The Emerald Comb (10 page)

Bartholomew whistled as he finished dressing, tying a dove-grey cravat about his neck and buttoning his jacket. Rain or no rain, it was his wedding day, and he was happy.

He sauntered down the stairs for breakfast, which he ate alone. Georgia was to take breakfast in her room, and meet him at the church. Holland was not yet up; he never rose before eleven. There were no other house guests – Bartholomew had expected Holland to invite friends and relations for the wedding, but none had arrived. It seemed Charles Holland was Georgia’s only living relative. Bartholomew also had no relatives coming. His mother Constance had been dead eight years, and he was estranged from his father, who had refused to bail him out of a financial crisis a few years back. He supposed he should make things up with his father. He resolved to write and tell him of his wedding. He had time this morning to do so; there was nothing else to do other than read the morning paper, then wait until the cab arrived to take him to the church.

A couple of hours later, Bartholomew was standing at the altar of St Nicholas’s church, watching Georgia walk up the aisle on the arm of her uncle who was giving her away. A handful of their Brighton acquaintances were gathered in the pews behind him – they were the only people invited to the ceremony, and the wedding breakfast which was to be held afterwards, in Holland’s dining room. Bartholomew nodded to his friend Henry Harding who stood smiling beside his wife Caroline. He caught the eye of Charles Holland’s neighbour, portly Mrs Oliphant, who scowled at him and pursed her lips. No doubt she was disapproving of something as usual. Young Perry had of course not been invited.

Georgia looked beautiful: her new ivory gown was made of good silk and fitted perfectly. Her pale golden hair hung in ringlets cascading out from under her bonnet, which was adorned with white roses. She carried more white roses, tied with silk ribbon, and looked like an ethereal snow princess. Bartholomew smiled as he remembered the evening they’d met, and how she’d skipped along the snowy promenade oblivious to the cold.

There was a flash of green at the back of the church. Bartholomew peered towards the door – some latecomer, no doubt. He turned his attention back to his bride. Georgia smiled shyly as her uncle handed her to Bartholomew. He smiled back at her, imagining unbuttoning her gown, slipping it off her shoulders, peeling back her layers of petticoats… In a few minutes she would be his wife; in a few hours he could claim her soft, white flesh as his own. In a few days, her money would be in his account and his debts paid off.

Agnes slipped into the back of the church after Mr Holland and Miss Georgia had entered. She had not asked permission to attend the wedding, but, as Miss Georgia’s maid, and the nearest thing she’d ever had to a mother, Agnes felt justified in being there. In fact, Miss Georgia ought really to have invited her properly. She’d put on the green gown, paired it with her Sunday best bonnet, and had tucked some lace into her bodice. Thankfully it had not rained this morning, although it had threatened to, or her gown would have been ruined. She’d had to hurry from the house to the church to get there in time. She sat in the shadows of the last pew to watch the ceremony unfold.

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony…

Miss Georgia looked beautiful. Agnes felt a glow of pride at what she’d accomplished with the girl’s hair and dress. The simple bouquet of white roses was perfect, adding to the girl’s innocent, virginal look. Agnes smiled wryly – she’d not be virginal for very much longer. Her about-to-be husband was a lusty fellow, who would no doubt claim his bride roughly at the first opportunity that evening. She should know. Her inner thighs still felt raw from his visit the previous night. She sighed. It would, she supposed, be the last time. At least for a few months, while he enjoyed the pleasures of his fresh young wife. But he would return to Agnes’s bed in time, she was sure. If, that is, she stayed in his employment.

Which, of course, she would. She knew – she had known since the first time Mr St Clair had come to her room – that she would never leave him. There was something about him which thrilled her. He had an animal passion – there was an intensity to his love-making which she craved. Since that first time, he’d come to her several times a week. And she had sat on her bed, almost unable to bear the wait, having to stop herself from going to find him in his bedchamber.

…if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it…

Oh, confess, Mr St Clair! thought Agnes. Confess you are in love with another woman!

Last night he had told her their affair must end. For the sake of Georgia. He’d said Agnes should find herself a husband. But he’d said it without conviction, and Agnes had answered him with an equal lack of enthusiasm.

Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her…

It’s only words, Mr St Clair. They mean nothing. You don’t need to keep yourself only for her. Come back to me!

But Bartholomew answered, gazing directly at Miss Georgia as he spoke clearly so that everyone in church could hear, ‘I will.’

As Mr St Clair slipped a ring onto Miss Georgia’s finger, Agnes straightened her back and raised her chin. She’d lost him, for the moment, but he’d come back to her sooner or later, of that she was certain. And she would be ready for him. If only Georgia was marrying someone else. Anyone else. Then she would be able to feel uncomplicated, unconditional joy on her mistress’s wedding day, instead of this complex whirl of emotions.

The vicar announced a hymn, and asked people to turn to the relevant page in their hymn books, which had been distributed on every pew. Agnes picked hers up, and flicked through it, frowning at the squiggles and patterns which filled every page. Something else which differentiated her from the new Mrs St Clair, she supposed. She’d rarely attended the small school in her home village, preferring to stay at home and learn the skills of a herbalist from her mother.

She opened the book at a random page, and hummed along with the music, thankful there was no one in the pew beside her to notice that she could not read. When she had first begun working for Georgia, the fourteen-year-old had been first shocked and then amused at Agnes’s illiteracy. She’d tried to teach her to read, but Agnes had felt it beneath her dignity to stare at children’s picture books with a young girl as tutor. Now, she wondered if being able to read and write would have made any difference to her fortunes – would it have given her more of a chance with Mr St Clair?

When the service was over, Agnes stayed sitting behind a pillar at the back of the church until everyone else had left. It had finally started to rain, so the newlyweds, Mr Holland, and the guests quickly bundled into the waiting cabs to return to Brunswick Terrace. Agnes rose, stretched her back, and stood in the doorway of the church, watching the rain. If her circumstances had been different, and she’d been a rich heiress like Miss Georgia, it might have been
her
marrying Mr St Clair today. But she was only the daughter of a woodcutter. She knew her place. She might have already won Mr St Clair’s heart, but she could never have won his hand. The best she could hope for would be to remain in his employ, and wait for him to resume their affair.

She waited in the church porch until the rain eased off, then hurried along the back streets to the back entrance of the Brunswick Terrace house. The kitchen was bustling with activity as the wedding breakfast was prepared. Mr Holland’s regular cook had hired some temporary staff to cope with the party, and they were all running hither and thither, being scolded by the cook, as Agnes passed through. Not for the first time she felt thankful that she’d managed to rise above being a kitchen maid. Being a lady’s maid was several steps up the ladder, and was a much easier and more pleasant job.

Becoming a kept mistress would be better still. In her own little house, with her lover visiting every few days bearing gifts… It was a dream, but could she make it a reality?

Upstairs, in Miss Georgia’s room, Agnes set to work making the room ready for the night. She threw the nightgown Miss Georgia had been wearing into a laundry basket, and brought out a new lace-trimmed one in fine linen from Miss Georgia’s trousseau. She tidied the perfume bottles and hair brushes which littered the dressing table, and put away jewellery. The silver and emerald hair comb was lying discarded on the dressing table. Agnes picked it up and turned it over. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship. She unpinned her cap, let down her own blonde locks, and caught them up again with the comb, turning her head this way and that to admire herself in the mirror. For a moment she considered replacing her cap, on top of the comb. She could say one of the temporary maids had taken it. Miss Georgia would never suspect Agnes, not after so many years of faithful service.

But no. Best not to do anything which might risk her position. Reluctantly she removed the comb and placed it into Miss Georgia’s ebony jewellery box, then put the box away in a drawer, out of temptation of any thieving maids who might pass by.

She turned back the bedclothes, laid the new nightgown on the bed and, with a sigh, left the room. Her time was her own now, until Miss Georgia needed help to get ready for bed, later this evening.

Finally the guests were gone. Henry Harding had been the last to leave, giving Bartholomew a hearty clap on the back and a wink as he left. Bartholomew knocked back the last of his brandy and put the glass down on a side table. He glanced across to his pretty young wife, who was twisting her wine glass back and forth by its stem.

‘A nightcap, St Clair?’ said Charles Holland, who was slumped in his usual armchair, brandy decanter to hand.

‘Just a small one,’ said Bartholomew, holding out his glass. He’d already drunk a fair bit, but it was his wedding day, and one more wouldn’t hurt.

Georgia stretched, and yawned ostentatiously. ‘I am so tired. It has been a long day. I think I shall retire, now. Uncle, would you ring the bell? I shall need Agnes.’

Bartholomew stood, and kissed her hand. ‘I shall not be long, my sweet. Do not go to sleep.’

She blushed and bowed her head, then left the room.

Holland kept Bartholomew talking for a while, over another couple of brandies. The hall clock had chimed midnight when he finally put his glass down.

‘Well, man, I shouldn’t keep you. Not when you’ve a pretty new wife to deflower.’ Holland chuckled, but the laugh turned into a spluttering cough.

Bartholomew rushed over and looked for a glass of water to administer, but there was none. He poured another brandy, and held it to Holland’s lips. The older man was red in the face and spluttering, but he took a sip of the brandy. It seemed to ease the cough.

‘Ah, that’s better,’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘Thank you. Now then, off upstairs with you. Leave me here on my own. Once you’ve moved out tomorrow, I’ll need to get used to it again.’ He coughed again.

The man drinks far too much, thought Bartholomew, as he finished his own brandy. So did he, he supposed, but then he could hold his drink well. It had never yet made him choke. And his nose and cheeks weren’t a ruddy mess of broken veins like Holland’s.

‘If you’re sure, I’ll take my leave. Good night, sir. It’s been a splendid day. Thank you once again for hosting our wedding.’ He bowed, and left the room. Now then, off to his wife’s bedchamber. A picture of Agnes, laid back on her narrow bed, hair splayed across her pillow, thighs exposed, flashed through his mind. He banished it immediately and tried to imagine Georgia instead: her soft white flesh and youthful curves. The sooner he’d had experience of her the better. He needed to forget about Agnes, and the only way to do that was to find his pleasures elsewhere, in the form of his pretty new wife.

He took the stairs two at a time, and turned along the corridor to Georgia’s room. As he approached, the door opened and Agnes stepped out. She looked momentarily startled to see him but quickly regained composure. She looked beautiful, wearing a pale green silk gown he thought he recognised from somewhere. Perhaps it had been Georgia’s. It suited Agnes better.

‘Mr St Clair, your wife is ready for you,’ she said, with a half-smile. She dipped in curtsey, but her eyes remained locked with his. Embarrassed, he stepped past her, and put his hand on the doorknob of Georgia’s room. He paused, and glanced back at Agnes. She was still standing there, the sides of her skirt still clutched in her hands from the curtsey.

He raised his eyebrow questioningly.

‘Go on, then,’ she said, nodding at the door. She smiled, then turned and walked along the corridor towards the servants’ stairs, her head high and back straight, as always.

He watched her go, then shook his head. You’ve a wife now, he told himself. Forget about the maid servant. He twisted the doorknob and entered Georgia’s room.

Agnes went up the stairs to the servants’ floor and quietly entered her room. She took off her maid’s cap, hung it on the back of a chair and let down her hair. She placed her hairpins carefully into a small saucer on the washstand. She sat down heavily on her bed, her head in her hands. A single tear ran unchecked down her cheek.

It would all change now. Nothing would ever be the same. She’d helped Georgia prepare for tonight: she’d held her hand, explained what it was that Bartholomew would want to do, told her how wonderful the act could be for two people who loved each other. She’d made Georgia look as alluring as possible, ready for her wedding night. She’d banked up the fire, lit candles and drawn the curtains, making the room as comfortable as possible for the newlyweds. And she’d practically pushed the man she loved into the arms of his new wife. There was nothing more she could do; nothing more she could be expected to do.

Why oh why hadn’t she been born rich, a member of Bartholomew’s own class? Why couldn’t it have been
her
he met at the Assembly Rooms on that cold January night? Why couldn’t it have been her he married today? She would have made him happy. They were so well suited, in bed at least, and she was sure that counted for a lot. Men were happy when their physical needs were satisfied. Men didn’t stray if their wives provided what they needed and wanted.