CHAPTER SIX
Charlotte
“Please inform Mrs. Webster that I’ll take my supper in my room. Thank you.”
The maid bobs a curtsy at me and a deeper one to Mary.
There’s nothing in her attitude to signal disdain, and yet, I know she disdains me.
All the servants do, though no good reason exists for them to level their looks slightly towards my ear rather than directly at my face.
To smirk when they think I’m not looking.
I’m always polite. I never make a mess. I’m an exemplary companion to Lady Mary, always keeping her from trouble, always occupying her hours.
It’s as if they suspect my past. As if I wear my sins upon my chest like the scarlet letter that Mr. Hawthorne wrote about. But no one knows save for Mr. Swanson, and the dead tell no tales.
Part of me wishes I’d killed him myself. Instead, his cold, hard, graceless heart took care of ridding him from this world.
“You should come, Charlotte.” Mary pinches her cheeks as she studies her reflection in the mirror above her dressing table.
Gowned in royal blue velvet to match her deep blue eyes, her hair a mass of artfully constructed curls atop her head, gleaming, simple pearls around her throat and at her ears, she’s an ethereal vision. An angel.
I move behind her. In the mirror, we look similar enough in coloring, though our features are different.
I could be mistaken for a duke’s daughter in my fine linen day dress, but for the hard look in my eyes that negates the first impression.
I’m the demon to Mary’s angel, nothing but an impoverished orphan of a lowly baronet, dependent upon her for my very life.
“Please come,” she begs.
“I…”
Quickly, she shakes her head. “Not because I ask it of you. Because you want to.” She pauses before adding, “Sometimes, you look so sad, it nearly breaks my heart. It’s as if you’re in mourning in your nearly black gown.”
I don a quick smile and adjust the strand of pearls around her throat. “I’m not sad, merely fatigued.”
She doesn’t believe me, but she won’t argue. It’s true that I look dour in my deep green gown, so dark it does appear black in certain lights. Our gowns are the same quality, but the differences are still startling.
“After this afternoon’s contretemps, I prefer to keep some distance. Just for tonight.”
“It’s so unfair. A decent woman’s momentary preoccupation with ancient statuary shouldn’t ruin her.” Her eyes meet mine in the reflective surface. “But perhaps it is better that I speak with Sir Gilead alone.”
“Thank you.” My hand slips to the velvet ruffles of her dress. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Her smile lights in her eyes. “Obviously, you weren’t. Thinking, that is.” She turns suddenly and spears me on her gaze. “Why did you remove your glove and, er, well…”
“Stroke his…?” Heat fills my cheeks. “I don’t know. It was just… there. And so…”
“Yes. Rather shocking, wasn’t it? Do you suppose all men look… well…” Her blush suffuses her from neckline to forehead. Even her arms, still bare of the fine, kidskin long gloves she will don that reach past her elbows, pinken.
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
“No. Of course not. I’m sure not.”
I step back. “Your shawl. You mustn’t forget it.”
I busy myself with fetching the length of silk and fringe from the wardrobe, giving us both a chance to retreat from an uncomfortable conversation. What Mary doesn’t know of me would fill all of London. I cannot lose her patronage or friendship over my reckless past. Over what I really am.
But the knowledge of everything I don’t admit fills me with a clawing, shredding desire to throw myself in the Thames and be done with it. If my parents knew…
But if my parents knew, they would also know that my becoming a whore was their fault for leaving me penniless.
Once Mary is safely in the carriage, I return to my rooms. Mine abut hers and are only slightly smaller. The configuration is unique in that we share the bathing chamber that lies between our sitting rooms. Now that she’s departed, I can soak in hot water and luxuriate in fine bath salts.
Ignoring the tray of food set upon the small table under the window, I gather my things and move swiftly towards the tub with its running hot and cold pipes.
The tub itself is a thing of grace and ingenuity.
Three steps are required to reach the rim.
The porcelain is set into a wooden stage, upon which are carved mermaids and other sea creatures.
It's all so different from when Mary and I were young. We ran wild and bathed only in Walker’s Pond and the woodland stream that ran through most of the village.
But then, once we were presented in Society, her father hired Benjamin Waddy Maughan to install a water heater in each of his homes.
For a while, bathing was fun again while we frolicked with The Geyser, until it became normal.
I open my front fasteners and strip out of my clothing before slipping into the hot water. Even if no longer fun, I appreciate the way the heat seeps into my skin.
I’d written to my father after the first time I took a bath at Mary’s home.
He agreed to install The Geyser, too, but he died before the installation was completed.
The heater had gone the way of the paintings, artifacts, books, rugs, furnishings, and bric-a-brac.
Not even my home had been spared the auction block.
My mother, despondent at the loss of her fine gowns and jewelry, not to mention the estate, departed life soon after with an accidental drowning in Walker’s Pond.
Perhaps, had The Geyser been installed earlier, she would have drowned in her bath.
I can’t chuckle at my questionable humor. Not even now, when I’ve come to appreciate the absurd.
Left alone in Hampshire without a penny to my name, dressed in only one serviceable but too-tight, old-fashioned serge, I had no choice but to agree to Mr. Swanson’s terms: in exchange for my virginity, I would be given coin sufficient to buy a proper dress and arrange travel to London.
All I could think to do was to find Mary, recently returned from touring the continent with her parents, and throw myself upon her generosity.
And Mary, true to herself always, gave me a place. Unlike most companions, I’m well-treated. I’m her friend, her sister in all but blood, but even if she forgets I’m not entitled to her luxury, I don’t. I can’t. Everything I enjoy is borrowed, even my hot bath.
And I can’t forget what I did to earn my place, except, ironically, in brief moments when I stroke a monster’s member.
The bath grows cold, but the more I think on the monster, the hotter I become.
How is it that I find the idea of relations with men so disgusting, but the thought of the beast covering me makes me ache between my thighs?
What would his furry member feel like inside me?
His other fur brushing my skin? His full lips pressing kisses along my body?
Men don’t see to a woman’s care. I know this firsthand. Relations are nothing but pain, humiliation, and an act of endurance. And yet…
And yet, my fingers find their way between my legs to the spot that sends shivers through my body when I rub it.
I discovered quite young while riding astride that if I leaned forward upon the saddle at a certain angle, I could send tremors through my veins.
More difficult to accomplish with a sidesaddle, of course, but I suppose that’s precisely why women don’t generally ride astride.
Nothing between the knees is what we’re taught, because what would we become if we focused upon pleasurable sensations like the ones my fingers are shooting up my spine?
We might forego men altogether in favor of our fingers and saddles.
But the monster… that furred length longer than my palm. Will an angry red protrusion shoot forth from the tip like a cat’s? Will he rub himself over my secret button if I ask him to?
Imagining it draws my body taut. My hips lift, sink, and lift again as tingles spread over my skin. My nipples hurt, so I use my other hand to gently pull the nubs. Doing so only winds me tighter.
Tight, so tight. An ache centers where a man’s member invades, an empty, needy hollowness drilling me down into smaller skin. My mouth opens, and I pant before biting my lip so as not to cry out with the way I spiral up.
But before the sweet, acidic fullness can break into an explosion that will send honey through my veins, a knock interrupts me.
“Miss Butters? Lady Mary is descending the carriage.”
All of me stills. “I’ll meet her as soon as I dress,” I call in a wobbling voice.
Shame, hot and fertile, fills my soul. Here I am, dreaming of a monster instead of a man. What kind of woman am I that I could prefer a hairy beast to someone like Sir Gilead?
And how has Sir Gilead come to mean so little when, just last week, I was enthralled by his exploits across the sea?
But that’s just it, isn’t it? I’ve been enthralled by his digging in the sand and uncovering ancient mysteries.
The man himself has failed to live up to expectations, which should be no surprise, yet still fills me with disappointment.
It was nice to dream that I might be attracted to someone, if even for a moment.
Denied its release, my body cramps as I struggle from the tub before loosening the stopper so the scented water will flow down to wherever dirty water goes. I wrap myself in a large robe rather than taking time to dress. Mary should not be arriving back so soon. Something must be wrong.
After sliding into my slippers, I race down the front staircase, only to stop short as Mary and Sir Gilead come into view. They’re divesting themselves of shawl, cane, and hat. I clutch my robe tighter to my wet form, but before I can turn around and ascend once more, Mary sees me.