Baker's Woman

by Tess Enroth

“It’s more than six hundred miles to the eastern shore. I don’t know how far around, but theoretically, yes, we could go all the way around it. The distance from north to south is less, and the Crimean peninsula dips into it from the north.”

  “What’s on the other sides?”

  “To the east, Russia’s border with the Ottoman Empire. The Crimea is off that way.” Sam pointed to the northeast horizon. “That’s where my brothers Valentine and James fought in the war I was telling Singh about. Not long ago.”

  “Why were the English there?”

  “England was aiding the Turks, as were the French.”

  “And won?”

  “Not easily, but, yes, I guess it was a victory.”

  As the road swung inland from the sea, they passed gates on either side, with houses set back from the road. Before long Sam thumped the roof, and they turned left and passed between stone gateposts.

  As they drew up at a half-timbered house, Florence saw the sun flashing on diamond-paned windows in gables above the entrance. The driver looped the reins on a post, and Sam leapt down and bounded up the steps. By the time he was turning a key in the lock, Florence was at his side.

  “Oh, isn’t it splendid!”

  “We’ll see, come on.”

  He stood aside to let her enter and then lit candles in a pair of sconces that bracketed an oval mirror. The driver waited behind them, bags under his arms and gripped in his hands, until Sam pointed him toward a staircase that climbed up along the right wall and bent back on itself above their heads.

  Florence was ready to follow the driver up so she could be in the room with the dormers, but on her left a large room caught her attention. Under its beamed ceiling, wingback chairs flanked a long sofa that faced a big stone fireplace. And farther from the front windows, another room, a dining room, extended to the back wall and broad French doors. She hurried toward the doors to see a brick terrace and walkways that ended at the edge of a bluff overlooking the sea. The water now reflected a pink and lavender sky, and from below came the faint sounds of the surf.

  Florence was speechless as she turned to look at Sam. He was smiling broadly, almost amused by her reaction.

  “You like it, I see. And it seems we were expected.” Sam gestured toward the dining table, where silver and glassware had been laid on a nubby linen cloth.

  “Who expected us, Sam?” Florence had scarcely noticed the table. “How did this come about?”

  “Our papers say a woman called Yesil will come every day and do whatever we require in the way of cooking and housekeeping. She lives in a house we passed just below and takes care of an old woman alone there. It will be up to you to decide what you want her to do here.”

  As they walked back through the rooms, Florence felt his arm brushing hers.

  “Not elegant but comfortable and rather inviting, like a country place where people relax. Do you like it?”

  “Oh, yes. I like the dark wood, and its colors, like the outdoors.”

  Across the entrance hall in a smaller room, shelves lined the walls, and the driver was there stacking boxes near a broad, flat-topped desk and two leather chairs.

  While Sam paid him and arranged for further livery services, Florence went upstairs to the front room and saw the dormers bright with the setting sun’s glow. On three sides of the room, the ceiling pitch was so steep that Sam instinctively ducked his head as he entered, and she laughed.

  “Not a room for grownups, Sam. or nursery.”

  It must have been a playroom.

  She pointed to pictures of a knight and a castle on one wall. A low square table and chair were near the windows, and a narrow bed stood against one side wall. Florence sat on its edge and smoothed the white coverlet.

  “Nice,” she said. “It’s cozy like an attic room.”

  “But very bright in the afternoon, too bright for nap time, but very good for a playroom.”

  She followed Sam into the larger room where sets of drawers met the sloping ceiling on two sides, and mirrored wardrobes stood on each side of the doorway. Sam had gone to the casement windows and flung them open, and Florence walked around the carved footboard of the bed to join him.

  “Look at the sea and sky! The morning sun will be bright in this room.”

  He locked his arms around her and rested his chin on the top of her head as the fresh marine breeze billowed through the white curtains and swept the room.

  “Oh, Florrie, you’ll be happy here, I promise. We’ll make a home such as you’ve not had in a long time.”

  “Florrie? No one has ever called me that!” She laughed at the sound of it.

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Of course not. It sounds light-hearted, happy.”

  “Good! I want you to be light-hearted and happy. Now let’s go see what Yesil has left for our meal.”

  He released her with a gentle hug and kept a hand on her back as if to guide her to the door. As they came around the landing of the stairs, they saw boxes stacked in the hall as well as the study.

  “I’ll see about the dinner, Sam. I know you want to unpack your books.”

  In the kitchen Florence lit an oil lamp, and she could smell the dinner before she opened the oven, where a leg of lamb oozed juices around garlic cloves that studded its crisp surface. On top of the stove, a covered dish of vegetables emitted a subtler aroma, and in the warming oven were a pan of fresh-baked bread and two plates. She lifted the kettle and, judging it full, moved it forward to a hotter part of the stove.

  “It’s all ready, Sam. We have only to wait for the water to boil for tea,” she called out and then turned to find he was right there in the doorway, holding a bottle of wine.

  “Let’s drink to beginning our life in this house.”

  After dinner, they took their teacups and stepped out onto the terrace and listened to the gentle rush of waves followed by the rattle of the sand as the water retreated. In the black sky stars glittered coldly, and Florence cupped her hands around her steaming cup. Sam put his arm around her.

  “You must know how much I like having you at my side, Florence. It feels right. Do you feel that, too?”

  “I do. I haven’t dared say how happy I am.”

  “You’re shivering.”

  Back in the house, he took her cup and placed it on the table with his and looked into her eyes.

  “You won’t talk any more of making your own way, will you? Tell me you want to stay with me, please. Will you say it?”

  “I do want to stay with you, Sam. I truly do.”

  He kissed her gently, a long, slow kiss that moved from her lips to her eyelids and back to her mouth, and she was filled with the yearning to melt into his body.

  Embers from the fire Sam lit before dinner gave the room its only light, and Florence sat on the edge of the chair nearest the hearth and held her hands toward the heat. Sam added wood and stirred up a blaze, then sat at her feet.

  “Are you still cold? Can I get your shawl?”

  “Thanks, no. The fire will be enough.”

  “Remember when I tucked you into the coach in Widden?” His fingers circled her ankle as he removed her slipper. “I tried to warm your bare feet?”

  “And I reacted without thought. I saw I hurt your feelings and was sorry.”

  “A natural, defensive reaction. I understood. I felt, not hurt, but clumsy.”

  “You are never clumsy.”

  He removed her other shoe and, with his head lowered, seemed to concentrate on rubbing each foot. Then quite suddenly he was on his knees, his arms circling her hips and his face in her lap. Her breath caught in her throat, and she looked down at his hair, and touched it, weaving her fingers into the thick crisp curls.

  “You don’t draw back from my touch now,” he said.

  “No, I haven’t since that first day,” she hesitated, “but you have often drawn back. You walked away time and time again. More than once in the hotel you held me until I thought I’d faint, then walked away a
nd closed the door to your room.”

  “Yes. It must have seemed I was rejecting you. But it was my need for you that made me walk away. I was struggling to be fair to you.”

  He stood up and pulled her to her feet so he could see her face in the flickering light. His hands found hers and laced their fingers together, and she waited, hoping he would explain, but he just looked into her eyes.

  “Fair to me? Sam, you’ve been more than fair. You’ve been kind from the first moment, and open and I trusted you. What can you mean by fair?”

  “My dearest, you were a fragile, helpless child whom I meant only to save from men who would misuse you. I saw nothing beyond that. I didn’t expect you to be so fine, so quick, and so very pleasant to be with. When you were helpless and in danger, I wanted to show you kindness and decency still exist, wanted only to be benevolent.” He lifted her hand and kissed her palm. “And then the helpless child showed herself to be a lovely woman with a spirit that captivated me.” He stepped back from her, though their hands were still clasped.

  “However, you are helpless still and at my mercy, so to speak.”

  “If I have this spirit you mention, and the heart and soul you said cannot be bought, how can you say I’m helpless? Once I had dressed in the right clothes, I could have walked out of the hotel and found work. You know that! I didn’t need more English, didn’t need you to find me a ‘suitable position.’ I could have lived, somehow.”

  “Somehow, indeed – meaning quite miserably. I could not allow that. I want you to be happy, to have a life you deserve.”

  “Sam, you have so many ideas about how things ought to be, you don’t notice how things are, how I am.”

  “Then you must tell me, Florence. Talk to me, about what you think, want, believe. But first, understand what I mean by fair: I don’t think you should just be what I want, but I fear I may try to make that happen. I could because I am very good at getting what I want. And that would be unfair to you, and I would know I had behaved dishonorably.”

  “Oh, Sam, I can’t explain what I want. I can’t imagine the choices. I know so little of the world and have gone through so many years alone, among people, but alone. No one ever told me to plan a future or asked what I wanted.” She leaned forward, her forehead pressing against his chest, and whispered, “But you, Sam, you want so much for me. You make me happy, Sam. You mean everything to me. I want to be with you all the time.”

  “Are you sure, Florence?”

  “Yes, yes, please love me, Sam.”

  He led her to the stairway and, hand in hand, they went up to the big bed in the room where the sea winds filled the curtains.

  The sun shone into the room and woke Florence. She slipped out of bed without disturbing Sam and was grinding coffee beans when he came into the kitchen. She felt his presence but did not turn as he put his arms around her and kissed her neck. She had never been so happy. At the breakfast table, he pointed out that previous tenants had probably enjoyed a pleasant domestic life.

  “They set a pretty table, slept in a good bed,” he said.

  “Who do you suppose slept in that other bed?”

  “I’d never have let you sleep there.”

  “Really?” Florence had assumed, less than twenty-four hours before, that it would be hers. “Surely you don’t think I expected to take the master bedroom?”

  “Ah, but you did, took it and me with it.”

  “You see how greedy I’ve become! But I didn’t really care which bed, you know.”

  “I wish I weren’t expected in the office today. But the livery service will be here at any moment.”

  Watching Sam leave, Florence ached and burned, thinking of the hours she must endure without him. As she watched his carriage out of sight, she heard a rap on the back door, heard it opening. A woman’s voice called an odd hello, and Florence went into the kitchen to meet Yesil.

  They talked haltingly of menus and meal times. Yesil wrote a list of foods, and Florence deciphered most of the key words. Finally, Yesil seemed satisfied to know what was expected of her. And after all the gesturing, head shaking or nodding, Florence felt she had made a first giant step toward managing the house.

  She went into the study and found Sam had set out books for her. A small volume of poems by Alfred Tennyson lay open to The Charge of the Light Brigade,” about the war in the Crimea, the peninsula out there on the horizon, where Sam’s brother had been a hero. Poems could be puzzles, but this one she understood without using the dictionary. Nevertheless, any poem seemed long today as her mind strayed to their night together.

  When Sam had come to lie beside her, he was naked, as he’d said they both must be. He began to touch her body, lightly, gently, while he kissed her lips and breasts. His fingers moved slowly from her shoulder to her waist, across her hip and then along her thigh. Then his hand was behind her knee, and lifting her leg across his body, he brought her close and pressed that mysterious, hard and hot part of him against her.

  “Touch me, Florence, touch me,” he’d said, and she did.

  Remembering it, she felt herself radiating heat, and she laid the back of her hand to cheek and forehead, testing for fever. After all her wondering and worrying, everything had been so simple and natural. Now her senses raged in recollection, and she couldn’t concentrate on pages of words.

  She could see farther down the road from the study windows than from in the living room, which looked out only toward the gate. With her book open in her hands, she went from room to room.

  In late afternoon when she happened not to be looking, Sam came through the gate riding a gray horse and leading a black one. She ran out to meet him.

  “Florence! I was sure you’d remember your riding lessons, and I thought we should ride together.”

  “Wonderful! I know I’ve not forgotten!”

  “We’ll enjoy some outings on the backs of these good beasts, and I’ll be able to come and go when I choose. No livery man will ever drag me from you again.”

  Florence took the reins of the handsome black mare, hiked up her skirts, put a foot in the stirrup. She swung easily into the sidesaddle, patted the horse’s neck, and twitched the reins. Sam grinned at her as they set off at a canter. On the way back they rode at a slower gait and dismounted near a small stable beyond the woodshed and chopping block.

  Sam unsaddled the horses and rubbed them down while Florence watched, still exhilarated by the ride. She loved the sight of his hands touching each piece of equipment with respect, handling the horses tenderly.

  “I like this,” Sam said when he noticed her watching. “I’ve always had horses and dogs, big dogs.” He finished seeing to their feed and dried his hands on his handkerchief. “By the way, I spoke with Singh today. He said they will come to see us on Sunday.”

  “Oh, good! I’ll talk about the dinner to Yesil tonight when she brings our fresh vegetables.”

  “I wish Yesil weren’t coming,’’ Sam said, as he set his hands on her hips and pulled her toward him.

  Florence flung her arms around his neck and kissed him hungrily. Still kissing, Sam lifted her off her feet and seated her on a stack of baled hay. With one hand he pushed up her skirts, and she leaned back on the pungent, prickly hay. In a frenzy they unfastened garments, pressed their bodies together and coupled, swiftly as animals, then clung together. Florence stroked Sam’s hair away from his sweaty forehead and breathed in the scents of hay and horses’ moist breath blending with a smell she recognized now as semen. It was all perfect.

  They were in the house, having a glass of wine when Yesil arrived with a basket of vegetables, scrubbed and ready to cook. She put them in the pot with the simmering meat and asked if she could do more. Both said no so quickly that her eyes widened, and she straightened her back and said a hurried good-night.

  * * *

  Out of sight of the house in the morning, Sam slowed his horse to a walk. Making love to Florence gave him even more satisfaction than he’d anticipated, yet he wa
s feeling less than honorable. From the beginning, he had thought it more than likely that soldiers had raped her. It was reasonable to assume that violation and the limitations of life on a peasants’ farm would leave her fearful. Had she expressed fear or resisted him in any way, of course, he would have stopped. He was neither a rake nor a boor.

  But it was a great relief to have been mistaken about her past. And then, that she was a virgin after all was less astonishing than the intensity and pleasure with which she responded.

  What did it all come to? He wanted her with him, and he wanted to go to Africa. Now it would be unscrupulous as well as unbearable to leave her.

  Going over all this, he felt relieved to get to work even though work was presenting unexpected problems, too.

  Chapter 8

  Florence thought a picnic would provide an opportunity for Sam and Singh to go off on a walk along the shore, and that is what happened. She and Adrianna were left alone to talk while they set out the food.

  “You really look wonderful, Florence. Don’t tell me it’s housekeeping that makes you glow!”

  “I saw the way you were watching me, us— Sam and me.”

  “You look truly happy, at ease with yourself, and Sam does, too.”

  “I hadn’t imagined how it could be – how making love could be. I was so upset those times he kissed me and walked away. He left me puzzled about what I had said or done. Now he tells me he was trying to be fair to me!”

  “I did try to explain that – and I hope now you understand. I didn’t say then that he might be worried that you had reasons to fear or reject a man’s advances. I didn’t want to ask if you’d been assaulted by your captors or anyone else. After you and I talked, I was quite certain you had not been, and that you were merely shy. That’s why I urged you to be good to him.”

  “You know, Adrianna, I didn’t understand why the men didn’t touch any of the girls although they did things to the boys. I didn’t know there would be blood, and girls would never be the same, but now I see why they left the girls alone. You see, I was even more ignorant than you suspected.”

  “Did it matter? I mean, did anything about it, the bleeding or pain, distress you?”

  “No, no, no! Not at all.”

  “But then, Sam knew, too, that you were innocent,” Adrianna stopped herself, putting a hand to her lips. “I shouldn’t ask questions. You know, Florence, I don’t expect you to tell me things that are private, are secret between you.”