Sapphire slid her hand over Blake’s hip and cupped the evidence of his desire for her. He groaned and fumbled with his trousers. As he arched his back, she lifted her shift, pulling the fabric up around her waist. With no drawers, there was nothing between them now, no clothing, no disagreement.
Blake took her quickly and she cried out in pain, joy and emotions she couldn’t identify and didn’t want to. A part of her was ashamed of herself, ashamed that she could not resist him, but none of that mattered, not right now. He stifled her cries with kisses until they were little more than sighs of contentment.
“Blake,” she sobbed, digging her nails into his back.
His lovemaking was rough and without tenderness. She clung to him, wrapping her legs around his hips, lifting off the bed to meet him each time he thrust into her. At the end Sapphire felt her entire body tense and then found release, and a moment later, Blake collapsed on the bed beside her.
For a moment Sapphire just lay there on his elegant, massive bed and stared at the vaulted ceiling. She couldn’t catch her breath and her mind was shooting in a thousand directions at once. Was she being foolish? If all he wanted her to say was that she was a fortune hunter in order to release her from her servitude, couldn’t she just say it?
No. She could not say what wasn’t true. And what would be the point in the end? They would enjoy each other’s company for a few weeks, a few months, perhaps even a few years, but the only thing he had offered was to care for her in return for her agreement to become his mistress. Blake didn’t love her. He never would. And somewhere, deep in her heart, Sapphire knew she wanted him to.
She sat up and reached for her blouse.
Blake rolled onto his side and grabbed her bare arm. “Where are you going?” he asked quietly.
She pulled away from him. “I have to get these sheets downstairs or the laundress will have me by the ear.”
“Why are you being so stubborn, Sapphire?” He stood up, raising his trousers. “You don’t have to do this.”
“But I do.” She dropped the ugly blouse over her head and reached for her skirt. “I do until you make arrangements for my transportation back to London.”
Leaving his trousers open, he started to button up his shirt, and when he couldn’t line up the buttons, he growled in anger and ripped it off. “Damn thing’s wrinkled, anyway,” he muttered.
Sapphire stepped into the skirt and began to tuck in the hem of the blouse.
Blake walked to a wardrobe on the far side of the room, opened a drawer and pulled out a freshly starched shirt, identical to the one he’d discarded on the floor.
“You said you would let me go home if I didn’t like it here, and I don’t like it here.”
“Of course you don’t like it here!” he exploded. “Not like this! I didn’t intend for you to be doing my laundry, Sapphire. You were supposed be my—”
“Your whore,” she said, tears stinging her eyes.
“No, that wasn’t what I was going to say. That’s not what I want.”
She spun around to face him, refusing to release the tears that threatened to run down her cheeks. “That’s exactly what you want. You want me to be your whore.” She flung the words at him. Dressed, she grabbed his shirt and the sheet she had left on the floor. “You want me to serve as your entertainment. You want to put me on display like all your lovely artwork. You’ll never love me. You don’t want to marry me!”
“Marry you?” he said, his voice surprisingly soft. “Where did that come from?”
Horrified at what she had blurted out, Sapphire jerked open the bedchamber door, threw the dirty clothes in the basket and rushed down the hall.
“Sapphire,” Blake called from his open doorway, obviously trying to keep his voice down.
She ignored him as she passed the grand staircase in the direction of the servants’ stairs.
“Damn it, come back here!”
Sapphire heard him start down the hallway after her, and then he halted, obviously changing his mind. “Fine,” he hollered after her. “Wash laundry, polish the silver for a few days, and then we’ll see if you’ve come to your senses!”
By the time she made the turn in the hall to go down the steps, Blake had retreated back to his bedroom.
Once on the staircase, Sapphire leaned against the wall and, holding the heavy basket in her arms, fought the sobs that racked her body. How could she have laid her emotions out like that to him so that he could trample them?
Love? There had never been any talk of love between them. Not once had Blake insinuated that he’d felt such a thing. And she didn’t love Blake. She didn’t!
After another minute or two, Sapphire sniffed, wiped her eyes with her sleeve and started down the stairs. Blake had promised he would send her back to London and she was going to hold him to it. Next time, however, she’d be more careful about her own vulnerability. It was stupid to have allowed herself to be taken in by his charms, to have yielded to her own base desires.
But next time they met, next time, she’d be sure she had the upper hand.
Sapphire saw no sign of Blake for the next several days. She wrote a carefully worded letter to Aunt Lucia and Angelique and another to Armand and pinched pennies from the desk in Blake’s office, getting one of the stable boys to post the letters for her. She made no mention of the relationship between her and Blake in the letters, but made it sound as if her trip to America was turning out to be a great adventure. She promised to write again soon and told them not to worry, that she would have great stories to tell when she saw them all again.
Mrs. Dedrick kept her busy with an endless number of household chores. Sapphire never thought she had taken her servants in Martinique or London for granted. She had always spoken kindly to them, had never been a harsh mistress and had never purposefully left a mess thinking another would clean up after her. But she realized that she hadn’t fully comprehended the role of a servant. She hadn’t understood how hard they worked, or, interestingly enough, how they moved about a household almost invisibly, learning the most intimate details of the lives of those they worked for.
Sapphire’s newfound friend, Myra, who had been working at Thixton House for a little over a year, was quick to tell her all about her last employer. Mrs. Sheraton was having an affair with her husband’s cousin, while the husband was having an affair with his business partner’s wife. In the meantime, Mr. and Mrs. Sheraton’s only daughter, engaged to one man, had been making assignations with a married man, and when the daughter became pregnant, she was forced to seduce her fiancé so that he would think the child was his. Despite her depression over her own situation, which she did not reveal to Myra, Sapphire found herself laughing as she went about the chores assigned to her.
Six days after her arrival in Boston, Sapphire and Myra worked together in the larger of Thixton House’s two dining rooms. As they polished the brass detail of the fireplace, Myra entertained Sapphire with tales of her previous employers’ odd likes and dislikes and told the story of how one of the sons had half fallen in love with her, and that was why she had been “loaned out” to work at the Thixton mansion. Apparently, Mrs. Sheraton did not want Myra in her home, influencing her seventeen-year-old son, but she knew too well that she couldn’t simply fire her.
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Myra,” Sapphire teased as she settled on her knees at the hearth of the fireplace large enough to roast a steer. “Taking advantage of that poor, smitten boy.”
Myra giggled, the dark curls that peeked from beneath her mobcab bouncing as she lowered herself to her hands and knees and began scrubbing the inside of the fireplace with a hard-bristled brush. “He’s the one who started it to begin with,” she protested good-naturedly. “I told him it wasn’t fittin’ to fall in love with your mother’s maid.” She dunked the brush into the pail and pulled it out, streaming with water. “’Course, look where it’s got me now. I’m back to scrubbin’ floors. A demotion is what John called it. He was crazy mad w
ith his mother when she sent me packin’, I can tell you that much.”
Sapphire couldn’t help but smile. Myra was not educated, but she was bright, witty, attractive and, most importantly, she had a good heart. From the first day Sapphire arrived, Myra had gone out of her way to welcome her and make her feel more comfortable in her strange new surroundings. Myra would make some man a good wife, even if he was not a wealthy man’s son. Perhaps a wealthy man’s son didn’t deserve her, Sapphire thought wryly as she dipped her rag in the paste used to polish the brash, then began to rub the tarnished ball that sat atop a fireplace iron. Not if they were all as arrogant as Blake Thixton.
“Tell me about the master here,” Sapphire asked softly. There was no one else in the dining room or the adjoining keeping room, but she was learning that there were ears everywhere.
“Not much to tell.” She shrugged with ambiguity, but then looked up with excitement. “’Cept to say he’s got to be the best-lookin’ gentleman in Boston. ’Course you already knew that, him takin’ you in in London when he found you on the street.”
Sapphire had to look away and bite her lip to keep from saying what she wanted to say about Blake Thixton. Instead, she polished the andiron harder. “What’s he doing in this big house all alone?”
“I wondered the same thing when I first come.” Myra sat down on her bottom to take a break, which she did as often as possible without being caught by Mrs. Dedrick. “Works hard, that man does, a sight harder than Mr. Sheraton, I’ll tell you that. Leaves early in the morning, comes home late at night. Girls in the kitchen who knew girls who worked here before them say his father was the same, only he weren’t so nice as this one.” She arched her brows knowingly.
“Do tell,” Sapphire whispered, copying a phrase she had heard Myra use. Taking Myra’s lead, she tossed down the rag.
“Foul man, the elder Mr. Thixton.” She wrinkled her nose. “A drunk, too. Some say he beat the young Mr. Thixton when he was a boy. Liked to smack his servants around, too, which is why there ain’t nobody left here who actually worked for the old Mr. Thixton. Just Mr. Givens, only he ain’t one of us.” Myra placed her palm on the smoothly polished wood floor and leaned over, lowering her voice even further. “Why, you can take one look at that man’s face and tell he’s an unhappy soul. Don’t know if the old Mr. Thixton was mean to him ’cause his wife left him for a fisherman like they say or ’cause he swallowed a turd, but he’s got himself a foul disposition, that man has.”
Sapphire covered her mouth with hands that stank of polish to keep from laughing out loud. Myra had a way with words, and though she might speak crudely at times, there was no denying her meaning.
Myra giggled again and then reached out to tap Sapphire’s hand. “Truth be told, I think Mr. Thixton works so hard ’cause he got nothin’ else. I see him at night, though, sittin’ all alone on that balcony of his, lookin’ out over the water. He’s lonely is what he is, and I think he didn’t build this house to show off like some say. I think he built it ’cause somewhere inside him, he’s hopin’ someone will love ’im. Someone will come here and love ’im and give ’im babies.”
Myra’s words struck a chord in Sapphire and she had to glance away. She was so angry with Blake right now that she could barely stand it, but she still felt a sadness for him. “Is he…does he see women?” she found herself asking.
“Oh, we got plenty women comin’ and goin’ in this house, but all but one by the back door, if you know what I’m sayin’.” Myra winked. “Mrs. Sheraton bein’ one of them.”
Sapphire knew she should have been shocked, but she was too tired to be. “You said all but one. Who doesn’t come by the back door?”
Still seated on the floor, Myra rested her hands on her shapely hips and swayed. “Miss Clarice Lawrence. Mr. Thixton’s got a business partner, Mr. Lawrence, nice man who always cleans his plate.” She gave a nod of approval. “Been friends for years, they say. It’s his daughter got her sights on him. She has her way, she’ll be the one sleepin’ upstairs in that big bed, orderin’ us around.”
Sapphire raised herself to her knees, pressing her hands to the tops of her thighs. “Does…is Mr. Thixton—”
“Who’s to say? She’s sour as early grapes, but she got the beauty of one of them women in his paintings.” She pointed to the dining room wall where hung a nearly life-size oil painting of one of the Roman goddesses, painted in rococo style.
Sapphire felt a lump rise in her throat. Of course Blake wasn’t interested in anything in her beyond what she could offer him in his bed. When he could have a woman like Clarice Lawrence—she eyed the painting—why would he want a woman like Sapphire who was without money or family lineage?
A sound in the connecting keeping room startled Sapphire and she snatched up her polishing rag. At the same time, Myra popped up onto her knees, grabbing the brush that bobbed in the dirty bucket of water.
“This way, Miss Lawrence,” Sapphire heard Mr. Danz, the day butler, saying.
“I hope that Mr. Thixton will not be long,” a high-pitched female voice announced, her tone close to a whine.
Two sets of footsteps echoed in the keeping room, one masculine, one feminine.
“If you’ll wait here,” Mr. Danz said firmly, “I am certain Mr. Thixton will join you momentarily.”
“It’s her,” Myra whispered with great facial animation. “You got to see how she acts with him. It’s a wonder she don’t climb right into his trousers on the settee.”
Sapphire lifted both brows. She didn’t have to pretend to be curious.
“Runnin’ over here all the time when her papa ain’t lookin’,” Myra continued in a hushed voice, leaning into the fireplace to scrub again. “Little trollop is what she is. Just can’t get Mr. Thixton to drop his drawers, but not for want of tryin’. You just wait a minute, listen in, you’ll know what I’m talkin’ about.”
The sound of the bristles on the hearth stone echoed loudly in Sapphire’s ears as she used every bit of might she possessed to polish the brass fireplace ornament. “You mean he hasn’t—” She struggled to find the word.
Myra giggled. “No, not as far as anyone here knows, and I can tell you nothin’ happens in Boston, least not Beacon Hill, that Myra Clocker don’t know about.”
Sapphire had to smile. “How do you—?”
“Shh, here he comes—gimme a rag.” Myra snatched a clean cloth from Sapphire’s hand and ripped it in half. Giving Sapphire the other half, she motioned for her to follow her.
The two women slowly crept closer to the doorway, Sapphire, like Myra, dragging the rag along the chair rail to appear as if she were dusting it.
As Sapphire sneaked up on Blake to listen in on his conversation, a part of her felt guilty for being devious, but a part of her thought it might be for his own good.
21
“Miss Lawrence,” Blake said, “how kind of you to call.” Sapphire faced the dining room wall, but looked through the arched doorway into the keeping room. Just out of the corner of her eye, she could see Blake take a fashionably gowned blond woman’s gloved hand and bring it to his lips.
Sapphire gulped, shifting her gaze to the wall in front of her. Myra had not been exaggerating, as she sometimes did, when she described Clarice Lawrence. Clarice was as beautiful as any woman Sapphire had ever seen, with long golden blond hair and clear hazel eyes. Her face was classically exquisite with a short, pert nose, high cheekbones that were slightly flushed and a perfect chin. Sapphire sighed heavily. Clarice Lawrence could only be described as stunning.
Self-consciously, Sapphire tucked a greasy lock of her hair that had come unpinned and tucked it up under her mobcap. On the ship, she had bathed almost daily in a tin tub that Blake had brought for that purpose, but there were no bathing facilities available to servants here beyond a washbowl she had to carry up four flights of stairs to the dormitory, or the hand pump in the kitchen courtyard. Most of the young women employed here either washed at home, or if they lived on
the premises, simply stripped to the waist in their shifts and washed their hands and faces each morning in the August sunshine. Sapphire hadn’t had the time—or the energy, for that matter—to carry water upstairs after her long day was done.
After a moment, she stole another peek into the keeping room. Myra had continued along the chair rail and was now boldly dusting the painted white molding that framed the arched doors leading into the next room. If Blake or Miss Lawrence had noticed Myra’s presence, they gave no indication. Of course, servants were, by nature, invisible, and now it seemed that Myra was the most invisible of all.
Myra caught Sapphire’s eye and curled a finger, beckoning her closer. Sapphire could see that Blake and Miss Lawrence had taken a seat side by side on a fine example of an eighteenth-century Italian settee upholstered in a green and brown brocade with a classic hunt scene woven into the design.
“Really, Miss Lawrence. There was no need for you to travel here in the heat of the day. Your father has invited me to dinner tomorrow evening. I could have seen you then.”
Sapphire eased closer to the doorway. Blake sat stiffly on the settee, his hands on his lap so that no part of his body or his garment touched her, but she was leaning closely. Even from fifteen steps away, Sapphire could smell her rose-water perfume.
Blake looked tired. Apparently he had been working long hours, but perhaps he did that so he could avoid the house and her.
“I just couldn’t bear to wait until tomorrow night.” Miss Lawrence pouted, leaning closer to Blake. “I know it’s forward of me, but I can’t begin to tell you how much I’ve missed you all these months, Mr. Thixton.”
He glanced away. “Please call me Blake. You and I have known each other since your father dandled you on his knee. It seems silly that we should not be using given names.”
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