by Jo Beverley
In this modern house, every bedroom had a gentleman's dressing room attached, with a "day bed." The euphemism covered the fact that most gentlemen seemed to prefer to sleep apart from their wives, perhaps to make it easier to "sleep" elsewhere when they'd a mind to. Tonight Edward would sleep in his dressing room, but tomorrow night he would visit her, and suddenly she couldn't bear the thought. To prevent words escaping, she rose and went to the pianoforte to play.
She heard Miranda say to Mrs. Tillyard, "If your husband neglects you he's a beast." It was probably kindly meant.
Then Lady Augusta Belmont astonished Sarah and probably everyone by barking, "Better a neglectful beast than an attentive one." She was hook-nosed, gray-haired and well named as Augusta, for she was the daughter of a duke with immense dignity.
The room fell silent and Sarah plunged into a tune, sure everyone had the same alarming curiosity about Lady Augusta's huge, gluttonous, but very clever husband.
Nothing more was revealed, however, and Amanda Stoneycroft broke the silence. "The possibility of pleasure in marriage cannot be denied. Only think of the illicit passions."
"Please, no," said Lady Goostrey.
"But can you deny that they exist?" She must have drunk too much of her own brew.
"Can you deny that they lead to disaster, ma'am?" Lady Goostrey said. "The break-up of happy homes, the tears of innocent children, and the misery of sinners? Think," she added portentously, "of Lady Roseberry."
That was an annihilating cannonade. Lady Roseberry had committed adultery, in her own marital home, with her dead sister's husband. How could any degree of mad passion drive a woman to do that?
"A lamentable case," said Lady Augusta. "But there is something poorly arranged about the laws of church and state that allow no escape for the miserably married."
Was a stunned silence followed by a hum of agreement?
"The Wellesley Pagets managed," Mrs. Tillyard offered.
"Car and Char!" Miranda said gleefully. "We followed that in the schoolroom, though mama tried to prevent us."
"Two marriages shattered," Lady Goostrey declaimed.
"But three made from the pieces," Amanda Stoneycroft pointed out. "So cleverly managed, wasn't it? And all three couples seem well situated now. Charlotte Wellesley is married to Lord Paget, Caroline Paget is the Duchess of Argyll, and Charlotte's ex-husband seems much better suited by a daughter of the Marquess of Salisbury. As the bard would say, all's well that ends well. "
"It was an open scandal!" Lady Goostrey protested. "Charlotte Paget committed blatant adultery with another woman's husband. I would not receive her."
"I think it's romantic," Miranda said. "Passion is part of life. It can't always be ruled by society's laws."
"You're a silly chit," Lady Goostrey snapped.
Fingers still playing, Sarah glanced over in alarm, but the young woman merely seemed surprised. "I fear you're not feeling quite yourself, Lady Goostrey."
She truly was a silly chit, but Lady Goostrey was the one who'd offended. She knew it and retreated, declaring herself tired and ready for her bed.
When she'd left, Miranda looked around. "I didn't mean to offend her."
"Of course you didn't," Mrs. Tillyard said. "She probably resents your happiness."
As do you, Sarah thought as she turned her attention back to the piano. Or rather, envies. That must mean, she supposed, that Mrs. Tillyard had enjoyed her duties at some point. She was surprised to remember that she had, too, once. At first it had been embarrassing, but as she'd grown accustomed there'd been a warmth from the intimacy, and afterward sometimes they'd talked in the dark in a way they never did by daylight....
Miranda piped up again. "Do you think whores take pleasure in their work?"
Oh, ratafia!
Amanda Stoneycroft deflected talk to charities that provided for such unfortunate women, but Sarah had wanted to avoid the next risqué subject. She'd ceased her playing and said good-night. Which had brought her here, to this window and a deep unease. It was all the fault of that damnable, improper conversation. Such things should never be spoken aloud.
She opened the casement in search of fresh, cool air and was assailed by distant laughter and the compelling beat of a drum. The night was spiced with wood smoke, and golden fire-sparks danced up toward a huge full moon, making her think of fairies in flight.
Where had that fancy come from?
From the insistent drumbeat and the cavorting figures.
All because of Lady Day? The name came from it being the feast of the Annunciation, but nowadays it was one of the quarter days for the settling of rents and such. Lady Day, Midsummer Day, Michaelmas, and Christmas Day. No great reason for revelry on any of them.
Then she remembered that until fifty years or so ago Lady Day had been the beginning of the year, rather than January the first. Yes, that must be it. She was witnessing an ancient celebration of New Year's Eve. Country people clung to such traditions, especially if they involved drink and dancing and their employers were obliged to give them permission to indulge.
Sarah watched the fire and the figures and felt the drumbeat, envying them a little. Her life was much more comfortable than theirs, but what would it be like to be one of those dancers, whirling with abandon around a blazing fire?
She laughed and moved back.
What a strange mood she was in.
She'd made an excuse to leave the drawing room, but she wasn't tired. At home she would have settled to some household task. She would have gone over accounts, written letters, or planned an entertainment. She picked up the book she was supposed to be reading -- A Report on Charitable Infirmaries. Dull stuff, but she was on the board of one. She might as well be comfortable to do her reading duty. She put the book down again and rang the bell.
Her maid came promptly, bearing a ewer of steaming water.
The young woman, Jilly Mote, wasn't Sarah's usual maid. Ellis, who seemed to think being referred to by her surname gave her dignity, had begun a bad cough and been left behind in London. Jilly Mote was a Maberley Hall maid who'd been instructed to attend her. She seemed pleased to do so, and to be called Jilly.
Lady Stoneycroft had said, "Jilly's not fully trained as a lady's maid, Lady Jardine, but we're not keeping grand style here so I think she'll do and it'll be good experience for her."
Jilly was trim and full of energy, with bright eyes, bubbling brown hair, and an air of expecting wonders from life. She'd be better suited to Miranda Hoyt-Grenville, who instead had an elderly dragon of a maid. Perhaps Sir Launceston wasn't completely addled.
Jilly put the jug by the washstand and asked, "Shall I close the window, milady? The air's cool if you're to wash."
"Yes, of course. I was listening to the music. The village celebrates this way every year?"
"Yes, milady," The maid closed the casement and drew the curtains, and then came over to unfasten Sarah's gown. "It's Lady's Day Eve, after all."
"Lady Day," Sarah corrected gently.
"If you say so, milady."
A rather impudent response, but if the maid didn't want to be improved, but so be it.
As Jilly eased off her silk gown, Sarah said, "I assume the bonfire and dancing is because March 24th was once New Year's Eve."
"Was it, milady?" Jilly set to work on the stay laces, "Did that change back when they stole eleven days from people?"
So many people still worried about that, even though it had been decades ago.
"They merely adjusted the calendar. Days can't be stolen."
"All the same, milady, it doesn't serve to go changing things. Brings trouble, that does."
"Have we been particularly troubled since 1752?" Sarah asked, amused by local folly.
"There was the revolutions, milady, and then Napoleon."
Sarah was startled by the truth. "There have always been wars, but two revolutions and then Napoleon have been extraordinary."
"So it's best to keep to the old ways," Jilly dec
lared.
"Yet I like the improved roads," Sarah said as the stays came off, "and the gas lights in Pall Mall. They say soon many streets will be lit."
"I'd like to see that, milady." Jilly poured hot water into the bowl and stood by to assist with the washing. Sarah waved her away and drew the screen around the washstand so she could take off her shift and wash with propriety. Only when she was in her nightgown did she emerge.
Jilly had put away her clothes and turned down the bed. She'd also added some wood to the fire, for it burned high. Like the bonfire, hidden now by drawn curtains.
Sarah sat so the maid could release her tightly-pinned coils of hair. As it fell loose, Jilly said, "My, but it's long, milady. And such a pure blond. You don't often see that." She began to brush it almost reverently.
Sarah's hair was her finest feature. Her figure was slight and her face rather long, but her hair was effortlessly thick and healthy. She'd recently had it cropped at the front because the fashion was for curls there, but it had obliged by curling without irons. The rest merely waved down to her hips.
It was her finest feature, but it required firm handling for day-time decency. "Will you be able to arrange it for me tomorrow, Jilly?"
"In a simple style, yes, milady. But it's a right shame you can't wear it loose sometimes for it's a pretty sight. You wear it in a plait at night, milady?"
Sarah agreed, and the maid deftly plaited it and tied the thick rope with a ribbon.
"Is there anything else, milady?"
Something in the maid's tone alerted Sarah. The service might be lacking because the local people would be at the Lady Day revels.
"If you were free, would you be allowed to go into the village and enjoy the celebrations, Jilly?"
The bright eyes were answer. "Yes, milady."
"Then go. I won't need you any more tonight."
Jilly's smile was brilliant as she curtsied. "Thank you, milady!" The maid poured the used water into the jug, picked it up and went to the door. She paused there to say, "A Lady's Day blessing on you, milady." Then she left, light of step and full of anticipation.
A Lady's Day blessing.
Another local custom, and who could be offended by a blessing? Sarah was smiling, but realized that tears lurked. How ridiculous. She was envious of a maidservant's joyous expectations. A bonfire and dancing, and probably ale and cider, might lead to flirtation and kisses. And maybe more. A more that Jilly, or girls and women like Jilly, would enjoy, whereas she dreaded it.
She put on her wrap of peacock blue silk and went back to the window. She slid inside the closed curtains and studied the cavortings around the bonfire as if she could see more detail if she tried.
Were they just dancing?
If so, was it as decorous as a minuet or worse?
Or better.
The truth was, she was tormented by the thought of pleasures.
Chapter Two
It was no revelation that some women found powerful pleasure in their marriage bed. As Sarah Stoneycroft had said, some women liked it so much they sought pleasure where they shouldn't, even to their destruction. Presumably Lady Roseberry hadn't set out to ruin herself.
Any woman who read poetry, attended the theatre, or even read the Bible had to know that for some people the business of creating children could be almost ecstatic. Sarah had always known that, but it hadn't seemed important until now, when something alarming was stirring in her.
Lust?
No. Then what?
Anger.
Suddenly she knew it wasn't right. It wasn't right that her life as well as her body be barren. It wasn't right that she did her duty in all regards and in the end had nothing.
Nothing!
Oh, many envied her, even among the nobility, but they didn't know the emptiness inside.
She fought free of the curtains to pace the room. "Stop it!"
She clapped a hand over her mouth. What if anyone had heard? She waited, breath held, but no one came.
Of course not. The men were in the dining room deep in political schemes. The women were in the drawing room, drinking ratafia, and perhaps sharing their most intimate secrets. Most of the servants were out in the wild dark, reveling, wickedly.
"Stop it," she muttered. Rebuild the screen between herself and the truth. Make it a wall. Seal away anger, because anger led to disaster -- perhaps Lady Roseberry had been angry -- and there was nothing to be done.
Nothing to be done.
You're trapped as securely as a prisoner in jail.
Fresh air. She flung wide the curtains and opened the window again to inhale cool air, but was assailed by a sparkling sky, wood smoke, and the insistent beat of the drums. If she were a bird she could fly from here and dance around the fire with the others, or soar up into the darkness as a pattern of golden sparks.
She laughed at that insanity, but it slowly it became less insane.
She couldn't fly, but she could walk. She could leave the room, go down the stairs and walk out of the house. All that stood between her and revelry was propriety.
And fear.
Fear would be enough.
She was by nature a coward, and that cowardice lay at the root of all her problems.
Five years ago she'd married Sir Edward Jardine out of cowardice. Her father was a drunk, her mother miserable, and her sister had married a rackety charmer who now beat her. She'd made up her mind to marry safely.
Edward had been thirty-five when he courted her, which had seemed old enough to be steady without being too old for her twenty-one. He had a solid build and a solid nature, and was judged to have an excellent future before him. He hadn't excited her, but that had been the point. Excitement led to unwise choices, as with her sister.
Once she'd accepted him, she'd basked in universal approval. She was to marry an admired man of handsome fortune and impeccable reputation. She'd been a very happy bride, positively in alt from universal approval and having found a safe port in stormy seas. A year after their marriage Edward had proved his worth by being awarded a barony. He was now Lord Jardine and might achieve more in time.
She'd probably still be happy if she had children, especially if she had a son. Edward would be content, and children would fill her life with purpose. If she had children Edward would allow her to live in the country most of the time. As it was he insisted she serve his political interests in London, and of course, be available on Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. She hosted dinner parties, went to the events he thought most appropriate, read the books he recommended, and cultivated the company of the wives of the men he thought most important.
She and Edward were too busy to spend much time alone together, except three times a week when he visited her bed. Did he find any pleasure in the process? She wasn't sure, but she knew he'd do it if it was torture. He was desperate for a son to carry on the honors he'd achieved and the ones he hoped for. Thus he must do his duty and she must endure it until she was beyond hope of children. Then she'd be "done with it," but that could be twenty years from now or more.
She clutched her head.
She couldn't bear it!
She wasn't brave enough to throw herself out of the window and end it all, but was she brave enough to commit adultery like Lady Roseberry? Not with her sister's husband, certainly, but with some unmarried man who wouldn't be harmed by it?
The insane thought didn't rise from lust, but from desperation. If she was blatant about her sin Edward would have to divorce her. She'd be free and he'd be able to marry again. Divorced women found it hard to marry again and be accepted, but divorced men met less disapproval, especially if their duty required a son.
Lady Augusta was right. Matters were poorly arranged when they left people locked together in misery.
Adultery and divorce would solve so many problems, including hers, but it would be her social ruin.
Could she bear that? In this insane moment, she felt she'd glory in it. No more political dinners, no more committees
, no more prescribed reading. She picked up the Report on Charitable Infirmaries and hurled it out of the window. And then stood there, horrified.
If Edward found out...!
"Damn you for a coward," she muttered. Commit social ruin when you can't even bear to throw away a tedious volume?
Then she heard laughter close to the house. Had returning servants found the book? What excuse could she make? She leaned out and saw two cloaked figures leaving the house, hurrying toward the village, full of excitement.
Miranda Hoyt-Grenville, she was sure, but she'd dragged someone else into her madness. Mrs. Tillyard, stirred to boldness by wicked talk? Whoever it was, they were doing it. Going where she feared to go.
She couldn't bear her timidity any longer. She could not, would not, stay here like a prisoner in a tower whilst other, braver women went where she longed to be. She, too, would go out. She'd go to the village and observe the revels. That would prove she wasn't a complete and despicable worm.
Now she cursed having undressed and scrabbled through her clothing in a way that would have sent Ellis into palpitations. She needed something simple, something plain, or she'd be noticed. Recognized.
The long-sleeved, dusky-blue gown she'd traveled in? She took it out and held it up. The dull shade had been chosen because it wouldn't show travel dust, but the smart, braided spencer jacket gave it style. Without the spencer it was very simple. It would do.
Then she lowered her arms, defeated. She'd never get into her stays alone. When she felt relief she set her jaw. She would do this! She'd go without. It felt alarmingly scandalous, but she was small breasted and it would be dark. She could wear a shawl for concealment.
She stripped off her nightgown and put on her shift, then she wriggled the dress on over her head. But then she couldn't fasten the buttons at the back.
No. She would not be balked now.
It was fairly low in the neck and the waist was drawn in with laces. Why couldn't she fasten it and then put it back on?
She took it off, followed the plan and grinned when it worked. A lady was freer than she'd thought. She looked into the mirror as she tugged the waist snug and then tied the laces under her left arm. There, see. Perfect.
