A Practical Arrangement

by Nadja Notariani

  “Very much,” she stated. “But will you have the time?”

  “I'll make time, Evie.”

  Thomas captured her lips, his heated mouth stealing her breathless sigh as he explored her eagerly. Her hands roved his shoulders and back, the pleasure of her freely given caress a new and welcome delight. Sliding his large palms down over her nightgown clad bottom, he pulled her to straddle him, drinking deeply from her lips. She did not balk at his positioning of her, and he dared to stroke her thighs and hips, growing bold in his caresses and hitching her gown higher and higher to expose the creamy flesh of her thighs to his wandering hands.

  Her breath caught, a soft whimper spilling from her throat when he cupped her bare bottom and groaned against her cheek. “Undress me, sweetheart.”

  She stilled, her hands resting against his shoulders as her eyes widened in surprise. Under her studying gaze, he wondered if she would comply, wondered if he had overwhelmed her, but she grasped the edges of his shirt and lifted it over his head. Moving to the floor in front of him she removed his boots, then slowly slid her hands up his thighs to unfasten his waistband. She looked up at him, uncertainty glimmering in her eyes, and Thomas covered her hands with his and helped her rid him of his remaining clothing.

  Her eyes widened further as his thick erection sprang free, and she looked again to him for guidance.

  “Touch me, Evie.” He moved her hand to grasp his length, wrapping his fingers around hers, encouraging her to stroke him as he pulled her up from the floor to his lap. He claimed her mouth with passionate vigor, groaning his pleasure raggedly. Silken wetness met his finger as he found her center, and he pushed inside her body as his palm pressed against her sensitive flesh. Her soft moan encouraged him, and he stroked inside her, matching the sensual rhythm of her hand upon him. Her desire climbed; he felt her tightening around his finger as she neared her climax. “Evie, sweetheart, give yourself to me.”

  She reached to clasp him to herself, her arms hugging him fiercely as he brought her to sweet fulfillment for the first time. A hushed sob tore from her throat as she succumbed to pleasure, her body pulsing around his finger. “That's it, baby,” he soothed softly, nestling against her neck and holding her securely in his strong, embracing arm.

  She sagged against him, sated and content. He held her close for a long while, caressing her hair and down her back, whispering kisses along her face and neck. Slowly, he resumed his seduction, awakening her anew, and at last, he lifted her over his throbbing erection and entered her welcoming warmth. Thomas rolled her beneath him and cupped her face in his hands. Tears tracked down her cheeks, and he stilled immediately. “Why the tears, sweetheart? Are you all right? Tell me.”

  “Thomas, my sweet Thomas,” she sobbed. “I am...I am more than all right.” Overcome with emotion she could speak nothing more, and abandoning further attempt, pulled him close and clung to him desperately.

  “Easy, baby,” he hushed. He moved within her, tenderly loving her as he kissed away her tears. “I love you, Evie.”

  Evangeline rested in his love, savored each gentle caress and kiss. Helplessly in love with him, unable to express her tender emotions any other way, she cleaved to him long after he had spilled within her.

  * * *

  True to his word, Thomas appeared nearly every afternoon, walking out with her, although he shortened their time out of doors considerably on colder days. Evangeline balked on a few occasions, but secretly, she enjoyed his presence, and the time spent alone with her husband was cherished. He was, in fact, quite charming and intelligent. Why he kept the latter fact so well guarded puzzled her, but slowly, he shook off whatever restrained him. Thomas Masterson gained her regard and respect day by day.

  Winter barley planting was accomplished, and Thomas' free time was soon spent overseeing the three large buildings being constructed on the north side of the fields. He'd hinted at no clues as to their purpose, and after weeks of quiet speculation, Evangeline was near to bursting with curiosity. Oh, how she wanted to ask, just one innocent question. But she refrained. Thomas knew her well enough – and she was beyond convinced he took great pleasure in prolonging her wonder. It had become an amusing, unspoken challenge between them. His eyes twinkled far too merrily when Mr. Goddard or Tad O'Leary, Mrs. O'Leary's son, announced building material deliveries. Merrily, indeed! Suspense drove her to distraction, and truth be told, Cherry Hill's management with only the two of them in residence left her a great deal of time to meditate on that distraction.

  Today, the breeze blew mild across the newly sprouting grasses and the sun shone warm and bright. The fragrance of spring carried in the air.

  “Mrs. Masterson, will you take tea now, ma'am?”

  “Mr. Masterson should appear at any moment. I'll have my tea when we return from our afternoon walk.”

  “Pardon, ma'am, but Mr. Masterson departed early, saying he'd not be back until dark and to expect a late evening meal.”

  “Oh. He did?” Disappointment carried in Evangeline's tone. Why hadn't he shared this information with her, she wondered. But Thomas was ever running off of late, without explanation. Evangeline reasoned it all linked to whatever project he had going on. The man certainly flowed to overfilling with ambition – much to her surprise.

  It pleased her. Cherry Hill would thrive under his diligent hand.

  “Mrs. Masterson, the tea?”

  “The tea?” Evangeline repeated, blinking free of her musings. “No, Mrs. O'Leary. I'll have my tea later. I shall walk alone today. It is a beautiful afternoon, not to be wasted indoors.”

  “Very good,” the red-haired woman smiled.

  Evangeline followed the familiar route around the house, but upon reaching the north side, an impish grin stole across her face. At once, she set off toward the construction site, giddy with anticipation. Thomas could hold his secret until he burst! She'd sneak a look and be right content; his game would fail, for she would have her answer without ever asking! Eyes lit in her bold adventure, cheeks bright with exertion, Evangeline strode along toward the newly constructed buildings, her mind imagining their possible purpose.

  Slowing her pace as she approached, she listened for any sign of activity, and hearing none, proceeded cautiously. The first building stretched long and rectangular, double-door gates at either end. Grain storage bins lined the left side of the interior, and along the right, sixteen large boxes. Peeking over the edge of one, she noticed the bottom of the box lined with a fine screen. At a loss, she walked about the odd contraption. Chutes beneath the screens in each box converged in a wide trough, which slanted downward and led out through the far wall beside the gate to the outdoors.

  Interesting.

  These must be for transporting liquid, she reasoned. And then it hit her. Malting barley! Thomas planned to malt his barley crop. The lure of what was to be discovered in the other buildings overtook her cautiousness and she hurried on. Just as she expected, the second held vats – not set up properly, but lying about in various stages of assembly. The third building was low, too low, she thought. Upon entering, understanding dawned. Steps led down before her; the bottom half of the structure was dug out of the earth. Sturdy frames, three tiers high, sat in long rows, wooden casks resting in each of the half circle nooks along the lengths.

  Her husband was setting up a distillery. Whiskey. The man was going to malt the devil's brew! Good Lord!

  Feeling slightly ill, Evangeline ascended the stairs, returning above ground and breathing in the fresh air.

  Of all the nonsense! Making money from...from whiskey!

  It was unseemly. Improper. Heaven forgive her for saying so, but genius. Start to finish, Thomas would oversee his crop from grain to spirit. Mercy be! What would people say? Well...they all offered plenty of whiskey at their balls and parties, she reasoned. What could they say? Dusting off her pride a bit, she contemplated her husband's bold move. Strolling about the building's perimeter, she spotted a large, metal rectangle leaned against
its side. Prying the piece up, Evangeline gasped. In large golden letters on a black background read: Grey Masterson, Distiller of Fine Spirits.

  She dropped the sign with a thud, stunned, and turned for home. No small pride burned in her chest, she near brimmed with the sinful emotion on her husband's behalf. Fear encroached as well. Whiskey making could prove lucrative, quite so, but only if the spirits were top notch. With all her might, she hoped for his success. Tea was enjoyed thoroughly, and Evangeline permitted herself an extra bread with jam in self-congratulatory triumph at her stealthy nosing about.

  The evening meal was finally served, but still, Thomas had not returned. Tucking her embroidery into the woven basket beside her chair, Evangeline called for her bath and then retired. Fitful sleep denied her any peace, Thomas' absence consuming her thoughts.

  What could be keeping him? Had something happened?

  Melody's tragedy sprang to mind, filling Evangeline with cold dread. Surely Providence would not take Thomas from her. The thought brought a wave of nausea with its ugly whispers. She was...happy. “Please bring Thomas home to me safe,” she pleaded into the darkness. “I've never even admitted my love for him.” Tears held at bay, no weepy dramatics threatened her composure, but a deep thread of worry rooted in the pit of her stomach before exhaustion overtook her.

  Yelling from downstairs wakened her fully at once. Wrapping in her robe, she dashed for the stairs, fear mounting. Mr. Goddard never raised his voice.

  “Evangeline!” Her husband's slurred word shocked her to stillness.

  “Mr. Masterson, perhaps it will be best, sir, if you sleep in a guest bedroom,” Mr. Goddard calmly stated. “Mrs. Masterson has long been retired – and you, I am afraid, will wake her.”

  “Evangeline,” he shouted. “Come to me.”

  His entreaty set her in motion. Gathering her wits, she descended the staircase with all the dignity she could muster. Thomas' eyes, murky and dark, locked on her, his expression wild.

  “Evie, she said she'd...she'd say...” He did not finish, apparently too intoxicated to speak coherently. Attempting anew, Thomas jumbled his words, shaking his head in frustration. “Evie,” he pleaded, looking toward the entryway with what appeared to be dismay.

  A man Evangeline could not name stood alongside Augusta Preston. The woman smiled faintly. “Mrs. Masterson,” she greeted with a pitying look, “my brother, Mr. Alexander Manson.”

  Evangeline stood tall, squaring her shoulders and conjuring an impassive expression. “Welcome to Cherry Hill, Mrs. Preston, Mr. Manson.” Turning to Mrs. O'Leary, who stood in her night-robe alongside her son, Tad, Evangeline continued. “Please settle our guests for the night, Mrs. O'Leary.”

  “Of course, ma'am,” Betsy O'Leary replied.

  “You are quite generous, Mrs. Masterson,” Augusta extolled. “We could not leave Mr. Masterson to find his way in his current state, you understand, and insisted on bringing him home. It is such a long ride.” Augusta clutched Evangeline's hand. “Thank you, dear, for your hospitality.”

  “Thank you for seeing my husband home,” Evangeline choked out. “Now, if you will excuse me.”

  “Of course, you poor dear.”

  Unexpected – unwanted – guests dealt with, Evangeline turned to Eldrich Goddard and Tad O'Leary. “Please, let us escort Mr. Masterson to our room.”

  The men wrangled a protesting Thomas up the staircase with some difficulty and at last deposited him upon the large bed.

  “Mrs. Masterson, would you prefer we undress him for you?”

  “No, Mr. Goddard. I'll remove his boots and leave him at that. But thank you for the offer.”

  Eldrich Goddard held her gaze a moment, speaking a magnitude in the kindly expression upon his face. “Can I get you anything, ma'am?”

  “Nothing at the moment, Mr. Goddard. Thank you.” She sighed the last words tiredly.

  “Come, Mr. O'Leary,” Eldrich announced stoically. “We will leave Mrs. Masterson in peace.”

  Both men headed toward the door, the younger Mr. O'Leary turning at the last minute. “Pardon me, Mrs. Masterson, would you be wanting me to sleep nearby – across the hall say – in case Mr. Masterson awakens? He'd be a handful, excuse me for saying, ma'am, and well, he don't seem to be aware of what he's doing.”

  The sincere apology on Tad O'Leary's handsome face endeared him to her at once. “It is very kind of you to offer. Perhaps that is a good idea. Mr. Goddard?” Evangeline deferred to the man's wise judgment, having no experience in such matters.

  “I agree, Mrs. Masterson. If you should need anything, either Mr. O'Leary or myself will be close by.”

  She nodded. “Thank you...thank you both.”

  “Good night, ma'am. Try and get some rest.” And with that, they closed the door behind them.

  Grabbing a booted foot, Evangeline wrestled the heavy leather over his heel and moved to the other.

  “Evie,” Thomas groaned. “I didn't...please believe me.” He attempted to reach for her, unsuccessfully.

  “That is quite enough, Mr. Masterson. Go to sleep.”

  The stench of alcohol wafted to her nose, sending her stomach into fits. She washed her mumbling husband as best she was able.

  “Ahh, Evie,” he murmured. “Do not leave me. I swear...”

  Exasperated with his continuous rambling, she responded tightly, “What is so important? Let us have out with it at once. I am tired, Mr. Masterson.”

  He squinted, attempting to focus on her face it seemed. “Evie, I did not go along...” But the words dissolved into gibberish.

  “I'll have no more of this Evie business! Now go to sleep.” She extinguished the lamp and climbed wearily under the covers.

  Thomas rolled awkwardly, clasping her to himself. “I love you, Evie. Please believe me.”

  They were the clearest words he'd spoken since being dragged upstairs.

  Love! What did he know of love? Drunken. Out cavorting with Mrs. Preston and her brother.

  ...'he will tire of you quickly.'

  Augusta's words cut deeply. Squeezing her eyes shut, Evangeline sought the peace of sleep. Blessedly, exhaustion overtook her and she slipped into slumber.

  * * *

  Thomas was not in their bed. Evangeline yawned, blinking as the memory of the previous night bid her good morning. She wanted an explanation, but knew her mind at once. No mention of her utter humiliation would pass her lips. Rising from the bed she washed her face and dressed, hoping to see her husband, unsure at why.

  By the time she reached the dining room nausea spread a sickly pallor over her skin. Augusta Preston's voice added to her roiling middle. Thomas, speaking in a harsh, low tone, stopped her dead in her tracks.

  “You will leave my wife out of this, Augusta. You should not be here.”

  “Don't be absurd, Thomas,” Augusta laughed. “I will do no such thing. Unless...”

  “Unless what?” Thomas demanded, a pained sound to his tone.

  “Let's not argue. Have you succeeded in getting your heir in her belly that you might gain your inheritance? When the unpleasant task of breeding Mrs. Masterson is no longer necessary, you may pay me a visit. If, that is, you wish me to keep quiet,” Augusta added. “You wouldn't want rumors getting back to your little wife, now would you?”

  “Get out of our home!”

  But Evangeline did not hear her husband's response. She fled, desperate to gain their bedchamber before losing the contents of her stomach. What a fool she was! Hadn't she known better than to succumb to fickle emotion? Cursing her folly, Evangeline wretched again and again, her body violently continuing on long after she'd nothing left to purge. At last, she crawled back into the bed and wept. What was she to do? Her heart belonged to her husband, a husband who had cast her aside, just as her mother had foretold. Her marriage was nothing more than a practical arrangement. She'd forgotten, and her folly pierced her heart.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Your tea, Mrs. Masterson,” Mrs. O'Leary sa
id softly.

  “Thank you,” Evangeline croaked, voice hoarse. Sitting up against the pillows, she sipped the warm, sweet-spiced brew. Rest had restored her, and once finished with her tea and biscuit, she readied to face the day.

  Corinne had yet to arrive, Opal's letters ever informing that she could not do without the young woman. Mrs. O'Leary filled the void left in her maid's absence, and Evangeline had grown quite fond of the woman in her many weeks at Cherry Hill. She stared into the looking glass and breathed deeply. Facing Thomas loomed ahead ominously. Moreover, the thought of Augusta Preston in her home – under this very roof – filled her with disgust.

  Self-respect would sustain, would carry her through. Despite her brave appearance, an ache throbbed within her heart. She'd played her part, been utterly seduced by the charms of her husband. Hearing Augusta's words of earlier broke open a floodgate of emotion, especially after worry for Thomas the night before had moved her to acknowledge her love for him. Oh, that she had never let down her guard! If she had only refused him. Better to have been ruined than a brokenhearted fool. But it was far too late for good sense to prevail. She'd make the best of her circumstance.

  Entering the dining room, finding it empty, Evangeline sought her desk. It sat alongside Thomas', yet was separate – just as they were. She longed to pour her concerns out to Melody, and settling at her smaller desk, pulled out her monogrammed stationery to write her sister. One hour later, hopeful that her sister's reply would impart some wisdom on the subject of love, Evangeline sealed the envelope – invitation included – and handed it over to Mr. Goddard on her way out for her afternoon walk. Mercifully, the day was again mild.

  Nesting birds flitted to and fro, darting from the wood's newly green tipped branches and back again to feather their nests. Unhurried, she strolled, prolonging her solitude. Sooner or later, she admitted, she'd have to face her husband. Solemnly, and quite to herself, she vowed to bury her hurt. Thomas Masterson had contrived to marry her for his own gain, nothing more. The truth had been plain before her face all along. She'd allowed herself to believe what she knew to be impossible. Men such as Thomas did not fall in love with plain, practical women. They married them. Still, she had her own home, and held high hopes for children - a child at the very least. The thought eased the sting of betrayal.