The Curse of Maiden Scars, page 6
She missed the effect Henry’s name had upon me. A choking feeling caught in my throat. I had not seen Henry since our arrival. His gray eyes flashed before me, and my belly tightened in longing. He said he wanted to watch me. Maybe this was what he meant.
I shoved the basket aside. “I should clean up if you want me to carry things.”
Mrs. Connolly nodded. “Be quick about it.”
I hustled to my room to change into a clean uniform I’d filched from the Stillroom, one not speckled with pig’s blood. I brushed my hair and watched the rainwater wash down my windowpanes, catching distorted glimpses of my reflection. Grooming complete, I returned to Mrs. Connolly.
“Take up this tray.”
The tray spanned twice my width and demanded I move sideways through the doorframe to keep from wrapping my knuckles along the wood edges. I climbed a pokey narrow staircase, only wide enough for two slim bodies, and pushed through a set of disguised doors leading from the hall into a corridor toward the dining room. We servants had our maze of passages to travel the house without encountering guests, creating the illusion that apparitions prepared the evening pork and port.
Once in the Butler’s Pantry, I found Jon, the footman. With the house partially staffed, he was the only one in service. He dressed splendidly in a long day coat with tales and impeccable golden buttons fastened tightly around his waist. The entire costume was trimmed in gold brocade. A light sage green coat paired with black trousers gave him the look of a lean tree suited more for the garden than serving the revelers behind the closed door.
Jon’s brows, unusually long and unruly for his years, contracted tightly above his nose, and he looked at the tray of appetizers.
“Have the pâté at the top, and the mint sauce at the bottom, much like a ball being hit by a racket,” I explained.
He brightened with a wry expression. “Fitting for the energy of the evening. I think someone will be bounced like a ball from player to player.” Jon pushed the door open with his boot before I could scoff at his comment.
The door swung wide, giving me a full view of the dinner guests full view of me. The lively visitors were tightly packed around a rectangular table. Three large candelabras sprung up like saplings from the center, each ablaze with a half-dozen long purple tapers. Splotches of wax dotted a white tablecloth.
The guests were all unfamiliar to me, except one. Henry’s face was flawless from this angle, as though plucked from a painter’s masterpiece. He spoke to a woman with an elegant look. Her hair was pulled high, her lips stained deep violet and matching the candles. She flirted with the man beside her and his female guest but focused on Henry. She teased the men and the woman with a long-stemmed feather, something from a marvelous pale-colored bird. Envy flared in me. I was not born of privilege and could never belong to this group, but the flirting woman filled me with ire.
My staring drew attention. The voices quieted. I thought that the voyeuristic portal would momentarily stand open and then close. Instead, it stuck wide. Jon tried to shoo me away.
Henry noticed me.
He was not in his uniform but clad in gentlemen’s attire with a fitted grey jacket and deep blue ascot—and absolutely the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. He rose from the chair and came toward me. At first, it seemed a dream, for his movement did not dissuade his dinner guests from their conversation. They re-engaged in their evening of cat and mouse.
Henry stopped short of the butler’s pantry, looked at me unblinkingly, and pushed the door back.
The door closed inches from my face, shutting me out. I couldn’t barge into the dining hall. It might be dangerous since the revelry reached a new pitch. The dinner guests might need satiating with more than mere food. With a heavy heart, I decided to return to the kitchen. As I reached the staircase, slapping footfalls approached through the main foyer.
Henry was going to the library. He closed the door behind him, but not all the way.
The temptation was too great. I tiptoed to the door and listened to him shuffling papers and opening and closing cabinets. He went about the room searching for something. I readied myself with my hand on the doorframe but took too long contemplating my next move.
The door swung open, and Henry barred the way with his arms crossed. “And what do you want?”
“I have questions,” I barked at him.
He considered me momentarily, then clasped my upper arms and pulled me to him, his face inches from mine. I wasn’t sure I wanted to struggle. Henry’s nostrils flared as his face came closer, much like our moment in the carriage to Harewood. His breath was sweet with wine. Suddenly, he forced his lips on me, hard and hot, chewing at me in a deep, ravenous kiss.
I was overtaken by some primal instinct and pulled my arms free of his clasp. Wrapping myself around him, I clung to him as if mounting a tree in a threatening storm.
Henry tore me off him and held me at arms-length. “Well, quite unexpected.” He watched me. “Is this what you wanted?”
Wriggling from his grip, I stared at him. “No. I want answers.”
Drawing his jacket down at the waist, instantly grooming his look, he made to move around me. “I don’t have time for this.”
Involuntarily, I touched his hand. This was the most alive I had ever felt, not scared but roaring with command.
He brought his face closer to me, softly brushing my lips. He touched my cheek and coaxed me into a deep kiss that left me dizzied. “Perhaps we should continue in the library.”
Henry lifted my weight with ease. He swept us to an oversized velvet settee, big enough for a tall man to rest fitfully for the night. Plopping me down, he secured the door to the main foyer and then checked the door to the adjoining sitting room. I stroked the smooth velvet and waited, feeling my mind spin as though with too much drink. He went to the desk, giving me a full view of him as he removed his jacket and shirt, laying them precisely on the back of the chair. I was frozen in amazement as I watched him unbutton his pants.
He kicked out his shoes and lined them up behind the chair. He placed his pants next to the immaculately folded clothing and turned—showing a full view of his nakedness. I scooted back, holding myself tight to the wainscoted walls.
Henry sat on the settee next to me with no attempt to hide his goaded manhood. He rested his hand on the velvet and leaned in, keeping his distance but close enough to kiss if I dared. “You shrink from me. Why?”
My desire flared, but this was a sudden and an unfamiliar predicament. The Minster priest explored my body, but not all of it. His fondling was always measured, never going too far. I sensed Henry was interested in more than guilty teasing. He wanted the whole experience of unwrapping and devouring me. My mind was reeling. I should have returned downstairs, but my exhilaration kept me still, awaiting his next move.
He crept closer, giving a full view of his interest. “Did you not think I would return for you?”
His comment left me confused. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
Reclining a bit, he brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. “I’m hungry for you. I have been for a while. I could lie and say you were alluring at the Inn, but you were quite disgusting then.”
I couldn’t understand what was more potent in me—the need for safety or the burn for his touch. It was bound to happen at some point. Why not give my unspoiled self to a clean English officer who had some care for my wellbeing?
He reached for my blouse’s neckline and unbuttoned the top two buttons. As I didn’t withdraw and had no further retreat available, he unbuttoned the rest as he moved toward me on the settee. My hands pressed hard into the velvet. I was passively receptive and noticed how the trepidation faded, and my hunger grew. He caressed my face and kissed me again, deeply. I could feel the heat of his body rise from his skin. I returned his kiss, pushing my tongue into his mouth, tasting the wine he had drunk. He slid his hand down my blouse, massaging one of my breasts, which tightened and rose to his chilled but hungry fingers.
Kissing and touching, breathing and pushing, we melded together. My hands brushed over his manhood. Our kisses stifled my gasp. He repositioned us on the settee, pressing into my chest.
He whispered, “Do you want to disrobe?”
I had forgotten I was still clothed against his nakedness. The heat between my thighs was all the readiness I needed now. I shook my head. I didn’t want him to see me. Notice my scars. Remember me as less than perfect.
“I can tell I will be your first.” He had an expression of triumph.
If he won, then who lost?
Lifting to his knees, he remarked, “You are lovely, and I’ve missed your face and those eyes.” He kissed his fingers to my lips.
Folding my skirt up to my waist, he clasped the waistband of my pantaloons and shimmied them down, not bothering to remove my shoes. With his gaze locked on mine, he sucked his fingers in his mouth. I was frozen by his advances. He massaged me, mixing his saliva with my wetness. My yearning grew. My back arched, and I longed for him to explore me. He pressed his palm against my hips, forcing me back on the settee, causing me to gasp.
“I want you as ready as I am.” I cried out. He clasped his hand over my mouth. “Shh.”
An ecstatic ache grew in me. My mouth closed around the thick of his palm, and he coaxed me further into pleasure. He pulled me to a swollen brink.
Suddenly, he pushed my legs apart with his knees. He ignited a wave of intensity I’d never known. I bit his hand harder. He plunged into me. His movement matched my muted groans.
The excitement in me shifted. Desire in me dulled as his seemed to grow. I tried to slow things down, but there was no retreat. He moved against me in a strident rhythm, and with a final cry, he collapsed onto me. Pinning me under his total weight, I listened as his panting slowed. The sudden change from being milled to stillness left me dizzy.
Henry rolled off and went to a pitcher of wine by the desk. He looked at me as he lifted his palm. “I have something to remember our first pleasure—until next time.” Deep-purple, angry marks blotted the fat of his palm.
My tongue found a metallic drop of blood on my lip. I closed my legs, numb from his weight, making movement awkward. Trying to lift myself, I couldn’t decide whether to pull up my clothes or get off the settee and redress.
Henry gently help me upright and handed me a glass of wine. “Drink.”
I sipped at the wine at first and then took it down in long gulps. It burned my throat but stole focus from the growing ache between my legs.
“I will want to do this again.”
“What?” I sputtered. “When?”
He casually placed a hand on his stomach above his nest of hair. “Whenever I can. It is rare to find an untouched girl I can enjoy.”
I thought for sure that finer women could entertain him. “I’m the maid.”
“Why do you think I was interested in getting you this position?” He turned his back to me. His firm thighs narrowed into slender hips, with only a hint of a rounded behind. “Camilla is naïve. I told her I had an opportunity to change things for you. And that is true. Finding a replacement at the workhouse for you and her was easy.” He glanced back at me before jerking his shirt over his shoulders. “Donovan has a tender place for you, so I sent him to the docks in Hull. I thought maybe you could be my secret treasure. And what better place to keep you safe than Harewood?”
His comments about Donovan and Camilla worried me. Placing the glass on the table, I scrambled into my pantaloons. “Did you plan all of this?”
He turned fully to me, as neat as when I saw him in the dining room. “Not exactly. I didn’t think tonight would be to my advantage. I thought it might take longer, but it is what I had in mind.” He clasped my chin. “I am not your enemy.” The intensity of his look transfixed me.
He bent low to the bookshelf at the far corner, finding a slender leather-bound book. Unless someone was searching, it would have been overlooked entirely. “I was jealous Donovan recognized your beauty first. I wouldn’t have walked you home if I were him. I would have considered many other things—after a bath.” He handed me the book. “Since I understand you are learned, try this.”
The leather was slick with years of handling. “Aretino’s Dialogues.”
“Lovely little tale. Pietro Aretino was a Venetian courtier who masterfully told of women’s lives in Sixteenth-Century Venice. You might enjoy his imagery. I would enjoy it if you picked up a few ideas.”
I turned the book over in my hands before slipping it into my apron pocket. I stood and released a shuddering breath. “And now?”
“And now what?” He smirked. “I will watch after you the best I can until I think of something else. Until then, be a good girl and wait for my return.” He pecked a soft kiss on my cheek and went to the door. Peering his head through the opening, he said. “All seems clear.”
I reluctantly returned to back into the hall. He shielded himself with the door. I eagerly sought his reassuring expression.
“This was lovely.” He grinned as though he thanked me for a cup of coffee rather than my first coitus. “If you had some understanding of your origin, I might develop a reason for a more official connection. But for now, goodnight.” He closed the door.
Worry flooded me, and I went to the far stairs. I was ready to dash down the steps when I came face to face with Ann.
Looking me over, she blocked my way and then stepped aside, letting me pass without explanation.
I was down the stairs when I heard, “I hope you had a nice evening.”
Priest
Light Attributes: Serves spiritual commitments
Shadow Attributes: Seduced by spiritual role
I
woke the following day from my recurring nightmare of the asylum girl wandering the halls of Harewood House. She was hunting for me, desperate to tell me something. Since meeting her, I’d thought of her every day, and she’d invaded my sleep every night. But I didn’t think of only her. There was now Henry. He’d had me, but I’d had him as well. He’d enchanted me from first sight, representing a world I longed to belong to.
My nightgown clung to my stomach, drenched with sweat. I was sore between my legs. Touching myself, I explored a slick wetness and brought bloodied fingers into sight. At first, I thought it might be signs of my lingering dream chasing me into the waking morning, but then I realized it was the start of my monthly blood.
Work at Harewood House had changed many things—primarily regular meals and consistent rest, which improved my chest sickness, and I had gained a little weight. My bleeding still did not come regularly, like Camilla said it would, like the wax and wane of the moon cycles. I had no way to forecast when I’d next need padded undergarments.
I went to the pitcher and basin and hoisted my nightdress under my armpits. I hovered my bum over the bowl and poured water over my stomach. Pink water splashed onto flawless porcelain. The skin around my privy parts was tender. I longed to bandage myself and crawl back into bed, but that was not an option.
Ann’s protesting voice rang clear. “I’ve lit the fires upstairs.”
My time at Harewood House often left me feeling more insecure than when I tromped through the York alleys. Ann’s sudden appearance last night added to my disquiet. I sensed she sought an opportunity for confrontation. I needed a place to escape and think of all that had changed, especially regarding Henry. If Ann was under the watchful eye of Mrs. Brearcliff, then it was time to explore the chapel and find Max.
Cleaned and padded, I pulled my cap around my ears, flipped up my wool cloak’s collar, and secreted out of the downstairs. I headed opposite the lake and the walled garden toward a wood adjacent to the main house. It was foolhardy to trudge across the grassy field, open to any onlooker. I traced the tree line, crisscrossing my way toward All Saints Church. I skulked through the shadows, fearful of who might discover me: Ann, Henry, or Father Thaddeus. Ann colored my impression of him upon my arrival when she told me the entire house was required to attend Mass on Sunday to “uphold moral standards within the community.” I had pictured Father Thaddeus Humboldt as a lithe, stern man, although he was reported as meek and placid.
I found stairs leading to a tunnel under the churchyard wall. Toeing my way down slick moss-lined steps to a dark, brief underpass, I quickly climbed a second set of stairs, halting at a graveyard's edge. I was instantly wary of proceeding between the headstones. I was curious about what kind of people lie in eternal rest before me, but disturbing the dead was always ill-advised.
Opting for a quick turn around the churchyard, I stepped onto a well-groomed path lined in shaved grass. A bent poplar tree, barren of leaves, swayed and creaked in the breeze. I imagined it bore the weight of a century’s grief, for it resembled a slumped, haggard woman with an aching back and crutch.
A dozen headstones surrounded the base of the tree, bright and new. One read, Jane Myer, wife of William Clark Myer, born 4 January 1769, died 2 April 1790. She would have been twenty-one on her deathbed. She’d be in her late twenties now and already headed into a life I could not imagine. I shuddered, wondering what would become of me as I neared thirty.
I went toward the front wall and the church’s main entrance, figuring the older stones might tell of those who previously worked here, and found a gravestone decorated in a rose-carved banner. Here lies Elisabeth Burrows, aged 50, former loyal and beloved Housekeeper of Harewood House. Elisabeth must have preceded Mrs. Brearcliff in the position. I wondered what Mrs. Brearcliff made of her forerunner dying not more than three years older than she was now. Was it a forecast of Mrs. Brearcliff’s life course?
I noticed a neglected but elaborately decorated grave. Unkempt ivy suffocated the bottom and obscured the lettering. I wasn’t sure why I was drawn to it. Bending lower to push aside the vines, I read Cassandra Serenna . . . born 1755, died . . . I couldn’t make out the death date or a surname. The woman’s middle name was not lost on me. I’d never heard someone called Serenna, yet that was me, and now her.
