No Greater Pleasure

by Megan Hart

  “Thank you, Bertram. I’ll remember that.”

  He hesitated, as though wanting to ask her something but afraid to. She’d also encountered this before. Quilla smiled warmly at the lad, who was probably a good eight years younger than she.

  Bertram’s cheeks flushed the color of brick while the tips of his ears went more crimson. “Florentine says you’re going to be sent away right off.”

  “I might be. Do you think I will?”

  “I don’t see how anyone could want to send you away.”

  Quilla smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Well, if you need anything . . .”

  “I know where to find you.”

  He nodded, still blushing, and beat a hasty exit. Quilla watched him go, amused. She always elicited the same reactions. Fumbling embarrassment or veiled disdain. Shaking her head, weary from the journey and the effort of arriving in a new household, she sank onto her knees, hands folded in her lap, the back of her right hand inside the palm of the left.

  The uncarpeted floor was cold and hard, but she didn’t notice. Quilla was Waiting. Waiting was a clearing of the mind, of thought, of the physical. Waiting was the first practice any servant of the Order of Solace learned. Waiting created calm. Serenity. It allowed a Handmaiden to focus her attentions fully on her patron.

  Invisible Mother, grant me serenity enough to share, for there is no greater pleasure than providing absolute solace.

  In the absence of her patron, Quilla Waited for herself. Every new assignment was difficult at first, no matter how well her training allowed her to hide it. Smiling when she wanted to weep, murmuring when she wanted to scream, saying yes when she wished to say no. It always passed once she settled in.

  Invisible Mother, grant me patience enough to share, for true patience is its own reward.

  In a way, Quilla preferred the homes in which she never settled, never became a part of the family. It was hard to love a place and its people, only to be sent away, in the end. Yes, that was her life, her role, what she did, but it didn’t make it any easier to accept when it came time to pack her bags and leave a place she’d come to consider home.

  Invisible Mother, grant me beauty enough to share, for a flower is made more beautiful by its thorns, and I have many.

  Glad Tidings did not seem to be destined for that sort of ending. Quilla rubbed her temples. Would her new patron be as awful as Florentine had said? And what had the chatelaine meant with her cryptic statement that Quilla might hurt him?

  Invisible Mother, grant me generosity enough to share, for selfish is the heart that thinks first of itself.

  “How can I possibly hurt him?” she murmured aloud. “ ’Tis my place to serve him.”

  Woman I began and woman I shall end.

  She could do no more nor less than that. She sighed and got to her feet, wanting only to wash away the grime of her travel and prepare herself for her new patron. She opened the wardrobe to see what sort of uniform she’d be wearing. She’d been dressed in everything from tight-corseted formal gowns to loose shifts more appropriate for sleeping, but what she found hung inside and folded in the drawers made her smile.

  She touched the fabrics, none of them expensive but all of them fine enough quality. No harsh or scratchy wools. Soft linen and flaxen gowns in muted shades of green and blue hung from the hangers, while plain but clearly new undergarments took a place in the drawers. Warm stockings, for winter was coming. A soft, black woolen cloak with a hood, a bow of red startling against the throat of it. Slippers and one pair of plain black lace-up shoes.

  She took out a deep blue gown and held it up to herself in front of the mirror. Long sleeves would come to a point over the back of her hand. Plain satin ribbon banded the high neckline. Buttons ran from throat to hem as on the gown she wore, but of higher quality. More plain ribbon adorned the hem, which reached to her toes and looked to be full enough to swirl when she turned.

  In short, he expected her to dress the part of the traditional Handmaiden. Dark colors and demure style. An insight into what he desired, or merely laziness on the part of whomever had ordered the clothes?

  It didn’t matter what she wore, if anything. She would be what he needed, no matter what that was. In dark blue or flaming red, covered from throat to toes or naked, Quilla’s place was to serve.

  A bath and good teeth brushing. Wash her hair. Perhaps a chance to sleep in the narrow bed. Those were her plans until the knock on her door made her turn. She opened it, though of course there was no lock and the person on the other side could simply have walked in. It said a lot about this household, though, that privacy was respected.

  “Come in.”

  Florentine stuck her head around the half-open door. “He wants you.”

  Quilla looked at the gown in her hands and her own dusty dress. “I haven’t even had a chance to bathe—”

  “Now.”

  “All right.”

  Quilla hung the gown back in the wardrobe and brushed her skirt clean as best she could. The bath would wait, but she did take a gulp of water to rinse her mouth before following Florentine out of the room.

  Quilla fixed her hair with swift fingers as she walked, tucking her curls into a tight braid that hung to the middle of her back. It was the best she could do on short notice, though she was certain she still looked journey-worn. She followed the chatelaine down the narrow garret stairs and a short, wide hallway to the carved wooden door at the end. When Florentine pushed it open, it revealed another set of narrow, steep steps. Quilla counted twelve. Not too many. Just enough to trip her up as she followed Florentine.

  “He’s in here?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Quilla pushed past the fat chatelaine and opened the door. It swung open on creaking hinges that sounded like an old man’s joints complaining, and she made a note to take care of that. It couldn’t be pleasant, always hearing the door scream when it opened.

  The room inside wasn’t much more pleasant. The fragrance in the air was acrid and slightly burnt, though the fireplace looked to be in good enough repair. The floor of bare, unwaxed wood had made the acquaintance of a broom and mop some time ago, for small stains and speckles of grime played hide-and-seek amongst the tattered woven rugs. The tapestries on the wall were nondescript and out of fashion, though of fine workmanship and probably quite expensive.

  Four tall windows provided ample light, but the numerous lamps upon the walls would provide illumination when the sun did not. A massive table dominated the room’s far corner. On it, glass beakers and simmering cauldrons crouched over tiny gas-powered flames. The scorch marks on the wood and the wall behind it showed her the source of the burnt smell.

  An untidy but well-made desk squatted along the other wall, its surface heaped high with books, papers, pots of ink, and all manner of detritus that looked as though it might simply tumble over at any moment. More interesting were the rows of small cages in which mice squeaked and fat rabbits squatted, complacently chewing.

  Quilla took in all of this, including the high-backed chair in front of the fire, with such swift unobtrusiveness that none but another Handmaiden would have noticed her scrutiny. There were innumerable ways to make this room more pleasant, the first a thorough cleaning. Quilla noted the battered kettle hung over the fire, the tea chest with the splintered lid, the chipped cups with missing saucers. So he liked tea but did not seem to take much comfort from it.

  “I was expecting someone older.” The flat comment turned Quilla’s head toward the man who’d stepped out of the doorway at the back of the room.

  Without a word, Quilla sank gracefully onto her knees, folding them beneath her so she could rise in the same smooth motion as she’d dropped. She folded her hands in her lap, the back of the right tucked into the palm of the left. She Waited.

  “My lord Delessan, this is—”

  “I know who she is, Florentine.” Gabriel Delessan stomped toward Quilla in great black boots in need of a polishing. “Didn’t you hear
what I said, Handmaiden?”

  Quilla looked up at him. This was to be her new patron. A challenge.

  “I am who the Order assigned, yes. If I do not please you, all you must do is send me back. My age is one of the few things I am unable to change for your pleasure.”

  That seemed to mollify him a bit, because he said, “Really? What are the others?”

  “The color of my eyes, the size of my feet and hands, my height, the roundness of my breasts,” Quilla told him matter-of-factly.

  Most times, the answer stumped them, but not this man. He scowled, deep blue gray eyes made dark with the expression. “I didn’t call for you because of the size of your breasts.”

  Quilla nodded again. “But if my age—”

  “ ’Tis not.” Delessan’s scowl further creased his face. “Florentine, you can go.”

  The chatelaine nodded and glared at Quilla, then bustled out of the room. Quilla remained where she was. This man was going to be more than a challenge. He was going to be downright difficult.

  Quilla had never left an assignment. It had been a point of pride for her that no matter how difficult or demanding a patron, she stayed until she provided them absolute solace, or they sent her away. In the Order of Solace, no shame came from failure to ultimately please. It was understood that some people refuse to be pleased no matter what they are offered. Shame came from giving up.

  “How old are you?”

  “Eight and twenty, my lord.”

  He snorted and put his hands behind his back. Gabriel Delessan was a tall man and broad-shouldered. He had the body of a laborer dressed in a gentleman’s clothes, rather formal for the time of day and the work he did, she thought. Her eyes assessed him as she had the room. He could have been any age from thirty to forty, his dark hair without hint of silver. Black trousers. White shirt buttoned up high at the throat. Gray vest, four-buttoned, none undone. His black coat had been tailored to fit him exquisitely, the sleeves hitting him at the wrist instead of midhand, as was the current fashion, and in a flash Quilla understood that was not because his clothes were out of fashion, but that he’d had them tailored that way. He worked with his hands. Shorter sleeves were more practical. The jacket, on the other hand, came to midthigh instead of the currently popular waist length. The clothes made him look severe, forbidding, not a man who could be bothered wasting time with trivialities.

  “Is it always the policy of your Order to teach its servants to stare?”

  Quilla blinked, startled at being caught. She lowered her eyes. “No, my lord. I plead your mercy.”

  “For Sinder’s sake,” her patron said. “Get off your knees.”

  Quilla did as he’d asked, standing in one fluid motion gained from years of practice. She waited a moment, watching him. His gaze traveled over her with the same apparent attention to detail she’d given him. Quilla was used to being scrutinized. It wasn’t unheard of for new patrons to ask her to strip down to skin the first time she met them. Particularly the mistresses, who often seemed to want to reassure themselves her body was no more seductive or luxurious than theirs; even if it was, they always managed to find some flaw to point out and feel better about.

  But this man looked her over, fully clothed, and made her feel more naked than if he’d ordered her to strip. When at last his eyes settled on her face, she knew he could see the heatroses blooming on her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes.

  “If I wanted a whore I could get one from the market for a tenth of the cost of having you,” he said, his indifferent tone worse than if he’d sounded condescending.

  She’d been well trained in keeping her emotions in check, but this bald, bored statement slapped her harder than if he’d sneered the words. She blinked, her mouth dropping open enough to allow a small hiss to escape her lips before she gathered her presence of mind and pressed them together.

  “I am not a whore.”

  Delessan’s face proved perfectly suited to amused sarcasm as one brow lifted and his mouth quirked into some sad semblance of a smile that had no humor behind it. “Then what makes you think I want you on your knees?”

  For there is no greater pleasure than providing absolute solace. The words calmed her enough to reply without a dip or change of her voice.

  “The position is called Waiting, Readiness. It shows I am ready to please you.”

  His smirk became a full-blown sneer. “And if it pleased me to have you strip out of that nasty, travel-worn rag?”

  “I would do it.”

  “And if it pleased me to have you suck my cock?”

  She flinched a bit at the harshness of his words. Did she imagine the flicker in his eyes? Pleasure at seeing her flinch? Disgust? Quilla discovered she could not read him, and she did not like that. Not at all.

  “If it pleased you for me to do that, then I would.”

  “So how does that make you not a whore?”

  She centered herself by letting her heart beat another four times. Taking another four breaths. Blinking a quartet of times more.

  “The fact I am here at all tells me the Order approved your request,” she said evenly. “Which means the Mothers-in-Service were satisfied you understood the purpose and place of a Handmaiden. It has never been my experience that they were wrong. So if they sent me to you, ’twas because they felt your petition was worthy of merit. That you had need of what I could provide. I trust the Mothers and I trust the Order. I am a Handmaiden. I am here to please you. To provide one small part of your life that is perfect solace. If that includes sucking your cock, then it is my pleasure to do so.”

  “It’s not your pleasure,” he corrected. “It’s your job.”

  The vehemence that coated his last word raised her eyebrows. “My job, then, if you insist.”

  “Then don’t claim you’d do it for the pleasure of it.” Delessan gave her his back. “I abominate lies and I abhor pandering. I sent for a Handmaiden so I wouldn’t have to deal with that. No simpering maids thinking a bedding will provide them extra favors. No kowtowing servants who bluster and flatter with the thought of bilking me out of an extra Festival bonus. No sly assistants filling my head with tales of my own brilliance while they steal my work out from under me.”

  He turned, eyes flashing. “I want someone to serve me in all ways because it is her job and her duty, and so I will know it’s her place to do so without thought of reward. I want to trust that when I tell you to do something it will be done the way I want it done, when I want it done, and how. Immediately and without interpretation. Without hope of personal gain. I want a Handmaiden because it’s your sole function to provide me with what I need, and I am not required to concern myself with the bloody awful task of actually trying to provide anything in return.”

  Quilla had been beaten by patrons who gained their pleasure from physical proof of their dominance. She could handle pain. She was trained in that. She’d been insulted. She’d been treated with coldness and impersonality, even with disdain.

  She had never, until now, heard anyone distill the essence of her function into something so soiled, so awful, so utterly devoid of joy.

  She blinked and heard her voice, faint and just a bit shaky. “I am here to please you, my lord.”

  His gaze traveled over her once again, from head to foot, his face twisting with slowly growing disgust. “It would please me to see you clean and dressed appropriately, and not looking like you’d just come off the rubbish heap. Get out and don’t come back until you’re clean.”

  She nodded, an unfamiliar pricking at the back of her eyes making her realize she was close to tears. “If it—”

  “You’re dismissed!” he barked. “No chatter! Get out!”

  Without another word, Quilla did as he’d ordered. When the door had closed behind her, she leaned against the wall, one hand out to support herself on knees gone weak. She swallowed the lump in her throat and blinked away the unaccustomed sting of tears, straightened her back, and began to make her way back to her quart
ers.

  He didn’t even ask me my name.

  He’ll call for you when he’s ready to, and not before. And don’t go up there until he does.”

  Florentine’s words of wisdom made Quilla roll her eyes. “It’s been four days, Florentine. I wasn’t sent here to idle my days away.”

  The chatelaine snorted. “I’ve plenty for you to do, don’t you worry.”

  Quilla smiled as she hulled peas and put them in a large wooden bowl. “I’m sure you do. But nevertheless, it’s not my job to peel potatoes and stir soup.”

  Florentine put a finger to the tip of her sharp nose and pushed it upward, offering Quilla an unappetizing view up her nostrils. “Well, hoity-toity do, excuse me.”

  “You know it as well as I do,” said Quilla. “If he wanted another kitchen maid, he’d have hired one.”

  “I don’t pretend to know what the master wants. I only take care of the kitchen. And oversee the others.”

  “And run this household,” added Quilla, who couldn’t help a fondness for the large, brusque woman. “ ’Tis no simple task to be chatelaine and cook, as well.”

  Florentine bent over the pot of stew simmering on the fire. “Used to be another, but he up and married the twit eight years hence, and the house has been up to me ever since. He never ought to have hired the girl, and I told him so at the time, for she was little more than a pair of bright green eyes and a mop of golden hair. She came highly recommended, of course, from that finishing school what likes to turn out pretty young things looking to wed a successful man. She did well enough. She knew what she wanted, at least. Knew how to run a house to please herself—and her man.”

  Quilla paused, thinking. “There’s been no sign of her. Is she ill?”

  Florentine stood up with a groan, rubbing her lower back. “Ill? The twit’s gone mad. Before the boy was born—”

  “Boy?” This stopped Quilla’s hands again in surprise. “He has a son?”

  “Aye, young Dane. Off someplace with his uncle Jericho right now.” Florentine gathered a bundle of dried herbs and began grinding them with her mortar and pestle. “Forgive me for trying to tell you the story, my fine miss. I suppose ’tis my lack of social grace that makes it all right to keep interrupting me.”