Slipper

by Hester Velmans

  Already—as if there were nothing to it, as if he was sure she was expecting him to do this—he was busy removing her ankle-length nightshirt, only to find, underneath, the lace-trimmed corselet she had kept on tonight, partly out of vanity and partly out of modesty. And now he was looking her over, up and down, and grinning slyly at what he saw. Surely—yes, surely he liked what he saw, surely she looked fine, for would there not have been a different expression on his handsome face otherwise, as he untied first one ribbon, then another, and with a gallant gesture pulled them right out of the eyelets, instead of simply loosening them, as she would have done? And oh, she was charmed, as charmed and as flattered as she had been the first day, on the snowy bench. Joy tickled her skin where he ran his fingers over her arm, her neck, her breast, teasingly.

  “Don’t!” she squealed.

  He pushed her down onto the bed. And, as she allowed herself to fall backward, the realization hit her that she could not, she really, really could not disappoint him. No, not now. However dire the consequences, she knew for certain she was not going to protest, to resist or—Lord!—to desist.

  It did come as a surprise, however, to discover that after some quick pecks to her nose and lips, he turned his attention to the very body parts Uncle Edmund had so recently violated. Modesty and the memory of last night’s nightmare made her want to push him away from that most shameful spot. But suddenly, with a shock, she understood that Henry was equipped with the same kind of appendage as Uncle Edmund…

  And now finally, finally, it dawned on her that it was this—this pressing of flesh into flesh, not so unpleasant in itself, once you overcame your initial outrage—that constituted the act young ladies were so strictly admonished to avoid at any cost!

  Here, then, was life’s great secret! Finally she understood what was meant by bedding, by lying with; here at last was the explanation of that unspeakable mystery so often hinted at yet so strenuously kept hidden from her until now!

  And with that discovery came the happy conviction that whatever the desire or the quest for pleasure that drives men to this strange and forbidden act, a woman seeks but to please. And she knew instinctively that it would please him very much if she stretched wide her legs and thrust forward her hips and hugged him tightly with her knees; in short, if she gamely did everything in her power to accommodate his probing. How proud, how happy it made her when she glimpsed the intentness on his face! And when, after not too long of this, he seemed able to contain himself no longer, and convulsively moaned and gasped on top of her as if she, and she alone, could catch him in his fall and save him from the demons of delight!

  Then he was still, and she was still too, in respectful sympathy.

  But he recovered remarkably quickly, and it was what happened next that was so hard for her to understand.

  He rolled off her, smacked her on her bottom, and said, “You had better go now, little minx, before that wicked uncle of yours discovers what you have been up to.”

  The words pierced her euphoria and a lump rose in her throat.

  “But…” she quavered.

  “Ah! No buts, please!” Seeing her stricken face, he continued not unkindly, “Do as I say, my dear. All right? There’s a girl. Or there will be hell to pay.”

  At the door, she turned around. But all she could see of him was the back of his dear bristly head.

  “Er—then when will you…?” she began.

  The question was cut short by a satisfied snore.

  Sarah was already feeling a little better. Mrs. Limpid was summoned downstairs for a conference, and came back reporting that, while Sir Edmund was certainly furious about the captain’s absconding, there was no blame whatsoever attached to Sarah.

  “He said to tell you that the captain is a cad, and you are well rid of him,” she said. “This little episode will not help his chances of preferment—your father will see to that.”

  Sarah sniffed.

  “And he had better never show his face around here again…” began Sebastian.

  “If he ever comes back,” cried Harry, “I’ll—I’ll run him through with my rapier!”

  “If he comes back,” said Sarah haughtily, blowing her nose into a handkerchief she had embroidered with the letter S prettily entwined around an H, “I’ll have none of him. He is a monster, and I shall tell him so.”

  “Well, now!” said Mrs. Limpid. “That’s the spirit! Your father knew you would see it that way. He knows that I have always done my best to raise you children to be Obedient and not Proud.” She took Sarah by the shoulders and turned her around so that she could grasp the long blond hair in the back and stroke it absently. “There really is no reason to be downhearted. Your father says he has another suitor in mind, one that he, not your mother, has picked out for you, a very proper gentleman.”

  “Does he have a title, or anything? I’d so much rather have a duke or a count or a…”

  “Or a marquess, or an earl!” interrupted Catherine excitedly.

  “Yes, I’d much rather have one of those than a plain old captain,” said Sarah, giving a final, quiet sniff. The placidity that was so much a part of her makeup was settling on her once more.

  “You’ll be a countess! Or a duchess!” Harry cheered.

  “Shall I, Mrs. Limpid?” asked Sarah, angelically.

  “You will have to wait to find out, Sarah. Remember, Patience is a Virtue. But first, I have another lovely surprise for you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes indeed. To show you that in his eyes you are now truly a grown young woman, your father has charged me with settling you into a chamber of your own…”

  “A chamber of my own!” breathed Sarah. “Really?”

  “Like Robert’s?” exclaimed Samuel, awed.

  “Just like His Lordship’s,” Mrs. Limpid assured him.

  “Oh, please, please may I have a chamber of my own too?” whined Belinda.

  “When you are of marriageable age, and as prettily behaved as your sister, I am sure that you will. Come, Sarah, come look at your new abode.”

  The new abode was a small paneled room on the other side of Mrs. Limpid’s own alcove off the nursery. It had been used as a sitting room by the governess and the other instructors. The children all thronged in behind Sarah and Mrs. Limpid, oohing and aahing as if they had never seen it before. A carpenter was already at work assembling a four-poster bed in place, since the door was too narrow to allow this bulky piece of furniture to be installed in one piece.

  Lucinda couldn’t help feeling a pang of envy. “Oh, Sarah,” she sighed, “You are sooo lucky!”

  At this, Mrs. Limpid turned and peered at Lucinda. “Ah—Lucinda!” she announced, as if she had just been reminded of Lucinda’s regrettable existence. “Yes. You…well now, Lucinda is the same age as Sarah, of course. We must not forget that. It would not be fair. Therefore she too must move out of the nursery.”

  Lucinda looked up from the pile of bed hangings she was examining. “You mean that I’m to share her chamber?”

  “No!” wailed Sarah, “No! I don’t want her in my chamber, she always has to copy me and spoil everything for me. It’s not fair! After all, I’ve deserved it, she has done nothing…”

  “No,” said Mrs. Limpid, “Lucinda is to have her own quarters, in the east wing.”

  “But…” Lucinda began.

  “It has been arranged,” said Mrs. Limpid firmly, avoiding Lucinda’s eyes. “Your uncle wishes it. “

  The children had gone quiet, and examined Lucinda with unusual interest. It was obvious, from Mrs. Limpid’s pursed lips, that there was more to this than met the eye. Sarah’s removal from the nursery was an enviable thing; Lucinda’s seemed more like a banishment.

  Lucinda looked around at each one of them in turn, wildly. Her cheeks were burning. “I must—uh, tell Bessie,” she muttered, and made her escape.

  27

  THE (ALMOST) TRUTH

  It was time to come clean and tell Bessie everything
. Or almost everything.

  “Your uncle WHAT?” exclaimed Bessie, livid.

  “You know. You warned me, Bessie, but I…I didn’t understand. I had no idea what to expect. I’m sorry. I was a fool, I thought I could handle it. But—I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop him.” She started to cry.

  “No, lamb, of course you didn’t understand. I should have—I should have explained these things to you…”

  “It wasn’t my fault!” wailed Lucinda. “What should I have done?”

  “Nothing, there was nothing you could have done,” whispered Bessie hoarsely. “No! You are not to blame.”

  “It was horrible…”

  “Tell me, when? When did he…?”

  “The night before last.”

  “But pet, why didn’t you tell me straightaway?”

  “I was so ashamed…”

  “Don’t be, don’t be. Pet, my pet.”

  “But—it’s not over,” Lucinda sobbed. “Mrs. Limpid says I am to move out of the nursery, into the east wing. That means…”

  “I know what that means,” said Bessie. The east wing of the manor was where the guest quarters were located. No one went there unless the rooms were being readied for visitors. “Don’t you think I know what that means? And we will not let it happen again. I shall not let it happen. No, lamb. We’ll run away. This very day.”

  Lucinda sniffed gratefully. “Oh, Bessie! But how…?”

  “Let’s see. I have my savings, don’t forget I have my savings. I’ve spent nary a penny all these years. Been keeping it for a rainy day. See? I always knew it would come in useful.” She bustled over to her chest and rummaged around in it. Finally she came up with a worn leather pouch. “Twenty-eight shilling and tuppence,” she said triumphantly. “I count it every Lord’s day. Enough to pay for the stagecoach and lodgings, and much besides.”

  “But…”

  “Yes, that’s what we’ll do. And we’ll look up that nice lady of Thomas’s in Hampshire, Lady Doughby, and she’ll help us.”

  “No, Bessie.”

  “No? What do you mean, no?”

  “We must go to London.”

  “To London? Why, that’s no place for a young lady. No, lamb.”

  “We must go to London. We must!”

  “But pet, what would we do there? Fall into sin, most likely. It’s a wicked, wicked place, child,” she fussed. “And filthy! Besides, we don’t know a soul in London.”

  “I know someone, and he is expecting me.”

  Bessie stared at her open-mouthed.

  Lucinda suddenly turned bashful. She bowed her head.

  “Well?”

  “Well, Bess, it’s that visitor, the one who was supposed to marry Sarah, I mean, he…”

  “What? The captain? What has he got to do with it?”

  “Well, he—I—you know. We are in love,” she whispered.

  “In love? Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed Bessie. “How can that be?”

  “It’s true! It’s true!” Lucinda said vehemently. “And it’s because of me he’s left, he couldn’t go through with the betrothal because he loves me, me, ME, can’t you get that through your head?”

  Bessie was practically speechless. “Why, now, my pet, but…”

  “And he wants to marry me! He told me that he would come back for me! And he said that if my uncle…Well, you know, if my uncle…he made me promise to be careful, he told me to come and find him if anything happened while he was away. I promised him! I did! And now—he doesn’t know what happened, and he left before I could tell him…”

  Honesty was one of Lucinda’s most cherished virtues, and she made a habit of practicing it as often as she could. If she was bending the truth a little here, then, it was only because she deemed it necessary in order to persuade Bessie to agree to her plan. Surely it was expedience, not dishonesty, that made Lucinda ascribe certain sentiments to Henry which had not yet been expressed—not in so many words, anyway. For of course he had not yet made any mention to her of love, or of marriage, or even of coming back for her. But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, Lucinda was convinced they were fundamentally true. It was probably only just beginning to dawn on Henry that she was his one true love. Which would explain his abrupt, thoughtless, flight; confused about all the chaotic new emotions flaring up in his breast, he needed to put some distance between himself and the source of the conflagration. Once he had had some time to sort it all out, he would be ready, more than ready, to take her in his arms. She was sure of it.

  “Where does he live?”

  “What?”

  “Your captain. Where does he live, in London?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Pet. How is that possible, how can you say you don’t know, when he told you to come find him? Surely you must have an address…”

  “Wait! Oh yes, of course!” she laughed, slapping her forehead with the palm of her hand. “I do remember. York Buildings. Yes, York Buildings. Off the Strand, he said.” It was as good a guess as any; it was the address written on Matthew Chancrey’s letter, which she knew by heart.

  “Well,” said Bessie briskly, “London it is then. We must hurry. There is no time to lose. We’ll pack up our things—just a few things, mind, only as much as we can hide under our petticoats, we don’t want anyone thinking we’re setting off on a journey. Not a word to anyone! I’ll tell Mrs. Limpid that I am helping you settle into your new quarters. Take off that stomacher, pet—it’s much too fancy, it will attract attention. Give it to me. I’ll carry it for you. Here—wear my blue kerchief instead.” She tied the neckerchief around Lucinda’s shoulders. “And my calico apron—here, put it on. Good. And now tuck in your sleeves and hitch up your petticoat under your skirt—that’s it—there, now the lace won’t show. That’s better, that’s more common. We don’t want you looking like a rich little runaway, do we! Where are your shoes? You can’t go in those slippers, lamb. They won’t do at all. I know you love them, but you can tuck them in your pocket. Let’s hurry, pet, let’s hurry—it’s almost noon, and we must be long gone by suppertime. That’s when they’ll start missing us, let’s hope they don’t realize we’re gone until then.”

  “Bessie!” A thought had just struck Lucinda. “How are we ever to make it to Bitterbury, where the stage coach stops? It’s a long way—”

  “That’s a point, lamb. That’s a very good point.” Bessie remembered the trip to Simmins-Hollow. “My legs aren’t what they used to be. My poor, poor legs. Oh dear.” She faltered and let her hands fall to her sides, palms up. “Well. Perhaps it’s best if I—”

  “No, Bess, I won’t go without you,” Lucinda exclaimed. “I know! We’ll persuade one of the grooms to let us have a horse.”

  “I don’t ride, pet, you know that.”

  “No, but I do, and you’ll sit behind me…”

  Bessie was hesitant. She was afraid of horses.

  “I’m very good, don’t worry. You’ll be safe with me.” While she was speaking, Lucinda flipped through the roster of stable hands in her head, and came up with the tow-headed one—George, wasn’t that his name? Yes, George. He was the one always staring at her with that peculiar gaze.

  “I know, we’ll ask George. I think he likes me.”

  Bessie compressed her lips. “Well, well. I trust he hasn’t overstepped the bounds. I trust he knows his place.”

  But since this was neither the time nor the place for that sort of argument, and since Bessie could not come up with a better plan, Lucinda ran outside to find George.

  In any large household there are undercurrents of love that may never play themselves out, but are present all the same. It was true that George the junior stable hand had been pining hopelessly for Miss Lucy for a while, just as the gardener, old Walter Brackthorn, had secretly fancied Bessie from time to time. Even Arabella Steppys had once had titillating thoughts about her servant Thomas Boothby, while Lord Robert had spent his adolescence lewdly fantasizing about Lucinda.

  I
n George’s case, the pining was hopeless, and he knew it. For Miss Lucinda belonged to the world of his masters, even though, being an orphan, she was more approachable than the other highborn children. She was always kind to the servants, and did not put on airs; she often came down to the servants’ hall, and the best time George had ever had in his whole life was when they had all begged her to draw a picture of them, and he had watched from the other side of the table as she had rapidly captured likeness after likeness on paper—as if by magic! She had done one of George too: the little sketch of his head, in profile, his mouth foolishly open, was his most precious possession.

  Still, there it was: she was a lady, and the tears he had seen her shed the other day (it was when Sir Edmund and the young earl had returned from London with that gentleman with the lame mare; George had been there to take the horses from them, and how it broke his heart to see her cry!)—those tears had had nothing to do with him.

  The fact that she was seriously out of his reach, however, did not stop him from imagining all sorts of scenarios in which he, George, was called upon to perform heroic feats for her sake. And willingly give up his life for her. Ah, and then, when it was too late, you see, as she knelt in a pool of his loyal blood, finally she would come to understand the great, noble devotion she had lost, and shed bitter tears of sorrow and regret…

  To be called, then, by the real Lucinda while he was watering the horses in the sun, was a tremendous shock.

  “George!”

  “Er, madam?” he stammered.

  She was out of breath when she reached him.

  “You—you like me, you have always liked me, haven’t you?” she blurted out.

  The shocking accuracy of the question made him blush bright red. He turned and busied himself with his bucket.

  It was her turn to blush. “Forgive me, I just meant…” She stared at the burning neck under the mop of bleached hair, and considered a retreat.