The Wager

She pulled the green gown off her shoulders and dropped it to the floor at her feet. It lay in a crumpled heap, and automatically she picked it up and hung it in her closet, though she knew she could never bear to wear it again.

She removed her underthings, then poured some of the lukewarm water from her pitcher into the basin. She washed slowly, carefully, but not with any obsessive effort to cleanse herself. A tear rolled down her cheek as she told herself that was impossible now.

Her muscles were sore, owing to her struggle with the larger, stronger man. Her head ached and her breasts were tender. She did not feel a deeper, more intimate pain, but she was too distracted and too ignorant to wonder at that. Besides, more painful to her than any physical injury was her burning shame.

She pulled a long flannel nightgown from the drawer where Alice had put it earlier that afternoon. She slipped it over her head and then crawled between the sheets of her bed. She pulled the blankets up around her neck as if chilled by the cold of winter, though it was so far an unseasonably warm summer. The cold she felt was deeper and darker than any she had known before.

Marianne did not want to think about what had happened, but self-accusations swirled around in her head like feathers caught in a hurricane. What had she done to provoke such an assault? Nothing consciously or intentionally, that she could recall, but she had been so fascinated by him. She had been flattered by his attention, eager for his approval. Her admiring gaze had no doubt seemed provocative. She had probably leaned too far toward him as he spoke to her, or perhaps her eyes or the movement of her lips or hands could have been interpreted as an invitation.

She moaned softly and turned onto her side.

Her anguish was compounded because she was so lonely. There was no one here, no one in her life to whom she could turn for help and comfort. No one to advise her or give her any explanations. Marianne had to reach her own conclusions about everything, and she was a very young girl with a very limited field of reference.

All night long she tossed and turned, her brief snatches of sleep filled with dreams of strange longings, from which she awoke drenched in sweat and even further shamed.

But at long last the sun rose and began to climb higher in the sky. Wide-awake and uncomfortably warm, Marianne still lay abed, the blankets clutched to her chin.

When she had crawled into this bed last night, she had wished with all the strength of her being that she could die. But she had not died, and as she turned fretfully, restlessly, she realized she did not really want to spend the rest of her life in this bed.

True, when she rose she would have to leave this room again. She would have to walk down the stairs, speak to Alice and Mrs. River. He would be there.

The thought made her stomach churn, and she tried to imagine what she would say or do the next time she saw him.

She could not escape him, though, lying in this bed. If he was there, he was there. In fact, if he so desired, he could force open her door and drag her out, just as her uncle Horace had. She could do nothing to prevent that, as she had been unable to fight Desmond off last night. Somehow she would have to deal with the terrible uncertainties in her life and get on with it.

Her lips firmed as they had last night just before she left his room. She pushed the blankets back and swung her legs from the bed.

“Mrs. River!”

“Miss Trenton?”

They had surprised each other in the dining room. Marianne was relieved to find the room deserted when she arrived there and was doing her best not to alert anyone in the house as to her presence. She was gratified to find a few breakfast things still on the sideboard. The congealed eggs and cold oatmeal did not tempt her, but she found a few fresh strawberries and two muffins, which she was hungrily munching when Mrs. River entered the room through the kitchen door.

The housekeeper took a moment to collect herself. She was very confused by the situation here at Kingsbrook. She had known the young master and his family too long for her to be taken in by Mr. Desmond’s very thin story of bringing his “ward” to stay at Kingsbrook for a while. In the rooms directly adjacent to his own.

In fact, she had known Mr. Desmond since he was “Mister Peter” and came to visit his grandfather occasionally. He had been a pleasant enough child, but it was her understanding that he had acquired certain unfortunate habits while away at school. It was known in the servants’ quarters—and what was known in the servants’ quarters was invariably true, though no one could say precisely from whence the knowledge had come—that the boy was a great disappointment to his parents and had been virtually abandoned by them as a hopeless cause.

But Mrs. River knew her place, and Mr. Desmond was welcome to indulge himself and his base appetites without asking leave of his housekeeper or even hearing her opinion on the subject. Mrs. River firmly believed that she could distance herself enough from the gentleman’s private life that his crotchets need not come to her attention at all, as long as he kept such goings-on in London or across the Channel. But to bring a loose woman into this fine old house, to bed and board her behind these walls, deeply offended the Kingsbrook housekeeper.

Then Alice had reported this morning, in breathless undertones, that Mr. Desmond had slept alone in his bed, as had Miss Trenton in hers. Alice had added that Miss Trenton really did seem a perfect lady, whatever her profession might be, if Mrs. Rawlins and Tilly caught her meaning.

Mrs. River was disapproving of such tittle-tattle, naturally, and dismissed Alice’s opinion as the silly romanticism of a child. Now, though, as she stood facing the young woman in question, she could not help but admit that the adventuress of last night and this sweet young thing with crumbs on her fingers and a tiny smear of strawberry on her chin might not have been the same person.

This morning Miss Trenton was dressed in a light smock with a homey pinafore over it. Her hair was mussed and her eyes looked tired and red. Mrs. River felt her moral outrage being replaced by motherly compassion. Had she been wrong?

It was a new idea for Mrs. River.

She had been the unquestioned authority on every subject here in Kingsbrook for so long that she had almost forgotten the concept of “being wrong.”

“Excuse me. I found these things still out. I know it is terribly late and I certainly was not expecting breakfast, but I thought, since they were here…Oh, I—I hope they were not being reserved for someone!” Marianne stammered, as guiltily as if Mrs. River had surprised her stashing the house silverware in her undergarments.

“It is quite all right, Miss Trenton. You are welcome to anything on the sideboard, or Jenny will prepare something fresh for you if you would like.”

“Oh, no,” Marianne gasped, apparently appalled by the suggestion that something be prepared especially for her. “This is fine. The strawberries are very good, and if I can just take this second muffin up to my room, I will get out of your way.”

The girl fumbled with the muffin, attempting to wrap it in a napkin, reducing it to little more than a mass of crumbs.

“Here now,” Mrs. River said. Marianne looked up in astonishment, for the woman’s voice sounded kind and helpful.

Tears sprang to the girl’s eyes. She understood the housekeeper’s coolness of yesterday, knowing now the reason Mr. Desmond had brought her here. They all thought she was a tart. And perhaps she was, she thought miserably.

She had been unhappy staying with Uncle Horace, always lonely, sometimes even mistreated, but she had never been as frightened and confused as she was here now. Never since her mother’s death had she needed a comforting arm more.

“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. River cooed, the last barrier of disapproval melted by the tears in the girl’s eyes. The housekeeper stepped forward and put her arm around Marianne’s shoulders, and the young woman collapsed against her bosom.

Dismissing Marianne’s mature gown of last night, the impression she had given of flirting with Mr. Desmond, Mrs. River concluded she had made a deplorable mistake, that the young woman was here as the ward of her master, doubtless suffering from the recent loss of one or both of her parents. The tears were easily explained, and Mrs. River had only to gently pat the girl’s back as she wept. “Hush, now,” she said softly after several minutes.

Marianne, who had imagined her grief to be depthless, was surprised to find herself running out of tears. She sniffled, and Mrs. River withdrew her handkerchief from her waist and offered it to her. Like a dutiful child, Marianne blew into it heartily and felt herself even further recovered.

“Better?” Mrs. River asked.

Marianne nodded, hiccupping pitifully. “A little,” she said. “I am sorry….”

“Tut tut, child. I understand completely.”

Marianne looked into the woman’s face and was relieved to see she did not understand at all. Whatever trouble Mrs. River was imagining, it was not Marianne’s seduction and fall from innocence.

“Now you go on up to your room and wash your face and brush your hair. It is almost noon, and by the time you come down again Jenny will have a nice bowl of soup ready for you.”

The soup was delicious. Eaten in the privacy of a little nook in the kitchen, it was the most delicious meal Marianne could remember having in this place. Mrs. River was in and out of the kitchen several times, seeing to household affairs, entering again just in time to see Marianne mop up the last drop with her slice of bread.

“There now,” the housekeeper said, wiping her hands on her apron as if she had finished some taxing chore. “Mr. Desmond—”

Marianne jerked her head up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she looked around wildly. “Where? Where is Mr. Desmond?” she cried.

“Not here. Not here,” Mrs. River said soothingly. Goodness, the girl was as skittish as a thoroughbred colt. “I was only going to say Mr. Desmond left early this morning. He said he would be away for a few days and that you are to enjoy free access to the house and the park while he is away, so I merely wondered what you would like to do now?” The housekeeper smiled, and Marianne smiled back, though hers was a little weak and trembling.

“I do not know,” she said, genuinely at a loss.

“Well, you cannot stay tucked away in your room until the master returns,” Mrs. River chided.

But Mrs. River’s suggestion sounded very attractive to Marianne. She hurried back to her room and spent most of the day there, and the first half of the next. But by then she was growing bored and restless, indeed, and had quite caught up on her sleep.

“So you have come down at last?” Mrs. River said in greeting the next afternoon.

Marianne flushed slightly. “What are you going to do today, Mrs. River?” she inquired timidly.

“Why, I am going to shell peas for Mrs. Rawlins and set Alice to polishing the glassware,” the housekeeper replied.