Listen to the Moon

by Rose Lerner

  At a sign from the cook, Thea fetched a pan of baked dried apples out of the oven. Later they’d be piled in a pretty china bowl with whipped cream, nutmeg and toasted almonds for Mr. Summers’s own dinner. There was none of that at the servants’ table, but Sukey still marveled at the luxury of soft, sugary apples spooned onto her plate, bubbling from the oven. There were a dozen plump rum-soaked currants just in her portion.

  This was exactly what she’d craved and imagined when she left Mrs. Humphrey’s. She’d imagined generosity in practical terms, rich food and people giving each other things, doing things for each other. But she hadn’t done these women any favors, and they hadn’t done any for her. They’d listened to each other, that was all. And it mattered more than the apples.

  Meanwhile, John had tried to do something for her yesterday, and it had made her angry. Because that sort of kindness was a parent’s kindness for a small child. It went all one way. She’d thought that would make her feel safe, but it didn’t. She wanted a husband, not a father.

  Maybe generosity wasn’t about giving or receiving. Maybe it was just about the sharing. In joy and care, whichever happened to be in the offing.

  John had arranged it again so she was with her friends and he was working alone somewhere. Could be that was what he wanted, but she didn’t believe it. He’d been the one who wanted to work in a house with staff.

  “I’ll take some down to Mr. Toogood, Thea.” Sukey stood up to fetch a bowl.

  “Eat yours first,” Mrs. Khaleel chided, pushing her plate towards her. “They’ll get cold.”

  Gratitude closed Sukey’s throat. “Yes, ma’am,” she mumbled. “Thank you.”

  Stomach comfortably full, she made her way down the cellar stairs. She felt like an intruder as she eased the door open. Was it too late to turn back? The wine cellar was the menservants’ domain. It was surprisingly cozy. Brick arched overhead and a fresh carpet of sawdust held in heat from the big covered brazier, set in a brick circle at the center of the room. Casks sat in scalloped wooden racks along the wall.

  John was trickling a bottle of white wine through a cambric-lined strainer and a funnel into a crystal decanter, arms rigid and eyes fixed on the sediment in the bottle as if trying to set it ablaze. “Shut the door, please. The heat’s going up the stairs.”

  She did as he asked. The heavy door and the brick overhead seemed to cut off all sound from upstairs. “It’s nice down here.”

  He made a disgusted sound. “I need to overhaul the whole mess. My predecessor was a lazy idiot as well as an abuser of defenseless women. When I started here, the claret wasn’t properly insulated, the sawdust was ancient, the casks months overdue for reracking, and the red wine so badly pricked I’ve almost given up hope of recovering it.”

  The tension in his deep voice set her to vibrating with it, the way one guitar string set off another. He was furious with her, even if he was trying not to say so.

  Maybe she should leave and let him come to her. But—he hadn’t even asked her to. She refused to behave like a servant hiding from her master. Yes, he was angry. What was so terrible in that? So had she been angry. Married people quarreled, like Mrs. Khaleel said. She was sure by now he wouldn’t hurt her, and he couldn’t sack her without losing his own post. She’d spent enough of her life backing down and begging for forgiveness. He was more miserable than she was, looked like, and she was going to fix it.

  She ventured closer. His dinner bowl had been emptied, at least. “I brought you some dessert.”

  “Put it there, on that keg. I can’t set this down until it’s finished.”

  She pricked up her ears. “Really?”

  “The sediment is already disturbed. If I set the bottle upright, it will slosh about and mix with the good wine.”

  She slipped behind him. “So if I wanted to do…say…this, you couldn’t stop me?” She ran her hands over his thighs. They were nice thighs, and he’d be a sight more relaxed after, that was certain.

  She couldn’t feel him jerk, but she heard the trickle of wine falter and begin again. “Stop that at once,” he said through his teeth. “For God’s sake. Can’t you understand this is delicate work?”

  She resisted the urge to give him a hard poke. “I don’t know why you always do delicate work when you’re angry.”

  “Because it requires my entire attention,” he said pointedly.

  She came round to his front again so he could see her rolling her eyes. “Pouring wine, even very slowly, doesn’t require your entire attention. Maybe you should smash a few things instead.”

  He snorted like an outraged bull. “And who would clean them up after I’d smashed them?”

  “I could.”

  His breath caught with a sound almost like a laugh. “And then Mr. Summers would take it out of my pay. I find it hard to believe it would be worth it.” At last he set the bottle down, peering at the cambric with a shake of his head and at the decanted wine with grudging satisfaction.

  He needed this. They both did. She cocked her head and tried to sound sure of herself. “I can think of something that would require your entire attention.”

  His jaw clenched.

  “You’d feel better after.” She stepped closer, though her stomach plummeted an inch for each second of his silence. “Shut your eyes if you like.” She thought of something she’d done twice now that he seemed to like very much. Her mouth watered with eagerness, her nipples tightening. Don’t let him refuse me. She knelt in the sawdust.

  Ah yes, the front of his trousers moved a little at that.

  She licked her lips and winked at him. “If you don’t want me to, now’s the time to say so.”

  He was holding his breath, by the looks of him. His amber eyes were hot. Maybe with anger, maybe with lust, maybe with both at once. The bulge in his breeches was growing. “Take out your kerchief,” he bit out at last.

  She’d been holding her breath too, she realized. She let it out and tugged the kerchief out of the neck of her dress.

  He leaned down, his hand burrowing under petticoats and stays in one quick, efficient movement, yanking her left breast up to balance on the shelf of her bodice. Her right breast followed it, and there they sat, high and exposed. He didn’t touch them. He only looked.

  “Go ahead,” he said, his voice rough and deep with anger. And it didn’t frighten her at all. It excited her.

  She undid his buttons, not making any particular show of it. Pushing aside his smallclothes, she took hold of his cock and sucked the head into her mouth.

  He gasped, hips jerking. She hadn’t learned to take him in as far as she wanted to yet. But when she rubbed her tongue against the flat tip of him, he inhaled so sharply it echoed off the curved brick ceiling.

  “Harder,” he said. “Faster.”

  She obliged him, though it made her dizzy. She’d taken to this at once. It was like plain speaking, somehow; you couldn’t make it pretty or decorous. His animal part twitched against the back of her throat, and his scent filled her nostrils.

  But after a minute or two he put a hand on her head and moved her away, taking his cock in his own fist and pleasuring himself with fast, brutal strokes.

  Unsure what to do, she stayed on her knees watching him. Her bare breasts should have been chilled, but instead they felt hot where his gaze touched them.

  His lips pressed tightly together and he panted harshly through his nostrils. “Show yourself to me.”

  She gave him an inquiring look.

  “Lift your skirts.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said with a complete lack of deference, and maybe that annoyed him, but he liked it too. She could see his fingers tighten on his cock as she followed orders, reclining on her elbows and hiking her skirts above her waist.

  “Spread your legs.” She did it, face so hot she must be scarlet. Would he fuck her? But he didn’t, on
ly looked her over like a naughty French engraving.

  Sukey glanced at the door—but no one would come in. Why should they? They’d ring the bell if they wanted anything. Still, she liked how sinful and daring this felt. Like that first time in Mrs. Pengilly’s kitchen. She shifted lazily, watching his breath catch.

  “You’re wet,” he said.

  She flushed hotter, that he could see that. “That’s because I like having your cock in my mouth,” she said crudely.

  He spent, seed dripping down over his fingers. Grimacing, he pulled out his handkerchief with his clean hand. Sukey rose to her knees. “No need to launder anything,” she said, and licked his seed off his thumb.

  His cock fell from his startled fingers. Catching it, she licked it clean, then did the same for his hand. He twitched, ticklish, as her tongue flicked between his thumb and forefinger. She glanced up at him. His shoulders weren’t vibrating anymore.

  “Why did you push me away? I could have kept on.”

  He sighed. “I would have used you roughly.”

  Oh, he was too sweet. She bit his thumb. “I’d not have minded.”

  He gave one of her nipples a friendly tweak, mouth curving tiredly. “Evidently not.” He handed her the wineglass he’d been using to test the wine. Swallowing the remaining mouthful, she stood, tucking her bosom and kerchief back into her dress.

  He looked embarrassed now, buttoning his trousers with unnecessary care and fidgeting with his cuffs. He always seemed to feel he’d made a fool of himself after bedding her.

  “You don’t have to be embarrassed.” He was too tall for a quick kiss, so she kissed her fingertips and pressed them to his lips. “Not even you can be dignified all the time.”

  He covered his eyes with the back of his hand. “Did I look very silly?”

  She laughed. “No more than I did, I’m sure.” She smoothed her bodice and shook out her petticoats.

  “You did not look foolish.”

  “Only because I didn’t spend.”

  He looked remorseful. “I’m sorry. Come here.”

  She shook her head. “Dinnertime is over.” She patted her stomach, reminding him what she’d recently swallowed. “Half past one is needlework.” And she swept out of the room and up the stairs, carefully shutting the door behind her.

  * * *

  John knew they’d resolved nothing of their quarrel. But how could it be resolved? She was young, and he was old and stuffy. He’d try to be less stuffy, and she’d be older by and by, and there was no profit in talking of it. His relief that she wasn’t angry—hell, his relief that he wasn’t angry—was a tangible thing, sitting at the bottom of his breastbone and wanting to—to move. Shout, sprint, jump, weep, something.

  He hated being angry at her. He hated, also, that he’d needed her help to stop, and that it had been no dictate of reason that swayed him, but only an animal relaxation, as if he’d resorted to drink.

  It felt splendid nevertheless.

  It was a long afternoon, but when night came he finally understood why people said there was nothing like falling into bed after making up a quarrel. Every kiss was a revelation, every inch of her skin a benediction. Each time she spent was a miracle.

  * * *

  John’s unusual lack of exhaustion on Twelfth Night was likely why the noise woke him. Mr. Summers had gone to a celebration a little ways out of town and, as there was barely any moon to travel by, meant to stay the night. John and Sukey spent most of their evening in bed, dozing off shamefully early.

  John lay blinking in the dark, unsure what he’d heard. Nothing, perhaps. He hoped it was nothing, so he could go back to sleep.

  But there it was: a creaking stair. He’d been meaning to tighten those treads for weeks. John slipped out of bed, finding his greatcoat by feel and fumbling it on over his nightshirt. Tiptoeing to the door, he cracked it half an inch and waited, eye to the crack though it was too dark to see. It might only be someone looking for a snack. He heard footsteps creeping down the corridor. A shadow paused between the doors to the kitchen and the kitchen-yard.

  John heard the tumblers of a lock turn. He flung open his own door and sprang.

  Chapter Twelve

  But he was too late. There was a muffled squeak, the kitchen-yard door slammed open, and footsteps pounded into the yard. If he didn’t catch the figure at once, it would be lost in the inky darkness that filled the world. He raced after it, the uneven, frozen ground agonizing to his stocking feet.

  There was a painful thud and a scrabbling sound. John, putting on a burst of speed, tumbled headlong over something soft and whimpering. Ice and gravel scraped his hands, but he seized her tightly round the waist and said, “Molly, you are caught. Give it up before we both break our necks.”

  There was a long silence. “Fine,” she said tightly. “Get off me.”

  “I beg your pardon.” He released her, feeling ridiculous and guilty. She scrambled to her feet. Her skirts brushed his arm with her out-of-breath inhalations.

  “If you come inside with me now, I will hear you out before I decide whether to speak with Mr. Summers.” There was a long, blind silence. “Mrs. Khaleel or Mrs. Toogood may be present if you like.”

  There was a pause. “I want Mrs. Khaleel,” she said hoarsely.

  He lit a candle and built up the fire while Molly roused the cook, who fussed silently over Molly’s scratches while John put on water for tea. The women looked very solemn in the dim light; Mrs. Khaleel’s fingers on Molly’s face were sorrowful and resigned.

  “Mrs. Khaleel, if you would unlock the tea caddy.”

  She glanced up at him. “I have some used leaves put by for us. I’ll fetch them.”

  He looked at Molly’s bowed head. “Tonight we’ll use fresh. Mr. Summers can take it out of my pay.” Gil Plumtree’s old phrase sprung to John’s lips without thinking, probably comforting him more than Molly.

  Lord Tassell’s valet had always regarded the household’s strictures as a set of formalities to be followed or disregarded to suit his purposes—the first person to show John that being a good man was not entirely about following rules and pleasing the Dymonds. He would think nothing of hiding a stolen house key from his employer to save a good-hearted young girl. Knowing that made John feel a little less nervous about the idea.

  “You don’t have to be nice to me,” Molly mumbled. “Just give me the sack and get it over with.”

  John sat at the table across from her. “I told you I would hear you out. So tell me, where were you going?”

  The girl looked at Mrs. Khaleel, behind John. He couldn’t see what the cook did, but Molly nodded at her. “My friend Sarah, she’s sick. Awful sick. I was going to help her with her washing.”

  “In the middle of the night?” John didn’t conceal his horror. “In January? And then walk home? Good Lord, both of you will catch your deaths.”

  Molly started to cry. “She’s already dying. She’s got consumption and our friend Jack threw her over.” Her lip curled. “He said it would be too hard to watch her waste away. The cur.” Mrs. Khaleel came to put a hand on her shoulder. Molly buried her face in the older woman’s night-rail, her stifled sobs sounding as if they were being ripped out of her.

  “And is that the only reason you’ve been leaving the house at night?”

  Molly shook her head without looking up. His heart sank. It was already risking his position to hide this. If Mr. Summers discovered he had winked at her meeting a man, he would never work again.

  “I look in on my dad,” she said, her voice muffled. “Make sure he’s eating.”

  “Is he ill as well?”

  Molly emerged from Mrs. Khaleel’s skirts, eyes red and swollen. “He’s a drunk,” she said bitterly, and wiped her nose on her sleeve.

  John drew in a deep breath. “I see. Anything else?”

  “No.”<
br />
  “Have you been doing anything immoral?” If you have, don’t tell me, he thought.

  Molly drew her key out of her pocket and set it on the table, face set. She looked at the cook. “I did immoral things to get this,” she said in a hard voice. “He was hurting you and Thea and Lucy, and meanwhile I willingly…”

  Mrs. Khaleel’s lips parted, her knuckles going white on Molly’s shoulder. “You’re just a girl,” she said fiercely. “I should have protected you. I should have known. He only—grabbed at me a bit, and said some nasty things. I didn’t realize he’d go farther. I didn’t think he’d bother a little English girl.”

  “No, I should have known. He swore he’d leave Thea alone and I believed him. Like a dolt. As if I didn’t know what a worm he was.” She looked at John. “I should do Thea’s work. It’s my fault she’s like this.”

  “Neither of you are at fault,” John said firmly. He thought once more of Sukey telling her mother she was clumsy for falling out of a wet tree in a thunderstorm. “The blame is often put on women in such cases, but that is hardly justice. Mrs. Khaleel risked losing her position. You risked the same, and you risked, as you believed, your friends’ safety, both here and elsewhere. You had a choice between two evils, and you chose what you believed to be the lesser. Mr. Perkins, on the other hand, voluntarily chose evil over good. The blame is entirely his.” He reached out and pocketed the key. “You know I can’t allow you to keep this.”

  “But I need it.” Her swollen eyes were desperate. “Sarah will starve.”

  “Sarah will not starve. And neither will your father. Let me fetch my memorandum book.”

  Returning, he poured hot water into the teapot, then flipped the book open to a new page and picked up his pencil. He started, looking at it.

  It had been sharpened.

  Not to a perfect point, unfortunately, but someone had sharpened his pencil, which had been, he remembered now, nearly down to the wood. There was only one person who might have done it: his wife. It was a strange, new feeling, and it made the responsibility before him seem less dire. “So. Your friend Sarah. I’m sorry she’s ill.”