The Bell

The bell rings and he looks up, it is a slice of upstairs, downstairs. He is elbow deep in suds and sheets but wipes his hands and rolls down his sleeves, scoops up the gold cufflinks bought for his last, landmark birthday by her and climbs the stairs.

"Yes, Ma'am." He appears in the doorway to the long library. In the windows, the spring sunlight is flecked with rain and the rolling hills beyond. She is by the fire, reading as usual.

"More tea, Edward. That pot had gone cold." She does not look up at him, merely gestures to the pot, imperious.

"Of course," he rushes forward and collects the tray, china clinking precariously as he stands straight again. "Anything else, Ma'am?"

"No," her smile is a rose, sunshine, jam and cream. Edward watches her flip another page of the book she holds, the green jacket striped by her pale fingers, red nails. He imagines them dug, hard, too hard, into his back, his bare flesh smarting and clears his throat.

"Very good, Ma'am, I'm in the laundry if you need anything more."

"Oh," She looks up again, "have you managed to get the red wine out of the blouse I gave you?"

"I'm letting it soak now, Ma'am. Nothing a little baking powder couldn't fix."

She watches him tilt his head at her, smiling, sincere, his eyes warm, one hand clasped behind his back, the other holding the small tea tray. The book is left discarded as she stands, the story in its pages nothing compared to hers, compared to this.

"What would I do without you?" She says, her fingers rising to brush his cheek, her green eyes fixated on him, a smile rising on her face, her pink mouth parting.

"Well," he looks away, blushes, "I'm sure you'd find someone else, Ma'am."

"Not like you," She says, her hand flat on his chest, " not so compliant...or handsome." He looks away, tense, but she pulls him back, her fingers pressed against his jaw, their shoulders touching. "My father would be spinning in his grave," she laughed, her voice mellifluous like water running over pebbles. "Luckily, he was cremated."

"Now, Miss Burghley, don't be morbid, please," Edward feels himself blush, burning up under her touch, the thought of his late employer's probable reaction humiliating, "I really must get back to work. People will talk."

"Good," her mouth is inches from his face, her lips grazing his cheek, "I hope they do. All these society functions are such a drag."

Edward pulls away, stepping backward, righting himself. The china rattles nervously. "I'll get the tea, Ma'am."

She nods, watches him scan her features, his dark hair falling into his face. She pushes it back and turns, walks back to the long sofa and plucks up the book. "Actually, Edward, there's one more thing I'd like you do to for me."

"Yes, Ma'am?"

Edward's face brightens, returning to the thought of work, focus.

"I want you to put down that tray for a moment and open the right-hand drawer, just next to you in the dresser. Bring me the cardboard box inside. You won't miss it, it's the little one."

Edward pulls open the drawer, taking up the box as instructed and brings it to her. "There you are, Ma'am."

"Open it," her eyes are wider now, her smile impish, "It's for you, Edward. A gift of sorts."

"I couldn't possibly, Ma'am. After everything I don't think it would be appropriate for you to give me gifts," Edward whispers.

"After everything I think there's nothing more appropriate," She says, "Open it."

He watches her slide forward on the sofa, her chin in her hands on her knees, leant forward like it is Christmas morning. Edward frowns, slides the lid off the box, the paper rushing like silk to reveal a fine chain with a bell attached.

"You look puzzled, Edward, " She leans back in the chair, a smile playing on her lips.

"Ma'am, I don't mean to be ungrateful but I'm not quite sure what this is."

"It's for your manhood, Edward. As an entertainment. For me."

"Juliet!" Edward's eyes widen, his head snapping upward, "I couldn't possibly! I-"

"What?"

"It's most impractical...What...what if people hear?"

Juliet collapses into laughter, then stands again. "Oh, Edward. It's only for us; when we're together. I hadn't thought you would wear it all the time but, now you mention it..."

"Miss Burghley this is getting rather out of hand. It's not appropriate. I was enlisted into this household in good faith by your father and these games are becoming more and more difficult."

For a moment Juliet is silent, hurt by Edward's reaction. She stands, takes the bell from him, drops it back into the box with a small, mocking tinkle. "I'm sorry," She doesn't look at him, rushing instead over to the drawers, replacing the box, cursing herself. "You're right. That was too far, too much-"

"Juliette," Edward touches her shoulder, the flesh soft beneath the pale satin of her dress, "I only say that because-"

" You needn't say anything. I'm sorry, Edward, It was entirely inappropriate of me. I shan't keep you any longer. Return to your work."

Edward looks down, the colour rising in his cheeks, "I don't mean to be inappropriate, but I find the whole idea rather enticing."

"I thought you might," she says, her features rising again, "Close the door, lock it. Then come back to the sofa."

* *

The bell is mute. Pushed awkwardly against the heavy wool of his suit, Edward finds himself completely paranoid, slick palms and shallow breaths, terrified that somehow, people know; that disgrace is inevitably, inescapably galloping towards him. And yet, the thrill of exposing himself to her, the pull of the thin chain as she fastened it around him, the tiny, shameful tinkling as he stood unbuttoned, naked before her, in the library of all places, amid Proust and Keats and Dante. Nothing could have been more intoxicating - or more hellish - than this. He descends the stairs again, tea tray in hand, desperately trying to order his thoughts.

"What's that?"

Edward is shaken back to the present, the draughty hallway, the cacophony of work, by the rough question.

"Oh, Mrs. Padget. Pardon, I was distracted. Miss Burghley requested more tea. Is the kettle boiled?"

"On the stove, Mr. Croft. You look like you've been attacked by the scullery maids again," Irene Padget reaches up, runs her thumb over Edward's earlobe, "If those girls are wearing lipstick, I'll have their guts for garters."

"Oh, goodness, no!" Edward found himself gripped by panic, the thought of Juliette's mouth against his ear clouding his mind. "I shouldn't think so, probably an accident. You know how those girls get when Fred puts the wireless on."

"It isn't proper," Mrs. Padget huffs, "A house like this has got to cling on to whatever standards it can. I tell you, Edward, nothing has been the same since the war finished and now they say we're in for another one."

"Yes, they do, don't they?" Edward nods, curt, "I'd better prepare the tea. Miss Burghley will be wondering where I've got to."

"I see you've started on her washing," Irene says, " did she ask you to do that, Mr. Croft? That's usually a job for the girls,"

"Yes, I know it's unconventional but Miss Burghley seemed most concerned; she rushed down here herself this morning in quite a state." Edward lies, thinking of the dancing and the laughter and Juliette's sudden trip over the rug at 3am, her silk blouse covered in Claret.

"Well, if that blouse and a few sheets are all she's got to worry about she's doing well," Irene huffed, filling the teapot straight from the kettle. "There, up you go. Hopefully, Miss Burghley won't have noticed the lipstick. No doubt she's too busy thinking about her poor father's estate to worry about much else. There's every unmarried man in a hundred mile radius coming up here now. Did you know we have both Lord Rowley's son and that newspaper fellow up here tomorrow night? Goodness knows what a bun fight that will turn into! Still, I'm sure Miss Burghley will find a suitor soon enough and we shall have a new man in the house."

"Quite," Edward turns in the doorway, hiding panic again, "I'm sure you're right, Mrs. Padget."

As he says the words a sharp jolt of pain runs through him, confusion. What a folly, what a fool he was, to think himself in love with an Earl's daughter because of some prurient sexual thrill. He pauses on the stairs, tries to collect himself, remembers her words from that first night, months ago; Servitude runs right through you, doesn't it? You live for it, Mr. Croft.

She had been right, of course, Edward Croft could think of nothing more that he wanted than to dedicate his time to serving her. He finds that he does live for it now, in a way that he had not expected when he had taken the job five years previously. He had worked diligently, his behaviour appropriate to his station, his urges hidden, assuaged by hard work and repetition until that night when she had come to him, she had found him out and changed everything.

Above stairs, Juliette grows impatient; She reaches out, rings for him again and, in the quiet of the house there is a feint sound of a bell.