Chapter Ten #2
She took its tip in her hot, wet mouth.
And Martin found himself suppressing his groan as the face of Mr. Sebright pulled into view.
“Good afternoon,” he forced himself to say, raising a hand in a courtly wave.
Mr. Sebright bowed at the neck. “Good afternoon, Lord Preston. Have you been paying visits today?”
Mrs. Bellamy’s tongue drew circles around Martin’s shaft. He struggled to draw breath, much less come up with a proper answer. “No, I have been attending to business. And you?”
“I am on my way to see about some goats for the rectory,” replied the reverend.
Martin didn’t have the attention to notice whether the man was sanctimonious or earnest or solicitous.
Mrs. Bellamy was now vigorously stimulating his cock with both her hands and her hot, hot mouth, taking it more deeply against her tongue than he would have thought possible.
He exhaled loudly to keep from bucking his hips.
“Are you ill, sir?” asked Mr. Sebright.
“Headache,” Martin managed to reply. “I had better get home.”
“I wish you a speedy recovery.”
The horses of both vehicles began to move again, and soon, Mr. Sebright was out of view.
Mrs. Bellamy flicked her tongue across the tip of Martin’s cock.
A hand slipped down to fondle the soft skin of his balls.
Martin had never felt so disintegrated, so fully tantalized, and he barely had time to sink back against the bench cushions before he exploded in one of the most intense orgasms of his life.
His whole body shook, every nerve crying out with pleasure, and his seed spurted endlessly into the hot back of Mrs. Bellamy’s throat.
When at last he was spent, Mrs. Bellamy emerged from under her cape, smirking like the cat who ate the cream.
“That was dangerous,” he scolded her, breathless. “We could have been discovered.”
“But we weren’t discovered, and now you have quite the memory of me to keep, haven’t you?”
Martin found himself sliding off the bench to meet her on the floor of the carriage.
He draped his arms—which still felt like wet noodles after his orgasm—around her and pulled her into a kiss.
His heart was full of light peace, like the fluff of dandelion drifting in a summer breeze, and it was all because of her.
He wanted to thank her; he wanted to hold her; he wanted to keep her by his side at all times.
He settled for promising her, “That’s a memory I’ll never forget,” and held her in his arms until they reached Northfield once more.
Martha knew this was not Heaven. That was somewhere distant and unreachable, somewhere that the bliss of fulfilled lust could not touch. Yet, for this handful of weeks, she really did feel that she had been blessed by an angel, so happy was she.
Perhaps it was Kenneth, calling in favors beyond the pearly gates to bring her some peace after all these years. Perhaps it was merely the halo of Lord Preston with all his good deeds casting a little bit of its special glow upon her.
Whatever the cause, Martha did not dare question it.
She floated along in this new river of joy: stolen kisses pressed to her knuckles when she handed Lord Preston a stack of correspondence to sign; ankles intertwining under the dining table where the footmen could not see; and best of all, after the household went to sleep, Lord Preston sneaking into her bedroom.
He never slept there the whole night, nor did they ever touch in view of anyone else. Still, Martha felt his eyes on her almost every moment they were in a room together—and if not his eyes, then his fingers, and if not his fingers, then his mouth.
She and Kenneth must have felt this way when they were newly married, in those heady first few months before they started worrying about a child, but it was too long ago for Martha to remember.
This desire she felt towards Lord Preston, unadulterated with wifely concerns, seemed new and pure.
He was nothing to her except a lover, and she did not owe him anything except her honest desire.
It was poisonously exciting.
On a day that he went to Thatcham to visit Mr. Maulvi, Martha remained behind—not wanting to risk running into old acquaintances who might notice her new cheer.
She took her sewing basket down to the garden drawing room, where the wide windows let in plenty of natural light so she could see her stitches.
She had to adjust her autumn clothes for mourning.
Conveniently, her seat in the drawing room also gave her a view of the painting above the mantel.
This was a watercolor of Lady Preston with her five children.
They looked out solemnly, yet one could feel the mother’s love in how she draped one hand on a son’s shoulder and held the littlest child—Caroline—in her lap.
Where had Lord Preston been when his family sat for this painting?
What did he see when he looked at it? Were all his memories rosy? Was there no woman who could compare with Lady Preston?
Martha was so absorbed that she was caught staring at the painting when Mrs. Chow entered, carrying a basket of books to be replaced on the shelf. Embarrassed, Martha greeted the other woman too brightly: “How goes your day, Mrs. Chow?”
The housekeeper looked a little surprised. Had Martha been cool to her up until now? Or had she simply been expecting to find the drawing room empty, assuming Martha had gone to Thatcham with Lord Preston? Mrs. Chow replied, “Fine, thank you. Do you need any refreshments?”
“No, thank you, though I would welcome your company, if you have a few moments to sit and rest.”
Mrs. Chow considered the basket in her arms for a moment, then took Martha up on the offer.
“My back aches so easily these days.” The woman was around the same age as Martha, her hair a fine white that stood out nicely against the darker olive tone of her skin.
She spoke English tilted by the accent of her native Chinese language, though the words came so easily that Martha hardly noticed it.
“Especially since you have grandchildren to race after,” Martha said in sympathy. “Are you in great anticipation of Mr. Eddie Chow’s child?”
Mrs. Chow waved her hand as if sweeping away bad luck. “A child is a blessing, that’s what the English say, isn’t it? Though they can run a mother’s heart ragged, too.”
Martha wasn’t sure if Mrs. Chow meant to reference Lucas or if she meant it generally about any child, and so she kept her reply simple: “Yes.”
“Eddie is my sweetest boy,” Mrs. Chow went on, “but he gave me the greatest worry because of how he loved Miss Caroline. When they ran away together…”
Martha looked up to see the other woman shaking her head, her brow drawn with old heartache, and she considered that the story of Lucas might never have made it to the working people of Northfield Hall. Or, even if it had, Mrs. Chow might not remember that it belonged to Martha.
Or the woman still worried so deeply for Eddie, even though he and Caroline seemed happily settled, that she needed to hear a promise from Martha that he would not end his life the way Lucas had.
Martha folded her hands across her sewing.
“My son eloped with an earl’s daughter, and it ended in both their deaths.
Hers of fever and his…” The grief that never went away surged upward.
“He destroyed himself. I like to believe he thought that was the kindest way to end the ordeal, yet it only made things worse for me and his father, of course. Because we couldn’t even—” But she would not cry.
She had cried enough, and that wasn’t the point she was trying to make.
“We couldn’t even give him a proper burial.
I don’t know if that is how you honor your dead, but for me, to not have a grave I can visit… Well, the heartache never ends.”
Mrs. Chow watched her steadily. “I was furious with Eddie when he ran away with her. I did everything in my power to keep him from doing that, and then he went and did exactly what he should not have done. Were you furious?”
Martha surprised herself by laughing. She had forgotten, but yes, how angry she had been when they had first heard he was discovered in Bath with Lady Imogen! “Fury is not how a mother is supposed to express her love.”
“But children are infuriating!”
“Oh, from the moment they are born,” Martha agreed.
“I remember the first time Lucas peed on me as I changed his nappy. Right in my eye! I thought, ‘Now I’m supposed to give you a kiss? No, thank you!’” She wiped at her cheek as if to clear that old mess from her face.
“Ah, but I would give anything to change his nappy again, if I could.”
Mrs. Chow reached over and gave Martha’s fingers a firm squeeze. “Your son was loved. That’s what you must take comfort in.”
“And your son is loved, by you and very much so by Caroline.”
“Very much so,” Mrs. Chow agreed, “and though I may never understand it, I do think it is strong enough for them to withstand life, so long as they have each other.”
Which made Martha wonder: Had Lady Imogen survived her fever, would she and Lucas be living happily somewhere in Bath with a gaggle of children? Would Martha have been able to see them, or would she have been obliged to shun them to demonstrate proper moral fiber to Tolpuddle?
“In any case, once the baby is safely delivered, I shall be very happy and eager to love it. I find grandchildren far less infuriating than children. Now, if only Lord Preston would let Leyla replace me so I could retire to my cottage…”
The mention of her lover threatened to bring a blush to Martha’s cheeks. She looked down at her sewing to keep her face from betraying anything. “Is he opposed to Leyla?” The head housemaid seemed more than competent to Martha’s unaccustomed judgment.
“He is opposed to change. Just look at how he hasn’t hired a new steward even though Mr. Maulvi has been ill the better part of the year.
” Mrs. Chow shook her head at the painting of Lady Preston and her children.
“Ever since Caroline and Eddie ran off together, I think, he has not been willing to consider change unless it is forced upon him. But how can I force my retirement upon him? Aside from dying, which I really would rather not do.”
Martha felt guilty at how excited she was to receive this glimpse of insight into Lord Preston. She ran her finger over the seam she had just finished. “He is hoping Lord Benjamin will become the steward.”
Mrs. Chow said, “And secretary, too? You are kind to help him in the meantime, but he must make plans to hire someone permanently, mustn’t he?”
He would hire someone, of course, and Martha would eventually go live with her niece.
But she didn’t want to think about that.
Measuring her delivery so as not to sound too eager, she said, “Perhaps I could broach the subject with him. Not overtly, of course, but to begin to suggest to him that you are deserving of your idle days now.”
Mrs. Chow looked at Martha for a beat too long before saying, “Yes, if you feel comfortable saying something like that, it is worth a try.” Then, looking back at the family portrait, she added, “You remind me of Lady Preston a little, you know. You are very steady in yourself.”
Was she? Martha more often felt as if she were calling on every reserve to stay steady against life’s headwinds. Such as now, when she should not ask—should not fan the flames of Mrs. Chow’s suspicions—and yet did: “What was Lady Preston like?”
“Very stubborn. Which was good when I agreed with her and bad when I didn’t.
” Mrs. Chow smiled. “She was very dedicated to whatever she decided to do, and like Lord Preston, she had very strong ideas of what it was a person was supposed to do. She loved her children, of course, and she and Lord Preston were very much in love. Did you know her father disowned her for marrying him?”
Martha hadn’t known that. “Was she of such high birth that marrying Lord Preston was a step down?”
“No, but he hired Mr. Chow and me. He might as well have hosted an orgy, if you asked Lady Preston’s father, for it made Lord Preston a dangerous renegade.”
“That’s terrible.”
Mrs. Chow shrugged. “That is life.”
Martha’s imagination floated away, painting Lord Preston’s marriage with the brush of star-crossed love. No wonder he was so devoted to Lady Preston if they had overcome so much in order to marry! “Is it true that he has never courted another woman since her death?”
“None that I have heard of,” Mrs. Chow said, “and everyone seems to want to tell me when they hear something scandalous about the family.” She pinned Martha under her gaze. “It has been fifteen years, though. If he finds happiness with someone else, I say it’s high time.”
She would not smile, nor would she blush, nor would she confess the cacophony of feelings she had about Lord Preston, even though she felt certain Mrs. Chow would not judge her for their indecorous behavior.
“Friendships come and go in life. Perhaps he does not need to find final happiness with someone else to enjoy some companionship while sharing a path.”
Mrs. Chow nodded. “That too. Happiness is happiness, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Although it did come in a million variations.
Right now, Martha’s happiness from feeling understood by a new friend was hemmed in by her whirling questions about Lord Preston.
Was she happy, or was she excited, or was she about to fall apart at the seams if she heard the wrong answer to her questions?
She put on a smile for Mrs. Chow. “I am so grateful to have been welcomed at Northfield Hall while I make arrangements with my family.”
“We are glad to have you.” Mrs. Chow rose from the settee with a few creaks. “Now, I had better get back to work before Leyla thinks I keeled over. If you need help with that mending, let me know. Renee is a wonderful seamstress.”
“Thank you, but I like to have something to do.” Martha wished she had something more valuable to say—or something more sincere to express the feeling of friendship blossoming in her heart. She settled for “I have enjoyed your company.”
“People usually do,” Mrs. Chow quipped, and she exited with her basket.