Devil's Desire (2 page)

"They will have to find new employment. I have no use for them, and furthermore, they are past their prime. Do me no good," as she curtly answered Elysia's plea to take them with her to Graystone Manor.

Elysia had tried to reassure them; promising to find them all new positions as soon as she could. But she doubted whether the older servants could find new employers—or would want to. They were ready to retire—only having stayed with the Demarices out of loyalty and love.

The night before she had left Rose Arbor, Bridget, her old nanny, had sat brushing Elysia's long, silky hair as she had done each night since Elysia had been a little girl, a tearful smile on her wrinkled face as she tried to comfort her young charge. "You just take care Miss Elysia, and don't you fret your pretty little head about me. If you need me—well, you know where I'll be, and even though my niece's place isn't very big, and it's way out in Wales, you'd still be welcomed. You just wait and see, well all be together again, little one, just like before, and some day I'll be burping your wee ones like I did you and Ian, God rest his soul."

Elysia had smiled, agreeing with her, but somehow she knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

Her eyes still filled with tears as she thought of Ariel. Her aunt had sent him to London to be sold at a higher price than they would have gotten in the Northern counties. Elysia had pleaded tearfully with her aunt to allow her to keep him, but she had brushed Elysia's pleas aside contemptuously, saying that she would have little time for riding or playing where she was going.

Elysia's only consolation had been that Gentle Jims had gone to London, where he would seek new employment, and would personally handle Ariel until he was sold. She knew Jims would take care of Ariel who with the exception of herself and Jims, would allow no one else near him. Elysia had worried about this-afraid that as a one-master horse he would be useless to anyone else. She could only hope that whoever purchased him would be gentle with him and give him the chance to adjust to a new master. It was too much to hope for-that Jims might be able to stay with him and remain his trainer. But Elysia knew that she could never stop worrying about Ariel nor would she ever be able to forget him.

Graystone Manor was as gloomy and gray as its name implied, Elysia thought, as they drove up the circular drive to the austere entrance of the house. She felt depressed and subdued after the day's journey in silence with her aunt.

That had been two years ago. Elysia's thoughts came back to the present as she stood again, staring up at the gray house that never seemed to change.

With a deep sigh she walked steadily up the slope towards it, passing through the grove of oaks, strong and invincible, withstanding the winds and rains which beat down upon them year after year, only to seem more unconquerable each new spring. If
only she had some of their strength and durability, she thought with mounting despair as she skirted around to the side of the house. Elysia walked to the servants' entrance and quietly pushed open the heavy wooden door, anxious not to attract attention. She climbed slowly up the back stairs to the first landing, then through a narrow door to another flight of stairs concealed behind it—the uncarpeted steps leading to the servants' quarters, in which she had a room, but separated even further by another, and narrower flight of steps that led to the attic. There Elysia had a bed and cast-off chair of faded chintz, a threadbare rug, and a small chest-of-drawers to keep her meager belongings in. Her few pitiful dresses hung on a rod fixed in the comer, and seemed to rebuke her for their sad appearance.

Elysia stared at her clothes with disgust. They hung limply like the rags they were; the elbows mended time and again, the cuffs frayed and color worn. It pained her to think of the sachet-scented closet full of brightly-colored satin and velvet dresses she had once worn; the matching shoes peeking out saucily beneath the row of dresses. Elysia turned away, her heavily-clad feet in their wooden clogs noisily raking the floor; practical shoes that carried one through the sodden fields and muddy lanes, repulsing the wetness as thinly-soled. satin and leather slippers never would.

Elysia shivered in her damp dress, which now felt clammy against her chilled skin. She was beginning to unbutton her bodice when a knock sounded on the door. She watched silently as the doorknob was turned experimentally but the look that she had placed on the door held the unannounced visitor at bay. The knocking came again, but more impatiently this time.

"'Ere, answer up. Oi knows ye be in ther. Oi've a message fer ye from the Mistress."

Elysia opened the door reluctantly, dreading the scene that would follow as she faced the burly footman standing insolently before her, a sneering smile on his thick lips.
        
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"Well now, that be better," he said as his eyes roved over her rosy cheeks and disarrayed red-gold curls.

"What is the message?" Elysia asked coldly.

"'Ere now that's not whats Oi calls friendly. Ye knows Oi could make yer lot a bit easier if ye was te be a bit more friendly with me." He put out his big calloused hand, the nails dirty and broken, to touch a button that Elysia had missed re-fastening in her haste.

She slapped his hand away, glaring at him in warning. "Don't you dare touch me!"

He only laughed, but his eyes were as cold and deadly as a snake's watching its prey squirm before it pounces.

"The fine lady, eh? Thought that'd have been worked out of ye by now—but no, ye still be te good fer the likes o' me. Well, we'll see, my fine 'un." He grinned unpleasantly, leering into Elysia's face. "Oi'll have ye yet, my pretty, and ask any o' the maids if Oi don't treats 'em good—real good."

He flicked the latch on the door with a contemptuous finger. "And don't be thinkin' that little bit o' metal's going to keep me out."

"You ought to be flogged, and if you continue with these insults,
l'll—"

"Ye'll what?" he said in an ugly voice. "Go tells yer auntie. Ha! That be a good 'un, If
she be so interested in yer well-being then why are ye up here and working more than a scullery maid? No, Oi'll not be ascared o' the Mistress on that account." He smiled triumphantly, knowing Elysia could not deny his accusations.

"No, maybe she would not interfere," Elysia agreed softly, "but I'll put a hole through that thick skull of yours if you ever dare to lay a hand on me." Elysia narrowed her eyes, smiling slightly as she continued quietly, "I am a very keen shot—in fact, I rarely miss when I take aim between some vermin's eyes."

She made no idle threat, for she had her father's pistol neatly. tucked away under her mattress; originally kept as a memento, it was now used for a very different purpose.

The footman's grin faded, and he eyed the young girl who stood before him—threatening him—with a new and guarded look in his shifty eyes.

"Reckon ye just might at that. Quality does strange things, heard tell. Why ye should wanta shoot me when Oi was just offering ye a little bit o'fun," he whined placatingly, shrugging his heavy shoulders, but watching her with a sly, cunning look.

"What is the message from my aunt?" Elysia asked once more, feeling more sure of herself.

"Wants ye downstairs in the Salon," he told her sullenly. Then he stomped down the wooden steps with ill-contained anger.

Elysia followed him down, wondering what her aunt would want of her this time—to complain that the floors were not scrubbed clean enough; or the windows needed washing; or the linen needed airing? There was inevitably some small detail that Elysia had missed, but which had not escaped her aunt's critical eye.

She crossed the entrance hall, forever in shadow, the dark wood-paneling absorbing whatever light seeped in through the two narrow windows. Elysia knocked, and then entered the Salon to stand in seemingly respectful silence before the cold stare of her aunt.

“I see you have been out." She looked at Elysia disapprovingly. "I suppose you forgot the acorns? I did ask you to fetch me some, but you always think of your own pleasures first. You did go to the North field to look, didn't you?" Aunt Agatha's colorless eyes brightened as she anticipated the answer.

Elysia bit her lip, trying to control the anger and hatred she felt surging within her against this cruel woman.

“I am sorry that I forgot the acorns," Elysia finally replied shortly. She knew what her aunt expected to hear, but she would say nothing to satisfy her twisted curiosity.

"Forgot! Ha! From the looks of you, it was the furthest thing from your mind," Agatha hissed, noticing the dirt and stains on Elysia's dress. "Thought you'd sneak into my house like some common scullery maid after a night of roiling in the hay. Well, miss? Maybe you weren't out 'picking flowers' all of the time," Agatha said meaningfully, looking at the late-blooming wildflowers Elysia had tucked into the pocket of her half-apron. "Maybe you got deflowered yourself? Did some stable-boy steal a few sweet kisses from you down under the trees?" she added crudely, a look of malice in her eyes.

Her cruel remarks made Elysia flinch, and her shoulders slumped almost unconsciously with defeat. She had suffered humiliation and indignity, and she was chilled to the bone, and so tired of all of this that she did not know how much longer she could endure it. She assumed her aunt had finished with her, having called her in only to assess the damage her malicious errand might have caused. All Elysia wanted now was to warm herself before the fire in the big kitchen, and pour a cup of strong, hot tea. But Agatha put a detaining hand on Elysia's wrist as she turned to leave.

"I want to speak with you."

"Yes, Aunt Agatha, but I would like to change first and get a cup of—"

"Later," Agatha interrupted rudely, "You can just stay in those damp things until I am finished. It is what you deserve for flouting my wishes."

And punishment for returning unscathed, Elysia thought dryly as she glanced about the drab Salon with its green and gray-patterned wallpaper, olive-green, striped, satin sofa and chairs and brownish green carpet. The cold-looking marble-topped tables, and stem-visaged family portraits were all reflected over and over again in the ornately carved gilt mirror above the fireplace, where a small fire was burning, sending out an aura of warmth to which Elysia automatically moved.

"Sit over there," her aunt said imperiously, indicating one of the hard-backed chairs near the window. Elysia sat down slowly, trying to get comfortable on the hard cushion. She shivered, feeling a cold draft seeping in through the window frame.

Aunt Agatha settled herself carefully on the striped satin cushions of the sofa which sat greedily before the fire, swallowing up all of the warmth put out by the struggling Hames. Agatha smoothed back an imaginary piece of loose hair. Elysia had never seen a piece escape yet from the tight little bun at the nape of her aunt's neck. Never had Elysia seen her aunt's face alight with joy, humor, or love. Her whole appearance was severe.

During the two years that Elysia had lived at Graystone Manor she had never heard Agatha speak a kind word to her-or to anyone-but she seemed to be the butt of her aunt's enmity more than the others. Agatha had not acquired a niece when she had taken Elysia into her home, but a maid-of-all-work, with the added advantage of not having to pay her wages in return for her labors.

Elysia had left the Salon confused and bewildered. She had been raised as a lady; the protected and sheltered daughter of aristocratic parents who had provided for her every need, and had been fully educated by tutors to use her intellect. To find that she had been reduced to the lowest of menials, and in her own aunt's household had been a severe blow. It was not that she was lazy, for she had always been anxious to help and athletic, despite it being not proper behavior for a girl of her class.

Had her family been poor, she would gladly have helped her parents in any way that she could have; even if it meant getting down on her hands and knees to scrub the floors, It would have been a sacrifice she would have borne proudly to help her family. She would never have felt any degradation or humiliation.

But here at Graystone Manor, Agatha had no need to subject her to this position. Her own aunt had forced her to become a scullery maid, not even allowed the freedom of the lowliest of servants, with no standing in the household, existing in a barren no-man's-land cut off from everything and everyone. The other servants, knowing her to be Quality, and the niece of their Mistress, kept to themselves, ostracizing her from their circle. They knew Agatha would not raise a hand to help Elysia, so they delegated her more work than three maids could manage. Elysia felt as if she were in the workhouse. She never seemed to have an idle moment—no thought or time to call her own. She was constantly busy cleaning the manor, rubbing beeswax into the aged wood, scrubbing floors until immaculate, airing the bedrooms, mending linen, until her brow dripped beads of perspiration, and sweat drenched her dress.

And Agatha was always behind her watching, directing, ordering, yet never lifting a finger herself. She sometimes thought Agatha would have enjoyed having a whip to crack over her head as she bent doing some endless chore.

Elysia remembered bitterly how she had hated the idea of becoming a burden and inconvenience to her aunt, but she knew now how incorrect an assumption that had been. Aunt Agatha's household was run frugally, with no excess in any form, and Elysia's small share of food, in comparison to the back-breaking work she did in the house, more than compensated for any possible strain she had put on the household budget—or debt that she owed Agatha.