by Karen Ranney
She was not going to think about George again.
Charlotte had given orders to have a bath readied in her chamber, and when the knock came, she called out and then watched as a procession of footmen emptied a series of steaming buckets into the large copper tub. When she dismissed the last of them, Maisie entered the room with her arms around a large canvas satchel.
“Matthew threw his sticks last night,” she said, emptying the contents of her bag on the seat of a chair. “He says the elements are there for good fortune. He says that his lordship will find the treasure, and you should seek good fortune in a flower bath.”
Charlotte looked at her maid, uncertain which part of that statement to question first.
“He’s looking for the treasure?” she finally asked. “The treasure of Balfurin?”
“You know about it, your ladyship?”
Charlotte nodded. “There is no treasure,” she said. “It’s an old tale told by old people.”
“Oh, his lordship believes in it all right. It’s a cask of gold, saved by the first earls for when there was need in the family.”
“I thought he was wealthy.”
“Oh, indeed he is, your ladyship. At least, that’s what Matthew says.” Maisie shrugged, evidently the issue of George’s wealth being of no interest to her. “But maybe it’s like being hungry, your ladyship. You can’t imagine ever being full, so you keep eating.”
“I’ve never heard greed explained so beautifully, Maisie,” she said. “What’s a flower bath?”
“A mandi bunga,” Maisie said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s not just a bath,” Maisie said. “It’s a tradition, a part of Matthew’s culture. A woman hoping to attract good luck or a husband takes a mandi bunga. Or she takes one if she wishes to expel bad luck.”
“What about expelling husbands?”
Maisie only sent her a quelling look. An altogether odd experience, being chastised by her maid. But because she no doubt deserved it, Charlotte remained silent.
She walked toward the chair and looked down at the array of ingredients. “I don’t suppose it could hurt,” Charlotte said. “What’s all this?”
Maisie lifted the items one by one. “These are all dried flowers. Seven different types of them. The rest are coconut leaves, betel nut, something else that smells like unwashed feet, I’m afraid. Wax, chalk, and one other thing.” She moved to Charlotte’s dressing table and poured out a little of her expensive face powder into her palm. “Face powder,” Maisie said.
“Are you sure we’re not doing magic?” Charlotte asked. “Nothing is going to explode into flames, is it?” she asked, looking doubtfully at the chair heaped with the ingredients for the bath.
“I don’t think so,” Maisie said. She reached over and grabbed the dried flowers, dumping them into the steaming water. “I’m supposed to weave four strands of coconut leaves into a shape.”
“What kind of shape?”
“I don’t know,” Maisie admitted. “I think a bowl.”
“Perhaps there’s a skill to it,” Charlotte said when Maisie had finished. The coconut leaves didn’t resemble a bowl at all, merely a very small mat. “What are you supposed to do now?”
“I think you’re supposed to get into the bath,” Maisie said, “while I act as the bomoh.” At Charlotte’s inquisitive look, she explained. “A bomoh is like a minister.”
Charlotte took off her wrapper and slipped into the steaming water, thinking that the dried flowers didn’t add much to the experience. They weren’t fragrant, but they were scratchy and she pushed them out of her way and set them bobbing toward her feet.
Maisie picked up some thread and molded the wax around it until it appeared like a long, skinny candle. Then she took one of the betel nuts and gave it to Charlotte. “I believe you’re supposed to rub it back and forth between your palms.”
“Are you quite certain?”
“I am,” she said, but her voice lacked any degree of conviction. She gave Charlotte a quick look before going to the door and pulling it open.
After a whispered conversation, she shut it again.
“Is Matthew on the other side?”
“He was,” Maisie said. “But now it’s his lordship. He says he should be the one to instruct you on the mandi bunga.”
Charlotte sank back into the water and stared up at the ceiling. Should she ask for divine providence to interfere in this ceremony, or should she take advantage of the situation as Lady Eleanor had advised on her departure?
A husband needs to be snared like any other animal, my dear. Sometimes the creature will not see what’s before its nose until you make him pay attention. A woman as attractive as you should have no difficulty in doing that.
This very strange situation of being neither married nor unattached could last until death claimed George. Since George was a very strong, very healthy man, who didn’t appear to be sickening in any way, that could be years. Decades, actually. The only real solution, the only viable answer for her situation was to convince George to remain at Balfurin, to become a true husband.
She sat up, dislodging one of the dried flowers—a chrysanthemum. It floated away on a small wave.
“Ask him to come inside,” Charlotte said.
Maisie quickly turned and glanced at her. “Are you very sure, your ladyship?”
“I am,” she said resolutely, lying with a smile on her face. She sat up, draping her arm over her breasts as she surreptitiously pulled her wrapper closer to the tub. Just for good measure, she drew up her knees. There, she was almost presentable. However, if she was going to seduce her husband, she was going to have to be a little more courageous.
George entered the room and immediately seemed to dwarf it by his presence. How did he do that? As he strode through the room, she recalled only too well what he looked like naked. How he’d touched her with his fingertips.
The muscles of her stomach clenched.
“I don’t remember all the instructions,” Maisie explained to him. “I’m not a very good bomoh.”
“It takes a little practice,” George said, smiling at her.
“Would you help?” Charlotte said. She glanced over at him. Was her look sultry? Was her voice seductive?
He didn’t seem the least affected.
Maisie slipped from the room as George took the rest of the ingredients, eight pieces of something dark green and dried, four leaves, and a few betel leaves rubbed with a little chalk. These he put into a wooden bowl he’d unearthed from the bottom of the satchel.
He walked to the bath and dipped the bowl into the water. “I’m surprised you agreed to such a ceremony.”
“I would be a fool to ignore the chance for good luck,” she said. Her voice sounded low. Did he notice?
Her breasts felt tight, and she pressed her arm against her chest to minimize the sensation. Had his eyes always been that brilliant a blue? At least he was looking at her directly now, not ignoring her as he’d done these last few days. Was that what she needed to do? Sit naked before him and dare him to look away? Her cheeks flushed, and her lips felt dry.
“I’m supposed to anoint you now,” he said. “It’s customary to have the maiden wearing a sarong.”
“I’m not a maiden,” Charlotte said, drawing her knees closer to her chest.
“Then we’ll dispense with the sarong.” He sprinkled the water over her shoulders, all the while softly speaking words in a language Charlotte didn’t understand.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m imploring the spirits to grant you good fortune if you are worthy.”
“And if I’m not worthy?” she asked.
“Then you’ll have to petition them again.”
Charlotte looked up at him, and wondered what he was thinking. He was back to ignoring her again, his gaze carefully focused on the other side of the room.
She removed her arm from across her breasts, and gripped either side of the copper tub. It w
as easier to look at the fire than at him. Had he even noticed that her breasts were exposed, that her nipples were bobbing in the water like little corks?
“How long does it take?” she asked. “Before I know if my luck has changed?”
That I’m able to seduce my husband into remaining at Balfurin? Is that a terrible thing to want? And is it acceptable to almost pray to God while indulging in a heathen ritual?
“Not long if the spirits of Balfurin grant it,” he said.
“Not Oriental spirits?”
“You’ll find they’re much the same.”
“I’ve often thought Balfurin haunted,” she said, and then wondered why on earth she’d mentioned that.
He halted in sprinkling the water over her head. “Have you?”
She nodded.
“If there are such things, I would imagine Balfurin is as good a place as any for spirits to reside.”
“I half expected you to counsel me not to be foolish,” she admitted.
“I’ve seen a great deal that I can’t explain. I’ve learned not to dismiss anything out of hand.”
Except your wife. But she didn’t say that. Instead, she smiled sweetly and asked, “Even ghosts?”
“I’ve sometimes had the feeling that I wasn’t alone in an empty room. Who’s to say it wasn’t a ghost?”
She nodded again. “I’ve felt the same,” she conceded. “Once, in the library, I felt as if someone were standing right beside me. I even asked if someone was there. I think I would have screamed if anything had answered.”
“Perhaps our inability to communicate to the departed is not in our hearing but their speaking. Perhaps they can only turn over objects and make the wind whisper.”
“Or make it cold,” Charlotte said, sliding down in the water a little.
How very odd that they were talking to each other with more accord than they’d done in days. How very strange that the conversation was so proper, one they might have had in the drawing room, and not with dried flowers floating into her breasts and her nipples all coral and hard.
George had ceased sprinkling her. Now he dipped the bowl in the water and allowed the ingredients to sink to the bottom of her bath.
“Or perhaps what we feel is only the voice of our conscience,” he said.
“Do you have a troubled conscience?” she asked, forcing herself to sit up a little. There, her breasts were no longer covered by the water. He couldn’t help but see now.
He looked at her somberly, his gaze direct and unflinching. “I do.”
She hadn’t the slightest idea what to say to his confession.
Suddenly, he knelt at the side of the tub, entirely too close. But it was what she wanted, wasn’t it? He trailed his fingers in the water, not looking at her. With great courage, she reached out and touched his hand, fascinated at the path of a droplet between two knuckles. She followed it with the tip of a finger, feeling as if that small, insignificant touch was almost intimate.
Her breath felt tight.
She wanted his hands on her.
“Is there anything you want? Besides good fortune, I mean.”
To seduce my husband. No, she wasn’t about to tell him that.
He only smiled as if he knew what she was thinking.
A few tendrils of hair, made humid by the heat, escaped to trail down her cheeks. He used one finger to push them away, a gentle touch. She’d gotten her wish, then. He’d touched her, but not in the way she wanted. She reached up with one hand, and touched his inner wrist, feeling how fast his pulse beat.
He was looking at her, but his gaze was carefully directed to her face.
She splashed water on her breasts, and he looked down.
“Perhaps it isn’t wise to act as your bomoh,” he said, his voice lower than its usual tone. He used one finger to direct the path of a desiccated rose.
“Why would you say that?”
“You might wish me gone, and what would be the point of that? I would be the instigator of my own despair.”
“Now you’re jesting,” she said. “You don’t appear to be in the throes of despair. I doubt my wish will inconvenience you even a little.”
“Ah, so you do wish me gone.”
“No,” she said softly. “I wish you in my bed.”
The moment stilled. Time seemed to stop, hesitating on a breath. A droplet fell from his hand and landed on the surface of her bath, and it seemed to Charlotte that she could hear it.
“Charlotte.”
He made her name sound longer than two syllables, drawing it out on a sigh.
“I want you touching me,” she confessed, feeling as if she’d opened up her chest with such words and exposed her beating heart. Would he know how difficult it was for her to be so defenseless? So helpless?
She closed her eyes, and leaned her head back against the curve of the tub.
Do not be afraid of your urges, my dear. Lady Eleanor again. Act upon your body’s craving. It’s only nature. It’s time that women demanded their share of pleasure in the world.
“I’ve never forgotten that night, you see, and I wondered when it would happen again.” Her cheeks warmed, flushed with the memory.
She opened her eyes to find him looking at her. Not just her face, but her breasts and the rest of her body, magnified by the water, offered up to him without a trace of hesitation.
He was her husband. He owed her five years of pleasure. Five years of kisses. Five years of gasping wonder.
“Why don’t you come to my bed?”
“Because it wouldn’t be right,” he said.
“It wouldn’t be right?” she asked, confused.
“My conscience, Charlotte, has been winning over my libido, but for how long? Especially if I remain in your chamber.”
He stood, looking down at her. She looked away, staring at one of the flowers, something vaguely orange with tightly furled petals. She couldn’t identify it in its current state. Perhaps it was something indigenous to the Orient.
“There’s nothing wrong with a man and wife loving each other, George.”
Before she could further attempt to convince him, or give in to those silly tears that threatened, a noise from outside her room startled them both.
“What the hell?” George went to the door, looking out into the hall. “Stay here, Charlotte,” he said, as he took a lamp from its hanger on the wall.
She did hate being commanded, especially by a man who’d just repudiated her.
“I’m coming with you,” she said, but he’d already left the room. She stood and dressed in her wrapper, pulling at the garment when it became instantly damp. She really should have taken the time to dry.
By the time she caught up with George, he was down the hall, picking up the large candelabra that had fallen to the floor.
“How did that happen?” she asked.
“A careless maid. A cat.”
“I don’t allow the barn cats inside,” she said.
“It’s been my observation that cats go and come as they will,” he said.
That was true enough.
He began mounting the stairs to the third floor.
She hung back, and he glanced down at her. Until that moment, she didn’t think he’d actually seen what she was wearing, or in this case what she wasn’t wearing. His expression stilled, and his eyes darkened. The lamp in her hand seemed to make the fabric invisible.
“Perhaps it would be better if you went back to your room,” he said softly.
“I’m not a coward,” she said, but she was speaking of confronting an intruder. Not him.
“No, but you are nearly naked.”
“There’s no one but the two of us. You’ve seen me naked before.”
“Not in the middle of Balfurin,” he said. “As I recall, it was in my bed.”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? You’ve already said you’ve no intention of repeating the experience.”
“Do you think it’s because I don’t want to? Surely y
ou’re not that foolish.” A noise from above them made him look up. “Someone’s up there.”
He took a few steps upward, but she didn’t budge.
“I’d rather you went back to your room, but if you won’t do that, then come with me.”
“I’m not in any great hurry to go to the third floor,” she confessed. “I try to avoid it when I can.”
He looked at her. “Why?”
“I often hear noises from there. And at this time of year, it isn’t fully occupied. Most of the servants have gone back to Inverness until the new term.”
“I’m afraid the only spirits at Balfurin are alive. Someone knocked down that candelabra, and I intend to find out who.”
She reluctantly went to his side, climbing the winding steps right behind him, following so close that she could feel the heat from his body. When they reached the landing, he turned toward her.
“I’ll not let any ghosts harm you,” he said, the humor in his voice easily detectable. She didn’t care if he ridiculed her. There were nothing but shadows on this floor, and there wasn’t a carpet to absorb their footsteps, only long wooden floorboards that creaked and groaned with every step.
He took the lamp from her and, one by one opening doors shone it inside each room. Before he approached another room, however, she stopped him.
“That’s where Maisie sleeps,” she said.
Abruptly, the door opened. Charlotte didn’t know who was more startled, the two of them or Matthew. He stood in the doorway, attired in a crimson robe, but since he was barefoot, she suspected he was also naked.
“What is it, Matthew?” Maisie called out.
Matthew stepped into the hall, closed the door behind him, and with calm, deliberate, movements closed his robe.
“Have you heard or seen anything amiss tonight?” George asked as if they’d not just disturbed his servant in the act of cohabiting with her maid.
Maisie had evidently lost no time in going to Matthew. How odd to be envious of her maid.
She wondered if the occasion called for some words of censure, and then decided that she’d let the opportunity pass. Besides, Maisie hadn’t sounded distressed, only well loved.