by Jane Feather
“I don't think that would be a good idea,” Chastity said, heading for the door. “We'll never get downstairs, and I have guests awaiting.”
“Oh, very well.” Douglas gave an exaggerated sigh. “I'll just have to contain myself, I suppose.”
“Continence,” Chastity said. “That's what it's called.”
“Continence and chastity,” he said, glancing at her over his shoulder, holding a handful of corn-colored silk up to the light.
She laughed, and left him before temptation got the better of her.
She took her bath quickly and when she returned to her bedroom she found it empty. She had to quash a flash of disappointment. The corn-colored silk dress lay on the bed, the scarf draped artfully across it, the amber beads lying on top. She had to admit that it was a perfect combination. Dr. Farrell did indeed have an eye.
Dressed finally, Chastity hurried downstairs. The church party had already left and the breakfast table had been cleared, so she made her way to the kitchen, where Mrs. Hudson presided over bubbling pots, roasting geese, and steaming Christmas puddings.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hudson. Anything I can do?” Chastity asked as she cut herself a piece of bread and fetched butter and marmalade from the pantry.
“No, nothing, Miss Chas,” the housekeeper said placidly. “Everything's well in hand. Luncheon will be on the table at one o'clock.”
“Wonderful. I haven't seen Jenkins this morning.” Chastity spread butter and marmalade lavishly. “I wanted to ask him what time he wanted to do the present-giving tomorrow.”
“He's in his pantry with the silver,” Mrs. Hudson informed her, her hands plunged deep into a bowl of sage-and-onion stuffing.
Chastity nodded, her mouth full of bread and marmalade, and made her way to the butler's pantry, where Jenkins sat in a baize apron, polishing the silver cutlery. “Shouldn't someone else be doing that, Jenkins?” Chastity asked.
“Indeed not, Miss Chas. The silver is my duty,” Jenkins said, sounding quite horrified. “I wouldn't trust anyone else near it.”
Chastity smiled and made no further demur. She asked her question, received her answer, and returned to the main part of the house. She wandered through the various public rooms, looking for people. There was an air of suspended animation, as if the very house walls were taking a breath, waiting for something to start. The candles on the tree were all lit, fires blazed in the inglenook in the hall, in the drawing room and the library, but she couldn't find anyone. She knew Prudence and her family were gone to church and probably the aunts had accompanied them, but there was no sign of her father, Max, Constance, either of the Della Lucas, and most particularly she noticed the conspicuous absence of Douglas Farrell.
“It's startin' to snow, Miss Chas,” Madge said, emerging from the kitchen regions with a scuttle of coal. “A white Christmas good an' proper.”
Chastity hurried to the front door and opened it, letting in a blast of icy air. She pulled the door closed behind her and stood on the top step, arms folded tightly across her chest, looking up at the leaden sky, where thick white flakes were falling silently. There was no birdsong, no sound of anything as the ground slowly disappeared under a virgin layer of white.
Then she heard voices, her father's deep baritone, the contessa's light, pleasant tones interspersed with Laura's thin trill. The group came around the corner of the house, hurrying through the snow, and Douglas walked a few paces behind them. He looked somewhat disgruntled, Chastity thought, until he looked up from his studious observation of his feet and saw her standing there.
He quickened his step, passing the others as he strode to the front door. “My dear girl, you'll catch your death,” he said. “You don't even have a coat on. Get inside.” He took her elbow, propelling her back into the warmth of the hall.
“I have my scarf,” she said, fingering the delicate material. “It's big enough to be a shawl.”
“It's not intended as an outdoor garment,” he chided, then smiled. “But it really does suit you.”
“Yes,” she said, bathed in the warmth of that smile, the knowledge of a shared passion. “I know.”
“Come in, dear lady, come in,” Lord Duncan was saying as he stamped snow off his feet in the doorway. “We should never have gone out. I knew it was going to snow. Let me take your coat. Miss Della Luca, go to the fire, you look chilled to the bone.”
Laura did look chilled, her countenance was white and more pinched than usual, and her lips had a bluish tinge to them. “I'm not used to the cold, Lord Duncan,” she declared with an exaggerated shiver. “Such a brutal climate this is.”
“Positively uncivilized,” Chastity agreed. “Come to the fire and I'll fetch you some coffee, or anything else that might warm you.”
“Whisky,” declared Lord Duncan. “Only thing . . . nothing like it.”
Laura's mouth formed a moue of distaste. “Thank you, Lord Duncan, but I don't touch hard spirits.”
His lordship looked a little nonplussed at this, and then, dismissing such an oddity, turned to the contessa. “You, dear lady, will take a glass of single malt. I shall fetch it directly. You too, Farrell. I'm sure you could do with one.” Without waiting for a response, he hurried off towards the decanters in the library.
“Would you like coffee, Laura?” Chastity asked, feeling sorry for the woman, who really did look chilled and miserable. “Or perhaps some warm milk, or hot cocoa.”
“Coffee, thank you,” Laura said. She sighed. “Of course, no one can make coffee like the Italians.”
Chastity raised her eyes heavenward and caught the glimmer of a distinctly sardonic smile from Douglas. The rot was clearly setting in. “We do our best, Laura,” she said. “I'll ask them to make it extra-strong for you. Why don't you go into the drawing room, it's less draughty than the hall. Douglas, will you escort Laura and the contessa to the drawing room fire? Or do you perhaps have some medicine to keep away a cold?”
“There's nothing that can protect against a cold,” Douglas said somewhat brusquely. “But I have medicines in my bag that can ameliorate symptoms. However, I don't believe you've caught cold, Laura. A warm fire and a cup of coffee will do the trick.” Douglas, who was suffering from half an hour of Laura's nonstop complaints about the barbarity of the English countryside and English hospitality in general, offered her one arm, gave his other to her mother, and accompanied them to the drawing room.
Constance came down the stairs as Chastity emerged from the kitchen with a tray of coffee. “I went to fetch it myself,” Chastity explained. “Everyone's so busy. The kitchen's like something out of Dante. All those steaming pots and spitting fat.”
Constance nodded with a comprehending smile. “That scarf is stunning, Chas. And the beads. I haven't seen them before.”
“No,” Chastity said, moving towards the drawing room with her tray. “They were a Christmas present.”
“Oh,” Constance said with another comprehending smile. “I wonder who from?”
“Don't rack your brains too much,” her sister said, and went into the drawing room. “Coffee, Laura. I made it myself, so I hope it's to your liking.” She set the tray on a low table. “Do you like sugar? I'm sure it helps to keep the cold out.”
“Just one lump,” the lady said from an armchair drawn so close to the fire, she was almost sitting on the fender. “And the barest tinge of cream.”
Chastity poured the coffee and handed it to her. “Douglas, would you prefer coffee?”
“No, I'll wait for the single malt, thank you.”
“Ah, good man, good man,” Lord Duncan declared from the door. He carried a whisky decanter in one hand and held three cut-glass tumblers in the fingers of his other. “Constance, my dear, do you care for whisky?”
His eldest daughter shook her head. “No, thank you, Father. It's a little early for me and I don't have the excuse of a walk in the cold. I'll have coffee.”
The slam of the front door and a rising crescendo of voices herald
ed the return of the church party. Sarah bounded into the drawing room ahead of her parents, her cheeks rosy with cold, snowflakes clinging to her hat and scarf. “A white Christmas,” she declared, flinging her arms wide to the windows. “Isn't it just perfect? It couldn't possibly be more perfect.”
“No, it couldn't,” Chastity agreed. “And you know what happens now.”
“Presents,” Sarah said, unraveling her long scarf from around her neck. “I'm so excited. I don't remember ever being this excited. Have I ever been, Daddy?”
Gideon shook his head gravely. “I don't believe so,” he said.
“If luncheon is to be at one o'clock, we should not delay the present-giving,” Aunt Agatha said. “Don't you agree, Edith? The servants will want to be getting on to their own festivities.”
“Yes, of course, Aunt Agatha, you're quite right,” Chastity said, exchanging a meaningful glance with her sisters. The aunts liked to maintain the appearance of being in charge of their widowed brother's household, a fiction the sisters made no attempt to correct.
“Give us five minutes to take off our coats,” Prudence said. “We're all snowy.”
“It'll take me less than three,” Sarah declared, running to the door. “Are you coming, Mary?”
Mary Winston smiled. “I'm on your heels, Sarah.”
Prudence followed them, pausing to say to Chastity, “Pretty beads, Chas. And I love the scarf. I haven't seen either of them before.”
“No,” Chastity said. “I didn't have them before this morning.”
Her sister's eyes flicked to Douglas Farrell, standing with his whisky beside the hearth. Her eyebrows lifted a fraction, she inclined her head in the doctor's direction, as if giving him a compliment, and followed her stepdaughter and husband from the room.
Chapter 15
A song title?” Chastity guessed as Sarah produced a creditable imitation of an opera singer. The girl beamed, pointing and nodding vigorously. It was after luncheon and only Sarah seemed to have the energy for this game of charades but most of the adults were doing their best for the girl's sake.
The snow was falling even more thickly than before, adding to the feeling of postprandial lethargy. The aunts had retired for their afternoon naps. Lord Duncan was snoring gently beside the fire and the contessa herself was nodding off in a discreet fashion in a deep wing chair. Laura sat conspicuously engrossed in her Christmas present from Douglas. Now and again, when the game of charades became noisy, she would look up with a pained expression, give a heavy sigh, and then return to her volume. Everyone else stifled yawns and regrets over the second helping of Christmas pudding and struggled to give an impression of lively interest in charades.
Sarah, wrapped in a white bedsheet and flourishing a toasting fork, was doing her best to convey something, tossing her head in a haughty fashion and pointing a finger commandingly. Her audience leaned forward attentively but blankly and the child's mime became increasingly frantic.
Douglas rose to his feet and went to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of port. He stood against the wall, sipping his port and watching Sarah with a frown. Then he snapped his fingers. “‘Rule Britannia,'” he said to her, and her face split in a wide smile.
“You guessed . . . How did you guess?”
“You're a very good actress,” he said with a smile.
“Bravo, Douglas,” Chastity said, applauding. “And well done, Sarah.” The rest of the assembled company with the exception of the sleepers and Laura joined in the applause, and Sarah beamed and took an exaggerated bow.
“Whose turn is it now?” she asked eagerly.
“I think we need to try something else,” her father said through a deep yawn. “I have to do something fairly energetic if I'm not to fall asleep in my chair.” He got to his feet and stretched. “I wouldn't mind a walk.”
“Not in that,” Max said, gesturing to the snow-blanketed window.
“We could play another kind of game,” Sarah suggested hopefully.
“I know,” Prudence said. “Sardines. That'll wake us up.” She ignored her husband's groan of protest.
“How do you play sardines?” Sarah asked.
“Well, we each draw lots and the person who gets the short straw has to go and hide. After ten minutes everyone else looks for him or her. When someone finds the person, they have to hide in the same space with them until finally there's only one person left looking.”
“Prudence,” Gideon said. “I'm too old for this.”
“No, you're not,” she denied. “We'll exempt Father and the aunts, and of course the contessa and Laura, but everyone else has to play.” She picked up a sheet of paper and tore it into strips. “I'm going to put a cross on one of the pieces, and whoever picks it is It. Sarah, pass me that crystal bowl on the sideboard.”
Sarah pranced across the room to fetch it and brought it over to her stepmother. Prudence tossed the folded pieces of paper into the bowl and stirred them up with her fingers. “All right, Sarah, you take the bowl around.”
“We should establish the ground rules,” Constance said. “What parts of the house are off-limits?”
“The servants' quarters, obviously, and the bedrooms of those who aren't playing,” Chastity suggested. “And the cellars and the attics.”
“That still leaves a pretty wide playing field,” Max observed, taking a piece of paper from the bowl that Sarah was presenting.
“That's the point,” his wife told him. “We all need exercise, we'll get it by running all over the house.”
Douglas took a piece of paper, watching as Chastity took hers. The quick glance she gave it told him that she didn't have the marked piece. He unfolded his own then scrunched it tightly in his palm. “Looks like me,” he said, setting down his port glass. “How long do I have?”
“Ten minutes,” Chastity said. “And don't hide anywhere too small, there's a lot of us to cram in.”
“I'll hide where I please, Miss Duncan,” he said. He leaned over her, ostensibly to throw the paper in the wastebasket beside her chair, but managing to murmur into her ear, “In your bathroom linen cupboard if I choose.” He straightened, ignoring her sharp inhalation, waved a hand at the assembled company, and hurried away.
In the cavernous hall, he paused, listening to the sounds of music, singing, and unbridled laughter coming from the servants' quarters through the green baize door at the rear of the hall. He strode up the stairs, two at a time, and made straight for the bathroom Chastity had indicated the previous evening.
There was indeed a linen closet, a large one with wide shelves piled high with sheets and towels and enough space for a man, even one as big as he was, to sit on the floor and stretch out his legs. He pulled the door to but not closed, leaned his head against the wall, and waited.
It wasn't long before he heard the hue and cry, voices calling, running feet. And then finally the door to the bathroom eased open with a slight creak. He pushed the closet door a fraction so that he could see through the crack. He smiled a rather wicked smile, reached through the crack, and grabbed Chastity's hand.
“Oh,” she gasped as he pulled her into the closet. “I can't believe you would tell me where you were going to hide. You of all people. It's so unsporting.” She sat down abruptly as he pulled her on top of his legs.
“Nonsense,” he said, running his hands up her back. “If we've got to play this ridiculous game, it seems only reasonable we should amuse ourselves in the process.” He kissed the nape of her neck, sending a delicious shiver over her skin. He slid his hands around to cup her breasts, rubbing the nipples until they rose hard beneath the silk of her dress.
He nuzzled her neck, inhaling the fragrance of her warmed skin, then slowly began to inch her dress and petticoat up over her stockinged legs. Chastity held herself very still. She couldn't turn around in the confined space and neither could she use her own hands to return the caresses that slithered up over her thighs, slipped between them, pressing the fine cotton of her drawers into th
e now-damp hot cleft of her sex.
“Lift up a little,” he murmured, taking his hand from her for the moment it took to unbutton the waist of her undergarment. She complied, helping him to push down her knickers so that now she could feel the rough tweed of his trousers against her thighs and backside. He worked his hand beneath her bottom and she bit her lip, trying not to make a sound, barely daring to breathe. If anyone should come into the bathroom, think to look in the closet . . .
She felt the hard thrust of his penis as he released it from his trousers, and raised herself just enough for him to slide deep within her while his fingers continued to play with her. She moved slowly, lifting and lowering herself onto him, hearing his breathing quicken in the dark closet, feeling his breath hot and damp on her neck. Perspiration misted her brow with the effort to keep silent even as the pressure built until it could be contained no longer. He put a hand over her mouth, stifling her cries, and she could taste herself on his fingers. And then it was over and she found that she was laughing silently as the glory of release receded.
She fell back against his chest, too weak for the moment to do anything about her disordered dress or even to worry about discovery. Until the bathroom door opened. She froze and felt Douglas go still as stone beneath her for a second before his hands swiftly rearranged her skirt so that it covered both their legs. Everything would appear perfectly normal to a quick and incurious glance.
The closet door opened.
“You found us, Con,” Chastity said obviously. “There's not much room in here.”
“No,” her eldest sister agreed. “I'll hop up on the shelf above you. It's deep enough and there's just enough headroom if I lie flat.” She suited action to words, commenting as she arranged herself, “This is a very inconsiderate hiding place, Douglas.”
“Yes, forgive me,” he agreed, feeling Chastity's helpless laughter shaking her body. He tapped her hip, trying to get her to raise herself enough so that he could at least pull up her undergarment and fasten his own trousers. She complied, still shaking with silent laughter.
