The Wager. Sally Cheney

A revulsion for Carstairs, who had delivered the young woman to him, fully aware of her probable fate. The wager had been offered and accepted with a mutual understanding as to what they were playing for.

      But he also felt revulsion for himself. Carstairs was a pig, but what was he?

      It was very silent for two or three minutes. The girl’s tears had ceased, though her sobs occasionally shook the mattress.

      Desmond appeared to be completely lost in thought, totally unaware of the girl, but in fact he was consumed by thoughts of her, considering what her life must have been like, wondering what had brought her to this place tonight and where the path on which Carstairs had planted her would eventually lead her. If this was her first time, Carstairs must not have tried this ploy before. But since his wager had been accepted once, it would be again. Probably often. Until she was no longer worth the bet. Even though Desmond would not touch the girl again, if he sent her back he would be delivering her straight into a life of prostitution, into the the jaws of hell. He would be no better than Carstairs.

      He grimaced. He was no better than Carstairs now, for he had brought her here expecting to collect his “winnings.”

      “Mr. Desmond?” the girl whispered.

      Desmond started in surprise and turned to look at her.

      Her eyes were open, red rimmed and swollen, focused on him with an expression Desmond would have thought only executioners saw in the eyes of the condemned.

      “Are you finished?” she asked.

      “What?”

      “Is it over? Can I go back to my room?”

      “Yes. Go. Go,” he said hoarsely, turning his face so he would not have to watch her struggle from the bed.

      She rolled to her side and swung her legs toward the edge. She had to work her way across the wide mattress before she could reach the floor, but at last she stood. Aware of the man on the bed behind her but not daring to look in his direction, she pushed her skirts down self-consciously and fumbled to refasten the bodice of her dress.

      With slumped shoulders and heavy tread, she walked to the door and struggled to release the lock. He could not help raising his eyes to watch her when a relieved sigh signaled that she had finally succeeded. He saw her pull open the door of his room. Before stepping out into the hallway, she pushed the hair back from her face, squared her shoulders and raised her chin.

      He was touched by her bravery and determination. But before his door shut her completely from view, he saw the line of her shoulders slump again as if with a terrible weight.

      Desmond felt crushed with remorse. There was no question about the physical damage he had almost done to her, but what spiritual blow had he actually delivered?

      He could not keep her here at Kingsbrook, subjecting himself to the accusations of her presence. But neither could he send her back to her former home.

      He had played for a ward and he had won a ward, but now that he had her, what was he to do with her?

       Chapter Three

      To Marianne, her short lifetime seemed to be a succession of frightful nights. Endless nights spent waiting for Uncle Horace to return to the town house, fearfully wondering what abuse and indignity she would be required to endure this time. That ghastly night she had spent at her mother’s bedside, watching her become weaker and weaker, unable to do anything to overturn the awful verdict, to bar entrance to the merciless reaper.

      But not even the memory of that night seemed as horrible as this night in Kingsbrook.

      Marianne undressed slowly, careful to keep her eyes turned from the mirror, fearful of the physical evidence she would see of what had happened.

      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