The Dowager Countess (The Saga of Wolfbridge Manor Book 2)

by Sahara Kelly

  My words were met with silence for a few moments, and I opened my eyes to see four faces looking at me with expressions I cannot fully describe. There was affection, pleasure, exhilaration, a measure of fatigue, and a warmth that I swear I could feel on my naked skin.

  None spoke, but each came to me and kissed me with such sweetness and gentleness that I felt the tears rise behind my eyes. When the last one, Evan, was done, the tears ran free. I was helpless to stop them.

  “Sleep well, Gwyneth.” Gabriel was the last off the bed. He pulled up the covers to my shoulders and blew out the candle.

  Once the room was empty, of course I had to rise, find my nightgown, take care of my personal comfort, and thus have arrived here, with a fresh candle, writing all these details while they are still clear in my mind. And while my body still recalls the feel of them.

  As I have stated earlier, I feel no shame, no regret for this night’s activities.

  I would not wish them to become public, of course, since my attitude toward my privacy remains unmoved. But this night, this violation of every single rule, every convention, that applies to women?

  I am very happy and satisfied with the result. Four good men have tended to my physical desires in the most pleasant of ways. They have, in fact, behaved as the gentlemen of Wolfbridge should. Is that the only reason, I wonder, their commitment to that appellation? I cannot tell. My common sense is whispering that I’ve not known them long enough for them to love me.

  But then again, is love vital for the fulfilment of such pleasures? We all like each other. We care about each other. And I am proof that we desire each other. That is a fact beside which I will stand to the end. This night, my men have made me feel as if I am the most precious and desired woman in the world. I’d like to hope that I gave them the same loving attentions and reassured them of the incredibly important part they play in my life.

  I know now that I have their complete loyalty. I refuse to believe that they could touch a woman, caress a woman and bring her to such a peak of ecstasy, without being loyal to her thereafter. They are certainly a unit, which is amazing when I consider how relatively short a time they’ve had to form such bonds.

  So as I write this journal entry, my body still a little tender from its energetic adventures, I am warmed and comforted by the sense of belonging I now experience. It is as if these men together form the heart of Wolfbridge. And they have opened themselves to me.

  To the first Lady, I have to send my prayers of thanks. I have no idea how you could have known the depths of despair in my soul, and probably in the others who preceded me here in this place. But you did - and thanks to you I am raised, lifted from the darkness, placed in a position of security and affection.

  I shall be forever grateful.

  That prayer to you must be followed by a prayer to the one who watches over us all. Dear Lord, please help me find the strength, courage and determination to be the best Lady of Wolfbridge I can be.

  Do not let me fail in the eyes of those who depend on me, and help me be worthy of the men who have given of themselves so freely.

  And should the need arise, help me make the decisions that are right, no matter the choices I face. There are still troubles surrounding us, and I would give my all to keep Wolfbridge and its residents safe.

  As they would for me.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Gwyneth had thrown off her covers overnight, and awoken to a stuffy room, the back of her neck damp from the heat. The sun already blazed through her window and she was glad to open it and let in some of the fresher morning air. But it was warm and she sighed at the thought of a hot day outside at the fête.

  Her movements brought a tap on the door and Gabriel entered with tea and her gown for the day, a swath of rich velvet draped over his arm.

  “You’re going to sweat in this,” he said bluntly.

  “And good morning to you too, Gabriel.” She had to grin at his declaration.

  He crossed the room, put the tea on her side table, laid the gown reverently on the bed, then kissed her lips, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “Good morning. You slept well?”

  “I did,” she felt a slight blush as a trickle of pleasure skipped over her skin. “I was…tired.”

  “I’m not surprised,” he chuckled. “What a lovely night it was. May I hope we can repeat it?”

  “Uh…” She swallowed. Oh, why not? “Yes, Gabriel. I hope we can.”

  “Excellent.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now, let’s see to getting my Medieval Lady into her garments, shall we?”

  Gwyneth went through her morning toilette, drank her tea and slipped into a long cotton chemise. Originally she had planned on wearing the velvet over dress with an accompanying homespun gown, but the impending warmth of the day persuaded both of them that the lightweight cotton would be a better choice.

  Gabriel stood behind her, lacing the velvet. “Not too tight?”

  “No, that’s ideal, thank you,” she watched him in her tall mirror. The green brought out the chestnut hues in her hair, and the white puffed sleeves of her chemise were a perfect foil to the elegant embroidery that edged the shoulders and hem of her overdress.

  “Now, let’s see…” Gabriel reached for the silk flower arrangement that would fit over her curls and trail ribbons down her back. He tucked it in, twining her hair around it, adding a few pins and then stepping back to survey his work. “There. I think that’s perfect…”

  She turned side to side. “Oh yes. It’s the finishing touch, isn’t it?” She lifted a finger and pushed in a pin, just to make sure it was secure. “I hardly know it’s there,” she smiled.

  “In that case you won’t worry about it,” said Gabriel practically. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I must be off. I have tight stockings to get into.” He grimaced. “It was a good idea when I thought of it, but in reality it’s not terribly comfortable.”

  “You’ll be sweating too,” she tossed back at him.

  “Good point.” He nodded. “Some extra lavender water today, I think.” He winked at her and hurried from the room.

  She shook her head. He would look wonderful in his tights, she knew. Gabriel had fine legs. As did all her gentlemen.

  Eager to see said legs on said gentlemen, she left her chamber and went downstairs, wondering if Evan had had time to put any food together.

  “There’s toast and jam…”

  Evan’s words rang through the hall as she walked to the Rose room. “I’ll be back up with fresh tea…” He vanished toward the kitchen.

  Gwyneth had opened her mouth to tell him not to worry but he’d already gone. She sighed and continued on, knowing that today was probably going to be much the same, a lot of running around and not enough getting done.

  Church would come first, of course, a chance for everyone to gather and give thanks on this Whit Sunday which had originally been the much more sober day of Pentecost.

  Besides giving thanks, they’d be showing off their finery and parading from the Church to Wolfbridge in a long line of happy smiles and trailing ribbons.

  Gwyneth and her gentlemen would leave first and drive back, thus giving themselves a head start on organising everything. Mrs B had elected to come directly to Wolfbridge with Jane; neither was dressing in costume, and Jane said she would appreciate the chance to stay inside if it was a hot day. The two of them would attend to various things in the kitchen with Evan’s full approval, and the plan seemed logical and effective.

  Gwyneth took a piece of toast, slathered butter and jam on it, and prayed the rest of the day would go as smoothly.

  “Good morning, my sweet Lady.” Evan returned with the teapot and leaned over Gwyneth, kissing her upturned face much as Gabriel had done, earlier. His simple shirt was open, showing his magnificent chest. His tight breeches were also effective, showing other magnificent things. He wore a heavy belt and what looked like a leather sheath. She guessed some sort of sword would go into it during the d
ay.

  She decided she rather liked being kissed in the morning, especially when she could run her fingers over rippling muscles.

  “You smell divine.” He took in a deep breath. “Mmm…lily of the valley and lilacs, isn’t it?”

  Gwyneth nodded. “Yes, it is. Mrs Smart sent a little bottle over just yesterday. I mentioned I loved those two blooms, and she promised me she’d see if she could create something especially for me.”

  “It’s unique. And lovely. Just like you.” His eyes dropped to her lips and she lifted her face for another, slightly more passionate, morning kiss.

  “I say, I’d like some of that too…” Jeremy jingled into the room, the bells on his short cape sounding his every move. He carried the traditional jester hat in his hand.

  “Oh my,” Gwyneth’s eyes widened. “You look marvellous, Jeremy. The perfect jester.”

  “Do I get a kiss, my kind Lady?” He swept her a magnificent bow.

  “Of course, Sir Fool.”

  He took his reward, generously, lovingly, with her full cooperation. “Ahhh,” he sighed. “It’s not bad, being a fool for a lovely lady.”

  “More Puck than Falstaff, one would hope…” Royce strolled in, his country outfit of a farmer’s smock over light breeches suiting him perfectly. “May a humble countryman join the fun?”

  Gwyneth rolled her eyes and beckoned him. “Come here.”

  He walked to her, his smile warm, his eyes roaming over her body. “May I say I much admire your bounteous charms, my sweet?”

  Since he was eyeing her bosom, she was in no doubt as to his reference. “Kiss me. It’ll take your eyes off my chest.”

  “The sacrifices I’m required to make,” he sighed dramatically. “But for a touch of your lips, dear Gwyneth, I’ll do my best to obey.”

  He did so, and she discovered that the heat of the day was as nothing compared to the heat engendered by being kissed so often and so thoroughly by such delightful gentlemen.

  Surrounded by a farmer, a jester, a would-be knight, and Gabriel—who arrived clad correctly as a Medieval footman—Gwyneth could easily have imagined herself as the Lady of some long-ago manor, about to host the local joust.

  When Giles strolled in, garbed as a nobleman, complete with full length tabard, her day was complete.

  His pristine white collar topped a chequered tunic; the predominant colours of white and purple the ideal foil for her green overdress. “Giles,” she breathed. “We must stand together all day. How divine we’ll look together.”

  He shook his head and grinned. “Women.”

  The laugh was general and since this was but a brief respite, tea was hastily drunk and toast equally hastily consumed.

  The entire party managed to reach St. Polycarp’s before the service began and there was much giggling, whispering and fussing in the pews as the Wolfbridge group found their respective seats.

  In consideration of those behind him, Giles removed his feathered hat. “We’re all going to be sweating like pigs before this day is over,” he murmured.

  “I have a feeling you’re correct,” she whispered back. “’Tis much hotter than we’d anticipated.”

  He nodded. “Heavy too. Probably a storm later.”

  Vicar Thomas walked to the centre of the aisle and received a rumble of appreciation. He wore his robes, of course, but had added a whimsical hat that King Henry the Eighth would doubtless have worn with pride. Large, ornamented most royally, and perched at a saucy angle, the vicar had clearly embraced the spirit of the day.

  He continued to demonstrate this by keeping his sermon short and sweet, making sure the prayers were since but brief, and finishing before little Freddy Smith started to wriggle.

  Truly a magnificent accomplishment, upon which Gwyneth complimented him as she departed. “Well done, sir,” she smiled at him. “I hope we’ll have the pleasure of your company this afternoon?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it, my Lady.” He glanced up at the sky. “Although I’ll wager we’re in for a spot of bother later on…”

  “I agree,” responded Giles. “We’ll make sure there’s shelter available.”

  “Excellent.”

  The Vicar nodded and turned to the next in line, as Gwyneth and Giles made their way back to the carriage, to be joined in a few moments by the four gentlemen. Gwyneth couldn’t help noticing the number of female eyes following the rare display of masculine legs in tight stockings, and bare chests inside loose shirts.

  It was good to know those legs and those chests were hers. And she did her own fair share of admiring—since she knew they looked even better when they were completely naked.

  *~~*~~*

  Wolfbridge looked somewhere between magnificent and ridiculous, mused Giles as he walked around the lawns and observed the multi-hued banners and flags that decorated both tables and tents like massive coloured flakes of snow.

  It was probably not dissimilar to something that would have entertained the local serfs in the seventeenth century, but he would wager the food on this day was better.

  The scent of roast pork drifted through the crowds, making his mouth water. Evan had several young helpers, and they were eagerly turning the spit for him, at his direction.

  He stopped for a moment, caught by surprise at the sight of Royce and Gabriel juggling red, blue and yellow balls with astounding dexterity.

  The gaggle of youngsters, and more than a few of their parents, surrounding the two men were laughing and cheering, and Giles noticed the hobby horses and swords—a superb notion that had clearly been a huge success.

  The tents were surrounded by a variety of costumes; it would seem to the casual observer that residents of several centuries had decided to gather together to celebrate Pentecost.

  There were many tall, pointed hats with veils fluttering in the mild breeze. There were ladies who shamelessly flaunted their assets in heavy corsets, probably raided from their grandmothers’ trunks. One or two boasted panniers, although the fabric covering them looked a bit moth-eaten and they had to take extraordinary care when walking between tables of food.

  Overall, Giles was very pleased that everyone was so enthusiastic. Aside from the juggling, the children had other games to play, and Trick was there, on one side of the wide lawn, with more than a few interested faces waiting for a ride on the donkey. Many visitors had their hands full things as diverse as a jar of jam, a cake, or a covered plate of biscuits. Mrs B and Jane were handing out slices of pie, and Jeremy was busy making sure everyone could have several ladles of cold water should they be overcome with heat.

  Giles headed to the table where the barrel of ale sat tucked into the shade. It would be his job to tap it and fill the tankards of the thirsty. There would be many on a day like this, he knew. Situated right next to Jeremy, the two of them would work together if need be, and there was a second barrel ready, just in case.

  “A good day, Giles,” called Jeremy, wiping his forehead. “But I could do with less heat. Can you do something about it?”

  Giles rolled his eyes. “I wish I could.” He began to put empty tankards out on the table, several rows to start with.

  “’Tis a fine crowd,” said Mrs B. “I’ll take two o’ these, lad. Jane ‘as a fierce thirst an’ ale’s good fer ‘er.”

  Giles filled two tankards. “The day going well for you, I hope?”

  “Fine as can be, thank yer. We already sold ‘alf a dozen o’ my gooseberry pies. Them tarts are flyin’ off the table, an’ I reckon we’ll be done a’fore too long.” She glanced up at the sky. “Storm’s a’comin’.”

  “I know.” Giles nodded. “Not much we can do about it. But you might let people know that the doors to our ballroom are unlocked. If it turns bad, they can shelter in there. No chairs or anything, and probably a few mice, but it’s dry.”

  “Good idea.” The older woman nodded. “I’ll let ‘em know.” She took her tankards and made her way back to her tent.

  Royce and Gabriel made their way up,
shiny with sweat and panting a little. “Ahhh, ale. Yes.” Royce grabbed an empty tankard and held it out to Giles. “Fill it. Please. Have pity on a dying man.”

  Giles did so, handing it back with a grin. “You surprised me. Both of you.” His glance took in Gabriel as well. “I was impressed with your juggling skills.” A tankard for Gabriel followed his statement.

  Neither man answered for a moment or two while they slaked their thirsts. Then Royce wiped his mouth on his sleeve, sighed with pleasure and grinned. “Neither of us knew the other one could do it,” he said. “So when I saw Gabriel juggling, and took the chance to see whether I could still do it…well, the show was born.”

  “You’re damn good at it,” complimented Gabriel, belching slightly. “God, that’s good, Giles. Thank you.”

  A rumble in the distance made a lot of people pause and turn to look over their shoulders.

  “Damn,” said Royce. “Those are not friendly clouds.”

  Giles had to agree. On the far horizon, behind the hills surrounding Wolfbridge, lurked a massive gathering of darkness, black and grey clouds tipped with white where the sunlight could hit them. They were not, as Royce so aptly put it, friendly clouds.

  “Couple of hours yet, I’d say,” offered Gabriel.

  “I agree. Let’s hope the winds change and blow it in another direction.”

  Gwyneth’s voice brought all their heads around. She’d walked up, unseen, as they were focussing on the storm brewing to the west.

  “My Lady,” bowed Giles. “Magnificent as always.”

  She shook her head. “Nonsense. But I do feel quite Medieval, thanks to this garb and my flowers.” She touched her hand to her head. “And it seems as though everyone is enjoying themselves.”

  “I’ve heard nothing but praise,” said Jeremy, coming up to her with a deep ladle filled with water. “Here. You might not want an ale, but you should drink plenty of water in this weather.”

  She gave him a warm smile. “Thank you, Mama.”

  He sighed. “I try. But really. Children, these days.” He looked at Giles and shrugged. “There’s no accounting for them.”