Phillip was in an odd mood: unable to concentrate on paperwork, or his extensive library, he had tried riding his mood away. However, the sight of Jack, labouring over the horses, had brought back the tumult of feelings that writhed inside him. He was losing Mary: what had started as a casual dalliance with an available housemaid had turned into something Phillip had only experienced once before. A woman who met his desires and exceeded them: a woman in whom passion flowed, who was driven by her desires, who needed him as much as he needed her. But he knew that this was hopeless, with his wife and daughter back his life would be curtailed. He would have to give Mary to Jack and try to forget about her. The couple could be married and move far away, away from temptation.
On the day of his wife's return, the entire household was dressed in their best uniform. Standing to attention on the broad steps leading up to the entrance hall of the House they made a brave show. Mr Barlow, the impressive and stately butler stood waiting to greet the mistress. It was his right to open the door of the carriage for them and escort her to the hall where her husband, the Master, stood waiting. Mary, sunk in depths of misery, was waiting in line with the rest of the maids. She knew she had no right to the attentions of their master. She knew that she was lower than dirt, that she was only a servant. But over the last few months she had been closer to him than anybody else in her short life. She knew that their association had started due to a temporary lust on his part. But this had developed, and now she didn't know what to do. As a grown woman, she should have known her own mind, but she was confused. She loved Jack: he adored her, he knew of her sexual drive and how to satisfy her; he knew of her relationship with the Master and that hadn't bothered him: indeed, he had taken part himself, and talked of this frequently. But she didn't want to give up her relationship with Phillip; he satisfied a need in her, a need to be dominated and controlled, a need to be forced. She sighed heavily, confused and miserable.
The carriage drew close, and stopped in a shower of gravel, the horses sweating in the summer haze.
The mistress descended, a stiff and formal figure in a high-necked matronly gown of dove-grey silk and taffeta. Mr Barlow welcomed her home, and she nodded condescendingly. Her daughter, slim and vital, pushed her way out of the carriage. Her long blonde hair coming loose, she ran up the steps to the house, ignoring the rules of decorum, and bypassing the servants.' Where's my papa?' she cried, her aristocratic tones ringing through the hall. Phillip stepped forward, his heart contracting at the sight of this, his only offspring, so lovely and so young. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. Then, suddenly mindful of her manners in front of the Baroness, she drew back and dipped a perfect curtsy. 'How do you do, father?' she asked, the dimpling of her cheek the only sign that she was resisting a strong temptation to giggle.
He looked down at her, her bright blonde hair trailing down her shoulders and back, and then stood back as she looked up at him. Her wide, trusting, deep blue eyes held nothing but love and adoration as she gazed at him, and he was struck by the feeling that he had been looked at this way before, by a woman with a similar face, a similar youthful body, and the same deep blue eyes.
Then he knew. He knew what had been troubling him for the last few months, knew what had made him connect with a servant normally so far beneath him that she should have been nothing to him, but who had managed to take over his dreams.
In shock, he took a step back. What had he done? He was stunned at the implications of his actions over the last few months, what he had done?
His daughter, Victoria, named in honour of the Queen, did not realise that anything was amiss. She took hold of her father's hand and began regaling him with stories from London, of the handsome young beaux who had pressed their suit and asked her to dance at the many Balls she had attended, of the receptions she and the Baroness had been invited to and how much she had enjoyed London and all it's diversions.
Phillip, his mind awhirl, was only required to join the monologue with an occasional nod or murmur of interest. He was trying to rid his mind of images of another young woman spread beneath him, her knees parted, her sex glistening with juices of arousal, panting for him to take her. He tried to forget about the times in which he had driven his cock deep into her, sliding into her velvet lined sex or her most secret entrance, listening to her moans of arousal. Remembering the times in which he had encouraged other men to take her while he watched, revelling in her desires, he almost groaned: what had he done? He tried to rationalise his feelings: he had had no way of knowing who she was, what she represented. She was simply a maid who had enjoyed his advances.
Later that evening, after the family had been reunited, the master returned to his study for a moment's peace. What was he to do? Mary didn't know anything: she was an innocent in all of this.
The next day, he summoned Mary to his study. Mr Barlow had passed on the order, surprised that the Master would take the risk now that the mistress was home.
