Chapter 6: Settling in

When Esther woke, she felt George stirring against her.

“Your tea is here,” he said. “Wait until I am out of the room, if you please.” He got up, donned his dressing gown, and left by the door to his room. She put on her night rail, and called for Dorcas to come in. The tea was hot and sweet, and Dorcas seemed to be cheerful for so early in the morning. Dorcas dressed her in the traveling clothes, and she left the dressing room to see what the day would bring.

George was waiting to lead her down the stairs. They had a kiss before going down to eat. Breakfast was luxurious. The provisions for two looked like they could feed a regiment.

“Please ask Mr. Flint to attend us,” George said when she had drained her last cup of tea. “Flint, the countess needs to have a guided tour of the ground floor,” he said when that worthy had appeared.

So, the butler took her back to the entryway. Then he opened every door, told her the names of the rooms, and the occasions for which they might be used. The larger drawing room was twice the size of the one she had seen. Not only was there an office for the earl, there was one for the countess, too. “When milady might wish to deal with Cook or the gardener.” There was paper in the office and sand, but neither ink nor a quill.

The mention of a gardener brought to mind gardens, and she asked Flint to show them to her. There were both a flower garden and a vegetable garden. Both were rather dismal in this season. Despite her cloak, it soon grew chill, and they returned to the house. She asked about the warmest fire, and Flint had a footman pull a chair near the hearth in the library. He bowed to her as he took his leave. Warmed by the fire, she soon rose and investigated the shelves. The selection seemed to have been generous a generation or two before. Agricultural improvement seemed to have aroused somebody’s interest in the 1760s. There was a later pamphlet by Mr. Wesley, but it was about home remedies.

Luncheon was served in the breakfast room, but the food was brought to the table. Afterwards, they adjourned to the larger drawing room, and the staff were presented. Footmen bowed and said their names; maids curtsied and said theirs – first parlor maids, then chamber maids, then three very-young between maids. Then came the kitchen staff. Samuel, whom she had known for days, bowed and said his name last. Flint presented her with a written list, unfortunately without physical descriptions.

George asked her permission to have a small dinner the next night. “No one from afar, just the neighboring gentry and mother.”

“Are your fellow peers still in London?”

“The nearest titled man is a baronet beyond the next village. I had not intended to send invitations that far. I can write them, but they should come in your name. You are the hostess.”

“Husband,” she said, “when you first met me, I was writing invitations. It is not an arduous task.”

“And, as I remember, you have a lovely hand. Shall we go to my office?”

“We might as well. There is no ink in mine.”

“When you need to write in there, send for some,” George said. “Mother, clearly, has not used that room in years, and the ink would have dried had there been any left.” He led her to his office, which was wise considering how much there was to remember of the ground floor. After he’d closed the door, he took her in his arms and kissed her. “I do love you, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” The ‘darling’s which seemed spontaneous meant more to her than the ‘I love you’s which seemed dutiful. It had seemed outrageous that he had declared his love for her first to Father. Now, that seemed an endearing quirk.

They settled into a pattern, He dictated the form of the invitation first, and she wrote it down. Then he dictated the names, and she copied the form into the specific invitation. The last was to “Edwina, Dowager Countess Fenhurst.”

“Surely, you want something more personal to your mother,” she said.

“She has met you. That formal invitation is merely a notice of the dinner.”

She sanded the first three invitations, shook the sand back into the box, and passed them to him. As he addressed them, she sanded the last three.

He left her in order to hand the invitations to footmen for delivery. When he returned, she rose. He slipped into the chair and pulled her into his lap.

She was sitting partly with her back to him, and partly with her side. She was very conscious of his hardness against her hip. He rooted under her hair with his nose, and soon he was kissing behind her ear.

“The dinner tomorrow night is a formal affair,” he whispered. She nodded. “And thus, you should not wear your hair down. Tonight, on the other hand...”

“I shall still wear my hair upswept. I am learning to be a lady, your lady.”

“And I enjoyed seeing you so much that first time,” he said.

“What do you eat for breakfast?” she asked.

He told her.

“And never more?”

“Well, when I visit and there is no ham, I eat bacon, and on some mornings after a wet night, another piece of toast, often more tea.”

“Then why is there so much put out for the two of us?”

“It looks just like it looked when we were seven at home, and Lionel and I had massive appetites then.”

“I shall leave you. Give me a kiss goodbye,” she said.

“What have I done that you are leaving me?”

“You have put me in charge of a massive household, and you have mussed my hair. I must speak to Cook, and Dorcas must do my hair again so that it will be fit for dinner.” She rose, he rose after her, and he kissed her.

She sent a maid to tell Cook to meet her in her office. There, she described the breakfasts to be served when only she and Lord George were in residence. Then she went to her dressing room and rang for Dorcas. Dorcas practiced on her hair until they decided on an arrangement for the next night and for this one.

Dinner was the same charade as the previous night. Afterward, George joined her in the drawing room even more quickly. He pulled her into his arms.

“You should not jest about leaving me,” he said.

“I was not jesting. I merely meant leaving the office to perform my duties.”

“And shall your woman -- Dorcas? – braid your hair again this night?”

“Dorcas,” she said. “If I need remember your regiment of servants, you should remember my one. Hair this long needs to be braided before sleep. Else, it would tangle. The tangle by morning would be worse than the one you caused.”

“Then Dorcas will brush it this night, and there is no reason for my keeping my hands off it.” He stroked her hair.

“When Mother told me about the relations of husbands and wives, she did not mention such playing the barber.”

“I would not criticize your mother,” he said. This sounded suspiciously like indirect criticism. “Perhaps, though, she concentrated on what she considered the more central matters ... Do you play an instrument?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“You sing. If you played the harpsichord, I would buy you one, and you could entertain me with your singing and playing.”

“You have not asked me to sing since our wedding,” she said.

“I just thought of that. So much more is now licit.” As though prompted by that thought, he offered her his arm. They went up the stairs to her dressing room. Their kiss outside her door was as deep as ever.

She was not long in bed when he came in. Again, he came naked to bed. The kiss was delightful, even though he did not lie directly over her. He helped her take off the night gown, and when they next kissed, his hand stroked down her skin. Soon he cupped her most intimate parts.

While his tongue teased hers, his finger entered her and then returned to her most sensitive point. Esther knew that she should not resist her husband, and these sensations often resulted in pleasure. Still her body twisted to avoid them. She felt herself stiffen.

“Husband?” she said.

“It is all right, perfectly fine. I love you. Come for me.”

“Come where?” and then lighting struck. She arched, groaned, and then writhed. He moved his mouth from her breast, but not his hand from her center.

“There! That is coming. That is wonderful. You are so beautiful like that.”

She collapsed, totally spent, after what felt like days. It had been days of agony, but she felt wonderful. Had she breath to spare, she would have told him so.

He, who had not had the experience, was quite ready to speak. “Oh, my darling. Oh, Esther, you are so responsive. How I love you!”

Praise, even such effusive praise, did not compare to the pleasure she had just experienced, but it certainly added to it. Since she could remember, Esther had been under the authority of persons who believed that praise should be earned and doled out sparingly. Now, she had just been praised more than for the last year of singing and penmanship combined.

But his George’s finger was moving again. The heat, which had only partly dissipated, began to build again. George stopped speaking to lick her nipple. That tightened into a knot, and the heat built more rapidly. It seemed to her that this was the time when George got between her legs. She spread them, but her own sensations had most of her attention right then.

Esther woke that morning with a smile on her face and with her husband’s arms around her. He got out his daily “I love you,” before hurrying to his own room, but it sounded like he meant it.

This was the day of the first dinner she would host, and after breakfast she sent for Cook.

“Breakfast was very good,” she said. “Now, do you know that we are hosting a dinner tonight?”

Cook was nearly wroth that the young countess would question her arrangements at a time when it was too late to change them. She cooled when she learned that she merely had to report her menu, not alter it.

Esther was sensitive enough to guess the cause of Cook’s poorly-hidden hostility. When she sent for Mrs. MacTavish, she was more diplomatic in her question.

“According to your earlier advice,” she said, “I shall first learn the pattern of the house, and only then change it. Tell me what you are doing to prepare for this dinner, aside from what Cook does. It will be my first dinner as hostess, and I have not had that many as guest.”

She committed the plans to memory.

“She does not sound Scots,” Esther said to George later. He raised his eyebrows, which wrinkled his forehead. She was tempted to kiss those wrinkles, but they were in an open hallway. “Mrs. MacTavish does not have a Scots accent.”

“MacTavish does. I have not introduced you to the stable yet. Ian MacTavish is a groom.”

After luncheon, Dorcas recommended several hours of resting in her bed to be fresh for the dinner. Esther felt that her recent days had been nothing but rest, but she owed it to her husband to look fresh at the dinner.

At the dinner, she had the vicar on her left and the local solicitor on her right. Remembering that it was Saturday, she elicited the time of services and the location of the church. The vicar served the sacrament on the first Sunday of the month, “and on Easter, of course.” She felt that Sunday, as well, was ‘of course,’ but she did not say so.

Whether such direct, factual questions qualified as “drawing out” her dinner companions, she did not know. It led to an easier conversation than she had with the solicitor. “What does a solicitor do?” did not seem a polite question.

She, however, split her attention fairly evenly and turned her attention from one to the other in a fashion which seemed smooth to her. Of course, her companions expected the turns, and that helped.

She rose unprompted at the end of the meal, and led the gentlewomen into the smaller drawing room. Her mother in law led her slightly apart and patted the cushion beside her.

“Sit, Esther dear,” she said, “and take a deep breath. You did marvelously.”

“Tell me the exceptions after service tomorrow.”

“There are no exceptions, and those here would think one a London innovation. You know, dear, one of the tasks I retain is visiting some of the women of the parish who have illness or other distress in their households.”

“And I should replace you?” Esther asked.

“Ultimately, of course. If you wish, you might join me. I plan to go out, tomorrow after luncheon.”

“May Dorcas and I join you? I have been quite remiss in my doing of charity of late.”

“Dear, you are newly wed. One does not expect these things of a bride,” The Dowager Countess of Fenhurst had become quite fond of her son’s bride. She had known dozens of young women who would have come into the marriage trying to push her aside. She knew that the village, even the house servants, spoke of her as “the Countess” and Esther as “the Young Countess.” Any number of legitimate countesses would have resented that. Esther treated her respectfully, instead.

The gentlemen came in, and the company divided into three tables of whist. George asked young Gregory Martin, the son of the solicitor, to entertain Esther while the others played. Gregory’s gambling debts were already staggering, and no one would appreciate being his partner.

Gregory explained the game to Esther. After that, they had a problem finding any mutual interest. Finally, Esther gestured Gregory farther from the players.

“Mr. Robert Martin, who sat with me at dinner, is your father, is he not?” Gregory nodded. “What is it a solicitor does?”

“He sits in an office. He is the most boring man in the world.” After a long pause, “He draws up wills, leases, and other legal documents. If you have a case at law, he finds you a barrister. Those are the johnnies in wigs.”

Had Esther been asked to describe the activities of a cloth merchant, she could have given a five-minute description of what her father and his companies did. She finally asked Gregory about horses, and he was off. Most of what he told her presumed information she did no have, almost all of it presumed interest she did not have.

Even the longest evening draws to an end. The games broke up, the guests took their leave, and the parlor maids attacked the last room left. The hosts climbed the stairs arm-in-arm.

“Did it go well?” Esther asked.

“It went splendidly. You are a success. I am sorry about young Gregory. I though only about having him not play.”

“What does the young man do?”

“He is out of school,” George said. “His father hopes to send him to Oxford next year. He plays cards very badly and bets on horse races not much better.”

“Your mother is a countess and a widow. Yet she visits the sick. He is young and strong, and he merely plays, and loses. Charles Tarleton plays cards, but he – at least – wins at cards, or so I have heard.”

“Charles wins more than he loses. Charles is who Gregory pretends to be. He is Lord Charles, and he is acknowledged as the best whist player at White’s, and that may mean the best whist player in England. Charles is a second son. At least an heir, who sits around waiting for a man he loves to die, is fairly certain to inherit. Dorwich keeps his nursery busy, and Charles needs to survive a plague to inherit.”

“I pity Gregory,” Esther said. Whether for his uselessness or his misunderstanding of his place in the world, she could not tell.

“You pity him after that conversation, and I pity you. Are you well this evening?” It was a late night, and he was willing to let her sleep in peace.

“Perfectly well. Dorcas insisted that I rest in the afternoon.”

Esther warned Dorcas of her decision that they would attend services in the morning. When George came to her room, she did not see the need of warning him.

George, while not foxed, was feeling his wine. He was careful to arouse his wife rather than fall on her like a Roman on a Sabine woman. When both her nipples were hard and his stroking finger had plenty of moisture to spread, he moved over her body. He legs fell open in welcome. He placed himself in her warm entrance and thrust in. She wrapped her legs around his.

“Oh, George,” she said. He found that she soon joined his rhythm. She stiffened. Her feet dropped back to the feathers, and she shoved her mound up into his strokes.

When she clutched around him, he sped, but his response did not match hers.

She settled back. He could only drive in and out of her moist warmth. He could not stop, and he could not finish. Finally, she responded again. They strove together, pushing against each other, and then falling apart.

When she clutched him again, it brought him over. He poured into her, and then he collapsed over her.

When, in the middle of the night, he needed the chamber pot, he woke completely. He donned night shirt and dressing gown, tucked the covers over his wife, and returned to his own room. The sheets were chilly, and it was the first time he had used them since starting to London at the beginning of the Season.

Esther missed her husband when Dorcas woke her with the tea. They were both dressed for church when she went down for breakfast. After breakfast, she asked a footman for her cloak.

Flint brought it. “Milady needs a cloak?”

“Milady is going to services.”

“I shall summon the carriage. I have not warned the stable.”

He had not warned the stable because, as he was careful to not actually mention, she had not warned him. She had not warned him because she felt the church was within easy walking distance. When Nicholas drove up on a landau, (the curricle was, so far as she knew, still in London) she let him help her in. Dorcas entered, and sat facing her.

As soon as they drove out the gates of the grounds, she saw the church tower. As she had thought, it was in easy walking distance. Inside the church, she and Dorcas separated. She went to the front pew, and sat down. Somewhat later, the church bell rang, and afterwards the service began. The service felt slightly high-church to her, and the sermon did not seem to edify any of those attending. The size of the congregation seemed to her to be smaller than the assembly of the staff who had greeted her on her first day, and she saw no faces she recognized save the vicar, his wife, and – of course – Dorcas. At the end of service, everybody stood back for her to exit first. Dorcas, who had been in the back, met her there and walked out after her. She received bows and curtseys, but no conversation, until Nicholas drove the landau up and helped her enter.

“I recognized none of the staff, there. Did you?” she asked Dorcas.

“No, Milady. But there are many I do not know, as yet.”

“Well, we need to attend whenever they serve the sacrament. That is the first Sunday in the month and Easter. Aside from that, we must see if there is a Methodist meeting in the vicinity. Nicholas, can you hear me?” The last question was louder.”

“I can hear you very well, milady.”

“Do you know of any group around here that is called ‘Methodist’ or ‘Wesleyan’?”

“No, milady. There must be some nearer than London, but I do not know of any.”

“Well,” Esther said, “if you could inquire of the stable, I would be very grateful. Now, Dorcas, whether or not we are alone in the neighborhood, my family used to worship together of a night. The two of us could do so.”

“If milady does not mind a suggestion...”

“Of course. We are not mistress and maid. We are two Christians.”

“Well, milady, you got out of school of an evening, and your father came home from work,” Dorcas said. “That made the evening a time for worship. A countess has many calls on her evenings. If you recall last night. Would it be better to take another time? The gentry sleep later than you do. The hour after breakfast would face no interruptions.”