“Please, God,” she whispered.
She didn’t know what else to ask for.Thy will be doneseemed to be the four most difficult words in any language. What did God choose, in this instance?Please, Godseemed as good a prayer as any.
Sometime in the last hour, Hester had regained her chair at the end of the bed. As Sarah rounded the bed, she placed her hand on the older woman’s shoulder.Would Hester understand that the gesture meant so very much, conveying words Sarah didn’t have the strength to say?
Please take care of her. Care for her as if she were your own beloved.All she could say as she left the room was a whispered, “Let me know if there’s a change, Hester.”
The older woman nodded.
Chapter 9
Sarah went first to her own bedchamber and gathered up those belongings she needed for the night. Then she walked down the hall to the Duke’s Suite, opened the door, and closed it behind her. Instead of going into the bedchamber, she walked into the bathing room.
Her grandfather had built this addition to Chavensworth. Long fascinated by all things medieval, her grandfather had raided a French castle, appropriating from it a bathtub that had been hewn from solid rock. He’d brought it back to Chavensworth and had it erected in this room, on a wide platform atop a series of steps.
She lit a few beeswax candles, brought three of them into the bathing chamber, and stood for a moment marveling at the faint, almost indiscernible scent. The flickering light from each candle, such a small yet perfect illumination, caused the stone to glow golden.
This small thing, lighting a few beeswax candles, reminded her that she did not often spare touches of luxury for herself.
The bathtub was massive, a rectangular shape heavily carved around the edges with a pattern that hadalways reminded her of a Grecian key. She turned the tap to allow cold water to pour into the tub. Her father’s house in London had hot-water taps, but here at Chavensworth there had never been enough money to install a boiler. When the tub was half-filled, she left the chamber, glancing at the clock on the mantel as she walked to the door. Just as she had ordered, two footmen stood there, each bearing a hot water urn in each hand.
“Good evening, Lady Sarah,” the taller one said.
“Very punctual, Jamison.”
He smiled, which wasn’t an approved response, but she didn’t chastise him for it. Instead, she stood by the door as the two young men deposited the urns in the bathing chamber and returned. She closed the door after them and returned to the side of the bath, where she emptied three of the urns into the tub. Only then did she undress, taking care to place her clothes in a tidy little pile on the pediment beside the steps.
Naked, she mounted the steps and put first one foot into the tub, then the other, sinking down into the warm water, wishing she had some scented bath salts. Another touch of luxury, but one she could not afford. She laid her head back against the hard stone, wondering as she did each time she bathed in this room about the inhabitants of that faraway French castle. Who had they been? Who had used the stone tub before? Had they only taken pleasure in a luxury of being clean? Or had they mulled over their lives as she was doing right now?
She sat up and bathed her face, reaching for the dish of soap. After soaping her feet and ankles, she made her way up her body with diligence and precision. Habits were a reassurance.
She wrapped her arms around herself and bent forward and laid her cheek against the top of her knees. When she wept, when she allowed herself to do so, it was often here, where no one could see her tears or hear the sound of her sobs. No maids would interrupt her solitude. No servants would think to enter the Duke’s Suite without express permission.
Tears, however, would not come tonight. They were pushed aside by annoyance and perhaps just a tiny bit of curiosity.
She had not wished for a husband. What did she care that he’d abandoned her so quickly? Perhaps he was not returning after all. Perhaps he had gone straight back to London, to tell her father that the bargain was not well-done. He did not want to spend the rest of his life with someone like her.
Where was her husband? And just how long was she not to worry?
She lathered her hands and began to wash her shoulders. Her right hand slid down her left arm to her wrist, then back up again. Her muscles hurt from lifting the heavy feather beds, but the work was healing. She didn’t have time to think or to worry during the day. Only at night, when her activities ceased, did the thoughts cascade into her mind.
Her left hand soaped her right arm. After lathering her hands again, she began cleaning her breasts. He wanted to see her bare breasts, did he? Was that why he’d left her? Because she’d not played the harlot?
They were quite nice-looking breasts, if she had to judge. A little on the large side, perhaps, but they didn’t droop. The nipples were pink more than coral, and tended to point upward, like now. She brushed soapon one experimentally, then smoothed it over the crest of her breast.
Was she supposed to feel wicked?
Her chest was simply part of her, like her nose or her ears. She didn’t feel anything unusual when she placed her finger on the tip of her nose. Was she supposed to feel something different when touching her chest? Well, she didn’t.
Would she feel something different ifhetouched her? As if she would let him. Good heavens, did he want to suckle her? What on earth would she do if he did? Why on earth was her heart racing?
She stared at the far wall. Perhaps it was a good thing her husband had left. Better he abandon her than she abandon her good sense.
Sarah hadn’t had time to visit with the carpenter today, so when she finished her bath and returned to the bedchamber, she looked at the cot in resignation.
Her husband was not here. For that matter, she had no idea if he was going to return. Why should she sleep on that uncomfortable cot? Why should she even sleep in the Duke’s Suite at all? She could be just as happy in her own chamber.
She told herself that, but her feet did not make the journey to the door. She’d learned early in her childhood not to disobey. Still, who was Douglas Eston to order her about? The answer came swiftly enough: her husband, legally acquired, if not morally so.
