Tall Poppies

by Janet Woods

  She stooped, taking his hand in hers and whispering in his ear, ‘Richard, you’re fatigued.’

  ‘Yes. Ask Beamish to take me upstairs so I can rest before dinner, if you would.’

  After he’d gone she accepted the congratulations of the staff.

  ‘You’re a dark horse, I must say,’ Connie told her with a touch of acid. ‘I told Florence something was up, though I don’t know what all the secrecy was about. We could have done a proper wedding feast with guests, a cake, and all the trimmings.’

  ‘Thank you, Connie, but it would have all been too much for . . . for my husband.’ There, she’d said it for the first time. ‘Richard didn’t want a fuss made.’

  ‘Aye, there’s that I suppose.’ Connie sighed. ‘Still, we didn’t expect this. We all thought you were interested in young Doctor Elliot.’

  Livia didn’t indulge her in that observation. ‘The agency is sending out a new housekeeper tomorrow.’

  ‘Aye, well. Now you’ve gone up in the world I doubt if you’ll want to get your hands dirty.’

  Gently, she said, ‘Connie, we’d best get one thing clear right from the start. Whatever my role has been in this house in the past, I’ve always given of my best and treated everyone with respect. There’s no reason why this shouldn’t continue. This reversal of roles is as hard for me as it is for you, and I think it might be a good idea for you to think about that a little.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right. I’m sorry, it’s just . . . well, it’s going to take some getting used to, isn’t it? What would you have us call you?’

  ‘If Captain Sangster had married another woman and brought her into the house as mistress, how would you expect to address her? It shouldn’t take the staff long to work that out, and adjust. Including you.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Sangster.’

  Leaving the staff to the celebrations, and taking Esmé with her, Livia went upstairs to see if Richard was comfortable, aware she was leaving a small smudge of resentment behind her. Champagne had given Connie a false sense of courage. The cook had decided to see how far Livia could be pushed, and had got her answer. She would soon get over it.

  Beamish had moved out of the connecting room, and it was now Livia’s domain, though she hadn’t yet moved her things from the cottage.

  Esmé would be in the smaller room across the hall, and the room next to that would be Chad’s when he was home. Beamish had found himself a room a discreet distance away, on the other side of the bathroom and within easy reach of the bell.

  Looking round, she thought, This is now my home . . . this big house with its air of shabby gentility, its ageing creaks and groans, its constant dust and the stale aura of birth, life and death. It was passed down through the Sinclair family and supported by the original Sinclair, who had made his fortune from whisky, and who’d gone to his grave keeping tight control of both fortune and tradition with typical Scottish thriftiness. She didn’t envy her child the responsibility of it in the future.

  ‘We need some nightwear, so Esmé and I are going to the cottage to collect it.’

  Half asleep, Richard took her hand and gave a faint smile as he snuggled his cheek into the palm.

  She pressed a kiss against his mouth. ‘I won’t be long, and I’ll see you at dinner.’ But Richard’s eyelids had already closed over the brightness of his eyes. Gently, she withdrew her hand.

  ‘He’ll be out for a couple of hours and Matthew will come up and keep an eye on him,’ Beamish said. ‘I’m going into Poole to send some telegrams on his behalf. I can drop you off at the cottage and pick you up on the way back if you like, Mrs Sangster.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll be able to pack a couple of boxes to bring back.’

  The first thing she did was pluck the letter from Denton from the drawer. The contents beckoned her; the firmly stuck-down flap mocked her. She must forget him. She threw the letter on to the cold ashes, then, suddenly remembering that the torn cheque had been snatched out of the same, she plucked it out again. Brushing the ash off, she slid it back into the drawer and under the lining. Instinct told her it wasn’t time to open it yet, but one day . . .

  When Livia got back, carrying everything she could pack, including the cat and dog, which Esmé took upstairs to her room, Richard was awake. He’d been brought down to the drawing room and looked rested. He put his book aside. ‘Come and talk to me, Livia.’

  ‘I’ve got to put my things away and make Esmé’s bed.’

  ‘Florence can do that.’

  ‘She has enough to do. Look, Richard, you might as well get used to me doing things in the house. I’m used to it, and I don’t know how to act the mistress.’

  When he rang the bell Florence appeared, her eyes merry and her smile a champagne glitter. ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘Put Mrs Sangster’s things away please, Florence, and make her bed up, and that of Miss Esmé. Oh . . . and tell the cook we’d like some afternoon tea.’

  ‘Yes, Madam . . . Sir.’ Florence went off with a slightly sideways gait, humming Mendelssohn’s wedding march tunelessly under her breath.

  They looked at each other and laughed.

  ‘There you are, it’s easy being the mistress of the house,’ Richard said.

  Livia threw a cushion at him.

  Twelve

  The disruption over, they settled into a new routine. The replacement housekeeper was called Ellen Anstruther. She was a widow of fifty years of age with a grown-up son and daughter, both married. She was quiet and efficient and soon had the household running to schedule. The rest of the staff got on with her, too.

  A couple of weeks later Livia suffered her first bout of morning sickness, and her suspicions were confirmed. Luckily it only happened a couple of times so she was able to avoid detection.

  It had become a habit for her to get into her nightdress and robe and go through to say goodnight to Richard after Beamish had retired for the night. Quite often they talked until Richard was ready to sleep.

  This particular night she found his room lit by candlelight.

  ‘Does your gaslight need a new mantle?’ she said. ‘I’ll ask Matthew to fix it in the morning.’

  He gave a bit of a chuckle.

  ‘I’m sure now about the baby, Richard, though I’m not going to tell Doctor Elliot until I’m about three months gone. It should be due halfway through October.’

  He smiled and kissed her, then placed a hand against her stomach. He’d become more affectionate of late, and she was growing used to the familiarity of his touch. Now he lightly caressed her cheek. ‘Would you do me a favour, my love?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You don’t know what it is yet.’

  ‘Then tell me.’

  ‘You once said you wouldn’t deny me anything.’

  ‘I meant it.’

  ‘Then I’d like you to sleep in my bed so I can hold you in my arms, like a normal husband would with his wife.’

  She thought about it, then grinned and kissed him. ‘I think I’d like that too.’

  Removing her robe she slid under the covers and snuggled against his warm body. ‘Tell me if you’re uncomfortable.’

  He slid his free hand down over her hip and bunched the material of her nightgown in his fist. ‘What the devil is this garment you’re wearing?’

  ‘My nightgown.’

  ‘It’s as bulky as a circus tent.’

  She tried not to grin. ‘It used to belong to your mother, though I never saw her wearing it. I was going to cut it up and make some nightgowns for the baby from it, but I only had one nightgown of my own, so it seemed like such a waste.’

  ‘It’s certainly a waste to cover yourself up in it. You feel like a rabbit in a sack.’ He began to laugh. ‘And if you need another reason to get rid of it, I don’t want a reminder of my mother in bed with us. As a passion killer it’s a very effective tool. Would you take it off so I can ravish you?’

  ‘Stop being so mean. I’ll go and put another one on, shall I?’

 
; ‘To be honest, I’d prefer you to be as bare-arsed and naked as I am.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know you were . . . naked.’ She covered her shock with a light laugh. ‘Good Lord! Now you’ve made me blush, and me a married woman.’

  ‘Unfortunately, you’re not married enough yet, and by now you must realize it’s my intention to get up to no good. Why else do you think I’d light all these candles? My hands were shaking so much it was a wonder I didn’t burn the house down.’

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘So did I, and that might yet prove to be the case. But anyway, I would like to get to know you better if I can. Taking a hands-on approach seemed the best way to encourage a little romance between us . . . literally.’

  She didn’t know whether to encourage him by laughing or not. She did know that putting his manliness to the test like this had taken a great deal of courage on his part. Her mouth dried up a little and she pretended to be shocked. ‘Richard Sangster!’

  ‘Oh, don’t sound so prissy.’ Taking her face in his hands he tenderly kissed her, then gazed into her eyes, laughing. ‘If you don’t fancy getting down and out dirty with me then I won’t insist, but a little bit of naughtiness wouldn’t go astray.’

  ‘I won’t know what to do.’ But because he’d made her laugh and she was relaxed in his company, she did fancy it. ‘I admit that the thought isn’t too outrageous, and I suppose you can teach me how to go about things.’

  He crossed his eyes and curled his lip, drawling, ‘Mostly it’s instinct, Livia, my lascivious wench.’

  ‘Don’t leer like a villain in a melodrama, it’s a most unattractive trait.’

  Stepping out of bed she undid her nightgown, bunching it at the neck and saying before her courage completely deserted her, ‘Now you see it . . . and now you don’t.’ When she opened her hand, the material slid down her body and pooled around her feet. ‘Is this naked enough?’

  His gaze lingered on her rapidly cooling flesh. ‘You’re perfection . . . like all my imaginings, only better.’

  ‘You’ve imagined me naked?’

  ‘Often. You have a little round bottom that bobs when you walk.’ He took her hands and pulled her down into the bed and against him. There was a moment when their eyes met and the laughter between them became charged with an intensity of emotion – when flesh touching unfamiliar flesh seemed to meld and melt them together, as though the heat from the flickering candles had dissolved them one into the other.

  ‘I do love you,’ she whispered, not knowing whether she was trying to convince him or herself.

  He stooped to kiss the hollow at the base of her throat, then on he went, his mouth nibbling a trail to her breast. When his tongue gently circled the sensitive nub, shivers wracked her spine and she arched against him with a small, frenzied cry. He abandoned it in favour of the other breast, which swelled willingly into his mouth as if offering itself as a sacrifice.

  She’d never imagined that making love would be so pleasurable, so frustrating, so exquisitely unashamed and so . . . so abandoned, as his hands created magic in her and she opened to his touch.

  She dared to respond, her fingers gently stroking him, until a little groan came from his mouth. He’d begun to perspire, and the salt on his skin against her tongue had the tang of the ocean about it.

  She became aware then of the subtle change in him . . . of his need . . . of her own need in the moisture of their loving. But his breath was coming harshly, and she instinctively knew they’d lose the magic of what was happening between them unless she helped him achieve what he’d set out to do.

  Her hands closed around him, the silky shaft, half-aroused, gradually grew rigid. ‘I don’t think . . . I can manage this . . . no strength,’ he panted.

  ‘I have some to spare, just help me a little.’ She moved astride him and poised over him because it seemed the right thing to do, her moist centre just touching and teasing him.

  His palms slid one over each buttock and he brought her sliding down his shaft. His murmurs were contented as she began to move, his hands guiding her. Eventually he found enough energy to allow his pelvis to rise and meet her.

  She leaned forward, feeling the need to kiss him, but his breath was laboured now. Instead, she took his golden curls loosely in her fingers and looked into the brilliance of his eyes, flickering in the candlelight.

  ‘You smell of rose-musk and arousal,’ he murmured, and he closed his eyes as she tightened her muscles around him. It didn’t take long, and he gave a heartfelt groan when everything came together into a climax of sorts. He reached the point of satisfaction, but Livia still felt a little keyed up, as though she was on the outside looking in. She’d wanted more, and still did, but thought that it might be a different feeling for women.

  Afterwards, he drew in a storm of harsh, ragged gasps, his chest heaving and his heart beating rapidly against her palm. It scared her.

  ‘Do you feel all right? Should I fetch Beamish?’

  ‘Not needed . . . be all right . . . soon.’

  Gradually his breathing calmed, and he said, ‘I never thought that would happen. Thank you, my love.’

  ‘I’d better go back to my own room.’

  ‘No . . . stay with me tonight . . . please.’

  ‘I’ll blow the candles out.’

  ‘They’ll blow themselves out.’

  She cuddled into him and he kissed her ear. ‘I adore you, my darling, wonderful Livia. Goodnight.’

  She watched him fall asleep, and contemplated the fragile fey beauty of his face. It was as if he’d been marked by his fate since the beginning of time. A tear crept down her cheek and fell on to his, where it glistened like a diamond.

  She watched over him while, one by one, the candles drowned in hot wax and sputtered into extinction.

  He would go like that too, his blessed flame snuffed by his last breath, she thought. And she’d miss him beyond measure.

  Beyond the window was a false dawn, the thin threads of yellow light dividing the darkness into bands. Downstairs in the hall, the clock struck four. It was one of the witching hours when souls were most likely to leave the body – or so she’d heard.

  Richard murmured something in his sleep when she rose from their warm nest. They won’t get your soul tonight, my love, she thought, as she pulled the curtains across.

  Livia woke to find Richard gazing at her from the chair by the window. Light streamed in from behind him, forcing her to screw her eyes up. He was fully dressed.

  ‘Are you up already?’

  He laughed. ‘It’s ten-thirty.’

  ‘Esmé!’

  ‘Don’t worry, everything is organized. Mrs Anstruther took her to school. I’ve ordered breakfast for eleven; that gives you half-an-hour in which to get bathed and dressed. Florence has run your bath.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Florence knows I slept with you?’

  ‘The whole house will know by now, I expect. We are married, after all.’

  ‘No wonder you look so smug.’

  ‘I feel extremely smug. I slept well. You?’

  ‘I watched you sleep until the candles went out.’ She looked round for her robe, found it on the end of the bed and slid into it.

  ‘No wonder you slept late. We’re going into Poole to see a dressmaker after breakfast. I can’t have my wife walking around in my mother’s cast-offs, and wearing circus tents to bed. You can choose your patterns and fabrics from their catalogue.’

  ‘I didn’t wear anything to bed.’

  ‘Except me.’ He grinned. ‘It was fun, wasn’t it?’

  She kissed his cheek on the way to the bathroom as a reply, even though she was blushing rosily all over at the thought of what had taken place between them.

  ‘Livia.’

  She turned.

  ‘What happened between us . . . you enchanted me last night, and it makes me feel as though I’ve made the child mine.’

  She returned to where he was seated and her eyes searched his. ‘Bu
t that wasn’t the reason behind it, was it?’

  ‘No . . . it was because I adore you, and wanted the intimacy of us being part of each other. I don’t know if that can ever happen again. I don’t know—’

  She placed a finger over his mouth. ‘Don’t say any more, Richard. Let’s love each other the best we can, while we can, and take each day as it comes.’

  ‘Will you stay in my bed?’

  ‘Is that a request or a question?’

  ‘You know which it is. Well?’

  Her head slanted to one side and she gave him a faint smile as she touched her stomach. ‘Yes, I’d like to . . . at least, while there’s still room. And while it’s comfortable for you.’

  Poole was in its usual bustle. It was a busy port, the quay a hive of activity. The berths were full of ships, their masts swaying with the movement of the water. Seagulls wheeled and shrieked overhead. Brownsea Island dominated the harbour.

  ‘Didn’t you spend some time at Brownsea recovering from your injuries before you came home, Richard?’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘It depends whether you regard a mental condition as an injury. They treated the bullet wounds before I went there. They nursed soldiers suffering from shell shock and nervous breakdowns. Some people classified it as cowardice . . . including my father. He was ashamed of me being there, and only visited me once, on the day I came home. Luckily, I have the scars from the bullet wounds to redeem my worth in his eyes.’

  He was brutal about his condition, and about his father, and she tried not to flinch.

  ‘Mrs Van Raalte, who owned the island, was very good to us all. Beamish joined me there. He insisted on looking after me and refused to leave. In the end he was found a room and became an honorary nurse. They found him useful for lifting us about. I don’t know what I would have done without him.’

  Beamish shrugged. ‘Neither do I.’ He placed Richard in a wooden chair with wheels, to trundle him around town in.

  They found an establishment with a discreet shop front, which was very superior. Livia went through the patterns and fabrics, and was measured from head to toe. She ordered several outfits, and bought a couple of frocks that were already made up.