The Taker (42 page)

“I suppose it’s a matter of perspective.”

Daughtery banged a mug against the maple counter of the keep, startling us both. “Finish up. Time to go to your respective beds.”

We stood outside Daughtery’s bolted door, huddled together to cut down the wind. The stranger brought his mouth close to my ear so the heat of his words made the tiny hairs on my cheek stand at attention, like flowers stretching toward the sun. He confided in me that he’d not had the companionship of a woman in a long time. He confessed to having little money, but asked if I might be willing nonetheless. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous about your profession,” he said with a nervous smile. “But when you came into Daughtery’s by yourself …” I couldn’t protest: he had me dead to rights.

We stole into Daughtery’s barn, the animals so used to nighttime visitors from the bar that they made no fuss. The young axman adjusted his clothing, unbuttoning the fall of his breeches and placing his cock in my hand. He melted at my ministrations, soon lost in his own thick cloud of unbearable pleasure. It must have been the return to St. Andrew and seeing Jonathan again that made my blood rich with passion. The axman’s hand might have been on my flesh but it was Jonathan who was on my mind. I was reckless, letting myself think of Jonathan, but that night, the combination of flesh and memory gave me a taste of what it could be like and made me hungry for more. So I pulled the young man to me and settled one foot on a bale of hay, the better to give him access under my petticoats.

The young man rocked into me, sweet firm flesh and gentle hands, and I tried to pretend he was Jonathan, but I could not make the illusion stick. Maybe Adair was right, maybe there was something to be gained in making Jonathan one of us. A terrible hunger told me I had to try or be dissatisfied for the rest of my life—that is to say, eternity.

The axman stuttered a sigh as he came, then drew out a handkerchief and offered it to me. “Pardon my bluntness, miss,” he whispered hotly in my ear, “but that was the most amazing fuck I have ever had. You must be the most talented whore in Boston!”

“Courtesan,” I corrected him gently.

“And I don’t pretend to be able to compensate you in the manner to which you are undoubtedly accustomed …,” he said, rooting in a pocket for his money, but I placed a hand on his arm to stop him.

“Never mind. Keep your money. Just promise me you’ll not say a word of this to anyone,” I said.

“Oh no, ma’am, I won’t—though I will remember it for the rest of my life!”

“As shall I,” I said, though this sweet-faced boy would be only one of a succession of many—or perhaps the last one, to be replaced by Jonathan and only Jonathan, if I were lucky. I watched the young axman stumble out into the night, heading toward the road that led to the St. Andrews’ property, before I wrapped my coat tightly and started off in the opposite direction. His warmth trickled down the insides of my thighs and I felt a familiar stirring in my chest as well, the satisfaction I felt whenever I’d held a man helpless in sexual thrall. I looked forward to experiencing that pleasure with Jonathan and to surprising him with my newly acquired skills.

My route took me by the blacksmith’s shop, and by force of habit, I glanced down the path in the direction of Magda’s cottage. A brightness was visible behind the shawl she tacked over the one window, so I knew she was awake. Funny how I’d once envied her her cottage—but I suppose I envied it still because I felt a little fillip in my heart upon seeing it, remembering the homey treasures that had so impressed me as a girl. Adair’s mansion may have been ornate and filled with luxurious things, but once you crossed the threshold, your freedom was gone. Magda was the mistress of her own home and no one could take that away from her.

As I stood at the top of the path, the front door swung open and out popped one of the axmen (thank goodness, for I would have been mortified to see one of my neighbors finish up his business with Magda). The old girl herself came out behind him and for a moment they were caught in the light falling out the open door. The two were laughing, Magda wrapping a cloak around her shoulders as she ushered her customer down the stairs with a wave good-bye. I jumped back into the shadow to spare the axman the embarrassment of being observed, but not before Magda noticed.

“Who’s there?” she called out. “Let’s have no trouble, now.”

I stepped out of the darkness. “None from me, Mistress Magda.”

“Lanore? Is that you?” She craned her neck. I trotted past the trundling axman and up the stairs for an embrace from Magda. Her arms felt more fragile than ever.

“Goodness, girl, they told me you were lost to us,” she said as she whisked me inside. The room was close because of the heat thrown from the tiny fireplace and the two bodies that had recently been at work (the musk still hung in the air; those axmen weren’t too fastidious about bathing and could grow quite rank), so I slipped off my cloak. Magda spun me around by my shoulders to get a better look at my fancy dress.

“Well, Miss McIlvrae, by the sight of you, I’d say you have done well for yourself.”

“I can’t say it’s work I’m proud of,” I said.

Magda looked reproachfully at me. “Am I to imagine that you came by your good fortune in the usual way for a young lady …?” When I didn’t answer, she shook out her cloak with a snap. “Well, you know where I stand on this subject. It’s hardly a crime to take up the only avenue open to you and make a success of it. If God didn’t want us to make a living being whores, he’d give us another means to support ourselves. But he doesn’t.”

“I’m not a whore, exactly.” Why did I feel compelled to clarify my situation for her? “There is a man who provides for me …”

“Are you married to each other?”

I shook my head.

“Then you are his mistress.” She poured gin into two tiny glasses, cloudy with age, and I told her about my life in Boston and Adair. It was a relief to tell someone about him—an adulterated version, of course, omitting the parts of him I would change if I could: his violent fits of temper, the mercurial rise and fall of his moods, the occasional male companion in his bed. I told her he was handsome, wealthy, and taken with me, and she nodded at my good news. “Good for you, Lanore. Make sure you put by some of the money he spends on you.”

In the candlelight, I could see Magda’s face more clearly. The years of my absence had left their passing on her. Her delicate skin sagged around her mouth and throat, and her black hair was almost half white. Her once pretty stays were now grayed and tattered. Whether she was the only prostitute in town or not, she wouldn’t be able to continue in her trade for much longer. The younger axmen would stop frequenting her and the older ones who would still pay for her services were apt to be unkind in their treatment of her. Soon she would be a friendless old woman in a town where life was harsh.

I wore a discreet pearl brooch, a present from Adair. My family knew nothing about jewelry and so I’d worn it openly in their presence, but Magda had to know that it was worth a small fortune. At first I thought that I should give it to my family, they had more right to it than a woman who was only my friend, but I’d resolved to leave them money, and not an insubstantial amount. So I unpinned the brooch from my clothing and held it out to her.

Magda cocked her head. “Oh no, Lanore, you needn’t do that. I don’t need your charity.”

“I want you to have it—”

She waved off my outstretched hand. “I know what you’re thinking. And I am planning to retire soon. I’ve saved quite a bit of money during my time here—Charles St. Andrew should have sent the wages of some of his men straight to me, for all the time they spent
in this cottage, and spared them the job of carrying their pay in their pockets for a day or two,” she laughed. “No, I’d rather see you save it for yourself. You may not believe me now, since you are young and beautiful and have a man who values your company, but someday all those things will be gone and you may wish for the money that brooch would bring.”

Of course I couldn’t tell her that that day would never come for me. I forced a little smile as I pinned the brooch back in place.

“No, I am planning to move south in the spring. Somewhere near the coast,” she continued. She looked about the room wistfully, as though she planned to leave tomorrow. “Perhaps I will find a nice lonely widower and settle down again.”

“I’ve no doubt fortune will shine on you, Magda, in whatever you choose to do, because you have a generous heart,” I said and got to my feet. “I should let you retire for the evening, and I should get back to my family. It was good to see you, Magda.”

We embraced again and she rubbed her hand warmly on my back. “Take care of yourself, Lanore. Be careful. And whatever you do, don’t fall in love with your gentleman. We women make our worst decisions when we are in love.” She escorted me to the door and sent me off with a wave. The truth of her advice weighed on my heart, though, and I headed for the woods less buoyant than before.

The trip home found me even more restless and as I thought on it, I saw that it was because I’d lied to Magda about Adair. It wasn’t just that I’d hidden his secret—
our
secret—from her. That was understandable. However, if anyone in St. Andrew would forgive Adair his peculiarities, it would be Magda, and yet I chose to lie to her about him and about my relationship with him. A woman wants above all things to be proud of the man in her life, and obviously I was not. How could I be proud of what Adair had drawn out in me—that he had
known
just by looking at me—that I shared some of his dark appetites. As frightened as I was of him, there was no denying that I’d responded to him, too, that I’d accepted every sexual challenge he
proposed. He brought out something in me I could not deny but was not proud of. So perhaps it was not Adair I was ashamed of: perhaps I was ashamed of myself.

These dreadful thoughts filled my mind as I pulled my cloak tight against the wind and hurried down the path to my family’s cabin. I couldn’t stop from remembering all the terrible things I’d done or thinking how I’d found such delight in dark pleasures—it is no wonder that I questioned whether I hadn’t slipped beyond redemption.

THIRTY-FIVE

W
hen I woke the next day, I heard my mother and Maeve whispering to each other in the kitchen so as not to wake me. To them, I must have seemed a lazy layabout, wasting the most productive time of the day, sleeping until noon—though this was still the earliest I’d risen in a long time.

“Aye, look who is up now,” my mother called from the fireplace when she heard me groan from above.

“I imagine Nevin had a few words to say about my sleeping habits,” I replied as I climbed down the ladder.

“It was all we could do to keep him from dragging you out by your feet,” Maeve said, handing me my clothing, which had been laid over a chair by the fire to take off the chill.

“Yes, well, I was restless last night and took a stroll into town,” I admitted.

“Lanore!” My mother nearly dropped her knife. “Have you lost your mind? You could have frozen to death! Not to mention that something worse might have happened to you,” she said, exchanging
a look with my sister—both of them knowing I had little virtue left to protect—which took the sting out of her voice.

“I’d forgotten how cold it is at night this far north,” I lied.

“And where did you go?”

“Not to church, I’d wager,” Maeve said with a laugh.

“No, not to church. I went to Daughtery’s.”

“Lanore—”

“A little companionship at a lonely hour, that’s all that was wanted. I’m not used to such quiet and early hours. My life is quite different in Boston. You’ll have to bear with me.” I drew the tape ties of my skirt about my waist before making my way to my mother, and kissed her on the forehead.

“You are not in Boston now, dear,” my mother chided.

“Do not let it worry you much,” Maeve said. “It’s not as though Nevin isn’t seen at Daughtery’s from time to time. If menfolk get to do it, I don’t see why you cannot, at least on occasion”—here she cast a glance at our mother, to see if she would react—“and we shall just get used to it.”

So Nevin went to Daughtery’s—I would have to be careful. If he found out about my nocturnal dalliances, things would go badly for me.

At that moment, we were interrupted by a knock at the door. One of the St. Andrews’ servants extended an ivory-colored envelope with my name written on it. Inside was a note in Jonathan’s mother’s meticulous handwriting, inviting my family to dinner that evening. The servant waited at the door for our reply.

“What shall I tell him?” I asked, though it was easy enough to guess their response. Maeve and my mother danced about like Cinderella upon learning she was going to the ball.

“What about Nevin? Surely he’ll refuse to go,” I asked.

“Undoubtedly. On general principle,” Maeve said.

“I do wish your brother had a better head for business,” my mother muttered. “He could use this opportunity to talk to Jonathan about purchasing more regularly from us. Half the town makes its livelihood
off that family. Who else will buy our beef? Them, with all those men to feed …” She probably thought the St. Andrews miserly for feeding their hired hands venison caught on the property.