Willing (11 page)

Constance swallowed, averting her eyes from Alisdair’s. “He’s not around this morning.”

“No?”

Constance shook her head. She was searching desperately for an answer. Could she stomach another night of the circle, knowing now what they were capable of? Could she stomach the audacity it would take to refuse a Lord in the clear throes of temper? It was one thing to refuse a driver, but it was something entirely different to say it to his Master’s face.

“I will chaperone you myself.”

She paused, searching his face, seeing the beseeching eyes despite his stern expression. “Alright, then. Yes.”

She battled with the word before she said it, but it came nonetheless. For a moment, she thought herself mad.

“Anyone seen Sally, then?”

Constance turned toward the door to find Hilda searching the faces upstairs. Alisdair offered his arm to her, but Constance watched as Hilda took the helm for the young girl hollered again. Constance frowned to this new young woman, and offered the same response all the other girls were giving from the stairs – No, no one had seen Sally.

Constance took Alisdair’s waiting arm and let him lead her out to the waiting carriage. Despite their agreement, the sight of it made her stomach clench.

Chapter Nine

Constance felt Alisdair’s presence like a feather caught in the light hairs of her arm. He sat across from her in the carriage as it rocked over the cobblestone streets toward the outskirts of London. She’d made this trip now several times, yet none of them felt so tense as this. Alisdair didn’t speak, but Constance could see him out of the corner of her eye, watching her intently. She wanted to fill the silence with witty banter or some flirty exchange – the very things that made her so good at her work – but there was no wit to the words she wanted to say to this man, a man she’d seen move things with a thought, slam a door from across the room with a flick of his wrist. How could he be capable of such things? And perhaps more importantly, how had her involvement been the key?

It was growing dark now, they would arrive at the estate with dusk. She wondered if she could stomach a meal in the conservatory again, waited on by maids and footmen, feasting on cheeses and wine and chocolate pastries. Her stomach was in knots, stealing glances at Alisdair’s folded hands, wondering what else they were capable of.

“Do you have any questions for me, Constance?”

She startled, turning to meet his dark eyes and coughed, clearing her throat.  “I think too many, if I’m being honest.”

He smiled. “I would prefer you be honest.”

There was a lull, Gregory bellowing something to the horses as they clomped over a bridge.

Finally, Constance shook her head. “It’s not important.”

Alisdair leaned across the carriage, touching her hand. “I’ve no secrets from you. If you have a question, I will happily answer it.”

She did have a question, but she felt almost embarrassed to ask it. He’d told her of the power he might attain, but not why the pursuit involved her naked and trembling at the hands of many men. She understood the power that could be shared in moments of passion, but how did that apply to this. Summoning some ancient being through moans and flitting tongues seemed rather – odd.

“I beg you, dove. What it on your mind?”

She crinkled her nose, her lip curling as though she smelled something strange.

“Why sex?”

Alisdair laughed, smiling at her from ear to ear. “It’s a worthy question. Would you believe because that’s what it says in the book?”

She set her brow. “You’re not serious.”

“I am. Rite is to be performed over a willing altar in the throes of ‘completion,’ if I quote correctly.”

“What sort of man wrote that load of rubbish?”

Alisdair smirked. “It was a woman, actually.”

Constance’s eyes went wide.

“It makes sense, if you consider it. We are at our most open when we are intimate with another. It is near impossible, I think, not to bare at least part of your soul when you lay with someone. The more willing and open you are, the easier for the Gods to come through.”

Constance thought of many other girls she’d known, so jaded and beaten down by their circumstances that they often admitted to shutting off when a man touched them – creatures near incapable of baring their souls. She’d been with many men over the years, most of which did very little for her in those intimate moments, but the ones that did have an impact – the ones that made her toes curl and her breath catch in her throat – they all had one thing in common; they were all rather fond of her. The more telling detail of these men, she thought, was that she was rather fond of them in return.

“Will you just do it over and over until it works?”

Alisdair shrugged just so. “I try different things each time. It’s been a different girl many times. Then I found you and saw that it was working, so I changed it to better serve you – better please you.”

“To better please me? Is that why you fed me first last time?”

“It is.” He smiled. “The better rested, the more comfortable you are, the more invested you are, the better your mood. The better your mood, hopefully, the more open you will be. It’s like a fire, you understand? The bigger the flames, the faster the egg will fry.”

She laughed. “So, I am the fire in this kitchen?”

He chuckled. “Oh, you most definitely are the fire, Constance. Now I’m just trying to decide the best kindling to make you burn.”

“Whoa!” The carriage driver called, and the horses bustled and shook against their tethers. The carriage pulled to a stop. Constance glanced out the window to find they’d arrived, the footman she knew as Thomas rushing up to the door outside.

“Welcome back, m’lady,” he said, bowing as he held his hand out to her. She stifled a laugh at being called m’lady. It was taking some getting used to.

“Thank you, Thomas.”

The footman’s eyebrows shot up. The footman quickly averted his eyes from Lord Alisdair as he climbed down from the carriage behind her. It was clear Thomas appreciated being remembered, but it also looked as though such a thing wasn’t common. Thomas turned to offer Constance his arm, but Alisdair patted him on the shoulder.

“I will escort her to supper myself. Thank you, Thomas.”

He bowed his head and hustled off toward the house. Alisdair offered his arm and led Constance not up the stairs to the door, but instead toward the gardens, leading her like some proper lady on an afternoon stroll with her betrothed.

“Tell me, Constance. What do you think of all of this?”

She furrowed her brow. “What does that matter?”

“It matters a great deal to me. And I am curious about your parentage.”

“What?”

“Your mother. Was she a mystic like yourself?”

Constance startled at this question so thoroughly that she almost shook him off. “Like me? You are mistaken, sir. I’m a Presbyterian.”

He chuckled. “Of course you are. That isn’t what I meant.”

“Well then, what do you mean?”

“One can be a Presbyterian and still have the mysticism. The Old Testament speaks of the wise women – witches of old that were revered by their communities for their healing abilities and their craft -”

“Well, I’m not one of them!”

“Perhaps you don’t know that you are.”

“Excuse me, but I think I would know if I were harboring some witchcraft in my -”

“Not necessarily. Many of your kind are simply born, rather than made. I myself was made, much like my father. I studied for the gifts and practices I possess. You, I speculate, were born this way.”

“Bollocks.” He stifled a laugh at this, but she continued. “I wonder how many other rich young men find themselves bored and searching libraries for magical rites to involve naked women in.”

“I wasn’t a rich young man, sadly.”

Constance stopped, turning to search his face. He looked the part of a true gentleman, every inch of him as proper as a knight.

He smiled, slowing his pace as they reached the back corner of the house. The walled gardens stretched out in every direction, rosebushes lining the stone walls, peppered with flowers of purple, white and pink. It was pristinely kept, and beautiful, buzzing softly with contented honey bees.

“Your mother; she wasn’t a bit -?”

“What?”

“Unique?”

Images of Beatrice Fernald flooded to her mind; of her curled onto her side in dingy bedlinens, sweating and coughing away until the sheets were stained with blood. This wasn’t the woman Alisdair asked after, but it was the memory of her mother that burned deepest in her mind. She pushed these thoughts away, searching further for the prim and proper lady she had once been, her house dress always buttoned up to her chin, even when home alone.

Constance shook her head. “She was a proper lady. Church goer. There was nothing mystical about my mother.”

“Your father, perhaps?”

She laughed. “My father was a clerk. A damn fine one, but he’d have had nothing to do with this chanting circle nonsense. God, he used to spit at the mention of the masons.”

Alisdair raised his eyebrows, appraisingly. “I see where you get your spirit. His mother then? What of her?”

Constance took a moment, searching for the stories his father told of his parents. Her father had fought his entire childhood to lose his accent, the accent of his parents. George Tully had assured his children and wife that it was far easier to get and hold a job in London if the city thought you belonged.

“His parents were Scottish. I know little more.”

Alisdair snapped his fingers. “There you have it. I’d wager she was a white woman, like you. There’s a mystic in every croft up in the Highlands. Must have the Viking blood in you.”

Constance couldn’t help but smile. “And you’re full of nonsense.”

“What better way to summon the Gods, that to descend from them?”

He smiled, leading her around the back of the house to the doors of the conservatory. He opened the door for her, standing aside to let her in. She took a moment, glancing out across the grounds to the expanse of green field beyond the garden. It was pristine, lined on both sides by conifer trees, planted decades ago with geometric intent. The field rolled off until it dipped down and disappeared, surrendering to a cloudy sky. All of this, she thought, Alisdair’s family made. He wasn’t born to this, he made it. She wondered how many other fortunes were built with naked ladies lying on tables.

She slipped inside, instantly greeted by the familiar faces of Thomas and the several maids from the previous evenings. Their expressions seemed to go gaunt when they saw the figure stepping in behind her. It was as though their efforts quadrupled, without so much as a movement.

“Will you be joining us this evening, M’Lord?”

Thomas bowed before them, waiting his answer.

“I will be, Thomas. If that does not inconvenience you.”

Thomas shook his head vehemently, clearly unable to engage in the joke. Alisdair just patted him on the arm.

“She knows, Thomas. You can end the pretense.”

Thomas glanced up to Constance, then Alisdair, then his shoulders slumped. “It’d be best if I keep it up. Wouldn’t want to let it slip at the wrong time, tonight.”

Constance shot Alisdair a confused look.

He just smiled. “Thomas and I were schoolmates when I was growing up. He works for me, but he’s by no means my servant. None of them are.”

Alisdair showed Constance to her seat, pulling out her chair so she could settle before the great spread, seemingly even more extravagant than before. The maids and footmen moved around them with the same professional urgency, but Constance watched them with new eyes. She wondered how they spoke to their ‘master’ when no one was around.

Alisdair took his leave after they finished their meal. He gave a curt nod to each of the staff, smiling with warmth, despite their seeming incapacity to return it. Once he was gone, the ladies rushed forward to collect Constance and take her for her bath. As before, she let the women undress her, bathe her, and rub her skin with salt and sugar scrubs, leaving her skin glowing and smelling of honey and lavender. Constance thought to ask after this strange concoction, imagining just how popular it would be with her other regulars.

“Will you allow us to braid your hair, m’lady?”

This was the tall red haired woman’s question, a girl named Heidi, as Constance discovered after much effort. The women behaved as though they were meant to be invisible, daring not to make eye contact or laugh when Constance joked with them. Instead they kept their heads down, training their eyes on Constance’s skin, hair, even her fingernails.

“Of course, do whatever you are meant to.”

They glanced at one another then, expressions betraying some strange sadness beneath their professional demeanor. Heidi began the work of unpinning Constance’s hair, taking it up in thick strands to weave it down her back in a loose, but perfect braid. Finally, the ladies wrapped her in a familiar robe and led her down the hall. Constance recognized the doors, a line of gold glowing at its edge, betraying the familiar scene within. Heidi knocked at the door three times, then the girls all skittered back down the hallway, leaving Constance to wait alone. The door opened a moment later.

“Constance, darling. I have a great favor to ask of you.”

Alisdair appeared in the hallway at her side, startling her so thoroughly that she almost shrieked.

“What is it?” She asked, with a hint of eagerness she hadn’t intended. His smile was bright beneath his mask.

“You may refuse. I would understand if you did -”

With that he pulled his hand from the folds of his robes, brandishing a familiar blade for her to inspect. “I am about to begin this rite, and once I do, I will use this to draw my own blood.”

“I know. I remember.”

He smirked. “Of course you do. Well, I was hoping to try for something more.”

“Yes.”

He took a deep breath. “Would you be willing to share your blood, as well?”

She stared at him, his dark eyes gentle even beneath the mask.

“You want to cut me?”

“No. No, I will let you do it yourself.”