Marrying the Mistress (13 page)

Somewhere at the back of my mind, I wondered if
he might intentionally be recreating the sightless soundless anonymity of that first time when our senses had blended on another level. On that occasion, I recalled, I had tried to fight him off, though not with half the effort I might have done. Then, he had gentled me and led me, half-swooning, into hours of loving that had ebbed and flowed on a tide of sensations, dazzling and seducing me with skilful wooing. He had been passionate then, but I had known nothing of his reasons except, perhaps, as a solace for my unhappiness. I learnt that it was not the case.

This time, knowing him just a little better, knowing myself even more, my desire for him had grown so great that I was ready to close my mind and to respond without the restraints of reason or preference. Even ungentleness, I felt, would be preferable to the last four years of emptiness.

His hand swept over me from throat to groin and my body responded like a wild thing, uncontrolled, fiercely demanding the attention it had lacked, arching into him to know the touch of his skin upon every surface. My lips opened upon his face to feel with my teeth and tongue, to fill all my senses with his taste and scent. My fingers raked deep into his hair, letting the thick silk slip through them like water, and my thighs yearned and opened for him as his kisses reached my throat.

He made me wait, holding my pestering hands away with a deep laugh. ‘Not yet, my beauty. Not yet,' he whispered. Tracking downwards, he nudged and licked, knowing that I would soften and wait, though I doubt he knew how his leisurely suckling would make me weep, and beg him to take me. He changed to the other
breast, teasing the deserted one with tenderly milking fingers. But I could bear it no longer, letting out the wail held too long in my lungs. ‘Burl…please!'

As if he'd been waiting only to hear me call his name, he placed an arm beneath my hips, holding me as he'd done that first time to feel the hard throbbing length of him before slipping wetly inside, dilating me with each slow and powerful thrust that changed my tears to panting sighs and moans of ecstasy. Then, I was neither Helen nor Helene, but the primitive spirit of womanhood, earth and growing things. My womb was greedy for him, inviting and fruitful. My hands caressed, urging on his teeming virility. He was everything I remembered. And more.

I think we had both expected…wanted…it to last longer, but we had failed to take into account the tensions of the evening and all that had gone before under cover of our animosity. Neither of us could delay the growing thunder that roared through our beautiful rhythm, and Burl's response owed something to that ungentleness I'd been prepared for which, when it came, brought quivers of delight from deep down in my roots.

‘Sweetheart…hold on!' he gasped, thinking that I might protest.

My fingers dug into his back as he bent deeper into me, though I had not intended the damage to his skin to be as noticeable as it was, later. ‘Yes,' I told him, ‘yes…oh, yes! Go on!' Flying along with my body, my mind rode the storm, plunging and surfacing, clinging to the calm that followed, floating with him upon that delicious pulsing beat that always fades too soon.

Like babes, we slept in each other's arms, spooning
back to front with his hand between my breasts and his face in my loosened hair and a tangle of pearls. Hours later, I think, I woke to hear the wind howl and gust at the windows, to feel a warm body at my back just as it had been that first time. His hand was stroking my thigh, slipping down between them, fondling.

We might have recreated that original scene, but now we were strangers no more, our appetites renewed by sleep and no impediments of kinship to add guilt. He must have been awake some time for he was impatient, already pulling me roughly under him without preamble. I felt justified in making a sharp protest, feeling that some wooing would not come amiss at this stage, even from a lover hungry for consummation. So I bit the nearest part of him, which was his chin, making him rear back and give me a chance to roll away, squirming and flailing my arms, doing no damage whatever.

Following me across the bed, he swung his feet to the floor with a purposeful thud, swept me round by the legs to face him and placed himself between them, quite out of reach of my arms. Until then, I must admit it had not occurred to me that there were other ways of doing this, but he taught me something that night about how, if lovers are of the same mind, enjoyment can be taken how, when and where they will.

Naturally, I refused to make it easy for him at first, protesting that a February night calls for some form of covering if one is not to suffer from exposure. But that problem was soon solved and my protests curtailed, for it was the most exciting and unique experience that ended very suddenly in an explosion that left us both
gasping and laughing. He pulled me upright, cradling and rocking me while he knelt between my knees with his head on my breast and my hair covering his face. ‘My fierce beauty,' he whispered. ‘I think I can just about handle you. Eh, lass? After a few battle scars.'

‘Brute,' I murmured. ‘Mannerless brute.'

His arms tightened, and I felt the deep chuckle within his chest.

But I was far from serious, for laughter was also new to me in this context. It had never been a laughing matter with his brother, a solemn, silent and usually hasty affair, more like, with politeness and reserve followed by instant sleep, no talk, no aftercare, no banter, compliments or approval. Now, in the space of one night, I had wept and laughed, retaliated with my own kind of manhandling, and experienced more joy and pleasure than in all those years as Linas's mistress.

Inevitably, in the langour that follows exhaustion, there was teasing mixed with the adulation; accusations from me of smugness, counter-accusations from him of impetuosity, then the half-expected mention of marriage which, he suggested, would tame me. Another bairn was what I needed, he said, yawning and pulling my hips closer to his.

We lay together, wrapped against the howling gale, me with my face beneath his chin. ‘Is that what this is all about?' I said. ‘Getting me with child again?'

‘You are remarkably innocent, Miss Follet. What did you
think
this was all about? Not for our mutual enjoyment, surely?'

‘You know what I mean. This night. Coercion, is it?'

‘Don't spoil it, sweetheart.'

‘All right. I agreed not to blame you. So three months from now I'll ask you again.'

‘You won't need to. Three months from now you'll be my wife.'

‘No, I won't.'

‘Little goose. Go to sleep.'

I did not sleep immediately, as he did, but lay thinking how easy it had been for me to overturn all my intentions to keep him at a distance. Now, despite my impassioned contradiction, I knew that I was committed, that it was only a matter of time before I would be obliged to agree to his proposal, if one could call it that. The only card I had left to play concerned the timing, for I was sure that tonight's loving would be as potent as the last. Well, I would make the next few months spread out until I could keep him guessing no longer, having little reason to agree with him there and then.

Other concerns plagued me too. Although I realised that women married knowing much less about their husbands than I did about Burl Winterson, it was what I
knew
about him that made me think I was heading for disaster. The evening's talk about the way he limited his kindnesses should not have surprised me as it did, for until recently his uninterest in me had been a prime example of it, as had his visit to me that one night. He had wanted something, and got it. Now, he wanted Jamie and me to make an instant family, hence the sudden revival of interest of which this lovemaking was a part. He had admitted it without batting an eyelid. Was I supposed to feel flattered? Gratified? Piqued? Insulted? Would it all grind to a halt when it was ac
complished, or would he keep on wanting more of me, as he'd said? It was a gamble, but was I really in a position to care as much as I did? If I had cared less for him, perhaps I would have reached a decision more easily.

* * *

The following morning I was woken before Jamie's habitual assault by a large figure in dark silhouette whose arms were braced on each side of me, his voice softly whispering. ‘I don't want to leave you without a word, sweetheart, as I did before,' he was saying. ‘Wake up and listen.' He was dressed and ready to go.

‘Mmm? Yes?'

‘I must go. My parents are at Abbots Mere and I want to be there before they're up. I'll send a carriage for you and Jamie.'

‘No need. I can drive the phaeton.'

‘It's blowing a gale. You can't ride out in this.'

‘But I must go to Prue's first.'

‘On a Sunday? Why?'

‘She's in a fix. Both her parents have the dysentry.'

‘For pity's sake, lass, keep away, then. It's contagious.'

‘I must go. I shall not get too close.'

‘Send one of the servants. Please. Think of Jamie.'

‘Yes, if you insist. I'll send someone else.'

‘Promise?'

‘I promise. I'll be ready by mid-day.'

‘Good. Wrap up warm. D'ye want to stay overnight?'

I smiled. ‘Thank you, but no. I must be at the shop early tomorrow.'

His nod was curt, but understanding. For a short separation, his kiss was long and deep, and I felt my body stirring even before it was awake.

Moments later, Jamie came to join me, as usual. ‘The bed's nice and warm, Mama,' he said, snuggling up. ‘Did Debbie sleep with you?'

‘No, darling. We're going to have lunch with Uncle Burl today.'

‘Ooh, goodie! I wish Uncaburl was my papa. Shall we ask him?'

‘No, darling. Not yet. It's too soon after Papa went, you see. We shall have to be content to have Uncle Burl as your guardian for a while. That's almost the same thing.'

‘But I want to live with Uncaburl, Mama, like Claude lives with his papa. Claude's friend says I haven't got a papa.'

I could feel the little fellow's hurt and bewilderment. ‘I'm sure Claude's friend didn't mean to be so ill mannered,' I whispered, stroking his dark curls. ‘Perhaps he doesn't understand.'

‘He does, Mama. He said I never had one. He said you were not Papa's wife. You were, weren't you, Mama?'

‘It's no business of Claude's friend whether people's parents are married or not. If he mentions it again, I shall speak to Uncle Medworth.'

‘Uncamedith knows.'

‘He knows? About the rudeness? What did he say?'

‘Said he had more 'portant things to think about.'

M
uch as I disliked sending a deputy to see how Prue and her parents were, I felt obliged to keep my promise, if only to avoid exposing Jamie to the infection, even at second hand. Debbie had no fear of catching anything, she assured me, though I insisted she tie a scarf over her face before she left the house. Having delivered the basket of food, she was back home inside the hour with the news that the old couple were still very poorly, the various potions having made little difference. Their growing weakness was a cause of serious worry, but Prue, she said, was managing well enough.

I had agreed to be ready for Winterson's coach by noon, and it was my desire not to disappoint Jamie or to keep the coachman and his horses waiting in the pelting rain that prevented me from listening to my conscience. Prue needed a doctor, yet I told myself that one more day might see an improvement. So it was with the firm intention of sending my own Dr Biggs round there first thing in the morning that I set off with Jamie and
Mrs Goode for Sunday lunch at Abbots Mere along roads that were, in parts, axle deep in water.

Jamie had no trouble pretending he was sailing a boat through lanes and past cottages while the rain clattered incessantly upon the roof of the coach and bounced off the horses' backs. Branches had been brought down during the night, and every dip of the land was reduced to a lake where seagulls wheeled, reflecting the leaden sky and rippled by the wind.

By contrast, Abbots Mere was a warm haven lit by oil lamps, candelabra and blazing log fires, with the tantalising aroma of roast beef and Yorkshire puddings reaching the stone-paved hall. The sound of laughter reached us too, and I felt the familiar shiver of apprehension before going in to meet Winterson's parents for the first time since the funeral.

I had taken care to dress appropriately in a charcoal-grey silk velvet sleeveless pelisse over a long-sleeved gown of silver grey sarsenet. No jewellery. No ornament. My hair tied up with black satin ribbons that hung down my back. Nothing to show how I felt after a night spent in the arms of their eldest son so soon after his twin's death. Nothing to betray the hypocrisy, either.

‘You look beautiful, Miss Follet,' Winterson whispered. ‘Are you well?'

I knew what he was asking. ‘Yes, my lord, I thank you,' I replied demurely. ‘I am indeed well, if a little fatigued.'

‘Really?' he said. His eyes laughed into mine. ‘Oh, dear. Unaccustomed exercise, is it?'

‘Shh!' I said. ‘Jamie dear, here's Claude come to find you.'

I followed on behind, using Jamie to interrupt the
conversation quite naturally before his grandparents turned to greet me. Not that they were in any sense an awe-inspiring couple. Far from it. But there had once been a reserve in their manner towards me, as mistress instead of wife, that had only recently been replaced by a genuine warmth and, I think, with some admiration and gratitude for my dedication to their son. According to him, they had been more than relieved by the appearance of a grandson, which had perhaps worked in my favour too, and now they had smiles for me as well as for Jamie.

Lord and Lady Stillingfleete were a handsome couple. He had been a major in a top cavalry regiment when he'd married Lady Frances Milton, the celebrated beauty. She was still lovely, stately, slender and white-haired with particularly brilliant dark brown eyes able to convey in one glance the precise degree of her approval. Although I had now no need to doubt that, I could not help but wonder if those discerning eyes would see behind my Sunday face to the previous night's lust that had spilled out with an unstoppable energy, or the tell-tale signs that might still linger upon me, somewhere. I hitched up the fur-trimmed collar of my pelisse to reach my earlobes, just in case, then wished I had not for, on rising from my curtsy, I saw Lord Stillingfleete's eyes leave his son's and return to mine. ‘Miss Follet, come to the fire, m'dear,' he said, and I knew that he had interpreted the gesture correctly.

Heaven knows, I'd had plenty of practice, but I would never have made a first-rate actress. I did not go to the fire, but to Medworth and Cynthia, hiding my blush in their greeting and the duet of chatter about the perilous journey from Osbaldwick, all the while aware of how
the grandparents watched my Jamie like a pair of eagles, linking his dark good looks to their eldest son, as anyone must. They had not seen him for several months, and he had changed with each passing week. Their expressions, shifting from child to father, were easy to read, and the realisation seemed to catch them unawares in a moment of rigidity. Immediately, they recovered themselves, transferring some of their attention to little Claude, who was attempting to ride one of Winterson's unwilling wolfhounds. To my mind, the child needed a firmer hand than Medworth's, who appeared to find something to applaud in every silly thing his son did.

Winterson lifted him off and dismissed the hounds from the room with one word, for Claude was overweight as well as over-indulged. Fortunately, the youngest one had been left at home, or we might have been treated to more bids for attention.

In some ways, the Sunday lunch was an ordeal that demanded a greater-than-usual effort on my part. Winterson's family were never difficult to converse with, but I found myself having to work hard to keep my thoughts on track when my eyes were drawn like magnets to the one for whom I hungered much more than roast beef or pheasant, salmon or winter vegetables. Having given no thought to how I might feel if that solo night should ever be repeated—for I had not believed it would—I was confused by the meld of emotions and by the way my body had not recovered from the hours of arousal after so many years of neglect. No matter how I tried to hold them back, the memories of his magnificent body lying warm upon me blanked out the middles and ends of so many of
my sentences that it began to look as if I might be sickening for something. More than once did Winterson come to my rescue, smiling at my dreaminess and reading my eyes like a book.

Unusually, the children were allowed to eat at the table with the adults, a treat I approved of on occasions like this. It was gratifying to see how well my Jamie behaved compared to Claude, who messed about with his food and kept his mama so completely occupied with him that she was scarce able to eat her own lunch. Medworth seemed totally unaware of any problem.

Apple pie, creamy rice pudding with nutmeg, and spotted dick with custard was the perfect conclusion to a family meal on a day of such darkness and unrelenting rain, though we sat in the rosy glow of a fire that filled the room with the sweet aroma of burning apple boughs.

‘I had the men clearing the ditches when you were last here,' I heard Winterson telling his father, ‘but the snow, then the floods have filled them up completely. Some of the fields will take months to recover.'

‘Then you may have to reclaim more of your wasteland.'

The two men took their glasses of port to the long window that overlooked the flooded terrace. Beyond, the swollen river had lost its banks, rushing and seething like a brown menacing monster across the field.

‘I've already decided on that,' Winterson replied. ‘Do you care to come and see what I intend? The plans are in the study.'

‘Aye. I'll come and tell ye where ye're going wrong, lad.'

They smiled and sauntered off, leaving Cynthia to sink deeply into one of the leather sofas and Lady Stillingfleete to do the same in a high-backed chair, already halfway to a siesta. True to her name, Mrs Goode had taken the boys into a window-seat where they lounged against her knees and the book she was reading to them, and I was left with Medworth, who was already fretting about being home in time for his evening service. Pulling out a wad of papers from his coat pocket, he noisily smoothed them out upon the table, pulled a candlestick forwards, and began to read his sermon to himself.

I moved away, relieved by the suspension of polite exchanges across the dining table that had covered every topic from food to floods, fashion to farming. I was not myself, I realised, nor would I ever be the same again. Riddled by conflicts, my life was changing like the landscape by forces outside my control, and I would have to heed my intractable head or my vanquished heart, neither of which was reliable.

I had not intended to follow the one who monopolised my thoughts, and certainly not to snoop, but the sound of his voice and the need to be near him drew me along the panelled passageway towards the oak-lined study where he daily met his steward and bailiff to plan the estate work. The door remained open wide enough for me to see a table covered with maps, and over by the window stood Winterson and his father with their backs to me, hands clasped behind, their shoulders almost touching.

Lord Stillingfleete was speaking with some emphasis. ‘You'll have to marry her, Burl. Damn it lad, I'm not blaming you one bit. She's a high-flyer, but it's
as plain as a pikestaff and it'll be even plainer as Jamie gets older.
Then
you'll have some explaining to do. Better to put things on a legal footing now than hang about for more years. What's stopping you?'

‘
She
is, Father. She's bitter about what happened. Linas gave her a raw deal, you know, and it's going to take me some time to win her trust.'

‘Well, I cannot insist on knowing what you and he agreed, for it's none of my business, but time is what you don't have, Burl. Do something about it before the gossip starts. If your mother and I can see it, so will others.'

‘I am doing, sir. But she'll come to me in her own time, not mine.'

‘She's in love with you. We can see that, too.'

‘Yes, I believe she may be.'

‘Isn't that enough? The lad needs a father more than a guardian.'

‘Yes, sir. She knows that, too. Give me time to…'

They turned away and I had to step well back into the passage and retrace my steps while my guilty heart thudded an angry rhythm of its own.
She's in love with
you… Isn't that enough?… You'll have to marry her
,
Burl
. Standing with my back pressed against the panelling, I could feel each heartbeat rebelling against everything the two of them had said. They had no conception of how things stood with me, nor how many shades of grey came between their black and white. To his father, the matter was simple: marry her before people start to talk. I could almost taste the perversity that rose into my mouth, ready to shout my objections. Well, at least he appeared to understand that I would marry in my own good time and in no one else's.

Making a slight sound, a cough and an exclamation about the chill, I once again approached the open door, tapped, and entered. With shoulders hunched, they were braced over the maps on the table, looking up in surprise and with some questioning in their eyes. Women rarely visited men's offices. ‘May I come in?' I said. ‘I don't mean to disturb you.'

‘Of course,' Winterson said, smiling. ‘I'm showing my father where the worst of the floods are.' With one finger he drew an oval around the river and its surrounding plains. ‘It'll be weeks before we can plough these fields again, and we've lost acres of grazing before the land will recover.'

I peered at the areas shaded with grey, land belonging to the Abbots Mere estate, other fields shaded a darker grey presumably belonging to Lord Slatterly which Winterson had the use of. A large area to the east was enclosed by a wide red line. ‘And that?' I said, knowing the answer.

Lord Stillingfleete replied. ‘Foss Beck. Been wasted ever since I can remember. No one goes there. It's time it was looked at, Burl.'

‘Yes, as soon as I can reach it I'll go there. We can't afford to hang on to unused land any longer. I believe there are some ruined buildings on it.'

‘They'll have to be demolished. You could use the stone for barns.'

The shock in my voice made them both look sharply at me. ‘You…you
own
this place…Foss Beck?' I said.

‘It's been part of the estate for centuries. It was a thriving village once with its own manor house and a priest for the church, but I believe it was hit by the
plague more than once, so that was the end of it. There must be quite a few fields worth reclaiming.'

‘But surely, if it's deserted, it must have reverted to common land where anyone can—'

‘Not anyone, Miss Follet,' said Lord Stillingfleete. ‘That might have been the case if it had once been legal common, but it never was. Over the years we've turned a blind eye to some land that was less profitable, or inaccessible, but at times like this we have to work them and make them yield again. New methods, you know. Fertilisers, crop rotation, new hardier strains of wheat. And new sheep breeds, too. Burl needs to get his hands on it, especially after a winter like this.'

I was staggered. Numbed with shock. My family had lived there in hiding since I was fourteen, expecting to renovate the buildings, dragging every ounce of goodness from their small crofts, eking out an existence. Where would they live if the old house was levelled, their garden ploughed over? Ought I to expose them now, before it was too late? Should I reveal their reason for living there, and who it
really
was who had borne the Stillingfleete heir, a criminal's daughter whose relatives lived illegally on the Abbots Mere estate, her father buried there?