Starling

by Virginia Taylor

  “If I don’t suit, he’ll put me off without a reference.”

  The Elliots laughed. “I suspect you have him twisted around your little finger,” Mary said. “He could have chosen a wife from any amount of women, but he chose one fresh and sweet and unpretentious. There’s hope for him yet.”

  Mrs. Frost raised her chin. “I was seventeen when I met him. Mama wanted new curtains for our formal rooms, and he came with samples. I was very struck by his looks. Such a handsome young man. But for my parents...” She shrugged. “I may well have married him, eventually.”

  “It turned out for the best,” Paul said, finishing his soup. “I’m sure you were perfect for Richard Frost.”

  Starling glanced at him. She’d thought his tone cynical, but Mrs. Frost appeared to take his words as congratulatory. “His father was a banker in England.”

  “And Alasdair will always be in trade,” Paul said, leaning back and staring at the lady. “Despite making a fortune.”

  “This is old history.” Mary raised her glass. “We should be toasting the new bride. To Starling.”

  Mr. Elliot refilled Starling’s glass and everyone drank, though Mrs. Frost took the tiniest sip. Starling finished that glassful, then she noted the others also took only a sip. She realized she needed to copy their behavior to be the sort of woman Mr. Seymour would have married.

  After Freda took the soup plates and brought in the next courses, Starling waited for Mary or Mrs. Frost to give her a clue as to which of her four pairs of knives and forks she should use. In the home, they’d never had more than one. She remembered Mr. Seymour saying ladies start first.

  When the other two ladies didn’t appear to know Mr. Seymour’s rule, she steeled herself, chose the outer pair and began her poached salmon. She knew she had made the right choice when the others picked up their outer pair, too.

  “Do you come from a large family, Starling?” Mary left her implements on the plate while she chewed.

  Starling did the same. At the home, the only rule during meals was to eat quickly. The tables needed to be cleared for the mending of the laundered linen. “Very large. Lots of sisters.”

  “How many?” Mrs. Frost asked in a cool voice.

  “Eighteen at last count.”

  Mrs. Frost gasped. “Incredible. I’m an only child.”

  “There was just Alasdair and me. As I’m sure he told you.”

  “He hasn’t been too forthcoming about his life,” Starling said with truth to Mary.

  “That’s so like him.” Mary shook her head. “He doesn’t talk about himself, but I’m quite happy to talk about him.”

  “Make yourself comfortable.” Paul raised his eyebrows at Starling. “This could be a long night.”

  Mary cast a reproachful glance at her husband. “Alasdair was sixteen when Papa died. I was twelve. For the next four years, and without a word of complaint, he added to the warehouse in Melbourne and managed to send me to a boarding school. Then, he employed a manager for the business and left for Ballarat...to take advantage of the gold rush.” She flickered a look at Mrs. Frost.

  Paul lifted his glass to the light and inspected the color of the wine. “He made good enough money in the first year to expand farther.”

  Mary smiled. “Alasdair isn’t just lucky. He is also very smart.” She glanced at Lavender. “Usually.”

  Mrs. Frost nodded. “He found gold,” she said, her tone regretful. “Unfortunate. Diamonds are worth so much more.”

  Mary stared at her.

  Mrs. Frost reached for the buttered asparagus. “Is it accepted that he worked in a mine?”

  “Oh, he didn’t work in a mine,” Mary said in a casual voice. “He owned the land. I expect he had quite a few men digging for him.”

  “He could be termed a mine owner.” Paul glanced at Mary.

  “Yes,” Mary said firmly. She gave Starling a complicit stare. “Alasdair wouldn’t, of course, have been mining himself. Not when he was in Ballarat to consolidate our markets.”

  Starling stared at the table, wondering about this story. She had seen Mr. Seymour dig. Apparently, rich gentlemen could only dig tunnels for altruistic purposes.

  “In the second year, his mine struck gold and he made a fortune. Fifty thousand pounds!” Mary stared wide-eyed at Starling. “In the meantime, the business here was running at a great enough profit to buy Mama a grand new house and to send me to a finishing school. I met Paul’s sister there and...” She spread her hands.

  “And how many retail establishments does Dare now own?” Mrs. Frost smiled as if not truly interested in the answer.

  “Four. The original in Ballarat, the next in Adelaide, another in Prospect, and the latest in Kapunda. He sold the warehouse in Melbourne when he moved here. By the way, Starling, that’s a lovely gown. It’s the very thing, I swear. Where did you find it?”

  “It came from Seymour’s.” Starling touched the ruffled floral edging around the lowered neck of her gray uniform. “The fabric department has everything a person could want. Silk, wool, velvet, satin, muslin, or lace and embroidered, netted, or woven—fabrics from all over the world in the most wonderful colors.” She stopped, knowing she sounded far too passionate.

  “Do you shop at Seymour’s?” Mrs. Frost sounded curious.

  “I used to work for Mr. Seymour.”

  Mary gave a spurt of laughter. “At his store in Ballarat! He said he planned to have a female choose his fabrics. He so loves his little mysteries. I shall tease him about falling in love with one of his employees, don’t doubt it.”

  Mrs. Frost clicked her tongue. “Oh, you’re being too romantic. I wasn’t in love with Richard when I married him. My Papa thought of marriage as a business proposition, and if Starling knew the workings of Alasdair’s businesses... Was yours a love match, Mrs. Seymour?”

  Starling blushed. “I shouldn’t say. Really.”

  Mary widened her eyes. “It’s obvious Alasdair adores you. He needed to marry for no other reason.”

  Mrs. Frost inclined her head, ending the subject. “Mary, what color is your bedroom?”

  “Green. Such a soothing color, and I like the placement because the window overlooks the side garden. You have the yellow room next to ours, I believe. A view of the front street.”

  “Yellow. Yes.” Mrs. Frost tightened her lips.

  “You would look quite lovely in yellow,” Starling said, concentrating. The blonde had skin the color of a white peach. “It would be perfect on you, that or any other warm color.”

  Mrs. Frost gave her a glance of affront. “I never wear anything but shades of lavender. Never. I dislike warm colors. Perhaps this headache was brought on by resting all afternoon in a yellow room.”

  “More than likely from traveling for days. I would think yellow would brighten one’s mood rather than cause a headache,” Starling said without thinking.

  “Perhaps I ought to go to my yellow room and dance for joy?”

  “Dancing might be difficult with a headache,” Starling said with sympathy. Her head, too, seemed heavier than usual and her tongue had taken on thoughts of its own. She didn’t object to being meek. She just couldn’t seem to keep her mouth closed tonight.

  “With your permission, then, I shall retire instantly. Could you add to your goodness and send me a cold compress?”

  Starling blinked. “Of course.”

  “How delightful it is not to have a fuss made over my headache.” Mrs. Frost rose, placing her napkin carefully on the table. With an uptilted chin, she left.

  Paul grinned. “The journey here lost her two years of her life. She was nineteen when she met Alasdair, not seventeen. In a couple of days, she’ll be your age,” he said to Mary, who looked rueful.

  Starling said, “I assume I’ve been a lax wife. Should I have offered her something else?”

  “A left to the jaw,” said Paul.

  “Don’t listen to him. I expect the long journey m
ade her tired and headachy. Perhaps you could send up the rest of her meal on a tray. She likes to pick at her food.”

  Starling giggled, then she covered her mouth with her hand. “How strange. Likely, she has never gone hungry.”

  “Her parents were very rich and doted on her. Her father died just after her husband, and her mother died recently. In a few short years, she’s been left with no one. That would be dreadful. I think she should be allowed some leeway. It’s just hard to bear when she talks of Alasdair as her property. I’m sure you don’t like to hear that, either.”

  Strangely, Starling didn’t, but she assumed that was because Mrs. Frost seemed to be a woman who didn’t like other women. Brought up by females and associating only with females most her life, Starling had a great deal of respect for her own sex. Perhaps she would like Mrs. Frost tomorrow. She liked Mary and Paul already.

  She hoped she had acted out her part as well as Mr. Seymour would have wished. Rather than being told to act meekly, to be believable she should have been asked to make an effort to speak to his relatives. Now that she had, in her opinion the evening had been a mild success, except for not knowing her role well enough to ask a servant to assist Mrs. Frost.

  Had the little girl not fallen in the well and Mr. Seymour not been put in the dangerous position of trying to get her out, Starling would be quietly triumphant. Mr. Seymour’s sister had accepted her without a blink, including the fact that she had worked for Mr. Seymour. Starling had to assume she was adequately managing the job he had asked of her.

  With a smile that kept coming, she ate a big serving of jellied fruit.

  * * * *

  After removing his mud-caked shoes in the laundry, Alasdair strode through the dimly lit house to his bedroom. Light gleamed under his door. He moved across the threshold, almost surprised to see Starling asleep in his bed. Such was his preoccupation with getting Tammy safely in her parents’ arms, he had forgotten about the woman who shared his room. Her hair curled around a young face etched with weariness. Bearing in mind the to and fro-ing she’d done in the rain today, she had earned her rest.

  He dropped his dirty clothes behind the dressing screen; washed as quietly as he could; and, chilled, slid into bed. With an ironic smile, he turned down the bedside lamp, remembering that until the rigors of Ballarat had left him with too little energy to waste, he’d agonized over Lavender sleeping with Richard Frost. He hoped she thought about him with his “wife.”

  Starling stirred. “Did you get Tammy out?” Her voice was husky.

  “About ten minutes ago.”

  “I’m glad. Mrs. Burdon must be the happiest woman in the world right now.” Her arm moved, lightly resting against his turned back.

  He tried to quell his reaction to the warm skin contact, but the truth was he was as horny as a goat. Thoughts of Lavender had been stirring him for hours. His body had been ripe and ready since he had walked into the house. “Don’t encourage me,” he said. “I’m too tired.” Pulling the sheet to his ears, he tried to will the ardor between his legs to disappear.

  “You’re cold.” She sounded slurred. “I’ll warm you so that you can sleep.”

  His toes curled and his body tightened. Doubtless, after going without for a while, she was as ready as he. “We agreed that you would be a wife in name only, remember?”

  “Shh,” she said, as if trying to quiet an unruly child.

  Her body curled against him. Her knees pressed into the backs of his. Feet like hot bricks rested on his calves. His breath grew forced. She spread her palm on his back.

  “I think you’re bare,” she said in a surprised voice.

  “You’d be right.” He tried to ignore his erection.

  Her soft breath tickled the skin of his back. “Are you relaxed now?”

  “Have you heard the term, ‘propagate or perish’?”

  “No.”

  “Of course not.” In the past, during times of stress or danger, he had known irresistible urges to have a woman, any woman. Although the danger from the collapse of the tunnel was over, the urge remained.

  “It can’t have been easy in that muddy hole, and I’m sure you must have worried about losing Tammy when you were so close.”

  “The tunneling was uncomfortable, I’ll admit. I didn’t think a lot about Tammy. More about the task.”

  “But you would much rather have been here with your guests.”

  “No.” He made a rueful mouth in the darkness. “I would rather have been tunneling. At home, I had an unsolved problem.”

  “Nevertheless, you performed a brave deed. Are you warm enough now?”

  “More than warm enough,” he said in a voice that even he could hear sounded ungrateful.

  Her hand dropped from his back. “Good. I have a headache.” She sighed and rolled away from him.

  “Good night, then.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you. Your support outside was...surprising.”

  He closed his eyes and his weariness overcame him.

  * * * *

  Starling woke with a start when Ellen brought in the hot water. She attempted to moisten the inside of her mouth. Head pounding, she tried to sit up, but with Mr. Seymour’s arm lying heavily across her chest, she couldn’t move.

  Mr. Seymour had threshed around most of the night. She didn’t mind the bristled chin resting on her shoulder, the nose pressed into her throat, or the crumpled dark hair against her jaw. Nor did she mind the leg between hers or the faint snoring sounds. She was glad he finally slept.

  He’d been a hero. She had questioned his moral integrity, which seemed to shift with the tides, but he had kept his side of the bargain last night after he had taken her offer to warm him the wrong way. If he hadn’t, she would have screamed, of course, and he would have had to explain the situation to his family, but they would have no sympathy for a woman who shared a bed with a man for money. And she would have lost the promised money, no doubt of it.

  Now he no longer made her nervous. She could think of him as a trustworthy employer. That was, when she didn’t think of him as a self-seeking, sinfully attractive, untouchable male.

  Ellen filled the basin, looked at Starling, and mouthed quite clearly, “Breakfast?”

  Starling shook her head and pointed at the dark head snuggled against her neck. “We should let him sleep as long as he needs,” she whispered.

  Ellen nodded and left.

  Starling tried to slide from the bed, but her arm, beneath Mr. Seymour, was numb. The useless appendage wouldn’t obey her will. As she wriggled, his snoring stopped. His lips pressed against her neck. This small movement freed her. She flicked her fingers to regain feeling.

  Suddenly the one knee between hers became two and his hand slid to her covered bottom. He lifted her closer to him and pressed his hips against the junction between her legs.

  Her face heated and her breath shortened. Embarrassingly, she wanted to shift her legs to feel the hardness of his pecker there. Perhaps Meg had been right. Women had been made to fit with men. This one hadn’t even woken, yet he was ready to rut.

  He moved his lips from her neck to her jaw and kissed her there. She jerked away.

  He blinked his beautiful gray eyes once or twice. “Who are you?” he asked in a fuzzy voice.

  “Your wife,” she answered, annoyed by his handsome face, his demanding maleness, and her treacherous body.

  “Good,” he said. “I can fuck you.”

  His mouth covered hers and, stunned, she let his lips sweep hers and his tongue caress inside. His lower body urged at her. As suddenly as he had begun, he stopped.

  He groaned. “Sorry,” he murmured in a gruff morning voice, “I wasn’t quite awake.” He rolled off her onto his back on the other side of the bed. “Don’t take any notice. I really am asleep.” He lifted one heavily muscled arm to cover his eyes.

  Within a minute, he made his last statement true.

  * * * *

 
Starling shifted the screen to hide behind while she washed, and she quickly dressed in her new mold-green gown. With her hair scraped up into the usual tight knot, she made her way to the kitchen. As she passed the dining room, she heard voices.

  “You’re up early, Starling,” Paul said from the table. “I thought after the bottles of wine you consumed last night, you’d be confined to bed all day with a headache.”

  “The wine,” Starling said, aghast. “Is that what happened to my head?”

  “She didn’t drink as much as you did,” Mary said in a chiding voice. “Don’t tease her, you brute. It’s nice to see you here, my dear. Alasdair never joins us for breakfast. I imagine Lavender won’t, either.”

  “Is there enough food? Or should I go to the kitchen to ask for more?”

  “There’s plenty. I’ll ring for more hot water for the tea.” Paul arose and tugged the bellpull near the fireplace.

  Starling examined the silver lids lined along the sideboard. She lifted the nearest and saw sliced ham. The next bore cold roast beef. In the next was a sliced cake, and a board held sliced bread. A bowl contained stewed plums. She helped herself to beef and bread and sat in the seat she’d occupied the evening before.

  “What are our plans for the day?” Mary asked.

  “I thought I’d idle around eating cake,” Starling answered. “Like every other wife.”

  Paul and Mary laughed. “I can see you’re going to lead Alasdair a merry dance,” Mary said. “How is he this morning?”

  “He’s tired and his hands are cut and swollen. Other than that, I’m sure he’s very pleased with himself. The child was rescued before she came to any harm. I’m sure Mr.... Alasdair will want to know how she is, and so I’ll make inquiries later.”

  “Not too much later. I’ll need you to go shopping with me this morning,” Mary said. “You can show me around Seymour’s.”

  Starling’s heart skipped a beat. “I don’t think Mr....Alasdair would like me to do that. He wouldn’t expect me to...flaunt our marriage.”

  Paul reached for the butter. “Of course not. Do you even know the Adelaide store? If not, it would be better if you avoided Seymour’s, in my view. Perhaps if you simply avoided shopping altogether...”