No Greater Pleasure by Megan Hart
“Don’t you tell me about your place. I know what your place is, and your bedamned purpose, too. And I’m telling you, he won’t need you anymore.”
Quilla didn’t move. Her gaze was steady in Saradin’s. “Then ’twill be my patron’s place to tell me so.”
Saradin sneered and yanked on Quilla’s hair hard enough to make tears of pain sting her eyes before she let go. “And he will, never fear that. I’ll see to it.”
“I regret you feel so threatened by my presence.” Quilla’s voice did not shake by benefit of years of training in controlling her emotions and not from any lack of them.
“You don’t threaten me!” Saradin didn’t seem to have such self-control, because her voice cracked and broke on the words. “How dare you suggest my lack of competence as wife is what drove my husband to acquire you! How dare you suggest he could find better pleasure in you than in me! How dare you come to my home and seek to supplant me, you gods-bedamned whore!”
Quilla said nothing.
Saradin narrowed her eyes. “I will put you from this house, you disease, you harpy! I will put you from this house!”
“And I will go if ’tis my patron’s will,” said Quilla. “Not yours.”
Saradin made a noise that in a dog would have been called a growl, and stepped back from Quilla. “He seems not to understand my subtle hints that your services are no longer required. He seems to think the snow precludes you from going, though I assure you, if we can arrange for the arrival of guests to our house, I can be certain to arrange for you to be sent away.”
“Of that I have no doubt.”
“’Tis my name he was moaning,” said Saradin at last, triumphant. “Not yours.”
Quilla did not want to dignify the madwoman’s unsubtle accusation with denial, but the words rose to her lips before she could stop them. “I have not shared his bed. If ’tis your worry that I have begun to steal his affections, you needn’t.”
Saradin’s eyes widened. “Dare you suggest such a thing is even possible?” Again, Quilla said nothing, for sometimes silence is the more powerful retort. Saradin’s mouth thinned, and she cast a contemptuous glance up and down Quilla’s body before settling on her face.
“You fat, stupid slag,” she said at last. “You ugly, cow-faced bint.”
Words were only that and could not hurt her.
Saradin glared. “I should slap that smile off your face right now.”
Quilla did not move. Saradin raised a hand, but with a glance toward the closed bedchamber door, did not hit. And that, Quilla realized was a more telling action than any of her words had been.
“I will make him put you out,” muttered Saradin. “I will make him!”
Quilla turned her back and picked up her scrub brush again. The next thing she heard was the sound of the door slamming. It took quite some time and many repetitions of the Five Principles for her to stop her hands from shaking, but by the time she’d finished removing the ink stain, they were still again.
They came in sleighs drawn by huge and bulky horses blowing steam from their nostrils like dragons breathing smoke. The snow had fallen fast and deep, making travel difficult, but apparently the invitation to a brannigan thrown by the Delessans was enough incentive to bring out even the least hardy of travelers.
From her window in the garret, Quilla watched them arrive. Sleigh upon sleigh, some filled with guests, others carrying baggage. She watched Bertram and Billy struggling to bring in the trunks and bags, while Gabriel and Saradin greeted the guests, the men dressed with as much care for color and fabric as the women. Gabriel alone stood out among the bright hues and patterns in his sober-cut black coat. Though he greeted the arriving guests with handshakes and kisses to the cheek, the tense set of his shoulders and the way he seemed to pace back and forth told Quilla he was wishing he was at work.
His obvious anxiety created her own, for she was unable to do anything about it. “Doesn’t the silly bint see he needs his work?” she murmured to the glass in front of her, which frosted obligingly at the touch of her breath.
Jericho was there, too, in a coat of royal blue that set off the brilliant gold of his hair. The pair of them, Saradin and Jericho, looked as though they belonged together, both blond and dressed in the height of fashion, both laughing and pink-cheeked in the winter sun.
Young Dane, who’d been allowed to greet the arrivals with his parents and uncle, ran back and forth in the snow like an overeager puppy. Next he’d be leaping into the piles of snow that had been shoveled away from the walks, she thought fondly, as the boy did just that. He disappeared up to his chin, and though she couldn’t hear the squawking, she could see the tantrum on his face.
Bertram and Billy pulled the boy out and dusted him off while Jericho threw back his head and laughed. Saradin seemed to be more interested in the cloak one of her lady friends was wearing. Gabriel bent low, seemingly to scold the lad, and Jericho broke in to pull the boy away. Quilla couldn’t see the look in Gabriel’s eyes, but she could imagine it all too well.
With a sharp, well-executed bow to the guest and his wife, Gabriel turned on his heel and disappeared inside the house. Without waiting another moment, Quilla left her room and went to his. He would need her.
The small sense of smug self-satisfaction disturbed her, and she pushed it aside with the preparation of tea. When he banged through the door a few moments later, she’d already set out the cup and saucer, but she’d added something else. A small glass filled with amber liquid.
He stopped when he saw her, and his eyes fell on the glass. He took it up, sniffed it, then tossed back the whiskey in one gulp and handed her the glass. “Another.”
She pulled the bottle out from behind her back, already uncapped, and filled his glass before returning it. She put the lid back on the bottle and set it back on the shelf next to the fireplace, just as the teakettle whistled.
“How do you know I won’t want more?” Gabriel drank the other shot and watched her pour the hot water into the teapot.
Quilla looked up at him. “Because you can’t work if you’re intoxicated. I know you wouldn’t risk ruining your work through haphazardness.”
He put the glass on the table and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not sure I like being so predictable.”
“You’re not predictable,” Quilla said, surprised but being honest. “It’s been quite difficult for me to learn you, and I still fear I will misjudge, every day.”
He raised a brow. “Really? You don’t appear to lack self-confidence.”
“And you appeared to be gleefully greeting your guests,” Quilla pointed out. “And yet I imagine the foremost thought in your mind was getting back to your experiments.”
“You were watching me?” He sounded amused.
She gave a small grin. “It’s my duty to be aware of you, my lord.”
Gabriel laughed, low and brief, but a laugh just the same. “And it was obvious, was it?”
“Not obvious, no. I daresay your lady wife was fooled. And the guests themselves. Your brother might not have been.”
Gabriel’s mouth turned down. “My brother revels in such pageantry as much as my lady wife does.”
“But how good of a husband you are to treat her to something she so dearly loves.”
He cocked his head to look at her. “’Twas you who broached the subject with me, as I recall.”
“But it was your lady wife who made you say yes.”
Gabriel’s intense gaze covered her, piercing her, his eyes locking with her own. “Is that what you think?”
“Am I wrong?”
He shook his head slowly, once, then again. “Tell me, Handmaiden, what do you see when you look at my lady wife and me?”
“It’s not my place to make judgments, my lord.” Quilla busied herself with pouring the tea and fixing it the way he liked it.
“It would please me to hear your opinion.”
“I have no opinion—”
“It would pl
Quilla sighed and looked up at him. “I see that you love her very much. Enough to put aside your work for her. To please her.”
He made a soft noise from deep in his throat. “My lady wife is a faithless, scheming madwoman who at the moment is experiencing a period of lucidity.”
The observation was true, but surprising for the fact it came from his mouth. “I see a sense of obligation there, as well. And perhaps . . . guilt.”
His gaze grew shadowed. “I gave her my name. It’s my duty not to abandon her.”
Quilla nodded, watching him. “My lord, you have behaved better toward her than many men would.”
He half turned, his hand on the back of his chair. “She’s like a sickness that will not go away. I know what she is, and yet when she is this way I can almost convince myself she’ll always be this way.”
Quilla came around and put her hand on his arm, gently pushing him to sit. “Nobody could fault you for her behavior.”
“I can fault myself.”
“We are often our own harshest critics.”
He took the cup of tea she offered, but did not drink it. He looked at her, more naked honesty in his gaze than she had ever seen from him.
“I do not regret sending for you, Handmaiden.”
She put her hand over his for one moment, squeezing his fingers briefly before drawing them away. “And nor do I regret being sent for.”
Then he finished his tea and got to work, and she assisted him in a silence that was as rich with meaning as a thousand words.
The arrival of the guests had sent the entire household into a state of uproar so riotous it was as though a magicreator had cast a spell over everyone.
The kitchen bustled and jumped with preparations. The unused rooms on the third floor teemed with activity that spilled over into the halls and down the stairs, into the library, the sitting rooms, the gallery, the conservatory, and the music room.
The maids giggled and twittered. Florentine muttered and cursed. Bertram and Billy fetched and carried.
And Quilla . . . Quilla Waited.
Gabriel still had work to do, but now he rose before the dawn to finish it by the midmorning chime, when the guests roused themselves from wine and cocao-sated sleep. Then he left the workroom and Quilla to become the sociable host Florentine had said he could be.
The games began in earnest after luncheon, always a fine spread laid out by Florentine in the main dining room, complete with the finest settings. Snap Me, Quoites, Charades, Piquet, and more. All lovely, genteel games played by men and women in lovely, fashionable clothes with lovely, fashionable faces. The afternoon saw flower arranging in the conservatory, or sleigh rides, or ice-skating on the pond. The gentlemen, led by Jericho, sometimes took themselves into the woods on horseback, ostensibly for hunting, but really, Quilla thought, for the excuse to drink away from the watchful eyes of their female companions.
Saradin had been careful with her guest list, inviting the neighbors in groups of even numbers, providing a companion for each guest. Winston and Carmelia Somerholde brought their son Boone and daughter Genevieve. Donnell and Arbutus Fiene brought daughters Lavender and Marzipan. Persis Adamantane was the single, eligible gentleman and the toast of the local society for his wit, charm, fortune, and lack of interested female relatives who might judge his choice of spouse. And of course, Jericho had been set up as escort for Genevieve or Marzipan, whoever Persis didn’t want.
“As though we’re responsible for the next generation,” Gabriel muttered one day, peering out his window at the group of young men and women gathered in the courtyard below. They were going skating on the pond, an activity he detested and refused to join.
Quilla was busy helping him tidy up the vials on his table. She glanced toward the window.
“Perhaps ’tis in our nature to make pairs.”
“It’s in my wife’s nature to meddle,” Gabriel replied. “What business is it of ours if Genevieve Somerholde ever gets married or not? That’s her father’s business, not mine. And yet I’m footing the bill for her courtship while she stares, moon-eyed, at Persis Adamantane and waits for him to fall madly, passionately in love with her.”
“Which is unlikely to happen,” Quilla murmured. “As it seems he is more infatuated with her brother.”
Gabriel gave her a sharp look. “And yet he may marry the girl anyway, since the brother he cannot have. How did you . . . should I even ask? Do you think somehow, it would please me to know?”
She laughed, putting away the last of the tools and straightening the pile of notes and his pen and ink. “No, my lord. It was simply something I observed. Your guests don’t notice me.”
“But you notice them.”
“They are difficult not to notice.”
She turned and caught sight of him looking at her with an expression she didn’t recognize. “My lord?”
“How do you occupy your time when you are not with me, Handmaiden?”
“I’ve been helping Florentine in the kitchen. She can use the extra pair of hands.”
At that, he reached out and lifted one of hers, rubbing his thumb over the back of it. “You shouldn’t be doing that. You’re not here to serve in my kitchen.”
“If it doesn’t please you—”
He pulled her a step closer, scrutinizing her hands, which were stained with ink from writing his notes. “These hands are not for work such as that.”
“My lord, when you don’t require me, and Florentine does, ’tis no hardship for me to help. I like the kitchen. It’s less . . . quiet.” Less lonely, she meant to say, but didn’t. “I find no purpose in sitting alone in my room.”
He nodded and let go of her hand, but examined her, up and down, until she felt self-conscious enough to pass her hands over the front of her dress. “Is something amiss?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I was callous not to think of inviting you to attend the activities.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “I am not a guest in your home.”
“Neither are you my servant.”
“I am something else, indeed,” Quilla said with a small smile. “Something in between.”
“And yet you could converse with as much grace and charm as any of the wind-headed ladies I have in my parlor.”
The compliment was pretty, but useless. “I am not here to impress anyone with my grace and charm, my lord.”
“No, but it would seem they are.” Gabriel took off his laboratory jacket and held it out to her to hang, which she did. “And yet I think I would rather speak with you on the philosophy of Sinder, or the history of Gahun, or any number of topics I am certain you would be able to discuss.”
She smiled. “You know you may speak with me about anything you wish, and I will do my best to please you with my response.”
“And study what you don’t know if I desire it, so that we may be able to pontificate.” He smiled at her, going to the washbasin she’d already filled and cleaning his hands, then holding them out to her for drying.
“If it pleases you, of course.”
“And if it pleased me for you to come and do the same sitting in my parlor rather than here, in my chambers?”
Quilla hesitated, patting the soft towel over his hands. “Of course I would do it, my lord, though I hope you would be . . . more considerate . . . than that.”
“Considerate? To whom?” Her answer didn’t seem to surprise him. Instead, it was almost as though he were testing her.
“To your lady wife, perhaps. There is no extra male for me to sit with. ’Twould throw off her arrangements.”
“Clever girl. Cheeky, but clever.” Gabriel was already holding out his arms for her to help him with the coat he’d wear downstairs. “You don’t wish to sup at my table? You prefer eating in the kitchen with an ill-tempered cook and vapid, giggling housemaids?”
“Does Allora sit at your table and attend your parties?”
She began buttoning h
“Allora Walles is not my concern.”
She looked up at him as she finished straightening his tie and smoothing his coat lapels.
“Allora Walles is my wife’s maid. She does not sup at our table, but she does, at times, attend our amusements.”
“To serve your lady wife,” Quilla pointed out. “Not to discuss politics or art.”
“Would it make you so uncomfortable to be included?” he asked, putting a hand over hers to still the motion of it.
She looked into his eyes. “My lord, yes. It would, indeed. I would be out of place in your social hall. I would have little in common with your guests, and my presence there would cause your lady wife consternation . . . which would not bring you solace.”
“And yet, if I asked you to come, telling you it pleased me, what would you do?”
She smiled. “You did ask, and I am telling you why you should not.”
His mouth curved upward. “And if I demanded?”
Quilla looked up at him and gave an exasperated sigh. “My lord, do you insist on constantly testing me?”
“Would you come if I demanded it?”
“You know I would.”
He nodded, his smile fading but the expression in his eyes unreadable. “I won’t demand it of you, Handmaiden.”
She nodded. “Thank you, my lord.”
Gabriel sighed. “Though it would be nice to have someone to talk to.”
This pleased her more than anything he’d ever said. “You may speak to me at any time about anything, my lord. You know that.”
His hand came up to push the heavy weight of her hair off her shoulders. “I know it.”
Then he left her, and she could not stop smiling.
Chapter 8
Another week passed in such a manner, with Quilla assisting Gabriel from morning until just after luncheon. She had the rest of her time free. She’d read all the books in the library, and in his. She’d baked enough simplebread to feed a small army. She’d helped with the dusting and the cleaning, but could not do much more of that because she got in the way of the maids.