Wenna

by Virginia Taylor

  “Yes, but now you are not governed by those rigid rules.”

  Her mouth considered, her bottom lip disappearing for a moment. “I suppose not. At least I’m not doing the work. Devon. It’s a nice name, unusual.”

  “Devon is the county next to Cornwall. I was named after land. My brothers were named after ancestors. I suppose there’s a message in that.” He laughed cynically.

  She looked puzzled for a moment. “Perhaps your parents saw you as less likely to follow tradition.”

  “My father certainly saw me as different.” He shrugged. “I was the only child of his second wife. He didn’t treat me the way he treated my half-brothers. Each graduated from Cambridge. He sent me to run the home farm at eighteen, and when I turned twenty, he gave me two years at Cambridge. No sooner had I settled in there than he packed me off to France. For the past eight years, I’ve barely spent a week at home.”

  “Count yourself lucky. I started work while you were still playing with your tin soldiers.”

  He heard her tone and blinked. Not too many colonials reprimanded the son of an earl. She’d had no good opinion of his rooms and had been critical about the way he lived his life. She certainly didn’t seem impressed by The Pig and Whistle. He had no need to impress her, but he didn’t like being seen as privileged and complaining by a woman he wanted to strip naked and drape all over himself. He drew a deep breath, trying to see her as his father would, though he doubted the earl would see past her working-class background and her red hair.

  Allowing himself to smile at the thought, he leaned back and hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. “If you’ve finished, we should leave.” Finding the price of the meals in his pocket, he rose to his feet, placing the money on the table.

  A local tradesman with a fistful of beer mugs stopped behind Wenna. “Always was a lucky dog, wasn’t yer, Courtney?” he said with a wink. “Got a real looker, this time.”

  Dev knew “looker” meant “good-looking” and smiled at Wenna. “I surely have,” he said, appreciating the compliment to her.

  However, her chin lifted and she stalked in front of him out onto the dark street, clearly offended. “This time? What did you have last time? A donkey?”

  “That was just his little joke.”

  “I suppose everyone around here counts off your women as they trudge in and out of your lodgings?”

  “My, but you’re easy to offend. A man calls you a looker and you want to start a fight?”

  “Yesterday I lost a high-paying job. I had my teeth jolted loose during a trip down from the hills. I spent some time staring at ceiling of the labor exchange, and I didn’t find a job. Today I cleaned your kitchen from top to bottom. Tonight, the locals think I’m just another woman who is about to share your bed.”

  “Grin and bear it. You’ll be my wife soon enough, with a new list of new complaints,” he answered, disgruntled.

  Share his bed? That might make up for her harsh tongue and her constant criticisms of him. Lord, but he wanted her. Every time he glanced at her, his body clenched with desire. He saw himself between her legs. Siring a child would empower him to make his own choices for the rest of his possibly misbegotten life. He imagined her head thrown back; heard her gasps of pleasure. If he could, he would marry her on the spot so that he could make love to her again and again, and stop thinking he’d missed some vital point along the way.

  The gas street lighting, newly supplied, showed the way to his gate. From there, he moved to the door, inside which he kept a lamp. He lit this for Wenna’s benefit, as he knew each step of the way. Once inside and up the narrow stairs, he guided her to the sitting- room door. “I’ll light the lamp in your bedroom for you.”

  “No need. I can undress in the dark.”

  “Do you intend to retire now?”

  “I do. This place is untidy, and I can’t sit in a mess. I’ll have plenty of work to occupy me tomorrow in making this place suitable for human habitation.”

  “Not this room.” He frowned. “This is my office.”

  She glanced around, tilted her finicky nose, and took herself off.

  In the light of the lamp, he turned the pages of a landscaping journal he found under a pile of old newspapers. Normally, he kept his papers filed on the floor, but since she didn’t like untidiness, perhaps he should review his habits. He frowned. True, he desired her, and they would please each other in bed, but he didn’t plan to start behaving like her lap dog.

  He tossed the magazine back onto the floor and sat leaning forward with his forearms loosely over his knees. His fingers meshed as thoughts of her undressing passed through his mind. He could imagine her concise movements as she unbuttoned her gown and let the skirts drop to the floor. No. A fastidious woman like her would catch the garment and carefully drape the folds over the boxes. Next she would step out of her petticoats, or maybe her shoes, and they too would be neatly dealt with. He leaned back, imagining her in a corset and stockings. His cock hardened.

  He could see those efficient fingers of hers unhook her corset, leaving the chemise beneath clinging to her warm skin. Her nipples would unfold in the fresh air while she pulled her chemise over her head, slowly, letting her beautiful, imagined, white breasts free. Would she cup them as he longed to do? Would she watch her nipples harden and smile with pleasure?

  He stood, shaking out the muscles in his thighs. He didn’t know what she would do, but he knew what he would see. Her hair would be tightly braided and she would be wearing a pristine white cotton nightgown that hid the shape he’d noticed beneath the towel. He’d seen the mouth-watering movement of her unconfined breasts and he’d made assumptions based on his needs. No longer could he do that. He could make assumptions based only on their plan. They would breed together. But by hell, no rule stated that neither could find enjoyment at the same time. She would, if he made certain of it— and he thought he could—but clearly she wouldn’t let him tonight. Not until he had married her.

  He snuffed out the lamp and let the moonlight guide him to his bedroom. In a state of full arousal, he undressed, for once ignoring his need. As he took off his clothes, he hung each garment on a hook behind the door. For some reason, tonight he couldn’t leave his clothes where they dropped, nor could he put them away as neatly as she had. Fifty push-ups took care of his problem, and he eased into bed with a sheen of sweat on his body and slightly aching shoulders.

  With one arm under his head, he stared at his ceiling. During the past six years, he had learned to live with his grief over losing the woman he loved. Now he had the means to force his father to accept a redheaded servant as the mother of the legitimate heir, something he’d been powerless to do all those years ago.

  If the thought of natural justice didn’t give him a peaceful sleep, nothing would.

  * * * *

  Wenna woke at dawn as usual, blinking and stretching while she acclimatized to her new surroundings. Planning her day, she shut her eyes again, just for a wee moment. The next time she saw the daylight, she threw herself out of bed and into her black gown, not knowing how much time she had lost by dozing off. After she tightly braided her hair, she tidied the room, and walked out into the passage.

  As she passed Devon’s room, she glanced in, but his bed lay empty. A pinkish gray light filtered through his red velvet curtains. She imagined him in repose, looking younger and gentler with his thick lashes resting on his cheeks, lying with his covers to his waist, showing the broad shoulders and hard chest that had so impressed her yesterday. With a rueful clamp of her mouth, she went down the stairs to visit the privy and wash. When she’d finished, she made herself a cup of tea.

  “Hello,” said a light husky voice behind her. “I thought I heard someone. Mr. Courtney didn’t say that he had a woman here. Not that he does, usually. Sorry. I shouldn’t oughter have said that.” The young man, sixteen or seventeen years old she guessed by his downy upper lip, blushed and glanced at his shoes.

&n
bsp; She wanted to blush and glance at her shoes, too, but if she did, she would look guilty. “Where did you come from?” she asked, keeping her tone polite.

  “Let me introduce Ernie, the surveyor’s assistant, Wenna.” Devon appeared, wearing light trousers and old shoes, the magnificence of his upper body highlighted by a cotton shirt made transparent by sweat. He blotted his forehead with his shirttails. “He works in the office at the front. Wenna is my wife.”

  The young man glanced at him and back at Wenna, his face filled with embarrassment. “Nice to meetcha, Mrs. Courtney,” he said awkwardly. “Guess I’ll get back to work.” He practically scuttled out of the room and through the doorway to the front of the building.

  One side of Devon’s mouth lifted. “He and the surveyor use this kitchen for occasional cups of tea. Now that you’re here, I suppose they’ll have to make other arrangements.”

  “I don’t see why,” she said, strangely pleased about being introduced as his wife. He hadn’t left her hung out to dry as his doxy, which either showed natural courtesy or a good upbringing. “It’s not as if I expect to live in the kitchen.”

  “Well, for now, if you’re making tea, make enough for four.”

  “Should I make porridge for four as well?” She concentrated on the teapot, not trusting herself to look at him again. Although she had seen sweaty men before, with his thin unbuttoned shirt stuck to the perspiration on his skin, he looked too blatantly male.

  “Porridge? Every day?” He sounded surprised.

  “That’s what I eat every day.”

  “I take a run every day. I’m just back. When I’m out in the morning, I can buy whatever you want.”

  She shot another quick glance at him. Near the waistband of his trousers, his shirt had parted, showing his hard abdominal flesh. She cleared her throat, trying to ignore her quick and impure interest. “That would be a waste of time and money when you have oats here.”

  “Porridge for two, then,” he said, sounding as if he’d made a concession.

  “After we’ve eaten, I can go out and buy whatever you want.”

  He pushed one hand into his pocket and came out with a creased five-pound note. After frowning at the money, he passed the bill to her. “Here. You might as well buy a wedding gown too. I imagine it’s enough. Is it enough?”

  “For a wedding gown?” Her heart thumped. She shared the money with both her hands, staring with bemusement at his largesse. “With five pounds I could buy a trousseau. And a pair of carriage horses.”

  He relaxed his mouth. “Were that possible, my treasure, I would marry you twice over. I know it’s not much, but later on you’ll have all the money you want.”

  “I plan to keep two pounds of this,” she said, facing him. Not even for more money than she had ever seen in her own two hands would she melt under his generosity like a pat of butter in the sun. “Which is the money I lost in wages when you had me dismissed.” She nodded her head for emphasis.

  He laughed. “I wouldn’t hire you as my accountant. You’ve got five, woman, and what’s mine is yours, literally, for the rest of your life, if we go through with this marriage. You haven’t changed your mind?”

  “I don’t recall agreeing to your proposal in the first place,” she said, using a precise tone, determined not to succumb to his charm. No matter what she said or how she acted, the man remained courteously patient, a virtue she completely lacked. She would not let him make her feel like an ungracious wretch.

  “No ‘no’ is a ‘yes.’ Don’t you know that a double negative is the same as a positive?” He gave her a wide grin, spun on his heel, and left.

  She thought of three things she could have said, like “I’m not going to marry you because I would far rather work as a scullery maid,” or “I know you only want to get me naked,” but the first was untrue and the second didn’t seem at all dreadful. Clearly she had lost her mind.

  Nevertheless, despite his fine words, she remained skeptical, unable to believe that even a poor gentleman would concede to marrying a maid. He would fool around with her for a while, trying to get her into his bed, and when she wouldn’t concede, or after she had, she would be tossed out on her ear. Prepared for whatever might eventuate, she cooked porridge for two and ate alone while the kettle boiled again. When he returned, he ate his porridge and she filled the teapot, which he took through the green door to the surveyor’s office along with three empty mugs. Apparently he didn’t need companionable breakfasts with her.

  The lure of spending five pounds beckoned. For the first time in her life, she had an opportunity to buy a stylish gown. Her steps light, she went back upstairs, tied on her straw hat, and walked out into the sunshine. Many a time she’d collected hats and gowns for Mrs. Brook from the street’s exclusive shops. For Devon to give her such a large sum meant that he wanted her to look very much like a lady for her supposed wedding.

  Adelaide’s most coveted dressmaker sold her designs in a shop two blocks away. The sun had just reached the top of the buildings and the early autumn weather was perfect, not too hot, but not shawl-weather either. Ducking and weaving past footpath conversations and hawkers with loud voices, Wenna set her mind on a cotton gown, perhaps in a blue or yellow pattern.

  She arrived at the front of the shop and hesitated. The money in her pocket would let her choose whatever she wanted, but Mrs. Miller took measurements and rarely finished a gown in under a week. Wenna might need her gown tomorrow, or the day after, that was, if Devon truly meant to marry her. She stood, indecisive, staring in the window, noting the draped fabrics, the feather and bead accessories, and the elegant full-length evening gloves.

  Farther inside the interior, she could see three customers, all acquaintances of Mrs. Brook. Wenna’s chest deflated. If she bought a modish gown in full view of these society matrons, they would speculate about where a maid would find the money for an exclusive design. If Mr. Courtney didn’t marry her, then stories about her leaving the Brooks’ country house with him would spread and be added to, and she would be painted indelibly scarlet. Her chances of respectability would be dashed.

  Swallowing her disappointment, she turned on her heel and hurried back in the direction from which she came, her heart pounding loud enough to make her eardrums echo. When she reached Seymour’s Emporium, a more fitting place for a lady’s maid, she strode in, her assumed confidence recovered.

  On the ground floor, she bought herself a pair of brown fabric shoes with elevated heels. Upstairs, she bought a layered crinoline hoop and a full, gathered petticoat, arranging to have all her purchases delivered. Next, she skimmed through the racks.

  Finally she chose one skirt in a deep russet brown and another in cream, and one cream and one floral Basque bodice. Next, she travelled to the fabric department and bought various lengths of cotton fabric and a length of black braid. She also bought a pair of scissors and a packet of pins, threads, and needles. Back in the haberdashery downstairs, she looked at hat shapes and turned up her nose. She could do better than stock shapes disguised by cheap artificial flowers, but not today. First, she needed a plan. Having spent just over two pounds, she pocketed the two Devon owed her and took the smaller parcels back to his lodgings.

  After drinking a large glass of water, she took the basket from the kitchen and strolled down to the East End market, where she took her time choosing suitable foodstuffs. Back home—was it home?—she thought about making a meal for Devon, who had disappeared. In lieu, she ate an apple and a hunk of cheese. Her parcels arrived, and she sat in an armchair in his upstairs study to alter the first of the bodices she had purchased, a cream cotton patterned with flowers of pink, blue, and russet.

  As neither of the bodices had been small enough in the waist, she had eight seams to unpick and redo. Left alone, she finished the first quickly. She tried this on with the russet skirt. Although she couldn’t see her full reflection in Devon’s shaving mirror, she could feel the fit. The skirt swished with a
pleasing fullness now that she owned a satisfactory crinoline. Wishing she had bought netting snoods, she pondered over her hair. The new combinations called for a far more sophisticated hairstyle than the braid she had worn that morning and the night before.

  She tried four different styles before she settled for the first. Her arms ached as she made a loose chignon on the nape of her neck. After narrowing her eyes at her appearance for two or three minutes, she changed back into her black gown and made her way to the kitchen. With an old towel tied around her waist, she put a roast on to cook. With the leftovers, she could make pies tomorrow.

  She could barely breathe in the heat of the kitchen. In most of the houses she’d worked, the stoves ran all day, but she’d worked for wealthy people who had large homes with many other rooms. The heat of the one room didn’t impact on anyone’s comfort, other than the kitchen staff.

  The shadows lengthened while she prepared vegetables and set the tiny table. She might have used the plates from the box Devon had brought downstairs, but she’d noticed a raised gold patterned edging and didn’t dare. The thick white plates in the kitchen looked good enough with a daintily embroidered tablecloth from one of his boxes in her room.

  As she pondered, trying to find something alive in the garden to put in a mug as a table decoration, she heard the lobby door open. She lifted her head and watched Devon walk toward her, trying not to care that he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen.

  “My, something smells appetizing. And what do we have here?”

  She stood back, thinking he wanted to look at the table setting, but he was looking at her hair.

  “Turn around,” he said, a strange look on his face.

  She did, nervously smoothing her black skirts.

  He let air through his teeth. “That’s more like it. At last your beautiful hair is visible.”

  She swallowed. He approved. She wished she didn’t care. “I bought four different outfits with the money you gave me. And a pair of shoes.”

  “With five pounds? Ah, no doubt your cooking will be a credit to my budget, too. While the stove is going, I’ll put on the bath water. Are you interested?”