Her Grand Illusion: Chapter One

Her Grand Illusion:
Chapter One

Cheddar Wells, Somerset, England
Late Spring, 1774

Dawn blushed above the verdant buttress of the Mendip Hills as a rooster's hoarse and insistent cry sliced directly into Lucy Tompsett's dream world.

Like a thing long-cocooned, she slowly and woodenly came awake, knowing with dreaded certainty what the new day would hold for her. For whatever mundane drudgery she'd had to endure the previous day, would most surely be her lot on this day.

Yawning, she stretched and flexed her strong and slender limbs beneath the heavy coverlet. Even though it was late spring, the air outside was still chilled in the mornings--worse yet at dawn. As she stretched again, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to imagine herself in a different reality: a country manor house with servants to do her every bidding, no matter how trivial.

But now that she was fully awake, Lucy became aware of the noisy gurgling sounds beside her in the bed. For mingled with the rooster's persistent crowing was the unsettling sound of her husband's snoring, which reminded her of moist gravel shaken in a hollowed gourd.

Without turning her head to get a look, her ears told her what she'd likely see: Morris Tompsett flat on his back with arms splayed at his sides as if in supplication to some unseen deity, the quilt unable to completely cover the considerable girth underneath. Lucy pressed the knuckles of both hands to her mouth to suppress an errant giggle as she thought of this.

How many times had her corpulent husband emphasized a point by butting his belly against an opponent's lesser girth? A belly which seemed to expand further with each breath exhaled; a belly which concealed his belt like bread risen over the lip of a pan. One had to marvel, however, at the ease with which Morris Tompsett neatly cleaved his paunch through crowds at the spring and summer fairs.

Well, it was fortunate that at least something about him made her laugh; though she was careful not do so in his presence. Everything else about him made her morbidly depressed about her life. And his age! She hadn't the slightest idea of his exact age, only that he was nearly two score and ten. Why, he had children older than she was--even grandchildren to set upon his knee.

Lucy sighed softly and twisted herself deeper under the coverlet, now nearly at the edge of the bed. She hated her parents for giving her away to an old dairy farmer more than twice her age. But at nineteen, and with no immediate prospects for marriage, her parents had decided to take matters into their own hands. They had successfully married off three of their five daughters, mostly to other farmers, and didn't want to support an old maid while in their old age.

Morris Tompsett, recently widowed at the time, merely wanted a strong and sturdy body to help him work the dairy farm he managed. But what he'd wanted most was a supple and warm body to lie beside him each night. Lucy would never forget the look of open desire on his pocked, coarse face when he'd glimpsed her for the first time. Surely she was not the disappointment he was, with her thick red hair, large moss colored eyes and skin as smooth as freshly churned butter.

How could a whole year have passed? Lucy asked herself woefully. And how many more must I endure?

Suddenly, she felt a heavy, beefy hand clasp her shoulder and shake her roughly. Hot, fetid breath blasted her ear along with Morris's bristly command. "Get up, girl," he growled. "It's time to milk the cows and feed the chickens and pigs. I'm meetin' with His Lordship, Mr. Kenward and his son today, so I'll not have time to do me own chores."

Lucy rose from the mold her body had made in the bedding, silently and without reply. She knew all too well that to utter even a word of compliance invited malice from her unctuous husband. Morris Tompsett always listened with great care for the opportunity of giving her a sound verbal thrashing.

She was, however, quite relieved to be spared the most unpleasant of her wifely duties this morning. Perhaps I should give thanks to the Earl of Wheate for his abrupt visit today, Lucy thought to herself wryly. Surely sex would be the last thing on her husband's mind, for business with the brusque earl must always come before a warm and soft body beneath him.

"Go on and get up now," Morris said, prodding her between the shoulder blades with four stubby fingers. "Are ye gonna sit at the side of the bed all morning? Are ye forgettin' me breakfast as well? I can't meet with the earl on an empty stomach. Now git!"

Lucy sucked in her full lower lip and nodded sullenly. Oh, how she'd love to give him the tart answer he deserved! She had once--only once, and never since, because all it took to silence her then was the swing of a heavy, callused palm against her cheek. She would always feel that sharp heat across her cheek whenever she even thought to retort.

And so her tongue remained still within her mouth and she rose from the bed to attend to a very brief toilet. With slightly trembling hands she splashed water from a chipped bowl upon her face, then patted herself dry with a ragged towel. She drew a plain and unpatterned muslin dress from the scuffed wardrobe and pulled it on, tugging the loose bodice into place. Morris made her wear his dead wife's clothes, for he would buy her nothing new.

For a moment, Lucy slipped into a favorite daydream, the one she called her "grand illusion," When she looked about the room, she did not see chipped crockery and scuffed, worn furniture, but the finest china, Chippendale and Hepplewhite. On her chiffonier she would have all the amenities well bred gentle-ladies were accustomed to: sweet-smelling toilet waters fragrant with the scent of orange flowers and bergamot; cosmetics to dress the lips and cheeks--

"Damn it, Lucy-girl," Morris roared. "Yer takin' too bloody long to get ready. You can dally all ye want, but the cows, chickens and pigs'll still be awaitin' ye. Now get yer arse out the door and to the barn. If the cows could milk themselves, I'd send ye on yer way, I would."

And would you sleep with the cows too? Lucy thought to herself, suppressing a smile. Or maybe the pigs would be more to your liking. Now she hastened past her fat, bow-legged husband, catching in her nostrils his sour smell; oh how she longed for the scent of good Castille soap. She would hurry to the kitchen to fix a quick breakfast of porridge, then hurry to the barn to milk the cows. Once seated upon her stool, pulling at the animal's teats, she would be free to dream uninterrupted.

###

Lucy sat upon the milking stool with forlorn resignation, a hennaed curl tumbling over her forehead and covering her left eye as she bent to grab a heifer's teat. Annoyed, she grabbed the errant lock and tucked it back into place. I might as well cut the whole lot of it off, she thought angrily to herself. What use has thick hair for a farmer's wife anyway?

The barn, even in the dead of winter, was hot and humid, but now that summer was riding fast behind spring, it had become more oppressive. The heat mixed with the stench of bovine offal and mildewed hay, clogging her nostrils and making it nearly impossible to smell anything afterward. Oh, and afterward! Next she'd be feeding the chickens, their hard little beaks pecking at her ankles as she scattered grain round the coop. She also had vats of cheese, cream and butter to see to later in the day before finishing the housework and preparing their next meal.

Her thoughts were briefly interrupted by the creak and scrape of the barn door as it opened, throwing a fuzzy cone of sunlight into the darkened barn. The crunch of heavy footsteps followed the sudden thrust of light and she heard the sound of throaty, buoyant laughter as it echoed round her. From where she sat, Lucy could not see over the stall unless she stood on tip-toe, but resisted doing so for she knew the voices must belong to Morris's visitors.

She heard drifts of conversation as it flowed unevenly, their sources seemingly bodiless: she knew the coarse, brusque voice belonged to her husband, but the other two sounded clipped and refined. She recognized the Earl of Wheate's thick and imperious timbre, but the other?

Lucy shook her head in miserable surrender as she decided against drawing attention to herself, for she knew that Morris preferred to keep her isolated from any contact outside the farm. Her husband was not a man devoted to niceties and the earl, though she'd never met him formally, would no doubt be uninterested in exchanging pleasantries with the spouse of one of his employees. In fact, on his last visit to the farm she'd served the earl brandy, but he'd taken no more notice of her than he would have a servant.

And so Lucy leaned a sweat-dampened cheek against the smooth, firm flank of the cow before her, hands still squeezing the sausage-like teats. She tried to concentrate on listening to the fragments of conversation as it flowed through the dense air, punctuated with the quick, hard sputter of milk as it hit the pail.

Gradually, the voices grew louder and more distinct, and Lucy knew they were getting closer to her stall. She felt her heart push against her breast with a tingling rush, and her hands became suddenly still. The Earl of Wheate must have demanded to see a demonstration of cow-milking, perhaps to be certain that the milk was being extracted with the proper degree of cleanliness. It can't possibly be that the earl wishes to meet me! she thought frantically.

When at last Lucy dared to look up, her eyes found three faces looking down upon her from over the edge of the stall. First there was Morris Tompsett's angry countenance peering down at her, grey bristly brows drawn together in a single line. Obviously annoyed that his employers had insisted on finally being formally introduced to his young wife.

Lucy recognized the older of the other two men as the Earl of Wheate himself, his powdered bag wig sitting atop his head like a fat white dove while his thick chin quivered in exaggerated amusement as if cow-milking were quite a novelty. The other man was much younger and did not wear a wig, instead his dark hair was combed back and tied at the nape with a solitaire. Unlike the earl, the young man's expression seemed to be one of idle regard, as if he were on an obligatory tour and felt behooved to take interest in this particular mundane display.

And here she sat, the typical milkmaid bent over her task with dumb determination. Why, she must look quite a fright to these fine London gentlemen, used as they were to the exotically painted and perfumed ladies of the ton. She managed a wan smile as she felt the thin wet tendrils of hair pressed flatly across her cheeks, jaw and forehead in ambitious carmine vines. Dark smudges of fatigue cradled her large-lidded green eyes and tiny beads of perspiration bubbled upon her face and neck, steadily joining in a single runnel and soaking thoroughly the top of her bodice.

"Yer lordships, this be my wife, Lucy," Morris muttered simply, his tone hasty and sour.

"So," the Earl of Wheate spoke, his gaze traveling the length of what he could see of Lucy, "this is indeed the Missus Tompsett--why, I'd thought on my last visit she was some poor stray you'd taken in. Were you actually married to her then, man?"

Morris cleared his throat in quick rough bursts. "Yes, yer lordship, I was."

"And you didn't think to introduce the charming girl to me?"

"I didn't expect you'd have been interested, sir." Morris's swollen, ruddy face began to blotch red with embarrassment and pique; it was apparent that he longed to change the course of the conversation.

But the earl was clearly amused by this rustic tableau and made no attempt to move on. Instead, he favored Lucy with a show of his teeth as he grinned leeringly at her. "Well, then," he addressed her, "you know who I am, do you not?" Then he loosed a phlegmy laugh and said, "But of course you know who I am; nevertheless, I am Simon Kenward, Earl of Wheate. And this," he tilted his raised fingers toward the younger man, "is my... bastard... son Gareth, Viscount of Davenwood." Then the earl threw back his be-wigged head and laughed even louder.

Lucy looked at both the earl and the viscount, her jaw dropping slightly at the aghast of the of the older man's statement.

The young viscount's face showed no sign of indignation; rather, he looked amused, as if his father's insensitive declaration were a common occurrence. "Now Father, I'm sure that Mrs Tompsett has no interest in my illegitimate status." Then, leaning over the top of the stall, his voice conspiratorial, "You see, madam, my father is quite proud of his wayward habits. I am, therefore, the proud product of one such...liaison; and he takes every opportunity to admit this fact, thus proving his virility."

Lucy looked down at her clasped hands and smiled despite herself. She felt the viscount's stare as it rested warmly upon her. He was nothing like any of the young men who helped out on the farm or any that she passed in town, not with his smooth, unscarred face and carefully coifed hair. When she'd managed to glimpse him furtively, she noticed the fine cut of his ice-blue velvet coat and the darker blue silk waistcoat beneath. His jabot, afroth with lace, arced from his neck like a cluster of ivory butterflies.

When she looked up again, she was startled to see that her husband and the earl had left, but the viscount remained. Gareth Kenward seemed almost unnaturally absorbed in her, as if it were of some great importance that he record in his memory every detail of her. And now he must have noticed how her cheeks were glowing pinkly with abashment.

Quickly, she turned her attention back to her chore, trying to pretend that he wasn't there. Taking hold of the heifer's teat once more, she began to squeeze, the milk drumming into the pail furiously. Try as she might to ignore it, Lucy still sensed the viscount's presence above her, though she dared not let her eyes confirm this. As she continued to compress the teats, she wondered if he might be imagining something else between her fingers, and that was why he'd stayed to watch her. "I suppose," she said, still refusing to look up at the viscount, "that you've never seen a milkmaid at her work before." God help her--she couldn't resist; lucky for her that Morris hadn't heard her speak. He could only focus on one conversation, after all.

"You're quite wrong, madam," Gareth Kenward replied, delight in his voice that she at last chose to speak directly to him. "I have witnessed milking before, although this time I've decided to pay attention to the milkmaid herself. Your loveliness has distracted me, I must say. I've found that most farmers' wives have sturdiness as their only quality, sadly."

Shaking her head with incredulity at the viscount's impossibly naïve comment, Lucy released a tired sigh before leveling a steely gaze at the pleasantly smiling young man. "Well, I am sturdy, sir--and quite glad of it, for I'd not be able to complete all the tasks expected of me if I weren't. Look round, your lordship," small reddened hands swept the surroundings, "do you see many admirers of my 'beauty'? My husband wouldn't care if I had not a tooth in my mouth, so long as I could sit and milk cows half the day and haul the milk pails hither and thither. Nay, better that I lose my looks soon, else I might uselessly wish for better."

Gareth Kenward gripped the edge of the stall for support as he leaned closer, the look on his face a mixture of bemused concern. "I'm afraid you've bested me madam, for I stand quite corrected. I meant to compliment you only--nothing else was implied."

"You mean," Lucy laughed cynically, "that you dole such flattery sparingly and that it is meant only to brighten the day of random drabs like me? Is it that you pity me and my miserable lot? That I'd be so grateful for your 'ardent' notice that I'd agree to give you a tumble before you head back to the bright drawing rooms of London? Oh what a delightful story that'd make: a tryst in a barn!" She couldn't stem the flow of angst spewing from her lips; but she wouldn't apologize for what she'd said, for it was the truth--and she wouldn't, couldn't, recant truth.

Lucy watched as a trace of contempt began to settle upon the viscount's face. "Perhaps you have more experience in such matters than I. But know this: I sincerely meant to compliment you, nothing more." Then, with a perfunctory nod, he turned to leave. He'd walked a few paces before turning back to her and adding, a slight note of compassion threaded within his voice, "With your spirit, I find it hard to believe you've resigned yourself to spend the remainder of your days slogging through muck, married to such an oaf."

"And how would I achieve such a lofty goal?" Lucy asked, her voice both hopeful and sarcastic. "It's not as if I could simply leave this place. I've no money of my own, for one thing; another's that I've no one to help me in London. And what would I do anyway? Clean the townhouses of the wealthy or," she paused, eyeing him warily, "I suppose I could become someone's mistress."

"I could help you with the former," Gareth replied, a muscle moving in his cheek as if something were trying to poke through. "As for the latter option, that would be your choice."

Lucy clearly saw that she'd thumbed a raw nerve within him. Oddly, she felt a kind of perverse satisfaction as she watched him struggle to keep from completely losing his temper. Don't feel guilty, she reminded herself. He's the one with the easy and comfortable life, his only decisions each day being which frock-coat to wear and what coffee house to visit. "Thank you for your concern," she answered icily. "I would love to plan my escape, but right now I've got to finish the milking the cows. I've already fallen behind--so, if you'll excuse me." She turned her face away so that he wouldn't see the tears now filming her eyes.

"You can't say that I haven't displayed sympathy for your plight," the viscount said, his voice now gentler, "even though you are loathe to accept it, it is proffered nevertheless."

Lucy stood up to see him forlornly back up a few steps, hesitate, then turn quickly on his heel and saunter out of the barn without another word. An overwhelming feeling of wrenching anxiety soaked through her as she watched the viscount disappear from her sight. Her thoughts daggered into her as she wondered if he truly had been sincere about helping her. Bah! she thought with derision. Don't weep over him; he's like all the others of his kind. He has no intention of rescuing me from this drudgery, for his 'sympathy' is simply another tactic to persuade a dreary farmer's wife into bed.

Lucy turned resignedly back to her milking. She began to feel a slow, simmering rage grow within her then burst through her fingers, causing her to grasp the cow's teats too firmly. Old Sally loosed a deep moan and the beast shuffled her hooves indignantly. "Sorry old girl," Lucy said, breathing slowly to calm herself. "I suppose I'll move on to another cow and leave you to your rest." She stroked the thick hide of the animal's flank, driving away the dark flies that had alighted upon the cow.

Lucy felt the warm tears spill from her eyes and slide down her cheeks, causing a prickling tingle that made her wince. She thought her momentary wrath had been caused by the possible hidden meaning behind the viscount's words, and not the man himself. Had he really wanted to help her, or had it all been a skillful ruse? There was no way of knowing, really. Why would anyone in his position wish to aid a drab little farmer's wife, lest he had some other motive?

Still, she just couldn't imagine him returning to London and regaling his peers with the tale of how he'd very nearly coerced a milkmaid into giving him a quick tumble. Lucy had sensed a gentleness about him; perhaps at first his fine, silken good looks had convinced her that he was nothing more than a smirking dandy. Yet, he hadn't really smirked at her; his smile seemed warm enough. "Oh, forget him Lucy," she told herself as she lead another heifer to the milking stool. "For he will surely forget you soon enough."

###

Lucy heard the three men talking as she swept the kitchen floor. They were sitting at the dining table, discussing Morris's ledgers; she heard the occasional chunking sound of a wine carafe as it was set upon the table. Stopping in mid-sweep, Lucy ventured quietly to the double door that separated the two rooms. Carefully and with slightly trembling fingers, she pushed one of the doors open a sliver and watched the tableau with one eye.

Morris clearly looked uneasy, his beady eyes shifting between the other two men and his hands clasping and unclasping restlessly. The young viscount regarded Morris Tompsett with open disdain, his mouth set in a tight line and his arms crossed over his chest.

The Earl of Wheate set his glass of port back on the table and placed the flat of his palm upon the stack of brown leather ledgers in front of him. "Of course," he spoke in his fastidious diction, occaisionally dabbing at his face with the corner of a lace-edged handkerchief, "my son and I shall take your books back to London so that they may be examined more precisely by our solicitor." Then leaning forward he added, "Nothing to worry about, really. I'm sure nothing is amiss. My solicitor has been badgering me for months to fetch the books and once even threatened to visit you himself." Then Lord Wheate began to laugh, his thick shoulders jumping with every chuckle as he jabbed Morris in the arm jovially.

"Father," the viscount spoke, his voice both soft and firm. "Why don't you see if our transport is ready. When I've finished speaking with Mr Tompsett, I shall bring the ledgers with me."

"Giving me orders, eh, boy?" the earl said blithely. "Alright then, if you think you can do without me then perhaps I shall take a kitty-wink whilst you settle things with our manager." With that, the Earl of Wheate gave Morris a good-natured wink, stood and strode from the room.

Lucy saw Morris swallow hard when he turned his attention to Lord Davenwood. She saw only the viscount's face in profile, noticing the sharpness of his high, aristocratic cheekbones and the slight slant of his forehead. "You may have convinced my father that we should find nothing faulty with your record-keeping," he said, his voice deceptively placid, "but I have no doubt that the errors will coalesce before our solicitor's very eyes." Then he rapped the top ledger with his knuckles, the lace of his cuffs grazing them fluidly. "If--or rather, when--we find the impropriety, you shall be given immediate accommodations in the Newgate gaol, assuming that you don't head for Scotland first, which would be a sure sign of guilt."

Morris favored the viscount with a sickly smile and remained silent. Lucy almost felt sorry for her coarse and unctuous husband, but it was a feeling that flickered only for the briefest of moments. She knew well that Morris had reason to worry, for he was quite guilty--she'd seen for herself the books in question.

Her husband, when he'd taken her as his wife the year before, hadn't bothered to learn much about her. She had purposely left undisclosed one important quality she possessed: that she could read and could understand arithmetic. Since Morris knew nothing of these abilities, he would often carelessly leave his ledgers splayed open. Once he was out of sight, Lucy would slide a slender forefinger slowly down the lines of entries, smiling to herself as she remembered how many gallons of milk had been produced each day. And as she suspected, the entries in the journal never accurately reflected the entire milk production of the farm for any given period.

But accuracy was not in question at all, for it was obvious that Morris Tompsett was intent on defrauding his employers. Her husband instead pocketed the profits from the "phantom" milk, the milk whose production was not recorded in the ledgers, by placing the monies in a heavy metal box buried in a corner of the main barn.

Lucy also knew exact location of the box, for she'd followed him stealthily one day nearly six months ago as he scurried furtively toward the barn, the pouches he cradled in his arms heavy with gold sovereigns ready for burial. Quietly, barely breathing, she watched him behind the aegis of an empty stall. When the digging was completed Morris stood, hands swiping absently at his dirty breeches, and gazed at the site of internment as if to give it a final sealing. Once assured that his treasure was securely bedded within the earth, he had turned and rushed from the barn.

With her husband safely out of sight and earshot, Lucy had hastened to the place where the box had been buried. She'd stared at it, committing its location to memory--just in case. Somehow she knew that this was the one thing she must remember about this wretched place.