by Cameron May
Winnie looked up to Lance just as his head descended, his lips landing and taking a kiss so gentle Winnie’s breath was snatched away. As he lifted his head, Winnie’s eyes flared open briefly before another kiss was planted on her stunned, open mouth. Winnie heard the little sound that escaped her as his lips traveled over hers, more firmly, the kiss staying on to warm her, but then was broken off too abruptly, his lips moving to her throat, nuzzling her skin, his teeth closing over her earlobe and biting ever so carefully. It was like dancing in place, and Winnie felt dizzy. The belt of her robe loosened and fell away, Lance’s hand moved inside, caressing one breast through the thin fabric. Winnie closed her eyes, nearly swooning at the touch of hands, of tongue and mouth everywhere. Her robe sliding to the floor, Lance sat on the bed, his hands lifted her nightshift and Winnie was pulled over him as he stretched out, his kisses increasing in intensity. She felt his hardened member touching against her sensitive membranes, arousing her, and she swallowed against the tide of desire that was swiftly overtaking thought and resistance. Lance’s breathing came in great gulps, his excited member moving against Winnie, hips rising and falling. Head thrashing back and forth, eyes closed, the look on his face one of torment, his member found its way to her opening, and he pushed as if desperate, entering her, his hands on her hips to extend himself and bring her closer, his arms holding her tight, moving and twisting himself, making Winnie breathless and bringing a sudden, mindless and profound release to her as he himself came. In a few minutes, it was over, the protracted waves diminishing. Lance sighed and became still. A stunned Winnie slipped to his side, her lips swollen, their coming together imprinted in her memory and the sensitive nerve endings that still felt his movements and her response. Already he was snoring deeply.
Slowly, carefully, shaking her head to clear it, unknown muscles aching, knees threatening to buckle, Winnie rose from the bed to wash. The candle blown out, heart only now slowing, Winnie knelt on the pallet and lay down, pulling chill covers over her.
It had begun in promise, this enterprise of Lance’s, and Winnie had kept her fingers crossed all day into the evening that the visit, almost done, would go as the rest of it had: convivial, with good food and guests open to the simple games and entertainment, enjoying themselves, with no stain to mar the festivities. All had gone sour in that single moment downstairs that turned the entire occasion into doubt and uncertainly. And now this. What was she to make of either occurrence? Her throat aching, Winnie felt the tears begin, wiped them away, curled into a ball and slowly fell asleep.
Hours later, odd noises interrupted Winnie’s hard-won sleep, and she struggled to come awake. Arising with a dejected sigh, she found Lance uncovered, softly moaning and shivering, his face contorted, the covers a hopeless jumble in which he was trapped. Winnie struggled to right them, a hopeless task at first. She kept at it until all was straight and neat again. But Lance was still quaking under the covers with chill. Winnie gave up, freezing, too. After stirring the coals in the fireplace and adding tinder and more fuel, she brought up the covers from the pallet to add to Lance’s, which seemed to work after a few minutes, with Lance settling quietly against the far side of the bed. Winnie hesitated, then decided to crawl into the opposite side and try to sleep. It wouldn’t be long before the room would be warm enough to take away her own covers and return to the pallet. In the more comfortable bed, its warmth and relative luxury enveloping her like a soft cloud, Winnie burrowed down and fell asleep surprisingly quickly.
She was jolted once, twice. Grumbling to herself, she woke again. It was Lance, his hardened shaft interfering with the sublime sleep. How she longed to strike him, though morning was coming soon, Winnie saw through the window, the dark sky only beginning to lighten. Winnie turned to face him. “Lance,” she whispered. “Lance, wake up,” she said, louder this time, giving a shake to his shoulders. He mumbled unintelligibly and moved closer, putting his arm lazily around her and pulling her against him, the instant heat of him warming her like the kitchen stove. He began to nuzzle her throat and Winnie groaned. Not again. It couldn’t be possible, could it? But it was. Suddenly this time, Winnie was struggling against him, against the feelings he arose in her with his nibbling and tiny kisses on her face and body, slowly rising above her. She tried to wake him, but he was in a kind of stupor, unresponsive to repeated quiet pleas to stop, to awaken. At the end, Winnie gave up. The only way to have him quit would be to arouse the whole house by shouting it down, and that wasn’t possible. And, it was becoming harder to resist him, as little by little, she was becoming as aroused as he, their joining and release quick and piercing. He was almost immediately asleep, and Winnie unwound herself from him. The first shafts of morning light came into the window and Winnie sighed. Might as well get up, she decided. There was no possibility of sleep after what had just happened.
Lance winced as he turned his face to bright sunlight, then unaccountably he was smiling, feeling very fit, stretching luxuriously. Ah, it was the last day for company, that was it. Sitting up, he saw the fireplace was putting out heat, accounting for the warm room. Winnie must have started the fire, bless her. All night long, he had smelled the light, sweet scent she carried aways on her skin and hair. Lance was sure heaven would have that perfume; pity he wouldn’t be ending up there. After rising and washing in the clean, warm water in the basin, with more in the pitcher, he looked around the room. Heart swelling in gratitude for Winnie, it couldn’t be any other who had shoved the pallet and covers under his bed, had laid out his razor and soap for shaving, who had the washing cloth, drying cloth, everything he needed, ready for him.
His ears picked up the stirrings of people in the rooms closest to his. Still smiling, dressed, he went down the stairs and headed to the kitchen. Winnie would be there. No, she was in the dining room, adding final touches to some pretty decoration in the center of the table, something with red ribbons and pine branches and cones. Always Winnie was doing something like it, always making the house brighter, warmer. “Winnie,” he said, just above a whisper. She turned, her mouth open, eyeing him warily, another frequent occurrence. “Thank you for last night,” he said, grinning. Instantly she colored, her face then turning white with blood rushing away, then darkened again with its return. She felt almost faint, but having determined never to let that happen again, she stood still until the moment passed. He stepped past her. “I’m trusting there is coffee ready in the kitchen because I have an unbearable thirst.”
Winnie almost choked as Lance passed her. Last night? Whatever was he talking about? He had been dead asleep the entire time. Frowning, she stepped back to check the arrangement on the table before following him into the kitchen. He was loosely sprawled, the right word, Winnie decided, on one of the benches. “Only a little more time to go, Winnie, and the house will be quiet again. I look forward to it. I have to say that you’ve done an extraordinary job, for our guests, for me. I woke up this morning, the room bright and warm,” like Winnie herself, he thought to himself, “all my shaving equipment laid out, the water the right temperature. It was perfect.”
Winnie nodded without expression. All sorts of conflicting thoughts waylaid her mind, but she must put them aside for the time being. Though not feeling like it, she must function as well as possible, had only one more accomplishment to execute today: to study all the guests’ faces to see if there were signs of guilt. But trying this was useless. The traffic was a constant stream in and out of rooms, the dining room, the smoking room, guests’ rooms, all of it, a most bewildering time. She smiled when smiled at, spoke when spoken to, and could do little beyond those things and help meet their visitors’ final needs. Somehow, the last carriage was going down the lane, the servants having helped clean up afterward, then a coin was pressed into each hand by Winnie, and they had been loaded into the wagon driven by Barnaby and were on the way to town. Winnie stood at a window watching the progress, already halfway down the snowy lane. Suddenly she felt warm hands descend on her shoulders an
d turn her.
“Why, Winnie,” Lance said, looking closely into her face, “whatever is the matter? You’ve been crying.” A thumb came up and gently wiped away the trail on one side of her face, a palm wiping away the other side. “What is it? Shock? Gratitude to see the last of them?” He chuckled. “Perhaps those and even more, I suspect.” Hands on shoulders again, he shook her gently. “I believe it might be prudent for you to take a good, long nap whenever you decide. Frances has plenty of leftovers in the pantry, and she has gone home. Isabelle is,” he shrugged his shoulders, “I’ve no idea, actually, where the girl is.” He took his hands away.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice husky, looking down from his searching gaze, “I shall do so at once. I am thoroughly exhausted in all ways, to be sure.” Wide blue eyes troubled of something, their orbs shining with unshed tears, Winnie stepped to go around him. He stood aside and watched her go past him and up the stairs.
On her way to the old room, Winnie stopped, realizing it wasn’t the same. Where shall I go? All is awry, and I no longer know where I belong. With a sigh approaching despair, she went to Lance’s room, took away the pallet and covers, dragging them down to the old bedroom, placing the pallet atop one of the unmade beds. Fully clothed, she crawled atop it after pushing off the slippers. Drawing all the covers about, she lay down and waited dully until sleep finally took her.
Wandering the house alone, Lance went to the kitchen and warmed the coffee, sat at the table and waited. Now the blasted place was too quiet, no Frances in the kitchen talking with her husband who had just stopped in for a chat, no Isabelle anywhere he looked. Perhaps she was having a lie-down in the attics, likely as tired as Winnie. Suddenly his ears perked up. The wagon was returning. Lance stood to open the kitchen door and wave Barnaby into the kitchen.
“Before heading home, Barnaby, let’s share a drink. I’ve bottles of wine left. How about we drink one now, and you may take another home when you go.”
Barnaby came in, grinning. “Aye, I’d like that, I would.” His light blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he rubbed his hands together eagerly. Lance brought bottles from the pantry, uncorked one and poured the drink into cups. Barnaby took a deep swig of wine and smacked his lips.
Lance frowned. “Have you any idea where Isabelle is? I haven’t seen her anywhere, though I’ve been through the house looking.”
“Ah. Mebbe she forgot to tell Winnie. She’s gone t’ family a few days, she says.”
“Well, I’m glad to know that though I don’t like the idea of Winnie having to do everything in the coming days.”
“I’ll pick the girl up in a few days,” Barnaby said. “An’ Frances says there’s plenty of food left over in the pantries.” Lance nodded. “Winnie said Frances might stay at home a few days,” he added, looking at Lance with the unasked question on his mind.
Lance shrugged. “I won’t mind, though I’d like Winnie to have a rest, too.”
“Aye, she has it comin.’” Barnaby’s mouth widened, his eyes gleamed. “Me and the missus, we peeked in a few times, jes t’ have a look, ye know, at the company. Mighty fancy it was, me and Frances agreed.” He shook his head. “Winnie’s all grown up now, looked like a real lady, she did, all decked out.” He chuckled. “Looked a sight different from the first time I laid me eyes on the girl.”
“Yes, I can imagine,” Lance said, joining in and laughing softly. “Skinny as a rail, big eyes, hair undone, all arms and legs akimbo.”
“I’ve no idea what that means but I was talkin’ about…well, she had cuts and bruises, a knot as big as an egg on her head, her lip swollen and bleedin’, a black eye er two, nose bleedin’, though it’d stopped. She was a sight,” he said, his face solemn.
Lance’s mouth tightened. “It was that bad, was it?”
Barnaby nodded. “The little miss was a mite roughed up, t’ be sure.” He smiled again and straightened. “Well, as pleasant as this’s been, lad, I’ll be off to me own house an’ the wife. Thank’ee fer the wine. Frances might enjoy a nip.” He shook his head. “’Tis a comfort, the wife an’ house, all snug an’ warm, ‘specially in the best time o’ the year, lessen there’s a storm. We’d better be enjoyin’ it,” he warned. “Won’t be long ‘til the work’ll pick up, an’ we’ll be at it again from dawn t’ dusk.”
“Ought I to be seeing about the animals?”
“Naw. Jem an’ I’ll see to ‘em. If we need help, I’ll let ye know.”
“Where is the lad?”
“He’s likely holed up in that room Winnie fixed for him in the stables, readin’ one o’ the books Winnie’s bought fer him. She’s taught him to read, she has. An’ not only read but sums too. ‘Tis me thought, Winnie found kinship with him, them both bein’ tossed away by their folks.”
It was as good an explanation as any, Lance thought. “Thank you, Barnaby. I appreciate all you’ve put into the place while I was gone.”
“And Winnie, too.”
Lance nodded. “And Winnie, too.” Barnaby turned and Lance walked him to the door.
It was as it had been before, but this time the silence was strange. Lance longed for company, though not the kind he’d so recently said goodbye to. Barnaby would have stayed had Lance asked, but it was obvious the man was in a hurry to reach his humble cottage and the companionship of his wife. In his entire life, Lance never imagined he would envy Barnaby, but there it was.
Turning from the door, Lance saw Winnie enter the kitchen. The effect that came over him was immediate and shocking. Her hair was loosed and disordered around her lovely face, curls tumbling down her back, and the dress wrinkled as if she’d slept in it. Her mouth was slightly swollen from sleep, and she had never looked so desirable. At a sudden loss for words, Lance said nothing though he took his seat at the table to watch as she wordlessly stirred the embers in the stove and began preparing a meal.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was like starting all over again with Winnie, Lance thought, a new rearrangement the mind had to take in. Her clothes were gone from his armoire, and, rather than her old room, she had taken one of the smaller bedrooms for her own use, one that had a window. Lance found it one day and knew it to be hers, neat, a vase with dried flowers on a little nightstand beside the bed, her dresses on hooks around the room, her other clothes stashed in a small bureau with a comb, brush, ribbons, and pins on top. Someday he might have closets made up for all the bedrooms; already there was a design in his mind.
Frances didn’t show up for the two weeks, and Isabelle was picked up from town a day later just before a heavy snowstorm hit, piling the snow in heavy drifts that stayed. During her helpers’ sojourn away, Winnie had begun to clean the rooms scrupulously, though it made Lance feel guilty. It made sense though, to shut them off to keep only the frequently-used rooms warm.
Jem visited every day for meals until Frances and Isabelle returned. He was company, at least for Winnie, showing up to start the stove in the morning, lighting fires in the sitting room and Lance’s office, very happy with the leftovers that Winnie warmed or added something different to every day. Sometimes she would ask what Jem was reading and make comments. Other times, Winnie would take warm meals to him, just to get out of the house, Lance figured.
Coming late one afternoon to the kitchen to find no one there, he discovered Winnie outside with Jem. They had made forts from the bounty of snow, and were throwing snowballs across at each other, laughing or shrieking when there was a miss or a hit. Winnie was still wearing the moth-eaten coat always on the peg by the kitchen door, her old scarf draped over it. Coming in later with cheeks and nose red from the cold, the old scarf sprinkled with snow that sparkled in the light, she smiled, looking very pretty and fresh. Lance took his cue from it and began going on walks to the stable or barn for exercise and to become familiar with the rhythm of work, often pitching hay to the animals or watching Jem milk the cow, though there was lesser of that now that winter was on them, enough surely for hot chocolate and the special
treat of fresh snow that Frances added sugar and cream to.
Though Lance didn’t participate in the doings of the house, it was pleasant to feel a part of its regular rhythm by listening to the chatter of the women, the comings and goings of Jem and Barnaby and the rest. The work of catching up on the books was soon done and too much leisure hung on Lance, though often in the evenings Winnie would end up at the piano playing music he liked and became familiar with as he sat in a chair listening. If time hung too heavy on his hands, there was always something to read from the library Lance had dismissed as a lad. The days passed. On and off, a sudden warm period melted the snow, the weather changing abruptly again, and Lance became absorbed in work outside just in time to shake off the boredom and sense of drift that sometimes assailed him. Barnaby wasn’t young anymore, and Lance could see his own help was necessary to ease the older man’s load.
Winnie was staring out the window in her room, hugging her pillow to her breast as she made the bed, enjoying the winter quiet of the morning, when she saw him coming to the house in a wicked hurry. Barnaby was running, or trying to. The snow was deep and drifted. Making it through was a hard slog. Good Lord. He was liable to a stroke if he didn’t slow down. Something was dire wrong. Throwing the pillow on top of her bed, Winnie ran downstairs just in time to open the kitchen door for the breathless, red and white-faced man.