She craved that weight. She wanted to feel as much of him as possible, surrounding her, enveloping her. Reaching upward, parting her lips even more, she coaxed Jean into taking further possession of her with gentle strokes of her tongue. Every light, gentle flicker of her tongue against his sent a wave of sensation through her, a new tide of emotion that Amelia had never previously felt coursing through her body. All novel, so very novel—and more wonderful, more intoxicating, that she could have ever hoped.
With a gasp of surprise, she felt Jean lift her off of her feet. She had never imagined him being strong; his deftness, his precision, had always been his most evident qualities. Still, as her toes left the ground, Amelia wondered how on earth she had missed the fact of his strength—the way he could hold her to his chest as if she weighed nothing at all. The way he pushed her against the door, firmly but oh-so-gently, as if she were made of something infinitely precious.
The door was a little loose on its hinges. Amelia knew she shouldn’t be thinking about household flaws; not in the midst of such pleasure. Still, she didn’t wish to have half the house crash to pieces.
She broke away from the kiss, whispering in Jean’s ear. ‘We must move.’
‘Oh yes? As Madame wishes.’ Jean’s smile thrilled through her as he gently set her down. ‘Where must we move to? I have ideas of my own.’ With a sweet, entirely over-confident smile, he placed his hand on the handle of the door. ‘I am—’
The handle moved downward; the door, already eager to open, did the rest. Amelia held a hand to her mouth, torn between a laugh and a scream, as Jean staggered back into the corridor. He managed to recover his balance, a rueful smile on his face—
‘Oi! What the devil are you doing!’
Amelia’s instinct took over before her good sense did. She peered out of the dressing room door, searching for the source of alarm, before realising that she and Jean were responsible for it.
At the end of the corridor stood Jameson. Jameson, who had clearly arrived back at the Benson house earlier than expected; perhaps his favourite dairymaid had not been available. Jameson, who had seen Jean tumble out of the room.
Jameson, who had seen Jean tumble out of her private dressing room, followed by herself. Herself, red-faced, dishevelled, breathless…
And then, Eliza, at the other end of the corridor. Eliza turning the corner, book in hand, stopping in her tracks as she took in the scene. Amelia looked into her maidservant’s eyes, mutely begging her to say anything, do anything… or, if she were to ruin her, to ruin her quickly.
She deserved to be ruined. She knew that. But to be ruined at Eliza’s hands made the whole mess so much more bitter.
Eliza blinked. Amelia saw her rapidly assess the situation; Jean’s stillness, Jameson’s curiosity. Then, with a hasty stamp of her foot, she pointed an accusing finger at Jean.
‘Sir, I don’t know how fine manners are taught in France, but it is not done to walk ahead of the staff as they direct you to a room. Especially when they’ve been kind enough to let you slink through the servants’ entrance without the fuss of a formal announcement.’ Eliza looked meaningfully at Jean, who was quick-witted enough to look shamefaced. ‘Now look what you have done. You have burst in unannounced, disturbing ma’am in the middle of her preparations for your visit. It is a shameful way to behave.’
‘Forgive me.’ Jean kept his eyes trained on the rug. Amelia folded her arms, trying to look irritated instead of terrified. ‘I was eager to show Madame the new design.’
‘Then you shall wait until Madame is ready to see them.’ Eliza nodded with a huff. ‘My goodness. Such rudeness.’
As Jameson tutted and walked away, his curiosity apparently satisfied, Eliza turned to Jean. Amelia, despite the embarrassment filling her body like lead, couldn’t help but feel a twisted admiration for the courageous way her maid spoke.
‘I believe it is time for you to leave.’ Eliza looked at Amelia, a flash of the usual, frightened girl appearing in her eyes. ‘If… if you agree, ma’am?’
Refusing would be the end of her reputation. Eliza had already saved her from Jameson’s suspicions; betraying her now, choosing her moment of escape with Jean over her, would be ridiculous. Amelia nodded, her heart breaking at the look of relief in Eliza’s eyes.
‘Yes.’ She drew herself up to her full height, putting as much energy into the spectacle as possible. ‘Come back only when you have collected yourself.’
‘Of course, ma’am.’ Jean ducked back into the room; Amelia and Eliza watched in silence as he hastily collected his bag. ‘Once again, I apologise. I meant to cause no offence. And… ’
He reached into the bag, bringing out a bowl. Amelia and Eliza, determinedly not looking at one another, stared at it.
‘One of my seamstresses made these for you.’ Eyes cast downward, seemingly determined not to look at her, Jean pushed the bowl into her hands. ‘Ginger biscuits. No doubt they will be too heavy for you to eat.’
‘Thank you.’ Amelia frigidly curtseyed, all-too-aware of Eliza’s stare. ‘I am sure I will manage to eat at least one.’
‘Of course.’ Jean bowed, his face stony. ‘You are excellent at management.’
With a bow to Eliza, who curtseyed with the barest minimum of politeness, he walked away. Amelia wished she could follow him; she felt her heart begging her, even as she stood still.
For a long, agonising instant, Eliza simply looked at Amelia. Then, with a small twist of her mouth, she reached out and patted her shoulder.
‘Ma’am, I… I wish I could pretend that what I just saw was the truth of it. I really do.’ Eliza looked sorrowfully at her, her other hand holding the book so tightly that Amelia could practically hear the spine cracking. ‘I know I can ask nothing of you, but—but I must know, for my own honour, if you have done something that—that will make it harder for me to find a good station in the future, should I have to leave.’
To think that she had been ready to ruin herself, and her reputation—and the reputations of all that worked under her! Amelia shut her eyes, disgusted with herself. ‘No, Eliza—my poor, dear Eliza.’ She reached out, clutching the girl’s hand, needing to feel something warm and solid. ‘No. My God, forgive me!’
‘It is not my place to forgive my betters, ma’am.’ But Eliza’s eyes showed sympathy; she took Amelia’s hand, gripping it tightly. ‘But you must tell me what to do. Should I deny him admittance, if he is indeed to call again?’
‘I—no. No.’ Amelia couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing Jean again; her hand tightened in Eliza’s as she felt a tear fall. ‘But… but you can come with him, and attend to me. Just as you did the first time. I… Please do that. For me.’
‘Of course, ma’am. Of course.’ Eliza patted her hand; the small, kindly gesture was enough to bring Amelia close to sobbing. ‘Only—oh, ma’am, don’t cry. I know that things have been hard, very hard—and that it’s made you angry, and silly. It happens to all of us. But don’t cry.’
‘I know. I know.’ Amelia sniffed, her face taught with the ghastly effort of keeping her tears contained. ‘I… oh Eliza. If I begin, I will not stop. And I am so—so—’
‘Sorry. Yes. I know.’ Eliza patted her shoulder again, this time with a little more warmth. ‘I know.’
Later that evening, as twilight slowly stole over the grounds of the Benson house, Amelia sat desolately at her window. She looked out at the ink-blue sky, searching in vain for the first star to appear—but all was clouds, darkening clouds, souring the perfume of the peach blossom as it filled the night air.
All had almost been lost. If Eliza hadn’t performed her singular act of service, her reputation would currently be in tatters—as would Jean’s chances of establishing himself in Bath, or anywhere in England.
All had been lost, if Jean never came back. If he decided the risk was no longer worth the reward. Fresh tears came to Amelia’s eyes as she thought of the absence of Jean—and of the goodness of her maid-servant, nobly telli
ng falsehoods with no expectation of reward.
Eliza would be rewarded. She would be the most highly-paid servant in Bath, as soon as the Benson name had wealth attached to it once more. Of course, in order for that to happen, Amelia had to do something atrocious.
Something that she had never wanted to do. Something that her mother would have viciously reproached her for doing, had she been in her prime.
She had to ask for help. From Matthew, of all people; her blinded, wounded brother, who had only recently rediscovered his passion for living.
Swallowing what remained of her pride, Amelia moved to her desk. Picking up her pen, drawing a piece of paper towards her, she began to write the words she had always hoped to keep unwritten.
My dearest Matthew, and Daisy,
Please come home. All is not well. All has not been well for some time.
She had almost believed the cloud of worry, of tension, would have dissipated by the following morning. The letter would have solved everything; with one action, everything would be healed. But as Amelia woke, gasping for air, the same panicked pressure crushed her chest.
Breakfast, the posting of the letter, the duties of the morning, the half-eaten plate of cold vegetables in lieu of lunch—all of them happened with excruciating slowness, beset by worries strong enough to be felt in the body. Perhaps Matthew and Daisy would not decide to return, once her letter to them arrived. Perhaps Jean would write them a letter himself, telling them everything.
By the time the afternoon came, Amelia found herself pacing along the portrait gallery. She walked to and fro with quick, agitated steps, full of a new, devastating mixture of panic and pain. The household accounts still lay all-but empty, her brother would be full of angry questions about the state of everything should he decide to return, Eliza was no doubt preparing her resignation speech thanks to her own disgusting display of weakness the previous day…
… Her mother’s cane thumped on the floorboards above her. Amelia, fighting a burst of laughter that was equal parts anger and hysteria, attacked the stairs with the same anxious footsteps as she had the rug of the portrait gallery.
‘Amelia!’ Her mother’s shout greeted her as she opened the door; there Lady Benson sat, rigid and seemingly immovable, only the child-like fury in her face revealing that something was terribly amiss. ‘Amelia, you must account for yourself!’
Lord, what was she supposed to have done now? Amelia felt a small, fundamental piece of herself shatter as she looked into the face of the woman who had given birth to her. She was tired, so tired, of fighting with whatever illness had made a slave of her mother… all she could do, all she felt capable of doing, was reaching out the woman she remembered.
‘Daughter, why must you torment me in this fashion?’ Lady Benson looked up at her, angry tears rolling down her cheeks, impatiently batting away Amelia’s had as she attempted to console her mother. ‘Why must you be so terribly disobedient? Your father will take great offence to this!’
‘To what? Mother, to what?’ Amelia realised she had raised her voice, but lacked the restraint to correct herself. ‘I do not understand what I have done!’ She felt her eyes burn with tears; they were coming far too easily ever since her indiscretion with Jean. ‘Please, Mother. Please, tell me what I am meant to have done. I will do anything, anything at all, to make things right.’ Her shoulders shook as a sob rose in her throat. ‘I will make everything alright.’
‘Your suitor, Amelia. Your husband-to-be! Lady Maybury continues to inform me of your intent to wed, and yet the gentleman has not yet presented himself to us! He has not yet asked your father for permission!’ Lady Benson looked out of the window, startled by something only she could see, before turning back to Amelia. ‘This will not do!’ She beat her cane against the floor with a decisive thump. ‘It simply will not… oh.’
Amelia paused, her heart in her mouth. Why was her mother’s gaze so fixed; had she begun to see the spectres of her imagination, instead of merely speaking with them?
‘Forgive me.’
A voice she knew.
‘I should have stated my intentions as soon as I discovered the strength of my attachment to your daughter.’
Jean. Jean, still dressed in his travelling cloak bag in hand, his face alive with new understanding; of her, of her worries, of what drove her to such excesses of panic. Eliza was stood behind him, her mouth a perfect o of pure shock.
It was the dressing hour. Had she really ever thought that he would not return? Shame on you, Amelia’s heart whispered.
‘I see.’ Lady Benson nodded imperiously. ‘Well, sir. State your case. Given that both you and Amelia have already stated your case to Lady Maybury, I imagine you must be quite practised.’ She gestured impatiently to Eliza. ‘Leave us, girl. This does not concern you.’
Eliza nodded, shooting a brief look of pure curiosity in Amelia’s direction, before walking away. Amelia, trying to remain as still and silent as possible, cast her eyes to the heavens; her maid would think that her mistress led the most scandalous life in England, if any more unexpected events were to occur.
Jean briefly turned to Amelia, his face a mute enquiry. Lady Maybury? Amelia shook her head very slightly, as she mouthed, dead. Jean, to his credit, looked surprised for an instant before continuing.
Amelia listened, her hands gripping her skirts. She could be of no help, not now. All she could do was watch, heartsick, as Jean spoke.
‘In truth, I did not mean to confess my feelings to someone as exalted as Lady Maybury. Neither did your daughter.’ He walked into the room, the sound of his boots muffled on the rug as he set his bag carefully down on a nearby chair. ‘But as you know, ma’am, Lady Maybury is commissioning her wardrobe for the new Season—and I am her modiste. She notices when I am distracted. She is a very acute woman.’
He was going to tell the unvarnished truth about his background? The fact that he was in trade? Amelia’s stomach curdled as she watched her mother. Lady Benson had always impressed the paramount important of breeding on Amelia; it was snobbish, she knew that now, but she understood the roots of it. An earl, or a lord—a duke, if at all possible—would bring Amelia the respect of the ton at large. A tradesman, however wealthy, would never have the same status… and Jean wasn’t wealthy. Not yet.
To Amelia’s surprise, her mother leaned forward. ‘Go on.’
‘There is little left to say.’ Jean stood up to his full height; the afternoon sunshine made his green eyes glitter like a forest floor. ‘I assume Lady Maybury informed you of our attachment in an attempt to prevent it. I understand her reticence, as I understand yours. But if I have understood your daughter—and I hope that I have—then I can assure you that our attachment is no mirage. It will not vanish in the space of a day, or a week—a lifetime. Your daughter’s silence on this matter should be considered prudence. She wished to judge if our affinity was something worthy of your notice, rather than a rash passion that could be quashed through absence.’ He looked briefly at Amelia, his gaze burning. ‘I can only hope that she has reached the same conclusion as I have.’
He was only saying these things to placate her mother; to comfort her, and save Amelia herself from a small amount of grief. Amelia tried to keep that truth in her mind; it wasn’t real.
None of it was real. Even if it sounded wonderful.
‘I have no title to offer your daughter. I have no noble connections; yours is the greatest family with which I have ever had acquaintance.’ Jean spoke carefully, his eyes fixed on Lady Benson’s face. Amelia watched, her heart in her mouth. ‘But I will have wealth, mademoiselle. Great wealth, once this Season is concluded. And if I have to work until I am little more than dust and bone to keep Amelia safe, and happy, and in the manner of a queen, I will do it with a smile on my lips and a song in my heart.’ He paused, taking a deep breath, clearly overcome by passion. ‘I… I would die a thousand times, for her. I would.’
It was a strong, passionate, noble speech; one designed to mel
t the hardest of hearts. But Amelia had seen Lady Benson curl her lip at much more passionate displays; love-matches of any kind had always made her mother’s lip curl, for reasons Amelia could never quite fathom. She looked at Jean, shaking her head slightly, trying to make him understand that such words, glorious as they were to hear, were unlikely to win the day.
Then, to Amelia’s utter astonishment, her mother smiled.
‘I… my goodness. How like Bertie you sound.’ Lady Benson smiled wider; a smile of such yearning, such wistfulness, that the light in the room seemed to change. The gold of happy memories surrounded them; hidden ones. ‘What a forthright gentleman he was.’
Amelia waited, silent, unsure of what to say. She had never heard of a Bertie; her mother had never spoken of any other suitors before her marriage. It would not have been correct, and Amelia had certainly never asked.
How relaxed her mother suddenly seemed. How full of joy; a joy Amelia could not remember seeing in her face for a long, long time.
‘He was so very determined to win me back, even after the banns had been read. Such letters—such tremendous letters, and the visits! He would come by night, bringing a candle along the back road… so sweet. So terribly sweet. He always asked me to go with him, go away on the next ship. Make a life.’ Lady Benson’s face suddenly, abruptly crumpled. ‘And I said no… I was so frightened. I had gained so much, with your father—had so much to lose! Bertie had nothing at all to offer—only his promise to keep me well, and love me better. And then came the storm… the tempest…’
A look of utter desolation stole over her face; a grief so great that Amelia physically recoiled. There was no way to breach the gulf that had appeared; no words she could think of that would heal the wound.
‘And now he does not come. He never comes.’ Lady Benson turned to Amelia. ‘Why does he never come?’
Amelia looked at Jean, hoping he could see the terror in her eyes. Her fear of saying something that would only make it worse. Jean, his eyes full of compassion, stepped forward.
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