Costume
Title: Costume
Author: madame_doodle
Rating: M
Characters: Cutler Beckett/Elizabeth Swann, Lady Althea Beckett
Summary: Don't ask. I found this hiding on my computer half written, re-read the whole story and out of nowhere decided to continue. It may have had something to do with watching POTC the other day for the first time in a long, long time.
Costume
As suspected, nothing could keep Althea away from her purpose for too long, not even a rather grisly carriage collision and traffic jam in Piccadilly.
Elizabeth often wondered what longed for resolution drove the woman. Elizabeth had never really known what it was like to have a mother - all she had were a few watery memories, nothing clear - and therefore she was unsure of the breed’s mechanics. Was it the welfare of her son that Althea cared so much for? Embarking on a mission to weld him a wife of womanly perfection. Or was it something else? Some distant need finally met? Lord Beckett had no siblings (which spoke volumes for his demanding and self-centred nature…), and just as Elizabeth had never had a mother, Althea had never had a daughter.
Whatever her personal machinations were, she chose the day before Lady Salisbury’s ball to further them. Her gilt carriage appeared on the square before dawn; rattling loudly over the cobbles while the street lights still smouldered and long before the night-soil men had set about collecting their wretched wage.
The sound of carriage doors being opened and closed, along with impatient outbursts of chatter echoed easily through the quiet square and woke Elizabeth, who up until that moment had been sleeping soundly in her bed. She inhaled deeply and groaned, stretching her bare arms up over her head and dropping them onto the pillow. Port Royal had been so quiet in mornings. Nothing but the sound of waves and seagulls to wake her. Why must London be so bloody noisy all the time? she grumbled inwardly as she opened her eyes. When they met with a grey, semi-dark, and startlingly cold room she groaned and decided to go back to sleep. She slipped her naked, goose pimpled arms and shoulders beneath the white sheets, wriggling around as she turned over to curl her cold body around the warm one lying next to her.
Lazily, she reached out for him; expecting to squeeze her hand beneath his bicep and anchor it to the soft and lightly furred skin of his chest. He’d stir, mutter something about the temperature of her fingertips but would drowsily take her hand and hold it there - pressed beneath thick fingers that were ink stained from a late night spent signing paperwork. Graciously permitted, she’d crush her breasts and torso against the warm plane of his back, and bury her cold nose at the nape of his neck. Huddled comfortably together, they’d quickly find their way back to sleep.
She was disappointed then when instead of finding warm flesh, her reaching hand found an empty mattress and tousled, lukewarm sheets. When she opened her eyes, the emerging morning light only highlighted the rumpled bed linen and the soft indentation that his head had left on the pillow beside her.
Out of either plain disgust or concern for her health (Elizabeth couldn’t quite tell which), Lord Beckett hadn’t shared her bed in over a fortnight. He’d been leaving early and working late at the EITC offices every day - allowing her the time to rest and to prepare for her upcoming introduction at Lady Salisbury’s. He spoke to her only when they happened to bump into each other, briefly inquiring about her health on the staircase or about her studies when they managed to meet for dinner - which was becoming rare. The distance between them had briefly been reconciled a few days ago when he’d brought her a gift of a gold harpsichord, but it was brief nonetheless and the separation continued into the long days that followed. Fatigued by sickness she’d welcomed being ignored at first, but when she felt her energy levels return to normal and the feelings of nausea begin to fade, she felt loneliness immediately take their place.
Last night however, he’d finally seen fit to end her seclusion.
*
Somewhere in the midst of a deep sleep, she’d been vaguely aware of the mattress shifting beneath his weight and of sheets being tentatively lifted as he slipped between them and settled beside her. It wasn’t the comforting presence of warm flesh against her back that woke her; it was his hand, moving firmly over the place where her thigh became her hip - the place where the hem of her shift had risen to through restless slumber. The material had corrugated beneath his touch as he’d traced her ribs and slipped his cold hand beneath her elbow to cup her breast. He’d kneaded gently but persistently, palming the soft flesh and lightly tracing its curved outline with his fingers - waiting for her to wake up, waiting for a response.
He’d slowly circled her nipple with his thumb then lightly brushed across the hardened tip, teasing it through the thin fabric and eliciting a crumpling sigh from her, halfway between a breath and a moan. She’d arched her spine in response, thrusting her breast into his hand and her arse backwards where it met with his cock, hard and expectant.
She opened her eyes as his lips brushed a path up her neck, dragging slowly from nape to earlobe. “You can’t be serious,” she’d whispered sleepily, lowering her hand onto the one touching her breast. She shoved it away. “It’s the middle of the night.”
He pressed a kiss below her earlobe. “I’m always serious,” he replied, his voice low and loud in the quiet room as he moved his hand to her shoulder and gently pushed her onto her back, rolling her to face him.
Elizabeth rubbed her eyes and looked up at him. “Your office hours are unbearable,” she grumped, throwing her hands behind her head onto the pillow. “Isn’t it customary for a husband to seek the services of a whore to accommodate his desires when his wife is trying to sleep?” She watched as Beckett’s lips curled. She could just make out his features in the dim light; the peppering of hair across his jaw, the outline of his nose and his tepid eyes.
They observed her closely, as always. “You would rather I buried my prick inside some pox-infested whore,” he stated incredulously.
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose in disgust. No. She wasn’t sure which was more repulsive; the thought of Beckett rutting inside some halfpenny whore, or the thought of him choosing the whore over her. “I would rather not have a husband,” she replied irritably.
Beckett narrowed his gaze. He rolled on top of her fluidly, “Oh I see,” he whispered softly, knowingly. “You’re cross because I’ve left you wanting for too long; you’ve been pining for my company and the pleasure it brings.”
Elizabeth scoffed, but blushed all the same. Arrogant bastard. “No. I’m cross because you woke me up,” she stropped, trying to wriggle free from beneath him.
Struggling was useless with limbs lazy from slumber. He snatched her wrists easily in one strong hand and drew his body up against hers, nestling his hips between her open thighs. She drew a sharp breath when she felt the tip of his cock breach their apex. “I see your spirits have returned,” he noted in a whisper. He studied her face thoroughly, his gaze flicking awkwardly between her eyes and her lips. “…I’m glad,” he added quietly as an afterthought.
Elizabeth looked up at him, puzzled not by the comment but by the way he’d said it.
When her hands stilled somewhat and she failed to respond, he pressed his lips against hers. His free hand smoothed upwards, along her thigh and beneath her shift, stilling beneath her breast. His thumb drew circles there while his mouth moved firmly against hers.
Without further encouragement, Elizabeth melted beneath him; she raised her head from the pillow to kiss him back - harder, hungrier. She found it strange how comfortable she’d become with spreading her legs for him, and almost frightening how much she required it now. She was carrying his child and still felt she needed more.
With no need to restrain her, he released her hands and was surprised when they instantly sought him out; one cupping the back of his neck, pulling him against her and the other delving between them, wrapping firmly around his cock.
He smirked against her lips. “My, aren’t we eager?” he purred. “I thought you said you’d rather not have me.”
She seized his lower lip between her teeth playfully. “Only to irritate you,” she replied.
He watched with a puzzled look as she placed a hand on his chest and pushed him up onto his knees so she could remove her shift. She seized the fabric and tugged it over her head in one fluid motion, flinging it into the darkness and allowing the cool air in the room to lick her bare skin.
“I’ve missed irritating you,” she admitted with a little shrug as she fell back into bed, her blonde hair swirling around her head.
Beckett grinned at her as she snatched his hips and pulled him back on top of her. “Oh have you now,” he replied. “Curious.”
He sheathed himself inside her gradually, revelling in the way she sighed and arched up into him, clamping him between her thighs. He proceeded at a tortuous pace, thrusting slowly yet firmly.
*
Elizabeth leaned up on her arm and frowned at the empty space beside her. She placed her palm flat against her belly thoughtfully and sighed. It had been the perfect, opportune moment to tell him that she’d missed her courses, and yet somehow she’d foundered. Silence and slumber had followed sex. She just wasn’t sure how he’d react to the news. He’d made it very clear on their wedding night that he had no intention of fathering an heir so soon, and had instructed her in preventing such an occurrence. She’d done exactly as she was asked and eagerly too. She’d had no intention of conceiving his child. But things had changed since then. Hadn’t they?
She was dragged from her thoughts when the noise from the square outside seemed to suddenly have invaded the house. Serving staff and footmen hurried from all corners of the previously silent house. When Elizabeth heard kitten heels spearing the stone steps outside, followed by the front door being hammered furiously, it was clear that her day was set to begin far earlier than usual.
Hurriedly, she scooped her shift up from the side of the bed and put it on, following it immediately with her dressing gown. She found the floorboards horribly cold when she swung her feet from the bed and made her way across the room to a window. After wiping away a thin layer of condensation, she peered out onto the square.
For the most part, it was deserted. During the day, the vast cobbled piazza was a hive of activity - with the constant flow of both black hackney and glamorous privately owned carriages picking up and dropping off residents, and weaving between promenading pedestrians, and street vendors crying their wares. At dawn it was usually clear and quiet; the scattered elm trees the only source of sound and movement - a harsh breeze rattling through the last of their bronze foliage. It was then that Elizabeth caught sight of the familiarly flamboyant gold and mahogany carriage waiting outside - complete with white ostrich plumes fluttering in the late October wind. She rolled her eyes. Althea thought the carriage the height of fashion and status - to Elizabeth it was just an embarrassing display of wealth.
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose and grumbled. Rising before dawn appeared to be a Beckett family trait. “Shit,” she muttered. “What is she doing here?”
Downstairs in the foyer, the scullery maids and footmen that were already out of bed were unsuccessfully attempting to waylay her. The sound of their interception echoed through the hall and up the stairs, penetrating the doors to Elizabeth’s bedchamber.
The assumption of the various serving staff gathered downstairs was that Althea had arrived to visit her son. “I’m sorry madam, his Lordship departed some time ago,” someone said.
Althea scoffed. “Well then, it’s just as well I didn’t come here to see him, isn’t it?” she replied haughtily, and very loudly - she clearly had no intention of keeping her voice lowered for the benefit of those still fast asleep. “I’m here to see my daughter in law. I’d be grateful if you could inform her of my arrival.”
Elizabeth groaned; she hated the idea of being legally bound to Althea Beckett.
Hester, a young woman who had recently been installed as Elizabeth’s lady’s maid spoke up. Elizabeth knew it was her because she recognised her soft country twang. Hester had recently arrived from the west country. “Beg your pardon ma’am, but Lady Beckett hasn’t risen yet,” she protested valiantly. “Her fire hasn’t even been lit yet - it’s still far too early for tha’.”
“I’m well aware of the hour you stupid, stupid girl,” Althea snapped.
There followed the unmistakeable hollow thump-thump of heels moving forcefully up the stairs.
Hester chased her up the staircase. “Yer grace, please!” she called after her. “She’ll be fast asleep!”
Elizabeth rushed to her vanity. Her hair resembled an unkempt hay bale, and her skin still looked sallow after weeks spent inside, though it had developed a healthy pink flush for her overnight exertions. She quickly picked at and patted her tangled hair and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and although she had looked better (and yet had still managed to catch Althea’s scrutinizing hazel gaze) at least she was moderately dressed and not still sleeping nude beneath the sheets with her husband’s leavings still slick between her thighs.
She straightened when the doors flung open and Althea charged inside, followed by an apologetic Hester.
“I’m so sorry yer Ladyship! I said you wouldn’t ‘av risen yet, but she was very insistant.”
Bundled in sweeping layers of fox fur-lined grey velvet, Althea scanned the room - turning her head to and fro in a way that made her peppered brown wig of curls shudder. When she noticed Elizabeth’s pale outline standing sheepishly in the corner she clasped her gloved hands together, fell back on her heels and let out a short breath.
“Oh good you’re up,” she said.
Elizabeth nodded her head politely. “Althea,” she replied with a short curtsey.
Althea’s eyes flashed critically over Elizabeth’s creased shift and dressing gown. “…but not dressed. Oh.” she added disappointingly.
Elizabeth kept any rude comments to herself, there were a lot threatening to burst forth. “A pleasure to see you, as always,” she sighed, forcing a smile across her lips. “…and so early too.”
Althea nodded. “Well I’ve always been a firm believer in rising early. Only the elderly, infirm and women caught ‘in the family way’ should sleep late,” she drawled, pinching the fingertips of her gloves in an effort to remove them. “When I was your age I made a habit of being at my toilette by seven every day. Five during the summer,” she said, placing the fine kid gloves neatly on the chaise longue at the foot of the bed.
She strolled over to the large window and fiercely ripped open the damask drapes. Pale morning light flooded the room.
Elizabeth winced. “Oh, really.”
“Yes. I always admired the way my skin looked in the early morning light,” Althea continued thoughtfully, watching her reflection in the window as she stroked the weathered slope of her cheek with her fingers. Her lips twisted disagreeably at what she saw.
Elizabeth felt a change of subject necessary. “No Penelope today?” she asked, noticing the lack of dog writhing beneath her mother-in-law’s arm.
Althea waved her hand dismissively. “No. Good heavens, it’s far too early for her to be up and about!” she said as she fussed with the parted drapes. She frowned. “…Who chose this fabric? The colour’s a bit tired, don’t you think? And the pattern… more suited to a parlour than a bedroom, I should think.”
Elizabeth watched, bewildered, as Althea smoothed and arranged each fold and pleat the bunched fabric created until she satisfied that however hideous the fabric, at least they were tidy. After briefly stepping back to admire her work, she dusted her hands and set to her next task.
“Tea I think,” she announced, turning suddenly to Hester who was still hovering hopelessly in the doorway and absently fiddling with the hem of her apron. When she didn’t move right away, Althea groaned and clapped her hands. “Well don’t just stand there girl! Chop chop!”
Hester blinked. “Oh! Yes ‘course! Sorry ma’am,” she apologised, as she stumbled towards the door.
Althea tutted and shouted after her. “And get someone up here to light this damned fire, it’s freezing!”
“Certainly,” Hester replied, catching Elizabeth’s apologetic look as she left.
When she’d gone, Althea pulled a face. “Common as muck, that girl,” she sneered, chuckling cruelly. “Ghastly accent - I’ve never heard anything quite like it!”
Elizabeth let out a weary sigh and squeezed the bridge of her nose. She’d spent less than ten minutes in Althea’s company and she could already feel her patience beginning to strain. “Forgive me for speaking plainly, Althea, but may I ask the reason for your visit?” she asked, as firmly as she dared. “You sent no word of your impending arrival, and I’m certain that we made no arrangement.”
Althea’s gaze sharpened noticeably. “I think you’ll find, Elizabeth, that a mother needs no invitation to visit the home of her son.”
Elizabeth glared back at her. “I didn’t mean to offend,” she replied. “Only, a warning might have been polite - I mean of course for me to receive you better,” she added hastily, gesturing to her undressed state.
Althea’s painted lips curled shrewdly. “Quite,” she said, raising one of her pencilled eyebrows.
When Althea slowly lowered herself onto the chaise longue, Elizabeth took the opportunity to sit down herself. She crossed the room and settled into the small but comfortable blue easy chair opposite the chaise longue. When she lifted her cold feet and moved to tuck them beneath the warmth of her thighs and dressing gown, she was reprimanded by Althea who shook her head and tutted loudly until Elizabeth lowered them back onto the ice cold floor defeated.
“Now then, my dear. Tomorrow night is Lady Salisbury’s soirée,” Althea began, “…and, well I imagine you haven’t decided on a gown to wear yet. Anticipating this, I have come here to offer my services. And trust me, I have impeccable taste,” she announced proudly, untying her velvet travelling cloak and allowing it to slip from her shoulders.
Elizabeth glared suddenly at the gown lurking beneath. It wasn’t so much the colour - an arguably quite pretty shade of purple - but the fact that it was covered in lace frills, trims, bows and ruffles to the extent that she looked as if Althea had been attacked by a vengeful haberdasher. She smiled politely. “That’s… very kind of you, but actually I’ve already chosen a gown.”
Althea looked surprised. “Oh,” she replied, offended almost. “Well, may I see it?”
Elizabeth stood up and walked through a small side door into her dressing room where several large chests, an armoire and a tall cabinet stored her collection of clothes.
The dress she’d chosen had been one her favourites back in Port Royal. The cream coloured French robe, with gold embroidery and a bronze-buttoned bodice had been a gift from her father to replace the gown that had been ruined when she fell from the battlements during celebrations to commemorate James’ promotion to Commodore. She’d survived the fall thanks to Jack, but the gown unfortunately hadn’t - so her father had replaced it with a much nicer one. It was a little outdated now of course, yes, but still just as pretty as it had been.
As she removed the folded gown from the depths of a large chest and fingered the smooth, delicately woven fabric her stomach churned uncomfortably as she thought of her father.
Althea narrowed her eyes and tutted disapprovingly when Elizabeth emerged with the gown. “No,” she said.
Elizabeth huffed. “But what’s wrong with it?” she demanded, looking down at it lying limply across her arms.
“Everything!” Althea snorted, pursing her lips snobbishly. “The colour is wrong, the fabric is too plain, the fact that it’s a day dress and not an evening dress and although it may have adequately adorned a Governor’s daughter, it’s hardly fitting for Lady Beckett.”
Elizabeth sighed as she laid the dress on her unmade bed.
Althea shook her head despairingly. “I mean, which would you rather look like, Elizabeth? A Marquise or a Milkmaid? If you wear that frock, you’ll look like the latter,” she said as she rose from her seat. She waved her fingers. “Come along, let’s see if there’s not something better hiding in that room there.”
With an hour, Althea had ransacked the small dressing room and created a large multi-hued funeral pyre of satin and lace on the bedroom floor. Nothing seemed to live up to her high expectations. If the gown was the right style, it was made of the wrong fabric. If was the right sort of fabric, then it was the wrong shade. It was either too plain or too splendid. Some gowns made the pyre without even a glance; a brief brush of her aged hand across the length of the skirt was enough for Althea to decide that she didn’t like it. Soon, the coffers and trunks were all but empty except for the sprigs of dried lavender dropped inside to keep satin scoffing moths at bay.
“Well then, I can see no other option,” Althea declared as they sat sipping tea, “we’ll have to make a trip to the Strand.”
Elizabeth yawned into her cup.
“Close your mouth when you yawn, dear.”
Nine o’clock found them within the walls of the finest and most fashionable couturier’s on the Strand. Monsieur Lemoine had clothed both Queens and Contessa, Althea had assured Elizabeth as the carriage pulled up outside the large sash windows fronting the store, and his designs were much sought after by those who had the money to pay for them. Rows of rolls of pattered silks and satins decorated the wooden innards of the store, along with piles of intricate Italian lace, shoes, fans, hats and feathers and anything else that might adorn a fashionable lady. Without the time to make a new gown from scratch, Elizabeth was whisked away to try a ready-made piece. She was stitched into sack-backs and pulled into polonaises until her ribs hurt; all the while Althea reclined on a chaise looking at fabric samples and silk fans, lifting her head only to shake it. But finally, a dress was settled upon.
When Elizabeth appeared in an elegant looking sack-back of apricot satin, Althea was silent.
It was a little too loose and of a rather vintage style, but Elizabeth had decided that she liked it. She waited wearily as Althea frowned and tapped her chin; studying everything from the fly-lace and pearl trim, to the gold trim on the embroidered stomacher. Eventually, she sat back in her seat and hummed.
“Yes,” she said. “I think it will do.”
Monsieur Limoine’s assistant was relieved. “Excellent,” she sighed, flinging her tape measure around her shoulders like a shawl. “Thank goodness.”
“Of course it’s far too loose,” Althea insisted with a shrug. “It’ll have to be taken in. We want to highlight my daughter-in-law’s assets not hide them. And I’m not sure about that stomacher; it’s missing something,” she added. “Can’t you add some jewels to it or something? A little crystal to make it sparkle?”
The assistant drew in a deep breath and placed her hands on her narrow hips. “Of course, madam,” she replied genially.
Elizabeth stood in silence, pins digging into her shoulders and ribs.
Althea nodded. “Very good,” she said. “Of course we’ll need shoes and a fan to match… I assume you have something appropriate?”
“Yes madam,” she replied. “And how will madam be paying today?”
Althea narrowed her eyes. “Well on credit of course,” she answered, affronted.
The assistant pulled a face. “Credit madam?”
“Why yes!” Althea said. “Look, I’m sure your master’s establishment has the misfortune of attracting the occasional chatelaine eager to spend wages earned the night before, but ladies of quality do not pay with nor carry petty cash!”
The poor assistant bit her lip. “Of course madam, forgive me,” she apologised. “I’ll just go and have a look for some accessories.”
Althea watched as the assistant eagerly hurried away. She chuckled. “‘How will I be paying?’ The nerve!”
Elizabeth glared at her. “That was unnecessary,” she remarked, turning to a nearby mirror to study her reflection.
Althea sighed. “Oh hush, they have to learn,” she said. “Anyway, how is my son?”
“I hardly know. He’s been very busy,” Elizabeth replied, smoothing her hands across the bodice and impaling her finger on a pin in the process. “Ouch!” she gasped, sucking the pricked fingertip into her mouth.
“I assume you’re both finding the time for… oh, how can I put this delicately?” she said. She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice substantially. “Faire l’amour?”
Elizabeth spun around and stared at her, crimson painting her pale cheeks. She blinked several times. “What?”
Althea groaned. “Oh dear, I see Cutler hasn’t been testing your French.”
“I understood perfectly what you said, Althea,” Elizabeth scoffed, “I’m just shocked that you think it’s any of your business.”
Althea sent her a funny look. “But it is my business, my dear,” she replied, standing up. “My son may act as if his only obligation in life is to the Company and the welfare of our realm overseas, but I’m more than certain that he’s well aware of his responsibilities at home. His title requires an heir to inherit it.”
Elizabeth frowned at her. “Again, I fail to see why that’s any of your business.”
Althea stopped in front of her and smiled sourly. “A year of marriage, and still nothing to show for it?” she observed. “I wouldn’t be a good mother if I didn’t worry why that might be.”
Elizabeth scowled back at her. For a brief moment she thought about telling her the truth, but instead, she gritted her teeth and swallowed her secret. “Thank you for your concern,” she replied as politely as she could. “But again, it’s none of your business.”
Author: madame_doodle
Rating: M
Characters: Cutler Beckett/Elizabeth Swann, Lady Althea Beckett
Summary: Don't ask. I found this hiding on my computer half written, re-read the whole story and out of nowhere decided to continue. It may have had something to do with watching POTC the other day for the first time in a long, long time.
Costume
As suspected, nothing could keep Althea away from her purpose for too long, not even a rather grisly carriage collision and traffic jam in Piccadilly.
Elizabeth often wondered what longed for resolution drove the woman. Elizabeth had never really known what it was like to have a mother - all she had were a few watery memories, nothing clear - and therefore she was unsure of the breed’s mechanics. Was it the welfare of her son that Althea cared so much for? Embarking on a mission to weld him a wife of womanly perfection. Or was it something else? Some distant need finally met? Lord Beckett had no siblings (which spoke volumes for his demanding and self-centred nature…), and just as Elizabeth had never had a mother, Althea had never had a daughter.
Whatever her personal machinations were, she chose the day before Lady Salisbury’s ball to further them. Her gilt carriage appeared on the square before dawn; rattling loudly over the cobbles while the street lights still smouldered and long before the night-soil men had set about collecting their wretched wage.
The sound of carriage doors being opened and closed, along with impatient outbursts of chatter echoed easily through the quiet square and woke Elizabeth, who up until that moment had been sleeping soundly in her bed. She inhaled deeply and groaned, stretching her bare arms up over her head and dropping them onto the pillow. Port Royal had been so quiet in mornings. Nothing but the sound of waves and seagulls to wake her. Why must London be so bloody noisy all the time? she grumbled inwardly as she opened her eyes. When they met with a grey, semi-dark, and startlingly cold room she groaned and decided to go back to sleep. She slipped her naked, goose pimpled arms and shoulders beneath the white sheets, wriggling around as she turned over to curl her cold body around the warm one lying next to her.
Lazily, she reached out for him; expecting to squeeze her hand beneath his bicep and anchor it to the soft and lightly furred skin of his chest. He’d stir, mutter something about the temperature of her fingertips but would drowsily take her hand and hold it there - pressed beneath thick fingers that were ink stained from a late night spent signing paperwork. Graciously permitted, she’d crush her breasts and torso against the warm plane of his back, and bury her cold nose at the nape of his neck. Huddled comfortably together, they’d quickly find their way back to sleep.
She was disappointed then when instead of finding warm flesh, her reaching hand found an empty mattress and tousled, lukewarm sheets. When she opened her eyes, the emerging morning light only highlighted the rumpled bed linen and the soft indentation that his head had left on the pillow beside her.
Out of either plain disgust or concern for her health (Elizabeth couldn’t quite tell which), Lord Beckett hadn’t shared her bed in over a fortnight. He’d been leaving early and working late at the EITC offices every day - allowing her the time to rest and to prepare for her upcoming introduction at Lady Salisbury’s. He spoke to her only when they happened to bump into each other, briefly inquiring about her health on the staircase or about her studies when they managed to meet for dinner - which was becoming rare. The distance between them had briefly been reconciled a few days ago when he’d brought her a gift of a gold harpsichord, but it was brief nonetheless and the separation continued into the long days that followed. Fatigued by sickness she’d welcomed being ignored at first, but when she felt her energy levels return to normal and the feelings of nausea begin to fade, she felt loneliness immediately take their place.
Last night however, he’d finally seen fit to end her seclusion.
*
Somewhere in the midst of a deep sleep, she’d been vaguely aware of the mattress shifting beneath his weight and of sheets being tentatively lifted as he slipped between them and settled beside her. It wasn’t the comforting presence of warm flesh against her back that woke her; it was his hand, moving firmly over the place where her thigh became her hip - the place where the hem of her shift had risen to through restless slumber. The material had corrugated beneath his touch as he’d traced her ribs and slipped his cold hand beneath her elbow to cup her breast. He’d kneaded gently but persistently, palming the soft flesh and lightly tracing its curved outline with his fingers - waiting for her to wake up, waiting for a response.
He’d slowly circled her nipple with his thumb then lightly brushed across the hardened tip, teasing it through the thin fabric and eliciting a crumpling sigh from her, halfway between a breath and a moan. She’d arched her spine in response, thrusting her breast into his hand and her arse backwards where it met with his cock, hard and expectant.
She opened her eyes as his lips brushed a path up her neck, dragging slowly from nape to earlobe. “You can’t be serious,” she’d whispered sleepily, lowering her hand onto the one touching her breast. She shoved it away. “It’s the middle of the night.”
He pressed a kiss below her earlobe. “I’m always serious,” he replied, his voice low and loud in the quiet room as he moved his hand to her shoulder and gently pushed her onto her back, rolling her to face him.
Elizabeth rubbed her eyes and looked up at him. “Your office hours are unbearable,” she grumped, throwing her hands behind her head onto the pillow. “Isn’t it customary for a husband to seek the services of a whore to accommodate his desires when his wife is trying to sleep?” She watched as Beckett’s lips curled. She could just make out his features in the dim light; the peppering of hair across his jaw, the outline of his nose and his tepid eyes.
They observed her closely, as always. “You would rather I buried my prick inside some pox-infested whore,” he stated incredulously.
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose in disgust. No. She wasn’t sure which was more repulsive; the thought of Beckett rutting inside some halfpenny whore, or the thought of him choosing the whore over her. “I would rather not have a husband,” she replied irritably.
Beckett narrowed his gaze. He rolled on top of her fluidly, “Oh I see,” he whispered softly, knowingly. “You’re cross because I’ve left you wanting for too long; you’ve been pining for my company and the pleasure it brings.”
Elizabeth scoffed, but blushed all the same. Arrogant bastard. “No. I’m cross because you woke me up,” she stropped, trying to wriggle free from beneath him.
Struggling was useless with limbs lazy from slumber. He snatched her wrists easily in one strong hand and drew his body up against hers, nestling his hips between her open thighs. She drew a sharp breath when she felt the tip of his cock breach their apex. “I see your spirits have returned,” he noted in a whisper. He studied her face thoroughly, his gaze flicking awkwardly between her eyes and her lips. “…I’m glad,” he added quietly as an afterthought.
Elizabeth looked up at him, puzzled not by the comment but by the way he’d said it.
When her hands stilled somewhat and she failed to respond, he pressed his lips against hers. His free hand smoothed upwards, along her thigh and beneath her shift, stilling beneath her breast. His thumb drew circles there while his mouth moved firmly against hers.
Without further encouragement, Elizabeth melted beneath him; she raised her head from the pillow to kiss him back - harder, hungrier. She found it strange how comfortable she’d become with spreading her legs for him, and almost frightening how much she required it now. She was carrying his child and still felt she needed more.
With no need to restrain her, he released her hands and was surprised when they instantly sought him out; one cupping the back of his neck, pulling him against her and the other delving between them, wrapping firmly around his cock.
He smirked against her lips. “My, aren’t we eager?” he purred. “I thought you said you’d rather not have me.”
She seized his lower lip between her teeth playfully. “Only to irritate you,” she replied.
He watched with a puzzled look as she placed a hand on his chest and pushed him up onto his knees so she could remove her shift. She seized the fabric and tugged it over her head in one fluid motion, flinging it into the darkness and allowing the cool air in the room to lick her bare skin.
“I’ve missed irritating you,” she admitted with a little shrug as she fell back into bed, her blonde hair swirling around her head.
Beckett grinned at her as she snatched his hips and pulled him back on top of her. “Oh have you now,” he replied. “Curious.”
He sheathed himself inside her gradually, revelling in the way she sighed and arched up into him, clamping him between her thighs. He proceeded at a tortuous pace, thrusting slowly yet firmly.
*
Elizabeth leaned up on her arm and frowned at the empty space beside her. She placed her palm flat against her belly thoughtfully and sighed. It had been the perfect, opportune moment to tell him that she’d missed her courses, and yet somehow she’d foundered. Silence and slumber had followed sex. She just wasn’t sure how he’d react to the news. He’d made it very clear on their wedding night that he had no intention of fathering an heir so soon, and had instructed her in preventing such an occurrence. She’d done exactly as she was asked and eagerly too. She’d had no intention of conceiving his child. But things had changed since then. Hadn’t they?
She was dragged from her thoughts when the noise from the square outside seemed to suddenly have invaded the house. Serving staff and footmen hurried from all corners of the previously silent house. When Elizabeth heard kitten heels spearing the stone steps outside, followed by the front door being hammered furiously, it was clear that her day was set to begin far earlier than usual.
Hurriedly, she scooped her shift up from the side of the bed and put it on, following it immediately with her dressing gown. She found the floorboards horribly cold when she swung her feet from the bed and made her way across the room to a window. After wiping away a thin layer of condensation, she peered out onto the square.
For the most part, it was deserted. During the day, the vast cobbled piazza was a hive of activity - with the constant flow of both black hackney and glamorous privately owned carriages picking up and dropping off residents, and weaving between promenading pedestrians, and street vendors crying their wares. At dawn it was usually clear and quiet; the scattered elm trees the only source of sound and movement - a harsh breeze rattling through the last of their bronze foliage. It was then that Elizabeth caught sight of the familiarly flamboyant gold and mahogany carriage waiting outside - complete with white ostrich plumes fluttering in the late October wind. She rolled her eyes. Althea thought the carriage the height of fashion and status - to Elizabeth it was just an embarrassing display of wealth.
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose and grumbled. Rising before dawn appeared to be a Beckett family trait. “Shit,” she muttered. “What is she doing here?”
Downstairs in the foyer, the scullery maids and footmen that were already out of bed were unsuccessfully attempting to waylay her. The sound of their interception echoed through the hall and up the stairs, penetrating the doors to Elizabeth’s bedchamber.
The assumption of the various serving staff gathered downstairs was that Althea had arrived to visit her son. “I’m sorry madam, his Lordship departed some time ago,” someone said.
Althea scoffed. “Well then, it’s just as well I didn’t come here to see him, isn’t it?” she replied haughtily, and very loudly - she clearly had no intention of keeping her voice lowered for the benefit of those still fast asleep. “I’m here to see my daughter in law. I’d be grateful if you could inform her of my arrival.”
Elizabeth groaned; she hated the idea of being legally bound to Althea Beckett.
Hester, a young woman who had recently been installed as Elizabeth’s lady’s maid spoke up. Elizabeth knew it was her because she recognised her soft country twang. Hester had recently arrived from the west country. “Beg your pardon ma’am, but Lady Beckett hasn’t risen yet,” she protested valiantly. “Her fire hasn’t even been lit yet - it’s still far too early for tha’.”
“I’m well aware of the hour you stupid, stupid girl,” Althea snapped.
There followed the unmistakeable hollow thump-thump of heels moving forcefully up the stairs.
Hester chased her up the staircase. “Yer grace, please!” she called after her. “She’ll be fast asleep!”
Elizabeth rushed to her vanity. Her hair resembled an unkempt hay bale, and her skin still looked sallow after weeks spent inside, though it had developed a healthy pink flush for her overnight exertions. She quickly picked at and patted her tangled hair and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and although she had looked better (and yet had still managed to catch Althea’s scrutinizing hazel gaze) at least she was moderately dressed and not still sleeping nude beneath the sheets with her husband’s leavings still slick between her thighs.
She straightened when the doors flung open and Althea charged inside, followed by an apologetic Hester.
“I’m so sorry yer Ladyship! I said you wouldn’t ‘av risen yet, but she was very insistant.”
Bundled in sweeping layers of fox fur-lined grey velvet, Althea scanned the room - turning her head to and fro in a way that made her peppered brown wig of curls shudder. When she noticed Elizabeth’s pale outline standing sheepishly in the corner she clasped her gloved hands together, fell back on her heels and let out a short breath.
“Oh good you’re up,” she said.
Elizabeth nodded her head politely. “Althea,” she replied with a short curtsey.
Althea’s eyes flashed critically over Elizabeth’s creased shift and dressing gown. “…but not dressed. Oh.” she added disappointingly.
Elizabeth kept any rude comments to herself, there were a lot threatening to burst forth. “A pleasure to see you, as always,” she sighed, forcing a smile across her lips. “…and so early too.”
Althea nodded. “Well I’ve always been a firm believer in rising early. Only the elderly, infirm and women caught ‘in the family way’ should sleep late,” she drawled, pinching the fingertips of her gloves in an effort to remove them. “When I was your age I made a habit of being at my toilette by seven every day. Five during the summer,” she said, placing the fine kid gloves neatly on the chaise longue at the foot of the bed.
She strolled over to the large window and fiercely ripped open the damask drapes. Pale morning light flooded the room.
Elizabeth winced. “Oh, really.”
“Yes. I always admired the way my skin looked in the early morning light,” Althea continued thoughtfully, watching her reflection in the window as she stroked the weathered slope of her cheek with her fingers. Her lips twisted disagreeably at what she saw.
Elizabeth felt a change of subject necessary. “No Penelope today?” she asked, noticing the lack of dog writhing beneath her mother-in-law’s arm.
Althea waved her hand dismissively. “No. Good heavens, it’s far too early for her to be up and about!” she said as she fussed with the parted drapes. She frowned. “…Who chose this fabric? The colour’s a bit tired, don’t you think? And the pattern… more suited to a parlour than a bedroom, I should think.”
Elizabeth watched, bewildered, as Althea smoothed and arranged each fold and pleat the bunched fabric created until she satisfied that however hideous the fabric, at least they were tidy. After briefly stepping back to admire her work, she dusted her hands and set to her next task.
“Tea I think,” she announced, turning suddenly to Hester who was still hovering hopelessly in the doorway and absently fiddling with the hem of her apron. When she didn’t move right away, Althea groaned and clapped her hands. “Well don’t just stand there girl! Chop chop!”
Hester blinked. “Oh! Yes ‘course! Sorry ma’am,” she apologised, as she stumbled towards the door.
Althea tutted and shouted after her. “And get someone up here to light this damned fire, it’s freezing!”
“Certainly,” Hester replied, catching Elizabeth’s apologetic look as she left.
When she’d gone, Althea pulled a face. “Common as muck, that girl,” she sneered, chuckling cruelly. “Ghastly accent - I’ve never heard anything quite like it!”
Elizabeth let out a weary sigh and squeezed the bridge of her nose. She’d spent less than ten minutes in Althea’s company and she could already feel her patience beginning to strain. “Forgive me for speaking plainly, Althea, but may I ask the reason for your visit?” she asked, as firmly as she dared. “You sent no word of your impending arrival, and I’m certain that we made no arrangement.”
Althea’s gaze sharpened noticeably. “I think you’ll find, Elizabeth, that a mother needs no invitation to visit the home of her son.”
Elizabeth glared back at her. “I didn’t mean to offend,” she replied. “Only, a warning might have been polite - I mean of course for me to receive you better,” she added hastily, gesturing to her undressed state.
Althea’s painted lips curled shrewdly. “Quite,” she said, raising one of her pencilled eyebrows.
When Althea slowly lowered herself onto the chaise longue, Elizabeth took the opportunity to sit down herself. She crossed the room and settled into the small but comfortable blue easy chair opposite the chaise longue. When she lifted her cold feet and moved to tuck them beneath the warmth of her thighs and dressing gown, she was reprimanded by Althea who shook her head and tutted loudly until Elizabeth lowered them back onto the ice cold floor defeated.
“Now then, my dear. Tomorrow night is Lady Salisbury’s soirée,” Althea began, “…and, well I imagine you haven’t decided on a gown to wear yet. Anticipating this, I have come here to offer my services. And trust me, I have impeccable taste,” she announced proudly, untying her velvet travelling cloak and allowing it to slip from her shoulders.
Elizabeth glared suddenly at the gown lurking beneath. It wasn’t so much the colour - an arguably quite pretty shade of purple - but the fact that it was covered in lace frills, trims, bows and ruffles to the extent that she looked as if Althea had been attacked by a vengeful haberdasher. She smiled politely. “That’s… very kind of you, but actually I’ve already chosen a gown.”
Althea looked surprised. “Oh,” she replied, offended almost. “Well, may I see it?”
Elizabeth stood up and walked through a small side door into her dressing room where several large chests, an armoire and a tall cabinet stored her collection of clothes.
The dress she’d chosen had been one her favourites back in Port Royal. The cream coloured French robe, with gold embroidery and a bronze-buttoned bodice had been a gift from her father to replace the gown that had been ruined when she fell from the battlements during celebrations to commemorate James’ promotion to Commodore. She’d survived the fall thanks to Jack, but the gown unfortunately hadn’t - so her father had replaced it with a much nicer one. It was a little outdated now of course, yes, but still just as pretty as it had been.
As she removed the folded gown from the depths of a large chest and fingered the smooth, delicately woven fabric her stomach churned uncomfortably as she thought of her father.
Althea narrowed her eyes and tutted disapprovingly when Elizabeth emerged with the gown. “No,” she said.
Elizabeth huffed. “But what’s wrong with it?” she demanded, looking down at it lying limply across her arms.
“Everything!” Althea snorted, pursing her lips snobbishly. “The colour is wrong, the fabric is too plain, the fact that it’s a day dress and not an evening dress and although it may have adequately adorned a Governor’s daughter, it’s hardly fitting for Lady Beckett.”
Elizabeth sighed as she laid the dress on her unmade bed.
Althea shook her head despairingly. “I mean, which would you rather look like, Elizabeth? A Marquise or a Milkmaid? If you wear that frock, you’ll look like the latter,” she said as she rose from her seat. She waved her fingers. “Come along, let’s see if there’s not something better hiding in that room there.”
With an hour, Althea had ransacked the small dressing room and created a large multi-hued funeral pyre of satin and lace on the bedroom floor. Nothing seemed to live up to her high expectations. If the gown was the right style, it was made of the wrong fabric. If was the right sort of fabric, then it was the wrong shade. It was either too plain or too splendid. Some gowns made the pyre without even a glance; a brief brush of her aged hand across the length of the skirt was enough for Althea to decide that she didn’t like it. Soon, the coffers and trunks were all but empty except for the sprigs of dried lavender dropped inside to keep satin scoffing moths at bay.
“Well then, I can see no other option,” Althea declared as they sat sipping tea, “we’ll have to make a trip to the Strand.”
Elizabeth yawned into her cup.
“Close your mouth when you yawn, dear.”
Nine o’clock found them within the walls of the finest and most fashionable couturier’s on the Strand. Monsieur Lemoine had clothed both Queens and Contessa, Althea had assured Elizabeth as the carriage pulled up outside the large sash windows fronting the store, and his designs were much sought after by those who had the money to pay for them. Rows of rolls of pattered silks and satins decorated the wooden innards of the store, along with piles of intricate Italian lace, shoes, fans, hats and feathers and anything else that might adorn a fashionable lady. Without the time to make a new gown from scratch, Elizabeth was whisked away to try a ready-made piece. She was stitched into sack-backs and pulled into polonaises until her ribs hurt; all the while Althea reclined on a chaise looking at fabric samples and silk fans, lifting her head only to shake it. But finally, a dress was settled upon.
When Elizabeth appeared in an elegant looking sack-back of apricot satin, Althea was silent.
It was a little too loose and of a rather vintage style, but Elizabeth had decided that she liked it. She waited wearily as Althea frowned and tapped her chin; studying everything from the fly-lace and pearl trim, to the gold trim on the embroidered stomacher. Eventually, she sat back in her seat and hummed.
“Yes,” she said. “I think it will do.”
Monsieur Limoine’s assistant was relieved. “Excellent,” she sighed, flinging her tape measure around her shoulders like a shawl. “Thank goodness.”
“Of course it’s far too loose,” Althea insisted with a shrug. “It’ll have to be taken in. We want to highlight my daughter-in-law’s assets not hide them. And I’m not sure about that stomacher; it’s missing something,” she added. “Can’t you add some jewels to it or something? A little crystal to make it sparkle?”
The assistant drew in a deep breath and placed her hands on her narrow hips. “Of course, madam,” she replied genially.
Elizabeth stood in silence, pins digging into her shoulders and ribs.
Althea nodded. “Very good,” she said. “Of course we’ll need shoes and a fan to match… I assume you have something appropriate?”
“Yes madam,” she replied. “And how will madam be paying today?”
Althea narrowed her eyes. “Well on credit of course,” she answered, affronted.
The assistant pulled a face. “Credit madam?”
“Why yes!” Althea said. “Look, I’m sure your master’s establishment has the misfortune of attracting the occasional chatelaine eager to spend wages earned the night before, but ladies of quality do not pay with nor carry petty cash!”
The poor assistant bit her lip. “Of course madam, forgive me,” she apologised. “I’ll just go and have a look for some accessories.”
Althea watched as the assistant eagerly hurried away. She chuckled. “‘How will I be paying?’ The nerve!”
Elizabeth glared at her. “That was unnecessary,” she remarked, turning to a nearby mirror to study her reflection.
Althea sighed. “Oh hush, they have to learn,” she said. “Anyway, how is my son?”
“I hardly know. He’s been very busy,” Elizabeth replied, smoothing her hands across the bodice and impaling her finger on a pin in the process. “Ouch!” she gasped, sucking the pricked fingertip into her mouth.
“I assume you’re both finding the time for… oh, how can I put this delicately?” she said. She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice substantially. “Faire l’amour?”
Elizabeth spun around and stared at her, crimson painting her pale cheeks. She blinked several times. “What?”
Althea groaned. “Oh dear, I see Cutler hasn’t been testing your French.”
“I understood perfectly what you said, Althea,” Elizabeth scoffed, “I’m just shocked that you think it’s any of your business.”
Althea sent her a funny look. “But it is my business, my dear,” she replied, standing up. “My son may act as if his only obligation in life is to the Company and the welfare of our realm overseas, but I’m more than certain that he’s well aware of his responsibilities at home. His title requires an heir to inherit it.”
Elizabeth frowned at her. “Again, I fail to see why that’s any of your business.”
Althea stopped in front of her and smiled sourly. “A year of marriage, and still nothing to show for it?” she observed. “I wouldn’t be a good mother if I didn’t worry why that might be.”
Elizabeth scowled back at her. For a brief moment she thought about telling her the truth, but instead, she gritted her teeth and swallowed her secret. “Thank you for your concern,” she replied as politely as she could. “But again, it’s none of your business.”