put-together box. Big and sturdy, with an oak headboard carved into the shape of a dozing cat, and drapes on top. It could sleep four at a pinch.
A fire had been left burning in the hearth. The glow from it turned the room orange. Beth undressed and slipped into bed, relishing the soft kiss of the embroidered coverlet. The pillow was gentle on her head and she closed her eyes.
An hour later she was awake and sweating, her breathing laboured. The fire was a demon. She’d never been this hot, even in midsummer with her bedchamber windows sealed. She pushed the coverlet onto the floor and pulled off her shift. Lying naked on the mattress, Beth struggled to get comfortable. It was hopeless. Frustrated, she picked up the wash jug from the dresser, stumbled over to the grate and doused it in water. Orange embers hissed and turned grey. Smoke whirled up the chimney.
Retrieving the quilt, Bethany returned to bed. The room quickly cooled but she lay, wide-eyed in the dark, conscious of the high ceiling, the open space around the four-poster. Pulling the drapes only increased her isolation. In her cottage the walls were an arm’s reach away. Sometimes she’d soothe herself by running fingers over the plaster, tracing cracks or small imperfections, enjoying the comfort of their solidity.
Finally Beth got up and dragged everything closer to the bed. The washstand, the chair, the footstool. She tried to move the dresser but a corner caught on the rug and it wouldn’t budge. She built her own walls with whatever else she could find.
The estate, with its clumps of woodland and rolling lawns, was as quiet as the bottom of a well. Already she missed the sound of the wind stroking the tree outside her bedchamber. Mother twitching with dreams in the room below, her breath whispering in the dark. Father’s guttural snoring.
Drowned embers settled in the hearth. Her slipping-away thoughts didn’t linger on George Russell, or the things she believed she had read on his face. Instead she thought of the easygoing charm of Lord Russell, and those exceptional children. She knew even then she would love them.
Forever.
Morning. A maid stood laughing in the doorway. What was so funny? She gestured at the horseshoe of furniture gathered around the four-poster and said, ‘You’re supposed to sleep in here, not shove everything about. And look at that bed. Were you fighting with the coverlet?’
Short and pasty-faced, this servant bore an accent that put her nowhere within the county borders. But words weren’t needed. Every gesture was a sentence. Each step across the rug, hand on the bedclothes, cough or sniff said something. Who is this clod? Look at what she’s done. Wait ’til I tell everyone. The stuck-together mess of drowned ashes in the hearth didn’t improve her demeanour.
‘I was too hot,’ Beth explained, cheeks pink.
The maid cleaned out the fire and set a new one. ‘I shall not light it. You can do that yourself, or not at all.’ She lifted the water jug out of its basin and shook it. Empty. ‘I’ll bring you more, and a clean gown just as I’ve been told. But don’t think I’m going to run around after you if you make a sty of this room again.’
In the days that followed, Bethany learned the politics of her station. Servants took breakfast at six of the clock. Too high for the kitchen, too low for the dining room, Beth was an in-between person, not quite gentry or servant. Everyone seemed uncertain around her. Eventually she took her meals in her room.
What day was it? Tuesday or Wednesday? She’d lost count. Daffodils bordered the lawn and the air whispering through the crack of the open window carried the change of season. She paced the rugs, ate whatever she was given and stood in the corner when the maid grudgingly brought a fresh pot and changed the bed linen. Some nights sleep came easily, others were starved of it. Each morning Beth dressed herself in the clothes Lord Russell had ordered for her.
A fire had been left burning in the hearth. The glow from it turned the room orange. Beth undressed and slipped into bed, relishing the soft kiss of the embroidered coverlet. The pillow was gentle on her head and she closed her eyes.
An hour later she was awake and sweating, her breathing laboured. The fire was a demon. She’d never been this hot, even in midsummer with her bedchamber windows sealed. She pushed the coverlet onto the floor and pulled off her shift. Lying naked on the mattress, Beth struggled to get comfortable. It was hopeless. Frustrated, she picked up the wash jug from the dresser, stumbled over to the grate and doused it in water. Orange embers hissed and turned grey. Smoke whirled up the chimney.
Retrieving the quilt, Bethany returned to bed. The room quickly cooled but she lay, wide-eyed in the dark, conscious of the high ceiling, the open space around the four-poster. Pulling the drapes only increased her isolation. In her cottage the walls were an arm’s reach away. Sometimes she’d soothe herself by running fingers over the plaster, tracing cracks or small imperfections, enjoying the comfort of their solidity.
Finally Beth got up and dragged everything closer to the bed. The washstand, the chair, the footstool. She tried to move the dresser but a corner caught on the rug and it wouldn’t budge. She built her own walls with whatever else she could find.
The estate, with its clumps of woodland and rolling lawns, was as quiet as the bottom of a well. Already she missed the sound of the wind stroking the tree outside her bedchamber. Mother twitching with dreams in the room below, her breath whispering in the dark. Father’s guttural snoring.
Drowned embers settled in the hearth. Her slipping-away thoughts didn’t linger on George Russell, or the things she believed she had read on his face. Instead she thought of the easygoing charm of Lord Russell, and those exceptional children. She knew even then she would love them.
Forever.
Morning. A maid stood laughing in the doorway. What was so funny? She gestured at the horseshoe of furniture gathered around the four-poster and said, ‘You’re supposed to sleep in here, not shove everything about. And look at that bed. Were you fighting with the coverlet?’
Short and pasty-faced, this servant bore an accent that put her nowhere within the county borders. But words weren’t needed. Every gesture was a sentence. Each step across the rug, hand on the bedclothes, cough or sniff said something. Who is this clod? Look at what she’s done. Wait ’til I tell everyone. The stuck-together mess of drowned ashes in the hearth didn’t improve her demeanour.
‘I was too hot,’ Beth explained, cheeks pink.
The maid cleaned out the fire and set a new one. ‘I shall not light it. You can do that yourself, or not at all.’ She lifted the water jug out of its basin and shook it. Empty. ‘I’ll bring you more, and a clean gown just as I’ve been told. But don’t think I’m going to run around after you if you make a sty of this room again.’
In the days that followed, Bethany learned the politics of her station. Servants took breakfast at six of the clock. Too high for the kitchen, too low for the dining room, Beth was an in-between person, not quite gentry or servant. Everyone seemed uncertain around her. Eventually she took her meals in her room.
What day was it? Tuesday or Wednesday? She’d lost count. Daffodils bordered the lawn and the air whispering through the crack of the open window carried the change of season. She paced the rugs, ate whatever she was given and stood in the corner when the maid grudgingly brought a fresh pot and changed the bed linen. Some nights sleep came easily, others were starved of it. Each morning Beth dressed herself in the clothes Lord Russell had ordered for her.
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