by Thea Devine
"That was nice of Olivia," she agreed, but she still felt disquieted. Olivia was making her into someone she was not.
Making you into the woman you really are.
Wise Emily. It wasn't the dresses being taken that bothered her. It was the woman part, the part that precipitated the reactions of Lujan and Kyger. The way they looked at her. Like an object of. . . someone they could .. . someone they might—
She brushed those disquieting thoughts away. That would never happen. Not ever. She was not nearly of their social class, she was not that kind of woman, not someone men like that married.
Hugo had stolen that away from her, anyway. She mustn't forget that. And he'd paid for it with a quid's worth of clothing that disguised what she would always be—a dirty girl.
That was what was driving her discomfort: they would never think of her as anything but a dirty girl—someone fit to be a companion, someone to be paid—someone they would pay to bed— but nothing else.
Still, it was hard to feel dirty wearing those new clothes. She was the equal of any girl she had ever known in that beautiful blue dress. Maybe that was all she had ever wanted: to be equal with them and not a charity girl, when she knew the truth was, she could have been as wealthy as they, but for fate—or Hugo Galliard.
If she let herself, she could really work up a full head of anger over that. She had tamped it down. Tried to forget it while she
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tended to Olivia's needs and tried to be honorable about the contract she'd made with Hugo.
But really—that was why she was here. To redress it somehow. She hadn't forgotten about that—and the beautiful dresses made it that much harder, being something she never could have afforded herself—but she still didn't know what to do.
Emily didn't blink once. Wait and see.
"What do you mean?" She thought about it a minute. Oh— exactly. Emily meant that some idea, some way would present itself. There was no rush, on her father's account; he wasn't coming to England, ever. But she would be with Olivia for an appreciable amount of time—Olivia was not flagging yet. She seemed still to have energy and interest in everything around her even though she tired easily, so there was time to figure out whatever it was her father expected her to do.
Meantime, she would deal the best way she could with Lujan and his knowing eyes, and his unholy appetites, and his propensity for scandal and disaster.
Emily got to her feet and stretched, the way only a cat can stretch—with every bone in her body and legs. Hugo will make him leave.
"Oh—of course he will. I should have thought of that. He doesn't want Lujan here any more than any of us do. Why am I so worried?"
Emily shook herself daintily. I have no idea. I have mice to catch. She jumped off the bed, and slid sinuously through the crack in the door.
When Jancie threw it open, she was gone. Obviously Emily knew her way around the house better than she did. Knew all the secret entryways. Knew every nook and cranny where she could hide from Olivia and sneak down to the kitchen without being seen.
Such a smart cat. But she felt better. Talking to Emily always made things better. This was her companion and her confidant, the one with whom she had conversations and commiserations, who mirrored back and agreed with everything she thought and felt. And somehow yet again, she had come up with the best advice.
She felt hungry now, ready to face Lujan and anything else. A
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way would present itself. And she would know in time what her father wanted her to do.
Dear Father,
All goes well here. It is no onerous chore to be Olivia's companion. She is charming, generous, thoughtful. She has provided me with a small wardrobe, and Hugo agreed to a modest remuneration for my time here. When I join you finally in Delhi, I will be a woman with means. I hope you enjoy that notion. It is a good feeling. Days pass slowly and quietly. We have a routine, part of which requires that Olivia have extensive rest. I am sad to tell you that the progression of her illness can only lead to one result. But her family is coping with it as they can. Both sons are in residence, and Lujan, surprisingly, is taking an interest in the running of the estate; everyone thought he would be spending the season in London as he always does . ..
He was spending the season not spending himself in every available body in the whorehouses of London. He was learning the business of the estate, learning to restrain his wicked nature, and watching Jancie.
He couldn't believe that he had willingly given up the fleshpots of London for the bucolic joys of tending to estate and family.
But something had shifted. Olivia seemed weaker and more distracted. Kyger was running things far too well. His father looked both weary and eager, in a way that didn't bode well for any of them.
And Jancie—well, the duck had turned into a swan and that was a very dangerous thing, if his father's covert interest was any indication.
He wondered if Jancie weren't a little too eager to serve, a little too comfortable in her circumstances, a little too cozy with his mother.
For all he knew, Olivia might leave Jancie everything she had, and then where would they all be?
Whose idea had it been for Jancie to come to Waybury anyway?
Shit. That was what cutting back on whores and wine did to you—it made your brain sharp and your inner eye clear. It made
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everything come into focus and suddenly, you saw what was under your nose that you had overlooked before.
Things like Kyger, so entrenched in the business of running things, the younger son who would never inherit, but harboring resentments, anger, bitterness—loath to relinquish what had been his domain for years to his feckless older brother who had never given a goddamn about his birthright.
Or his mother, fading before his very eyes, when no one else who was around her every day seemed to see it. Making busy-work for herself to keep herself going. Making Jancie into a living doll that she could dress and embellish to pass the time.
Or his father, hoarding passion, money, diamonds, and secrets, who played the country gentleman to perfection, but still was wary and uneasy somewhere in his soul.
And Jancie. She was the perfect companion—too perfect?— subsuming that spark of spirit she had shown the day she arrived into a more deferential posture, more fitting with what Hugo and Olivia expected of a companion?
To watch her, you would think her sole desire in life was to see to Olivia's comfort. She was very, very good at it. And his mother was very content to have her.
But he thought there was more to it than that. There had to be. Now that she was dressed up, now that her dowdy clothes had been made over, and she moved around the house in her elegant, economical way, taking care of Olivia, there had to be something more. She wasn't passive, for all she was young, and polite. She hadn't given in on the question of the cat. Or apparently on some remuneration for her time and trouble with his mother, if Kyger was to be believed.
Surely she was submerging her real feelings, her real desires, her real purpose. She had to be thinking all the time about the differences between her father's lot in life and life at Waybury House.
She had to be wondering—anyone would wonder—had all the diamonds been lost to those kidnappers and thieves all those years ago? Everything lost that her father and Hugo had gambled on, and almost given their lives for? Or had Hugo been able to hide one, or a handful, a cacheful of diamonds—enough to fuel a
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gentleman's life in a place where no one would ever question his wealth or think to look for him?
Even he wondered sometimes, especially because Olivia was always quick to tell anyone that Waybury and all that accrued from it had passed from her side of the family to her.
Too quick?
He never questioned it. Why had he never questioned it?
As for what really happened at Kaamberoo—well, he never questioned that, either. Nor was he one to invite
confidences, and he had never been the kind of son to whom Hugo would want to impart them.
He was the rakehell son. The to-hell-and-gone son. The one to whom a father did not delegate responsibility, give money, or make plans for. The one about whom a father threw up his hands and said, You know Lujan. You can't depend on him for anything.
And so here he was, making believe he was dependable.
Or was it make-believe? Could a man change that much so soon?
He could if his mother was dying, if his younger brother was making himself too indispensable, if his father was really a thief, and if a stranger who could bear a grudge had insinuated herself into the fabric of his family's life.
Funny how clear it all seemed to him now. He had always thought drink was the fuel of clarity. It was like waking up to the bright sunlight and realizing the day had as much allure as the attractions of the night.
And that he had been asleep for far too long.
******************
Everything was different now. It was in the air, in the way Kyger and Lujan looked at her. Those clothes had transformed her somehow. Made her into—what?
A woman. No longer a dirty girl. No longer a girl. Because suddenly she comprehended that she was feeling with a woman's intuition now, seeing with a woman's eyes, responding with a woman's interest to a man's presence, gaze, need, words.
It thrilled her. It scared her to death.
She wanted to grab hold of Emily, grab what was left of her meager possessions, and leave Waybury House this instant.
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And then what?
Emily, ever practical.
Of course. There was still the hanging question of her father— what he wanted, what he expected.
And Olivia?
Exactly—she was honor bound to complete her contract— how could she leave Olivia? Especially now.
And Kyger.
And, a knowing little voice whispered, Lujan?
But it wasn't like that, it wasn't. She had no expectations, it was only that Kyger was so kind, so—exactly the opposite of Lujan—who looked at her as if he could see every inch of naked skin beneath her dress, who looked at her as if she were his equal, of his social status, and not a dirty girl.
And—he made her feel like a woman.
Made her feel—-just by looking at her.
Made her start looking for him, made her miss his presence if he somehow on some pretext did not intercept her at some point during the course of the day.
She became aware, more aware of her body than she ever had been. And too aware of feelings and sensations that were a road map of pleasure if only she would follow it. Feelings that gave her deep, knowing pleasure just anticipating where any and all of this knowledge and play would lead.
She felt such guilt feeling these things while Olivia was so ill.
And so withal, she became even more attentive to Olivia. But no amount of time, no amount of good care, could prevent Olivia's illness from running its course.
Olivia was failing, it was clear. Everyone became more attentive to Olivia as the year wore on.
Even Emily. Emily slipped into her room whenever Olivia slept and curled up next to her, a coil of cat-heat and a reassuring presence that slipped past all the barriers that Olivia had created to give a dying woman comfort.
Jancie tried only once to lift Emily away from Olivia's quiescent body.
But Emily wasn't moving. She put out a restraining claw and looked up at her with those oh-so-wise golden eyes.
Olivia needs me.
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If Olivia knew, she never protested.
It was only a matter of time. Jancie was constantly with her. And Emily.
And as Olivia's life force waned, something new and budding sprang to life, and one day, as she was tending to Olivia and watching Lujan ride out down the long shell driveway to the front gate, Jancie suddenly comprehended why she had been brought to Waybury House and exactly what she had to do.
Chapter five
"So, Jancie . . ."
Lujan again, coming down the hallway as she checked on Olivia, as he had every day for the past year. It had gotten so she wanted to see him, looked for him, and was insanely disappointed if he missed a day.
"Lujan."
He came up right behind her, peering over her shoulder at Olivia. Touching her. Touching her arm, her shoulder.
"The cat is with her?"
"She won't move." Jancie didn't want to move. She was too aware of his hand, so warm, so large, on her shoulder. So aware of him, so tall and pulsating, beside her. "Somehow Emily always manages to slip out of there before Olivia awakens, but she's always with her when she sleeps. I wonder if she knows."
"Oh, I think she knows," Lujan whispered. "You take such good care of her, Cinderella. I wish you'd take that good care of me."
She ignored that, and wriggled out from under his hand. She knew exactly what he meant by that, but she wasn't biting. She was learning a lot about Lujan.
Taking on responsibility had not dampened his desire to play;
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he expected women to fall into his arms, especially someone who was a paid companion, so that the more reluctant she appeared, the more persistent he became.
She wasn't reluctant at all. She had come to allow him liberties that gave her great pleasure, but she didn't know how far she wanted to take this game, how deep she wanted to play. She only knew his interest was a welcome respite from her time with Olivia and she needed it. Wanted it. Encouraged it for reasons of her own.
"A companion can't be too careful, Lujan. But you know that, I'm certain."
"But I wonder all the time—what does Cinderella know?"
"She knows her place," Jancie said primly.
"But Mother is sleeping and your place is now with me. We can take a walk around the grounds for a while. Come . .. you need some time out of the house. It must be deadly, manufacturing things to talk about and things to do day after day."
"And how would it be different with you?" Jancie asked pertly. This was a set piece between them, with different dialogue every day, but today he surprised her.
"Oh, I think we can find things to talk about and things to do naturally," Lujan said lightly. "Come. I promise, Father won't deduct this hour from your wages."
He took her arm and pulled her toward the staircase. Down they went, exactly in step, and out the door into the crisp fall air.
It had been coming to this. Olivia was failing, but so slowly, oh so slowly. Sometimes she seemed revitalized, sometimes she could get out of bed and come down to breakfast, sometimes she had the energy to sit in the garden, and had the concentration to listen to Jancie read to her.
It gave them hope that things would get better; or they could pretend they would.
But still, for Jancie, it had been a wearing year and a half tending to her, and dodging Lujan's double-edged comments, and his restless hands, while trying at the same time to provoke his interest.
And too soon, she found she looked forward to crossing verbal swords with him, and that she craved the light touch of his ringers on her arm, her hand, her shoulder.
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A caress across the cheek, once, which sent little darts flicking to her vitals every time she thought of it after. She took those moments to bed with her. She nurtured them.
And Lujan knew it. He knew it so well—he knew just how to create them, how to excite her, arouse her, and then withdraw, leaving her hungering for more.
There were kisses in the garden—light, sweet, luscious kisses. And his hands, as he wrapped his arms around her, and cupped her breasts, oh, his hands. . . Still, it had taken more than a year for her to acquiesce to his touching her in any sexual way. A year of his light, flirtatious coaxing, his expert kisses, his hunger for her, voiced in that seductive whisper in her ear.
A year to arouse him to a fever pitch.
"Watch out for him,"
Kyger said, ever her protector.
"Nonsense. I would have thought everyone would be delighted he was taking an interest in estate matters."
"Lujan is only interested in himself. He has never spent this amount of time at Waybury. Beware, Jancie. Remember, I warned you."
But perhaps, Jancie thought, Kyger had his own reasons for saying these things. Lujan had everything in hand now, things that had previously been solely Kyger's purview. He rode the estate, he monitored the accounts, he paid out the monies due, he saw to the planting and the harvest, all tasks that had heretofore been Kyger's domain.
What must Kyger be thinking of Lujan usurping all that had been his responsibility?
But it wouldn't be too long now. Olivia was fading. Slowly, inexorably, the disease was taking its toll. It was only a matter of time. She was bedridden, weak, listless. Emily kept her company night and day now, and she made no protest, because Emily's presence seemed to give her a certain kind of strength.
Sometimes Jancie came in and found her stroking Emily's head, or Emily curled in the crook of her arm as she slept.
"God, I hate this," Jancie fretted as they all sat in the library one cool evening. There was a blazing fire in the fireplace and the kerosene lamps flickered low as Hugo tried to read the paper, and Kyger sat watching Jancie as she attempted some embroidery just to keep busy. "I don't want to lose her."
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"But it seems we must, Jancie, whatever we may want," Hugo said, and there was a note in his voice that made Jancie look at him curiously.
Kyger heard it, too, and instantly reached for her hand. What did his father mean by that? Resignation, perhaps? Trying to convince Jancie, and himself? Or was it that he was relieved things would soon be over?
He didn't like the look on his father's face. And as much as he tried to suppress it, there was something other than grief there when he looked at Jancie. Why?
His father was still staring at her. Jancie had lowered her gaze back to her embroidery hoop, so that she didn't see the brief flaring gleam in Hugo's eyes.
But Kyger saw it. And he didn't like it.
