by Rose Lerner
“I publish the banns of marriage,” Mr. Summers read, “between Lydia Reeve of Lively St. Lemeston and Ashford Cahill of Blight’s Penryth. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, you are to declare it. This is the second time of asking.”
Sukey peered down at Lydia Reeve, the Tory patroness, sitting smugly in her pew with her betrothed. She looked sure. Radiant. Everyone said it’d been love at first sight with the two of them. But for an heiress to marry a stranger and give him her money? How could she know it was safe so quickly?
“Don’t they know he shouldn’t hear himself church-bawled?” Jenny whispered. “Asking for trouble, that is.”
“Funny how rich folk never worry about luck,” Sukey whispered back. “Born with a surplus, I expect.”
Fancying Mr. Summers was looking at her, she straightened hurriedly—and as he began to read her banns, she realized his eye had been on her. Drat. When would she learn to behave herself?
She looked around, proud in spite of herself to hear her name read out with John’s and to have everyone know she was marrying him. Her gaze met her Aunt Kate’s in the gallery across the way, and her heart gave a jolt.
She could still remember crying as Mrs. Grimes turned Kate away at the door after Mr. Grimes left. Sukey had liked her father’s sister dunnamuch. Thinking herself very crafty, she’d said maybe Aunt Kate would give them money if they let her visit. Her mum had made her sorry for that.
Every week in church, Sukey wished she could talk to her.
Aunt Kate smiled at her. Jerking her gaze away before her mother saw, she caught Mrs. Humphrey glaring at her.
She checked her instinctive flinch, straightening to show off her new pelisse. It was finer than anything she’d ever owned, rust colored, with a high velvet collar and stylish frogging down the front. It was secondhand, but Mr. Toogood had paid for it to be altered, and Sukey looked fine as fivepence if she did say so herself. She could almost hear the harrumph from across the church.
* * *
The two and a half weeks before John’s wedding passed with painful slowness. The exceptions were Saturday afternoons, which passed far too quickly. But Monday the fourteenth of December dawned at last. John presented himself at the church half an hour early, and read in an empty box pew until Mr. Summers and Sukey arrived promptly at nine, with the curate and Molly to serve as witnesses. John looked between them, trying to discern whether matters at the vicarage had been going as well as Sukey said, and how happy Mr. Summers was with his new upper housemaid.
“Have you a ring, Mr. Toogood?” Mr. Summers asked.
“Oh, I brought a napkin ring with me, sir,” Sukey said.
John reached in his pocket and brought out the ring he’d purchased at the pawnshop. “I hope you like it.” It looked improbably small lying in his palm, and he was suddenly afraid it would not fit and he had wasted his money.
“A posy ring? My, my. I thought those had entirely gone out of fashion since my boyhood,” Mr. Summers said. Mr. Bearparke laughed, though without any malice, and John felt another pang of uncertainty.
Sukey gingerly took the narrow band of shining brass, with letters inscribed on its inward face. “Let us share in joy and care,” she read. “How sweet!” She tried it on each finger in turn until it fit snugly on her left middle finger. She held out her hand, fingers spread, with growing satisfaction. “Thanks. I think I’m the first girl in my family to be married with a real ring.”
As she took it off and handed it back, their eyes met. Enough heat flared between them that John knew he wasn’t the only one thinking of their wedding night.
He kept the ring in his hand throughout the ceremony so as to have it ready. He was glad he’d coated it in a fine layer of beeswax to protect Sukey’s skin, for otherwise his sweating palm would have been entirely green.
After the wedding, they all walked back to the vicarage together—Sukey dropping his arm every few steps to feel the ring through her glove—and then John was obliged to throw himself at once into work. The house had lacked a butler for weeks now, and something needed his attention everywhere he looked. He went slowly through the house, making notes.
He tried not to be appalled at his list’s length. These were surely sins of ignorance and not malice. Larry was not overwaxing the mahogany and scratching the mirrors on purpose. Perhaps the lad was nearsighted, and at least his mediocrity distracted John from thoughts of the coming night.
He glanced at the grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs to see how many hours remained in the day. Its painted face was so lovely and so begrimed that John went directly to the kitchen for a piece of white bread and a soft-bristle brush.
He heard Mr. Bearparke’s low, happy voice before he opened the door. “…used to let me help in harvesting the mangoes. I can’t really remember what they tasted like, but I know I thought it ambrosia at the time. I’ve toyed with the notion of begging the new Lord Wheatcroft to cultivate them in his hothouses. Do you think I ought?” The curate sat at a deal table in the corner of the kitchen, a sandwich and a stack of books before him.
Mrs. Khaleel gave John a nervous look from where she was cutting up a couple of chickens. “It’s not my place to say, sir.”
Mr. Bearparke’s frown and glance in John’s direction suggested it was not the sort of answer he had expected—or perhaps was used to getting—though he took it with a good grace, bowing his head over his books. John’s heart sank. He liked the cook and hoped very much that she was not acting imprudently.
The painted hurrying ship, pink roses and gilt accents of the clock face were considerably brightened after an application of bread. John brushed the crumbs away with a smile and headed for the kitchen.
Through the open door to the kitchen-yard, he could clearly hear Sukey singing outside.
’Twas out of those roses she made a bed,
A stony pillow for her head;
She laid her down, no word she spoke,
Until this fair maid’s heart was broke.
He went to the door. She was taking yesterday’s ashes to the bin, skirts swaying jauntily with the motion of her hips. She was his wife now, part of him until Judgment Day. Tonight, and every night after, he could touch her to his heart’s content.
Listening to her clear voice, John remembered with a sick jolt how much more energy he’d had at twenty-two. It struck him how gladly he fell into bed, how difficult it had become to open his eyes and clear the cobwebs from his brain after five or six hours’ sleep. At her age he had stayed up until the small hours talking or drinking, and got up again before dawn and thought nothing of it.
Unlike valeting, this position did not allow for catnaps.
If Sukey wanted long nights of passion, he was unlikely to be able to oblige her. He was unsure, even, if he could satisfy her more than once in a night.
It occurred to him with a sort of panic that they had never discussed the possibility of children.
There is a man on yonder hill;
He has a heart so harder still.
He has two hearts instead of one…
Something else occurred to John. He stepped into the yard and waved her over.
She came readily. “How d’you do, Mr. Toogood?”
He couldn’t help smiling. “Quite well, Mrs. Toogood, and yourself?”
“Oh, tol-lol.”
John pointed at the neighboring window, fortunately closed. “That is Mr. Summers’s study.”
“I know.”
“You had better not sing on this side of the house when Mr. Summers is at home. It might disturb him in his work.”
Her face drained of friendliness. “Yes, sir.”
John fought the urge to apologize. He was butler, and she was a housemaid, and however matters might be between them privately, he was respons
ible for running the house to Mr. Summers’s satisfaction. Besides, it would put him in a damnable position if Mr. Summers took a dislike to his wife. “Thank you, Sukey.”
She nodded and went quietly in, the spring gone from her step. John could not help going over the conversation as he continued his inspection of the hallway, searching for a more tactful way to give the same command.
He hadn’t missed this particular dilemma of authority when he became a valet. Or any dilemmas of authority, for that matter. What had he got himself into?
He opened the narrow cupboard under the stairs, and thoughts of Sukey flew entirely out of his mind. Thea was curled up inside, fast asleep.
He cleared his throat once, then twice. She didn’t stir. Her cheek was pressed to her knees, her mouth open and drooling. She looked heartbreakingly young and tired. Service was a difficult life for a young adolescent; later, it was easier to accept that one’s life was mostly drudgery and always would be, and one grew more adept at fitting in enjoyment around the edges. But at thirteen, it still sometimes seemed monstrously unfair that one could not simply finish one’s book when one was near the end, or—well, hide in a cupboard and sleep when one was tired. He glanced towards the closed study door.
“Thea,” he said as loudly as he dared. Nothing. He laid his hand on her shoulder.
She jerked awake, trembling, and hit her head on the underside of the stairs in trying to get away.
John stepped smartly back from the cupboard door. She clambered past him, stopping as far off as she could without seeming disrespectful.
“Thea, you know you ought not to be sleeping during the day,” he said gently.
“Yes, sir. It won’t happen again, sir,” she said almost inaudibly. A cobweb clung to her cap.
John jotted the cupboard down in his notebook as needing greater attention from the maids. “I will not mention this to Mr. Summers.”
She gave him a darting, apprehensive glance. “Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
Not knowing what would calm her fear of him, and not wishing to distress her further, John said, “You may go back to your work.”
“Thank you, sir.” She fled, giving him a wide berth.
When the time neared for the servants’ dinner, he repaired to the kitchen early, glad not to find Mr. Bearparke there. “Have you an inventory of your larder and pantry, Mrs. Khaleel?”
“I believe Mr. Summers has one of the pots and things.”
“But none of the stores?”
“No, sir. I know how much of everything we have.”
“Should you object to my taking one?”
She raised her eyebrows. “I’m not stealing, if that’s what you mean.”
“I did not mean to suggest any such thing.” John felt exhausted. “I promise you I did not. I merely like to have things written down.” He didn’t point out the obvious, that in her absence or illness it would help the rest of them, for fear she would take offense at that as well.
She nodded, setting a large loaf of bread and a kettle of stew on the table. Curry wafted towards him.
“That smells delicious,” John said honestly, hoping to please her.
“Thank you. It would be better if you English folk could tolerate cayenne.” She said it drily, but he thought she meant it in a friendly way.
“Mr. Bearparke was brought up in India, I take it,” John said delicately, coming round to his true purpose. “Does he enjoy cayenne?”
She didn’t look at him. “Yes, sir, his father worked for the East India Company. I keep pepper sauce on hand for when he dines here.”
There was a silence as John debated with himself. “If you like, I could speak to Mr. Summers about Mr. Bearparke coming to live here. I thought perhaps you might not like the idea.”
She met his eyes then, defiantly. “I don’t like the idea.” She sounded hopeless of being believed.
He nodded mildly.
“He’s a very nice young man, and a rich one, but I don’t want a man to court me because I remind him of his ayah.”
“His ayah?”
“His nursemaid,” she said flatly, going to the hearth to examine the chicken roasting for Mr. Summers’s dinner. As it had clearly been put on the spit in the last five minutes, he thought this a pretext to keep him from seeing her face.
“Would you like me to speak to Mr. Summers?” He didn’t want to—it was his first day in a new home, and Mr. Summers was obviously on good terms with his curate and looking forward to sharing his home again—but he would.
“No, thank you.” She poked at the potatoes baking in the drip pan. “Did Mr. Summers tell you why the previous butler left?”
“Not precisely.”
“He was…he took liberties. The upper housemaid before your wife, Lucy, she couldn’t stand it any longer and gave notice. She wept in Mr. Summers’s study, and he winkled the whole story out of her.” She gave John an imploring look. “I thought he was only a nuisance. I thought it was just me. I didn’t know he was bothering the girls too. If I had, I’d have spoken out.”
“I have no doubt you would have.”
“We’re lucky he believed us. I can’t make more trouble. Twice in six weeks? He’d think I must be doing something to encourage them. That because I conversed with Mr. Bearparke sometimes, I…”
John hated that it was true. He’d seen it a dozen times in his career: a gentleman or lady taking a fancy to a servant, and a few weeks later the unfortunate person was out on his or her ear.
“Mr. Bearparke’s been a gentleman so far,” she said.
“Please tell me if he doesn’t remain so. I will help you.”
“Thanks.”
He was debating what more he could helpfully say when Molly came in to lay the table.
Mrs. Khaleel walked by him with a pot. “If you don’t remain a gentleman to the girls, I’ll poison you,” she said too quietly for Molly to hear.
“Understood.”
* * *
The clock chimed eleven. Mr. Summers had gone to bed an hour ago, and Sukey herself curled up beneath the blankets for half that time. Like a human warming pan, she grumbled to herself. Everything nice and toasty by the time he gets here. She had no notion what John could be about, other than avoiding her, but that made the fourth time he’d rattled the back-door knob to be sure it was locked.
This was the one thing about their marriage she was sure he did want. Could he be nervesome? No, she remembered the casual kiss he’d given her after she’d stroked him, how he’d taken in stride something entirely new to her. More likely his nerves were for his first day at the vicarage, and getting to bed was at the bottom of the endless list he was keeping. He must go through those little memorandum books by the dozen at this rate.
Sukey was tired and she had to be up at half past five. Serve him right if she just went to sleep.
But she’d been working since half past five this morning, all except the half-hour she’d spent getting married. Even that had been presided over by their employer. She didn’t want to go to sleep without a few moments that were hers. She wanted Mr. Toogood to come and talk to her under the sheets. She wanted him to touch her. Oh, how she wanted him to touch her. She’d been waiting weeks for him to do it.
She thought about getting up to ask him to bed, but it was so cold. The butler’s pantry, being a low growth at the back of the house without a room above, was the sole room with no chimney near it. Sukey was glad of the privacy, but the only heat came from the brazier in the far corner, holding coals that would start tomorrow morning’s fire in the study.
Besides, she didn’t want to beg him. She wanted him to want it as badly as she did, the way he had in Mrs. Pengilly’s kitchen. I brought myself to completion, thinking of taking you.
She’d closed the sliding shutters except for one, cracked open to let in a beam or two of moonli
ght. She was alone in the pitch dark, on her wedding night. It was only good sense to prepare a little, so it wouldn’t hurt if he was in a hurry. She skimmed her hands up to cup her tingling breasts.
Mmm. She rolled her hands, sensation spreading evenly through her breasts like a thimbleful of dye through water. Pulling up the hem of her nightdress, she reached underneath to tease one bare nipple.
In a flash she was frantic, her body restless and taut as if something was trying to get out. I could go into that back corridor and ask him to fuck me right there against the wall, she thought. But she couldn’t, and probably he wouldn’t, anyway.
Sukey had spent nearly three weeks in this snug little room by herself. If Mr. Summers rang the bell at night, it was up to Molly to answer it, not her. Three weeks of glorious privacy, and she’d held back from finally discovering what all the fuss was about venereal orgasm. It was part being worn out in a new job, and part embarrassment at being twenty-two and not yet knowing. But mostly it’d been a shy, mawky desire for him to give this to her, the first time.
Well, she’d waited, and he couldn’t even be bothered to show up. That’s what she got for relying on a man. She felt about between her legs. She slid a finger down her cunny and up again, and her mouth fell open. Oh yes, she remembered this from her few fumbling attempts in the past. Touching her slit was nice, but this spot above it was much, much nicer.
She petted it gingerly. Oh. Oh, yes. She went on, lost in sensation. I’ll go to sleep after this, legs spread, and he’ll come in and stick his cock in me without bothering to wake me up first. She imagined it, starting awake from sleep to unexpected pleasure, an unexpected weight on her body, tangled in the blankets and pinned to the straw mattress, his thrusts—
Suddenly everything was much, much better than before. A fever raged through her, a bright flash of lightning. She was hot, pins and needles all over, about to split open like a ripe plum. She did split open, her cunny convulsing, her body shaking and shivering.
It was so much more wonderful than she’d ever really believed it would be. She lay there, gasping and giddy, a wide foolish smile on her face.
