Starling. Virginia Taylor
brown paper wrapping off Mr. Seymour’s parcels and put them in a drawer above Starling’s gowns. Then she began to set up a bath behind a screen painted with bright, exotically swirled flowers.
Starling would have given the world to have worn a uniform as becoming as Ellen’s—dark blue, beautifully cut, and embellished with a white linen cap and apron. “Who is Mrs. Brighton?”
“The housekeeper.” Ellen giggled. “Me and the other servants’re glad that the master finally has what he needs.”
Starling stared at the maid.
“A wife.” Ellen put a palm on her blushing cheek. The first two fingers of that hand were missing. “He should’a got you from Ballarat in his coach, though, rather than leaving you to travel all alone on the rattler.” She shook her head as if in rebuke. “I better get the water.”
Within ten minutes, Starling was sitting up to her neck in the first hot bath she’d had in a week. She let her head drift under the water, enjoying the gurgling block to everyday sounds that allowed her to hum and assume she was tuneful. Finally, she washed, and then she soaked, dreaming about being someone’s daughter, loved and cherished. But like the Starling she’d been named for, she had no uncommon attributes. Perhaps her sense of the ridiculous was too highly developed, but she kept that well under control. She saw herself as practical and diligent, perhaps a little obstinate with her opinions. That would be why, when the whores had listened to her advice on colors, her head had swelled and she had thought herself an expert. She now knew the folly of overconfidence.
The bath water cooled. She wrapped herself in a thick white towel and ate her apple, never one to waste good food. Ellen had whisked away her discarded underclothing and put her gown in the long drawer. Not prepared to be tucked into bed naked, she inspected the drawer in which Ellen had placed Mr. Seymour’s trimmings.
Her eyes widened. On top sat three new sets of underwear. Nightwear, too. Not silk or satin, just plain linen, though much finer than her usual calico. The realization that Mr. Seymour had handled her underwear sent a rush of embarrassment through her body. Closing her eyes against her fantastical thoughts, she slipped on a nightgown that covered her from her neck to her toes, and she wished she also could cover her hands. The damage done by the lye soap at the inn would likely never heal. Clean and cozy, she tugged the bellpull beside the fireplace as Ellen had asked her to do.
Almost instantly, the maid arrived and began emptying the water. “Mrs. Brighton wants to know if you’d prefer wine or tea with your supper?”
“Tea, please.”
She stared at the maid’s retreating back while she combed her hair with her fingers. Mr. Do-As-I-Tell-You Seymour hadn’t let her get her belongings, among which was a new comb. She glanced around the room and spotted a silver-backed brush in front of the tallboy mirror. The rich provided every kind of luxury.
Luckily, her hair was easily managed. She brushed her locks through and fluffed her curls to dry, then she went back to the bed and sat cross-legged. She sank inches deep in the down-filled mattress.
Ellen arrived within moments bearing a heavy silver tray. Efficiently, she set the table, uncovering the food dishes with pride. “Cook’s been preparing most of the day.” She pulled out the velvet-covered chair for Starling. “We’re all that excited. She wanted to do something special for you. She hopes you like the food.”
Starling sat, her disappointment in Mr. Seymour making her chest ache. He’d prepared his obliging servants for his bride, and instead he’d presented them with a shopgirl, a former laundress. How used they would feel when the charade ended. Mr. Seymour wouldn’t have thought of that, nor would he have cared. He lacked respect for them and his sister, too. A man like him didn’t deserve a sister.
Ellen put a white linen napkin on Starling’s lap.
“Soup and pie. Lovely. And cream. My favorites. Thank you.”
The maid beamed. “Cook’ll be glad to hear that. Ring when you’ve finished, and I’ll clear up. Then you can pop into bed.”
Starling doubted that she’d ever tasted a meal as good. The vegetable soup slid smoothly down her throat. The meat in the pie hardly needed chewing. She also devoured a rich custard covered with cream and decorated with tiny sugared violets. Had everything tasted rancid, she still would have enjoyed the prettiest meal she’d seen.
After Ellen had cleaned up and said good night, Starling turned down the gas lamp and sank into the luxurious bed. She could have been dead and floating to heaven on a cloud. Her hands supporting her head, she gazed at the ornately decorated ceiling. Surely through the gloom she could see gold paint on some of the leaves. She sighed contentedly. Heaven.
This was her night, the best night of her life. She’d had hours of pampering and kindness. And the bed, the bed, the bed, she thought, turning over on her face and breathing the freshly laundered smell of the sheets. A girl would do anything for a bed like this, huge and unshared. She turned down the lamp and snuggled into a guiltless sleep.
* * * *
Starling didn’t wake suddenly. At first she felt an awareness of someone in the room. Before opening her eyes, she caressed the linen sheet and let her head roll on the feather pillow. She remembered the night before and luxuriated in the safety and comfort. Inside, she smiled. The unmistakable smell of a lit candle made her realize that darkness surrounded her, not the morning light. She opened one eye.
The rotten, dishonest dog turd! Mr. Seymour had lied to her. Everyone had lied to her.
She squeezed her eyes tight again, hoping she’d been dreaming. But she knew she hadn’t been. The candle smell was as easily recognizable as the perfumed soap on her skin. Her welcome had been a trick. The servants had connived with their master to lull her into bathing, perfuming, and climbing into bed. A lamb for the slaughter, a sacrificial offering for this man’s foul lusts. She’d seen him, almost completely undressed.
Through her slitted lids, she absorbed his wide, straight shoulders, bunched with muscle; his tapered waist; and his hard, tight bottom. He had a powerful, dangerous body. She remembered her last thought before she’d gone to sleep. A girl would do anything for this bed. She feared the words might be true.
She eased the sheet to her nose, squinting at him in the candlelight while not wanting to see his hard body, not wanting to see his lustful face. She stayed completely still. If she moved or tried to escape before she had to, she might warn him of her intentions.
With her heart beating in her throat, almost choking her with its rhythmic thundering, she waited, stiff with fear.
He turned. She saw his pecker. Not a little pointed thing as she thought a pecker might be, but a blunted rod of flesh. As he slid a white robe over his head, she quickly closed her eyes.
She heard his approach—the whisper of his feet on the carpet. Her breathing halted. The blankets lifted. The bedsprings sagged. If he took her, she would scream the walls down.
He moved. He sighed. The acrid smoke of a candle assaulted her nose. The sheet was tugged a little from her body. Then nothing. When she resumed breathing, her chest ached.
Naked or clothed, he was the most magnificent man she’d ever seen. The man with everything except principles. He’d said he didn’t plan to tup her. Why, then, did he share her bed?
* * * *
Breezes sent leaves scurrying in the street. A night bird chirruped. In the distance, a dog barked. Alasdair closed his eyes, too aware of the fresh aroma emanating from the body beside his. With nowhere else to bathe tonight, he had conceded his daily luxury to her, regrettable but imperative. The working classes were called “the great unwashed,” and he knew why, having had a limited income himself until seven years ago.
These days, now rich, he saw being clean as symbolic. Each lathering removed the years of poverty, and in his case, the clinging dirt of the mines. With each bath, he cleansed himself of his past.
He eased out a breath as he relaxed