Page 1 of Burying Venus

Chapter One

Legs aching after a gruelling day in the kitchen, Dermot urged himself up the last step. The spiral staircase, a contraption reserved solely for servants, would’ve left their betters stumbling to their deaths. Dermot and his ilk bore it every day, sometimes with plates in hand. It beggared belief, much like the partition Lord Stanley commissioned to ensure it wasn’t visible from the dining room table.

Dermot stepped into the room, going straightaway to the table out of habit. It was, as usual, smeared with the muck that seeped through noblemen’s fingers. The cloth was beyond repair, as were the measly scraps he might have eaten himself. Pursing his lips, he set to the task of grabbing one plate and throwing it on top of another until a gasp sounded from the far side of the room.

‘I seem to have lost track of time,’ came the sweet voice. It was one Dermot knew well. Oftentimes it sang to him in dreams, whispering obscenities.

Dropping another plate onto the pile before he could stop himself, Dermot looked up to see Lord Stanley’s youngest son. The young man sat in an alcove overlooking the sea, book in hand and lips parted in surprise. Never looked a servant in the eyes before, no doubt.

So taken aback as to forget his place, Dermot stood stupefied, head unbowed. He’d come up the stairs every day since starting and never had the family remained.

‘I haven’t seen you before. Tell me, what part do you play in the running of this castle?’ Aubrey said.

Shamed by the blow, Dermot steadied himself. ‘I’m nobody, Lord Aubrey. A mere scullion.’ Seeing the boy incline his head, he went on, ‘A servant in the kitchens. Though I do other work as well.’ He’d no desire to say he spent most of the day scrubbing floors and emptying chamber pots.

‘I see.’ Aubrey paused, considering. ‘You’re one of the native people, aren’t you? I hadn’t thought we employed any into our service.’

‘I am a native, Lord Aubrey. The only one with a place,’ Dermot said. He looked ahead, not daring to admire Aubrey’s slender build. The coloniser had his nation’s proud history written into his bones. Conquests wrung luxuriant black curls and even darker eyes; the last scream of some poor woman etched into this lad.

‘How did you come to be here?’ Aubrey asked.

Stifling some quip about his mother’s proclivities, Dermot said, ‘My father was one of your countrymen, Lord Aubrey. He paid for a tutor to teach me the language. His connections led me here.’ Though no man of good breeding would find his son, even a bastard, so menial a job.

Aubrey’s long fingers brushed his book’s binding. ‘Do you ever wish you were somewhere else?’

The question was unexpected. It bore no resemblance to the incubus of his imaginings, so Dermot stayed silent.

‘Somewhere beyond these shores. The violent waves, the terrible wind. A place with palaces like you read about in novels, not dull and grey, but colourful and open,’ Aubrey said, looking expectantly into Dermot’s eyes. ‘Where the people might be kinder.’

Bewilderment lashed across Dermot’s face. He hadn’t realised lordlings had fantasies of their own, never mind the drivel about palaces. If Aubrey was unhappy sitting pretty in his tower, he’dbe moved to tears by the gruelling work that made up Dermot’s day.

‘I shouldn’t be troubling you,’ Aubrey said, getting to his feet and dusting himself off. ‘My apologies, I didn’t even ask for your name.’

Dermot gawked before an unmistakable screech brought his dream to a halt. Béchard, the lout, shouting from the kitchen about the plates.

Aubrey’s hands went to his mouth. The young man’s first taste of foul language, perhaps. He clutched the book to his chest and made for the door.

‘Dermot!’ he called from the far side of the room, stacking plates quicker than Béchard swore. ‘My name, Lord Aubrey. Pleased to have met you.’

Harried as he was, he was helpless as Aubrey graced him with a smile. Very much unlike the tempter his mind conjured, seducing him in all manner of places.

After another howl from the kitchen, Dermot wrenched the plates into his arms and rushed downstairs as quickly as he could without breaking his neck. Why a spiral deathtrap had been fashioned for the servants’ quarters, he couldn’t imagine. Perhaps it amused the lords of yesteryear to send workers hurtling down. Aubrey’s brothers would’ve made a game of that, so infamous were they for their cruelties.

‘Bloody imbecile, you are!’ Béchard shouted, scrubbing a pot raw. ‘Take the grime off with your tongue, did you?’

Dermot lumbered to the table, careful of Lord Stanley’s plates. The family had been dining with the bishop and that meant disposing of a peacock’s entrails. A veritable feast that called for all the tools in Béchard’s armoury. He mixed the sand and vinegar and got to cleaning, thinking of Lord Aubrey all the while.

‘Dermot!’ Will called.

Shifting a little, Dermot found Will with the peacock’s head in his hands, poised to perform some trickery. ‘Playing with your prick in our good lord’s dining room, were you?’

Will, as always, made the beak move as if by its own volition. He put on a girlish voice as he did so, though Dermot found his play unsettling and sad.

‘Put that accursed thing down and start on the pots,’ Béchard said, rage gone out of him. Will had always been his favourite. ‘I pity the poor girl your eyes land on, Dermot.’

Before he could think of a retort, an almighty crash came from behind, followed by hysterical laughter. As expected, Dermot turned to find Stephen flat out. Will’s quarry could’ve bested each of them were he an ordinary man and not feeble-minded as some speculated.

‘Get up, stupid brute!’ Béchard cried.