Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [133]
Mary staggered to her feet. She didn't attempt to meet Mr. Jones's eyes. Instead she turned to the wall, planted her feet securely, hoisted her skirts as high as they'd go, and waited.
Over the long moments that followed, the absurdity of the scene did strike her. She imagined her white buttocks gleaming through the night like the missing moon. Damp air invaded her; all her muscles contracted. Her steel hoops weighed heavy on her wrists. Her stockings, laden with mud, were beginning to slip below her knees. Maybe not the most appetising sight for a man in two minds. She'd gladly have wriggled, or murmured something lewd, if she'd had any confidence it would improve her chances. Instead she rested her cheek against the cool brick and shut her eyes. She stood there for longer than seemed possible. Perhaps Mr. Jones was lifting his crutch to deliver one mighty blow. Or else he might be turning to go home, to hurl her possessions out of the window into a puddle in the yard. How long was she going to stand there before admitting that her time was up?
Behind her, the light crash of the crutches. Her head whipped round to see if the man had fallen, but he was right behind her.
What Mr. Jones told himself was that he was going to pull down the girl's skirts and cover her shame. Any minute now all this would be over. He was not such a weak sinner as to be overpowered by mere nakedness.
He wouldn't so much as touch her white skin. He'd keep his breeches done up. He wouldn't push his shaking fingers into her; he wouldn't find her wet fire. He was not a man who'd let the basest part of himself rear up in a dark alley. He wouldn't take his own maidservant against a dirty wall. He'd have nothing to do with such foul delight. He wouldn't feel the O of her terrible muscle lock around him as she drew him into the hot black cave at the heart of the night.
Thank the Maker for his infinite mercy, as Matron Butler used to say, thought Mary. Only the bricks of the wall could see her dirty smile. Mr. Jones held her by the stays; the whalebone creaked as he lunged back and forwards. His heat within her filled her up. She squeezed as tight as she could. If she made it very good for him, would that save her? Might this wild card pay off?
He was hurrying now, no trace of the gentleman about him.
Did the Joneses do this every night, after tying on their linen caps, she wondered, or hardly once a year? Was it a long struggle with his wife, she being no novelty, or a shortcut to pleasure, since she had to know by now what would work for her husband? Did he move in his wife just the same way as he moved in her maid? Mary thought about this very same piece of flesh entering the privates of her mistress, and a profound shiver ran through her.
Mr. Jones would stagger home tonight still sticky from Mary. He'd stain the marriage bed with their servant's uncouth juices. Would Mrs. Jones emerge from sleep, and recognise that scent? Would the smell of rutting make her want some for herself? Would she spread her sleepy legs and spur her husband on, no matter if he said he was worn out? Would the thought of Mary, her tight-laced flesh bruised against the rough wall of the Crow's Nest, make the man rise again? Would he spend his very last drop in his wife tonight? Would he plant the maid's seed inside the body of the mistress, smearing their juices, mingling their scents together?
Mary stood stock still and a lightning went through her, forking and slicing, every toe, every fingernail, every hair on her head. What in all the seven hells—
Afterwards she gripped the bricks for fear of falling. The world seemed to spin, and nothing was what it had been before.
A little later, she was dimly aware that Mr. Jones had slid out, flooding down her leg. 'Thank you, sir,' said Mary mechanically, dropping her skirts.
She left him with his head against the wall.
Mr. Jones had finally lost his balance. His one leg