No Greater Pleasure (6 page)

“No.” More shuffling. The door cracked open and he peered out with one wary, loch-colored eye. “I am to dine with my wife this evening.”

“Then I’ll go?”

“Yes, yes, go. I said go, didn’t I?”

The door shut in her face, and she paused a moment, then let herself out of his rooms. Climbing the stairs to her room left her weary and winded by the sheer multitude and steepness of them, and the winding, narrow curves.

“An odd location to house a Handmaiden,” she grumbled through gasps as she let herself into her room. “The farthest point away from him.”

She didn’t mind the garret room, which was plain but comfortable enough, and the luxury of her own bath chamber was something she truly appreciated. Still, the thought of climbing these stairs day and night did make her resolve to eat more and seek a restorative concoction from the local medicus, if only to make sure she didn’t wear herself down.

“He needn’t make it quite so difficult,” she said to the empty room.

She knew there would always be those who would not be soothed and satisfied, no matter what was offered them. She was beginning to wonder if Gabriel Delessan was such a man.

“So many blessings,” she murmured, folding the soiled gown and setting it aside to be cleaned. She tugged her shift off over her head and folded that, as well. “Yet so little joy.”

True, a mad wife and a son possibly not his own would be cause to make any man frown. And yet, there was more to him than that. From what Florentine had said, Master Gabriel had never been joyous.

She refused to think the task might be too great for her. He had called for her, at least he’d done that, and while his motives might not have been as pure as she could have hoped, it showed he was at least interested in appeasement. On some level, anyway.

She recalled the way his eyes had blazed when he’d told her never to wash his hands again. It had made him angry, that simple act of caretaking that was as natural and unaffected to her as opening a door for someone whose hands were full of packages.

On the morrow she would see about replacing his battered kettle and ruined cups and creating some special teas. Something a bit spicy, to complement his temper and prevent him from becoming too complacent, tempered with a calming herb, like lady’s lace, to soothe his easily provoked temper. The art of tea had been only one of many Quilla studied, and she took pride in brewing special mixes suited to the personality of her patrons. Something with a hint of sweetness to chase the bitterness from his tongue, but not so sweet as to make him sour in response.

A flower is made more beautiful by its thorns
. Gabriel had many thorns and few blossoms. And yet, there was something, a glimpse, a hint, of something beneath the prickly exterior. She pondered it all the while she bathed, and while she slipped between clean sheets to fall asleep. What would make him soften?

She awoke to screaming. Quilla sat up in bed, heart pounding and eyes bulging wide against the darkness. She could see naught but the bright sparkles her fear had created in her vision.

She listened. The scream rose again, a thin wail that pierced her ears despite the distance from which it must have come. Then it cut off. Silence once more.

She lay back on her pillow and pulled the covers up around her neck. What on earth had that been? It could have been a beast outside, a great cat stalking its prey or the prey itself squealing. Yet it hadn’t sounded like it came from outside.

So it had come from inside. A scream in the night was never good news. She waited, listening, but it didn’t come again. It was a long time before she could fall back to sleep.

 

 

 

B
y the time Delessan entered the workshop in the morning, Quilla had already replaced the soiled rugs and rearranged the furniture in front of the fireplace. She’d added a footstool and covered the faded chair with a woven throw. She traded the battered kettle for one in better repair, along with a set of plain but un-chipped teacups. In the pinkish light of dawn and the red gold light from the fire, the room had become almost pleasant. She’d done nothing to his worktable, but the rest of it well pleased her.

She could do little about the smell from the chemicals, but the scent of the brewing tea and the freshly baked simplebread at least covered it up somewhat. Today, he appeared dressed no less formally than the day before. Quilla paused, bent over the pan of simplebread, to look at him.

“Good morning, my lord.”

He grunted and took two steps toward the worktable before pausing and turning back. “What do I smell?”

“Tea and simplebread, my lord.”

“What kind of tea?”

“Something I brewed for you myself.”

“The kitchen is the place for baking, not my studio.” Yet he took another step forward, as though his nose were leading him despite the protests of his mind.

“It’s only simplebread,” Quilla explained, lifting the pan with the help of a thick towel. “Really no trouble at all.”

Delessan’s mouth turned down, but he sat in his chair, smoothing his fingers over the throw. “And what’s this? And that?”

He pointed to the kettle and cup she’d filled with tea.

“I thought the blanket might look nice. The kettle and cups I found in the storage closet downstairs. The others were in disgraceful repair. I thought you deserved better, but these were the best to be had.”

She’d been slicing the simplebread and arranging the thick, fragrant slices on a plate, not looking at him. When she looked up, she met his eyes. He was staring, lips parted. When her gaze met his, he closed his mouth, thinning the lips.

“Think you I cannot provide my own repairs to my chair? Replace my own kettle when it needs replacing?”

Quilla handed him the plate. “Think you can? Certainly. Think you would? Nay, else you’d have done so. ’Tis my duty to provide you with what you need, my lord, so you don’t need to ask for it. I saw the kettle was imperfect, and thought to replace it, but if you prefer the old one, I will bring it back.”

He held up the plate of simplebread, smelling it. “No. The new one is fine.”

She waited, watching while he took a bite of the firm, fresh bread. Then she handed him a napkin. He wiped his lips free of crumbs. “I’m surprised you didn’t offer to wipe my mouth for me.”

“You didn’t care for me washing your hands,” she pointed out matter-of-factly. “I would not assume you’d care to have me wipe your mouth.”

That look again, as though she’d grown an extra eye. Quilla kept her expression serene as she swept the hearth clean, aware of his scrutiny. When she looked up again, he was still staring.

“How might I serve you?”

He looked momentarily startled. “I will arrange for you to have access to a credit account of your own. You will use it to purchase anything you think this room needs. And anything you need beyond what I’ve already given you.”

Quilla inclined her head in acknowledgment of his generosity. “Thank you.”

“In the afternoons, when I wish not to be disturbed, you will have time to go to the market, if you wish. Otherwise, tell Florentine or Bertram what it is you wish to order and they will arrange for the craftsman to come.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded abruptly and set the plate aside with only crumbs left upon it, then got up from his chair. “I don’t have all day to stand about chattering, Handmaiden.”

He pushed past her and headed for his worktable. Behind him, as she tidied up the remains of his breakfast, Quilla smiled.

 

 

 

I
heard screaming in the night. This has been the third time.” Quilla watched Florentine roll out the thin dough, pat it with some flour, then cut it into strips and hang the finished noodles over the rack to dry.

Florentine looked up at her. “You didn’t. You was dreaming.”

“I wasn’t dreaming, Florentine.”

“You might as well have been, for all the gossip you’ll pry from my lips.”

Quilla smiled and handed the cook another ball of soft dough. “I wouldn’t dream of forcing you into telling tales. I’m merely telling you what I heard.”

Florentine pausing in the rolling to give Quilla a narrow glare. “I thought Handmaidens was supposed to be respectful. You’ve got sassiness in every bone, you have.”

Quilla laughed. “Handmaidens are trained to provide subservience of manner and provision. We are not required to be cowering mice. You can respect someone and still tease them, and likewise, treat a person with the utmost outward appearance of solicitude while inside you mock them.”

“Either way, you’re sassy.” Florentine gestured at the young woman who’d just entered the kitchen. “You! Watch where you’re stepping, you’ll drag flour all over the place!”

The young woman sniffed and lifted the hem of her skirts to show delicate ribboned slippers. “I merely came down to prepare the tea for my lady’s afternoon respite.”

She smoothed a blonde curl over one shoulder and looked over at Quilla, who smiled though she could already tell this young woman was going to cause her trouble. “I’m Allora Walles, companion to my lady Saradin. Mistress of this house. And you are Tranquilla Caden, the master’s Handmaiden.”

“You mean you came down to have me prepare the tea,” cut in Florentine, grumbling as she left off the noodle preparation and moved toward the fire to hang the kettle over the flame. “And Quilla, I daresay, already knows who the mistress of the house is.”

“Does she?” Allora pursed perfect pink lips and stared at Quilla without bothering to hide her disdain. “I suppose a . . . Handmaiden . . . would.”

The contempt she put into the word made Quilla grit her teeth, but she kept her smile pleasant when she replied, “I have yet to have the pleasure of making Mistress Delessan’s acquaintance.”

“And ’tis quite unlikely that you will.” Allora moved closer to Quilla, looking over her clothes with a raised brow. “Our master has been generous with you.”

Quilla looked at her plum-colored gown. “I brought this with me. It’s mine.”

“Really? The fabric is exceptionally fine.” Allora reached a hand to pinch the cloth of Quilla’s sleeve. “The cut is rather elegant, too. Funny, I thought Handmaidens wore rather less than this.”

Quilla pulled her sleeve from the other woman’s grasp. “This dress suits my preferences. If our lord Delessan chooses to clothe me differently, then I shall acquiesce to his wishes.”

“Of course.” Allora’s smirk made Quilla purse her lips briefly, but long enough for the lady’s maid to see. The maid smiled, her blue eyes glinting. “You must tell me more about your work, Tranquilla. What a charming name, and so apt. It means calm, doesn’t it? And that’s what you do? Calm people?”

“Yes, that is part of my function. Yes. And Allora means ‘devious beauty.’ ”

Allora tossed her hair over her shoulders. “I need to bring my lady her tea. Otherwise she gets . . . disturbed.”

“More’n she already is?” Florentine scoffed, but pulled the whistling kettle off the fire and poured the hot water into the teapot. “Allora, take the mistress some of those cinnamon biscuits from the cupboard. They’re in the tin with the hounds etched on top.”

Allora heaved a sigh so great it lifted her shoulders, as though Florentine had asked her to walk a mile across broken glass, but she sauntered to the cupboard and pulled out the tin. “Extra sugar on the tray, Florentine. You know the mistress likes her tea sweet.”

“I know you like it sweet, Allora Walles. The mistress could use a bit of sugar in her. You, on the other hand, could likely stand to cut back a bit.”

Allora whirled, tin in hand, chin up, and eyes blazing. “A fine one to talk you are, you old fat cow!”

Florentine only chuckled. “Fat I may be, but this is hard-earned. A badge of honor to my profession, like. You, on the other hand, my plumpy, should mayhaps concern yourself less with stuffing your face and more with some brisk walking round the gardens.”

Allora’s mouth worked without sound while the spots of color in her creamy cheeks grew increasingly hectic. “You! I! Never!”

“Never walk? That’s right, I’m being unfair. You spend plenty of time walking back and forth in front of the looking glass.” Florentine arranged the tray and handed it to the gasping Allora. “And beyond that, well, my little buttercup, my advice to you is that the sort of activity you’re accustomed to is well and good, but you’ll need to get off your back at some point and take a brisk jog, if you want to rid yourself of that second chin I see starting.”

Allora gasped louder. “You hag! You nasty old thing! You . . . you . . .”

“I believe the word you’re struggling so prettily to find in the vast echoing chambers of your mind is
bitch
,” Florentine said grandly. “And believe me, love, I’ve earned the title.”

“You’re barely even a woman!” Allora cried and swept from the room, tray in hand, so affronted she had forgotten to use the lift.

“Which makes it all the sweeter, doesn’t it?” Florentine started to laugh, moving back to her noodles.

“You plagued her on purpose.” Quilla tried to sound reproving, but couldn’t.

Florentine looked up. “Ah, but it got her off your back, did it not?”

“You didn’t need to.”

“It gives me great pleasure to needle that stuck-up bint, Quilla.”

Quilla studied the cook. “Why?”

“Because she’s convinced the purse between her legs entitles her to treat people badly. Because she acts as though she shites gold coins and pisses lemon sugar water, and it burns my biscuits. She uses her tits and her pretty blonde hair to manipulate people who ought to be smarter but ain’t, Quilla.”

“I see.”

Florentine turned to look at her. “You don’t see. I am Alyrian by birth. Do you know what that means?”

Quilla thought for a moment before answering. “Alyria was a closed country for many years. It had a revolution within the past twenty-year cycle. And I’ve heard the men of Alyria hold themselves in greater esteem than they do the women.”