The Earl's Captive

by Lorna Read

  She was suddenly exposed to the chilly night air as Daisy turned over in bed with a great lurch and a loud belch, taking all the covers with her. She sighed resignedly and filched the counterpane which was lying loosely on the top of Daisy's heap of blankets and wound herself tightly in it. Before she fell into a dreamless sleep, she sent out a silent prayer that, over the festive period, an opportunity would present itself to acquire the deeds and free herself both from her slavery to Rachel and her obligation to Philip.

  * * *

  The following day Maud fell ill with a heavy cold and a fever. Harriet Hardcastle declared that she could not bear to have her near, not only because of her unsightly red eyes and streaming nose, but also because she had a dread of catching it, too. So Lucy was summoned at dawn to attend her.

  When Rachel discovered that Lucy was not free to receive her orders and torments that day, she flounced into her mother's room and complained, “Really, Mother, I think this is very selfish of you. I need Lucy more than you do.”

  Then, apparently realizing that her mother was not at all impressed with her show of temperament, her sly personality at once underwent an astonishing change from spoilt child to honey-voiced wheedler.

  “I do want to find myself another beau soon. Dear Mother, I know you want me to make a good marriage. Father told me that he might be bringing Lord Emmett back from London with him. You know how much I liked him when he visited us last Christmas, only he was betrothed to that dreadful woman Cecilia Monotony, or whatever her name was.”

  “Countess Monatova,” put in her mother gently. “A very charming girl, as I recall, even if her English was not perfect.”

  “I didn't like her,” continued Rachel, compressing her lips.

  Had Lucy known Mrs Hardcastle better, she would have shot her a sympathetic look because she felt sure Rachel's mother found her only daughter a trial at times. However, feeling unsure of her ground, she kept her eyes modestly applied to her task of hunting for a missing garnet earring in one of Harriet's overflowing jewellery cases.

  “I never cared a fig for Philip Darwell, anyway.” Rachel's attempt to worm her way round her mother by sweet talk had obviously been abandoned. “He's got no money, and what use is an empty title? I never wanted to live in that crumbling mausoleum Darwell Manor, either. It's like a … a …” Rachel's feeble imagination groped for a simile and failed to find one.

  Warming to the subject of Philip, Rachel proceeded to express her feelings about the way Philip Darwell had treated her. “Finding him in the stable with that – that twopenny slut! The shame of it!”

  Lucy felt her face beginning to burn. How much had Rachel seen? If she put her mind to it, would she find something familiar about Lucy, something which would connect her to that particular incident?

  “I have never been treated so grossly,” Rachel continued. “It was not just the mere fact that he was being unfaithful to me, but she wasn't even a woman of quality! I could see that from her dress and from the broken-down nag she had for a mount.”

  A smouldering nugget of hatred flared in Lucy's heart.

  “But Rachel dear, he wasn't expecting you. Men will be men, after all,” protested her mother mildly, giving Lucy the impression that she had liked and sided with Philip.

  “That's not the sort of man I want,” Rachel retorted, with a flounce. “I want one who can think of no other woman but me!”

  Lucy had found the missing earring but was delaying announcing the fact in order to hear anything else Rachel had to say about Philip. Not that she cared, she told herself, but it was, after all, quite fascinating to hear somebody one knew being gossiped about – quite apart from the fact that Rachel's remarks added yet more fuel to Lucy's loathing of the spoilt, spiteful girl who was continuing to extol her own virtues.

  “I want a man who worships me, who will dote on me and give me everything I want and deserve. I want him to be completely satisfied with me so that he will have no need to seek another woman. That's the only reason they do it, you know, Mother,” Rachel announced, fixing Harriet with gimlet stare. “Look at Father, for instance.”

  “Rachel! Mind your tongue.” For such a frail-looking woman, Harriet could, when aroused, produce a sharp, stabbing tone of voice.

  “It's what I think, so I'm going to say it. If you had not stopped sharing Father's bed all those years ago, he would have had no need to go galloping off to London and Manchester and all those other places he goes to.”

  “It's business, Rachel, purely business.”

  “That's what he tells you!” retorted Rachel impudently, not letting her mother butt in. “I know all about Susan in Liverpool, Ellen in St. Albans, Ettie in Covent Garden …”

  Lucy watched Harriet's face pale to a waxen shade and then flush with a crimson tide of fury. “Rachel! Cease these poisonous aspersions at once! If you were younger, I'd send you to your father for a good whipping!

  “I would be pleased if you would keep your fantastical ideas to yourself and refrained from speaking of them in front of either myself or my servants. Go to your room.” Harriet's slender frame was quivering with rage and nervous shock.

  “I've seen the letters, the gifts, the bills, they're all among his papers. You can go and look too, Mother. 'To my dear Ellen, one hundred pounds in payment for the generosity of her warm heart.' I saw that written down in his ledger, and lots more besides. Go and look, go and look!”

  Rachel's strident, vinegary voice rose to a crescendo and she pirouetted triumphantly around her mother's room while Harriet clutched a chair-back, looking close to collapse. In the doorway, Rachel paused, looked expectantly at Lucy and commanded, “You! Come with me at once and do my hair.”

  “I'm sorry, I am under Madam Hardcastle's orders today. I am not free to serve you unless she gives me permission,” said Lucy, politely but firmly, hoping her tone of voice would give Harriet courage and let her know she had an ally.

  It seemed to work, for Harriet withdrew to her toilet table, took the earring which Lucy was proffering and informed her daughter that this was quite correct and that she would send Lucy to her later if she could spare her.

  Rachel shot Lucy such a venomous look that she almost flinched. Had Rachel been one of the Pendle Witches, Lucy was convinced that she would have died on the spot from such a dagger-thrust of a glance.

  She ignored her, however, and proceeded to affix the earrings to Harriet's tiny, almost translucent ears. When she next looked up, Rachel had gone.

  “Thank you, Lucy,” said Harriet.

  The remark could have been related to the finding of the missing earring, but Lucy thought she detected something extra, perhaps gratitude for helping give her the strength to stand up to her evil-spirited daughter.

  Not another word was spoken as Lucy powdered and rouged the older woman's delicate face and arranged the lace at her collar and cuffs. When she had finished, she stepped back, regarded her handiwork and announced, with a certain amount of pride in her voice, “You look just like a princess, ma'am.”

  Harriet, obviously pleased with her appearance, smiled kindly at Lucy and replied, “You do your job very well, child. Lady Clarence must have been sorry to lose you.”

  Lucy smiled deferentially back. She could understand now why so many girls from lower stations in life aspired to a position such as this. Attending a grateful, pleasant person made earning one's keep seem worthwhile and, if one's mistress was attractive, too, as Harriet undoubtedly was despite her age, it also gave one a good deal of creative satisfaction.

  Lucy herself had picked out the gown from among Harriet's sizeable collection as being one that would greatly suit her. Harriet had admitted that she had never worn it, thinking that the deep wine shade of the expensive brocade was unbecoming to her pale complexion, but now she could see in the glass which Lucy held in front of her, that her complexion gained from the colour. Her lips and cheeks looked redder, her teeth whiter and Lucy had arranged her hair in a younger, prettier style than
the more severe one she normally adopted.

  As Lucy watched Harriet gazing dreamily at her reflection in the looking glass, she could see five, ten years slipping away. With her doll-like looks, she was almost a young girl again and Lucy was thrilled for her. Maybe, when her husband next saw her, he would realize what his bed had been lacking all these years; maybe their marriage would start afresh, revitalized by this new, attractive change in his wife.

  When Lucy actually laid eyes on George Hardcastle for the first time, she wished such thoughts had never crossed her mind. She would not have visited the attentions of this ugly, loud-mouthed, porcine boor on any woman. He strode into Rokeby Hall, flinging doors open on all sides, letting great clods of mud and melting snow from his boots fall all over the carpets instead of scraping them off on the iron boot-scraper by the door, as any civilized man would have done.

  He bawled for his family and his servants and when the latter appeared, he immediately had them dancing attendance on him, bringing him dry clothes, pouring him mulled wine, removing his boots, offering him food and giving his companion, an effete-looking young man in foppish clothes, the same treatment.

  While this commotion was going on, Lucy lingered on the landing. So that weak, dandified youth was the beau on whom the fiery Rachel had set her heart! Lucy felt sorry for him. Doubtless, if Hardcastle could buy Philip and his title for Rachel, he could buy this pretentious popinjay, too, with his ruffles and jewels and affected lisp.

  “You, girl! I've caught you slacking! Come here at once and I'll give you plenty to do!” The imperious tones cut through Lucy's thoughts and she turned to face her hated enemy, who was beckoning triumphantly from the doorway of her bedroom.

  “Yes, Mistress Rachel,” said Lucy dully, wondering what kind of tortures this female fiend had in store for her now.

  “That man in the hall with Father is Lord Emmett, the man I intend to marry. You will dress me in a way that will appeal to him. I want to look like one of the court ladies, fashionable and alluring. I know you're only a country bumpkin with no taste, but do try to find something among my awful, outdated collection of gowns that will be suitable for the occasion.”

  Dress after dress was brought and refused, with mounting impatience, by Rachel. Finally, she slapped Lucy's arm, called her “a stupid numbskull,” and sailed to the capacious wardrobe herself, whereupon she pulled furiously at a dress and suffered a near smothering as a heap of heavy costumes descended onto her and knocked her to the floor.

  Lucy could hardly hold back a loud laugh as Rachel kicked and writhed beneath the heap of dresses.

  “Help me, you oaf! Get them off me!” Rachel screamed. She delivered an extra hard kick to Lucy's shins for her pains, as if the avalanche of silks and satins had been caused by her maid's carelessness rather than her own.

  Rachel finally settled on a dress of yellow silk with an overskirt of cream lace. Lucy thought privately that it caused her to resemble a milkmaid rather than the great lady she imagined herself to be. The shade drained the gold sheen from her hair, leaving it looking like a hayfield after the harvest.

  It also added an unhealthy liverishness to her complexion, but Lucy knew that it was definitely not her place to point out, no matter how tactfully, that perhaps the dress wasn't such a good choice after all. At least Rachel seemed reasonably satisfied, although she grumbled about the neckline not being revealing enough.

  “Shall I alter it for you, mistress?” offered Lucy.

  “What? Allow you to lay your clumsy fingers on one of my best gowns? Thank you, no. I'll wear it as it is. Maybe Lord Emmett will appreciate a girl who is rather more demure than the ladies he's been used to. He may find me a trifle refreshing, don't you think?”

  With a flounce of her petticoats, Rachel simpered at Lucy, who had no intention of pandering to her colossal vanity and merely nodded. Instantly, a dark cloud crossed Rachel's features and she reached towards her dressing table as if about to hurl something at Lucy's head.

  “I can hear Madam Hardcastle calling me. If that will be all, mistress …?”

  Lucy ducked out of the door and was convinced she could hear Rachel swearing like a trooper behind her. Where could she have picked up such foul language? As she passed the door of the library wherein George Hardcastle was engaging Lord Emmett in some kind of guessing game involving the names of women and horses, she learned the answer to her question.

  She didn't linger, however, for now it was her turn to don her best dress and try to prettify herself in order to attend the Christmas party which the Hardcastles provided annually for their servants.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Well now, you're a pretty little thing, aren't you, m'dear? C'mon, your master won't bite you. Come over here where I can see you in the light.”

  Obediently, Lucy edged forward towards the pool of light cast by the oil lamp which was placed in the centre of the library table.

  She had been quite looking forward to relaxing in the company of Daisy, Maud and the other staff of Rokeby Hall, many of whom she hadn't even met yet, and it was her bad luck to be passing the library door just as Hardcastle lurched unsteadily out in search of a fresh supply of liquor. The lamplight illuminated the dress borrowed from the late Lady Eleanor, so that Lucy looked as if she were clad from shoulder to foot in drapes of shimmering gold.

  “Parfait!”

  The affected voice made her turn her head, to see Lord Emmett draped languorously across a chaise longue, licking a sugared plum with a bored expression.

  “Happen she's new. Haven't seen her before myself.”

  “Your wife made a good choice.” Emmett's lips curled sardonically.

  “C-can I go now, sir?” Lucy bobbed a quick curtsey and scuttled for the door, but her exit was barred by Hardcastle's foot.

  “Not so fast, not so fast. Stay and sup some wine with us.”

  His crimson-veined nose spoke of much imbibing over many years and, to her disgust, he simultaneously winked lecherously and broke wind. As she looked at him, she was reminded, rather horribly, of the incident that had taken place what seemed like years previously but that was, in fact, only a few months in the past, between herself and her equally boorish brother-in-law.

  Her quick brain sought a way out of her dilemma. “But … the party. They are expecting me.”

  “Party? Humph!” Hardcastle snorted and turned to his companion. “Little minx thinks a servants' party is more important than being invited to join her betters!”

  “Don't aspire to the court, do you, Hettie?” The bored aristocrat seemed to speak without moving his lips.

  “Beg pardon, sir, my name's Lucy.”

  “Hettie. Maidservants are all called Hettie,” lisped Emmet.

  “Come here, Lucy,” ordered Hardcastle, patting his fleshy lap, while Lucy tried her best to suppress a shudder. “Here, I said,” repeated Hardcastle, a slight edge entering his voice.

  She glanced towards the door. Why did these things always happen to her? What was it about her that made men, particularly old, ugly ones, feel they had to entice and seduce and manhandle her? If it wasn't for the mission she had to undertake for Philip, she would leave Rokeby Hall right now, even if she ended up perishing in the snow. Indeed, that might be a better ending for her than the gallows.

  “Here, puss, puss, puss!” mocked Emmett, rubbing his thumb and index finger together.

  “But sir, the party …” Lucy faltered.

  “Do as your master tells you!” thundered Hardcastle, his bushy eyebrows meeting across the top of his bulbous nose.

  “Like animals. Have to show 'em who's master,” simpered Emmett.

  With compressed lips, seething with anger, Lucy approached Hardcastle, who was sitting in a deep armchair by the fire. As soon as she was within reach, he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her roughly onto his lap.

  “Give her a good frigging, I say, George. Let's have a bit of Christmas sport around here.”

  Emmett's face show
ed its first sign of animation as Hardcastle's hand pushed at Lucy's bodice, seeking the warm mounds of her breasts. “Wouldn't mind giving the fire a poke myself.”

  “Seems she's my property, so I claim first go,” announced Hardcastle, his wet, blubbery lips seeking Lucy's.

  Instinctively, she shrank away from his kiss and was rewarded with a sharp rap across the cheek from the back of his hand.

  “Naughty, naughty. Must do what your master says,” intoned Emmett, then added, “What say you we play forfeits for her?”

  “How do you mean?” grunted Hardcastle. His fingers had entered Lucy's bodice and were now probing beneath her shift. The touch of his clumsy fingers made her flesh crawl. This was a real dilemma. She daren't risk dismissal before fulfilling her quest, but she simply could not put up with being treated like a plaything by a succession of revolting men. She reflected wryly that she didn't include Philip on that list.

  “Sirs, I beg of you!” she pleaded, looking from one to the other, deciding to play the innocent. “I'm only new here. I came but four days ago. I want to do a good job as Miss Rachel's maid. I don't want to do anything that might affect my position in the household.”

  Both men burst out laughing, Hardcastle wheezing until the tears ran down his bloated red cheeks.

  “Position – humph! Haw, haw! The only position for you, m'dear, is on your back with your legs spread!”

  “No, round your neck, George, your neck! Have you no imagination?”

  It was then Lucy realized that, with both men egging each other on and neither wishing to lose face with the other, her chances of escape were slim.

  Hardcastle, still wheezing and puffing, yanked at Lucy's bodice, exposing her cleavage.