The Mistress Memoirs

by Jillian Hunter

  “Yet another reason to dislike him.”

  “Do you think that if he met you in person, he would guess who you were?”

  Colin stretched forward to kiss her again. “You guessed who I was, didn’t you?”

  Her lips tingled. “That’s different. I have heard about you ever since I started to work for Georgette. I have written chapters in her memoirs extolling your sexual prowess—”

  “You haven’t.”

  “Oh, yes. And she described your physical person so well that I should have recognized you in the garden.” Not to mention that she was also raising the son who resembled Colin more every month. “Hay is dangerous. He hates Georgette. He looks at me like—”

  His eyes narrowed. “Does he, indeed?”

  “Well, that’s not the point. How are we going to explain you? How do we throw him off your scent?”

  “You’re the playwright,” he said with a wry smile. “What do you suggest?”

  “Perhaps a disguise. Nothing too dramatic. A few subtle changes to your appearance. But most of all it is your manner that gives you away.”

  “What about my manners?”

  “Your manner. Your demeanor. You have an arrogance that is so deeply inbred that I don’t know we can hide it.”

  “Perhaps, then, I shouldn’t bother to try.” He glanced at the window, rising to his feet. “The rain is lighter. I’ll walk you back to the house.”

  “There’s no need for both of us to get wet again.”

  “I insist.”

  “There you go.” She stood unsteadily.

  He took her hand and carefully guided her to the ladder. “Are you committed to the chemist?”

  “Am I committed to the—who?”

  “Apothecary. Chemist. Charlatan.” He watched her as she extended her leg to begin the climb from the loft. “You know who I mean.”

  Her bare feet curled around the ladder’s wooden rung. “You’ll have to be more explicit.”

  “All right.” He pulled his coat from the peg on the wall. “Have you promised yourself to him? Has he promised himself to you? Has he pleasured you as I just did? Do dreams of him awaken you throughout the night?”

  She dropped to the straw floor below. “Why should I tell you?”

  “Have you made each other any promises?” He slid down and landed deftly at her side. “Yes or no?”

  “That’s none of your affair.”

  He nodded. “Good. He hasn’t. Not that my conscience would keep me up at night in this situation. But I would like to know who I have to knock down to clear the field.”

  “How romantic. Do you enjoy physical violence?”

  “It may not always be necessary, but I’ve found it efficient when hoping to make a point.”

  One of the stable boys emerged from a stall, glancing at them in astonishment before continuing outside to scrub the water trough, which Colin insisted had to be clean before morning.

  “Wonderful,” Kate muttered.

  “Well, it isn’t as if you’re living in a convent.”

  He led her out into the kitchen yard, holding his coat above their heads as protection from the wet gusts of wind that blew across the meadow. Colin frowned. He opened the kitchen door for her but didn’t come inside.

  “I’m only trying to understand,” he said. “All I want to know is if you and your friend have been as friendly as we were tonight.”

  “Would you like me to make you a mug of chocolate?”

  “No. I don’t want to wake anybody up and have to explain myself.”

  She nodded, resisting the impulse to wipe the rain sliding down his cheek. “If Hay suspects, we’ve got to be careful. I’ve never liked that man.”

  “The best thing to do is follow your usual routine. I’ll stay in the background as much as I can.”

  She shook her head at that. “Excuse me, Castle, but you’re the one who’s thrown our routine into shambles. The children need a regular schedule, and I do, too.”

  “What is the point of life if we can’t look forward to a few surprises?”

  “A few?” She laughed.

  “‘The play’s the thing,’” he mused.

  “Well, let’s just hope that nothing more than your guilty conscience is caught before it’s over.”

  “I told you I should be given a part.”

  “That would only make you more noticeable,” she said in astonishment. “It is not as if you are a man who disappears in a crowd. Perhaps you could act as an usher or help in the wings.”

  They broke apart at the sound of footsteps coming from the servants’ quarters. “Go,” she said, pushing him out into the rain. “I can’t think anymore tonight. I may never be able to think again. In fact, I may have to avoid you completely after tonight.”

  She closed the door.

  * * *

  He lifted his face to the rain, letting it run down his neck. Usher. He liked that idea. He could watch people come and go, keep his eye on the house and, during intermission, on the garden. Better still, he could keep an eye on Kate onstage and not offer any excuses for taking a personal interest in her performance. Perhaps it would be easy to fool Hay. After all, he had almost managed to fool himself.

  Chapter 23

  Early the next evening Griswold brought Kate a message in the salon as she and the chambermaids were stitching sheets together for the play. She had not seen Colin all day and she could not imagine what they would say to each other when she did. But when Griswold stooped, his knees popping, and whispered in her ear, “A certain gentleman wishes to see you at the old fountain in the garden, miss,” she knew it was Stanley.

  The chambermaids glanced at one another, brows lifting in speculation.

  “Does this gentleman have a name, Griswold?”

  He frowned, unfolding his body one loose-hinged joint at a time. “I expect that he does.”

  Kate looked up. “Well, what is it?”

  He frowned. “I don’t believe he said.”

  “Is he known to us?” she inquired in an exasperated voice that gave the chambermaids another reason to eye one another in amusement.

  “I’ve seen him,” Griswold said thoughtfully. “I can’t remember where or when, but he has brought you flowers.”

  “Flowers?” one of the maids said with a wink at Kate. “Fancy that.”

  “Did he explain what he wanted?”

  Griswold shrugged. “I assumed he wanted to give you the flowers. He didn’t offer them to me.”

  Irene, the head chambermaid, stood, carefully edging around the sheets that rippled down the salon steps. “Shall I fetch Lovitt or Castle to escort you, miss?”

  “No.” Kate shook her head resolutely. “It has to be Mr. Wilkes. I’d like him to leave tonight without missing any teeth.”

  “Have a nice time!” Irene called out to her. “We’ll never tell!”

  She smiled, taking a breath. “We don’t know if there’s anything to tell yet, do we?”

  She reached the front door and ran down the steps into the garden. She was amazed that no one had stopped her for some emergency or other. She hesitated, unaccountably apprehensive to face her friend. Had she betrayed him last night? Surely he would never speak to her again if he knew what she had done. She could not explain it. She could not excuse it except to say that her distress over Brian’s disappearance had caused her to behave as the wanton most people assumed her to be.

  Stanley must have seen or at least heard about the violent encounter in the village. Even his parents must know by now that Mrs. Lawson’s groom had knocked a man to his knees for insulting the governess. No doubt it was the scandal of the year. No doubt Kate would be accused of exaggerating what had merely been an accident.

  Then she saw him, waiting for her with a bouquet of wilted red roses that she guessed he’d picked from other gardens on his way here. It was as skillfully arranged as one of Etta’s posies, half-denuded dandelions and foxtail grass wrapped in drooping ivy.

  “Wh
at is it, Stanley?”

  He grasped her hand and pulled her into the old fruit orchard, where the scent of humus and fallen blossoms hung in the stillness. The grass that brushed against her skirts felt heavy with yesterday’s rain.

  “Sit with me,” he said, motioning to the edge of the stone pond.

  “This sounds serious.”

  * * *

  Colin had seen two figures skulking around the garden as he was beginning his nightly patrol. He moved silently between the hedges until he recognized the man and woman sitting on the edge of the stone pond.

  He had no intention of spying on Kate and her—whatever he was. On the other hand, he didn’t want to come clumping out of the bushes and interrupt a private moment. He could hear every word they said. He’d simply have to wait out their rendezvous before he could return to the stables.

  He could only hope they would keep their conversation brief and part before he was spotted. Kate would never believe him if he explained he was innocently patroling the garden. As for what had happened in the lodge and the loft, he couldn’t guess how she felt. He was sure that she was attracted to him, and yet he had the sense that he might have moved too fast and frightened her.

  She would never have let him take such liberties if she didn’t like it. He believed he was her first, the only one to touch her and ask for intimacy. Then what was she doing in the dark with the little curly-haired cherub of hers? He shouldn’t listen. It was impolite. Bad. An invasion of her privacy.

  He crept closer to the end of the hedge to hear.

  * * *

  “We’ve talked about marriage, Kate,” Stanley said, still holding her hand.

  “We’ve talked around it,” she murmured. Good heavens. Was he going to propose to her? If he’d given her a hint that tonight was the night, she wouldn’t have come out to meet him wearing Georgette’s pink tissue ball gown—at least she’d have thrown a wrapper over her shoulders so she didn’t feel so bare. She looked up suddenly. “Do you hear that?”

  “All I can hear is the pounding of my heart.”

  “Well, it wasn’t a pounding noise. It sounded more like twigs rattling.”

  “Oh, that. I chased the cat away when I was waiting for you. It’s on the prowl again.”

  “Oh,” she murmured, glancing into the dark shrubbery.

  “I talked to my parents about you tonight.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to her knuckles. It didn’t feel like a kiss or a romantic overture. It felt as if he knew he should make a gesture, but he didn’t know how or what. If he was about to propose, and she accepted, she would let him kiss her. But quite frankly she wasn’t looking forward to it. Not to being his wife or trying to please his parents. What did that say about her?

  What had changed her mind? She had been working up the courage to tell Georgette that she might leave her position. But then last night had happened.

  “Is everything all right, Kate?” Stanley whispered.

  She looked back at the house. “I don’t know.”

  “Are you ill?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Your face is flushed.”

  “Oh, well, I was sewing. Stitching sheets to use as props. Hard work, you know.” She turned her head back to his. “Do I look feverish? I was out in the rain.”

  He touched his other hand to her forehead. “No. You feel cool.” He cleared his throat. “I picked the flowers myself. I’ve never told you that the soap you use reminds me of attar of roses. My great aunt used to dab its oil between her—well.”

  “How moving, Stanley. That I remind you of your great aunt.”

  “Moving,” he said. “Yes.”

  This was how a proper gentleman went about courting a woman. She couldn’t imagine Stanley pouncing on her in the dark like a wolf and demanding more than a kiss. Not a polite peck at the knuckles, but a ravenous kiss that would make her feel as if she were falling from cloud to cloud. Falling, she thought. She hadn’t hit the ground yet, but it would be difficult to stop her complete descent.

  “You talked to your parents,” she said, prompting Stanley to continue. “What did you say? What did they say?”

  He looked past her to the pond. “They don’t approve of you.”

  “Are you surprised?” She drew her hand back to her side.

  “They don’t believe that it’s possible for a young woman to work for a—a ladybird and not become tainted herself.”

  “That sounds like a lovely conversation.” Her shoulders tightened. “It’s a wonder my ears weren’t burning. Aren’t you the wicked one for defying their advice to come here tonight? They do have a point.” She kicked off her slippers. She’d grabbed them thinking she would only be in the salon tonight. None of Georgette’s off-cast shoes really fit. The heels wobbled. The toes pinched and made it difficult to chase after the children. Or to walk to the stables to watch a swaggering groom teaching his son how to ride.

  “Kate.” Stanley’s voice startled her. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

  She picked up one of the slippers she had removed. “I understand exactly what you said. You don’t want to marry me because I might turn out to be a whore. Or be one now.”

  He sucked in his breath. “That word.”

  “What word? Oh. Whore. Prostitute. Abbess. Mistress. Concubine. Courtesan. Jade. Jezebel—” She broke off to examine her discarded slipper. It was beautiful, really, with pink bows and seed pearls stitched to the tiny heel. “Oh—where was I? Baggage. Strumpet.” She took a loud breath. “Did I say harlot?”

  His face had turned so white during her tirade that she thought he was going to faint. She fanned his cheeks briefly with her shoe. “Listen to you,” he said, aghast. “Is that the vocabulary you would teach our children were we to marry?”

  “As it appears we are not to be married, what words would you prefer our nonexisting children learn? Intolerance, bigotry, judgment, hypocrisy, shallow—”

  He grasped her by her shoulders and planted a hard, unpracticed kiss on her mouth. “Perhaps we can run away together. I don’t have much money, but if you could find a few pounds lying about—”

  “Get away from me.” She pushed him, turning her face from his. “Wouldn’t you have to ask your parents for permission first?”

  His fingers dug into her shoulders. “They want me to propose to a young lady from Devon. She isn’t pretty at all and I have no feeling for her, but she’s well-bred. And well-off. If I marry her, there’s no reason that you and I can’t find a way to see each other in secret as we do now.”

  She closed her fingers around the instep of her slipper. “Meet? Us? In secret?”

  “Why not?” he whispered, burying his face in her neck. “My parents might not approve of what you have learned from your mistress, but I would be an eager pupil in your arms. You know about passion, don’t you? You know what a man needs. You understand those things.”

  “Stanley?” His mouth moved down her throat. She shivered, but not in pleasure. His lips reminded her of a grub crawling over a stone. “Stanley.”

  He drew back, his eyes glazed. “What?”

  “I have your answer.”

  She raised her arm. He looked up briefly, uncomprehending, as she banged the heel of the slipper on his head. “Leave this garden now, and don’t ever return.”

  “Oh, my God! My head. Look at my head.”

  She did. “It’s still there. Not that it contains a single thought that your parents haven’t put inside it.”

  She raised her arm, but she didn’t have to hit him again. He leapt up and ran across the garden without another word. The footman on guard unlocked the gates and stared after him. Kate dipped her hand in the fountain and lifted it to her mouth to erase the lingering feel of his kiss. What a paper-skull she had been. Stanley had never considered her worthy of being his wife. What decent man ever would?

  * * *

  He stepped out from the hedge, waiting for her to notice him on her own. But t
hen she jumped up like a bird about to take flight and he went back into hiding. Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to admit he’d been eavesdropping. She would be doubly humiliated once she realized he had overheard that degrading rejection. She wouldn’t believe he hadn’t followed her outside.

  She was crying—no, she wasn’t. She was swearing and plucking the petals off the red roses Stanley had given her as a token of his insulting offer. She seemed to be arranging them in a circle around the pond. Colin poked a peephole through the hedge. He had a feeling he was about to witness one of those female rituals that were meant to be enacted in private. It looked like a pagan ceremony.

  She pulled up her skirts and yanked off the other slipper. He stared, his blood stirring at the sight of her well-shaped calf. So far . . . so good.

  “You son of a weasel’s mother! Take this as a symbol of my affection.”

  She raised her slipper to her shoulder. Colin reared back. The heel of the slipper descended. Once, twice . . . too many times to count. It pulverized the delicate petals. It shredded them into a potpourri of bleeding mush.

  “Attar of roses, my . . . arse!” she burst out. “Every man I have ever met is a . . . a—contemptible—”

  Colin couldn’t make out the rest over the hammering of the slipper. This was Cinderella on a rampage. He was afraid to breathe, to step on a twig. He was afraid Lovitt would let the trained squirrels out on their nightly tinkle and his presence would be revealed. He would never be able to convince her that he wasn’t a contemptible man.

  The best he could hope for was that she wouldn’t notice him at all. He knew now what he had to do. This was the opening he had waited for without realizing it. Later, when she and her slipper had calmed down, he would find a way back into her favor by proving that not every man she had ever met was unworthy of her heart. And he didn’t deceive himself into thinking that he had a long road to travel.

  “Kate?” a young woman’s voice called from the salon window. “Is everything all right? We heard something banging out there.”

  “I shall be right in.” She sniffed. “Just let me put my slippers on.”