Devotion (5 page)

Dare she admit, even to herself, that she felt overwhelmed by these last days' events? In the past four days she had found herself employed by the Duchess of Salterdon, removed from the only house and village she had ever known, and thrust into as foreign a world as she had ever imagined. For the first time in her life she was alone—truly alone. The routine, mostly harsh life in which she had existed the last nineteen years had vanished like smoke with one flourish of the duchess's pen.

She was free . . . free of her father's sobriety, of his cruelties administered in the name of God. Free not to wither emotionally and die like her mother. So where was the elation?

The small window overlooked a barren patch of dirt and a dying, leafless rowan tree, its skeletal limbs lined with roosting rooks. Finding no solace in the bleak panorama, Maria sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped in her lap, and stared at the wall, too weary and hungry to even visualize the tiny room decorated with a picture or two, or the floor made warmer by a colorful rag rug.

If she were home, she would be preparing her father's supper: perhaps a leg of mutton donated by a member of his parish. Bread would be crisping in the oven. Soon the kitchen would grow overly warm. She would shove open the Dutch door and allow the cool evening breeze to kiss the sweat from her brow. If her mother could manage to rouse herself from her ennui, she might chat softly of her life as a young girl in the village . . . when the lads would parade by her house in hopes of catching a glimpse of her. Mother and daughter might share a laugh . . . before the vicar came home. They might even grow brave enough to talk of Paul.

Dear Lord, she was tired. The last days of tolerating her father's threats and recriminations and her mother's weeping had made for sleepless nights and an endless barrage of second-guessing her decision to leave home, and the only man who dared to love her despite, or because of, who her father happened to be.

Dear John . . . would this separation force her to realize her true feelings for him?

Minutes ticked by.

With a sigh, she at last left the bed, moved to the door and eased it open.

Where was 'the monster' now? Poor, misunderstood, misbegotten lad: What could have happened in his young life to form such a notorious character? She knew only that his parents were dead. That a little over a year ago there had been an accident which had left the young man . . . impaired, though to what degree the duchess had refused to elaborate.

Maria moved quietly down the corridor, retracing her way down staircase after staircase, her curiosity compelling her to search beyond the occasional open door, each time feeling stunned by the overwhelming riches that greeted her in the form of mirrored or marbled walls, crystal chandeliers,
marquetrie
floors, and gilded columns.

By the time she at last found her way to the lower floor, several servants were busily lighting lamps and the immense chandelier that they had lowered by way of a cable and winch. The hundred or more candles cast brilliant light over the grand staircases, sculpted reliefs, tapestries and marble walls as well as floors that were set off by large ferns and palms potted in great Chinese vases.

Still, she continued to wander, deeper into the heart of the grand house, back into the shadows until the hallways became narrow and the marble and paneled walls became brick and stone and the sconces on the walls cast vague light and shadows. From some source, there came warmth, and the smell of food. It lured her, thawed the growing chill from her face and fingers, causing her stomach to growl in hunger.

Coming to the top of a narrow flight of winding stairs.
Maria paused. She peered down the crude staircase, toward the dashes of flickering red and yellow light reflecting off the stone wall and listened to the oddly disturbing sounds from below—voices muffled by distance.

The kitchen.
Of course.
Mayhap once she explained that she had had little more than porridge early that morning for breakfast, the cook would supply her with a bit of bread and butter, perhaps a cup of warm tea.
Anything to quiet this jittery sense of nervousness settling in the pit of her stomach.
Perhaps she might even coerce a moment's conversation from him— anything to quiet her mounting discomposure.

She moved lightly, silently, down the spiraling steps . . . and froze at the entry.

The bodies lay entwined upon the trestle table before the fiery hearth—both naked, their flesh glistening with sweat, arms and legs thrashing as if for dominance, hands twisting into hair, faces contorted in a manner of both pain and pleasure.

"Give it t' me, Thaddeus. Quick! Afore someone finds us," the servant Maria had met earlier cried in a hoarse voice, and clawed at the young man's bare, flexing shoulders that reflected the firelight like smooth marble.

"Ain't no one
gonna
find us, Molly," he reported, and pumped his hips up and down between the girl's thighs. "I've seen to it.
God, lass, but yer lovely.
Such lovely tits," he cried, and buried his face between them, kissing them and fondling them with his tongue and lips.

Maria swallowed, but could not move.

Molly locked her ankles around the young man's waist and ground her loins against his, thrashed her head from side to side, her white breasts swinging like heavy pendulums with his every thrust, with each contraction of his muscled buttocks, each flex of his straining arms. Sweat poured from beneath his unruly crop of reddish-brown hair and rained down his brow, his temples.

"Oh God.
Oh God," Molly whimpered, as he pumped harder and faster. "I'm
dyin
'.
I'm
dyin
'."

"Dear God," Maria heard herself whisper, and when the man threw back his head, his dark eyes locking with hers, she could do nothing but open her mouth in silent surprise.

His eyes widened, briefly, then narrowed. They captured her, froze her, as did his grin, for though he was driving his hard, lean body into Molly's, it was

Maria
to whom he was making love—right up to the moment he threw back his head and cried aloud.

Maria gasped and backed away, turned on her heel and ran on her tiptoes back to the foyer where her kid-soled slippers slid on the polished marble, causing her to dance in place before grabbing a table for support. Face burning, heart racing, she froze there, suspended above the floor, balanced on one leg, a hundred of her father's sermons on "sins of the flesh bringing untold damnation to the soul" flashing one after another through her memory. No doubt he would have a few choice phrases for this "den of inequity" in which she now resided—and the fact that she had just watched the entire sordid act with a shocking sense of fascination.

She fled up the stairs, taking little notice where she was going, ran down one long passageway after another, until, winded and realizing she had become disoriented, she fell against a wall and closed her eyes, only to have the indecent scene displayed in all its glory upon her mind's eye—every last detail emblazoned and wringing a heat from her that she had only vaguely experienced before—a few times in John's company (though it obviously had not been mutual)—other times when Paul had whispered secrets of his times spent with the village blacksmith's strikingly beautiful, and amorous, young wife. Now, however, unlike then, her body shook. Her mouth felt dry as chalk.

It seemed she stood there an hour, hugging herself. Until the heat of her body became chilled by the surrounding cold and the disturbing physical feelings she had experienced those eternal minutes she had spied on the lovers became one of bemused chagrin.

Collecting
herself
, realizing at last that she had become hopelessly lost in the labyrinth of Thorn Rose's corridors, Maria wandered from gallery to gallery, too numb to notice her grandiose surroundings, growing more intensely frustrated and angry over the quandary in which her body seemed to be captured. She wanted only to return to her room, to hide there forever, if necessary. To forget the last moments had ever happened. Still, she would find no respite there from her growing anxiousness. Silence would hardly stem the sense of disquietude that had begun to set in the moment she first saw Thorn Rose—when the realization finally set in that there was no home and hearth to rely on now. She was a solitary soul adrift in a universe of strangers.

Nay, she must not dwell on it. "Plan for the future and dwell less on today, for today is already history and cannot be changed," as Paul had often said . . . even as he lay wasting away in his deathbed. Oh, to be as cheerful and resolute when faced with such an
unsurmountable
adversity as impending death. If she
were
only that strong and brave . . .

Maria nudged open doors, peered into rooms with furnishings covered in dusty sheets. What odd and unhappy circumstances for a child. There was little here denoting cheerfulness, lightness; where was there a solitary toy, any evidence at all that a living human being, aside from servants, occupied the stately manor?

What could the duchess have been thinking to imprison a lad here in such secrecy?

She grew more determined by the moment to find her charge and introduce herself—they would pass the evening hours in becoming acquainted—perhaps she would teach him a song or two—together they would conquer this abysmal solitude and, eventually, become fast friends and companions and confidantes; these bleak hallways would ring with the child's laughter— she would see to it!—and when the duchess arrived on the morrow any doubt she might have had that Maria could successfully cope with the lad and his problems would be vanquished.

Upon coming to a well-lit corridor, Maria paused. The furnishings appeared well dusted—-no ghostly sheets tossed over settees and chairs. The ornamental brass sconces on the walls were highly polished and reflected candlelight brightly.

Ah, this was more like it! The walls exuded grandeur and elegance. The air smelled of the many bouquets of fresh flowers in crystal vases that glittered from the dozen or so tables placed along the long gallery.

Most doors lining the sprawling corridors were open. Each drawing room, dressing room, and bedroom was a masterpiece of exquisite museum-worthy furnishings. Never, even in her own wildest imaginings, did she ever visualize anything so masterful and awe-inspiring. Her heart lifted. At last she managed to put the last days and hours from her mind long enough to grasp the thread of hope, which had compelled her to come to Thorn Rose in the first place.

She spun on her tiptoes, arms thrown wide. Biting her lip, covering her mouth with her fingertips, she cast a startled look around, half anticipating her father to come roaring at her from the shadows, fists raised as he expelled biblical recriminations regarding such frivolous, outrageous behavior.

Sweet relief when only silence greeted her! She almost hugged herself in happiness.

Hope and promise having replaced her former doubt, she moved down the carpeted hall, humming cheerfully to herself, intent now upon locating her young,
difficult
charge.

At last, she happened upon a closed door, and stopped. Cautiously, she knocked. No reply. Easing open the door, she peered inside at the vast, dim room whose windows were hidden behind heavy velvet casings. The air felt as still and cold as that in a mausoleum, and the smell—

Maria covered her nose, those last months of her brother's dwindling life rising from the vault of her buried memories. How well she recalled the scent of impending death and decay. It hovered in the impenetrable air like the grim reaper himself.

Easing the door open further, her senses focusing, Maria moved into the terrible chamber.

Broken china
lay
cast across the floor: delicate shattered tea cups, splintered dinner plates. A wheelchair sat, disposed, in the furthest corner of the cold room. No minute coal glittered amid the dank ash in the hearth. Only a solitary candle guttered in its own melting wax near the head of the bed, its flame, having grown much too long on its
unsnipped
wick, dancing dangerously close to the sheer curtains draped from the bed's overhead tester.

"H-hello," she called softly with a dry and trembling voice. "Is anyone there?"