A Pearl for My Mistress

At the end of the day, it was these stories that opened the brilliant new perspectives for her. Perspectives that lay as far from the gilded ballrooms and borrowed fans as they did from the world of gargoyles and draughts.

Lucy could still feel a dreamy smile on her lips when the door creaked behind her. These doors always creaked. On the one hand, it was irritating; on the other hand, though, it provided a sure warning against any unwanted intrusions.

There was no unwanted intrusion this time, though; it was just Hester coming in with a neat stack of clothes. Lucy felt a familiar warmth touching her heart when she saw the girl’s broad features. Hester’s eyes were filled with concentration.

There was a strange pleasure in observing Hester’s precise movements. They were now getting more and more assured, Lucy noticed, as she grew used to her work and her new life. The clumsiness Hester displayed in her first days – sometimes endearing, sometimes as irritating as the creaking doors – was all but gone now.

Lucy was quietly glad. It pained her to see this sweet girl growing rigid with discomfort.

If there was one person in this house whom Lucy wished no ill, it was Hester.

As the maid turned away from the wardrobe now, Lucy could clearly see how her eyes were ringed with red, her face pallid with fatigue.

‘You look quite exhausted,’ she said gently, fighting with the desire to come closer, to stroke the girl’s hair. ‘I hope it isn’t my doing?’

‘Actually, my lady …’ Hester’s white teeth suddenly flashed in a slightly mischievous smile ‘… I am afraid it is.’

‘Indeed?’ Lucy raised her eyebrows. ‘I can only hope you’ll forgive me, then. I certainly never wanted to give you a sleepless night.’

‘Then you shouldn’t have been writing so well.’

‘I apologize, then!’ Lucy couldn’t hold her laugh now. However, her eyes focused on Hester with the utmost earnestness. ‘And, if we speak seriously … did you really like it?’

‘I thought it was marvellous!’ Hester said, agitated. ‘I only wish you would’ve written more.’

***

‘Really?’ Lucy leaned forward eagerly, staring at her maid with unnerving attention. ‘And which part did you like most?’

‘I don’t know. I am not sure … I think I loved all of them.’

‘But if you think of it carefully?’ she persisted. ‘There must be some episodes you liked more than others.’

‘Well …’ Hester struggled. She plucked a hasty answer from the depths of her memory, if only to sate that ravenous demand in Lucy’s eyes. ‘I … I loved that chapter where she outwits the Spanish convoy.’

‘I knew it! That one was incredibly difficult to write, by the way,’ Lady Lucy said with a hint of relish. ‘I think I spent days inventing a way to get the heroine out of that corner.’

Now, when Lucy’s face was ablaze with happiness, Hester felt she could relax.

Almost.

‘I only wanted to ask …’ She hesitated.

‘Yes?’

‘I thought … well, might it be possible that you were inspired … at least partly …’

‘By the story of your ancestors from Granada?’ Lady Lucy asked plainly. ‘I was, yes. Of course I was. Although, to be honest, I’ve been just as inspired by you.’

‘By me?’ The dazed question left her lips before Hester could think of anything cleverer to say.

‘But of course!’ The young lady shrugged her shoulders, as if it was the most mundane observation in the world. ‘You really do look like you’ve come here straight from the streets of old Spain. It’s plain to see for anyone who would care to look. For instance, you have such golden skin …’

Lucy lowered her voice, and Hester was forced to step closer to hear her better.

‘Such enthralling dark eyes,’ she continued, ‘such lovely curls.’

She reached out, touching Hester’s hair, slowly moving one lock away from her brow.

Hester couldn’t see anything remarkable in her hair – sensibly cut short, as always – but she enjoyed the gesture. For the first time in her life, she wished her locks to be more unkempt, with more strands hanging out of place, so that Lady Lucy could repeat it.

‘You are too kind,’ she said quietly. ‘My curls are nothing special.’

‘Oh, but they are,’ Lucy said with transfixing softness, which turned Hester’s thoughts into a molten wax.

She was now touching Hester’s forehead; now her temple, now her cheek. Lucy’s fingertips were smooth to the touch, marble-smooth, marble-cold.

‘Ash-brown. The ashes of Granada. Your hair is the colour of burned cities …’

Hester stood, mesmerized, as the whisper turned into silken threads that bound her. She didn’t dare to move; she scarcely dared to breathe. She was afraid to unwittingly commit some error that would cause the marble-smooth, marble-cold fingers on her face to withdraw.

‘It is only a legend in the end,’ she murmured, too wary to speak louder. ‘The ashes of Granada.’

‘But it is not.’ Lucy shook her head slowly, a dreamy movement under water. ‘I believe it, and so should you. Your forebears did live in that city, the last stronghold of the fallen empire. They saw the legendary warriors marching out of the gates. They conversed with the wisest scholars from all over the Continent. Your ancestors wore silk, and gauze, and the tunics of the Arabs …’

Lucy was now standing precariously close to her; so close that Hester could feel the fleeting warmth of her breath. Then she leaned closer still, and the last words were whispered in Hester’s ear, and their heat almost scorched her.

Unwittingly, Hester leaned to her in turn, eager to be closer still, to feel it again, the warmth and the whisper and the touch.

***

Lady Lucy, however, said no more. She looked at the dark girl with strange, glazed eyes, which gleamed as if with an early fever. They stood in precarious silence, gazing into each other’s faces, each eager to read something in the other, but each unable to interpret it.

‘A Moorish girl,’ Lucy said at last, softly and quietly, never letting her gaze wander from Hester’s eyes. ‘Isn’t that what you are? My Moorish girl?’

‘I suppose I am,’ Hester replied, smiling faintly.

The spell was broken, the silken threads torn apart. Almost unwillingly, Lady Lucy took a step back.

‘I’m glad you liked my writing,’ she said, her voice back to normal. ‘Would you care to read anything else?’

‘Is there anything else?’ Hester asked, breathing slowly as if to calm herself down.

‘Oh, there’re some drafts left. Some are unfinished, I’m afraid.’

Not that many of her drafts had survived to this moment. Lucy remembered rereading some of her early stories, some of her childish attempts at grand novels, and dying of embarrassment. She remembered then feeding them to the golden flame and watching them burn – a pang of sadness in her heart mixed with a dose of relief. Now, at least, they were safely buried, and no one would know about their silliness. About her silliness.

***