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“Books.” He lay down his pipe and sprang to his feet. “You shall have books.” He left through the smaller
back door. Behind the cottage were the outhouses, a small granary and dry storeroom, which had been built on a plinth to keep the vermin out.
He returned a few minutes later with a small wooden chest. He blew off the cobwebs and dusted it down with his sleeve. “Here, take a look.”
She raised the lift cautiously. Inside were several tomes, mostly small books, a few that would fit in her palm. She browsed the titles. They were the kind of books read by women. Books about nature. Travel diaries of ladies. A bible. Several collections of poems, including Shakespeare’s sonnets, which she’d read under Miss Bramhall’s tutelage, and a copy of Gulliver’s Travels.
“I’ve never read this.” She opened the pages and the thin leaves felt like tissue paper. The books were old.
“Read it.”
“Thank you.” She placed it on the table. Who did they belong to? Not him, for sure, but they were kept in a strongbox and obviously of value, so why hadn’t he sold them? She opened her mouth to ask, then noticed he was not looking at her. He was far away and lost in thought. The book came with memories. She opened the front of the book. There was a bookplate bearing a name; however, most of it was obliterated by a stain. All she made out was ‘Barraclough.’ It was a familiar kind of name, but she could not place why she knew it.
She snapped the cover shut. He took the chest and left it against a wall, covering it with a loose piece of sacking.
While the chicken cooked, she read. By the time the skin was crisp and brown, she had devoured the first few chapters. Matthew had cooked the potatoes and turnips, leaving her be. She was grateful for the interlude in her duties. They dined at the table. She complimented him on the roast. He raised his tankard and swallowed the contents in one go, acknowledging her gratitude with nothing more than a smile.
Tomorrow was Sunday. The day of rest and for her, the promise of more carnal lessons.
* * *
The morning was no different to any other. Chores were done, the floor swept, the rugs shaken out. She admired the poppies in the fields and the birdsong from the quartet of thrushes on the roof. There was no mention of church. He was either godless or he had no time to walk to the parish church, wherever it was. By midday she assumed he was not in the mood to tarry with her. From out of the barn, across the sun-baked yard, he walked straight to the trough of clean water—the one they used—and stuck his head in the cold water.
“Brr,” he said upon rising up. He shook out his hair, spraying her with water. She giggled.
“You’ve made your shirt wet,” she said.
He was only wearing his loose shirt, the one she had managed to sew the buttons back onto. She followed him into the house and poured him a brew from the pitcher of ale. He sat on the rocker and knocked the ashes out of his pipe. While she wiped the crumbs off the kitchen table, he watched her, his eyes hooded, his expression unfathomable.
“There’s bread,” she reminded him.
He shook his head and pointed to the spot between his knees. “Put a cushion here.”
“By your feet?”
“Aye. Between my feet.” He settled back into his seat and poked the bowl of his pipe, pushing the tobacco down with his fingertip. “And take them clothes off too. Did you think I’d forgotten the day?”
She was mindful that haste on her part would be unladylike and give too many insights into her mind. Instead of rushing to undress, she made a fine show of peeling off her layers, rolling down her woollen stockings—they’d appeared as if by magic one morning on the end of the bed—and unlaced her bodice. She shimmied out of the repaired chemise while swaying her nubile hips from side to side. Matthew merely puffed on his pipe, as if unimpressed.
With her clothes somewhat scattered, she chose a plump cushion and dropped it between his feet.
“Now kneel,” he said quietly. “No fussing.”
The calm expectation that he would be obeyed caused her knees to bend without thinking. There was ample space between his thighs for her, but all the same, she felt trapped.
“Undo the buttons.” He sucked on his pipe and blew out a smoke ring.
Her fingers were trembling badly. She knew he referred to his breeches. His shirt was already partially open and revealing the fine ribbing of his stomach and the mantel of his chest. Dear God, she thought, such musculature belonged on a Herculean statue in her father’s grand vestibule.
He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and raised his eyebrows at her delay. She fumbled with the buttons of his trouser flap; she had to feel her way round the obelisk hidden beneath. The sight of it, so close to her face, was both startling and evocative.
“Go on, touch it. Ring that dainty hand of yours around it.”
She hesitated. He took her wrist and delivered her hand to the shaft. “There,” he said. “It’s not going to bite.” He laughed jovially. There was a joke there that she was missing.
There was a weight to it. She curled her fingers around it, feeling it stiffen at the merest touch, and the stupendous heat it emitted. She was perplexed. What seemed so hard was soft and velvety on the outside, and the skin moved with her hand while the rod trapped within was unyielding and hard as a rock.
“Aye,” he said, as if to acknowledge her unspoken observations. “Squeeze it.”
