the time had thought there was nothing wrong with having her splash about half-naked for another’s eyes, but now some part of him was saying there was something very wrong with it indeed.
He frowned. Was he jealous of what Foweather thought he would be seeing? It couldn’t be that—or at least, it shouldn’t be. Konstanze was not for him, and he had no right to be possessive of her… attributes.
He straightened up, determined to set aside his qualms. “Have it your way,” he said primly, then gestured toward the green-gray skirt that narrowed toward her ankles. “That’s your tail?”
Konstanze unfolded her arms and pulled aside the long, V-shaped front flap of the skirt, revealing slender green-gray trousers covering her legs.
Tom blinked, again seeing much more than he expected. The trousers fit closely to her legs, revealing hints of their gentle curves and drawing his eye inevitably upward toward her groin, which the front flap of skirt barely covered as she brought a leg forward to show off her handiwork.
He swallowed. “It doesn’t look much like a tail,” he said.
“Yes, it does. You have to imagine me sitting on a rock, wet from swimming. The fabric will cling to my legs, and from a distance it will look like I have a tail. With the skirt slit like this I’ll have no trouble swimming. I can easily spread my legs,” she said, demonstrating.
Oh, good Lord, why did she have to do that? Now he had that to imagine, her spreading legs encased in wet, clinging fabric. “What about your feet?” he asked, silently imploring her to close those plump little thighs.
“Hilde is making fish fins for them,” she said, standing straight and dropping the skirt flap back into place. “They aren’t finished yet.” She rested her hands on her hips, arms akimbo. “Well? What do you think?”
“I think you’ve taken to being a mermaid like a fish takes to water,” he said glumly.
She went to her chair and sat down, her hands resting neat as you please in her lap, her legs and ankles properly together. She seemed to have momentarily forgotten what her chest looked like.
“I think there’s more of my parents to me than I thought,” she said. “I hadn’t realized that dressing up could be so much fun. I love it!” she suddenly shouted, and flung her arms wide.
He put his hands over his face, his fingers pressing in on his eye sockets. What had he done to her? What manner of creature had he prodded her to become? He peered through his fingers at her. Her eyes were sparkling, and she seemed to be silently laughing at his distress.
“What of the promise you made your mother never to go on the stage?” he asked, dropping his hands.
Her smile faded. “This isn’t exactly the stage.”
“But it goes against the spirit of what she wanted for you.”
She frowned at him, resentment in the set of her features. “I don’t know why you of all people bring that up.”
“Despite what you may believe of me, I do have your best interests at heart,” he said. “Your great uncle would not have wanted me to open the gates to your own perdition.”
“I hardly think I’m on the road to ruin because I donned a costume and liked it.”
“I think you like it a little too much.”
“Why are you never happy?” she asked. “I’m doing what you asked. Why can’t you say, ‘Thank you, Konstanze, that’s a brilliant costume. I appreciate all the hard work you put into it’? Why instead do you have to try to find a way to take the fun out of it? I should think you’d be relieved I had so enthusiastically joined in your plan.”
“I don’t want to think that after you leave Penperro you’ll end up on a stage somewhere, and that it will be all my fault.”
“You take too much credit for your own influence. And who’s to say that I’m going to leave Penperro at all? Or are you hoping that I’ll leave, after you’ve gotten all your use out of me?”
“I didn’t mean that at all. And I’m not saying I have so much influence on you. You’re obviously quite capable of finding your own way to ruin, if recent history tells me anything.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I think you know.”
“Are you referring to my leaving my husband?”
He shrugged a shoulder, realizing he had said something he did not entirely mean. He had forgotten for a moment that the man might have beaten her, but he was in no mood to admit his error. This entire encounter with Konstanze had put him into an irascible humor. His insides felt like the coals of a fire, vigorously stirred by a poker, and there was nowhere for the flames to go.
“Get out,” Konstanze said, standing up and pointing toward the door.
He looked up at her in surprise.
“Get out, I said.” She was trembling.
He stood. “Konstanze—”
“Go!”
He saw tears filling her eyes, and felt like a complete heel. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he admitted.
“No, you shouldn’t have. You have no right to judge me. Now get out.”
“I didn’t mean it,” he said.
“You, of all people,” she said. “You asked me to take part in your foolish plan, and then you berate me for doing so, implying that I have no honor, no self-respect. I thought you were a better man than that.”
Her words struck a telling blow. Since coming to Penperro he had made it his purpose to live a life that followed his own internal code of decency. “I’m sorry, Konstanze,” he said, reaching out to grasp her by the shoulders. “I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t mean it.”
“You did mean it.”
“I’m an idiot. Please forgive me,” he said, leaning closer. With his fingers he touched her cheek, and she looked up at him, her gray eyes swimming with unshed tears. “You have every right to be angry with me. You’ve taken me by surprise, is all, and I haven’t reacted well.”
“Then you don’t truly think I’m a wanton?”
“Only the very best kind,” he said softly. Against all his better intentions he lowered his head toward her, his mouth nearing her lips, so full and pink and slightly parted.
He could feel her breath, coming fast now, and felt as well his own heartbeat in his chest. He slid his hand into her hair, feeling the silky locks between his fingers, the warm curve of her skull fitting neatly into his palm. Her head tilted back, her lips and throat vulnerable and bare.
At the last moment a faint prickling of sense and conscience intruded. To kiss her now, to treat her as a woman who could be taken, would be to negate the very apology he had just given. However wanton her behavior might seem from the outside, he knew in his heart that there was an innocence to it. For all that she was married and had lived on the fringes of the stage, there was something about her that said the world had not quite touched her, as if she had somehow escaped its laying its dirty finger on her soul.
She was soft and close, and he wanted to let his other h
and move down her back to cup her buttocks. He wanted to pull her against the arousal that still strained his breeches, wanted to bridge that last short space and claim her mouth, to delve his tongue inside that warm wetness, but he would be discarding honor if he did.
He shifted his mouth over an inch, and laid a gentle kiss upon her cheek, letting his lips rest against her smooth skin. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and inhaled the scent of her, then drew back.
One tear had spilled over onto her cheek, and with his thumb he brushed it away. “Do you forgive me?” he asked.
She gave a halfhearted shrug, then nodded.
He gave her a quick smile and released her, stepping away. He took his hat from the settle and held it in his hands. She had not moved, and an awkward silence lay between them.
“I’ll go now,” he said. “I’ll let you know when we need you.”
She nodded and looked away. He felt as if he had bungled whatever beginnings of a friendship they might have had. His jumbled emotions would not settle. It seemed as if every time he was with her he somehow managed to put his foot wrong.
“If you need anything, have Hilde bring a note to me, or to the vicar.”
“Thank you,” she said, sparing him only a glance.
“I’ll go, then,” he said again.
She led him to the door and opened it, and he paused on the step outside, turning back to her.
“It’s a wonderful costume, Konstanze. It truly is. It took a clever mind to think of it.”
She smiled at that, a small expression but he hoped a sincere one. “Thank you.”
He nodded, realized he was lingering like a fool, and stepped out into the dark.
Chapter Thirteen
Hilde kept her eyes out for Matt Jobson as she strode into Penperro. Konstanze had told her the man’s name and occupation, and the information had served only to further her interest in him. Not only was he a sturdy piece of male flesh with a fine head of hair, but he was a man of God, too.
Hilde wasn’t sure what it was about priests and ministers, but she found them immensely attractive. Maybe it was the challenge of seducing a man of such pure thoughts, or perhaps she liked the implied power of his position. He did, after all, work directly for God.
Whatever the reason, Matt Jobson was firmly in her thoughts. She imagined he was the type of man to make a lot of noise in bed—or at least, she hoped so. Maybe he was one of those who used dirty words in the heat of the act. She gave a little shiver.
Unfortunately, she had seen neither pink hide nor white hair of the vicar by the time she reached Tom Trewella’s house. She was here at the invitation of his housekeeper, Mrs. Toley, whom she had met several days ago in a shop. They had fought over a wheel of soft French cheese, and when Hilde had heard for whom the woman worked, she had forced her friendship on the woman. She had even offered to split the cheese wheel.
The result was an invitation for tea. At least, Hilde thought she’d been invited to tea and a chat. She couldn’t be sure. The woman’s accent made it difficult to understand much of what she said.
Mrs. Toley had pointed out the house to her, and it was easy to recognize with the abundance of orange and yellow nasturtiums overflowing their planters atop the surrounding wall. Hilde gave a grunt of approval as she looked up at the house. It was in fine repair, and the smell of fish was less prevalent here. It spoke well for Tom Trewella.
Hilde had every intention of seeing every inch of the house. If her Konstanze was going to be involved with this man, Hilde thought it best if she discovered as much about him as she could. There was no better way than a good, old-fashioned snoop in someone’s private quarters.
She went around to the kitchen door in back, aware that neither she nor Mrs. Toley warranted using the front door. It had never particularly bothered Hilde, being considered a servant. In her heart of hearts she believed that servants were all that kept their “betters” in their superior place. Masters and mistresses were like exotic animals who did not realize they were in cages, being fed and brushed and cleaned and kept from harm. They didn’t know how much they depended upon their keepers.
She knocked on the door and waited, listening to the approaching sound of footsteps on a flagstone floor. Mrs. Toley opened the door a moment later, her eyes going wide in surprise.
“Good day,” Hilde said firmly and clearly.
“Oh, good day, Mrs. Hoffman,” Mrs. Toley said, still looking at her with that surprised expression.
“Ja, ” Hilde said, and waited. Was the woman going to ask her in? She tried to get a glimpse of the kitchen over her shoulder.
“Er, was there something I could do for you?”
“Tea, ja?” Hilde asked. Had the woman forgotten?
“Tea?”
“Tea. Talk. Ja?”
“Oh. Oh, of course,” Mrs. Toley said, and stepped back from the doorway. “Do come in. It’s not often that I get visitors. You’ll have to forgive the mess.”
Hilde came in, her eyes scanning the kitchen. Everything was in order, and there was an assortment of brightly polished pots, pans, and cooking paraphernalia. Trewella kept a good kitchen, and Hilde gave a nod of approval.
Mrs. Toley continued to blather on about something, but too quickly for Hilde to understand. She ignored her and did a little more in-depth investigation of the kitchen. Mrs. Toley fussed, talking rapidly about whatever Hilde looked at. Hilde opened the door to the hallway. “See house?” she asked.
“Oh. Oh, I don’t know if Mr. Trewella would like that. He’s a very private man. You can see the sitting room, though.”
Hilde marched through, and with Mrs. Toley making bleating protestations behind her she made a complete circuit of the house. Trewella’s bedroom upstairs was unremarkable except for the piles of books on his bedside stand and stacked on the floor. Hilde grunted at that. Konstanze was the same way, reading into the small hours of the night when she should be sleeping.
When she and Konstanze had fled Bugg House there had been space for only a few of Konstanze’s favorite books. Hilde looked at the rich piles of reading material on Trewella’s bedside stand and floor. Surely he would not mind lending a few to Konstanze?
Hilde squatted down and selected four or five, guessing as well as she could by the English titles which were fiction. Mrs. Toley began spluttering behind her.
“I say, Mrs. Hoffman, what are you doing? You put those books down! Those are Mr. Trewella’s!”
“You say, ‘Hilde took.’”
Mrs. Toley blocked the bedroom doorway. “I cannot let you take those.”
Hilde stood and stared at her, the books tucked under her arm. “You say, ‘Hilde took.’”
“I will do no such thing, as you are not taking those books out of this room.” The woman was quivering with anger and, Hilde judged, a bit of nervous fear.
“Mr. Trewella say, ‘Hilde, you take the books.’”
Mrs. Toley frowned at her. “Do you mean Mr. Trewella told you to take the books?”
Hilde was quite aware that that was not exactly what she had said. She stared at Mrs. Toley.
“Oh, well, in that case,” Mrs. Toley said doubtfully. “If he said you could borrow them, then I suppose it’s all right.” She stepped aside, and Hilde continued her snooping through the rest of the house.
All in all, there was nothing in the dwelling to cause alarm or suspicion. For all that he was a nefarious mastermind smuggler who had drawn her Konstanze into his crimes, the man kept an orderly, innocuous house. He must not be all bad. Perhaps she could release a bit of her worry.
Back down in the kitchen she sat at the table while Mrs. Toley went to work preparing the tea and setting out things to eat. The woman plainly hadn’t been expecting her, and Hilde admitted that it was just possible she had misunderstood whatever it was Mrs. Toley had said to her in the shop and while walking up the lane.
Not that it mattered. Mrs. Toley looked like she could do with a bit of company. The woman was all ner
ves. She obviously needed a man on whom she could expend all her energy at night.
As if in answer to the thought there came a knock on the kitchen door, and then Matt Jobson poked his head in before Mrs. Toley could answer.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “How are you doing today, Mrs. Toley? Baking up any special treats?”
Mrs. Toley giggled, and Hilde’s eyes narrowed. These two seemed awfully friendly.
Matt stepped into the room before he saw her. When he did, his expression was even more surprised than Mrs. Toley’s had been, and he seemed to lose the power of speech.
“Mr. Jobson, this is Mrs. Hoffman,” Mrs. Toley explained. “She’s come to have tea with me.”
“Mrs. Hoffman. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said clearly and slowly. Apparently he knew enough about her to know her troubles with English. Maybe he had been asking about her. She liked that thought. “I believe I’ve seen you in town a couple times these last few weeks.”
“Ja, freilich. I remember. Call me Hilde,” she said, making what was for her a long English speech.
“Hilde.” He swallowed. “Perhaps I’ll see you in my church some Sunday. Or are you Catholic?”
“Not Catholic,” she said. Neither was she Anglican, but God would not mind in which house she chose to worship, should she attend one of Matt’s services.
He smiled and nodded, then turned to Mrs. Toley. “Is Mr. Trewella home?”
“He’s gone over to the Faileses’. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
“Let him know I came by, will you? Well, then,” he said, nodding to them both, “I’d best be off. Mrs. Hoffman, it was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Would you like to stay and have tea with us?” Mrs. Toley asked. Hilde didn’t like the eagerness in her voice. Was she after the vicar, too?
“Er, there are some things I need to put in order at the church. I really can’t stay.”
Hilde stood, gathering up her books. “I walk with you.”
“What? Oh, it’s out of your way, surely.”