by Rona Randall
Sexually she was disappointing. She knew no tricks and refused to learn them. “I am not a whore!” she screamed when he first tried to initiate her. “Keep that sort of thing for women who are!”
He had clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her cries, fearful lest they should penetrate even the thick stone walls of Tremain Hall. Then he had rolled away from her, saying in disgust, “Well, at least you acknowledge my right to enjoy them.”
“Enjoy as many as you wish. I shall be grateful to them if it means you leave me alone.”
“And what will folk think — yours and mine — if you remain childless? Are you aware that in my family’s history men have put their wives away for being barren? I wonder how the head of the Drayton family would feel if that happened? Not proud of you, but ashamed. Ashamed that you were apparently infertile while your twin sister was patently otherwise.”
Emerging from the church to the cheers of local peasantry already well plied with ale, Joseph’s first sight was of Meg Gibson perched amongst others on the churchyard wall, laughing. The wind had blown her skirts high above shapely knees, a fact for which she either did not care or was oblivious to, and, meeting his eye, she doffed one of the Red Lion’s rummers mockingly.
Or so it seemed. Meg’s smile could be all things to all men, but for him it had ever been faintly mocking and always challenging. White teeth now flashed in her gypsy face and her great dark eyes danced. To all appearances she was one of a merry crowd freed from drudgery for a day and making the most of it, but to him, in that instantaneous moment, she was sheer provocation.
He forced his eyes away, turning to his bride with every appearance of pride and devotion, but comparing her instinctively with alluring Meg. If their positions could have been reversed, if lumpish Agatha had belonged to the peasantry and lissome Meg were his bride, there would be no need to brace himself for the nuptials ahead. He would be ready and willing and waiting, and he knew in that moment that sooner or later — and preferably sooner — he would be seeking consolation from the source which never failed to offer it to him.
He had to have Meg Gibson again.
When it was all over, the eating and the quaffing, the congratulations and merrymaking, the whirl of dancing and laughter and quips and jests, his bride whispered, “Is it not time for us to leave for home, my dearest?”
Home. Carrion House. The place where he had lived in bachelor satisfaction until now, but also the place which needed a hostess to preside over it, a wife to be an asset to its master. That was what he had sought, and Agatha must serve his purpose until such time as he was done with her. Meanwhile, he had to tolerate her self-conscious ogling, though flirtatiousness ill became a plain-looking female, particularly one who had passed four and twenty years in righteous virginity and was plainly tired of it — hence the exaggerated invitation, the heavy blandishments, the artificial coyness. Such calculated enticements did not come with youth.
How old was lovely Meg in comparison with his bride? Fifteen? Sixteen? Scarce into her teens she must have known the heat of a man’s bed. A pity his wife had not been initiated so early. She might then have become as appetising as the creature who was his torment and his delight.
As it was, Agatha had become a clumsy, coy, undesirable lump who now saw herself as a temptress offering her lord untold delights, an overweight siren fondly believing she was irresistible. He smiled down at her, concealing the fact that he found her inexpressibly easy to resist. Half an hour in her bed, and he would be more than willing to retire to his own.
And when they reached Carrion House it was all as he expected. Now she had donned the respectability of marriage, Agatha felt free to abandon herself to lusts of the flesh because the Lord had given her permission. She was therefore determined to enjoy them, free of restraint. He suspected that inside her very obvious mind her conjectures about the practices indulged in by the ignorant masses were now being given free rein, that she looked forward to discovering them for herself instead of indulging in speculation, and that above all she expected rapture far in excess of anything the sinful lower orders could ever know.
And he was to be the incomparable lover after whom she hungered.
It was a responsibility he did not welcome.
Joseph read her mind all too accurately. Agatha had long since decided that there must be great enjoyment in bodily abandonment since admonitions against it were forever flouted.
“Ee, lady, ye’d not be preachin’ at us if ye knew ow’t about it!”
She had heard that often enough when, in her role of Lady Bountiful, she went about her charitable work, distributing moral guidance as well as material comforts, and always the remark was tinged with scorn because she was an old maid and therefore a creature to despise, even though her bounty was accepted — the food and the clothes (all too often pawned or peddled) and the sweetmeats for their hollow-eyed children.
In the bridal bed she laid bare her buxom body, glorying in her womanly flesh and fully expecting Joseph to glory in it even more. Beneath closed lids she imagined the delight in his eyes. It was some time before he approached the bed, but she revelled in the waiting, breathing her passion in a way which must surely arouse him, and knowing his hesitation could only be due to awe. He was marvelling over the beauty of her, pausing in wonderment before her womanhood. She was no skinny thing like Amelia, no simpering kitten like Phoebe, and certainly no abandoned creature like Jessica. She was voluptuous Agatha Drayton, and proud of it.
When he still did not come to her she opened her eyes and saw him standing beside the bed, still robed. She lifted plump arms in invitation, and her lower limbs with instinctive hungriness. In the flickering candlelight she could not see his face.
“Come to me — my love, my husband!”
He snuffed out the candle, and obliged.
It was over sooner than expected, though she told herself that long suppressed desire for her must surely have been responsible. She was further surprised when he left her, merely advising her to get a good night’s sleep because they must leave betimes for London.
In the excitement of the wedding she had forgotten the impending visit to the metropolis on which Joseph, to her surprise, had insisted, adding that his only regret was that he dare not leave Drayton’s for more than a month or the place would deteriorate without him. “But that will permit us three weeks in London, allowing for the journeying both ways.”
Personally, Agatha would have liked to do a season there, but even so short a visit made her feel vastly superior to friends and acquaintances who had never set foot in the capital.
So when she wakened it was with a sense of anticipation. Her arrival in London would make a stir; her impact on Society would be sensational. She had a wardrobe of clothes that would amaze her critical Aunt Elizabeth — the aunt who had written to her mother these many weeks past with advice about the latest fashions. Owing to gout, autocratic Aunt Elizabeth had been unable to travel to Burslem for the wedding, but naturally she and Joseph would call upon her in St James’s Square. And how surprised she would be when she met a niece who was no country wench, but a fashionable lady par excellence.
And wherever they went, how proud Joseph would be! That, of course, was his reason for planning this London visit. He would display his wife with eagerness at Vauxhall, at the play, at receptions and soirees, resplendent in the fine clothes she had brought for all occasions. No one would be able to point a derisive finger at the Master Potter’s wife.
Confident that the next night and the next and forever afterwards her husband would not leave her alone to sleep the night through, and that he had only done so on their wedding night because the day had been long and exhausting for her, Agatha had at length fallen asleep, purring like a well fed cat who would have appreciated a larger bowl of cream.
Dear Joseph had been so thoughtful, controlling his passion solely out of consideration for her…but at least she had sampled pleasures to come and the initial physical discomfort
, not nearly so stressful as she had heard it could be, had soon been obliterated by her own avid appetite. Now her maidenhead was disposed of, there would be no obstacle between her body and untold physical delights, no need for dear Joseph to curtail their union because he feared distressing her. Her initiation was over and no man could have accomplished it more ably.
She even wondered how many women he had lain with to become so skilled a lover that he could terminate things before exhausting her. In no time at all he had broken the seal of her virginity and then, with characteristic thoughtfulness, left her to merciful sleep.
Waking, her first thought, as always, was for refreshment. Stretching out a hand for the adjacent bell rope, she jangled it impatiently and Joseph’s starched housekeeper came hurrying. If she was surprised to find her master’s bride alone in the bridal chamber, her impassive face gave no sign of it.
“You were a long time coming,” Agatha said pettishly. It was best to put the woman in her place from the outset.
Since Mrs Walker had answered with as much speed as her ageing body could muster she resented the reprimand, but put up no defence. She valued her situation at Carrion House and, until the master himself decided to dispense with her, she would say or do nothing to hasten that dreaded day.
“You require something, Madam?”
“Chocolate,” demanded Agatha imperiously. “Very hot and very sweet.”
Without a word, Mrs Walker obeyed. She didn’t like her new mistress’s tone, nor did she like the additions to the household which her advent made necessary. A footman, of all things, and a personal maid for Madam. But now she reflected that perhaps the maid was something to be thankful for, if there was to be much fetching and carrying to and from milady’s chamber. So she passed the order on, and left the young woman to deal with it.
Her name was Rose, a village girl who had graduated from kitchen work at the parsonage and, as a result of her elevation, had formed a high opinion of herself, in Mrs Walker’s view. She needed taking down a peg or two; already she had rejected hints that she should lend a hand in the kitchen, or with light household duties like dusting and polishing.
“I am Madam’s personal maid, Mrs Walker, and I’ll be asking you not to forget it. Personal maids wait on no one but their mistresses, in case you don’t know.” Insolent young piece.
But Mrs Walker got her own back now, ordering the girl to make hot chocolate for the mistress right away and to take it up before it chilled.
“And you can answer her bell in future. You should have been ready to answer it this morning, trim in mob-cap and apron instead of that pinafore you slopped downstairs in. I shan’t answer her bell again, even if you’re not fit to present yourself. She can see you as you are first thing in the morning and you can take the consequences. Now look sharp about it, miss.”
The footman’s snigger didn’t improve Mrs Walker’s temper, nor the secret smirk Rose sent in his direction. She wished devoutly that the old order had not changed, that her master had remained a bachelor and her own exclusive responsibility. They had got along fine until he took it into his head to marry. And his choice of a wife had been more than surprising. Such a fine, well set up, handsome man should have a wife whose looks were worthy of him. What he saw in that ungainly wench from Tremain Hall was beyond his housekeeper’s comprehension, but there it was — often the plainest of women hooked the best looking men. One of life’s mysteries.
Rose made the chocolate and was carrying it up by hand, slopping it in the saucer, when Mrs Walker stayed her.
“That's no way to serve it! Didn’t you learn how to use a tray at the parsonage?”
“Never served up nothink there, I didn’t. Parson’s lady never took refreshment in bed, an’ when folk came she dished an’ served everythink ’erself.”
“Well, you’re not working at that level now, miss, so you’d better learn how to do things proper. Use that silver salver, the one I showed you yesterday, and now you’ve slopped that lot over you’d best be making fresh.”
Rose didn’t. She emptied the saucer’s contents into the pail beneath the kitchen pump, replaced the cup, put both on the silver tray and departed, sniffing.
“She’ll regret that,” said Mrs Walker to Parker, the footman, unable to keep a note of triumph out of her voice.
Rose did. She remembered to tap respectfully on the door and to place the tray beside the bed. She drew back the window curtains and banked her lady up with pillows. She even remembered to bob a curtsey before retreating to the door, something the parson’s wife only expected when company was present — then she made her first mistake.
“Wait,” commanded her mistress. “You have forgotten to give me the chocolate.”
Lazy cow, thought Rose. Can’t she reach out for it, right there to hand?
Returning, she placed the tray on her mistress’s lap, curtseyed again, and again departed. She reached the door when a wail of protest followed.
“Good God, wench, it is cold!. Take it away and bring fresh, at once.”
Sullenly, Rose obeyed. Outside the room, she sipped the chocolate, found it decidedly drinkable since it was a luxury denied to servants, and rather than confess to Mrs Walker that it had displeased the mistress, she downed the lot.
“Wants more, she does,” she sang airily as she re-entered the kitchen. “‘Rose,’ she said, ‘that’s the most delicious chocolate I’ve ever tasted. I simply must ’ave more!’”
“Then it must’ve been half cold if she could drink it so quick,” snapped the housekeeper.
Parker looked at Rose, winked, and left the two women to squall alone.
“I notice you’re taking longer about it this time, my girl,” said Mrs Walker, watching Rose stirring the pan upon the fire. “The first lot wasn’t hot enough, was it? I guessed it wouldn’t be. You didn’t boil the milk, so by the time it reached her it’d be half cold. You can’t fool me, Rosie Brown. I can give a shrewd guess how that cup came to be empty.”
Rose ignored that, placed the steaming drink carefully on the silver salver and departed, head in air.
By the time she reappeared at her mistress’s bedside Agatha had had time to don a befrilled bed cape, anticipating her husband’s arrival, for he would be sure to visit his wife on waking. But she bemoaned the lank state of her hair. What had possessed Mamma to insist on that smooth hairstyle, and what had possessed her to give in? Now it would take even longer for the curling irons to do their very necessary work.
Accepting the fresh supply of chocolate, she said, “Do you know how to curl hair, Rose?”
“Oh yes, Mistress.”
That was true indeed. She had curled the hair of the parson’s seven daughters more times than she could count. It was this ability, and her handiness with a needle, that had made her acceptable as a lady’s maid.
“Then start heating the irons now. You will find them in my dressing case beside the closet.”
Rose obeyed, thrusting the irons into the hot coals of a fire which had been banked the night before to keep it going until morning. Against her pile of pillows, Agatha watched lazily. The girl promised to shape up well, and the second cup of chocolate was exactly to her taste — thick and frothy and deliciously sweet. She licked the top of it dreamily, and as she did so her bedroom door opened and her husband stood there, freshly shaved and with his fine head of hair brushed into shining locks to the nape of his neck. He wore a long dressing robe of maroon velvet frogged with matching braid, and Turkey slippers. He looked splendid. Her heart leapt at the sight of him.
At his nod the maid moved to the door, and Joseph strolled toward his wife. Agatha primped in her frilly bed cape, anticipating his admiration, awaiting endearments, hoping for caresses. None came. He halted a few yards from the bed and stood there, surveying her. With customary relish she began licking the froth again. Mouth agape, she displayed a dollop of it on the end of her fat pink tongue. To her astonishment, he seized the tray and commanded the retreating maid to ta
ke it away. The girl obeyed, and was gone.
“And you will gorge yourself no more on that sickly stuff, my dear wife. If you have given instructions for it to be served to you first thing every morning, I will rescind them.”
“But, Joseph, I always have hot chocolate on waking!”
“Not any more, my love. Not any more. And are those curling irons to be used on your hair?” At her bewildered nod, he strode to the fireplace and removed them, dropping them distastefully onto the stone hearth. “Not any more to that, too. No more frizzing, no more birds’ nests atop your head.”
His tone was faintly jocular, but Agatha saw nothing to be jocular about. Indeed, she was quite upset, and said so, summoning tears very conveniently, at which he said with elaborate patience, “My dear, you must be guided by me. I will select your hair styles, your foods, your clothes, and govern your entire appearance. Why else do you imagine I am taking you to London at a time when I can ill afford to be away? It is wholly for your sake. When we return, you will have improved in every way. Meanwhile, I have come to select your travelling clothes for the journey.’
His voice and his smile were now quite amiable, so it was hard to believe he spoke in anything but jest. He was teasing her, she decided, much relieved. Soon he would be assuring her that he meant not a word of it, that he adored everything about her and would have her in no way different, so when he strode to the closet and flung its doors wide she was untroubled.
“All my things are packed, Joseph. They were sent so from the Hall. The closet contains only my travelling wear, as you can see. And very elegant it is, do you not agree? I had it made especially.”
“Agree? And elegant, did you say? This gaudy orange cloak with a swansdown trim fit only for the bonnet of a babe? This bright yellow gown with far too much embroidery? And both of highly unsuitable materials for travelling, besides being loud and decidedly vulgar. And that ridiculous bonnet, like an over decorated toadstool! Your Aunt Elizabeth will wince at the sight on her doorstep.”