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Mark of London - Chapter 13

Published at 12th of January 2019 07:12:04 AM


Chapter 13

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After they had finished eating, they went into Mark's study, and each wrote out a short letter. Elizabeth's said only, "Dearest Mama and Papa, I am safe and well, and currently in London. I plan to return in two weeks when I will explain everything. Love, Elizabeth." Mark wrote a longer missive to his mother.

"Where is your Mama?" asked Elizabeth curiously.

"In Bath currently, I believe," was his answer. He explained that other than making sure to write more than three lines at least once a month, at her insistence, when they were not in residence together he didn't really keep track of his mother.

Elizabeth was amused by this stricture.

Mark put his seal on both letters, and left them on his desk for Andrew to send out in the morning mail. Elizabeth eyed them dubiously. Mark arched an inquiring brow. "I think your seal may say more than I wrote," she said doubtfully.

His lips twitched, "I expect it shall if it is noticed," he agreed.

Guiding his bride upstairs, he drew her through the double doors at the top, "The family quarters," he said, indicating the row of doors along the passageway. "And here is the bath room, you can bathe everyday if you like," he added, drawing her into a room across the hall, with an enormous porcelain tub. To one side a monstrous assembly rose above the tub, with a spigot held over one edge of it. "An automatic water heater," he explained enthusiastically.

Elizabeth had never heard of such a thing. Mark explained it's function briefly, you pulled this cord to set off the fire, and when the clockwork wound down, only the pilot lamp remained lit. The fire should never be set off if the tank weren't nearly full of water he warned. But a servant could pump water directly into the tank from a pipe on the outside of the house, instead of carrying it up the stairs. The gas line also ran up the exterior, entering the house only at the point of use, for safety.

Elizabeth gazed at her future husband thoughtfully, not displeased exactly, but surprised to learn of his enthusiasm for modern innovations.

There was another bathing room, set between the servant's and guest's quarters, for the use of both, he told her. Though the grooms who lived above the stables still bathed from wash basins as they'd refused obstinately, and to a man, to have dangerous gas works attached to the stables he added with disappointment.

Another modern water closet occupied the small adjoining room. The next door led to his own dressing room, Mark said, and the room across the hall belonged to his valet. The valet in question presented himself curiously, and was introduced as Ford Harley.

"Harleigh," he pronounced it, "at your service, my lady," Harley said.

The door after led into a large bedroom. It was oddly arranged, with the bed pushed up against the wall to the right, washstand crammed up next to it, between bed and small door. The left-hand wall was bare of furniture beyond a sole chair and a painting of some pretty countryside scene, and a matching small door, that presumably led to Mark's dressing room. The opposite wall held only a long set of heavy draperies.

The valet still stood behind them questioningly. Mark turned to him and asked, "Do you think my lady's clothes might be washed and dried before morning, as she currently has only the one set?"

Harley said it would be no problem, and Mark told him that he'd leave the clothes in the dressing room to be dealt with shortly. The valet nodded and politely withdrew. Mark then turned to Elizabeth and undressed her for a second time that day. She took down her braid.

"Your hair is still wet?" he asked with surprise.

"It never dries within a day if it's braided," she replied shyly. "I usually sleep with it loose."

Mark carried her clothes into his dressing room, leaving her standing uncertain and naked near the bed. He returned shortly, in a loose dressing gown, carrying a second over his arm, to find her still standing there. He removed his own gown and laid both on the lone chair. Then he climbed into the bed, and held out his arms to her.

Elizabeth was hesitant however, about joining Mark in the bed.

"What's wrong," he asked, puzzled by her reluctance. "Are you," he paused, "do you not wish that I should have you again tonight? If you're too tired, or feeling unwell, it's alright."

She shook her head. "It's just, I hope I won't kick, or snore too much," she said, remembering bruises acquired from sisters who had vehemently denied such restless sleeping habits, "I'm unused to sleeping with anyone except when my sisters and I are asked to double up when there are too many guests, or we are guests. So I'm not sure..." she trailed off.

"Come," he insisted. Mark tucked her up against him when she entered the covers. "If we find that we cannot sleep restfully together, you may have your own room in the future, but I would prefer not."

"And are you, going to have me again tonight?" she asked softly, cheeks burning.

"I would like to," he replied, "but if you are too tired, or still feeling sick, we'll just sleep."

"I feel well enough at the moment," she admitted.

So he did.

And they slept soundly enough.

Elizabeth woke from dreams of Mark filling her in the places she'd never realized were empty, and a wave of nausea sent her darting away from him suddenly, to the edge of the bed, where she vomited on the floor, though it was mostly bile. "I'm sorry," she said miserably.

"I think I'm the one that should be sorry," he replied ruefully.

She looked back at him, startled, and uncertain and saw that he was fully engorged. He looked rather embarrassed that he was still very obviously aroused but held his arms out to her. She returned to his embrace shyly.

After, he cleaned up the mess she'd made himself, apologized once more, and slid back under the covers to hold her for awhile.

"Alright then, shall we dress and breakfast?" he asked after some time had been spent in cuddling.

Elizabeth answered, "I don't mind sitting with you while you breakfast?"

"Right," he replied, wincing a little, for he'd forgotten what she'd said about not being able to eat breakfast despite her display of nausea.

He hopped out of the bed and shrugged into his dressing gown, holding the second out for her to step into. He wrapped it about her and stood a moment, cuddling her within his arms. Then he guided her to the right-hand door, "This is your dressing room," he said opening it. "Feel free to make any changes you wish," he paused, and then specified, "both here and in the bedroom."

Her pearls already lay atop the broad mirrored vanity table, and her clothes were hung in a lonely fashion, in the large open-doored wardrobe beside it. "I'll grab a comb for you from mine," he said, and left her there. He returned in a moment, to find her already covered in her chemise and the heavy woolen shift, attaching her stockings to her garters. He handed her the comb and the small handful of pins from beside the washbasin.

He helped her lace up the light gown, when she pulled it on. Then left her to put up her hair, while he dressed. Elizabeth met him in the bedroom, "Mark," she said a little plaintively.

He arched an inquisitive eyebrow at her.

"Do you think my boots were left in Essex?" she asked.

"I wouldn't have expected so," he replied, and stepped back into his dressing room to inquire.

Harley followed Mark out in a moment, Elizabeth's boots in hand. "I took them as my Lord's boots," he told the couple.

Mark eyed his valet dubiously. Elizabeth planted her foot alongside Mark's and looked down. She laughed, and Mark looked too. Ruefully he acknowledged that their feet were very close in size.

"I'm just glad they're found." Elizabeth said of her boots, "They're the most comfortable pair I've ever owned."

"Are they now?" asked Harley.

Elizabeth nodded.

"Where'd you have them made up? It was the quality as much as anything that led me to think they were my Lord's, taken from storage perhaps, as they are a bit worn," Harley said to his new Lady.

Elizabeth realized, looking more closely, that her boots had been oiled and polished and looked better than they had all summer. "They were made up at Bessom's," she told the valet, indicating a London cobbler of moderate fame.

Harley looked at his Lady consideringly, "The most comfortable you've owned?" he asked for confirmation.

She nodded.

"Why don't you let me keep them, and I'll take them back to Bessom's, and order you more shoes, and perhaps see about having this pair resoled." The valet suggested, "Perhaps a pair of those short walking boots ladies wear and a couple of sets of sturdy slippers?"

Mark thought this an excellent idea and helped his valet persuade Elizabeth. She suggested a natural light brown for the walking boots and a dark green for one pair of slippers, cream for the other.

"What name will your measurements be under?" Harley asked her at the last.

"Elizabeth Dowen, but," she added thoughtfully, "they will likely be held under papa's account, Lord Justice of Appeals Matthew Dowen."

Harley drew in a deep breath, then thanked his Lady for the information and gave his Lord a significant look. Lord Waverly shrugged with a wry expression.

"Hope we won't be expecting runners before the wedding," the valet muttered nearly inaudibly as he turned away.




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