“You hide desires beneath your gaiety. He came well in your mouth? He came?”
“Sperm-guzzling were my lips and a fine bubbling made of it. He could have laid me then upon my back- but no. How lewd, how inappropriate, to have my face to his!”
“Hah! A fine curry of emotions you make within yourself. I know not whether you are truly shy or lewd within your shyness, as some are.”
“Those you spur to wicked deeds-whence do they come?”
“From good families all and well accounted for. I will have no other. The first two you encountered here are but servants. As to the marquee, the strains of vulgarity in my display invites. The paintings without are crude-are meant to be. There is a strange allure in such. Emboldened by wine, the gentry come within to see the ladies at their posings. Thereafter, choosing carefully among pairs as I do, one sits to conversations serious. The pale, the pretty, the unchaperoned are brought within and given sweet liqueurs. It is taken first to be a merriment, an innocence. Few have had their drawers down to it ere I tame them. In loose and idle talk the manner of their ways is quick uncovered. To one I might say how pretty it would be to see her pose-to another that I desire to see her petticoat or drawers. I jest, of course, or so appear to do to hide the blushes on their cheeks. Too timid to depart, too awed to speak, they listen to my words, cast glances at their kin, seek rescue but none comes. Implacability here has it pursuits. I have my house and thereto they are brought. Many are prim and quiet; some smile uncertain. To allay maternal hearts it will have been put about that they are taking the waters at Tunbridge Wells or some such. I am not cruel with them, my love. Hitherto they have been brought to kneel for no good purpose other than of prayer. I fondle, coddle, urge and spur them on until the fleshly rod is planted in.”
“Do you tie their legs?”
My eyes sparkle. I appear to have a scent of the game.
“Would you have it so? What devilry is ofttimes in you, Laura! I have my systems-know no failures yet. A girl so mounted might retain resentments. The penis knows no conscience, nor the quim. The latter first is teased and tingled, knows its stimulations. Before they receive the leaping jets of come, they must believe themselves to have surrendered.”
“I did not struggle.”
“You are passive and active, too. Such pleases me. If all came as you, I would be begging now for crusts. What an utterness of boredom! Would that I had you as a monitor!”
“As what?” I sip and smile at her above the glass's rim.
“To monitor the girls in their becomings, assuage their doubts and have them put to it. Of occasion, only, for it pleasures me to do so myself, to hear their clouding cries, observe their eyes.”
“Mine you may not observe. I have my privacies. Be certain of that, despite my confessions.”
“As you will, though at times you will favour my ticklings. I shall bring a pretty feather to your quim and make you writhe. What's o'clock?”
“Near half past four.”
My uncle answers, entering. The question not having been addressed, conveyed nor posted to him yet, he snatches at it even so in effort to inveigle. There is straw upon his trousers. Heavily ignored, he sits and wilts. I receive Amelia's carte de visile, perceive her home to be in Kensington. Such intelligence is already in my uncle's possession, I believe. Having sat, he rises, hopeful speaks.
“We may see you tomorrow, Madam?”
“At eight of the evening, shall we say? Bring her, of course.”
She is gone. Susan, full dressed, appears and leads us out.
Her face is the face of one who has lost her dreams.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
When there is imminence of hope one does not always speak of it. Better to enchant the mind with dreams than wait upon reality. Hence my uncle on returning broods and holds himself most properly within himself. I have no dreams as yet but let the fragments of the day drift through my mind.
“Let your thoughts fall as blossoms fall. Look straight ahead and not upon the ground, for there their agitations will disturb your mind.”
So father spoke.
“And when they cease?” I answered, “cease to fall?”
“Then they are gone-are gone.” With that he, too, was gone. So brief our conversations sometimes were. I believe them of a purpose to have been-to his intent, that I might store the grain but hunger not for harvest. Or I cogitate too much, perhaps, for even thoughts of thoughts should sometimes cease.
Upon telling my aunt of his saying, she replied, “It is as if there is a pebble on your shoulder, finely balanced. You endeavour to forget that the pebble is there, but ever remember it, and so your mind turns round and round, the squirrel in a cage.”
“How then shall I forget the pebble on my shoulder?” I asked, though mindful that the parable was lost on me. At that she brushed my shoulder, smiled, and said, “You see, it is gone!”
I am a stranger here. I have no one to ask.
We are late upon our returning, having supped at an inn amid a harrying of folk from Epsom, dusty in their coming, calling for tankards. “You shall not fuck me tonight. I am not your whore!” So was heard from a table and all heads turned, then bent again to plates and blushed or grinned. I neither blushed nor grinned but looked and saw a young girl dart outside. Pursued, she stood, her shoulders trembling on. A man of military mien held awkward to her side.
“There was a misunderstanding of it, Kate. The words were not ill meant.”
“I am not a whore-am not!”
Calls from the table made and they returned.
“Come on, lovey, he meant nothing by it.” So was said.
I rose, my uncle following with doubtful air, fumbling for handkerchief instead of sword.
“You should take more care of her.” So my words were addressed. Idle and bluff, all sat and hapless stared.
“It was meant in jest, Madam.” The soldier's stiff reply.
“Have a care that your jests do not find you out.”
We were gone then and my uncle happy upon it.
“She was not a whore, was not. I knew it by her look,”-was made defenceless by my protestation.
“All women have their price, is it not said?” His smile was eager, then became forlorn, died its small death upon the carriage floor. Coming at last upon my hotel I am asked of the morrow.
“We shall see, perhaps. I may give thought to it.”
“It was an arrangement Laura. Acceptances were given.”
“By whom indeed? You may ask me again, ask me again. Goodnight.”
The one I have forgotten waits, furtive by my door, hand huddled to her coat, the night upon her mouth.
“I thought you were not coming, Miss-ever coming. He waits downstairs. I told him of your coming. A great pleasure he will make of it, he says.”
“Has he not jousted with you yet, in some far linen room, behind the arras?”
“The what, Miss? No, he hasn't done nothing, not yet.”
Her eyes contain anxiety. I should not jest upon her morrow's meal.
“Take a sovereign, Lucy-here. I am tired upon it tonight. Say nothing to him save that I am indisposed. Mark that he pays you for your time.”
“Yes, Miss. I'm sorry for it. I shall see you again, shall I not?”
“Or shan't you-yes-perhaps. One never knows the way of the world. You will bathe me again. Of that I am certain.”
“I would love to do that, Miss. Your limbs are like satin.”
“You prefer me to him, I believe. Perhaps we are of the same tribe. Have you had knowings of Charlotte?”