The Carpenter's Daughter

by Gloria Cook

  He let her go and moved away and lit a candle. She turned to him. He came back to her. Stood in front of her. He picked up her hand and brought it to his face. He kissed her palm, making the act of devotion last and last. She reached up and stroked his cheek, then ran a fingertip down over his chin and neck and on to his chest.

  Then they were reaching for each other, searching for each other’s lips, and they instantly reached the place where they had been interrupted. Amy was powerless again, eaten up by the wonderful strange weakness. She could only respond feverishly to his kisses, to his touches, and give them back in equal frantic measure. With a heady willingness, she allowed him to unhook the hooks and unlace the laces of her dress. While smiling into her eyes, he nudged the sleeves down and down over her arms and pulled them free of her hands. Then he was kissing her again. He lifted her up and carried her to the bed, kissing her all the way. He held her, hovering over the bed, pushing hard with his mouth on hers. The frenzy was on Amy again, and she knew he was in the same grip. There was a burning inside her, a need she had to have seen to. She sighed, she moaned softly.

  His breath coming in gasps he laid her down on the bed. He pulled her chemise down off her shoulders, lower and lower, to present himself with her perfect figure. He kissed the exquisite mounds of her breasts, teasing her there, tasting her, devouring her. While doing so he was lifting her petticoats, preparing himself. He moved his hand down to her. Amy let out a soft cry. He positioned her, then himself. She felt his weight, then he took his weight on his forearms. He was gentle. The gentleness turned into a searching, then came a pressure, and an invading. By instinct she moved to help him. The whole of her being was alight. She was utterly aroused, inflamed by so much longing, without fear or caring, and she arched her back to meet him. He accepted her gift and found her fully. There was pain for Amy, but it was wired with the finest of sensations, so infinitely superb, experiences akin to something supernatural.

  Joined, entwined, as one, they went on and on, into new worlds, into havens, reaching out, passing destinations and starting all over again. It could have been an age, out of time itself, then Sol reached for her hand, laying her arm at a curved angle above her head. Threading his fingers through hers, contouring his arm gently along hers, he released her lips and came to a shuddering halt, gasping and moaning. Amy had not the knowledge that his intense arousal meant it was all done quickly for him, that he’d had no way of holding himself back. His release had been unstoppable. But the beauty for him was not a disappointment for either of them. The beauty of completion for him turned into the beauty of resting inside her for a while, glorying in the aftermath of his climax, glorying in having taken her, and to being still within her. He felt he was about to weep in ecstasy. He gazed down on her. Her lovely face was aglow in the candlelight. Perfect. Breathtaking. Astonishing. So utterly beautiful.

  Amy lay in the wonder of him. He was inside her, above her, all around her. She had given him her most sacredness. He was looking at her, as if in wonder, as if seeing something unique and glorious for the first time, and she knew it all meant so much more to him than a passionate encounter. The gasps, the panting in him, were subsiding. He was making tiny movements, gentle jolts with his body, and he was filling her being with new and wonderful ecstasies. He was so handsome. Masterful. Loving. He lowered his head and brushed her lips with his. It was to be tenderness now. After the urgency, the writhing, the tremendous chanting for fulfilment, this time it was lingering, and agility and grace.

  Sol took himself away from her and he made a delicacy of her body. In heaven and on earth was there anything as fine and beautiful as a man and a woman making love, giving themselves over to the other completely? Amy thought. They went on honouring together, discovering together. Reaching for the other one, giving and receiving in delight. Joining in the exploration. Unafraid. Giving enchantment. Little by little he was building up something inside her. She felt it fan out and take her away and sweep her back in dizzying, almost tortuous sensations. She longed for the end of it, for it was going to be such a magnificent end, yet she wanted him to go on for ever giving her elation, giving her fire, giving her bliss. Then she was taken to the unstoppable, and it was she who was gasping, and crying out, and panting, and floating away and away.

  Sol gave her no time to lie and linger over the glory. He took dominance of her again. She encountered him again. This time he moved with all his power and she gave over all she could, and more. He held on to her and she clung to him. They rocked and gyrated. Making ever new ascendancies, and just as the last pinnacle was about to be reached, he used his skill to waver, just for that ideal moment, then he took her soaring again. The climbing went on and on. Amy loved him in perfect motion, in perfect timing. Together they were one entity, a beautiful being. Then she heard herself crying out. It was happening again. The rise towards the fantastic finish. He was taking her there. And she could hear his sighs, and she knew she was taking him to the same heavenly place. Nearer and nearer. Soon. Soon. Nearer. Nearly to eternity. They reached that special place together. Going on, going on . . . Raptures. Crying out, clinging together. As one.

  Then they were falling. And the falling away was as wonderful as the passage had been going up. Finally, they were still. Spent. Lying side by side. Hand in hand. Eye to eye. Smiling. They didn’t have to tell each other they were in love. Had fallen in love. Deeply and irrevocably in love.

  If she died this minute she would take his love with her through all eternity. If from now on she lived in poverty and was shunned by the rest of the world, it wouldn’t matter as long as she was with Sol.

  Sol held her as if afraid he might lose her. This wondrous time had changed his life. For ever. All that he thought he would do was suddenly lost. But if he’d never known this time with Amy, he would have lived as a man on a pointless journey until death. If he never experienced loving with her again, he was a man of nothing, forsaken. He was lost. Lost to loving Amy.

  Twenty

  A procession wound its way to the upper floor of Wellspring House. After all the weeks of renovation and extension, the dust covers had been removed, and any remaining dust ruthlessly eradicated. Only smells of paint and base oils hinted that the house had undergone a major upheaval. Following on after Phoebe’s swaggering wake was Michael, with the small, soft, white hands of Cecily and Jemima inside each of his own. The governess, of delicate and distant disposition, the youngest daughter of an unnoteworthy clergyman, tripped along at the rear.

  Michael was swinging the hands of the two girls, a sign of the affection he held for them. Like him, they were enjoying it here away from the less restrictive confines of the big house, and despite him seeing little of them, by choice of his obsession with the family history, the bond between the three was steady and unbreakable. He had been glad his father had shunned the girls, that way the old bully hadn’t frightened them or brought them down. Cecily and Jemima, who had celebrated birthdays in August and September, and were now six and five years, were his little sweethearts. They were of keen mind and eager spirit. Cheeky little jesters. Something Phoebe sought to suck out of them and something he was delighted to observe was quite impossible. He wouldn’t have allowed it anyway, not to the pair of gorgeous cherubs, dressed in black satin, in mourning for their grandfather, but with sugar-pink ribbons round their waists and in their white-blonde, bouncy ringlets.

  ‘You’ll like our new nursery, Papa,’ Cecily chirruped, with a little skip in her step. Usually, Phoebe would have been on to the breach of correct bearing, but she was too animated in her approval of the improvements – refinements, she called them – of the once dour old house, to notice her daughter’s crime. The daydreaming governess Frances Durrant seemed to rarely notice such lapses, besides which, Cecily and Jemima, even for their young years, were too quick in concealing. The intelligence of the girls meant they had acquired a governess earlier than most daughters of the gentry, something Phoebe was proud of and never failed to boast
about. ‘It has rugs on the floor with our favourites from nursery rhymes.’

  ‘Has it, dear heart?’ He swung her hand higher and higher, with a conspiratorial wink, while aiming a wicked look at Phoebe’s ramrod-straight back. ‘How wonderful. Whose suggestion was that?’

  ‘Not Mama’s.’ Cecily’s tone was proof of the shortage of respect she had for her fussy mother. ‘It was Mr Laketon’s. It’s what Jemima and I call him. He said the rugs could become quite the thing, and his family has started to make them to order. Mama agreed with all he wanted us to have.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ Michael murmured to himself, as they reached the newly white-painted door. Phoebe agreeing with anyone, let alone a tradesman, and not endeavouring to gain maximum control, was positively shocking. She had been distracted of late and had not burned his ears with her usual nagging. Well done to Laketon Kivell. Michael had left all the decisions on the house to Phoebe. He had spoken to Kivell only a couple of times, and while confident of his expertise, he had thought him a fellow of furtive and brooding undertones. He hoped Kivell’s transfer up to the big house wouldn’t mean that his wife would revert to the norm. Why can’t you be more like Tara? he glared at her as she turned the glass doorknob and disappeared into the room. No. There was no one like Tara and he didn’t want there to be.

  ‘Close your eyes, Papa!’ Jemima trilled, dancing about at the end of his hand. ‘I want you to guess what colour our wallpaper is.’

  He obeyed her and entered the little room as a happy captive. The girls took him in. He was aware of the light and was pleased his girls wouldn’t have to play and learn in dark surroundings and he could feel polished floorboards under his feet, presumably easy to mop clean. The girls tugged on his hands for his guess. He could feel their excitement and he loved them for it. ‘Let me think. Is it purple?’

  ‘No!’ both girls cried together.

  ‘Really, Michael,’ Phoebe tutted.

  He ignored her. He always did nowadays. When he wasn’t about his research or estate business, he thought about Tara. They talked most days. She had told him about her charitable hopes for Meryen. ‘I’ve suggested to Joshua that we build a school and pay the penny a week for each child. I would have had a teacher to put in place, in my friend, Miss Amy Lewarne, but sadly she has great concerns.’

  ‘I think a few rudimentary lessons for the children an excellent idea, Tara,’ he’d replied. It was a lie. He saw no use for education for the brats of the lower orders, it was a waste. The few that shone and might become engineers or something could be sponsored privately. ‘In fact it’s the family’s duty to be going forward along these lines. How did Joshua respond?’

  Tara had seemed annoyed, ‘He offered no objections but I felt he wasn’t really interested. I suppose he feels it gives me something to do.’ Tara occasionally entertained or went off to fine houses but she never mentioned the ladies she met. She had told him all about her friend, the carpenter’s daughter, at Chy-Henver, and her worries for her future.

  ‘I’d be interested in meeting Miss Lewarne and her mother when they arrive for your first committee meeting,’ he’d said, as if it was as important a matter as a proposed bill in the House of Commons. Phoebe intended to be at the meeting – there was no way she was going to be left out, even though she had expressed her distaste at mixing with a tradesman’s family. He’d take his wife to task if she made things difficult for Tara.

  Michael attended to Tara’s every word, he took in her unblemished, milk-white skin, her exquisite fairness, her gentle femininity. She had the freshness, the promise and splendour of youth. A woman, although not quite a woman. He couldn’t quite define why he sensed this. It must be her wonderful innocence, the little ways she was beguilingly unsure. There wasn’t the slightest hint of artfulness in her. She never raised her voice. As each day passed she brought more harmony to Poltraze. She was immensely kind and caring. The servants were devoted to her, falling over themselves to please her. That was no wonder. Anyone who gave her a second thought would be devoted to her. The house liked her. Another enormous plus in Michael’s mind.

  Recently he had come to notice in a mirror that he had a special smile for her. He had watched her as she interacted with others, and it had thrilled him to be rewarded with the knowledge that she also kept a particular smile reserved just for him. ‘It’s good to have you as my friend, Michael,’ she had remarked to him yesterday. ‘If my conversation doesn’t include the hothouses or the best types of soil Joshua doesn’t even bother to listen to me above five minutes.’

  ‘Then Joshua is a fool.’ He had turned his deepest smile on her. ‘And I am honoured to be your friend, Tara.’ How he wanted to be so much more. Joshua was more than a fool, he was in the way.

  ‘Guess again, Papa,’ Cecily urged.

  Michael peeped through an eyelid. ‘I think, actually I’m pretty sure, darling, it’s yellow, blue and pink, with tiny rosebuds.’

  ‘Yes, yes, clever Papa!’ The girls danced round him.

  Phoebe tapped a foot. ‘Miss Durrant, bring Miss Cecily and Miss Jemima under control at once. There must be no more of this unruly behaviour.’

  A light seemed to flip on in Frances Durrant’s unremarkable eyes and she floated out of her daze. ‘Yes, Mrs Nankervis.’ The governess clapped her hands once. ‘Now, girls, be perfectly still.’

  Michael was amazed when his daughters dropped their flailing arms and stood side by side, perfectly to attention. Then he had it. Miss Durrant might seem sleepy but she and the girls were in collusion. How very clever. There was, no doubt, an arrangement of some kind, that if the girls appeared totally obedient to her she would turn a blind eye to their bubbly characters, and in turn the girls would leave Miss Durrant to her own private world. As long as Cecily and Jemima learned their lessons, minded their manners, and turned out as fine young ladies, he had no disagreement with this. He glanced at his po-faced wife. Joshua wasn’t the only fool who was unaware of all that went on in regard to those to whom they were closest.

  ‘That’s better,’ Phoebe said sharply.

  ‘Well done, Miss Durrant. Well done, girls.’ Michael’s voice was steeped in approval. Phoebe had reservations about Frances Durrant. He made it plain the governess was permanently in place.

  Phoebe gave Michael a long look. ‘I take it you like the room? What Kivell and his labourers have done here?’

  ‘Absolutely, my dear. You are to be congratulated on the outcome of the whole house.’ He would order a gold bracelet, as a thank you gift, Phoebe deserved that much. He began to turn away. ‘Well, girls, Papa is going up to the big house. Enjoy your new realm.’

  ‘Come again soon,’ Cecily and Jemima chorused in unison, like a pair of delectable angels. They adored his indulgent, non-critical manner and readily forgave his long absences.

  He was out of the room and pattering down the stairs. Would Phoebe come hurrying after him, to harangue him over something trivial, now the house was in order? He got to the bottom of the stairs and was in the hall, now parquet floored in the latest style, taking his coat, hat and gloves from the senior housemaid before he took a wary glance upwards. The staircase was empty. Brilliant. He was off and out, and he’d stay over for the next two nights under his brother’s roof. If providence was really kind to him, Joshua would also spend a night or two away from home and he would be able to dine with Tara alone.

  ‘Yes, Miss Durrant,’ Phoebe said, taking easy strides about the nursery. ‘Mr Kivell has served us very well here. I’ll leave you to the girls’ alphabet lesson. Bring them down to me at five o’clock.’

  She went to her boudoir, a scrap of a room tagged on to the master bedroom, a small space but one that was important to her. Laketon Kivell had recommended he section it off to give her a little domain all of her own. It gave her a sense of esteem while everything her neglectful husband, and all at Poltraze, did was designed to denigrate her. Laketon Kivell had discussed with her, at length and in exact details, all the schemes to sma
rten and make her new home as comfortable as possible. Walls had been knocked down to turn cupboard-sized rooms into ones of significance. She had a drawing room where many ladies in full swinging skirts could gather without fear of encroaching on carpet space. The cheap murky glass of the windows had been replaced by the finest glass, the windows themselves greatly enlarged in width and depth. A conservatory, a most desirable acquisition, had been added, and he had brought vines and seedlings of his own to start her off on what he had promised to be a supreme collection of exotic specimens. He had talked on and on about the plants and how vital it was to keep them at the right temperature. He called himself a perfectionist, and she was sure it was a ploy to lengthen the job and impress Joshua, who always seemed to be about the place.

  She reclined on the pink-and-white-striped, watered-silk couch. Here she was, within beauty. The wallpaper had a Japanese design of fantastic birds with impossibly long tails, and chintz and frothy sweeps of scalloped lace adorned the windows. Matching cushions were finished with golden tassels. Copies of the New Monthly Belle Assemblée and other fashion magazines lay in perfect arrangement on a tasteful small table. The fireplace had a register grate, and tiles that built up a picture of flaunting birds, and a creamy marble surround. There was a fluted silver bonbon dish. She took a bonbon and bit off a tiny nibble and thought about the carpenter.

  Laketon was a very good-looking man. Tall, strong, manly but not uncouth. He always smelled clean, his chin shaved close, without the awful adornment of fashionable side whiskers, and he combed his thick black hair as neatly as a barber. When he was in consultation with her he wore a fine suit, and a tie with a stud in it that could be none other than a diamond. He could be mistaken for a gentleman. His hands were expressive, and when he was describing something, whether the shape of a piece of furniture, an extension, or a flower, or a tree, he waved them, and flicked them, and circled them, in slow flowing movements. He held great attraction and an affair with him would be appealing if not for something unwholesome about him. He pretended patience, but she had heard him shouting and swearing at the Kivells who worked with him. She had a feeling he’d go to any lengths to get his own way. He had done well with the house. Phoebe stared round her room. Her tiny room. It was like a room in a doll’s house. She threw the dish of bonbons at the fireplace where it hit a porcelain figurine and smashed it to pieces. She had given the Dower House a new name, it now had many fine, modern features, but it didn’t alter the fact that she and her daughters had been thrown out of their grand home, their places in society lowered. Damn Michael. She had been cheated, made to feel unworthy all her married life. Damn Joshua and Tara. If she could find a way she would bring them all down.