Fiery Possession

by Margaret Tanner

  The bedroom, papered in a tiny floral pattern, had four pendant-type lanterns set out at intervals along the walls. Curtains of plush red velvet, like she imagined they might have in a bordello, covered the windows. She trembled at the sight of a large four-poster bed set on a raised platform.

  “There's a dressing room leading to Mr. Campton's room. Perhaps you might like to refresh yourself while I arrange for some tea, Miss Saunders.”

  “Thank you. Don't put yourself out for me. I'm used to caring for myself. Miss Saunders sounds too formal, call me Jo, everyone else does. You've gone to a lot of trouble, everything is lovely.”

  “He isn't a bad man, you know.”

  “Isn't he?” She didn’t even try to hide her bitterness

  “No. He can be hard, but he’s got to be.” With these cryptic words she disappeared with a swish of her skirts

  Curiosity got the better of Jo. She pushed open the door leading to the dressing room and glanced around. Everything appeared of solid good quality. Without even the slightest twinge of conscience, she opened the door into Luke's bedroom, and caught her breath in surprise. So plain as to be austere, the dark brown carpet exactly matched the window drapes. The walls and ceilings were of stained wood.

  She scuttled back into the dressing room where another door she hadn’t at first noticed led to a room with a large bath resting on heavy clawed feet. A full-length mirror hung on one wall, a large china washing bowl and several matching jugs of various sizes sat on a marble-topped dresser. One of the smaller jugs was obviously used for shaving, as a brush, still showing signs of lather on the bristles, rested in it.

  Would Luke have a valet? He could easily afford one, yet somehow did not appear to be the type. Apart from his ruthless arrogance, she knew little about him.

  Back in the sitting room, she grimaced at her appearance. She certainly didn't look like the usual run of mistresses. No, they would be clad in low cut gowns, their bosoms amply displayed for their master's enjoyment.

  Mrs. Osborne, returning with a tea tray, interrupted her thoughts. The tray and matching tea service were of heavily carved silver, but the china was delicate, eggshell thin. One large plate held dainty sandwiches.

  “Thank you, I can pour for myself.” The woman hesitated. Jo smiled to take any sting out of her words. “Honestly, I prefer it.”

  “As you wish, Mr. Campton left instructions for you to have anything you need. In the wardrobe are some gowns. He wishes you to wear the green one for dinner.”

  Does he indeed, she fumed, when the housekeeper left. How dare he humiliate her in such a fashion? She stormed into the bedroom, wrenched the wardrobe door open then stopped dead. Before her eyes were an array of gowns, the like of which would normally only repose in a high-class dressmaker's window.

  Despising her feminine weakness, she fingered the silks and taffetas. That green matched perfectly with her eyes. It was truly beautiful and would have cost a lot of money. He could easily afford it, probably made plenty stealing cattle and cheating small farmers out of their properties. In all fairness that wasn’t true, much and all as she hated to admit it. He was ruthless and hell bent on having his own way, but she had never heard anything about him being dishonest.

  An idea suddenly came to her. Luke Campton wanted a whore, so he would have one. Fortunately, Fiona had insisted on packing her sewing basket. It was tempting to rip half the bodice away, to make it even lower, but it was desecration on such a lovely garment. Instead, she unpicked the waistline, lifted the bodice away and carefully took out one of the front panels of the skirt, from which to fashion another top.

  Taking the tray back to the kitchen gave her another idea. One of the scullery maids had rouged cheeks. She managed to catch the girl's eyes, and with a gesture or two arranged to meet her outside the kitchen door.

  Just as she decided the girl wouldn’t be coming, she appeared. On closer inspection she looked coarse, frightful for one so young, but it served her purpose.

  “Do you have any face make up I could borrow?”

  “Ain’t got much. Me sister gave me some, she works at Glory's.”

  “I could let you have a pair of silk stockings in exchange for some make up.”

  At this piece of bribery, the girl capitulated immediately. Who wouldn't in her position? Over the last few months Jo had not felt silk stockings against her skin, while this poor thing had probably never worn them.

  “Bring me the things as soon as you can, I'll meet you out on the side verandah.”

  “Might be a while before I can sneak off. Cook hardly lets us raise our heads, horrible old witch.”

  “I'll wait until you come, not a word to anyone though. I'd hate you to get into trouble.”

  “No, not a word, I swear.”

  She didn’t like putting the girl in such an insidious position, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

  Back in the bedroom she picked up two pairs of silk stockings. Obviously Luke's fancy women had all the little luxuries a rich man could supply. Her hands shook, yet her nerve endings tingled on thinking about tonight.

  The huge vase of roses gave out a heady perfume in the coolness of the coming dusk. It took a long time to alter the gown, but the results were worth it. If nothing else, the sewing made the hours pass quickly.

  Darkness had fallen before the girl came. Jo almost went insane with worry in case Luke arrived home first.

  “I couldn't get away. Cook made me scrub the hearth again.”

  “Have you got the things?”

  “Here.”

  Jo grabbed the roughly wrapped bundle and handed over the stockings

  “There's some perfume too.” The maid waited expectantly.

  “Oh, all right, here's a lace handkerchief. I'll see you get these things back in the morning.” The maid darted off with her booty.

  Back inside, Jo took the top off the perfume and sniffed, horribly cheap, perfect for tonight. Powder, rouge, she would paint a mole on her face too. Laughter bubbled up inside her. It ended on a hysterical note when she thought of Luke's anger but it wasn’t in her nature to even consider backing down once her plans were laid.

  She pulled the bell cord in the sitting room and when a maid appeared asked what time they served dinner.

  “Eight o'clock, Miss. Mr. Campton always has a drink at seven-thirty.”

  “Oh? Where do I go for that?” She listened to the girl's directions. “Thank you. What's your name?”

  “Lizzie, Miss.” She bobbed her head. The pretty girl wore a grey frock with a lacy white apron. “My sister works here, too. She got me the job.”

  “Are you treated well?”

  “Yes, if you do your work, they leave you alone. Mrs. Osborne is nice.”

  “What about Mr. Campton?” Jo could not help herself.

  The girl hesitated.

  “Don’t worry, anything you say to me will go no further. I'm only here because I have to be.”

  “I don't see him much. I'm only a junior maid. He leaves the running of the house to Mrs. Osborne, pays well and we get plenty to eat.”

  Jo smiled. “Thank you, Lizzie.” He treated his employees decently, probably his only virtue.

  She sat on the settee reading a book when Luke strode in. A film of red dust covered his clothes.

  “Good evening, Jo. I see you came.”

  “Did I have a choice?”

  He ignored her last remark. “Were you made comfortable?”

  “Yes, thank you. Why all the fuss and deference? I'm not the mistress of this house.”

  “No, you'll be my mistress.” He hesitated, as if waiting for something; instinctively she knew what it was.

  “If you're waiting for me to thank you for the clothes, don't bother. I only came here because you forced me. You might be able to buy co-operation at the town brothel, but it won't work with me.”

  The breath hissed angrily from between his clenched teeth. “I expect you to have a pre-dinner drink with me a
t seven-thirty. Jo, wear the green gown.”

  “What if I choose not to?”

  “So help me, I'll put it on you myself, if I have to.”

  He turned on his heel and strode towards the master bedroom. Slam, the first door went. Slam the second. He had reached his own room now.

  She waited with nervous tension building up. Maybe her plan wasn’t such a good idea. Her head told her it was extremely foolish antagonizing him, but pride would not allow her to go down without putting up some show of resistance.

  Listening for the sounds of Luke's departure from his room caused her apprehension to mount. By the time his footsteps faded away, perspiration dampened her hands.

  After she had finished dressing and applied the makeup, she scarcely recognized herself. The mirror showed a painted harlot. The mole at the side of her upper lip proved a final masterful touch. As for the low cleavage of her gown, would it be possible to go through the evening without her breasts tumbling out?

  She dabbed the nauseating perfume on with a heavy hand. How could any sane person want to wear it in normal circumstances? A fan would have added a nice touch. A pity she didn’t have one.

  Right on seven-thirty she left the bedroom and followed the hallway toward the front of the house. Had it not taken nearly the whole afternoon to alter the gown, she would have explored the house from end to end.

  She did not know whether it was instinct on Luke's part, or whether the perfume alerted him of her arrival. As he swung around, she only had time to notice he wore a dark suit.

  “What the hell.” He advanced menacingly towards her. “Get that muck off your face. You look and smell like a dockside harlot.”

  “That's exactly how I'll feel after tonight.”

  His eyes focused on the cutaway portion of the gown. A pulse convulsed in his jaw.

  “Go and change immediately.”

  “If I don't?”

  “I shall personally tear that abomination right off you myself. You have less than half an hour to make yourself presentable before joining me for dinner.”

  “I don't wish to share a meal with you.”

  He towered over her. “You will eat. I'll have no woman sharing my bed who faints through lack of nourishment. I have a feeling you might need all your strength. I'm a lusty devil and can be a demanding lover.”

  The blood pumped through her veins, and she couldn’t be sure whether it was anger or excitement. A combination of both? She raised her hand to strike his taunting face, but he grabbed her arm in a vice like grip and twisted it up her back, bringing her body hard up against his.

  “Don't ever raise your hand to me, Yankee woman. I'm not some foppish city gentleman. Hit me and I swear, you’ll be sorry.”

  “You, you animal,” she spluttered, even though his touch ignited a firestorm deep within the core of her being, a blazing inferno that could be doused by him alone. How could a well brought up young woman hate a man, yet crave his touch?

  He pulled out a gold pocket watch. “Twenty-five minutes left.” Releasing her suddenly he stepped back. She fled, tears of rage burning at the back of her eyes.

  In the bedroom she slipped out of the gown and kicked it to one side. “You're a beautiful thing, but I hate you now.”

  She scrubbed at the make up to remove it, and after washing away the cheap perfume as best she could, disguised the remaining odor by liberally splashing herself with lavender water. What would she wear? A maize-colored silk came to hand. It had a square neckline, edged with matching lace and a cream silk chemisette.

  Sitting in front of the mirror, she ran the brush through her hair several times. There was no time to put it up now, so it flowed about her shoulders in reddish gold waves. The thought of what lay ahead heightened the color in her cheeks, brought a shimmering glow to her eyes and had her heart hammering against her rib cage.

  With small, reluctant steps, she made her way back to the salon, the silky skirts making a soft rustling sound where they brushed the floor. Luke lay sprawled out in a chair, one booted foot crossed over the other. At her entrance, he rose. His eyes traveled all over her, lingering longest on her lips.

  “Would you care for a drink?”

  She hesitated.

  “Dry gin and soda for you, I think. Justerini and Brooks make a nice drop. I'm partial to James Dickson's Thistle whisky myself.”

  “Gin please.” Normally not a drinker of alcohol, she felt badly in need of something to calm her frayed nerves. The thought of getting drunk had merit. It might reduce the pain of whatever tonight promised.

  “Maybe a weak one.”

  She snatched it out of his hand and downed it in a gulp. To her mortification, her eyes watered.

  He threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  “Another please.”

  “I think not. My little Yankee woman isn't used to drinking alcohol.”

  “Must be a novel experience for you, your usual sluts would toss it down easily.”

  “It doesn't become you to speak coarsely.”

  “Why not? After tonight, I'll feel dirtier and lower than a dockside harlot.”

  “I'm warning you,” he snarled. “Keep this up and you'll wish you’d never been born.”

  “I do now. Don't do this terrible thing to me. What happened to Tim was an accident. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  Her plea should have melted any man, but he lusted for revenge. She was responsible for his brother’s death. His libido raced out of control every time he saw her, let alone touched her. He couldn’t afford such weakness, had to get her out of his system once and for all, and a few nights in his bed was the only sure way of doing it.

  The dining room was large, painted in the palest of pink, while the decorated ceilings and cornices were in a deep rose color. Jo glanced quickly around and in normal circumstances would have admired it. A long table, set with a pristine white cloth, silver cutlery and delicate bone china crockery, dominated the room.

  Their meal started with a clear consommé served with tiny bread rolls still warm from the oven, and she forced it past her dry lips. He ate with enjoyment, and why not? Everything had worked out exactly as he had planned it.

  “Eat up. My staff went to a lot of trouble. I told them to put on a special meal, as a way of celebration.”

  “A celebration?” she shrilled.

  “Yes, a celebration. Anyone would think you were at a wake.”

  “A wake would be a happy occasion compared to this.”

  A tightening of his lips was the only indication of his displeasure, but his burning eyes warned her that retribution would come later.

  One course leisurely followed another, all beautifully cooked and served. Two maids anxious to please hovered in the background. The cutlery and crockery were of the finest quality. Luke could afford, and obviously expected, the best of everything.

  She hadn’t eaten a decent meal in weeks, yet every mouthful of roast turkey stuck in her throat. Tea and little heart-shaped biscuits were served in the sitting room. She nibbled on a biscuit, while he swirled the contents of his wine glass.

  “Do you play the piano?” His question broke the silence hovering between them.

  She nodded.

  “There's a grand piano in the drawing room. Would you play something for me?” Her first thought was refusal, but Fiona's words came back, warning her not to antagonize him, and he had asked, not commanded. Maybe if she placated him, things would go easier.

  “What would you like me to play?” She rose to her feet slowly, waiting with her head drooping.

  He came up to her and unclenched her hands.

  “Am I such a monster?” he asked softly. “You don't have to be frightened of me.” He used his thumb to brush a tendril of hair away from her cheek.

  She trembled. His face, only inches away from hers, seemed to have softened, the harsh planes smoothed away by the subdued light thrown out from the brass wall lanterns. His lips touched hers briefly and the blood raced
to her head. How could this man wield such power over her?

  “I've changed my mind. Play for me another time” He prowled the room. “I'll have a cigar with my port before joining you.”

  A plea for mercy trembling on her lips stayed there, unuttered. What was the use? The sooner she got this ordeal over, the sooner she could return home.

  Luke pulled the bell cord. The maid appeared in seconds. “Miss Saunders wishes to retire,” he said. “Attend to any needs she has. Thank you, Lizzie.”

  He turned away and picked up a crystal decanter to replenish his glass.

  On shaking legs, Jo followed the girl into the master suite. The covers on the bed were already turned back. A lavishly embroidered silk nightgown had been laid out ready, another item from Luke's chosen wardrobe.

  Meekly she submitted to having her hair brushed. “You're really beautiful, Miss Saunders. No wonder Mr. Campton wants everything to be perfect for you.”

  “You don't have to treat me with deference, I'm not his wife. I’m his mistress.”

  “Oh!” The girl gasped. “He left strict instructions for you to have anything you wanted.”

  “I don't care about his instructions. I'm his mistress.” Bitter laughter bubbled up from her throat. “I suppose I'm not the first and certainly won't be the last.”

  “Oh no, Miss, there's never been any women here, at the house I mean.” She gave an almost hunted glance around to make sure no one could overhear them. “There's talk,” she said, giggling nervously, “about all the women he's had, but you're the first who ever came to the house. Don't you think it makes you special?”

  Special, Jo inwardly raged. He didn't hate the others like he does me. They didn’t defy him, belittle him in public or cause his brother’s death. Yes, he was giving her special treatment, only so her degradation would be all the more complete when he kicked her out. Goosebumps of fear pebbled her bare arms and shoulders.

  “Will you be all right now?” Lizzie asked.

  “Yes, thank you.” She took the brush from the maid in dismissal before she broke down completely.

  “Goodnight, Miss Saunders.”