by Karleen Koen
* * *
"My…God!…I…" the Duke of Montagu moaned. He lay naked in a bed in rooms he rented for just this purpose. Closing his eyes, he moaned again. The woman with him, her mouth sucking his life's juices from his body, impatiently pulled back the covers that were over her. She glanced at him. His head was back against the cover, the muscles in his neck were rigid, his hands were gripping the sweaty sheets. She moved her mouth on his penis in a rhythm she had learned years ago. He groaned and clutched at the sheets. "God!" he cried again, and his body jerked, once, twice, three times. She sat up. She was as naked as he was, and her body was magnificent, huge white breasts with dark nipples, wide hips that curved out from a small waist. Only her belly had lost its shape and sagged from repeated pregnancies. She leaned back on her elbows, her legs open, the dark hair surrounding her sex, open to him. He half sat up.
"Diana," he said, his eyes still closed, "you were wonderful—" He opened his eyes and now he leaned on one elbow, amazed and excited at the way she sprawled so openly before him. Not even the whores he bought did so. Watching him, her lovely face pouting, sensual, she closed her eyes and began to caress herself. He could not take his eyes from her. She played with her breasts, pinching the nipples until they stood out. She kneaded the soft, full flesh of her belly and finally, slowly, her hand went between her legs. Her red tongue licked her lips. To his amazement, he felt himself growing excited, growing hard again. He moved so that he was lying beside her. She had her eyes closed and had begun to move her body in a rhythm as old as time, as old as men and women and pleasure. He grabbed her hair and pulled it. She opened her eyes.
"Wait for me," he said. "I will service you—"
He leaned over to kiss her mouth, She bit him—which excited him even more. Grabbing her arms roughly, he pinned them down and moved on top of her. Her head was rolling from side to side. He plunged into her, and she moved against him and cursed him, and called him names that made him rigid with desire. She bit him and scratched his back, and he bucked against her like a madman, until his orgasm came with what was now painful intensity. He lay exhausted on top of her, but she was still moving under him.
"More," she said fiercely. "More!"
"Diana, I—"
She jerked so that he fell off her, and he watched as she put one hand to her sex and one to her breast and then moved, her head lolling from side to side until she began to gasp over and over, while both her hands moved faster and faster. It took a long time. Finally, she moaned and then was still. She opened her eyes. He watched to see if she would be ashamed. She sat up.
"I really don't need anyone," she said, shaking her hair out of her face.
"I believe it," he whispered, almost in awe of her sensuality, so openly exposed to him. He felt intrigued and more than a little frightened. She traced the fine of his lips with her finger.
"Say you will help me," she said. "Say you will sponsor my divorce—" She stopped. He moved away from her, to the edge of the bed. Something behind her eyes flickered as she stared at his naked, now unyielding back.
"I have told you over and over that I cannot. What would people say? What would they think? How can I justify it—"
"To protect a fellow noblewoman, the daughter of a great hero, who has been taken advantage of. To protect a fellow Whig, who has been cheated, lied to, betrayed by her Tory husband, who has deserted her." There was not much emotion in her voice. She had said the words so many times that they meant nothing to her, if they ever had.
Montagu sighed. He still had his back to her. "Diana, what can I say to you. I cannot—"
"A diamond necklace."
He turned to stare at her. "What?"
"Give me a diamond necklace—"
"And you will not bother me about the divorce anymore?"
"Give me the necklace and see…."
* * *
Jane Ashford was at her Aunt Maude's house in London. Her aunt, who was her mother's sister, lived on King Street in a narrow three–story town house with a Dutch roof. Her husband was a minor official in the navy department, and her aunt lived for the two official court functions they attended each year. She filled in the rest of the year with collecting as much gossip as she could about the court and those people who graced it, such as Roger Montgeoffry, the Earl Devane, the king's favorite English friend. "The king keeps himself surrounded by Hanoverians, you know," she told Jane, as they were out riding in her carriage (of which she was extremely proud, for it was very expensive and put her a step above other wives). "That von Bothmer and Bernstorff are all he ever sees, other than Lord Devane— and you grew up with the girl he is said to be marrying—Jane, you sly puss! She will be so rich and influential! You must ask her about a living for Augustus. Do not look that way, Jane, dear, you will put wrinkles on your face—a wife must do what she can to advance her husband's career. Why, I am always on the lookout for Edgemont—" (Edgemont was her husband, a quiet man who rarely spoke except when paying bills—then he and Maude quarreled as loudly and abusively as Jane had ever seen! She thought that he was silent because he knew his silence maddened her aunt and made her talk even more, a clear example of cutting off one's nose to spite one's face.)
Jane sighed and looked out of the carriage while her aunt's voice clacked on and on. Everything about her aunt was thin, even her voice. She was tall and thin, her face was long and thin, her hair was black and thin, her nose was pointed and thin. Every morning she sat at a table positioned in front of her parlor windows and dipped pieces of toasted bread in her tea and wagged her thin leg back and forth while her thin slipper hung on the edge of her thin foot. She watched the men going in and out of the coffeehouses, she read the news sheets bought for a halfpenny from the street boys. She rattled and rustled and talked until Jane thought she would go mad.
She poked and prodded at her—not physically, but verbally. Jane had no idea what her mother and father had written to Aunt Maude, but it must have been something, for her aunt watched her like a hawk, except when Augustus visited. Augustus Cromwell was plain and tall and yes—thin! His nose was too long and he had bad teeth. At twenty–four he was just finishing his studies at Oxford, and he rode down every Saturday to see her. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back against the leather of the carriage seat.
"Look, Jane, this is Whitehall and there is the Admiralty. Edgemont is there—in the room at that window there—see, Jane—and now we are going to Charing Cross. That statue is of King Charles I, the one that was beheaded—do look, Jane—"
Do look, Jane, do see, Jane, do listen, Jane. Her whole life lay ahead of her, obedience to others, including Augustus, Gussy, as he was called, as her husband and master. She had not minded obedience to Harry; she would have walked on hot coals for him. But Gussy—he talked a great deal about his work—he was beginning a study on the papacy during the Reformation. Excited about it, his brown eyes would actually glow as he went on and on, and she smiled and nodded and her thoughts were so far away—oh, Harry, how will I ever get through this? Harry, so dark and handsome and passionate. At night, she dreamed of his kisses. Yes, she had let him kiss her. Thank Jesus in his heaven above that her parents had no idea. But she had, and they had been so good, making her tingle inside, in her abdomen and in her breasts. Yes, it was true! And now, now all she had were memories. She dreaded to think of the day when Gussy would kiss her. Harry's teeth had been even and white. How could she stand it?
Dear Lord, every day she watched and waited and hoped against hope for a letter. She ran to the door whenever she heard the door knocker sound. "How sweet you are, Jane, what a help you are, Jane. Edgemont, I tell you, this girl is a treasure," her aunt would say, never knowing that she was always hoping that a postboy would be there with a letter and she would slip it in the pocket of her apron and run up to her small room and read it, read his words of love, of assurance and be better, be stronger, be able to face what she had to do. They all thought she was such a good girl, never knowing the perfidy in
her heart, never knowing what she really thought—the look on her father's face when she left—she had cried for miles and miles. He had looked as if his dreams or faith in life were gone because of her, because of her wildness. She knew he could not afford to be sending her to London. He was always working, always, and there were so many of them to feed, and there were her brothers to educate, and she had to be sent to London. She was bad, bad.
Why did Harry not write? She knew why. Because he was bold and restless and impatient, and he had found someone else. Oh, she knew it. She knew Harry. He had a mistress at school; she knew that, but when he whispered to her under the apple trees and held her in his arms, it did not matter. He was so handsome. How could women not love him? Sometimes, she thought her heart would shrivel up and die. She really did. Dear Lord in His heaven above, would her aunt never stop talking? She talked all day. And shopped. And visited friends. Or had them over to visit, drink tea, play cards, and talk, talk, talk! Sometimes Jane thought she would scream at the clacking, clacking, clacking sound of her voice—"Jane, dear, do fetch Mrs. Maple some more tea." "Jane, dear, do look at those green gloves. I must have them." "Jane, dear, do not tell your Uncle Edgemont. He would never understand."
Here in London, her aunt looked for ways to fill the days. At Jane's home, Ladybeth Farm, her days were spent helping her mother. There was the dairy to oversee, and the alehouse. There was cream and cheeses and butter to make. There was game to cure, and beef and pork. There was bread to bake and clothes to sew and mend and clean. Hens and pigs had to be fed, there were younger brothers and sisters to see after. Jane's days had been spent doing tasks that made the household run efficiently. Now, at Ladybeth, they would be in the woods near Tamworth, gathering greenery. The Duchess always allowed neighbors and tenants to gather the bay and holly and ivy from her woods at Christmastime, and Jane's family was the most important after the Duchess's and Squire Dinwitty's. She and her sisters would make wreaths. She would help her mother and the servants in the kitchen, for there was an enormous amount of baking to do—pies, cakes, biscuits, puddings. She and her brothers would go out and find a yule log, the biggest log in the forest, and they would harness the horse to drag it home. Everyone would be laughing, cold cheeks and noses red with cold, fingers and toes burning with cold. Mother would have hot, spiced ale ready, and yule sweets. The log would be placed in the fireplace, waiting for Christmas Eve, when they would light it with the burning remainder of last year's log. It was good luck if it burned through the night. The house would be shining with candles, and Father would lead them in a Christmas prayer, and later some of the villagers would be by to carol. She and Harry and Barbara would meet—except that this year Harry was in Italy and Barbara was in London, like herself, ready to be married. Her aunt would spend the holidays playing cards with her friends. She would lose too much money and Uncle Edgemont would argue with her, compliments of the season.
The carriage stopped. Jane looked out. They were home. She followed slowly, like an old woman, as her aunt ran up the narrow, steep steps to the front door, talking all the while to the coachman, who doubled as one of their house servants. The other was Betty, the kitchen maid.
"Now, Thomas, you take those horses right back to the stable. I do not want Mr. Lewis charging me for another hour. And see the carriage is stored properly." (Her aunt rented horses; it was beyond their means to keep a permanent pair. The stable owner allowed them to store their carriage for a fee.) "Thomas, be sure the carriage is pulled inside. I do not want rot and mildew on it."
It was the same thing she always said. The carriage was a source of enormous pride, her friends did not see how her husband managed it; and Aunt Maude smiled and bridled and never told them that she paid for it out of her settlement money or that she and Uncle Edgemont quarreled about it at least twice a week, he claiming it was too expensive to rent a stable and horses, and she saying it was her money and she would do as she pleased. And she did. Every other day they went out. She took her friends shopping—the carriage crammed with petticoats and ribbons and clacking chatter while Jane sat squashed in a corner.
Her aunt was stripping off her gloves and going through the letters Betty had left on the table. Jane untied her cloak and hung it up. She sat down.
"Merciful gods!" her aunt shrieked, waving a piece of paper about. "Jane! Jane, dearest! This is for you—" For a moment, Jane's heart beat so fast she thought she would faint, but then her aunt said, "It's an invitation. Just listen, child. Mistress Barbara Alderley invites Mistress Jane Ashford and Mistress Maude Berkley—I am invited, too, Jane, dear. Now whatever will I wear?— to take tea at four Thursday—I will go out tomorrow and buy a new gown. I have nothing but rags to wear?—Maria will eat her heart out—Jane! Saylor House!" Her aunt clutched the paper to her bosom. "Merciful gods! It is just down the street from the palace! It is one of the most magnificent houses in London. Edgemont went to a function there—the present duke, you know— and talked about it for weeks—actually talked, Jane, about something other than my bills! I was floored, as you can quite imagine. And to think you and I are going to tea there!" She hugged Jane excitedly and danced about the room.
"Jane, you and Augustus are going to go far. I predict it! I do! I do! Lady Saylor is the daughter of the Earl of Bristil. Her wedding to Lord William was brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! Of course, I was just a child, but I remember it, I do! Lord Bristil opened his house to hundreds of people, and there were balls and parties for weeks before she married. You could have knocked me over with a feather when Lord William died. I was devastated. And before that his older brother and little son. I cried. I did. Life is cruel, Jane. Taking all the Duke and Duchess's sons like that. And their precious little grandson. I remember your mother wrote me that the duke looked like death himself. He was a great man, a great man! Why, after the battle of Lille, we were dancing in the streets and lighting bonfires and shouting his name. He rode in the queen's carriage. I saw it. I stood in a great throng of people all day to see him—and someone stole my gray shawl, the one with gold thread in it—but then you would not know about that, would you? Well! Tea at Saylor House. I wonder if Lady Diana will be there? She is so beautiful. I was quite upset with her petition for divorce. I feel it is a woman's place to endure whatever God so ordains. I know I have with Edgemont! Ah, well, the great, you know, Jane, they think they can do as they please—now whatever will I wear.…"
Harry was never going to write, Jane thought, not ever.
* * *
Barbara and Mary sat in the conservatory. Their drawing master had them doing botanical studies, and they were industriously trying to copy the lines of a white, lush camellia.
"Something is happening," Mary said softly, glancing back to see if her governess was close enough to hear. The woman, however, was talking to the drawing master.
"What is it?" Barbara said out of the side of her mouth. By now, she knew the signs. Mary was quivering with news. She had seen or heard something, she was always seeing or hearing something. But only Barbara paid any attention to her.
"There was a note delivered from Lord Devane—"
"For me!"
"Hush! No, it was to Aunt Diana, I think. Anyway, Mother laughed about it and said, 'It is his last-ditch stand, Diana. All his personal charm is going to be arrayed against you.'"
"What did my mother say?" Barbara asked.
Mary shrugged. "I did not hear. They sent me away."
Barbara looked at the fat blooms of the camellia, but all she saw was Roger's face. Today was the tea with Jane. And today Roger must be coming. She was going to grab fate by the horns and speak to Roger herself. She was going to say—
"Is your attention wandering, Mistress Alderley?" the drawing master asked her.
She bent her head over the sketchpad. Bah! He could take his camellia and eat it!
She found her aunt in one of the kitchen pantries, inspecting the silver. It was laid out—plates, platters, forks, knives, spoons, teapots, so
up tureens, butter dishes, trays—on soft felt on trestle tables. It was polished every other day (one of the duties of the under footman), but Abigail always inspected it on Thursday and woe to the butler and footman if there was a speck of dark on any of the shining surfaces.
"What have you planned this afternoon, Aunt?" Barbara said it with all the innocence of which she was capable, which was considerable.
Abigail, her square, fleshy face suddenly suspicious, swiveled around. "Why?"
"I wanted to remind you that I have invited Jane Ashford and her aunt for tea, and I very much want you to meet them."
"Impossible."
Barbara's heart gave a sudden leap. Surely, her aunt was going to tell her that she must be free this afternoon to sign marriage contracts because Roger was coming.
"Your mother and I are already engaged at four. I doubt I will have time to meet your friends. Write Fanny to come and be hostess in my place. Now do go away, dear. I am busy."
"Aunt, I would like very much to see Lord Devane this afternoon when he comes."
Abigail stared at her with open dislike. How did she know? She was a headstrong, impatient girl who did not know her place. She was not docile or meek or quiet, as she should be. She had shown entirely too much interest in this whole affair. It was none of her business; she was to do as she was told. She needed a firm hand. As soon as this unpleasantness with Montgeoffry was ended, Abigail was going personally to find the sternest man she could to marry Barbara. Someone with a firm hand. Why, the girl had this household stirred up from one end to the other. Look at the fuss she had made about Christmas. (It was irritating beyond endurance to Abigail that the older servants were comparing Barbara with the Duchess.) And her influence was spreading. Mary had dared express an opinion contrary to Abigail's just the other morning, and Tony no longer seemed to feel that he must verify his every move with her. He seemed to feel affection for this red–haired child staring at her with those wide blue eyes, eyes that seemed to be pleading, but really covered a brain as tough and durable as Abigail's own. Oh, her face might look sweet, she might have a voice that would melt butter, but behind those eyes was a will every bit as strong as Abigail's. Yes. It was unthinkable in a child of fifteen.
