The Lady's Desire

by Audrey Abbott

  Anne, her eyes swimming in tears, wished she could join them and run away to safety. Instead she flew to the bed, but found small consolation there as the padding was hard and unyielding. She lay there, fists clenched, fighting the urge to scream.

  Where was her husband?

  As if she had spoken the question aloud, the door to the chamber crashed open and Lord Westmeare staggered inside.

  Chapter 10

  Westmeare’s dark gaze darted around the room. His pale face twitched. Absent his wig, the viscount’s hair hung black and in disarray. Anne wondered if he were intoxicated. He still wore his gloves. She slid off the bed to meet him, uncertain what to say. She was angry. She was confused. But she steeled herself to face what might come. She would not allow him to bully her.

  He approached her, unsteady on his feet, but he never touched her. Rather he hissed, “Remove your gown and shift now! Why are you not ready?” Focusing his eyes on her neck, he declared, “It is time!”

  Anne stared at him in disbelief. Somehow, she found the courage to speak. “But I require a maid to assist me,” she protested in a firm voice. “I thought that one would be here. You stated that I would be provided with a personal lady’s maid.”

  Exploding into a tirade of obscene language, Westmeare turned and stumbled out of the room, any shred of his former dignity dissolved as he bellowed for a maid.

  Chapter 11

  The young servant crept into the room, trying to make herself invisible. She looked around the enormous chamber not immediately seeing her new mistress. She took in the lord’s bed and the gaudy coverlet and frowned. A huge gilt mirror suspended above the fireplace reflected almost the entire room.

  On the floor, she noticed the shards of a china cup. She stepped silently over the tile floor and stooped to brush aside and gather up the broken bits. Perplexed, she rose and stood in front of the glass. Only then did she see her mistress standing behind her.

  She jumped, yelping in a voice thick with her Irish brogue, “Oh, milady. How may I help ye?”

  The lady spoke to her in a whisper. “It is all right. What is your name? I must prepare for my wedding night. Can you assist me in removing my gown?”

  With pity in her heart, the maid looked at her new mistress and curtsied. “Aye, milady.” She had seen the vicar’s daughter in the village, but they had never met. She was indeed very beautiful. No wonder the viscount wanted to marry her.

  “My name is Bridget, milady.” Her hands shook as she removed the blue silk sash from around the lady’s tiny waist. Then she unfastened the back of the dress. The lace and silk gown slipped to the floor and pooled at the lady’s feet. As she stepped out of the silken pond, Bridget stooped to retrieve the garment.

  “We can have this freshened, milady, and made ready for other events.” She tried to quell the unsteadiness in her own voice. “Celia is the other upstairs maid. She is a local girl. And ever so clever with a needle. Celia could make adjustments to make it look like a brand new gown. Perhaps remove the lace and add some new trimming or even lower the bodice?”

  “That would be a fine idea, Bridget.” The Lady Anne attempted to smile as she turned to gaze at her reflection in the mirror.

  Bridget saw that most of her hair was still piled on top of her head. Fresh flowers were woven among the curls. A comb secured a short lace veil that hung to her shoulders.

  “Milady, may I help you to undress your hair? Allow me to remove the combs.”

  Lady Anne nodded as Bridget carefully placed her wedding gown over a chair. Then she turned to help the lady to loosen her coiffure. Lady Anne pulled another chair closer to the fireplace and sat down.

  “Your hair is so thick and fine, milady.” The maid gently removed the flowers and pulled free the combs securing the lady’s heavy chestnut tresses.

  “Thank you, Bridget. You will find that my brush is in my reticule. Could you brush my hair as well?”

  Bridget nodded, crossed the room, found the hairbrush, and returned to stroke her new mistress’s tawny locks. The candlelight reflected the auburn highlights. “Ye do have beautiful hair, milady,” she said as she parted and brushed individual strands. “Would ye like me to leave your hair loose or should I braid it?”

  “I think loose would be best, Bridget. For tonight.” Bridget saw the lady blush.

  “Do ye need me to help ye dress for bed, milady?” Now it was Bridget’s turn to blush.

  “No. I can manage the rest. Thank you, Bridget.”

  Bridget curtsied and turned to leave, but hesitated. She looked toward the bed, then approached it, and pulled down the coverlet. She plumped the pillows.

  Returning to her mistress, she spoke, her voice dropping to the barest whisper as she glanced around the room. “Milady. Perhaps I speak out of turn, but ye do not have to do this. Stay here I mean. Ye can leave, if ye wish to.”

  Lady Anne seemed puzzled by her suggestion, but she spoke softly as she rose from the chair. “I made a vow today, Bridget. I must keep that vow.”

  Bridget heard the touch of sorrow and regret in her ladyship’s voice. She turned away from the lady’s sad, penetrating eyes.

  “Yes, milady, I understand,” Bridget said while shaking her head. “But ye should know, on the lower level, the scullery room door is always left unlocked. It leads to the kitchen garden at the back of the house.” With this surprising revelation, Bridget retreated toward the door.

  “Wait, Bridget,” the lady said, reaching for her. “When I ring in the morning, will you come?”

  Turning around, Bridget murmured, “Aye, milady. I will come!”

  Chapter 12

  After Bridget closed the door, Anne pulled a soft white flannel nightgown from her valise. She nervously fingered the small rosettes she had embroidered herself.

  Standing in front of the huge mirror, she removed her shift. For a brief moment she stared at her own nude body. She wondered what her husband would think of her. She knew that tonight she must please and satisfy him, but how, she did not know for certain.

  She thought of her mother. Oh, Mama. If only you were still alive to offer me your support and gentle counsel.

  As a country-bred vicar’s daughter, Anne’s experience with men was limited. Once a gentleman at one of the local dances smiled at her, drew her to a secluded spot, and attempted to explore the more intimate parts of her anatomy with rough and drunken hands. She expected her husband would attempt such and a great deal more. But this time she could not refuse the attentions no matter how unwelcome they might be.

  She shuddered at the thought, but she must fulfill her duty. What was seen as a pleasure by her sister, Penelope, might not be what she could expect from her new husband.

  Trembling, Anne slipped the nightgown over her head. As she began to tie the ribbon at the neckline, the door to the bed chamber crashed open.

  Lord Westmeare lurched inside.

  Chapter 13

  Viscount Westmeare paused to gaze at his own reflection in the mirror. He clutched a decanter of brandy in one hand and a cut-glass tumbler in the other. He still wore his gloves. How very odd.

  Turning his face toward Anne, he stared at her, his dark eyes narrowing into tiny slits. While Anne steeled herself for what she expected to be an unpleasant assault, her husband stumbled toward her, spilling some of the golden liquid onto the floor. The sharp scent of brandy saturated the threads of the woolen carpet that partially covered the cold tile floor.

  “Would you care for some beverage, my dear?” he asked, slurring his words. “There must be another glass here somewhere.” But he did not look for one. Instead his eyes focused on her shoulder. “Aw, you are so lovely, my dear. A vicar’s daughter? A virgin? How very delicious!” His voice trailed away.

  Setting his glass and the bottle on a side table he slid across
the floor and placed one hand around her waist, jerking her toward him. With the other, he clawed the ribbon at her throat. His breath reeked of liquor.

  He stood about her height and as his gaunt face moved toward her, Anne closed her eyes, bracing herself for their first kiss. Instead, in an awkward gesture, the viscount’s gloved fingers fumbled to open the neckline of her gown. The fabric ripped, revealing her throat, her shoulders, her chest.

  Anne stifled a cry, steeling herself to remain calm. She was now this man’s wife, and as he had reminded her in the carriage, she must obey him. She hoped he would be gentle, but now she feared the worst. What happened next would remain stamped in Anne’s mind forever.

  Chapter 14

  Lord Westmeare raised both of his hands upwards and wrapped his gloved fingers around her throat. Anne struggled to free herself as his fingers tightened, but he was amazingly strong and she resisted in vain. She tried to scream, but she could not breathe.

  Then just as suddenly as he grabbed her, he released her, and allowed his fingers to fondle her hair as it trailed down over her bare shoulders.

  “I am sorry,” Albert whispered, his veined eyes unfocused. He dropped his hands and his eyes stared vacantly at the floor. To Anne, he seemed puzzled. She watched as his features crumbled to reveal a broken, childlike countenance, like a small boy caught with his hand in the biscuit jar.

  “You are very beautiful, my dear. Yes. Very beautiful indeed.” He rubbed his gloved thumbs over his fingers, making a coarse swishing sound.

  Without looking at her, he continued, “You know you must present me with an heir. That is your one and only duty. My first wife failed in that essential task. Do not repeat her failure. Do you understand?” A tic throbbed under his left eye.

  Stunned and unable to speak, Anne clutched her gown and retreated several steps. To her amazement and relief, Lord Westmeare did not pursue her. He offered her a weak smile and repeated, “I am sorry.” He turned and staggered across the room then slipped out the door, closing it behind him.

  A clock chimed somewhere in the house and Anne heard the muffled sound of twelve bells. The house stood silent. All the servants must be asleep. She took a deep breath. She remained still for a few moments, awaiting her husband’s return. When he did not come back, she drew her dressing gown over her torn garment. With shaking hands, she tied it tightly at her waist.

  She stepped over to the door and turned the handle. It was not locked. Releasing the knob, she made her way back to the fireplace where she turned down the lamps and extinguished the candles. She paused for a moment and stared into the huge mirror. Something about that mirror troubled her. Or was it just the image of the pale sad woman who stared back at her?

  Suddenly very weary, she turned away and climbed onto the bed. She shivered when her skin touched the cold sheets. But exhaustion pulled at her as she sank under the counterpane.

  Tears flooded her eyes as she huddled there. Anne’s thoughts turned toward her parents and their marriage manifested by kindness, devotion, a tender touch, a loving caress. She could never imagine her father abusing her mother as Lord Westmeare had just misused her.

  She waited for Westmeare to return. But he never came.

  “Mama. Papa.” There was no reply. Anne knew without a doubt she was alone.

  Confused, dismayed, and weary, Anne slipped into an uneasy slumber.

  Chapter 15

  Lord Westmeare visited Anne every night. As soon as she changed in front of the mirror, she heard footsteps in the hall followed by her husband’s appearance at the entrance to the bedchamber. He thrust open the door and staggered into the room, reeking of brandy or rum. He paused before the mirror and simply stared at his reflection before he approached Anne.

  But after that first night, he never touched her. He merely gawked at her while his gloved thumbs rolled over his fingers in a nervous gesture that set her teeth on edge.

  On the fourth night, Anne, determined to make her marriage succeed, climbed into bed and beckoned her husband to join her. She attempted a weak smile and patted the garish counterpane. She considered that her new husband was perhaps nervous, perhaps shy, and all he needed was encouragement. But he glared at her in confusion and stumbled out of the room.

  On the fifth night, she approached him. Taking his gloved hands, she asked, “Husband, how may I please you?”

  Westmeare jerked away, howling as if in pain. He ran out the door, leaving his new bride to gaze after him perplexed and anxious.

  Anne knew this was not normal behavior. Did he find her repulsive? If so, why had he married her? Other men had found her attractive, at least reasonably so. She remembered Lloyd’s feeble but sincere attempt at a proposal. She recalled the few parties and balls where boys and later men smiled at her and asked her to dance. Being poor as church mice, her family’s reduced fortune did not encourage more than that. She grimaced at her own personal family jest.

  Anne had received her first kiss at a social gathering hosted by the viscount’s parents many years before. It was Christmas and Robin Martin, the son of a yeoman farmer, drew her into a dark corner, produced a sprig of mistletoe over her head, and kissed her on the lips. “Anne Tuttle,” he declared, his normally serious face alight with happiness. “Ye are the prettiest girl in the shire.”

  Surprised, Anne kissed him back. Then she burst into a shower of giggles. Robin’s face turned bright red, but he grinned as he bowed very low over her hand and walked away. He was thirteen and she was twelve. So much had happened since then. Sorrow and tears stained the memories of the following years.

  She remembered her parents at that same party, as they glided over the ballroom floor, gazing at each other like newlyweds. Theirs was a love match that never faded. She remembered her mother then, radiant and so beautiful. Some years later, she took ill and died.

  In the local churchyard, her mother’s mortal remains were interred. It was March and a bitter wind blasted the mourners who huddled in their shawls. After paying their respects to the vicar and his now motherless children, they hurried away to their own homes and hearths.

  Anne’s father never recovered from the death of his beloved wife. Over the months, Anne watched her father shrink and recede before her eyes. At night he would sit in the library making a feeble effort to compose a sermon. She would find him bent over his task, his shoulders stooped under a mantle of grief that could not be shaken. The blotched ink stains on the parchment before him bore testament to his anguish. He refused most food and gradually he wasted away until just the husk of his persona remained.

  One morning in May, Anne searched the vicarage for her father, but could not find him anywhere in the house. Frantic, she raced outside to the kitchen herb garden. There she found Abelard sunning himself amongst the lavender and preening his long tail. Anne scanned her mother’s flowerbeds, but her papa was not there. She tried to calm herself thinking that perhaps he had retreated to the refuge of the church. She rushed there, but found the narthex, the sanctuary, and the vestry all empty.

  There could only be one other place where he might have gone. She drew a deep breath and made her way out of the church and up the winding path toward the graveyard and the Tuttle plot. Relief flooded her senses when she found him kneeling beside her mother’s stone marker with a bouquet of fresh lilacs clutched in his hands and a smile radiant upon his face.

  It was a smile of welcome and release. Anne called out to him, but he did not turn and offer his usual greeting. She hastened to his side, but without even touching him, Anne realized the unhappy truth.

  Her beloved papa was no longer among the living. She crumbled beside him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders already stiff and unyielding. The heaviness in her heart overwhelmed her, dragging at her spirit.

  Through her tears, she whispered, “Farewell, Papa. Tell Mama, when you see her, t
hat I love her and miss her, too.”

  The Tuttles never attended another gathering at the Westmeare mansion. With their father’s death, the family was left almost destitute. Except for a small inheritance from her mother’s family, their resources were limited. Later Anne learned young Robin Martin had purchased a commission in the Army and died in Flanders. With so much death, Anne’s childhood died as well.

  But now a married woman, Anne needed to understand her husband’s actions. He seemed unable to touch her or to be touched. He seemed almost frightened. Why? She tried to make sense of his bizarre behavior. Was she at fault? Or did the problem lie with him? And why did he always wear gloves?

  Albert Grenville was her husband now and she was both alarmed and relieved that he never joined her under the counterpane. But how could she produce an heir if he would not lie with her?

  With each succeeding rejection, Anne grew more and more anxious. She had hoped to make Lord Westmeare a good wife. She had hoped for children. She had hoped for happiness. Were these empty dreams?

  As a young girl, she dreamed that one day she would find a man she could love and respect. An honorable man like her father. A man who would be her companion and her champion.

  But now, as the Lady Westmeare, circumstances forced her to accept a most unlikely and unsavory alternative. Perhaps her decision to wed Lord Westmeare had been a grave mistake.

  But what could she do? Could she escape? She vowed before God to love, honor, and obey. And then there were her siblings and their happiness and future security.

  Every succeeding night was like the first. Lord Westmeare staggered into the bed chamber, swaying on his thin legs, rubbing together his fingers and thumbs. His facial tic throbbed as he stared at Anne. After a few minutes, he would scurry away.