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“I think that is an excellent idea.” She paused, gazing thoughtfully upon his face, the straight nose at the centre and high cheekbones, the depth of his eyes and rigidity of his strong jaw. She dropped her eyes when her heart started to flutter too fast. “Thank you, Matthew.”
He absorbed the gratitude without changing his expression. “The chicken pie... I liked it. I didn’t mean to belittle your efforts in making it. You can make it again.”
It was close to an apology, probably the best he could manage. Abruptly, his face creased into a more familiar expression: agitation. “Off with you, lass. Go make my supper.”
* * *
Maggie welcomed Dara and quickly identified the nature of Dara’s necessity.
“Don’t you fret, missy. We’ve plenty of napkins.”
Dara could barely hide her relief. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
“Matthew says you’re going to teach my girls to read.”
“I will try,” said Dara earnestly.
“We’ve no school for girls hereabouts. The Sunday school tries, but we’ve not time for any church schooling. You’ve brought a book?”
Dara fished out the book from the saddlebag. She gave Mary a wistful look as one of the daughters led her into a shed. “It’s just for a few days, Mary.” Having spent many days grazing, Mary was too fat. Matthew had insisted the horse be taken out every day and ridden, but still the old mare chewed too much hay for his liking.
The book Dara had chosen was Aesop’s fables. She had also brought another book for herself. At the bottom of the chest, among the volumes of poetry, she had found two selections of French poems. Her French had been neglected, and unless she worked hard, she would forget what little she knew already. Regardless of having to guess at the meaning of some words, she loved the lyrical sounds and just reading French aloud produced a glowing warmth in her bosom. If only Matthew had had one tenth of her education, he might enjoy it too.
Maggie was kind enough not to work Dara too hard. However, she was not permitted to lie on her mattress as she might at home on such days.
Maggie had her own opinions. “Being a woman is tougher than a man. You ‘ave to be all he expects and more, because he doesn’t know the ‘alf of it—what us womenfolk ‘ave to put up with. No excuse for being lazy, mind you. You put your back into scrubbing them clothes and I’ll bake us currant buns.”
Dara leaned over the copper pan and prodded the linen with a flat-sided washing bat. Steam rose up and she wiped her brow. She had no clue until she started to do the laundry what washing entailed. Her sympathy for the washerwoman at her parents’ house, stuck in the humid basement, had grown considerably, especially on a summer’s day.
If the days were hard work, the evenings were entertaining. She learnt about Maggie’s other neighbours, and although she had told Matthew she was not staying for the gossip, the truth was sh
e loved hearing their humorous tales. This wife caught in the haystack with that husband. The boy who had stolen eggs and ended up in the stocks in the centre of the market. The highwayman caught and hanged. The world beyond her limited viewpoint was exciting and dangerous. Dara had lived in a protective cocoon all of her life, only fed what information her father deemed appropriate; he read from the broadsheets every morning over breakfast. Listening to him drone on was very tedious.
After the chatter had run its course, Dara retired to her mattress and read a few poems by candlelight. She repeated each one until she had learnt a few lines by heart.
The pattern of the next day followed the first, until three days later, feeling suitably feminine and suffering no discomfort, she packed her bag, said a fond goodbye to Maggie and her daughters, and rode back to Matthew’s farm.
At a brisk canter, it was no more than twenty minutes’ journey on horseback, but it seemed much longer. She was excited to be returning. Had he missed her? She hoped he had yearned for her during her absence. She would know surely by his manner upon her arrival.
She released Mary into the field with Bert. The workhorse was friendly to Mary, allowing her to touch his nose before she ignored him and barrelled into a heap of fresh hay as if starved.
Dara swung her bag by her side and walked into the cottage.
“Hello? Master?” He was not home. “Oh, well.” He might be in the barn. She would go look for him.
She nearly reached the door when it sprang open. A somewhat breathless Matthew collided with her. He grabbed her arm before she fell backwards.
“Lem heard the horse neigh,” he said. He kicked the door shut with his heel.
The trembling in her legs was acute. “She’s in the field—”
“You’re in fine fettle?”
“Yes.” The fever in his eyes was devilish.
“Then let’s be having you.” He walked her backwards until she bumped into the table, spun her around and hooked her skirts over her head, all it seemed in one seamless, surprisingly graceful movement.
She was ready for him. How it was possible to be so in minutes remained a mystery. He plunged his cock straight in, grabbed a fair portion of her tender behind in both of his hands and thrust hard until she was fully occupied with her belly flat on the table and her hands scrambling to anchor themselves.
