Sapphire

by Rosemary Rogers

She giggled and Sapphire nearly groaned out loud. Miss Clarice Lawrence was the type of woman she despised. She had known several of her kind in Martinique—planters’ daughters out fishing for the best catch in the pool of single males. And the Miss Lawrences had been as thick as fleas in London, all sweet-talking, coyly flirtatious and as manipulative as the female of the species could be.

  Blake was a man who spoke only truths. He believed in hard work and honesty. For all his wealth and education, he was a simple man. He could never love a woman like Clarice Lawrence. She doubted he could even abide an evening with her.

  Sapphire looked down at the rag in her dirty hand and then back at Miss Lawrence, dressed in her mint-green gown, white straw boater’s bonnet and thin white lace gloves. The contrast between Sapphire and Miss Lawrence was both unnerving and unfair, and there was nobody to blame for the outrage but Blake Thixton.

  “Tell me you missed me, Blake dear,” Miss Lawrence continued in a simpering voice.

  Sapphire almost laughed. It was humorous, really, Miss Lawrence trying to entice Blake while Sapphire, who had made love to Blake more times than she could now count, dusted the molding in his dining room. It was so amusing, Sapphire didn’t know whether she wanted to laugh or cry.

  “I’d really like to have you stay and visit with you,” Blake said, rising from the settee and stepping away from his partner’s daughter, just as she reached for his arm. “I apologize, but I’ve an important matter I must attend to before the end of business today.”

  “Work, work, work. It’s all you men do,” Miss Lawrence cooed as she rose. “Papa does the same thing, leaving early in the morning and staying at his office late into the night. Why, he’s just like you, Blake.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Which is probably why I’m half in love with you.”

  She reached out to him, but he smoothly sidestepped her yet again. “Mr. Danz,” he called. “Could you see Miss Lawrence to the door?”

  “What did I tell you?” Myra whispered, slipping back along the wall to return to her work without anyone seeing her. “Nothing but a whore, virgin or not. And them hoity-toity ones is the most dangerous. I’m just afraid Mr. Thixton is going to end up getting caught in her web whether he likes it or not.”

  The next day, Sapphire accidentally ran into Blake in the second-floor hall; it was late, but she had thought he was still out, which was the only reason she had agreed to run upstairs and leave fresh towels in his bathing room. The bathing room, she had learned, was a magnificent space with a huge white tub and a rather interesting necessary that used a series of pipes and simple gravity to rinse the bowl clean with each use. Sapphire had been dying to ask Blake about the amazing invention, but she refused to allow her curiosity to get the best of her.

  She was just about to enter through his open bedchamber door when he stepped out, wearing the same silk dressing robe he had been wearing the first morning she met him in London.

  Sapphire took an unsteady step back as she clutched the thick white towels in her arms. “I’m sorry, sir,” she murmured. “We didn’t realize you’d returned home.” One look into his eyes and she felt her stomach tighten and her throat go dry. She was so miserable without him. But she knew that she would be miserable with him, too. She could not be this man’s mistress, or any man’s; she would not tarnish the memory of her parents in such a way. Yet nothing could quench her need for him.

  “Sapphire, it’s all right.” He reached out but did not touch her. “I’ve been meaning to come find you.”

  He was wearing silk lounging trousers and Oriental tapestry mules on his feet. She clutched the towels tighter. “You’ve been busy. A company to run, dinners and parties to attend, Miss Lawrence to escort.”

  He chuckled. “Is that jealousy I hear in your voice, Miss Fabergine?”

  “Certainly not,” she snapped. “If Miss Lawrence wants you, she’s welcome to have you. Of course, perhaps I should forewarn her. If she finds herself in your bed, she may soon find herself washing your laundry and emptying your chamber pots.”

  “I don’t believe, Molly, that anyone in this house has emptied chamber pots. The necessary that I had installed at great expense put an end to that. And personally, I haven’t used a pot since I was out of leading strings.” Again, he chuckled. “Is this your way of saying you’ve had enough?”

  “I’m saying what I said days ago. I want to go back to London.”

  “Sapphire, you’re being childish.”

  He grasped her arm, pulling her into his room. She tried to fight him, but he was too strong.

  “Look at you. You look no more like an under parlor maid than…than President Jackson!”

  “You’re hurting me,” she said stiffly.

  He sighed and loosened his grip on her arm. “There’s got to be some way we can settle this, you and I.” He hesitated. “I miss you.” He reached out to draw his fingertip along the outline of her jaw and she suddenly could not breathe. “I miss you in my bed. And I know you miss being there, too.”

  Sapphire felt her lower lip tremble. All she had to do was lift her chin and look into Blake’s eyes to have him take her into his arms. He would close the door and carry her to his bed. Even though it would not settle anything between them, for that short time, she would be happy. She would feel safe. Almost loved.

  “No,” she said, setting her jaw with determination. “You’re not going to do this to me.”

  “Do what?” he said, his voice husky. “Make love to you?”

  The sound of that deep, baritone voice sent shivers through her. And he knew that. That was why he spoke to her that way, and that was why he touched her the way he was touching her now.

  “Here, your towels,” she said abruptly, thrusting them into his arms.

  “Thank you. I thought I would take a cool bath. You know, there are holding tanks in the attic that allow the water to flow through pipes directly into the tub. Wouldn’t a cool bath be nice right now, Sapphire? I could soap your back…I could soap you all over.” He reached out for her again, but she jerked her head back.

  “Good night, Blake,” she said. And using every bit of determination she could muster, she turned in the worn, oversize shoes that gave her blisters and stalked out of his room.

  “You’ll tire of this game,” he called after her, almost cruelly. “You’ll tire and then you’ll come to me. To my bed. On my terms,” he added.

  “Never again,” she muttered under her breath as she hurried down the hall.

  For the next three days, Thixton House was in an uproar. Blake was hosting an intimate dinner party for sixteen and Mrs. Dedrick was determined the Beacon Hill mansion would be cleaned top to bottom. Every bed was remade with fresh linens, every marble fireplace swept, every piece of furniture dusted, even rooms still void of furniture were aired and the floors scrubbed and polished. Sapphire’s task on the night of the party was to remain in the kitchen at Mrs. Porter’s side, but less than an hour before the guests were to arrive, Myra, dressed in a new black maid’s dress with a white apron and mobcap, came rushing into the kitchen.

  Myra bobbed a curtsy in Mrs. Porter’s direction and then addressed Sapphire, who was practicing her hand at making butter curls. “Molly, you must come at once and change! Mrs. Dedrick’s orders.” She talked in excited bursts, her cheeks bright red with exhilaration. “You’re to serve with me in the main dining hall tonight. Felicity isn’t feeling well.” She cupped her hand around her mouth and leaned to whisper. “The one always making eyes at Mr. Thixton. Everyone says she’s free with her favors, if you know what I mean. Sick to her stomach. Morning sickness, they say,” she hissed. “If you ask me, she’s got a little coachman growing under her apron.”

  Sapphire glanced at Mrs. Porter and then back at Myra. She shook her head. “No,” she said softly, taking a step back. “I don’t want to serve. I’m supposed to be here, helping Mrs. Porter.”

  “Unfahseen changes occuh,” Myra announced, drawing herself up stiffly as she folded her h
ands in front of her, doing her best Mrs. Dedrick imitation. “Household staff must adjust.” Then she broke into a wide grin, reaching out to take Sapphire’s hand. “Come on—it will be fun. And Miss Lawrence is coming,” she whispered in Sapphire’s ear.

  Sapphire didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to be humiliated by serving Blake his baked duck with truffle sauce. But perhaps she was looking at this all wrong. She hadn’t asked to be dragged all the way to Boston, torn from the arms of her loved ones, and she didn’t ask to become the lowliest servant in his mansion, either. Perhaps he was the one who should be embarrassed to have her offer the soup tureen. Besides, it would give her another chance to see that shameful Miss Lawrence.

  Sapphire looked to Mrs. Porter, who was busy straining grease from the truffle sauce.

  “Go.” She shooed with her hand, only mildly annoyed. “She likes doing this, you know, Mrs. Dedrick—showing me she’s first in command. Taking my girls right from under my nose. What are you standing there for, silly miss? Go! Dress in a proper serving uniform. But mind you, you behave yourself and don’t spill gravy into the master’s lap or you’ll be back in here scraping scraps off the floor!”

  Myra grabbed Sapphire’s hand and the two young women raced for the door that led to the rear hallway and the servants’ stairs. “We’ll have to hurry,” Myra insisted, taking the steps two at a time.

  Half an hour later, Sapphire was at Myra’s side, back in the kitchen. Dressed in Felicity’s starched cotton black dress that was a tad long and a fresh white apron and small mobcap with a tiny black bow, Sapphire held a silver serving tray out for Myra, who was placing tall, slender glasses on it.

  “I thought we were only serving dinner,” Sapphire whispered nervously. The stiff gown itched at all the seams, and she feared that she would trip on the skirt while she was carrying the heavy tray and send the glasses of lemonade flying.

  “First, refreshments on the veranda,” Myra explained. “Then dinner. Then the men adjourn to Mr. Thixton’s office on the first floor and the ladies go into the keeping room for a nip of sherry, or the veranda, if it’s a warm night like this. Mrs. Sheraton will be the one who decides. She always does.”

  Sapphire nodded, trying not to fidget and wishing she had shoes that fit properly. If she wasn’t careful, she’d step right out of these ragged boats.

  “There we are,” Myra announced. “Now you carry and I’ll serve.” She turned to head for the kitchen door where Mrs. Dedrick stood waiting for them, tapping her foot, her keys jangling.

  “Miss Clockah, make haste,” she ordered sternly.

  “Ready?” Myra whispered, looking Sapphire in the face.

  Sapphire swallowed. “Ready.”

  “Coming, Mrs. Dedrick,” Myra sang.

  Sapphire followed her out the door and down the hall, watching the round silver tray as it tilted slightly one way and then the other with each step she took. “I can’t do this, Myra,” she whispered loudly.

  “Yes, you can.” She slowed her pace. “Eyes up. Never look at the tray.”

  Sapphire lifted her chin and concentrated on keeping her shoes on.

  “Look straight ahead. Mouth soft. Neither a smile nor a frown. And, oh,” she added quickly, “never make eye contact. Even if a guest speaks to you.”

  Sapphire nodded. “I know. I’m invisible. And if Mr. Thixton speaks to me?”

  “Oh, he won’t. He never does,” she assured her.

  At the door of the keeping room, Myra halted. “Are you ready?”

  Sapphire could hear voices that were so familiar she felt a twinge of homesickness. She heard men and women talking in their funny New England accents, and an occasional laugh. The room was filled with dancing lamplight and strains of music drifted from the end of the veranda where the hired musicians played. A party. Oh, how she missed parties! And Aunt Lucia. And Angelique. This was all wrong. Why couldn’t Blake see that she should be the one dancing…the one having all the fun.

  Myra led the way through the keeping room, and just as she stepped out onto the veranda, Blake passed her coming into the house. He barely glanced at Sapphire, who had stepped aside to allow him to pass, but when he realized who it was, he looked behind him to be sure no one was near and backed her away from the door so no one could see them in the keeping room.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded, his tone angry but hushed.

  Sapphire, as ordered by Myra, kept her gaze fixed ahead of her, the tray of glasses balanced in her hands. “Serving lemonade to your guests, I believe, Mr. Thixton,” she said haughtily.

  “Damn it, Sapphire.”

  “It’s Molly here, remember. And I’m just following your housekeeper’s orders, sir.”

  He took a step closer, but she refused to allow him to intimidate her. She stood rigidly the way Myra had tutored, attempting to ignore the scent of his freshly bathed skin, trying to pretend he was not strikingly handsome in his starched white shirt and black frock coat.

  “This is ludicrous!”

  “I have no idea what you speak of, I assure you, Mr. Thixton.”

  “I think you do, Miss Fabergine.” He leaned closer, over the tray she held between them, so close she could feel his breath on her mouth. “Manford Lawrence is a business associate, but he is also my dear friend. If you say anything to embarrass me—”

  “And what of Miss Lawrence?” she asked, staring at him. They were so close she could have kissed him. Or smacked him across the face. “Hmm?” she asked. “Is she also your dear friend?”

  He sat back on his heels, his eyes suddenly turning a stormy gray. “I think you’re jealous.”

  “Absurd.”

  “I think you miss me,” he whispered, leaning close again. “I think you miss my touch.” He brushed her waist with his fingertip in a light caress and then withdrew it.

  It was just enough to set her skin beneath the rough fabric aflame and he knew it…just enough to make butterflies flutter in the pit of her stomach.

  “I think you want to kiss and make up, but your foolish pride is what stands in the way between you and me and a very…mutually satisfying arrangement.”

  Sapphire felt the tray of tall, frosted drinks tip slightly in her hands as she peered at Blake. “You know what you are,” she whispered. “You are a conceited, manipulative—”

  “Mr. Thixton?” a woman called from the veranda.

  Sapphire took a step back just in time to see an attractive dark-haired woman dressed in a lovely rose satin gown glide through the doorway into the keeping room from the veranda. Mrs. Sheraton, Sapphire thought. Myra had pointed her out on the street the day before as her previous employer and one of Blake’s neighbors.

  “Oh, there you are, Blake dear.” Her last words were soft enough for only Blake and Sapphire to hear. She acted as if she didn’t even see Sapphire standing there. “I was wondering where you had gotten to. I want you to tell Mrs. Carter about the Italian painting you procured. It isn’t hanging yet, is it?” She slid her arm through Blake’s and took a glass of lemonade from Sapphire’s tray as she led him back onto the veranda.

  Sapphire stood there for a moment, frozen in her old, beat-up shoes. Myra poked her head around the corner and waved frantically. Sapphire found her feet and hurried for the door.

  “What did the master say to you?” Myra whispered. “Is there a problem with the lemonade?”

  Sapphire shook her head, not trusting herself to speak yet.

  “Come along, then.” Myra gave another quick wave. “The ladies are waiting on their drinks. ’Course Mrs. Sheraton has already asked me if there isn’t something stronger before dinner.” She winked and then turned to the first female guest they came upon on the veranda. “Lemonade?” Myra asked, already lifting a glass from the tray to offer it.

  Once Sapphire and Myra had served the drinks, they did not return to the kitchen as Sapphire had hoped they would. Instead, they stood at attention, backs to the stone wall of the house, waiting to see if they coul
d serve more lemonade or take the glasses.

  “This is the best part,” Myra whispered out of the side of her mouth. “It’s like we ain’t even here.”

  Sapphire tried to stay focused as she looked out over the veranda that hung over the cliff. Even at dusk, it was a spectacular view. She could still see the ripple of dark water and whitecaps far below, and there was a twinkle of lights on the small slice of land that was the shore. By this time of evening, there was little movement on the water; all the ships that had anchored would burn lamps through the night in order to be seen by those insistent upon sailing in the darkness.

  “So, has he asked?”

  A young woman with ebony ringlets holding Clarice Lawrence’s hand led her in front of Sapphire and Myra as they lowered their heads in private conversation. “Has he?” the woman repeated.

  Both young women were dressed elegantly in nearly identical off-the-shoulder evening gowns of white silk; Clarice wore a pale lavender ribbon belt, and the other woman a pink one. Both had their hair swept up with fresh flowers tucked in one side of their coiffures, and Sapphire felt herself longing for one of the white gowns, for clean hair and the ivory pins she would need to sweep her hair off her neck. The privileged young women appeared so cool, so comfortable, while Sapphire’s uniform was itching her fiercely at the neckline. But no matter how badly it itched, she knew she couldn’t scratch. She would not scratch, not in front of Miss Clarice Lawrence, even if it killed her.

  “Well, when is he going to propose?” the dark-haired young woman asked. “I thought you said you were certain he would ask you the day he returned from London. What did you say? I remember, it was ‘now that he is a titled lord, he would have need of the perfect wife.’” The last words were almost hissed and most certainly accusatory in nature.

  Myra sank her elbow into Sapphire’s side and cut her eyes in the women’s direction to be certain her companion was listening, then continued to look straight ahead.

  “If he doesn’t ask you soon,” the dark-haired debutante went on, “you might as well start looking elsewhere, because you are certainly not the only woman setting her lace cap for Mr. Blake Thixton, Earl of Wessex.”