Listen to the Moon (7 page)

It was only what she was thinking herself, but the words speared right through her. “I’m never going to marry. Never.”

He didn’t react to that at all. Not with surprise, anyway. With sympathy, she thought. As if he knew she must have a good reason. “Why not?”

“You thought my father died.”

He drew back. Only an inch or two before he thought better of it, but he did. He didn’t want to marry a bastard.

“He married my mother, all right. He lived with us until I was seven.” She shifted her basket to her other arm. “He doted on me. He—” She shut her mouth on private memories of being carried on his shoulders, of being called
blue-eyed Susan,
of how he would sing a song over and over until she’d learned the words. “Well, he’s living in Chichester now, with a new wife and five children.”

Women talked as if you only had to be careful until the ring was on your finger, and then you were safe. But even if a man married you, if he meant to stay, if he did for a while—even if he loved you—it was never too late for him to change his mind.

“I’m sorry.” Mr. Toogood waited, but when she was silent, he said, “I don’t offer you certainty. Nothing is sure in this world, after all. I hoped you would talk it over with me, but if you’re satisfied you don’t want the position, and wouldn’t marry me to get it, then there’s nothing more to be said.”

It wasn’t his acquiescence that calmed her, but the
way
he said it, almost as if they were talking business. As if he was disappointed, but couldn’t resent her for deciding his venture wasn’t worth her while to invest in.

Her mother would want her to take him.
Not all men are good-for-nothings like your father,
she always said.
Don’t marry a good-for-nothing, and you’ll be right as rain. It’s hard for a woman alone. You’ll be old someday, love.
If Mr. Toogood wasn’t the farthest thing possible from a good-for-nothing, he made a very fine show of it.

Maybe as his wife, she could stop worrying about ending her life in the workhouse. Then again, he was much older than she was. All right, so she could stop worrying about her mother ending up there.

Even if he left, he’d pay Sukey a maintenance. Oh, her father never had, not after the first year. But Mr. Toogood made a good living, and Sukey thought he’d pay, even just for the sake of his reputation. She promised herself she’d go to the parish and make him if he didn’t.

If she thought of it as a business venture, and not marriage…

The road was so chilly, and she remembered clearly how warm she’d been curled up in his lap.

A very businesslike thought.

He walked along silently beside her, hands in his pockets. There was a peculiar lack of stickiness to him. Most people made you pay for it when you didn’t behave as they hoped, with pinpricks or coldness or rage. But Mr. Toogood didn’t snipe at her even though she’d just refused to marry him without so much as a thank-you. For all his airs of superiority, he generally knew how to share the road.

Indeed, the only thing he’d faulted her for yet was her housekeeping. “You’d be a regular tyrant of a butler.” She glanced at him, trying to decide how disappointed he was, and trying not to think that if she married him, he’d bed her. “I don’t know as I’d like to be a housemaid under you.”

He looked a little sad, but maybe he was just cold. “Have you ever seen the inside of a clock? Or a watch?”

“Once or twice.”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

She nodded, even though she guessed where he was heading.

“A home can be like that, when servants do good work. You might find you liked it.”

It did sound nice when he said it like that, like being part of something bigger, being in church or having a family. But she fell asleep in church and sometimes she dreaded visiting her mother. “A home’s not a clock. There’ll always be more work than time to do it in, and there’ll always be something out of place. If the books all stay on the shelves, it been’t a home.”

He shrugged and watched the clouds.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He shook his head. “It was a mad idea. I don’t know why I bothered you with it. Please forget it.”

But Sukey couldn’t forget it, all that afternoon.

“I think you might add a little more water.” Mrs. Humphrey stirred the cauldron. “It’s soup, not pottage.”

Any more water and the soup would
taste
like water. “I thought if they filled up on soup, they’d eat less meat, ma’am.”

Mrs. Humphrey gave Sukey the narrow-eyed look of one who suspected she was being managed. “Well, add some more onion then, and send it up with plenty of bread.” Bread, bought stale at the baker’s, was the only thing cheaper than soup.

“Yes, ma’am.” The soup, and then the roast, went up to the parlor, where Mrs. Humphrey would carve two thin slices of meat for each boarder and send the rest back down for tomorrow’s pie.

In the kitchen, Sukey made the oatmeal pudding for dessert, still thinking about Mr. Toogood’s not-quite-an-offer. Mrs. Humphrey had measured out the raisins and two scant spoonfuls of brandy before replacing both stores in a cupboard to which she held the only key. After an hour of soaking, the little heap of raisins was…not plump, but soft-looking, anyway.

It would only take another sliver of butter, a pinch more salt, a shade more sugar and brandy and raisins to make the pudding miles better.

An unsatisfying pudding wasn’t much to complain about. Mrs. Grimes would even say it was virtuous—always thinking of tomorrow, always preparing for want and deprivation, always making sure no one got more than her share. But this last week, Mr. Toogood had reminded Sukey how a small kindness, a moment of generosity could transform an afternoon.

It made it seem awfully mean and joyless, the way Mrs. Humphrey took care to give you just
that
much less than you wanted. At the vicarage the pudding tasted like something, she reckoned.

As Sukey tipped the raisins into the pudding, two stuck in the bottom of the cup. She fished them out, and temptation seized her. She tilted back her head and dropped the raisins into her mouth.

There was a gasp from the doorway. Sukey turned to ice, the flavor trickling across her tongue bringing her no pleasure at all. She swallowed the raisins near whole and faced Mrs. Humphrey.

Her mistress’s mouth had turned down so far it seemed to disappear into the lines of her chin. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself, girl?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Humphrey. Ever so sorry. It was only two raisins. I won’t eat any pudding to make up for it.”

She harrumphed angrily. “It was only two raisins today, but how much has it been over the years?”

Every bite she’d stolen over the years paraded before Sukey’s guilt-stricken eyes. But she earned her board, didn’t she, and dined on the boarders’ leavings? Why was it stealing to eat food that would have been hers in an hour?

She couldn’t say that. She couldn’t think what to say. “I wanted to be sure the brandy hadn’t soured.” Oh, why had she said
that
? It was a patent lie. She’d ought to have said… But every sentence she thought of only made her look guiltier.

Mrs. Humphrey’s eyebrows drew closer together. “And a liar too. I should have known as much, when you lied to me about why you lost your last place. I know you were sacked for your smart mouth.”

But that was three years ago!
Her heart pounded. “It was only two raisins, ma’am, I swear. You can take it out of my wages.”

“Only two raisins.” She harrumphed again. “You don’t even blush. You don’t know how good you have it here, you ungrateful girl. I never tasted a raisin in my life until I was nearly as old as you.”

Shame swamped Sukey anew. How could she blame her mistress for scrimping? How could she have compared her to the vicar, who’d never wanted for anything?

“I know what’s got into you,” Mrs. Humphrey said. “It’s that Toogood fellow from Tassell Hall.”

Sukey’s racing heart stumbled. “No,” she said faintly. “He hasn’t—”

“No doubt he’s used to every luxury, and is throwing money around at Mrs. Pengilly’s as if there’s no tomorrow. I’m sure the Tassells keep raisins by the barrelful.”

For a moment Sukey was relieved. But in Mrs. Humphrey’s eyes, a spendthrift might be worse than a seducer. “I’ll do better. I’m sorry—”

“Better safe than sorry, girl. I’ve ignored your insolence and laziness because I thought you loyal and obedient. But your lateness this week has been beyond anything.” Her eyes widened in sudden dismay. “Did you really pay through the nose for spotty onions, or are you stealing, too?” She wrung her hands. “Oh, I’ve been played for a fool.”

Sukey couldn’t think or breathe. “You haven’t. Mrs. Humphrey, please, I’ll do better.”

Mrs. Humphrey, having talked herself up to it, let the axe fall. “Maybe, maybe not, but you’ll do better or worse elsewhere. And don’t think about coming back here later to steal. I’ll be watching for you.”

“
Please
, Mrs. Humphrey.”

Her mistress hesitated.

“Just give me another chance.” Her voice shook. “If you still aren’t happy with me at Christmas, I’ll go—”

“Well, that
is
brazen. This isn’t a negotiation, my dear.”

Sukey saw her mistake too late, as always.

“I rather think you’ll go now. I won’t be ridden roughshod over in my own home, thank you very much. I’ll have my door key back, and you may take your things and go. But leave the coat, I gave it you to use while you were in my service. Be sure I will warn Mrs. Pengilly of your behavior. You may stop by tomorrow for the wages I owe you. You see, I don’t try to cheat you, though you have cheated me.”

Hot words filled Sukey’s mouth, but she swallowed them. Brandy lingered on her tongue, soured by fear. She untied the key from around her neck and held it out. Her things? What things? She put on her bonnet and changed her slippers for boots, and that was all she had in the world.

Mrs. Humphrey watched her out the door and latched it behind her, as if she might try to stuff things into her pockets on her way. Maybe she would have if she could, she felt that desperate. She kept her head high until she reached the street, and then she stopped, shivering. What a ninny she must look, with no pelisse and a pair of slippers dangling from her hand.

She’d have to go to her mother’s. She’d have to tell her mother what had happened. Mrs. Grimes would be so angry and disappointed.

Why had Sukey been so stupid? So careless and self-indulgent? Had she really thrown away a good job, just for two little raisins? Her mother had beaten her black and blue after she lost that last place, so she’d remember the lesson.

Sukey was a grown woman now. Too old for a thrashing, surely.

Her mother had brought Sukey up to be cleverer than this. Sukey couldn’t bear her mother to look at her and see a fool.

She scrambled to reassure herself. She’d find another job easy enough, wouldn’t she? Mrs. Humphrey wasn’t a popular woman. Tomorrow Mrs. Pengilly would laugh at the story, and she and Mrs. Dymond would inquire among their friends for a position, and that would be that. Probably. Two raisins couldn’t turn every employer against her, even if Mrs. Humphrey advertised about them in the
Intelligencer
.

What if the new job was worse?

Oh, why did Mrs. Dymond have to be going to Spain?

She’d worry about that tomorrow. Tonight, she didn’t have a penny in her pocket, and she hadn’t eaten dinner. There was nowhere she could stay but her mother’s, not without asking for charity. The Grimes women had never taken charity in their lives. They’d done for themselves.

A light flickered in the window of Mrs. Pengilly’s attic. Sukey remembered what fear had finally succeeded in driving out of her head. She’d been as good as offered another position. Another home. Her mouth set in determination. It would be something at least to tell her mother, a way to say,
See, I’m not
entirely
a failure. I’ve got irons in the fire.

Mr. Toogood had been angry with Mrs. Humphrey on her behalf, about the thunderstorm. She didn’t know if he’d understand about the raisins, but maybe—maybe he’d be kind. Sukey wanted awfully for someone to be kind to her, just for a moment. She wanted to be out of the wind. Mr. Toogood’s voice was so steady and so warm.

He’d lend her a coat, at least. Sukey crossed the street.

Chapter Six

John had sliced a hot baked apple for his landlady’s dessert and carried it upstairs. As he sat to take a fork to his own, his back to the warm bricks below the little baking oven in the hearth wall, someone knocked timidly at the door.

Sighing, he set his plate down and went to the door. “How can I assist—Miss Grimes?”

She frowned up at him, hands tucked into her armpits.

“Come.” He opened the door wider and stood back.

She hesitated before stepping into the light. Her whole face was tense and suspicious, jaw set, brows drawn as far together as they would go. She chewed at the corner of her pursed mouth. Where was her pelisse? Were those slippers poking out from under her arm?

“Are you angry with me?” He tried to think of what he might have done to make her glare like that. He tried not to want to kiss her until she stopped.

Her frown deepened. “Of course not. Why would I be?”

Because I asked you to marry me.
“What is the matter, Miss Grimes? You oughtn’t to go out in such weather without your coat.”

She shrank away with an annoyed-sounding huff of breath. “Mrs. Humphrey gave me the sack.”

He recognized her expression then: the tightly armored face and posture of a person who expected to be punished. He only just managed not to say
What did you do?
“What happened?”

She looked away. “I…”

“Here, come sit by the fire. Have you eaten?”

She shook her head hopefully, frown easing at last. Drawing her to the hearth, he let her take his spot below the bake oven. She removed her bonnet and huddled there while he ladled beef stew into a bowl for her and cut a thick slice of bread.

Some of the tension left her limbs as she gulped down her first mouthful. “
You
use enough salt. I can’t remember the last time I had properly salted stew.”

Inwardly, he prayed for patience. “The allspice makes it flavorful, really.”

Her snort lacked its usual conviction. “I wouldn’t know. Mrs. Humphrey doesn’t let me use more than one berry at a time.”

“To feed that whole house? That’s false economy. Better to leave them out altogether, for you won’t taste them.”

She took an enormous bite of bread. Silence stretched as she chewed. Finally she took a deep breath. “I ate some raisins.” Another pause. “Two raisins. Soaked in brandy. Well, I wouldn’t say soaked. Sprinkled with brandy, more like.”

He blinked. “She dismissed you for eating two raisins?”

The rest of her tension melted away. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”

Probably he ought to make an effort to be fair. Raisins weren’t cheap. He tried to guess at Mrs. Humphrey’s weekly expenses—but he already hated Mrs. Humphrey, and he’d grown up in a kitchen. There were many things a servant never got: the prime cut of meat, the first piece of pie, an ice fresh from the mold. So many things had to go up to table pristine and whole. But in exchange, one might taste a meal as it grew, opine if the gravy needed more butter, pop a toasted nut in one’s mouth on the way to the scullery. It was one of the great pleasures and privileges of belowstairs life.

Besides, he saw that Sukey had expected him to condemn her, and hated the picture of himself as haughty judge. Or worse, a loyal family retainer. “It’s a disgrace,” he said. “Your mistress is a shrew.”

She laughed. “Harsh words.”

He took down a new plate. Cutting his baked apple in two, he gave her half. “Did you wish to see Mrs. Pengilly?” That must be why she had come, mustn’t it?

“Do you think she’d hire me in?”

“I don’t think she’s ready to admit she needs someone here,” John said. “But her son will be here at Christmas, and it’s his money.”

She plucked the stem from her apple half, toying with it. “I reckon you’re right.” Her hands were small, every movement lovely. “I came to see you, in fact.”

He took a sip of tea to wet his dry throat. He didn’t dare eat his own apple, in case he might need to speak. “And how can I be of assistance?”

“My mother…” She trailed off. “I’ve got to go live with my mother until I find another place, and…” She rubbed at her arms.

There was no reason to take off his coat and hand it to her. He had another upstairs he might have given her, and it was hardly toasty in the kitchen. But his heart pounded as she slipped her slender arms into the sleeves, pulling it close to savor the warmth his body had given it. He wished her to know that he would freeze for her if she asked him to, and even if she didn’t.

He also wished her to look at his arms in his shirtsleeves, and she did, a smile hovering at the corners of her mouth.

He took his overcoat from the peg and put it on, then sat cross-legged on the floor opposite her and waited, his skin on fire with impatience.

She looked terribly sad all of a sudden. “I think I want to marry you.” Her eyes filled, a tear slipping down her cheek.

John didn’t know what to say. “I never intended the idea to make you so unhappy.”

“I meant to get by on my own. I ignored my mother when she said I’d end in the workhouse. I didn’t want to need help. I don’t want to get married only to have some man to take care of me.”

“It isn’t weak to wish for a helpmeet.” Perhaps the coat had been the wrong gesture. “I wish for one myself.”

She looked at him, and then she straightened, a little more cheerful. “That’s right. You’re lonely.”

He had to fight a smile at the pleased way she said it. He widened his eyes and stuck out his lower lip, just a hair. “Terribly lonely,” he agreed solemnly.

“And you want that job at the vicar’s.”

“Badly.” He held his breath, waiting for her to decide that really, she was taking pity on him.

She turned up her little retroussé nose. “Really, I’m taking pity on you,” she said slyly, eyes gleaming.

He met her gaze. “I hope you will.”

Sukey caught her breath. She set her apple down, looking indecisive, and then launched herself into his lap, her cold hands at the back of his neck and her mouth on his. He gasped, kissing her, slipping his hands inside his own coat to circle her narrow waist. She was so eager she overbalanced him; he fell back on the floor. She sprawled atop him, slight breasts against his waistcoat and hipbones pressing into his stomach. He dug his fingers into her gown, feeling the quilting of her corset, so he wouldn’t pull her cap off and yank the pins out of her hair.

Less circumspect, Sukey put a hand down and cupped his cock. Sensation shot through him, illuminating the dark kitchen.

“You don’t have to growl at me between your teeth like that.” She pressed down, her palm right over the head of his cock. “Mrs. Pengilly’s deaf. Howl all you like.” He let go of her waist and held his hands still for fear he would hurt her.

She shaped his length, the heel of her hand firm and her fingertips trailing after, and John thought,
Why not? What are the odds of someone walking in in the next half-minute?
“I’ll spend,” he warned her through gritted teeth, “and it would be highly imprudent to take the time for me to return the favor.”

“I know,” she murmured. “Someone could walk in. Do you want me to stop?”

If someone came in, they’d see his hair flopping about, his chest heaving. He lay flat on the kitchen floor, helpless against a pretty girl like any middle-aged fool. Sukey squeezed his ballocks clumsily between her fingers through his breeches.
This is the least dignified moment of my life.
He shut his eyes. He didn’t want her to stop.

“Think of it as paying something down,” she said. “In three weeks, you’ll have it all.”

This was payment? A promise that she wouldn’t back out, or surety so that he wouldn’t?

She nipped his earlobe as she dragged her nails up his cock, and he could barely find the breath to protest. He was soaking in pleasure like a raisin in brandy, every atom suffused. “I would keep my word for a handshake,” he got out.

Her smile curved against his ear. “I know you would.” She kissed his cheek and gave his groin an affectionate pat. “But where’s the fun in that?” She rubbed her fingers over the tip of his cock.

He gave up and gave in, spilling into his smallclothes.

Sukey had never felt such a delightful sense of victory. Proper Mr. Toogood, with his iron self-control, wanted her to touch him so badly that here he was at the height of pleasure from only a few scrapes of her fingernails. He’d thought it his duty to say no and hadn’t brought himself to do it.

So this was what it looked like when a man came. She arranged herself more comfortably atop him, propping her elbows to either side of his head, feeling better than she had all day. His hands, which had hovered inside his coat, settled gently on her hips.

She felt better, she realized, than she had in years. When had she grown so fond of his face? His high, frowning forehead was smooth for once. He no doubt thought his graying stubble slovenly, but Sukey liked it. A shame beards were out of style. She dropped a kiss on the end of his nose.

His eyes opened, startled. He looked even more startled when she grinned at him, but his mouth curved grudgingly. He lifted her easily off him and sat up, giving her a casually sensual kiss that reminded Sukey all at once that she wasn’t his first. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to find something to say to a woman after bedding her. Or
not
bedding her, as the case might be. He stood. “I’ll get my coat and walk you home.”

Once Sukey was left alone in the dim kitchen, doubts crowded in. But none of them were about Mr. Toogood, though surely they’d ought to be. No, she was suddenly eaten up with fear that the snooty vicarage servants would turn up their noses at her, and think her some draggletail that had ensnared poor Mr. Toogood with her wiles.

She smiled in spite of herself. Maybe she had. She polished her nails on his coat, and realized she’d left her gloves in the pocket of Mrs. Humphrey’s coat. She’d have to ask for them when she went for her wages, and Mrs. Humphrey would give her such a look. She squared her shoulders.
You don’t work for her anymore. Her looks can’t hurt you.

Mr. Toogood was so neat when he came downstairs. He’d been neat when he went up, his hair too short to really get out of place.
I would keep my word for a handshake,
he’d said even though his voice had gone deep enough to frighten a bullfrog. She’d somehow imagined he would shed his proper air with his clothes, but she was starting to think he could be starchy and buttoned-up without a stitch on him to starch or button. Happy and laughing, he’d still manage it somehow.

She was starting to find starchy and buttoned-up a handsome thing for a man to be.

Hand on the doorknob, he hesitated. “If you’re sure about this, I’ll call for you at nine o’clock tomorrow to go and see Mr. Summers.”

“Let’s shake hands on it.” Sukey smiled at the hitch in his breath, tilting up her chin as if she were the kind of girl who was too rich to answer her own door. “I ought to be at home to callers at nine.”

“You honor me,” he said formally.

She thought he might only half mean it as a joke, and that got her through the silent walk to her mother’s lodgings, and the silent climb to her mother’s door.

“It’s me, Mum. Open up.” Sukey was glad Mr. Toogood couldn’t see her nervesome face in the dark stair.

The door opened into more darkness. The room was heated, if you could say it
was
heated, by only a blank brick chimney. But the tallow candle in her hand lit up Mrs. Grimes. She was swathed in half-a-dozen shapeless layers of old man’s coat and bedjacket and flannel petticoats, a knitted nightcap over her hair, hands shoved into gloves with the fingertips cut off. For a moment Sukey was just glad to see her mother, who was comfortable and familiar and didn’t give a straw what anyone thought.

Mrs. Grimes frowned. “Sukey? It been’t Friday yet. Is something wrong, child?”

Sukey’s stomach turned over. She inched closer to Mr. Toogood. “Mrs. Humphrey sacked me, Mum.”

Her mother sighed. “Oh, Susan Grimes. What did you do this time?”

“She didn’t do anything, madam,” Mr. Toogood said, taking Sukey completely by surprise. Mrs. Grimes too. Eyebrows flying up, she put her gloved hands in her pockets and rocked on her heels, waiting for a good explanation.

Mr. Toogood squeezed Sukey’s hand where it rested on his arm. She felt strange and warm. Since her father left, there’d never been anyone to take her side with her mum.

“Mrs. Humphrey is an extremely unreasonable woman, and your daughter is far safer out of her employ than in. Did you know Mrs. Humphrey sent her out to climb apple trees during the thunderstorm last week?”

Mrs. Grimes’s eyes widened. “No, I didn’t,” she said grimly. “Sukey, is that true?”

Sukey nodded. How many things had she neglected to mention to her mother about life at the boarding house, dimly ashamed, afraid to hear what her mother would say? She hadn’t wanted to be told to leave, and she hadn’t wanted to be told to stay. It was what it was, it kept a roof over her head, and there was no sense in being one of those dreadful complaining folk who never had a good thing to say. Better to be glad for what you did have, and hold on to it.

Her mother pulled her towards the candle. “Well, you don’t look as if you came to any harm.”

Sukey immediately felt foolish. “I didn’t.”

“She nearly broke her neck,” Mr. Toogood put in.

“I was clumsy,” Sukey said hastily, sure her mother was thinking it—but why was she so sure? “And I got the sack for stealing.”

She could feel Mr. Toogood’s puzzlement. She didn’t care.

“I see,” her mother said slowly. “Stealing what?”

“Two raisins from the pudding she was making for dinner, madam,” Mr. Toogood said.

Her mother’s face said she’d give her opinion later. Sukey wished she’d just say it and get it over with. “And who might you be? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“This is John Toogood, Mum. He used to be Mr. Nicholas Dymond’s man.” She could see the sarcastic question on her mother’s face:
Was he sacked too?

Please don’t say it,
she begged silently.