Listen to the Moon (19 page)

He was holding his breath, by the looks of him. His amber eyes were hot. Maybe with anger, maybe with lust, maybe with both at once. The bulge in his breeches was growing. “Take out your kerchief,” he bit out at last.

She’d been holding her breath too, she realized. She let it out and tugged the kerchief out of the neck of her dress.

He leaned down, his hand burrowing under petticoats and stays in one quick, efficient movement, yanking her left breast up to balance on the shelf of her bodice. Her right breast followed it, and there they sat, high and exposed. He didn’t touch them. He only looked.

“Go ahead,” he said, his voice rough and deep with anger. And it didn’t frighten her at all. It excited her.

She undid his buttons, not making any particular show of it. Pushing aside his smallclothes, she took hold of his cock and sucked the head into her mouth.

He gasped, hips jerking. She hadn’t learned to take him in as far as she wanted to yet. But when she rubbed her tongue against the flat tip of him, he inhaled so sharply it echoed off the curved brick ceiling.

“Harder,” he said. “Faster.”

She obliged him, though it made her dizzy. She’d taken to this at once. It was like plain speaking, somehow; you couldn’t make it pretty or decorous. His animal part twitched against the back of her throat, and his scent filled her nostrils.

But after a minute or two he put a hand on her head and moved her away, taking his cock in his own fist and pleasuring himself with fast, brutal strokes.

Unsure what to do, she stayed on her knees watching him. Her bare breasts should have been chilled, but instead they felt hot where his gaze touched them.

His lips pressed tightly together and he panted harshly through his nostrils. “Show yourself to me.”

She gave him an inquiring look.

“Lift your skirts.”

“Yes, sir,” she said with a complete lack of deference, and maybe that annoyed him, but he liked it too. She could see his fingers tighten on his cock as she followed orders, reclining on her elbows and hiking her skirts above her waist.

“Spread your legs.” She did it, face so hot she must be scarlet. Would he fuck her? But he didn’t, only looked her over like a naughty French engraving.

Sukey glanced at the door—but no one would come in. Why should they? They’d ring the bell if they wanted anything. Still, she liked how sinful and daring this felt. Like that first time in Mrs. Pengilly’s kitchen. She shifted lazily, watching his breath catch.

“You’re wet,” he said.

She flushed hotter, that he could see that. “That’s because I like having your cock in my mouth,” she said crudely.

He spent, seed dripping down over his fingers. Grimacing, he pulled out his handkerchief with his clean hand. Sukey rose to her knees. “No need to launder anything,” she said, and licked his seed off his thumb.

His cock fell from his startled fingers. Catching it, she licked it clean, then did the same for his hand. He twitched, ticklish, as her tongue flicked between his thumb and forefinger. She glanced up at him. His shoulders weren’t vibrating anymore.

“Why did you push me away? I could have kept on.”

He sighed. “I would have used you roughly.”

Oh, he was too sweet. She bit his thumb. “I’d not have minded.”

He gave one of her nipples a friendly tweak, mouth curving tiredly. “Evidently not.” He handed her the wineglass he’d been using to test the wine. Swallowing the remaining mouthful, she stood, tucking her bosom and kerchief back into her dress.

He looked embarrassed now, buttoning his trousers with unnecessary care and fidgeting with his cuffs. He always seemed to feel he’d made a fool of himself after bedding her.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed.” He was too tall for a quick kiss, so she kissed her fingertips and pressed them to his lips. “Not even you can be dignified all the time.”

He covered his eyes with the back of his hand. “Did I look
very
silly?”

She laughed. “No more than I did, I’m sure.” She smoothed her bodice and shook out her petticoats.

“
You
did not look foolish.”

“Only because I didn’t spend.”

He looked remorseful. “I’m sorry. Come here.”

She shook her head. “Dinnertime is over.” She patted her stomach, reminding him what she’d recently swallowed. “Half past one is needlework.” And she swept out of the room and up the stairs, carefully shutting the door behind her.

* * *

John knew they’d resolved nothing of their quarrel. But how could it be resolved? She was young, and he was old
and
stuffy. He’d try to be less stuffy, and she’d be older by and by, and there was no profit in talking of it. His relief that she wasn’t angry—hell, his relief that
he
wasn’t angry—was a tangible thing, sitting at the bottom of his breastbone and wanting to—to
move
. Shout, sprint, jump, weep,
something
.

He hated being angry at her. He hated, also, that he’d needed her help to stop, and that it had been no dictate of reason that swayed him, but only an animal relaxation, as if he’d resorted to drink.

It felt splendid nevertheless.

It was a long afternoon, but when night came he finally understood why people said there was nothing like falling into bed after making up a quarrel. Every kiss was a revelation, every inch of her skin a benediction. Each time she spent was a miracle.

* * *

John’s unusual lack of exhaustion on Twelfth Night was likely why the noise woke him. Mr. Summers had gone to a celebration a little ways out of town and, as there was barely any moon to travel by, meant to stay the night. John and Sukey spent most of their evening in bed, dozing off shamefully early.

John lay blinking in the dark, unsure what he’d heard. Nothing, perhaps. He hoped it was nothing, so he could go back to sleep.

But there it was: a creaking stair. He’d been meaning to tighten those treads for weeks. John slipped out of bed, finding his greatcoat by feel and fumbling it on over his nightshirt. Tiptoeing to the door, he cracked it half an inch and waited, eye to the crack though it was too dark to see. It might only be someone looking for a snack. He heard footsteps creeping down the corridor. A shadow paused between the doors to the kitchen and the kitchen-yard.

John heard the tumblers of a lock turn. He flung open his own door and sprang.

Chapter Twelve

But he was too late. There was a muffled squeak, the kitchen-yard door slammed open, and footsteps pounded into the yard. If he didn’t catch the figure at once, it would be lost in the inky darkness that filled the world. He raced after it, the uneven, frozen ground agonizing to his stocking feet.

There was a painful thud and a scrabbling sound. John, putting on a burst of speed, tumbled headlong over something soft and whimpering. Ice and gravel scraped his hands, but he seized her tightly round the waist and said, “Molly, you are caught. Give it up before we both break our necks.”

There was a long silence. “Fine,” she said tightly. “Get off me.”

“I beg your pardon.” He released her, feeling ridiculous and guilty. She scrambled to her feet. Her skirts brushed his arm with her out-of-breath inhalations.

“If you come inside with me now, I will hear you out before I decide whether to speak with Mr. Summers.” There was a long, blind silence. “Mrs. Khaleel or Mrs. Toogood may be present if you like.”

There was a pause. “I want Mrs. Khaleel,” she said hoarsely.

He lit a candle and built up the fire while Molly roused the cook, who fussed silently over Molly’s scratches while John put on water for tea. The women looked very solemn in the dim light; Mrs. Khaleel’s fingers on Molly’s face were sorrowful and resigned.

“Mrs. Khaleel, if you would unlock the tea caddy.”

She glanced up at him. “I have some used leaves put by for us. I’ll fetch them.”

He looked at Molly’s bowed head. “Tonight we’ll use fresh. Mr. Summers can take it out of my pay.”
Gil Plumtree’s old phrase sprung to John’s lips without thinking, probably comforting him more than Molly.

Lord Tassell’s valet had always regarded the household’s strictures as a set of formalities to be followed or disregarded to suit his purposes—the first person to show John that being a good man was not entirely about following rules and pleasing the Dymonds. He would think nothing of hiding a stolen house key from his employer to save a good-hearted young girl. Knowing that made John feel a little less nervous about the idea.

“You don’t have to be nice to me,” Molly mumbled. “Just give me the sack and get it over with.”

John sat at the table across from her. “I told you I would hear you out. So tell me, where were you going?”

The girl looked at Mrs. Khaleel, behind John. He couldn’t see what the cook did, but Molly nodded at her. “My friend Sarah, she’s sick. Awful sick. I was going to help her with her washing.”

“In the middle of the night?” John didn’t conceal his horror. “In January? And then walk home? Good Lord, both of you will catch your deaths.”

Molly started to cry. “She’s already dying. She’s got consumption and our friend Jack threw her over.” Her lip curled. “He said it would be
too hard
to watch her waste away. The cur.” Mrs. Khaleel came to put a hand on her shoulder. Molly buried her face in the older woman’s night-rail, her stifled sobs sounding as if they were being ripped out of her.

“And is that the only reason you’ve been leaving the house at night?”

Molly shook her head without looking up. His heart sank. It was already risking his position to hide this. If Mr. Summers discovered he had winked at her meeting a man, he would never work again.

“I look in on my dad,” she said, her voice muffled. “Make sure he’s eating.”

“Is he ill as well?”

Molly emerged from Mrs. Khaleel’s skirts, eyes red and swollen. “He’s a drunk,” she said bitterly, and wiped her nose on her sleeve.

John drew in a deep breath. “I see. Anything else?”

“No.”

“Have you been doing anything immoral?”
If you have, don’t tell me,
he thought.

Molly drew her key out of her pocket and set it on the table, face set. She looked at the cook. “I did immoral things to get this,” she said in a hard voice. “He was hurting you and Thea and Lucy, and meanwhile I
willingly
…”

Mrs. Khaleel’s lips parted, her knuckles going white on Molly’s shoulder. “You’re just a girl,” she said fiercely. “I should have protected you. I should have known. He only—grabbed at me a bit, and said some nasty things. I didn’t realize he’d go farther. I didn’t think he’d bother a little English girl.”

“No,
I
should have known. He swore he’d leave Thea alone and I believed him. Like a dolt. As if I didn’t know what a worm he was.” She looked at John. “I
should
do Thea’s work. It’s my fault she’s like this.”

“Neither of you are at fault,” John said firmly. He thought once more of Sukey telling her mother she was clumsy for falling out of a wet tree in a thunderstorm. “The blame is often put on women in such cases, but that is hardly justice. Mrs. Khaleel risked losing her position. You risked the same, and you risked, as you believed, your friends’ safety, both here and elsewhere. You had a choice between two evils, and you chose what you believed to be the lesser. Mr. Perkins, on the other hand, voluntarily chose evil over good. The blame is entirely his.” He reached out and pocketed the key. “You know I can’t allow you to keep this.”

“But I need it.” Her swollen eyes were desperate. “Sarah will
starve
.”

“Sarah will not starve. And neither will your father. Let me fetch my memorandum book.”

Returning, he poured hot water into the teapot, then flipped the book open to a new page and picked up his pencil. He started, looking at it.

It had been sharpened.

Not to a perfect point, unfortunately, but someone had sharpened his pencil, which had been, he remembered now, nearly down to the wood. There was only one person who might have done it: his wife. It was a strange, new feeling, and it made the responsibility before him seem less dire. “So. Your friend Sarah. I’m sorry she’s ill.”

“Thank you.”

“I apologize for asking, but are you quite sure her illness can’t be cured? We might approach doctors first.”

“Her little brother and sister died of it already, a few years back. She says she knows it can’t be cured, and she doesn’t want to be bled and starved and dosed and fed false hope until— But it could be months and months.”

“Can she receive assistance from the parish?”

“She’s tried to get a settlement in Lively St. Lemeston, but the parish won’t give her one. She moved here from Nuthurst after her family died. She’d have one if she married Jack, the reptile.”

John wrote
no settlement
in his notebook. “I see a number of avenues to assisting her. Would she like to go home to Nuthurst? The parish here will pay for her journey.”

Molly shook her head emphatically.

“Very well. Is she Orange-and-Purple or Pink-and-White?”

Molly made a face. “Pink-and-White, of course, sir.”

“Of course.”

Molly’s face changed. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

He smiled, although he had hoped she was Orange-and-Purple, since his own connections were on that side. “It’s quite all right. Might I point out that Mr. Summers has a great deal of sway in the parish vestry? You might prevail on him to help your friend get a settlement.”

Molly made an apprehensive noise. He didn’t blame her. Mr. Summers could be very sarcastic when he’d a mind to, and it could be hard to guess when he’d have a mind to.

“Should that fail, we may try approaching others with influence,” he said matter-of-factly. “Mrs. Toogood, I believe, is friendly with the wife of the Pink-and-White agent Mr. Gilchrist. Sarah is a laundress, is she not? Has she many customers?”

“She did.”

“If we fail to get her on the parish, perhaps she could find another young woman who would care for her in exchange for inheriting her business.”

Molly’s face brightened. “I never thought of that.”

“Two heads are better than one.” John poured her a cup of strong tea. “Now. Your father. Has he any money of his own?”

She warmed her hands on the cup, hunching to breathe in the rich smell. John felt a little calmer himself at having done something positive to cheer her. “He does get money from the parish. He was a carpenter, but he lost his leg on a job a few years ago.”

“And when you say that you make sure your father is eating, do you mean that you buy him food?”

She nodded shamefacedly, her mouth a tight line. “Every quarter day I give some of my wages to a neighbor, and she puts bread in the cupboard on Sundays.”

“Because his own money is spent on drink.”

“But he still doesn’t eat it if I don’t remind him.” Her voice was hard, even argumentative, but her eyes were pleading. “I have to visit. I have to. He could die in that hole and no one would find him until Saturday. Just fall down the stairs and lie there bleeding.” She gulped down her tea as if hoping it would make her feel less tired.

“Could the neighbor look in on him?”

“He doesn’t listen to her. He only listens to me.” She glanced despairingly at Mrs. Khaleel. “He loves me. He’s a good father and I can’t just let him…”

John didn’t like what he was about to say, but it had to be said. He leaned forward, keeping his voice impassive. “Perhaps it is time for him to go in the workhouse. He would be safe and fed there.” Unfortunately, it was an option not open to Sarah, as neither workhouses nor hospitals would take consumptives.

She bit her lip. “He’d hate it. He’d be miserable. He might even—he’s sick when he
don’t
drink now.” But John would have sworn a flash of hope crossed her face.

“His existence does not sound particularly happy at home,” John said gently. “How much worse could the workhouse be? And perhaps after some time without strong drink, he will do better and go home again. Or we might be able to find him a place in an almshouse.”

That was definitely hope on her face now, but she sighed, shoulders slumping. “He’d never go.”

“
You
cannot go on like this. Believe me, I know what it is like to feel responsible for—for everything. I spent many years as a valet precisely to limit my obligations. But you cannot be in three places at once and do the work of three people, any more than I can.”

“There’s a difference between worrying over my father’s life and worrying over how neatly a
bed
is made,” the girl snapped.

Mrs. Khaleel made a warning murmur, and John sat back, startled. “I like things to be done properly, yes. A well-made bed is a satisfying object to look upon. But my real concern is that we give Mr. Summers satisfaction and all retain our positions.”

“Mr.
Summers
never complained about how I made his bed.”

No. John supposed he hadn’t.

“You believe I should worry less about you and the other servants, and do my own work. That I should leave you to make your own mistakes.”

“Yes!”

“If I go back to bed and permit you to continue to leave this house in the night, and you are caught and sacked, or catch your death from walking about at night in wet clothes, would you really hold me blameless?”

“
Yes
.”

“Then how can you be blamed if your father chooses not to eat?”

She glared at him, clearly feeling that he had somehow cheated.

“It is a hard lesson to learn, and I have not entirely learned it myself,” he said quietly, “but we cannot be everywhere at once.
But it will be left undone if I don’t do it,
I think, and it’s very difficult for me to accept the answer,
Then it won’t be done.
Sarah and your father—I hope and believe we can find ways to help them. But whether we do or not, you do not owe it to anyone to risk your livelihood or to go without sleep dunnamany nights in the week. You look tired. Aren’t you?”

She shut her eyes in defeat, then laid her head in her arms on the table. “So tired,” she confessed in a whisper.

“You are a good friend, a good daughter and a good servant,” he told her. “You will still be all of those things when you are sleeping and safe at home at night.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said glumly.

She reminded him terribly of himself. “Have you given any thought to where you wish to be in ten years?” he asked her. “Would you like to manage a household of your own one day?”

“You mean get married?” She half-laughed. “No one’s asked me yet.”

He dropped his eyes to his notebook, a little embarrassed at having misspoken. “No, as a matter of fact. I meant, would you like to be a housekeeper, or a cook like Mrs. Khaleel?”

He supposed that few people would consider the vicarage his household. He supposed it was
not
his household. But while Mr. Summers might be master, in his heart he felt, nevertheless, that the place really belonged to them. The servants.

She blinked. “Do you think I could?”

“Why not?”

“I can’t even read.”

“I think Mr. Summers could be prevailed upon to allow you to attend Sunday school.”

“R-really?” She sat up a little straighter—and dropped her head in her arms again. “He never would. The Quakers run the Sunday school, and Mr. Summers says Quakers are anarchists.”

“It might be a battle,” John allowed, “but I believe I could win it.”

She shook her head. “I’m too tired to think about this now. I can’t think about this.”

He nodded. “Of course. Get some rest. But think about it tomorrow. Think about yourself for a change.”

She looked uncertain.

“Would you like me to talk to your father about the workhouse? He loves you. When he understands how much he’s frightening you, perhaps he will feel differently.”

Molly hesitated, and gave a tiny nod. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“You are welcome. Would you like me to speak with Mr. Summers about Sarah, or would you rather do it yourself?”

“I’ll do it myself,” she said with a decided bravado that reminded him of Sukey. She stumbled a little with weariness as she stood up and made her way out of the room.

John remained at the table, jotting down a list of future tasks relating to Molly in his notebook.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Khaleel said.

He looked up in surprise, having forgotten she was there. “You’re welcome. Please, have some tea.”