“Pooh.” She settled down next to him. “I hope you’re not too tired to dance with me tonight.”
“I made you a promise.”
His voice sounded odd. His eyes were closed against the high sun. Laurette pulled the rose from her hair, peeled a petal off and dropped it onto his face. He batted it away impatiently.
“Really. Just leave me alone. I’ve got to think.”
She plucked at his damp shirt, wishing she could pull it off again. “I can help you think!”
“Not this time.” He sat up. “Laurette, the estate is in ruins. Mr. Berryman owns me lock, stock and barrel. I’ve got to find a way to turn a bit of a profit this summer, or—” He clamped his mouth shut.
“Or what?” Hesitantly, Laurette traced his lips with a fin
gertip, but he made no move to open them. Instead, he seized her hand and pulled her up from the ground with him.
“I’ve got to go. Talk to my bailiff if he’s not too drunk to listen. I’ll see you tonight.”
He squeezed her hand and dropped it. She watched him stride away, shirttails flapping. Something was terribly wrong, something her beautiful blue dress might not be enough to fix tonight. Laurette scattered the rest of the rose petals in the flattened grass and waited until Con was gone from sight before heading back. Feeling deflated, she went to gather more rosebuds for her bath.
How far she’d come since then. Now she had a little army to wait on her, and there were enough rosebuds for a week’s worth of baths on the mantel alone.
“Martine, leave us please.” Nadia spoke a few instructions in French. Laurette recognized “hot water.” She’d had a bath just this morning, a tepid, grudging one to be sure, but she was perfectly clean. She raised an eyebrow to Nadia. Hard what to think of her as. More than a maid. Housekeeper, perhaps. Minder.
“My lord wishes you to be prepared for him tonight. I shall assist you with that,” Nadia said vaguely. “You find everything you need to write letter in escritoire in bedroom. Aram will have my lord frank it.”
And read it, too, I’ll wager, Laurette thought.
She reentered her golden bower and made for the delicate desk. Its legs were gilt in the French style, its writing surface elaborate marquetry, little cubbies holding fine weight paper, ivory and silver pens. Several silver-topped crystal pots of ink stood at the ready. Laurette sat in the spindly chair, which was more comfortable than it appeared. Taking a deep breath, she penned a few lines to Sadie, enclosing some of the money Con had given her this morning. She would speak to him later about repairs to Vincent Lodge. Sadie could oversee
all of that, and put about that Laurette was remaining in London with friends until the renovations were complete.
Con had mentioned taking her about in society. Surely he didn’t mean it. People would know at once she was his mistress. He could not expect her to forfeit the reputation she’d worked a dozen years to reclaim. Her friendship with Marianna had done much to squelch the rumors that she and Con had been young lovers before his marriage. Talk had died down when she was seen frequently in the company of his son James. Surely the marchioness would not permit such a thing from a rival.
And Laurette was known in London. Of course she did not move in the highest circles of the ton, but her brief time with her grandmother after Beatrix was born had won her a few acquaintances.
England was a very small country with very big gossips. If she was seen on Con’s arm—if her residence in this house was revealed—on the most notorious street in London—all would know that the virtuous Miss Vincent was nothing but a courtesan on “Courtesan Court.”
Six months of confinement. Six months of staying indoors, or in the perfect little patch of garden, spied upon by other ladybirds. She would go mad.
“My lady.” Nadia stood at the door to the dressing room. Laurette had been aware of the quiet commotion next door as Nadia and Martine arranged for her bath. “All is in readiness. If you will please to follow me.”
There was steel behind the woman’s subservient words, as if she expected Laurette to balk. There was no point in taking out her animosity toward Con on his servant. Laurette left her letter and went into the dressing room. Fragrant water was steaming in the bathtub, but it was not quite full. The divan had been draped with several large towels. A bowl and pestle were on the low brass table, along with shears, a razor, powder and other instruments Laurette didn’t recognize. A
small brazier with a copper pot atop it had been set before the now-roaring fireplace. The room was close and warm, too warm for a fine spring day. Laurette felt slightly faint.
“My lord wishes you to be removed of your hair.”
Involuntarily, Laurette’s hand shot up to the messy coiled knot on her head.
“No, no. Not there. My English is perhaps not so good.”
“You speak better French than I do,” Laurette smiled, willing her nervousness to go away. She had only the most cursory acquaintance with the language. Her education, such as it was, had been provided tuition-free by the eccentric Trumbull sisters in Lower Conover. The spinsters ran a sort of haphazard dame school in their parlor, something that Laurette was now doing in their stead for the village girls. The Trumbulls had a dislike of all things French, even the Empire style of clothing. They gave up their wide skirts and hoops only when they were buried in their narrow coffins.
Nadia blushed beneath her brown cheeks. “I speak French, Arabic and English. A smattering now of Greek. Some Turkish, too. It was necessary to get on. Come, I will help you remove your gown.”
Laurette stood still as a doll as Nadia divested her of her clothing. She was glad her unmentionables were of the finest quality at least. And yet to be paid for. Con would know she had made a concerted effort for last night’s meeting when he marked the date on her tradesman’s bill. Had she known he’d already purchased her a complete wardrobe, she might have spared herself the trouble of the fitting with the rigorous Madame Lamarche. Laurette had not needed a new corset to complete their business deal.
She was down to her threadbare old shift. “Raise your arms, my lady.”
She
was blushing now.
“You must remove all your clothing. My lord was specific. The hair under your arms, on your legs, your nether curls—
all must disappear. I shall pluck your eyebrows a little, too. Should you wish privacy in your bath later, I will of course oblige.”
Laurette untied her shift and pulled it off over her head, disarranging her bundle of hair. Nadia plucked the pins out and ran her fingers through the waves. “A sultan would have paid a high price for you, my lady. Such lovely, thick yellow hair. Please to lie down.”
Laurette would not have to be in Arabia to know
purdah.
She was locked up right here in London, under the thumb of a wicked Englishman. But she obeyed, closing her eyes. Nadia covered her with a sheet. She heard the stirring of the pot, smelled lemon and sugar boiling. Con had been startling bare himself last night in the shadows. His member had seemed somehow larger now that it was not nestled in black thatch.
She smiled. It was, she supposed, every man’s dream to be bigger. She had no comparisons, but it seemed Con was big enough to begin with without resorting to this peculiar foreign custom.
“While the halawa cools, we shall begin to trim, my lady.”
Nadia attacked her eyebrows first, then lifted the lower portion of the sheet and began to clip bits of golden fluff. Laurette soon felt a sticky warm ball rubbed onto her skin. She bit her lip from crying out in mortification. No one save Con, Sadie and the midwife who delivered Beatrix had ever touched her
there.
No, that wasn’t quite true. There had been times over her long years of celibacy when her tension was so great she had tried to replicate Con’s touches. But her fantasies had brought her only frustration when the waves crested and she found herself alone in her childhood bedroom. A spinster. A mother with no child.
Nadia applied the same substance to her legs and beneath her arms as Laurette willed herself to be still.
“Now it must dry.” The woman covered Laurette with an
other sheet that had been warmed by the fire. “You are comfortable, yes? Not chilled?”
Laurette nodded, much too embarrassed to speak. She had never been especially miss-ish, and had once flaunted her body. No more, apparently.
“Good. Martine and I can bring in the rest of the water. Do excuse us.”
Laurette was alone, feeling an odd sensation everywhere the paste touched. But soon the warmth of the room and her exhaustion conspired to slip her into a light sleep.
“My lady,” Nadia whispered.
Laurette opened her eyes.
“I am afraid the rest will not be so pleasant,” Nadia apologized. She proceeded to gently scrape Laurette’s skin, discarding the resin into a paper sack. Laurette felt like her body was being combed. Some areas required a razor, some stubborn hairs were tied with thread and pulled. She had half a mind to pull Con’s long hair out by the roots tonight in retribution.
“There. It is done.” Nadia helped her off the sofa and brought her to the standing mirror. Laurette’s skin was flushed and rosy, and apparently freckled
everywhere.
“Beautiful, yes? Islam requires this purification, but even Christian women in the East practice the habit. It will become less difficult once your body adjusts to it. Do you wish me to stay and wash you?”
Laurette shook her head. Poor Nadia had seen quite enough of her every nook and cranny already. She would do the rest herself.
The water was deliciously hot. The round hammered brass table had been cleared of the implements of torture, and moved next to the tub, and now held pitchers of rinsing water and soap, creams and lotions. Laurette dipped her head back and relaxed.
This was one aspect of a mistress’s life she could get used
to. To be pampered. For a time. It wouldn’t do to become used to the luxury, but she would enjoy it while she could.
It helped to know that it was not Berryman money that funded her position. Con had done well for himself abroad and Marianna had tied up all her funds for her son. Con’s estates had prospered in his absence and he had earned enough somewhere to assure they continued to do so.
He had returned to Lower Conover several times since he came back to England, but Laurette had managed to mostly avoid him. She knew he was still angry that she had not told him immediately about Beatrix.
It was not even dawn when he turned up at the Lodge. The wild knocking at the front door roused her from a deep sleep. Charlie! What else could he have gotten himself into?
But it was Con. He’d ridden all night from London, and the stink of horse and sweat was overwhelming. He clutched a crumpled letter in his fist, and his face was frightening.
“I understand we have a daughter, madam.”
His voice was cold. Beyond cold. Arctic.
Laurette nodded stupidly, too surprised to speak.
“You didn’t think to tell me? I’ve been back two months!”
“It’s none of your concern.”
Con towered over her in fury. “None of my concern! I am her father!”
“No, you aren’t. And I am not her mother. Go away, Con. There is nothing you can do. She’s well-provided for, and happy. Think of one of your children, for once, instead of your own selfish needs. I absolutely forbid you to see her.” She shut the door in his face and threw the bolt, waiting for the banging.
But it did not come.
He had his revenge now. She had vastly underestimated his determination to bring her low, using Charlie’s stupidity to bind her to him in this wretched bargain.
Her body might belong to Con, but she would not let him into her heart again.
She washed and rinsed her hair with the rose-spiced soap, then slathered herself with suds, scrubbing away the leftovers of her treatment. Once she was clean, she wrapped herself in a bath sheet and padded to the closets.
Con had outdone himself, despite his wicked threat to keep her unclothed. Each dress was more elegant than the next, the fabrics bright yet tasteful. The contents of the dresser revealed exquisite underthings. She was relieved she was not to be dressed as a harem girl, veiled and belly bared. But the nightgowns were so sheer she might as well be naked. There was not a virtuous white muslin night rail in sight.
Brushing the tangles from her hair, she sat on the divan and stared into the fire. Her stomach rumbled, and she was reminded of the place setting in the dining room. Six months was not so very long. It was time to dress and begin her new life.
S
he had lunched alone. She had dined alone. Some of the food had been unfamiliar but delicious, course after course. Laurette couldn’t possibly do justice to all of it by herself, and so had gone downstairs to the kitchens after the evening meal to compliment Cook and request modifications to her menu.
Cook was Qalhata, an extraordinary Nubian woman with a golden hoop in her nose. Laurette faltered at first, disconcerted by both the nose ring and the glacial stare the woman gave her when she invaded the kitchen. The kitchen boy, perhaps Qalhata’s son, scampered off at once, not a good sign. Laurette explained she didn’t eat everything, not because it wasn’t tasty, but that she simply didn’t have so big an appetite.
The woman had looked her up and down, then broke into a wide white smile. “Master says to fatten you up. You’ll eat. Real men don’t like skinny women.”
Qalhata herself was very shapely, wrapped in a brown garment that tied at the shoulder, exposing a bare arm adorned with a stack of gold bangles. Over her costume she had tied a spotless white apron. Her hair was ruthlessly braided but uncovered. Having spoken her piece, she continued to lay out the food for the staff and called out to the boy in what Laurette
presumed to be the Nubian language. Laurette did not wish to delay their meal and hurried back upstairs.