“Lucie, sir.”
“Lucie,” he exclaims. “A light, in this most black of nights! Oh, I have great need of your light tonight, little candle.” Up close, I see the state of his clothes, his collar carelessly open, doublet mishooked, the hem of his shirt hanging out in back like a forgotten tail. His hair is unbound, swinging free about his shoulders. He sways a little toward me again, but he’s sure enough on his feet to keep himself in balance.
“Light me upstairs, girl. I’ve had a beastly night, and there’s no point in rousing the others at such an hour.”
“I cannot, sir.” How do I dare refuse him anything? But I must not be caught flaunting the rules of his household, if I wish to keep my position. “I’m not allowed upstairs,” I manage to explain.
“Not allowed?” He reels up to his full height, his expression as dark as the thunderous clouds outside. “Who is master here?” he barks.
I cower before him, alarmed by this outburst. But his anger clears in an instant, and he composes his features. Perhaps he was only testing me. Perhaps my virtuous character has pleased him.
“Come along, Lucie.” His voice has softened as he nods toward my candle in its dish. “I shan’t breathe a word to a soul, I promise you,” he whispers confidingly.
What can I do? I’m not allowed to disobey him. He gestures out the door to the entry hall and the grand central staircase so long forbidden me. All is swathed in shadows, but I can light his way in the darkness. Praying that Madame Montant will not waken and catch me, I take up the candle, and with Master at my heels, I cross to the stairs and ascend.
The dark rectangles of paintings on the staircase walls flicker in and out of the light, portraits of Beaumont ancestors following me with their disapproving eyes. But the master has given me an order, and I must obey.
Past the first bend in the stairway, we climb to the second-floor landing. He directs me through a grand passage to the tall, handsome doors of what must be his private apartments. My hand trembles on the ivory handle, but he is beside me, nodding me on, so I take heart, plunge the handle down, and enter.
He takes the lead now, with me scurrying alongside to light his way. We pass through a long, formal salon; in the moving light, I half glimpse the dark shapes of chaises and bedsteads where his household gentlemen must sleep, but none of them are about. We proceed into a more comfortable sitting room, where he signals me to stop. In the shadows, I see an enormous white marble fireplace. The head of a god protrudes from the mantelpiece, and leaping stags are carved over the looking glass above. Opposite is a tall wardrobe, its panels of inlaid wood glistening in the candlelight. Master’s hunting boots are tossed aside at the foot of the wardrobe, one propped upright against the cabinet, the other slumped across the carpet; there is something so intimate about their wanton disarray. But he has gone to a corner occupied by a stuffed velvet chair and footstool. He grasps a heavy glass decanter off the end table but, finding it empty, sends it clattering back to its tray with an oath. He strides to another pair of doors and throws them open into the dark.
“Come along now, Little Candle,” he commands me, and I bring the light. But I pull up short when I see an ebony bedpost curving out of an alcove in the shadows. Surely, he cannot expect me to enter his private bedchamber?
“Ahh!” he cries. From where I stand in the doorway, my candle illuminates a hunting wineskin on a strap over the bedpost, and he races to it. He pulls out the cork with his teeth and spits it out. He tips the skin up to his lips and smiles, even as he savors its contents. I stand there, watching him in the light, his head tilted back, eyes half-closed in rapture, his mouth working industriously. It embarrasses me to witness such a private moment, and my gaze skitters aside, in search of somewhere else to land.
When he notices me again, he nods toward another marble fireplace that overlooks the foot of the bed. Fat beeswax candles in iron holders stand on either end of the mantelpiece, and I am directed to light them. But I dare step only one bare foot across the threshold, when I think how gladly Madame Montant would turn me out if she ever found out I was even upstairs, let alone here in this room. But Master could dismiss me tonight, this minute, as late and dark and cold as it is, if I were to balk at his command.
“Don’t dawdle there, girl!” Master barks, sounding so much like Madame Montant that I am startled into obedience. I am a servant, I remind myself, invisible. A candle to light his way. My only duty is to be silent and obedient, to light his rooms and take myself off, not to annoy him with foolishness.
So I enter the room and light the candles. I glance furtively into the glass above the mantelpiece, half dreading, yet almost hoping to see the lady in the rocking chair again, to feel less alone in this awkward moment. But I see only a dim reflection of the far corner of the room, the indistinct shape of a dressing table in the shadows, and the folds of a heavy curtain drawn across a window, perhaps, or another alcove. I feel a servant’s anxiety that the hearth is cold below me, and Master’s next words speak to my thoughts.
“Gave my men leave to see to their own affairs,” he grumbles. “Never thought I’d need ’em again tonight. Never thought to be sent packing. Damned impudent bitch.”
I turn back in some alarm, only to find him sprawled in a stuffed chair just outside the wide, deep alcove where his bed is enthroned, grinning up at me. His angry words must have been meant for someone else.
“You see the state I’m in on my own. Helpless as a babe. You’ll have to do my boots for me.” He cocks his head like a quizzical bird, and his grin broadens. “If I may presume.”
“Of course, sir.” My hand shakes at the impropriety of this moment, even as I blow out my candle and set its dish on the mantelpiece. How many household rules have I already broken tonight? I can only pray that no gossiping servant caught sight of me on the forbidden stairway and that I can leave just as invisibly.
I go to his chair and kneel before him, and he stretches out one long leg. I hope he can’t feel how my hands tremble as I brace his square boot heel on my knee and wrestle down the deep cuff of fawn-colored leather. I tug at the heel, but my grip shakes so, I lose my purchase. As I grope in too much haste, I jam a finger into one of the razor points on his gilded spur. The prick startles me, and I pull my hand away, but I do not drop his foot. For an instant, we are both transfixed by a tiny bead of red blood on my white fingertip.
Then his eyes narrow. “Be more careful, girl.”
I am too much of a goose to respond with anything more than a nod of apology as I bend again to my task. The boot’s muddy sole stains my chemise, but I finally get the thing off. He lowers his stockinged foot, and I seize the other raised boot and prop it in my lap, handling the spur with better care. This second boot comes off without incident, and there is a moment when I cradle Master’s muscled calf and elegant heel in my hands. He reclines in his chair, watching me. But he does not pull his foot away, and I dare not insult him by dropping it to the floor.
“You’d never turn a fellow out of your bed, would you, Little Candle?”
What a thing to ask! My heart races. My eyes drop. What answer can I give that will not make me seem wanton or ignorant?
When he speaks again, his voice has ripened. “Never had the opportunity, is that it?”
“N-no, sir.”
“A creature of virtue — what a rarity!”
I can’t tell if he is mocking me, but my cheeks flame, and he laughs, a cold, mirthless sound. I wish I were far away from here.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I mumble. Servants are accustomed to apologize, even when we have done no wrong.