Bewitching Kissing

by Rainy Kirkland

  Nick found Sarah kneeling on the brick walk that edged the herb garden. Her hair was completely covered by a white cloth and although she wore the same black dress from the night before, much of the skirt was hidden by a large white apron. At first glance she could have been any servant tending to morning chores. But on closer look, one noticed the delicate wrist and the long, slender fingers as they competently attended their task. Sarah hummed an unfamiliar tune and seemed completely at ease with her chore. Nick thought of Marigold and shuddered.

  In his mind he could hear her breathy whisper as she hinted for another piece of jewelry, preferably a betrothal ring. He tried to imagine her tending a garden, but the image refused to come.

  A sharp breeze whisked through the garden, and Nick looked up at the sky in surprise. The sun had vanished and a heavy gray cloud now hung overhead. Deciding they were in for another unpredictable spring storm, he took but a single step in Sarah’s direction before his feet refused to move any farther. There, on the path directly before him where Sarah was working, a single beam of sun broke through the clouds. Startling in its brightness, it illuminated Sarah with its intensity. Nick watched as she paused and brushed the dirt from her fingers. She tipped her head back and smiled toward the heavens. The sunbeam began to grow brighter as it expanded to encompass the surrounding gardens. Nick looked up at the sky in amazement. The clouds had vanished. Turning back to Sarah, he found her again tugging at the weeds. Nick looked at the glowing sun until his eyes hurt from the brightness. Blinking, he rubbed his hands against the spots that still burned from behind his closed lids. Had he imagined it? Shaking his head, he wiped the moisture from his eyes and took a step toward Sarah. Surely she had noticed the strange event.

  “Sarah . . .” His voice sounded harsh even to his own ears, and Nick suppressed a smile as she jumped.

  “My word, Mr. Beaumont.” She pressed a hand to her heart. “You’ve given me quite a fright. ‘Tis most impolite to sneak up on someone like that.”

  Now he did smile. “Forgive me,” he said quietly, not adding that he wasn’t in the habit of announcing himself in his own garden. He watched her hastily brush the dirt from her fingers and extended his hand to help her rise. But when she stood, Nick found himself reluctant to let her go. The bright violet of her eyes rivaled the deep purple of the pansies that bordered the walkway and her thick, dark lashes were in sharp contrast to the milky whiteness of her skin. Nick felt his heart quicken as he glanced down at their linked hands, hers delicate and pale, his large and dark. He smiled again as he watched her nervously tug her fingers from his.

  “Did you wish to speak with me?” Sarah struggled to keep her voice even. Her heart pounded in her ears, and she wondered if its loudness was the reason for his smile.

  Nick gave her a curious stare and made no comment when she took a hasty step backward. “Did you notice anything peculiar about the weather just a moment ago?”

  Whatever she had been expecting, it was not for him to comment about the weather. Sarah cleared her throat and wondered why he had to smell so fresh. Shading her eyes, she looked up at the clear blue of the sky. “I think ‘twill be a beautiful day.”

  Nick’s brow wrinkled and his eyes narrowed. “But just a moment ago, did you not see anything strange?” Sarah answered with a puzzled look, and Nick shook his head, convinced that his mind had taken to playing tricks. “Why did you leave your bed so early? Did you not sleep well? Is your room not comfortable?”

  Sarah’s eyes widened with amazement. “The room is lovely.”

  Fascinated with the soft fullness of her lips, Nick took a step closer. “Then why aren’t you still there?”

  “You wish me to remain in my room? Have I done something to displease you?”

  Nick shook his head and wondered why nothing was making sense. “You please me fine.” He whispered, snaking an arm around her waist. “In fact, better than most.” Her eyes were wary; still, he was unable to resist. His lips brushed feather-light across hers. Just a taste, he told himself. But Nick wasn’t prepared for the rush of desire that had him tightening his arms, pulling her close, then closer still. He had expected a cool reserve, not heat that seared the last of his reasoning. Again and again his lips pressed in gentle persuasion against hers until her lips parted on a moan and his tongue gained access. Like a man dying of thirst, he drank of her sweetness.

  Sarah felt the heat of his body and her bones melted. The dream that she had never dared to linger on now bloomed into reality. She met passion with passion and gave more than he would have willing taken, sunning them both in the process.

  Gasping, with her hand pressed to her heart, Sarah pulled from Nick’s embrace. Her breathing came hard and labored, but it silently pleased her that his was just as unsteady.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Stunned that she had uttered the very words on his tongue, Nick wondered if things with Sarah would ever be what he expected. “There is nothing to be sorry for.” he said quietly, trying not to frown when she stepped back as he stepped forward. “I was only gong to suggest that we return to the house for a more private interlude.”

  Sarah felt her fist clench, though she knew she had no right to be angry. After what they had just shared, he had just cause to think the worst of her. Guilty in her own mind, she squared her shoulders and prepared to take her punishment.

  “ ‘Twas most unseemly for me to have . . .” She searched to find the proper words. “To have done that.” Her voice wavered as she struggled to find control. “I pray that you will not think harshly of me.”

  Nick frowned at the picture she presented. They had shared a moment of bliss unlike any he had known, yet now she stood as a schoolchild ready to extend her hand for the rod of correction.

  “Sarah . . .” He groped for the words that might make it right for her. “We are two adults and we shared a moment of pleasure. Surely there is no sin in that.”

  Her eyes looked doubtful. “The sins of the flesh are many. But I’ve never . . .” Her cheeks blossomed with color as she looked down at their feet.

  “You’ve never what?” he prompted, fascinated with her.

  Her eyes lifted to his then quickly darted away. “I’ve never felt that way before. Not that I’ve been kissed by many.”

  Nick grinned and stepped back to lean against the thick base of the pecan tree. “How many?”

  Her face snapped back to glare at him as her eyes grew wide. “I must not speak of such things with you.”

  His grin deepened, and his dimples winked at her distress. “How many? Ten, twenty . . . How many men have you kissed?”

  Horrified that he could even think such of her, Sarah pulled her shoulders erect and gave him her coldest glare. “You insult me with your assumptions. If you must know, ‘twas only one.”

  “You’ve only kissed one man or you’ve only been kissed once?”

  Sarah closed her eyes and silently prayed for salvation. “George Porter kissed me once behind the barn. I was feeding the chickens.”

  Nick struggled not to laugh. Her stiff posture and fiery cheeks told him she was already in completely over her head. “I see,” he said solemnly. “And just how did you find that kiss?”

  Sarah suppressed a shudder at the memory. “‘Twas wet.” Her eyes lifted to his, and she wondered why his gaze could make her knees go weak. “But just now . . .”

  “Go on,” Nick prompted.

  Sarah took a deep breath. “I think I have discovered the true meaning of temptation.” Nick’s smile turned to heat before her eyes.

  “Then you liked what we shared?” He stepped forward, but this time she stepped back.

  “Never would I have believed such feelings could exist,” she admitted in innocence. She took a deep breath to strengthen her resolve. “But ‘tis something that cannot be allowed to happen again. Without the sanctity of marriage, the pleasures we shared are unholy and foul.”

  Nick’s smile
vanished. “Ha!” he snapped. “So you want marriage, just like the others.” He watched a sad smile cross her face.

  “No, Mr. Beaumont,” she said quietly. “What I want is to go back to my family.”

  Nick watched in stunned silence as she turned and steadily walked back to the house.

  Chapter Seven

  Filled with frustration and armed with lemon oil and a soft rag, Sarah flopped down on the chair behind Nick’s desk. For the past hour she had searched the house for dust and found none. Each room contained treasures the likes of which she had never seen, but there wasn’t a speck of lint to be whisked away or a single smudge to be polished. Nicholas Beaumont kept his house as he did himself, she thought – in fastidious order.

  She had tried to lend a hand turning the spit in the cook house, but Mrs. Killingham would not hear of it. And when she had offered to aid little Annabelle in peeling the vegetables, she was politely ushered out the door. Wadsworth had proved no more helpful when she offered to aid him in polishing the silver.

  “ ‘Tis my task, madam, and one that I am proud to attend to.”

  Leaving him busy at work in the dining room, Sarah had gone off on her own, in search of ways to be useful. Now, as she sat in the study, the clean rag dangling idly from her fingers, she considered her situation. Nicholas Beaumont needs a housekeeper about as much as a man needs to wear two hats, she thought, tossing the rag onto the desk. Her eyes scanned the book-lined walls and she fought back the urge to choose a title and lose herself within the written words.

  “I will find a way to be of use,” she declared to the empty room. “There must be a dozen tasks that need attending. I am simply not looking hard enough.” With renewed determination, Sarah reached for her discarded rag, noticing for the first time the crumbled note on the desk before her. Immediately she recognized the hand and the stationery. The clock had yet to strike noon, yet Agatha Beaumont had sent another urgent request for her grandson’s presence. Sarah’s fingers traced over the crumpled paper. Nick was to dine with his grandmother that very evening. Why then would Mrs. Beaumont send such a plea if there was naught amiss?

  Carefully, Sarah refolded the crumpled paper. Had Nick stopped to see his grandmother on his way to the docks? If he had, than all was well, but if he hadn’t . . . Sarah thought of dear Rebecca Nurse. She and Nick’s grandmother would probably be about the same age. Did Rebecca still languish in the Salem jail or had the madness reached its end? ‘Tis no longer in my power to help you, old friend, Sarah thought sadly. There is no way for me to see to your comfort. Making her decision, Sarah tucked the note into her pocket. She would pay a visit to Mrs. Agatha Beaumont and pray that someone in Salem would see to Rebecca.

  The walk was shorter than she had anticipated, but the dampness that hung in the air was oppressive and hinted of rain. Sarah wiped her forehead. If late April air was so warm here, what would the August sun be like? She turned down the walk and stared at the magnificent white house before her. It was not as large as Nick’s she thought, noting the windows that spoke of three levels, yet it was grander than any she had ever seen in Salem Village or Salem Town. With a determined step, Sarah continued on.

  Her knock was answered by a large, burly man who looked more like a dockhand than a butler. His face was weathered and his thick hair was short and wayward. His dark jacket was a cut too tight and the buttons of his waistcoat strained to be free from the moorings.

  “I’ve come to see Mrs. Agatha Beaumont,” Sarah stated calmly. As she stepped into the foyer, her eyes widened with surprise. The walls were painted a dark green, and heavy tapestries blocked the daylight, creating an atmosphere that was both morose and foreboding.

  “What be the nature of your call, miss? Mrs. Beaumont be a busy lady and she don’t take kindly to strangers at her door.”

  Sarah ignored the man’s intimidating stare. “I beg pardon, but I was under the impression that Mrs. Beaumont was gravely ill.”

  “Ha.” The butler took Sarah’s shoulder in his beefy hand and spun her back toward the entrance. “Let me save us both time and aggravation, little lady. Miss Agatha don’t take kindly to strangers that’s looking for a handout.”

  “But . . .” Sarah stammered as the man guided her none too gently to the door. “Mr. Beaumont sent me,” she gasped. The hand on her shoulder was instantly released, and Sarah struggled to regain her balance.

  The burly butler gave her a shrewd look and placed his thick hands on his waist. “State your business, miss.”

  Sarah smoothed down her apron and skirt and returned the man’s steady glare. “My name is Miss Sarah Townsend. I am from the Beaumont household and I have come on behalf of Mr. Beaumont to check on Mrs. Beaumont’s health. I have some knowledge in the art of healing and thought I might be of service.”

  The man’s scowl deepened. “I know everyone that works for Master Nick.”

  Sarah hesitated for only a moment before reaching into her pocket and retrieving the note. “I don’t mean to intrude,” Sarah said gently. “I merely thought to offer assistance wherever needed.” She watched in amazement as the man’s abrupt anger drained away and he refolded the note and returned it to her.

  “It is I who should beg pardon, miss. But Miss Agatha,” he glanced toward the ceiling above them, “today ain’t one of her better days. ‘Twould be wiser for you to call back tomorrow.”

  “But if she’s ill, perhaps I can help?”

  The man shook his head. “She won’t let no one near her when she gets into these moods. She wants to see Master Nick and no one else can satisfy.”

  Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me that Mrs. Beaumont is not sick, that she’s just throwing a tantrum?”

  A loud crash sounded from overhead, immediately followed by a distressed wail. Within moments, a disheveled maid flew down the steps.

  “That’s it,” she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’ll not work in this house a minute longer. She’s a vicious old biddy and I’ll not take her insults any longer.”

  “Watch your tongue, Daisy,” the large man cautioned, “Besides you know today be one of her bad days.”

  “Luther, they’re all bad days.” Daisy tugged off her apron and shoved it hard at his chest. “I want no part of this house. I’m going home.” With a flounce of her stained skirt, Daisy turned and forsaking the servants’ entrance, left through the Beaumont’s’ front door.

  Sarah’s gentle hand restrained Luther as he started off after the wayward maid. “What truly ails Mrs. Beaumont?” she questioned softly.

  Luther gave a final scowl toward the closed door, then turned his attention back to Sarah. “The mistress suffers something terrible from joint knots.”

  Sarah frowned. “Joint knots?”

  Luther held up his large hand and pointed to the knuckles. “The joints are all swollen and knotted. Her legs don’t work at all anymore and now the sickness be in her hands, too.”

  “But her physician – surely he could offer some relief.”

  Luther shook his head and threaded his fingers through his wayward hair. “He says drink brandy or take laudanum. But when Miss Agatha takes brandy to smooth the edge off, it gives her a sour stomach and foul disposition.”

  “And the laudanum?” Sarah prompted.

  “Won’t take it.” Luther looked toward the ceiling. “Miss Agatha be well past her seventieth year,” he whispered. “I think she’s afraid that one day she’ll go to sleep and not awake. So,” he paused, “you gotta take into account that sometimes Miss Agatha has bad days, and the rest of the time she’s just plain mean.”

  Sarah nodded thoughtfully. “Have you a willow tree in the area? One that is not too far away?”

  Luther stared at her with a raised brow. “There be a grove of willows just down the meadow.”

  Sarah smiled. “Good. First I want you to send someone to fetch some bark. Good thick pieces about a hand long. When they come back, set the bark to steep in a large kettle with boilin
g water. Let me know when that is done.” Sarah took a step toward the stairs and then paused. “Which room?”

  Luther’s face held a look of disbelief. “The large one at the end of the hall toward the front of the house.”

  Sarah nodded. “It would help if you could get that bark as soon as possible.” Turning, she mounted the stairs.

  Sarah tapped firmly on the chamber door before releasing the latch. Pushing open the door, she ducked as a saucer sailed past her head to collide with the wall and shatter to the floor.

  “Mrs. Beaumont?” Sarah quickly surveyed the darkened room. The walls were painted a deep shade of blue and here, too, the shades had been pulled so that little light could seep in.

  “Who the devil are you, and where’s Daisy?” a shrill voice commanded.

  Sarah stepped further into the shadowy room. On the opposite wall stood the largest tester bed she had ever seen. Richly embroidered linens hung from the bed’s frame and in its center, propped by a dozen lace-covered pillows, sat Agatha Beaumont as regal as Queen Mary herself. Sarah resisted the urge to curtsy and stepped closer to the bed.

  “I said who the devil are you, girl? Are ye deaf? I want an answer. Luuuther!”

  Sarah suppressed a smile at the sight before her. Agatha Beaumont, who had all her servants cringing in fear, was but a frail old lady with wispy white hair. “Pray do not find fault with your servant, Madame. My name is Sarah Townsend and I am currently Mr. Beaumont’s . . . ah . . . housekeeper.” Sarah stumbled over her title, thinking of how little she had accomplished that morning. “Upon seeing your note, I thought I might be of assistance.”

  Agatha’s sharp gaze raked Sarah from head to toe. “First, Miss Townsend, or whatever your true name be, let’s get one fact perfectly clear. Just because I am momentarily confined to this bed doesn’t make me a doddering old fool who will believe every story that reaches my ears. And unless Wadsworth has up and beat me to meet our Maker, you’re not the housekeeper in my grandson’s home. Besides,” Agatha struggled to straighten her wizened body even further, “How did you come to read a private letter sent to my grandson?”