Serving at the Cotillion
by
Gypsy deWilde
Smashwords Edition
Serving at the Cotillion
Copyright © 2010 by Gypsy deWilde
ISBN: 978-1-4523-2354-1
As the new maid at the plantation, Meg wasn’t sure what the party at the Steadman Cotillion would bring in the way of duties. It sounded exhausting. A morning brunch, an afternoon tea, and a formal dance lasting until the wee hours were part of the planned festivities. Serving at the cotillion sounded pleasurable. Especially if she were called upon to privately serve Master Bartholomew of Steadman Hall.
Serving at the Cotillion
Abigail Steadman, matriarch of Steadman Hall, fanned herself and leaned to whisper to her best friend, “See the maid over there? The one serving old Missus Chapman?”
Meredith Beaumont squinted in the direction Abigail indicated. “The new girl? With the large...?” The maid in question sported a fairly large bosom barely restrained by her tight dress front as she reached forward with a heavy silver pitcher to pour mint tea.
“Precisely. I do believe my little brother, Bartholomew, is quite smitten with her. He doesn’t think I know, but there’s not much goes on here that escapes my notice,” Abigail admitted.
“But a maid? He wouldn’t,” Meredith proclaimed, seeming quite shocked at the notion. As if her husband didn’t chase all the young maids at their house.
Abigail patted her hand. “There now, dear, no need to get all bothered. He may dally with her a bit, but he knows his duty. You must admit she has certain...attributes that do beckon to a warm-blooded male. But he’ll soon tire of her and find a decent girl to wed. He must produce a male heir to carry on the family name, after all. And time is running out. He’ll turn thirty his next birthday.”
“Abigail, I know it is a bit late, but why don’t you marry? You have surely done your duty to Steadman Hall after all these years.”
“Nonsense. If I marry I would cease to be a Steadman. And I’ll not have a man owning me and ordering me about or trying to take me away from my home. No, that is not for me, dear Meredith. I’m well satisfied with things just as they are.”
Both ladies sat back in their chairs and sipped their tea as they watched the younger guests play croquet on the lawn. Abigail allowed her mind to wander to her last encounter with the stable manager. With a self-satisfied smile, she fanned herself harder in the heat of the afternoon. No, she didn’t need a husband when she could have her use of any of the men on the plantation to satisfy her physical needs and she remained the one who did the ordering about.
Abigail drained her glass and looked for that new maid. Now where had she gotten herself off to?
* * *
Margaret Daniels, now known as Meg to all and sundry at Steadman Hall, entered through the kitchen door to refill the huge metal tea pitcher. Nigh onto exhausted, she’d worked steadily from dawn till dusk for two weeks and she’d serviced Master Bart every time he’d beckoned as part of her new household duties. That thought brought a tired smile to her face. Then preparing for this entertaining had fair finished her off. Meg dropped onto a stool and waited for Sheila, the cook’s helper, to finish chipping ice and refill the pitcher.
“I hears the Master hain’t touched nary a lass since he’s been keepin’ ye busy,” Sheila volunteered with a grin. “We’re all a wondering, is he as big as some says, when he’s...you know?”
“Bigger,” Meg told her and gave a dreamy sigh. That man was hung like a stud horse and knew how to pleasure a woman with it, too. “Think of a doorknob stuck to the end of a rolling pin and that will give you a good reckoning.”
Sheila’s mouth dropped open and she stopped to stare wide-eyed at Meg as the mental image of it played with her mind. “Meg, how do you...? Does it hurt?” She finally whispered. “I fair thought I’d like me a turn at him, but I think I’ve changed me mind.”
“At first, it was uncomfortable, but I’ve gotten used to him. My husband was a big man, too.” Meg slid off the stool and whispered in Sheila’s ear as she reached for the pitcher, “I can take most of him if he takes his time. And enjoy every smidgen.”
Cook yelled out, “Get busy, girls. No time for dawdlin’ when the Missus has guests. Go back to yer servin’ there, Meg, and quit fillin’ Sheila’s ear with nonsense.”
Meg giggled and filled the pitcher as Sheila blushed and chunked away at the ice block again.
As Meg reached the edge of the back lawn where the tables and chairs were set up in the shade for the guests, Simon stepped forward to block her path.
“Miss Meg, I wuz told to send you to the stable with tea fer the Master. He’s a waitin’ there fer ye. I’ll take that pitcher on to the other maid.” Simon refused to meet her eyes as he took the large container from her hands and hurried away. All the servants knew what it meant when the Master requested for her to bring him tea.
Meg went back to the kitchen to fetch a glass and pitcher for the Master. Just thinking about what was coming had her throbbing in anticipation. A widow who sorely missed the pleasures of the marriage bed, Meg had been pleasantly surprised to learn her duties included obeying Master Bartholomew in all things. He taught her that on her very first day. Such things as pleasured her too, at least so far. She found she’d become fair needful of him.
Meg eagerly made her way along the path to the stable, wondering where and how it would happen this time. And whether he would be fast or take his time. He did so enjoy tormenting her and driving her nearly mad with wanting, making her beg and plead before he would give her what she needed. The man could be near to cruel and she loved every second of it.
* * *
Entering the stable, Meg saw several men milling about and horses being led. She frowned in confusion. This couldn’t be right. Master Bart wouldn’t ask for his special tea here, with all the commotion. She turned to leave but heard her name called.
“Meg. Here now, bring my drink. Don’t run off. I have something to show you.”