No Greater Pleasure

  Although it was not the first time she’d spent much of her day secluded from anyone but her patron, that was the way some households worked, and she accepted that. Here, now, for some reason, it bothered her more than it had before.

  She needed no long periods of meditation to figure out why. She enjoyed her time with Gabriel, and did not enjoy as much the time away from him. She liked to watch him work, to see him solve a puzzle and complete a task. She liked to earn a smile from him, or a word of praise.

  He would never be a man who charmed with laughter. Not like Jericho, who flitted from female to female and left a path of adoration and sighs behind him. Oh, the ladies fawned over Gabriel, too, at least as much as etiquette allowed since he was wed. But not in the way they did for Jericho, who was almost shameless in his flirtation.

  Quilla saw all of this from her hidden places. She might not participate in the games or the jaunts, but that didn’t mean she didn’t see what went on. How Genevieve’s cheeks pinked when she looked at Persis, or how his eyes wandered to her brother’s more often. How Lavender and Marzipan mocked their mother behind her back, because she insisted upon wearing flannels against the cold. How Donnell Fiene picked his nose when nobody seemed to be watching.

  No, she was not part of the brannigan, but she could not help but become involved with it. It affected her patron, and therefore it affected her. He spoke not of his increasing ennui with the party and his desire to return to work.

  He was trying, she realized, to be more like his brother. Like cramming an overlarge foot into a too small shoe. Gabriel was attempting frivolity.

  And it was making him miserable.

  She’d never been in a situation quite like this one, where a patron insisted on putting himself into situations he despised, over and over. No matter what she did to soothe him during the day, no matter how hard she worked to make the small amount of time he spent working as free of stress as she could, the evening invariably came and with it, his forced participation in the activities.

  Worse, each day Saradin begged more from him. Attendance at breakfast. His presence at luncheon. She wooed and charmed him with pretty words and smiles, with coos of encouragement and anything else she could manage to get him away from his workshop . . . and therefore, away from Quilla.

  Whatever else Saradin Delessan might be, she was not stupid. She might play at it as part of her madness or perhaps to make herself appear more appealing to those for whom an intelligent woman posed a threat. But she was not stupid.

  Quilla knew this, had seen it in the woman’s eyes during each confrontation. She knew Saradin was smart and spiteful. She suspected she was cruel. She had not expected her to be vicious.

  The evening had fallen, and the conservatory shone with lamp-light. Pools of it shone through the heavy glass walls to form golden puddles on the drifts of snow outside. The plants inside, the riot of green growing vines and flowers forced to artificial bloom, looked even more beautiful cast in golden light than they did beneath the winter sun.

  Saradin had planned for dinner in the conservatory, an idea greeted with cheers and applause from her guests and muttered cursing from the staff.

  “Don’t she know how much work ’tis for us to drag all that food there and back again? Not to mention the linen and flatware and china . . .” Florentine grumbled and groused, but was in her element planning the elegant affair. There was to be roast swan, intact, stuffed with an entire duck, and a capon inside of that. A bounty of side dishes would accompany it, using the best the household could offer.

  “She’s got us stripping the cellar bare for this, she does!”

  “Florentine,” Quilla chided. “You adore this, and you know it.”

  The cook grinned. “I do. I do indeed.”

  But though she did, indeed, adore the preparations, the location had proven to be something of a logistical problem.

  The kitchen was located in the far back of the house, down a flight of stairs and dug half into the ground to help combat the ever-present heat from the fireplace. The dining room and ball-room were directly above it, both accessible by the cupboard lift.

  The conservatory, on the other hand, was on the house’s far side, past the foyer and the sitting room and parlor. It had been added on after the house’s initial construction, and its access was therefore gained through a short, elegantly appointed but narrow and curving hallway opening off a little-used morning parlor.

  It made bringing dinner there quite difficult. But not impossible, and quite impressive, in the end. Quilla, driven to distraction by Florentine’s ceaseless complaints, had offered to help with the transport, as the cook had admitted she didn’t quite trust the maids or the houseboys with the more fragile glasses.

  So Quilla, though she did not have to, helped load a cart with steaming dishes and pushed it to the conservatory, where the sound of laughter reached her before the scent of flowers and perfume.

  Lolly and Rossi had already gone in to serve the wine. Vernon the butler held the door for Quilla to push the cart through, then took over.

  “I’ll take it from here, mistress,” he said. “And thank you kindly for the help.”

  “ ’Tis my pleasure, Vernon.” Quilla smiled at the older gentleman. “Are you certain you don’t need my help?”

  He shook his head. “No, mistress. The footmen will help me.”

  Quilla smiled at the thought of Bertram and Billy playing footmen. “Perhaps our lord Delessan needs to hire more staff.”

  Vernon chuckled. “Aye, and you know he won’t do that, even if he could at the moment. Not when he’s got us to provide for him.”

  Quilla nodded. “I know it. But it does make it harder on you.”

  Vernon leaned closer to say in a low voice, “And you of all people should understand, mistress, that ’tis our purpose and we enjoy it.”

  “This I do know,” she said with a smile. “I’ll be in the kitchen with Florentine, should you need something run out.”

  “I’ll ring for you if I do.”

  She nodded and watched him push the cart into the main area where the table had been set up. She heard the oohs and ahs of the guests as he revealed Florentine’s masterpiece. And then, foolishly, she thought to take a peek at it herself, because she knew Florentine would want a firsthand account of how the guests had reacted to her creation.

  Tall potted trees shielded the conservatory door from the hall entrance, and Quilla moved behind them. Through the break in the leaves she glimpsed the table, glowing with its display of crystal and silver.

  The guests were as decorative as the table, glittering with fine fabrics and jewelry, their smiles shining with white teeth, faces gleaming with bright eyes. They all looked with impressed joy at the center of the table where the swan, gloriously browned and smelling delicious, had been revealed.

  Florentine will be so pleased.

  All of them, except for Mistress Saradin, whose voice suddenly rang out with false good humor: “And what lovely bird is this that lurks within the branches of yonder tree?”

  All eyes turned at once to Quilla, who felt the weight of each individual gaze, but none heavier than Gabriel’s.

  “Come out of there, my dear girl.” Saradin’s tone was unctuous, and she gave a light trill of laughter to cover it up. “Look, everyone, ’tis my husband’s chambermaid.”

  “Handmaiden,” corrected Jericho without making it seem as though he were correcting her—but firmly enough that his words couldn’t be ignored.

  Jericho had done it, but not Gabriel. Quilla lifted her chin a bit and glided on silent feet from her place behind the tree. She gave a slight curtsy, aware her dress was not of appropriate design or quality and had been smudged with flour, but also aware that a woman’s demeanor will always make up for her lack of dress.

  “Handmaiden?” This made one of the Fiene daughters, Lavender or Marzipan, Quilla couldn’t tell the difference, giggle. “Oh, my lord Delessan, how . . . how . . .”

  ?
??How interesting,” put in Persis Adamantane, whose eyes gleamed with approval. He turned to Gabriel. “My good man, you didn’t tell us you had a Handmaiden.”

  “I did not think it of import.” Gabriel’s gaze held Quilla’s for the span of a heartbeat. He did not look pleased to see her.

  “She has been helping my lord husband in his work,” put in Saradin almost too quickly. She nodded and smiled at the other ladies at the table. “With his records.”

  Madame Somerholde smiled and nodded, looking at Quilla with a smirk. “Ah, yes, my dear Saradin. I see that by the ink stains on her fingers.”

  Saradin laughed prettily, perhaps encouraged by the snipe of her friend. “Come closer, dear Tranquilla. Let us take a look at you.”

  “She’s not a display,” Jericho told Saradin.

  And again, it wasn’t Gabriel who had come to her defense. Quilla looked at her patron, whose face was implacable and bore no expression she could discern beyond ennui.

  “Oh, Jericho.” Another pretty trill burbled from Saradin’s throat. She tossed her head to make the feathers in her hair dance. “You’re such a treat.”

  “Yes, Handmaiden,” Gabriel said at last. “Do come closer. Let us have a look at you.”

  Quilla looked at him but answered in the way she knew he was expecting. “If it pleases you.”

  She heard the titters and murmurs as she walked toward the table, but she kept her gaze on her patron’s until she reached the end of the table.

  “I thought Handmaidens were . . . more . . . exotic,” she heard Genevieve Somerholde whisper to her brother.

  “I certainly thought they were better dressed,” spoke up Madame Somerholde to Saradin. “Sara, dear, you should tell Gabriel to give the poor girl a decent gown.”

  “She has been working in the kitchen, I believe.” Gabriel’s gaze did not waver.

  “The kitchen?” Madame Fiene’s giggle was echoed by her two indistinguishable daughters. “Oh, my.”

  Quilla would have placed any amount of wager that Madame Fiene had never set foot in a kitchen, much less worked in one. “Indeed, my lord Delessan, I was.”

  Saradin’s laughter was as glittery as the crystal glassware, and as brittle. “Imagine that.”

  Gabriel cut his eyes to his wife for one moment before looking back at Quilla. “I daresay nobody at this table has ever seen a Handmaiden before.”

  “I know I have not,” said the elder Somerholde through his bush of a mustache. He stared at Quilla with unequivocal delight. “I daresay I also thought them to be more exotic.”

  Quilla caught sight of Jericho’s expression, which could have been carved from stone. Again, she noted how much the brothers looked alike, though one fair and one dark. Jericho looked angry at the treatment of her. Gabriel, however, only looked . . . intrigued.

  “She will be whatever I wish her to be,” said Gabriel calmly.

  Saradin’s pretty face went dark before she lightened it with a practiced smile. The ladies at the table exchanged glances, putting gloved hands to rouged mouths, affecting surprise. The gentlemen’s eyes all brightened at his words.

  “Anything, my good man?” This from Persis, who sat up straighter in his chair.

  “Anything it pleases me for her to do.”

  Quilla had not spoken, had allowed them to talk around her as though she did not exist as anything more than a garden statue to be gawked at and commented upon. She wore her dignity like a cloak, better dressed in it than any of the more fashionably attired ladies seated in front of her. She watched Gabriel watch her, but could not judge his intent. Once again, he had gone dark to her.

  “Turn around, Handmaiden. Let them take a look at you.”

  Quilla did, one slow rotation, returning to her spot to see every pair of eyes riveted upon her. No greater pleasure, she repeated in her mind. Serene. Calm. Whatever he was about, it was nothing she had not been through before.

  Some people would not be satisfied until they saw the extent to which she would go.

  “And you say she helps you with your records?” asked Boone Somerholde suddenly. “Can’t you just get an assistant?”

  Gabriel stood, his gaze locked on Quilla’s. “I could, young master Somerholde, and I’ve had them. Chambermaids as well, to clean up after me. Secretaries to keep my records and make my correspondences. But you see,” he said, walking around the end of the table and coming close enough to reach out and touch her, if he wanted, “a Handmaiden is so much more than that.”

  “Really?” Master Fiene sounded doubtful and gleeful at the same time. “How so, old man?”

  “I think we’ve—” began Saradin, as though at last realizing that in her attempt to shame Quilla for her own gain she’d begun to bite her own tail.

  “Yes.” Gabriel’s answer cut off his wife as though he’d put a hand over her mouth. “Much more.”

  Gabriel looked at his guests, all of whom were staring, eyes wide. Jericho alone refused to look. His gaze was narrowed and stormy, and kept fixed on the table in front of him. Small spots of color had risen on his cheeks. He clutched his napkin in front of him.

  “Tell me, Handmaiden, what is it you do for me?”

  “I am your solace and your comfort,” she replied easily. “I am what you need before you know you need it. I am your Handmaiden.”

  “And if I tell you to write a letter for me?”

  “If it pleases you for me to write it, I shall do so, my lord.”

  A murmur went around the table.

  “And if I tell you serve me something to drink?”

  “’Tis unlikely you’d need to tell me of your thirst before I’d guess, but I would serve you.”

  Her answer made the ladies at the table frown. The gentlemen, on the other hand, looked envious. Saradin’s face had gone pale but for twin spots of color high on her cheeks.

  Quilla looked down the table at the staring faces, then back into Gabriel’s eyes, which had remained implacable, though a smirk teased the edges of his mouth.

  “What else does she do?”

  Quilla thought the voice belonged to Boone Somerholde, but she didn’t take her gaze away from Gabriel’s long enough to notice.

  “Should I tell her to sing, she would do it for my pleasure. Or dance. Should I tell her to read to me, or recite poetry, or paint a portrait, she would do it.” He paused, his smile creeping a bit further into his eyes. “Though there is no guarantee that it would look like me.”

  “She will do anything you tell her?” She was fair certain it was Persis who’d asked that question.

  “Anything I tell her,” said Gabriel softly. “And much I don’t.”

  A stunned silence seemed to have pervaded the table, unbroken even by snide whispers. Gabriel seemed amused, but Quilla had learned one thing, at least, about her patron. It was most often when he seemed amused that he was ready to become angry.

  “It would please me to have you attend me at dinner, Handmaiden.”

  She nodded, though the acquiescence was unnecessary. She followed him as he turned on his heel and went back to his seat.

  “So, Somerholde,” Gabriel said as though the entire event had not happened, “you were telling us about the expansion you’re planning to your estate.”

  “Well, my good man . . .” Somerholde launched into a long-winded description of his plans.

  Quilla took the flagon of wine from its place on the table and filled Gabriel’s glass. From her place at the other end of the long table, Saradin lifted hers and beckoned. Quilla took a step toward her, but without breaking the conversation with Somerholde, without saying a word, Gabriel put a hand on her sleeve to stop her. Quilla understood at once. She was not to serve the mistress, and it was to be quite obvious her place was not as serving maid.

  But as Handmaiden.

  After a moment, in which Saradin’s face grew dark and darker, pale eyes becoming the color of an angry sea, Kirie stepped up to take the flagon from Quilla’s hand and hurried down to fill Sara
din’s glass.

  Gabriel kept his attention on Somerholde’s blustering and his hand on Quilla’s sleeve for a moment more before letting go.

  He was making a point, but what it was, Quilla had yet to determine. He was angry. And he was punishing someone for it . . . but was it her? Or was it his lady wife?

  “It sounds lovely,” broke in Saradin, waving the maid away with an impatient hand. “Madame Somerholde, you will have the delight of furnishing your new rooms, will you not?”

  Madame Somerholde stuttered an answer, her eyes going back and forth between Saradin and Gabriel, whose expression had become charming and pleasant, his attention on his guests and not on Quilla at all.

  “Yes, I have already planned a buying trip,” continued Madame Somerholde uneasily, pinned as she was between two such fierce gazes.

  Gabriel flicked his eyes toward the platter of swan, which had now been cut into steaming, savory slices glistening with gravy. Quilla took his plate and filled it for him, then set it in front of him again.

  “Saradin would love for me to take her on such a trip, I am certain,” said Gabriel. He made no move to slice the meat in front of him, and though it was not an act he’d expected or allowed before, Quilla took up his knife and fork and began to cut it for him. “But, alas, my work prevents me from being the conciliatory husband she would like.”

  Saradin’s eyes had fixed on the motion of Quilla’s hands cutting the fowl, drawn the way a hound will eye an unattended plate. “Don’t be silly, Gabriel. You are . . .” She hesitated briefly, barely, as Quilla finished with Gabriel’s plate and again stepped back to his shoulder. “You are the most gracious and considerate of husbands.”

  “Mama said she’s going to take me this time,” Genevieve spoke up, apparently immune to the tension circulating the table at the silent battle between husband and wife. “She said she’s going to pick out some furniture for my dowry.”

  The word made all the girls giggle. Saradin’s lips thinned in an attempt at a smile.

  “What a fortunate girl you are, to have such a mother.”