A Pearl for My Mistress. Annabel Fielding

libraries and book club subscriptions. It was prudent; it was sensible; it satisfied her well enough. She couldn’t help but think, though, that it would be nice to have such a volume living on her shelf for ever. She’d never have to rush to finish it. She’d be able to reread it as often as she liked.

      The thought was filled with heady sweetness.

      ‘Thank you,’ she muttered. ‘I can’t believe you took all the trouble of looking for it just for me.’

      ‘Oh, that was nothing at all!’ Lucy waved this concern off with an airy movement of her hand. ‘I seem to spend a third of my life in bookshops anyway.’

      ‘Don’t say that. It is wonderful! Truly wonderful. You are wonderful.’

      If she was an ordinary maid, and Lucy her ordinary mistress, she would have never allowed herself this familiarity. She would have, most likely, just said ‘Thank you, my lady.’

      But she wasn’t an ordinary maid now, was she? She was Lucy’s confidante, a friend, even a muse, as the latter joked sometimes. Since that memorable incident of the Granada manuscript, they had been practically inseparable.

      Of course, Hester’s duties devoured most of her day, just as Lucy’s work devoured hers. But when there was any opportunity to meet far from prying eyes of the family and the household, they drunk this time together.

      If someone took it into his head to ask them what precisely did they talk about for hours on end, they would’ve been puzzled. Why, they talked about everything! About the shores they had never seen, but solemnly vowed to see one day. About the plight of heroines whose creators were long since gone. About the dead empires. About the living film stars. About the books they both read or wanted to read. About their favourite walking trails. About their favourite flowers. Lucy once said that she liked violets the most, and Hester suggested that they would look so nice in her hair. Lucy blushed in her usual delicate manner.

      Quite often, too, they talked of Lucy’s own writing. Lucy fed Hester every work, every obscure draft, every unfinished epic novel. Each time she looked tense, like a wax figure, while awaiting the judgement. But the judgements were usually light, and the compliments were always abundant, and the wax slowly but surely melted.

      ‘I can show you the bookshop I found it in,’ Lucy said now, her blue eyes soft with affection. ‘I am sure you will like it. It’s been there since the days of King George. The old King George, I mean. The mad one.’

      ‘Sounds nice.’

      ‘It is! And then I could find you something else …’

      ‘No, that would be too much.’

      ‘It wouldn’t!’ Lucy exclaimed with hot conviction, and then added, much quieter, ‘It wouldn’t, Hester. Believe me. Nothing would be too much for you.’

      She reached out, stroking Hester’s cheek gently.

      ***

      The warmth of Hester’s skin under her fingers seemed to seep into her body, waking it slowly, making it come alive. Lucy instantly wanted to feel more of this warmth, so she stroked the girl’s face again. And again.

      ‘If I were an artist, I would have painted your portrait,’ Lucy whispered, looking into her eyes. ‘If I were an empress, I would have dressed you in jewels.’

      A pleasant shiver ran through her, and now this touch wasn’t enough. She wanted more; the desire was shapeless, aimless, but it was there, and it was growing, like a hot cloud. Lucy made a little step to get closer, closer still. Now she could almost feel the heat emanating from Hester’s skin.