The Beginnning
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July: Mr. Fenwick’s Book
Stella
"Madam?"
Raising himself on one elbow, my husband motioned for me to come closer. I obeyed, bringing my face close to his, so that his lips rested gently against my forehead.
"What was it you wished to ask me about?”
“Um—no, nothing,” he muttered, confirming in my mind that there was, indeed, something.
“Chellibi,” I whispered sweetly into his ear, tickling the edge of it as I spoke, “do tell me, my love.”
He held me closer, breathless, planting soft kisses along my neck and finally, burying his face in the crook of it.
“What is it, William?”
”Well,” he pulled away from me, still hiding his eyes. “There is something. I have wanted—I have been of a mind lately—“ He colored, obviously shamed by something.
“What is it?!” I was worried now.
“Well. Estellica,” he finally gathered enough composure to look me in the face. “There is one thing that I have dreamed—fantasized about.”
“Fantasized?” I whispered, looking up at him, drawing one nail against my lower lip; he sighed torturously and looked away.
“Yes—in fact, I saw it in a dream, recently, and woke up rather, um—excited.”
“Well, well!” I sat back, quizzically, enjoying his embarrassment. “And what, pray tell, was that?”
He was now positively crimson. I took pity on him.
“Is it in the book?” I asked. He nodded. “Well, show me, then.”
It was most endearing to me that my husband, whose privilege in our bedroom no-one could doubt, was so timid in pressing his rights with me. William took the book Mr. Fenwick gave him off the bed stand, flipped through it furiously and then finally stuck it my hands, averting his eyes.
“Here,” he said, “this.”
I should have known; previously, I had noticed these pages and had looked at them with curiosity, but had assumed that things of this sort were not regularly practiced among married couples. That I mentioned to William, who would have grown even more mortified had it been possible.
“But Stella,” he murmured, finally, “who is to say what is proper and improper between two loving people?”
This was rather amazing, coming from my usually reticent husband. Inside, I had to agree with him; on the surface, I took an opportunity to torture him.
“Well, then,” I said, flipping nonchalantly through The Book. “This is what you want me to do, sir. Pray tell, how long have you wanted this?”
“Since I first saw this—um, illustration,” he pointed to a particularly explicit picture in The Book.
Flipping a page, I read aloud. “ ‘Should be practiced with care, as injuries are liable to result from improper use of teeth…’ hm,” I said, as if to myself, “you certainly are a brave man, sir, if you have no reservations about giving yourself to me so completely…”
“I trust you shan’t do me any harm,” he breathed, his voice hoarse.
“What of this: ‘By the wife, can be perceived as a perversion, and can even serve as grounds for divorce!’ And you should have me do something like this! Tsk, tsk.”
“Stella, please,” he whispered pleadingly, “Do not torment me, my love. Refuse me, but do not torment me.”
Having thrown one last desperate look at The Book, I took a deep breath and pushed him back on the pillows.
“When,” I said slowly, as my lips slowly started tracing their way down his chest and stomach, eliciting a faint groan, “have I ever refused you, William?”
It was certainly new; it was definitely interesting. Though it was somewhat uncomfortable, the reaction that it produced in him was well worth any inconvenience I might experience. Almost immediately after I began pleasuring him, his hands found my head and buried themselves in my hair. In wanton abandon, they guided me, as his moans of pleasure became louder and more urgent.
The conclusion, when it came, was not unexpected; I had been reading the unmistakable sings his body gave me and had tried my best to prepare for it. It was rather disconcerting to me: I was at a loss what to do next. What, after all, was the proper etiquette for such activities? Not knowing if I should excuse myself or simply continue with my activity and take what I had been offered, I hesitated, but his hands, entangled in my hair, left me no choice. And so I drank of him as of a fountainhead.
Some time later, William raised me into his embrace and planted a passionate kiss on my lips.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he murmured, cradling me in his arms. He seemed all unraveled, deeply moved, profoundly grateful.
“Could I—“ he whispered softly into my hair. “Could I do the same for you, my love?”
“For me? I did not realize that that was at all pleasant for the ladies—“
He searched in the sheets and produced The Book, which I had carelessly tossed there earlier. Flipping to a page, which he had, evidently, studied previously, my husband read to me.
“ ‘Particularly pleasurable to a woman is the technique of, um”—never mind what it’s called—but it is quite aptly illustrated right here, on page two hundred and sixty-four. Shan’t you take a look, love?”
I looked and felt myself color; to allow a man to take such liberties with me! I had laughed at my husband, but even after what has just transpired between us—after I had accepted him fully and tasted his essence on my lips—there were things, which made me blush.
“Well?” he inquired quietly, slowly raising my chin with one finger. “May I make love to you, Kerida?”
There could be no harm in trying, I reasoned; after all, I could always ask him to stop, if what he did proved to be disagreeable. He took my silence as assent; gently forcing me down on the bed, he knelt at my side. I closed my eyes and allowed him to have his way with me.
He took his time; his hands and lips paid homage to all the parts of my body, starting with my mouth and going down. When he finally reached his goal, tenderly prying my legs apart and kneeling in between, the gentle pressure of his lips and tongue was a welcome respite from the limbo of unfulfilled desire, where his earlier caresses had cast me. The Book spoke the truth: I had never known a pleasure so exquisite. It was quite different from the usual sensations of our congress, however delightful; it grew and swelled and pulsated like a giant wave; it robbed me of any remaining pride, making me moan and beg for more. To which, I must say, he gladly and readily acquiesced, driving me more and more wild.
The wave rocked me and swayed me I know not how long, and then, when I least expected it, it finally gave way. It threw me, and I fell, far, deep, and long, a blissful cry of gratified desire escaping my lips.
The tide retreated, slowly. I lay there, like a fish out of water, gasping for air, my eyes still closed. I felt William’s body near as he came to lie near me; felt the weight of his head on my chest and the circle of his arms around my waist. I was undone, utterly; our lovemaking had always been pleasant, but pleasure was usually emotional rather than physical. Never, in my wildest dreams, had I imagined such a shattering sensation even possible.
“Thank you,” I whispered, when the gift of speech returned to me.
“Thank you, love,” he said, kissing my cheek.
“And thank our dear, dear Mr. Fenwick,” I said, gratified beyond reason. “I believe both of us owe a debt of gratitude to him!”
August: the Gifts
Stella
These were the Hester Birthdays:
January 5, 1793--Lady Henrietta Alexandra Amelia Macgregor Lyons Hester
March 15--Sir Isaiah Edward Lucius Hester (1775) and Mrs. Vanessa Fenwick(1821)
August 17, 1813--Sir William Hester.
September 28, 1824--Miss Alexandra Hester
November 14, 1817--Mr. Samuel Hester.
In addition, my birthday fell on December 31, and Mr. Fenwick's--sometime in the spring. It so happened that William's birthday was the first one I was to celebrate among the household, and as it neared, I was all aflutter. I did not know what to give my husband for his birthday, as he seemed to have everything, and everything he had was of the superlative kind. I asked Vanessa, but she only shrugged and said that "Will was never much for things." I asked him, as well, but he only waved his hand at me.
"I really do not care," he said. "Give me whatever your heart desires, but I need nothing."
About this time, he had come up with an idea to have my portrait painted. I did not like the idea at all--my patience was far too thin, and the weather--too hot, to sit straight for hours while the artist painted my likeness. William, however, would not be mollified: he simply had to have my portrait to add to the family gallery. To this purpose, he commissioned a talented young artist, a German named Mr. Kredel, to come to Bloomfield Park. To make myself feel better, I asked William to join me--after all, we did not have a wedding portrait together. To my great surprise and disappointment, he refused.
"Dearest, I cannot be expected to sit still for hours at a time," he laughed. "I have an estate to run!"
When I complained of this to Vanessa, she only shrugged her shoulders.
"Will is forcing you to do this, isn't he? He made all of us do this, last year. It pleased Father, as it was adding to the family history," she shrugged again. "Now we all hang in the gallery, and nobody ever goes in there."
It was not the whole truth: I went into the gallery quite a bit, marveling at the noble family of which I was now a part. The Hesters were, indeed, a formidable group. Their family history went back eight centuries, to a Norman officer, one Gillaume D'Astaire, who fought alongside William the Conqueror. For his services, William's forefather was knighted; his grandsons, Cedric, Peter and Wilfred, died in the first Crusade. To this end, I had to wonder whether one of William's ancestors perhaps brought ruin or death to one of mine during a siege of Jerusalem; but such thoughts, I drove away.
The family lived on, as Wilfred D'Astaire left a son, John, and a daughter, Diana, who was later rumored to become a mistress to the King of France; yet she bore no children and died, from everyone's estimation, from being poisoned. John, a knight in the service of king Richard the Lion Heart, changed his old Norman name to a newer English one and became Sir John Hester. He had many children; soon, his family prospered and excelled in just about everything.
Two hundred years later, the Black Death devastated all of Europe, and the only one to survive from the entire family was a boy named Will, a fourteen-year-old orphan, whom a rector at Cambridge took under his wing. Thirty years later, the first William Hester replaced his benefactor and became one of the most learned men in England. He never took orders, but married and spawned a large number of children, if only to revive his family.
Over the next five centuries, the Hesters numbered many and included statesmen, soldiers, ladies-in-waiting, men of learning, a cardinal and a viceroy of a tiny island in the West Indies. Somewhere along the line, one of them was granted a substantial estate, where the Old Castle was promptly built; it stood in place of Bloomfield Park until a hundred years ago, when William's great-grandfather tore it all down and built the new home, comfortable and modern.
And it was that line of rather illustrious personages that my likeness was now to join in the gallery. William's hung there as well, but I never liked it much, for he looked stiff and somber on it, from the high collar of his coat to the way his hand grasped his ivory cane. If I could make a portrait of him, I would catch him relaxed, smiling, sitting astride Zanzibar, or, perhaps, reading, the collar of his white shirt open to reveal the manly neck. This was the way I loved him; never, not even in the very beginning of our courtship, did he look as formal to me as he did in his portrait.
Mr. Kredel proved agreeable to me, as he talked little and allowed my thoughts to wander. Once, I asked him what he'd heard about the new art of photography.
"Well," he said. "It is rather new. Monsieur Daguerre only came out with it a year ago. There are a few studios in London. It is rather expensive, but is somewhat like a painting in that a picture is a once-only affair--in order to repeat a picture, you would have to station two cameras, side-by-side--or to reenact the entire scene again."
Since I still wanted to have a portrait together with William, and since he still refused to allow Mr. Kredel to paint us together, I started thinking that perhaps, a daguerreotype was the answer. I knew of a photographer in Whitechapel, a young woman, named Miss Rosina, who was of some relation to Elena's da Silvas, and I wrote to my sister to ask her to inquire about her.
To be sure, a photograph of us would make a delightful present, but it was not enough (but of course, nothing could ever be enough for my beloved husband). Finally, because William really did have everything a man's heart could desire--and my own allowance, though considerable, did not extend so far as to purchase him yet another Lippizaner--I resolved that my gift to him should be in the very least, original.
I enlisted his sisters to come to town with me, and we looked through curio and book shops, looking for something special. For several days, we returned to Bloomfield covered with antiquated dust; William, of course, pretended not to notice, but Samuel laughed heartily as he drew his finger down Alexandra's arm and held it up in the air, as if to check for dust.
"Look what trouble the ladies are going to for your sake, Will!" he said. William feigned complete ignorance, and Alexandra hissed angrily at Samuel to quiet down.
The sisters soon despaired, for nothing they showed me was good enough, original enough, novel enough. "Just buy him a nice new saddle for Zanzibar," Vanessa sighed. "His is really quite old."
"You buy him a saddle," I riposted. "I need something else..."
William's birthday was but a week away, and I still hadn't found him a good gift--something to touch his heart and to show the depths of my affection for him. Elena wrote me back, saying that she had secured Miss Rosina's agreement to come to Bloomfield in week's time with all her equipment. The fee the young lady charged seemed large to me and Elena, but when I told Vanessa, she dismissed it with a wave of her hand.
"It is nothing compared to what that German is charging Will!"
I was beginning to lose hope, when, one day, while rummaging through a curio shop, I looked in an old jewelry box, which contained a number of strange and mismatched items, and spied a familiar design on one of the rings. It was a very old one, darkened with time, yet, a jeweler's daughter, I was able to tell that it as made out of high-grade gold. It was also obviously a man's ring, a heavy signet, and--I could barely believe my eyes--it was crowned with a Hester family crest.
I called Vanessa over; she looked at my find and grew very white:
"Oh Lord!" she said. "This is Father's old signet, Stella!"
She told me she remembered it from her childhood, when her father wore it constantly, until, one day, it was lost. The entire Bloomfield Park was turned upside down as the household searched for it--the ring had been worn by generations of Hesters, and was of great sentimental, if not material, value to its owner. It was never found; perhaps, it was thought, an unscrupulous servant had stolen it. The shopkeeper, when queried, could not give us a satisfactory explanation as to how the ring had come to be there.
"I think it has been here for a long, long time," he said, examining it through a magnifying glass.
I was thrilled; there could be no better present for my husband. I paid the hefty price the shopkeeper called--for it was impossible to miss our excitement at my finding the ring--and took the gift home with me. The next day, I returned with it, bringing along with it William's Cambridge ring, which I had managed to spirit away while he was sleeping. The shopkeeper sized the ring and cleaned it thoroughly; so, I thought, my gift to my husband was complete.
Yet it was about that time that I realized, finally, that I would be giving William yet another present for his twenty-seventh birthday.
The birthday celebration was a smallish affair, which nevertheless gathered most of our neighbors, the London Hesters, Mrs. Sheridan, and the Scottish Cousins; all in all, over three dozen guests. I had thought how wonderful it would be if I could also invite Elena and her husband; but I dared not broach the subject with William, not after what happened in London. That is why I was exceedingly pleased when one morning, he, himself, asked me:
"Have you written to your sister yet?"
"Why?" I almost chocked on my piece of toast.
"Isn't she coming to my birthday?" He stared at me quizzically. "By George, Stella, how un-sisterly!"
Jumping from my seat, I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him gratefully. He must have noticed how carefully I was tip-toeing around the subject; he must have guessed how dearly I wanted to see Elena at Bloomfield; it was most generous of him.
William welcomed this opportunity to show me off as the Mistress of Bloomfield Park; he also deferred to my choice when it came to choosing the menu and the entertainment. I suspected that he simply had many other affairs on his mind; but, having never planned a ball, I felt grossly inadequate, and deferred to Vanessa. My sister-in-law never ceased to amaze me: she planned the entire affair with admirable quickness and efficiency.
Which was a good thing, as well, since I was growing more tired by the day. Though I no longer slept during the daytime, I became irritable and, one morning, was woken up by a wave of intense nausea. It was far earlier than the time I usually rose; William, who commonly left our bed an hour or two before me, was still asleep. I barely made it to my dressing room; afterwards, as I sat on the floor, breathing heavily, I was afraid to let myself hope. The disappointment of the previous month still haunted me: perhaps, I told myself, I had eaten something unsavory the night before. In any case, I did not want to share this with William just yet; quietly, I crept back into our bed.
But that day, I could eat nothing but fruit; even looking at meat made me nauseous. The party-planning vexed me greatly and when Vanessa approached me, asking whether I wanted the cook to serve Russian salmon before or after the partridges, I had to look away lest the nausea get the best of me.
Secretly, I wrote to Dr. Younge to come and see me. I told him I did not want William to know just yet; he wrote back, inviting me to come and see him instead. This, he said, was the best way to avoid William's prying questions. So, the next day, having stopped at Hereford to pick up Vanessa as my escort, I took the carriage to Dr. Younge's house, a mile away from the other side of town.
"My, my," the good doctor said after he finished examining me. "And just in time for your husband's birthday!"
"What?" I cried, not daring to believe his meaning.
"I was right after all, Lady Stella," Dr. Younge turned away tactfully as I straightened out my clothing.
"Right?"
"Yes, madam. During our discussion back in July, after which you so tearfully informed that you were not with child--do you remember?"
Did I remember! I shuddered to think. But now--what--how--
"You are about six or seven weeks with child, Lady Stella," Dr. Younge said. I sat on the sofa, shocked--though, by all estimation, there could be no other reason for the way I have been feeling lately. But six or seven weeks! That means--
"That means that I was with child all along!"
"That would appear, yes."
"But sir, what about the bleeding last month?"
"Nothing," he shrugged his shoulders. "It happens perfectly often that the woman's menses do not cease straight away. Believe me, my dear, it portends no trouble for your child."
Six or seven weeks, I thought, feverishly. London. London. Oh, my, I thought, Lady Hetty's library? With whatever sense of humor remained in my shaken self at the moment, I thought that perhaps, he will be a reading man. Or, for that matter, she--a reading woman.
"Congratulate your husband for me, madam, and do not tire yourself needlessly. I shall call on you in a few weeks."
He walked me out of his study. Vanessa, eagerly awaiting my return, was leafing nervously through a magazine of some sort, hardly even looking at the pages. At the sight of us, she rose.
"Well?" she asked.
I could only nod, still shaken and happy beyond reason. Vanessa exhibited a degree of excitement unusual for her quiet nature, embracing me with all her might, and then asked Dr. Younge an important question, I, in my shock, had neglected to ask.
"When?"
"April or so," he replied, "we shall see. Now, Mrs. Fenwick, dear girl, when shall I be able to bestow similar news upon you?"
...Elena and Joseph arrived the day before William's birthday. I ran out to meet my sister, and, as she exited the carriage, we embraced. Oh, what a moment it was: I had the best news in the world to share with her.
But it would have to wait, for, following Elena and Joseph, a slight, dark-haired woman exited the carriage.
"Stella, this is Joseph's cousin, Miss Rosina," Elena said, still holding on to my hand. The girl curtsied. She was about my age, very swarthy, with lively eyes and a good smile.
"Thank you ever so much for coming, Miss da Silva," I said. "Let us all go into the house now."
I made orders to have our guests' things taken to their respective rooms. William soon joined us, returning from a meeting with Mr. Preston; he was rather surprised to find, in addition to my sister and her husband, a stranger standing in our drawing-room. Yet he behaved with admirable forbearance as he waited for the introductions.
"Dearest sister," he said warmly, kissing Elena's hand. As we introduced him to Joseph, whom he had never met, the men shook hands cordially.
"And this is my cousin, Miss Rosina da Silva," Elena said.
"Miss da Silva is a photographer," I said. "She is here to make our portrait."
William smiled. "A portrait?"
"Yes,” I said. "The kind, which would not require you to sit through a torturous portrait session."
"Right," William said, laughing. "Whatever you want, Lady Stella. Welcome to Bloomfield Park, Miss da Silva."
Later that night, William and I took our guests on a tour of the house and the grounds. As the men strolled ahead, Miss Rosina seemed captivated, beyond anything, by the natural beauty of the place.
"Lady Stella," she said, turning to me, "should you mind terribly if I made some photographs of your beautiful grounds? They are incredibly picturesque."
I told her that it should be our pleasure and to please feel herself at home. She walked slightly ahead of Elena and myself, taking in the surroundings with an artist's eye. Elena and I finally had the privacy we so desired.
My sister's reaction to the news of my pregnancy was that of happy surprise.
"But sh-sh," I whispered. "William does not know yet--I'll tell him tomorrow."
One thing Elena could always be trusted to do was to keep a confidence.
The Fenwicks came to supper, bringing with them Miss Anabelle. I sat there, fuming, expecting her to begin abusing my sister in some dreadful manner. I could tolerate incivility towards myself, but should she say anything of the sort to my Elena, I would not hesitate to turn her out of doors. She must have sensed my resolve--or, perhaps, her malice did concern me alone, as the woman, who, by her estimation, took her suitor away--for she was unusually pleasant and amiable.
That night, after the Fenwicks left, having promised to return early in the morning, my sister and I sat in the drawing-room, talking in front of the fire.
"How does it feel?" she asked me, timidly drawing her hand across my stomach.
"Numb," I said. "I cannot believe it. And sickly, too--I should tell William quickly, before he figures out why it is I have been dashing from his bed like mad each morning..."
"Oh, how wonderful," she whispered, her eyes misty. "I cannot wait to have a child myself... do you wish for a girl or a boy?"
Honestly, I did not know, though I surmised that a son, an heir, should be preferable to William, and so I told my sister.
"Tell me the news from home," I asked. In her last letter, Elena had intimated that certain things had happened, which would be better discussed in person.
Elena shifted on the couch, pulling her knees to her chest like a little girl. "Well," she said, "Father--he is not well, Stella. I did not want to tell you this, but I think you need to know. He has been ill lately and has retired from the Deputados. Oh, by the way, Sir Moses Montefiore, the Chair, visited us recently. He told Father that he had met you and Sir William at a ball in July--and gushed for a good ten minutes about how delightful you were." She chuckled. "You should have seen Margarita's face!"
We laughed quietly, but our laughter soon withered, as the subject of our Father's illness returned. "I should dearly like to visit him," I said. "Perhaps I could beg his forgiveness and thus ease his sufferings."
"But will your husband--"
"I do not now. I doubt that. Not after what happened in July--and probably not now that I am with child."
"Well, when Beni is gone--"
"Gone?"
"Yes, I forgot to tell you--he is moving to Palestine!"
"Poor Father!" I cried. "Poor Mother! Why is he doing that?"
But I knew the answer as well as she did; our brother's one desire was always to live in the Holy Land. And though I felt even bad thinking so, perhaps, when he is gone, I could attempt to re-establish a connection with my family.
"Yes, well," Elena continued. "He and Enrique are barely talking, now that Enrique has joined Joseph and Isaac Duran in the Progressive movement. Stella, it is so wonderful!" she smiled. "There are no galleries there--women sit next to men in the congregation--I am able to hold my beloved's hand during the services!"
I smiled, and Elena continued with her news.
"Viola has gotten as big as a whale--" she was saying, when the two of us heard a light rapping on the door. It opened, and I saw both our husbands, standing there. William was informally dressed, the collar of his shirt was open, and he had a brandy glass in his hand. I noticed that he felt sufficiently at ease with our new relation. OF that, I was exceedingly glad, for more than anything else, did I wish to establish a warm relationship with Elena's family.
"Um, Lady Stella," William said, giving me a thoughtful look, "perhaps our guests are tired from their long journey--perhaps they should rest."
I rose immediately, not wishing to deny him what he had come to ask for. Tomorrow, there would be time to be with my sister; right now, it was my husband's province.
Having said good-night, we all retired. In our bedroom, William gathered me in his arms and looked at me with such longing that I worried.
"What is it, my sweet?" I whispered, caressing the side of his face.
"I am just thinking back to my birthday a year ago," he whispered, and a look of pain crossed his handsome mien. "My father--" his voice broke and he sighed. "He was in so much pain then--Dr. Younge fed him morphine, and it slowly dulled his wits--it was just so horrid, Stella--it seemed that things would never be right again..."
He paused to place a gentle kiss on my lips.
"Yet," he whispered, "here I am, a year later, and I am happy! Sometimes, I wonder if I should be so happy so soon after such a great loss--"
"I am sure your father would have wanted you to be happy, dearest," I said gently. "My love," I sighed, "come to bed. I can barely wait until tomorrow to give you your gifts, William."
"Gifts?" he laughed. "Are there more than one?"
"Yes, my love, there are."
"Oh, Stella," he pulled me closer, burying his face in the crook of my neck, "You are the greatest gift I have ever been given."
With this, he commenced undoing the clasps of my dress; that task accomplished, it fell, lightly, to the floor. He carried me to our bed before continuing to remove the rest of my clothing. I wondered if he could notice that I was with child and as his lips moved to kiss the skin around my belly-button, I tensed inwardly, pulling my stomach in.
"What are you doing?" he laughed. "Let go, Stella, darling--you do not need to do this--you are so beautiful--" To make me lose control, he tickled my sides; moaning with laughter, I writhed and tried grasping his hands, failed at that, and in turn, reached for him. But he was still dressed, and I could not tickle him as effectively through the thick fabric of his coat.
"Unfair!" I cried. "You have all these clothes on!"
"Well," he laughed, "why don't you remove them, then, if they are so much in your way?"
That I did; and, looking at his taught, hard body, thought longingly that very soon, his figure would be quite superior to mine. But I chased these thoughts away as shallow and ungrateful, and proceeded to love my husband with all the passion I had in me, and that night, I had passion enough for two.
The next morning, I woke earlier than William, as had been my usual custom for the previous week. Sitting on the floor in the dressing room, completely bowled over by the nausea, I smiled to myself, gently rubbing my hand against my stomach. How could I have mistaken this for anything else? I thought, leaning my head back against the bathtub.
Having splashed my face with cold water and brushed my teeth to make myself presentable to the birthday boy, I returned to the bedroom. From my jewelry box, I retrieved Sir Isaiah's ring and went back to bed.
William was still slumbering, and I tickled his sides gently, taking vengeance for the night before. He moaned and laughed, waking up.
"Happy birthday to my love," I whispered into his ear. His eyes flew open as I kissed him.
"Good morning, sweet," he pulled me to him and kissed the tip of my nose. "What a welcome site you are to wake up to!"
"Are you ready for your gift now?" I asked. He nodded, propping himself up against a pillow and squinting sleepily at the light. "Close your eyes and stretch out your hand, palm up."
He did as I asked, intrigued. I placed the signet in the palm of his hand and closed his fingers over it. William opened his eyes, looked at what he was holding in his hand, and, as the look of recognition registered in his eyes, gasped.
"Stella, this is--where did you--my Lord!"
His shock and delight were obvious to me.
"This is the best gift you could have made me!" he whispered, staring, fixedly, at the ring. "I was seventeen years old, when it was lost! And it fits me, too--did you have it sized?"
I nodded, beaming, incredibly proud of myself. I told him how I found it, and how Vanessa recognized it, and how I stole his Cambridge ring to have this one sized properly. He was moved nearly to tears and embraced me with passion.
"Thank you, love, thank you," he whispered. "You know not what this means to me!"
Some time later, he released me, and asked, smirking, what my second gift was. Taking a deep breath, I took his hand and placed it slowly on my stomach.
For a second, he stared at me, as if struggling to figure it out, and then his eyes widened in mad surprise.
"Really?" he whispered. I nodded. "When?"
"April."
"Are you certain?"
"I went to see Dr. Younge a few days ago," I said. "He said sometime in April."
"Oh, Stella," he whispered, opening his arms to me. I immediately came to snuggle against his chest, laying my ear against his thumping heart.
"I take my words back," he said, hoarsely, as he kissed the top of my head, "This is the very best gift you could have given me..."
Sometime later, we were taken out of our happy reverie by Mrs. Livesay, who came in with the dress I was to wear tonight at the ball, ironed and starched. Throwing a robe about his shoulders, William went to open.
"We have news to tell you," he said, and his old nurse and housekeeper became the first person to learn from him that he was soon to have a child...
August: William’s Birthday
Stella
William and I were the very first at the breakfast table. We were soon joined by Lady Hetty, who had arrived the day before, as well as by Elena, along with her husband and Miss Rosina, Samuel and Ali, who rushed ahead of everyone else and threw her arms around her brother's neck.
"Happy birthday, Willie!" she cried, as he laughed in delight and kissed her forehead. He was positively beaming; I thought I knew the reason for that!
My husband was given gifts and he accepted them, sheepishly. A new saddle for Zanzibar from Samuel, a pair of fine leather gloves from his mother, and a set of handkerchiefs from Ali, embroidered with William's initials and a family crest. Elena and Joseph gave him an engagement for a series of boxing lessons, for the next time we were in London--I was rather sore with my sister for that, as I did not wish to have my husband beaten and bruised, but William was thrilled. As it turned out, he had been quite a devotee during his Cambridge days and had longed to return to the sport.
I was proud to see that it was Sir Isaiah's ring, which caused most of the noise, was most looked at and most admired. Lady Hetty saw it first and turned deathly white; as William explained to her that I had chanced upon the ring in a local curio shop, she looked at me with some strange new respect, as if I had a sort of a Midas touch, which made well-loved and long-lost things re-appear out of nowhere.
"How wonderful, dearest," she said, sounding suspiciously close to tears. "And how fitting that you should wear it now! The Master of Bloomfield Park! Your father would have been so happy."
The family spent another five minutes or so admiring the ring. Finally, after Samuel handed the signet back to William, my husband stood up, motioning for me to rise as well.
"Stella and I have news for you all--" he started saying, but was interrupted by the arrival of Vanessa and Mr. Fenwick. They entered with a flair, the latter carrying a large covered basket. Vanessa kissed William on the cheek and announced that the contents of the basket were their present to him. Mr. Fenwick put the thing on the floor near the chair, and as Vanessa knelt in front of it, she motioned William to join her there.
"Come see," she said, flipping the lid open. A sigh of surprise and delight quickly circled the room, as she dipped into the basket and retrieved a lappy-eared, marble-colored, tail-wagging creature.
"A puppy!" Alexandra cried in great agitation. "Oh, he's adorable!"
It was indeed adorable, still sleepy from the road, but already eager to please. And it was indeed a he, as became obvious as Vanessa raised the puppy in the air.
"Here," Vanessa said, thrusting the little beast at William. "He's all yours. Fenwick and I thought that you might like a dog. I remember you used to like them."
William took the puppy from his sister and looked at him from all sides.
"Look at these paws," he mused, obviously pleased. "Is he going to be a large fellow!"
"They all are," Mr. Fenwick said. "His parents are exceedingly large Great Danes."
"Well," William said, obviously touched, as he placed the puppy back into the basket. "I am really quite at a loss for words..."
I knew that he loved animals; Zanzibar, his snow-white Lippizaner stallion, was particularly beloved by him. Though he never spoke of it, Vanessa had mentioned to me that a long time ago, his adored mastiff Napolitano died after being run over by a carriage.
"He was just inconsolable," Vanessa told me. "Father had offered to buy him a new one, but he wouldn't have it."
I rang for Mrs. Livesay and asked her to take the little beast away and make him comfortable in the kitchen with a saucer of milk. As we sat all sat down to breakfast, everybody was in pleasant spirits and the chatter was most joyous.
"What are you going to name him?" Alexandra asked William.
"Aslan," he said, thoughtfully. "It means Lion in the Mahreb."
In the middle of the dinner, as everyone drank an early toast to my husband, I barely touched the champagne glass with my lips.
"You are not drinking to your husband's health, Stella," Lady Hetty noticed, pointedly.
"It is far too early in the day for that," I said, smiling. "And I have another reason as well." I rose, and William followed me. I walked around the table and together, his arm looped around my waist in a gesture of unprecedented familiarity, we made the joyous announcement. A clamor rose, and I was kissed on both cheeks, numerous times, held and touched, as the entire family, including Vanessa, who had known everything for several days, converged on me. Even Lady Hetty abandoned her usual coldness and kissed me gladly on both cheeks. The only one of William's family to sit back, smirking, was Mrs. Sheridan. Later, after I was released and took my seat between her and Elena, she squeezed my hand affectionately and said quietly:
"Good girl! That is precisely the way to go!"
I was nonplussed by her comment, as I had not planned this, but even that could not take away from my most excellent disposition that day.
After breakfast, Vanessa and I went about the house, giving orders in regards to the ball tonight. All of the reputable local families were to be here--the Fenwicks, of course, the Whitneys, the Charltons, the Dixons, the Sheratons, the Nevilles, the St.Charles, the Milburns, and the Musgraves. And the Featherstonehaughs, whose name I tried to pronounce, to William's delight, for a good twenty minutes, until he pitied me and told me that it was actually pronounced as Fanshaw. And in addition, the Hester cousins from London and the Scottish cousins from Edinburgh--whom I had never met. It was my first function as the Mistress of Bloomfield Park, and I was considerably nervous; in addition, by about four o'clock in the evening, as the preparations were going full speed, my nausea was getting the best of me. I relinquished overseeing the kitchen to Mrs. Livesay and the rest of the preparations to Vanessa and retired to the library. Lady Hetty, concerned about my well-being now that I carried her future grandson, practically shooed me away.
I thought to find William in the library, but he was nowhere to seen, and I lay down, exhausted, on a rather comfortable sofa. At first, I tried to read, but the latest novel of Mme Sands failed to capture my attention; the book soon fell out of my hand as I, myself, fell into the bottomless pit of sleep.
..."Just look at her--so pretty--"
"And all normal--Dick Bruce told me that they have hooves and tails--"
The voices sounded as if their owners had just recently crossed into adolescence. I was not sure whether to be furious or to laugh out loud; so I kept quiet, pretending to be asleep.
"Ha!" one of the boys said, "Maybe we should raise her skirt and take a look--"
"Uh-uh," the other one replied, "and have Cousin Will catch us? She is his wife, after all..."
"How strange it is--I thought she would be ugly--Mother said their women are exceedingly ugly--"
Capital, I thought, just capital. What a lovely beginning for a familial relationship.
"Stop drooling, Arch!" one of the boys laughed. "You could never get a chit like this--"
"Daresay I should not want one like her, Al," Arch answered thoughtfully as his eyes explored me--thought mine were closed, I could feel his hungry gaze on me perfectly well. "Too much of a princess, she is. And also--Mum said that for their Easter, they kill Christian babes and make some kind of flat bread out of their blood--"
I had had enough. With a loud wail, I sat up on the couch, turning both boys--from what I could see, both about fourteen years of age--to pathetic flight. As they fumbled with the door, whimpering, I caught up with them, grabbed each by the ear and dragged them back to the sofa.
"Well, well," I said. "And this is the respect you show the lady of the house. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk." Only then did I notice that not only the two rascals were brothers, they were also twins and impossible to tell from each other. "You must be my husband's little cousins from Scotland," I concluded. "Exceedingly bad upbringing! I gather I shall have to punish the two of you presently."
One of them threw a bold look at me. "You are not the mistress of us!"
"No? I am a mistress of this house, and you are my guests, and should pay me the respect due! And if I were to tell my husband everything you have just said, what do you suppose he would do?"
They stared right in front of themselves, and I marveled at whoever was their mother to so ill bring up two sons.
"Which one of you is which?" I asked them.
"I'm Archibald," one of them replied.
"He's Archibald. I'm Alistair."
"We are the Lyons-McGregor brothers."
"Well, well," I walked around them, enjoying myself quite a bit. "How shall I punish you, then? Perhaps, I should make you wear a tail and hooves at the ball tonight--since you were so interested in mine. Or, perhaps, I should have you steal a Christian babe for me."
"What would you do with it?!" Archie, the more gullible of the two, stared at me in horror. His brother elbowed him sharply.
"She's making light of us, Arch, don't you see?"
"Why? Didn't you yourself say that we Jews murder Christian babies and make flatbreads out of their blood?"
"It's an old wives' tale!" Alistair said reluctantly.
"Is it now? Then perhaps you shouldn't be walking around repeating it, what do you think?"
They stared at their shoes now, gloomy. I was suddenly very tired.
"La!" I said. "I do have a punishment for you. Go and fetch my husband."
They stared at me. "Are you going to tell?" Archie--I think--asked me, glum.
"We shall see about that," I said, falling back onto the sofa, quite exhausted. Rest had done me good, the nausea had gone, and I was of a mind to share my husband's delightful company for a while. The two daft nincompoops needed not know that I had no intention whatsoever to tell William anything, as that would most certainly spoil his birthday. "Go, go!" I said, pointing at the door. "And the door opens that way."
I fell back into the pleasant slumber, feeling slightly guilty that I did not participate in any of the preparations for the ball. But if any excuse ever counted, mine certainly did...
I was awoken by William's lips on my face--a gentle kiss, a brushing, really, across my closed eyelids, down my nose and cheekbones and finally, resting contentedly against my own lips. That I used, and pulled him into a passionate kiss of my own.
"Mmm," he whispered, resting his forehead against mine.” How shall I ever do without you till April?"
"You shan't," I said, lazily. "I do not intend to remove myself from your presence--that is, of course, if you can stand the sight of me running for the basin for the next three months."
He slid behind me on the couch, sliding his arms around my waist and kissing the back of my neck. We lay there, nestled quietly, the two, nay, now the three of us. I wondered at this amazing thing: I was no longer just me, there was more to me than before, a new life nestled in the depth of me. I felt motherly, strong, and very happy.
"Your young cousins are delightful young men," I chuckled softly. "Where did they find you?"
"I had only just come back--I was showing their father some improvements I have recently made. That was when they caught me and told me Lady Stella wished to see me in the library."
"And were you not frightened?"
"Frightened?"
"Have you forgotten our last meeting in a library?" Smiling like a cat, I put his hand on my stomach and covered it with mine.
"Really?" He laughed. "You think?"
"I am almost certain."
"Oh my Lord," he said, snickering against my neck. "Mother would kill me if she knew."
"But perhaps we should soon reward her with a fine grandson--that should alleviate her angst."
"Yes," he said thoughtfully. "A fine grandson--or a granddaughter--"
"But you should like an heir, William. An heir to Bloomfield Park--shall you not?"
"I should not care," he said softly. "I am just so happy, my sweet--you have made me so happy. If this one turns out to be a daughter, we can always make a son later."
"Pray, wait!" I giggled. "Let me see how I like carrying this one!"
"I am afraid, Lady Stella, that you shall have little choice in this matter."
"And why is that?" I asked cockily.
"Because," he replied, just as cockily, "Children are the natural result of certain very pleasurable activities, which I will be archly unwilling to give up--and which you, I should hope, should hate to give up as well," having said so, he nibbled on my ear. "If you can think of a way to continue to engage in them without making a child--please, do enlighten me, I'm all ears."
"There are some ways," I said, reluctantly, "but the most effective seems to be the keeping-of-husband-out-of=bed one."
"Hm," he said. "No. I do not like that."
"Very well," I agreed, "we shall have to think of something else."
"Ah," he sighed, burying his face in my hair, "I do so love you when you are so agreeable--when you do not tease me."
We lay like that for a short time, and then I asked him what he wanted to name our child.
"Isaiah," he said firmly. "After my father."
Isaiah suited me fine; it reminded me of the London juderia and my people. "And if it is a girl?"
"In this case, you can pick," he said, yawning.
"Ellen," I said. "After Elena."
"Perfect," he agreed. "Ellen Hester, Miss Ellen Hester, Ellen Stella Hester," he mused. It sounded delightful, and I sighed, contented.
"We should probably get out of here, love," he said. "The guests are to arrive soon, the London Hesters are here, and I need to introduce you to the Scottish cousins."
Grimly, I thought that if the parents were half as delightful as the sons, I would most certainly enjoy the acquaintance. But I obeyed him, unclasped his heavy arms from around my waist, and sat up.
Just before we were to leave the library, William held me back by the hand and said,
"Kiss."
He pushed against me, playfully, trapping me between himself and a large mahogany desk. I reached up to kiss him, arching my body against him and feeling, momentarily, his passionate response, when, quite in spite of it all, he moved away from me and said sheepishly:
"Stella, we really shouldn’t."
"We shouldn't do what?" I laughed, slipping my hands under his waistcoat, and was mortified when he removed them.
"So excite each other--are we not about to enter a lengthy period of abstinence?"
"Well, not quite yet!" I laughed. I had never felt better; in the morning, I knew, nausea would reclaim me, but tonight, slightly dizzy with happiness and love, I felt magnificent. "Come," I said, pulling him closer. He obeyed as I pushed myself up and sat on the corner of his desk. Hitching my skirts high above my knees, I wound my legs around his and pulled him against me.
Feeling his arousal, I kissed him squarely on the mouth and put my arms around his waist. He kissed me back, nearly losing all of his equanimity and resting one hand against the wall for balance. Reaching behind my back while still kissing me, William moved an ink-holder(?) where it could not be knocked over.
"What are you doing?" I asked him, and he immediately pushed me onto my back and climbed on top of me.
"William, what are you doing?" I laughed. "What if someone walks in--the help--the guests?"
"Well, then, they will know that I married a positively loose woman--" He said against my neck. Resting himself on his elbows, he looked in my face, earnestly and removed a stray lock from my eyes.
"Stella, I am a little worried," he said. "What if we harm the child?"
"No, we shan't," I said stubbornly. I was not willing to do without him for the next eight or so months. "Soon," I said, tracing my finger along his jaw line, "very soon, I shall become fat and ugly--"
"Never," he said passionately.
"--oh, you'll see! And then you'll think back to today and be exceedingly sorry!"
"You could never be ugly to me," he said softly. "I love you much too much for that..."
Suddenly, there was a sound of the door opening, and a muted female "oh!". William immediately slid off of me, enough to catch a glimpse of a woman rushing out of the room.
"Well," I said brightly, sitting up. "Who was that?"
"My cousin Victoria Lyons-McGregor. A nosy old thing," he said. "Serves her right for not knocking."
"Would she be, by any chance, the mother of the two fine gentlemen who delivered you to me?"
"She would."
"Ah!" I said. So that was the Mum who had told her two young sons I ate Christian babies. As we straightened up our disheveled appearance and returned to the drawing-room, I said nothing about it, but inside, determined to introduce myself to Cousin Victoria in no uncertain terms.
....
The Scottish Cousins proved to be a most interesting bunch. There was Uncle Percival, Lord McGregor-Lyons, Lady Hetty's brother--a gruff sort of man with uncouth sideburns; his wife, Lady Louisa, a quiet, gentle sort of woman, who said little and smiled so much that it became obvious, after awhile, that she knew not why she was smiling; their son Percival, whom everybody called Percy to tell him apart from his father, an amiable and simple man and the father of two young whippersnappers; Mrs. Victoria Lyons-McGregor, the "Mum", as I have come to think of her--a dried up, neurotic woman with thin lips, who constantly yanked at her sons' and husband's clothing to straighten it out (even when it was perfectly straight); Percy's younger sister Miss Agnes, an old maid of gentle disposition, several years older than William; and the children. All of the latter belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Lyons-McGregor, and included the two young whippersnappers, Archie and Alistair, their older brother Mungo, a somewhat pimpled youth of about seventeen who, immediately after we left the library, burst there past us and remained there for the rest of the evening; and finally, their younger sister Christabel, a quiet eight-year-old. Their manner of introduction to me differed: Sir Percival squeezed my shoulders roughly with his gigantic hands; his wife smiled, her eyes downcast; his son bowed to me and greeted me warmly as his "favorite cousin's wife"; his daughter-in-law curtsied haughtily and the whippersnappers looked at me with quiet terror in their eyes.
The London Hesters were already there as well, and I overheard Samuel saying to Vanessa that he though Uncle Lazarus was going to get drunk again, and that William promised to never invite him again if he up and threw a drunken row like he did last time. Apparently, Uncle Lazarus' drunken rows were singular, as nobody would actually fight him--after all, he was of a respectable age of five-and-fifty and frail of frame--but a larger row always managed to start in his place; eventually, the younger generation, or, to be more precise William and Captain Hester, were left to deal with the whole infernal mess. Mrs. Anne Hester, his wife, was so obviously disgusted with her failure of a husband--especially compared to his very impressive, though dead brother--that she barely spoke to him at gatherings, preferring the company of Lady Hetty, her own sons, Alec and Cedric, or else, whoever happened to have their ear free.
Now, their sons I liked. Captain Hester was a military man, a rather handsome redcoat, and it was in his company that I first met William. He was a good-natured, calm, jovial man, though somewhat coarse at times. That I forgave him, knowing that it was he who brought William to my father's shop in Whitechapel.
The London Hesters' younger son Cedric was but a youth, just about to depart for Cambridge; he was exceedingly shy, quiet, and, as it seemed to me, madly in love with our Alexandra, who did not even deign to notice her poor cousin. I made a notice of that to William, and he said, quite curtly, that it was a good thing Ali did not fancy Cedric.
"Why?"
"Because she could never marry him." He said, and that was it. I wondered about it, but did not wish to press William for an answer. After all, when it came to his sisters, he was a most doting guardian to them.
Soon after I was introduced to the Scottish Cousins and chatted a bit with Captain Hester, we all retired upstairs to dress. William, of course, intruded upon me in my dressing room, and, as I sauntered to and fro in my undergarments, sat in a chair and observed me, wearing an amused mien.
"I cannot see it at all," he said, finally.
"You cannot see what?" Since he chose to join me, I let my maid go, and was now standing with one leg on the ottoman, pulling on a silk stocking. He watched me, captivated, and I made my movements deliberately slow. My hair was already done, set high on top of my head and decorated with small glittering gems.
"Pardon?" He tore his eyes away from my leg. "I meant that," he said, drawing his hand across his own midsection.
I explained to him that I was not to get big for a while yet.
"Curious, is it not?" I asked him. "At first, I cannot keep any of my food down; and then I grow out of my proportions and become a balooooon..."
"Come here," he said, patting his knee. He was already dressed for the evening, and looked very handsome. It took me all my forbearance to tell him no at that moment, but the integrity of my hair was more important than his momentary gratification.
"Stella!" He cried in a mock fit of pique. "How dare you, you impudent girl! Come here right now!"
"No," I said, as I finished tying my second stocking. He stood up and approached me, slowly; what was he about, I did not know, since he was already dressed himself and could not risk messing up his perfectly pressed clothes. After all, tonight was the first time we were to host an ball at Bloom--
After skipping for a bit around the room, William finally backed me into a corner. I tried slipping under his arm, but he knew me too well, and, as he pushed me against the wall, one of his rather large hands remained on my shoulder, keeping me in place.
"Aha," he said. "Now I've got you, you pixie."
William kissed me; I leaned back against the wall for support against his passion. It was an exhilarating contrast--he, so formally dressed, and I, wearing but my underthings.
"Just do not touch my hair," I whispered, all undone, after he let me go.
"I shan't touch your hair," he said, smiling, and added in a whisper, a devious smile playing on his lips. "--at least not on your head..."
Though I was undressed and leaning against the cool wall, I became immediately flushed. He had stopped holding me in place; nimbly, his fingers undid the ties of my corset and slipped inside, immediately gaining possession of my breast. As he caressed it, rolling the nipple between his fingers, my head spun and I moaned with desire for him; our earlier frolic in the library had left both us of aroused and yearning. As his free hand slipped deftly down my stomach and into my undergarments, my knees buckled and I had to lean against him for support.
Had he wanted to take me right then and there, I would have gladly allowed it, and never mind the guests!--but nothing could prepare me for what he did next. When I was sufficiently out of my mind with desire, William, all of a sudden, withdrew both his hands and stood aside. I stared at him in utter disbelief.
"What?" he asked. "Shall I help you dress now, Lady Stella?"
"What are you doing?" I almost cried. "How am I to host this ball in this state?! My heart's about to burst!"
"Well, we do not have the time," he laughed, as he retied my corset. He was laughing at me! He had made me desire him madly, and was now withdrawing and laughing at me! "I shall see you tonight after the ball, love, we shall finish it then."
Leaning lower again, he whispered to me: "I do so love to make you want me!"
I was fairly shaking with anger; very well, I thought if you wish me to play games like this, I shall, but pray do not regret it after!
"Well, then, sir," I said. "In this case, to be completely fair, I shall ensure that I am not the only one left yearning tonight!"
And, before he could say a word, I quickly undid the buttons on his breeches and took him in my hands. Putting on my most innocent look, I stared up in his face, watching his incredulous eyes grow dark with passion as he waxed and hardened under my caresses.
"Stella, do not toy with me thus," he said in a warning voice.
"Why, Sir William, I am only giving you a taste of your own medicine!" I said as I slid my hand up and down his substantial length. He could have easily stopped me, but he only sighed, leaning his head against the doorframe, his eyes glued to my face--though I took it he knew, perfectly well, what I was doing and where it all was going.
Once he was properly conditioned, I carefully replaced him inside his trousers, but left him to deal with the buttons, his fingers clumsy in unsatisfied desire. I went back to my bedroom, where a lovely dress of blue silk lay, pressed, on the bed.
It was high time for me to give a ball!
William
This was, by his estimation, his happiest birthday yet.
He was greatly surprised and a bit ashamed at his own great happiness, for barely a year ago, his 26th birthday was celebrated very differently. He, Vanessa and Ali sat around the dinner table, onto which Mrs. Livesay placed a cake she had baked for him.
"Happy Birthday, Master William," she said softly, and he knew that even she pitied them. His father was already bedridden at this time, and his mother rarely went anywhere but his bedside and her own bed, where she often collapsed for and lay, bowled over, for two days in a row. That morning, both his parents wished him a happy birthday; kneeling by the bed, he kissed his father's withered hand, sharply realizing how old he now was. His mother, leaning over, patted his head.
"You are our hope, William," Father said from the bed. "It would have been far more trying for me, if you were not around."
"Happy Birthday, my love," Mother said to him, but did not lean to kiss him; it was as if her affection for her children had been frozen by her grief...
..."Cousin William!" He looked down and saw Christabel, his niece, Percy and Victoria's daughter.
"Yes, dearest?"
"Shall you dance with me?" The girl asked seriously. William bowed, perhaps a little lower than he normally would, accounting for the diminutive stature of his partner, and offered Christabel his hand.
They danced a polonaise; Christabel knew most of his steps and in general, did very tolerably for an eight-year-old. It so happened that he and Christabel were first in the set, and Stella, on the arm of Captain Hester, resplendent in his red coat, was right behind them; as he danced with Christabel, William caught Stella's eye, one eyebrow raised whimsically, and felt himself coloring furiously as he remembered what she had done to him before they came down to welcome their guests. Embarrassed to be thinking of such things when in the company of his young cousin, William chased the impure memories away and hurried, as soon as the set was over, to deposit Christabel in the care of her father.
As he was coming back, intent on taking Stella away from the Captain, he was overtaken by his neighbors John Dixon, Edward Sheraton, and Henry Featherstonehaugh, who congratulated him on what fine hostess Lady Stella was. William beamed with pride and happiness: though, when he married Stella, he was prepared to defy everyone and everything, it pleased him to no end that the society in --shire--the people whom he considered his good neighbors--accepted her so readily.
Indeed, the party was great. Truffle soup, partridges in white wine and Russian salmon, the best wine and champagne from the Hester cellars, and finally, abundant fruit and Italian sorbet for dessert. The best local musicians were invited to play; dancing happened before and, on a grander scale, after dinner; and for those gentlemen who were not as enamored of dancing as the Master of the House, or did not have wives as pretty as his, the library was stocked with generous amounts of brandy and finest cigars.
While Stella was rather agreeably engaged in taking a small excursion of children of various ages to look at William's new dog, he joined the gentlemen in the library. William noticed how different the conversation in --shire was from that, which flowed in chic London salons. If there was much politics, it was mostly local; but mostly, it was all estate and tenant issues and discussions of the impending hunting season. All of these people were landowners, staunchly devoted to --shire.
As he walked around among his guests, they all smiled at him, wished him a happy birthday and congratulated him on his choice of a wife. Most of them had met her during a morning visit or two, but none of them had seen Lady Stella in an evening gown and bestudded with diamonds. William was intensely proud of her.
William noticed his new brother-in-law, Mr. da Silva, engaged in an animated conversation with Lewis Ashcroft, one of his neighbors to the north; William was glad that his new city relative did not feel out of place among the country circle of gentlemen.
He was approached, soon enough, by Fenwick, who handed him a brandy glass and lead him to the window-seat. There, they were met by Samuel, along with the Captain and Percy Lyons-McGregor.
“We have not yet made a toast to the future heir of Bloomfield,” Fenwick said. William raised his glass, sheepish. “To mother and child, Hester!”
They all drank, reflecting on his good fortune. The dashing Captain said, in his usual crudish manner, proclaimed:
“A capital job, cousin! And so soon, too!”
“That was to be expeted,” Fenwick chuckled, raising one palm, “if you butter then bun often enough…”
“Fenwick,” William said menacingly, “I shall one day forget that you are my best friend and brother and call you out.”
Captain Hester laughed and patted William’s shoulder. “All that our good friend Fenwick wants to say that you good fortune is not incidental to your, mmm, good labors—“
Usually, such jokes made William cringe; today, however, he was feeling particularly benevolent, and laughed it off.
“If I ever marry,” the Captain proclaimed, “you must share your secret with me!”
“Aaah, we all know his secret,” Samuel said, smirking. “It is called my sister, Lady Stella—his beautiful—“
William nodded. “—my beautiful, lovely wife.”
“Good God, cousin!” the Captain cried. “If Fenwick here gives me the same pleasing intelligence as regards the felicity of marriage, I may still marry some day!”
Fenwick smiled, puffing contentedly on his cigar. “I wholeheartedly concur,” he said. “The happiness of a good marriage is vastly superior to anything I might have experienced during my bachelor years.”
“Oh, we all know what you might have experienced, Fenwick!” Samuel laughed. “Vanessa should up and give you a good going-over!”
“Seeing you so satisfied with married life gives me hope!” The Captain said. “And cousin Percy, what do you say?”
Percy, somewhat confounded, said nothing, sipping on his drink. “Good marriage is a great thing,” he sighed, finally. His distressed mien caused his friends to laugh: after all, he was married to the infernal Victoria. He said, sounding miffed. “Well, I have been married for nearly twenty years! We may return to this conversation in another twenty, gentlemen, if you are so wont to make light of me!”
William, slightly drunk on brandy and happiness, thought, hopefully, that in twenty years, he should be as much in love with his wife as he was today. Which, naturally, brought his thoughts back to the recent occurrence in Stella’s dressing-room. It was incredible, how much she affected him! He gathered that her recent cruelty he had brought on himself—it served him right for toying with her—but for the first hour or so of the soiree, standing next to her as the guests arrived, William remained in the painful state of unrealized desire. It was eased a little bit when they moved to different sides of the room to entertain their guests, but it only took him one look at her to remember it all—her near-nude form, bejeweled hair gleaming softly in the dim candle-light, dexterous fingers on his buttons. The dizzying sensation of her hands on him and a pair of large, innocent, emerald eyes. William preferred not to dwell on that—for the evening was far from over, and it was difficult to play a gracious host when all he wanted was to carry Stella upstairs and ravish her for the rest of the night.
He soon returned to the ballroom. Immediately, she came to be near him, flushed from dancing and so beautiful in her blue silk gown, one look at her took away all of his equanimity. He demanded to see her book: it was all full—he saw the names of all his neighbors. Bastards, William thought grimly, I am not lining up to dance with their wives.
“I may yet regret the day I taught you how to dance,” he said with a smile, admiring her beauty. A pealing laugh escaped her lips as she flung the book away.
“May I have the honor of this dance, sir?” She asked, dropping a graceful curtsy.
“Oh, Stella,” he whispered. “But you are promised for tonight!”
“I should much rather dance with you,” she said, stepping closer. “All your friends are such dreadful stiffs!” He took her hand, knowing that he was lost for the rest of the evening, and lead her to the dance floor.
“Do you really think my neighbors are, um, stiffs?” he asked, as he turned her around the floor in fluid movement.
“No,” she laughed, throwing her head back, “They are all perfectly pleasant, though, I do have to admit, your Scottish relatives are a bit strange!” she pointed towards the wall, where the neurotic cousin Victoria was once again pulling on her husband’s coat. “But,” she added, “All I wanted was to dance with you, all night.”
There was something else he wanted to do all night, but the it was still too early to let these thoughts take over him.
“How are you feeling tonight?” he asked her.
“Beautiful.” It was only too right that she should feel that way, for, with her face glowing and a wayward lock escaping from her hair-do, she certainly was.
“Were you able to eat at all?"
“Enough not to starve tonight,” she replied, as the two of them walked under a hand arch, to stand as the last couple of the set, next to the beaming Miss Elena and her young husband. As they exchanged partners, his sister-in-law thanked him, blushing, as she was wont to do, for inviting them.
“Oh, it is my pleasure to have you here, my dear Miss Elena,” he said warmly. “I am in your debt, forever and ever, for the way you conducted yourself in April. It was only too easy for your to refuse to help us,” he added, turning her around under his arm.
“You made my sister’s entire happiness,” Miss Elena sighed. “How could I stand in your way?”
“I love her ever so much, Miss Elena,” he confided to her, earnestly, as he looked over at his wife, on Mr. da Silva’s arm. “She is my entire happiness—I confess I should have been quite lost without her.”
All in all, the night was perfect: the food was exquisite, the music was enchanting, and the gardens outside were afire with swarms of lightning-bugs. Vanessa sang, delighting them all with Mozart arias, and his mother, for once, seemed happy. Even the vexing state of unsatisfied desire had to it a pleasant accompaniment of knowing that very soon, he would finally slake his need with Stella’s generous help.
The soirée ended in the early hours of the morning. After all the local guests left and all the out-of-town guests went to their rooms, William ran upstairs, jumping over two steps at a time.
He found Stella in their bedroom. Though assigned initially to her alone, it has long turned into their bedroom, as, since their wedding, he had barely slept outside of her bed.
Stella was standing near the window, her back to him, her both hands resting against the glass. She was pretty as a picture, wearing a long robe of cream silk, one of the myriad flighty things, which were supposed to serve to entice, but instead, served only as bothersome borders between his searching hands and her divine body.
William approached from the back, quietly. She had to see his reflection in the glass; however, she did not turn around. He placed both his hands over hers, and pressed himself against her back.
With a deep sigh, his wife arched her back against him. He understood that she could feel the evidence of his passion for her, and surprising even himself, pressed himself against her even harder; soon, one of her hands slipped from under his and reached back to caress him. He groaned unintelligibly at her forwardness: her advances were always welcome, both for their substance and idea. That she desired him was most surprising to him--he had been brought up to expect a certain degree of coldness out of a woman--but it was also unequivocally delightful.
Placing his hands on her shoulders, he slowly turned her around, at the same time leaning to kiss her neck. It was so white and graceful, and the skin there was so soft and silky--William desire was now getting the best of him; his hands and lips now moved on an impulse.
"You have come to avenge yourself on me, sir," she whispered, continuing to stroke him where he needed her most. He pulled away and looked at her, slightly unnerved by the language she chose.
"I have come to make love to you," he said, his voice very hoarse. "But if you should rather think of it as some sort of a vendetta--very well, that it shall be."
To his delight, Stella giggled like a girl when William swept her in his arms and carried her to a large chair. Falling down in it, he sat her astride himself. Her dressing-gown rode up, most enticingly, baring her lovely legs. He shook his head, as if in disapproval.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," he said, "Lady Stella. This garment looks so uncomfortable. You are practically falling out of it. Now, love, let me help you--"
And, before she could say a word, William tore her gown apart with one rough movement. Buttons popped right and left, and Stella hissed at him in mock indignation. But his hands already claimed the curves of her body, and, as he reached for her breasts, she forgot why she was angry with him. Leaning low, so that her errant locks teased a sensitive spot on his neck, she quickly untied his cravat and flung it away. Whispering sweet nothings in her own language--indeed, William thought, she so often used Ladino in bed that he now colored every time he heard it--Stella helped him remove his coat, and it, too, landed where they threw it. His waistcoat and his shirt followed, as he caressed her and teased her to his heart's delight. She ran her hands over his chest, eliciting a faint moan, and for a second, leaned herself to lie against him, the feeling of skin against skin electrifying.
"You are so beautiful," she whispered, pulling away from him, and he saw her sizing him up as she pensively ran her hands down his chest. She did it several times, each time stopping just short of the waistband of his breeches. Finally, when she did that for the third time, William gripped her hand and pulled it down demandingly. Lips locked, the two of them fumbled with his buttons, until finally, he was released; then, William grasped Stella possessively by the hips and pulled her on like a sheath.
That night, their lovemaking was hungrier than usual; there was urgency and thirst, which needed to be satisfied. What enhanced it for him was the large free-standing mirror, which stood just at the right angle and distance, to allow for the most stimulating picture. William flung away the remains of Stella's gown and watched, entranced, as her reflection moved against him in the mirror, milky-white in the pale moonlight. His hands reached in her hair and undid the thick black braid she had made for the night; her curls fell and scattered abundantly about her shoulders. When some time later, a shudder of satisfaction ran through her and a cry escaped her lips, he pulled her down to lie on top of him and she bit into his shoulder. It was not painful--her teeth barely scraped the skin; it was, however, so arousing that he was finally driven over the edge, and his release followed almost immediately. It was so powerful that he could not contain a hoarse cry as his hands clasped her to his chest.
They remained in that chair, curled up together, her head on his shoulder, until she looked up at him and teased:
"Sir William, we have a house full of guests. What will cousin Victoria think when she hears you bellow thus?"
William laughed. "That I am being murdered," he suggested, pulling her head down for a kiss. "Or, perhaps, if she has any wits whatsoever, she will guess, and will come to you tomorrow to ask for advice on how to please a husband."
"Well, she has been married for twenty years, perhaps it is I who should ask her advice in that area!"
William recalled Percy's long face from the ball tonight... "Oh, I think not," he said, smirking. "I think not."
At this, Stella shivered and sneezed, and they hastily moved to the bed. Tightly wrapped in a sheet, she watched with shining eyes as he sat down on the edge of the bed to remove the remains of his clothing. Having undressed, William climbed into the bed next to her (she generously lifted the sheet, letting him in), and wrapped his arms around her possessively.
"Happy birthday, William," she whispered, already drifting away.
Yes, he thought, as he kissed his wife's bare shoulder, it was the happiest one he had ever had. It was so incredible: that his life should change so completely with the arrival of one person! Stella once translated him a passage from Zohar, a fourteenth-century religious commentary: "After G*d made the man," it said, "he realized he could still do better, and so he made the woman..." William sighed, thanking the powers that be for the amazing woman who now slept so restfully in his arms. As the passage said, the world had come alive with the creation of the woman; for himself, William knew, that his world certainly did.
August: Miss Rosina’s Box Camera
The day after his twenty-seventh birthday, William woke up at the earliest light of dawn, rather invigorated by the goings-on of the previous night. Stella was still asleep, deep shadows around her eyes, lips bitten and bruised. William contentedly observed these signs of their night-time congress; serves her right, he thought, little imp, for amusing herself at my expense. He quite forgot that it was he, himself, who had initiated the teasing game.
Like a large cat, he stretched, clasping his hands high above his head. Throwing a slightly disappointed glance at his wife who, fully unaware of his body’s immediate reaction to her, slept like a child, William strode into his dressing room and rang for his valet.
For he needed a bath.
As he allowed Barrington to scrub his back raw, William ruminated over the previous night. He had drunk sufficient to do away with all his remaining inhibitions, but not enough to dampen his desire for his wife—or, for that matter, to give him a morning headache. Instead, something else morning persisted stubbornly, forcing him to lean forward in the tub so as to conceal it from his valet’s eyes. For such inability to control one’s urges was rather mortifying in the man of his station and character.
Having finished with his bath, William returned to the bedroom, naked and dripping all over the rugs. Stella still slept, and he simply did not have the heart to wake her up. But his urges would not be denied. And so, he slid quietly into bed, gathered her naked form close to him and took care of his problem in the only way remaining to him.
His rather powerful peak wakened her. Staring at him, her eyes sleepy, she reached down, felt him, and inquired, with no small degree of indignation, what he had been doing. At his sheepish reply, she demanded to know why he had not woken her and made her a willing participant as opposed to a… plaything. As her obvious charms very soon revived his virility, William was only thrilled to remedy the situation. Sometime later, they came down to breakfast, arm in arm, smiling.
At breakfast, William observed the multitude of relations gathered at his table. Both his Scottish and London relatives were to return to their respective homesteads in a few days; and so far, he had not had the time to tire of them. Even the most obnoxious Cousin Victoria was quiet this morning and, as Stella prudently put her between herself and Samuel, found no-one to straighten-out in the immediate proximity.
Victoria’s rowdy adolescent sons, Archie and Alistair, remained strangely quiet all through their visit, and William mentally congratulated his cousin Percy on his sons’ becoming much less insufferable than they were during their last meeting a year ago. Blissfully a table length away from his overbearing wife, Percy seemed relaxed and happy; his sister, Cousin Agnes, smiled sweetly as she was wont to do and chatted with Alexandra, who, on her part, completely ignored the ministrations of her cousin Cedric, who seemed anxious to take every possible care of her.
The conversation flowed freely, though his Uncle Percival did seem somewhat overbearing in his attempt to convince William that English thoroughbreds, of whom he owned many, were far superior to Lippizaners, whom William clearly preferred—except for Alexandra’s heavy Scottish Clydesdale Vicar, all the horses he owned belonged to this powerful, color-changing breed. William attempted to get out of the conversation, for his uncle was wont to take most disagreements personally, but that was easier said than done.
“You must admit,” Sir Percival drawled, “that the thoroughbreds are a breed far more established—“
“I do admit it,” William shrugged, “but I do not necessarily think that how old the breed is has anything to do with its merits.”
”You are a bad patriot, nephew,” Sir Percival chuckled. “It is said that Lippizaners were a favorite of Bonaparte himself!”
William shrugged again—he had nothing to say to that—and buttered his toast.
“And what does your lovely wife prefer?”
William chuckled. “Nothing,” he said, “I have tried repeatedly to get her on a horse, but to no avail—which is not surprising, as she was almost trampled by Alexandra’s Vicar in the very beginning of our acquaintance.” And, he thought happily, now that she is in her delicate condition, this will not happen until next summer!
“Vicar?” Cousin Percy asked . “Is it not the gigantic Clydesdale—how strange it is that he should go mad!”
“Upon my word,” William smiled, pleased that the conversation had been wheeled away from his dislike of the English thoroughbreds, “if you do not believe me, Percy, ask our very good Mrs. Da Silva, who was there at the time,” he nodded towards Miss Elena, who sat just to Percy’s right (William smiled at the thought that his poor cousin was rarely in the company of a woman so angelic and sweet). “Will you confirm my account, Mrs. Da Silva?”
Miss Elena smiled sweetly and nodded. “My sister practically saved my life, and that of our brother’s wife! Were it not for Stella, I would certainly have been trampled.”
Everyone seemed duly impressed, and the thoroughbreds were finally forgotten; William, insanely proud, beamed. At the opposite end of the table, the Mistress of the House, having caught her name in their discussion, turned from her conversation with Captain Hester, and gave him a most radiant smile. I am blessed, William thought, it is too much happiness, it is unreal. I shan’t bear it—my heart will burst and I shall die of pure bliss.
As if to disabuse him of that notion, a near-scandal ensued on the opposite end of the table. It started as Cousin Victoria inquired, rather testily, why there was no bacon at the breakfast table. It was Samuel who answered that they no longer served bacon at breakfast in Bloomfield Park, as it was not agreeable to Lady Stella. His cousin huffed and said that it was preposterous, really, to deny an entire family something because of one person’s strange religious convictions. Anabelle Fenwick piped up immediately.
“Pray, Lady Stella, do you plan to undergo a baptism?”
William froze in dismay and anger: there was going to be a row, he knew that—and the day was beginning so beautifully! William loathed a family row and had little expertise in dealing with crying women; he braced himself for what was to come. From his position on the opposite end of the table, he could do little to help Stella. But, as ever, she handled herself marvelously.
“No, Miss Fenwick,” she replied angelically. “I had no such plans.”
“But should not the wife’s faith be the same as her husband’s?” Anabelle persisted. Cousin Victoria, feeling bolder, added:
“I daresay it must pain Cousin William greatly that he does not have your company in that area of his life!”
Stella smiled. “If it does, madam, he has been hiding that masterfully—as he has never attempted to force me to abandon my faith,” and, throwing him a look of deep love, she added, “For which I am ever so grateful to him.”
William smiled back at her across the table. But it was not over yet, as at that moment, the door opened, and Stella’s maid came in. In her arms, she had a babe, whom William, to his great surprise, recognized to be Mr. Preston’s youngest issue. .
“Ah, Lucy!” Stella rose from her seat, lively. “Let me,” she said, taking the baby out of the girl’s hands. To everyone’s stupefaction, she turned the fidgeting baby around, looking at his ever aspect and smiling approvingly; then, with him in her arms, she walked the length of the table and approached her sister.
“Elena dearest,” she said, “look at him, is he not perfect?”
Miss Elena, blushing deeply and pressing her napkin to her lips, nodded, then reached for the baby. As the entire table was now deathly quiet and agape (Anabelle Fenwick was particularly put-off), she repeated her sister’s maneuver and nodded appreciatively.
“He is a fine baby,” she said matter-of-factly as she returned him to Stella, “and he should serve just fine! Shouldn’t he, dearest?” she turned to her young husband. Mr. da Silva agreed, that yes, the baby should do splendidly. William thought he was going insane, when Stella, in returning the boy to Lucy, said with her sweetest smile:
“He should be just the right size by the time Pesach comes.”
The shocked silence in the room was broken by a loud crash! and William saw Cousin Victoria slide off her chair. Stella threw a glance at her as she returned to her seat. “Lucy,” she said, “bring Mrs. Lyons-McGregor some smelling salts.” William, realizing that there was some sense behind this ostentatious display, looked inquiringly at his wife. Smiling back at him, she found it fit to explain.
“Do not be alarmed,” she said, addressing the society in general. “No harm shall come to that boy just as surely as he were my own. My sister and I do not really murder Christian babies for their blood. I simply found it necessary to illustrate certain vicious prejudices which Cousin Victoria has chosen to teach her young sons.”
Greatly relieved, William smiled into his wine glass, as the conversation at the table came alive. William surveyed the damage and found it tolerable: most everyone at the table chatted and smiled, obviously relieved, and it appeared that no lasting harm had been done by Stella’s little joke. .He saw Samuel laugh and his mother smile benevolently; Vanessa, who could barely stand Cousin Victoria, beamed and that rendered Fenwick happy as well. Miss Elena, forced to participate in such an unpleasant prank, was slowly coloring deep red, and her husband, obviously more comfortable with his acting role in it, teased her gently. Near William, Cousin Percy, mortified, stared fixedly into his plate. William laughed, slapping his back:
“Percy, old chap! Do take care—have some more wine, it should ease your spirits!”
Having been revived, Cousin Victoria immediately quitted the table and would remain in her room until the family left the next day. Stella, very solicitously, sent food to her room and inquired whether she needed a doctor.
“Aye,” Cousin Percy sighed to that, “if only there were one to reduce the amount of her bile!”
As they retired to their rooms to change for Miss da Silva’s picture, William gently scolded his wife for playing such a cruel joke on his poor cousin. Stella enlightened him on the experience she had had the previous night with his young nephews—an encounter, which would have only been amusing, had the boys’ intolerance not taken root in their mother’s.
“Well,” Stella reasoned, “perhaps that should teach her a bit of respect for other people!”
William agreed that perhaps it should, but he harbored no hope to that effect, as Cousin Victoria was an exceedingly silly woman.
Later that day, Miss Rosina da Silva set up a makeshift studio in Stella’s blue sitting room. The room was chosen for its comfort and aesthetic appeal, but mostly for serving, over the past three months, as a venue for certain pleasurable pursuits, and being, therefore, very dear to their young hearts. After breakfast, William retired to his room and donned his most formal attire; he knew that Stella wanted this, and he wished to look his best.
That was why he was simply shocked when, upon seeing him, she flailed her arms and cried, a look of deep displeasure on her lovely face: “What on Earth are you wearing, Sir?!”
“I thought you wished me to look good,” he said, feeling that the over-starched collar of his shirt was chocking him.
“I do, I do!” she approached him, and, to his further disbelief, proceeded to unbutton his coat. She soon forced it off his shoulders, leaving him in only a shirt and a waistcoat, which she unbuttoned quickly. She then untied his cravat and threw it down to join his coat.
“Stella, what are you doing?” he finally managed. “We can be intruded upon at any second—”
“You do misconstrue my actions, sir,” she smirked as she undid the top three buttons of his shirt. That, he had to admit, was actually pleasant, as he began to breathe freer. “I have no desire to make any advances upon your person. I simply want you to look natural in this portrait.”
“What?” he was not in the least amused. “Do you not realize how inappropriate this is?!”
“William,” she smiled, and, to his mortification, reached for the maid’s bell. “You have a beautiful neck—I should like it to be in the picture.”
When the beckoned maid appeared, Lady Stella kindly bid her bring Sir William’s favorite foil. William was growing more and more surprised by the minute, but as he did not wish to argue with Stella in front of the help, he obediently explained to the abigail where the said weapon could be found.
“Why do you need my foil?” he asked after the maid had gone.
“Because—“ she smiled dreamily, “because I adore watching you fence. You are so manly—and powerful—when I see you with that foil of yours,” she blushed violently. “—is one of the times my desire for you is the strongest.”
To that, William could say nothing, deeply touched and quite aroused by her words. Fencing, he surmised, would be quite difficult from now on. As if not noticing the effect her words had on him, his wife went on, “I have half-a-dozen formal portraits of you, but they are all for show—you are in them as the great illustrious man, the master of this estate—and I should like a portrait of you the way I love you,” she finished softly and stood there, stroking his face. Fighting a primal urge to lift her into his arms and carry her to their bedroom (and blast Miss da Silva with all her equipment, she can wait), William sat down in a chair. After such an explanation, he could deny her nothing. If she asked him now, he would allow himself to be photographed naked, tarred and feathered.
There was a knock on the door, followed by Stella’s bidding the visitor to come in. He looked up and saw Miss da Silva, followed by the abigail. Miss da Silva was carrying her box camera and a large throw tucked under her arm. The abigail was carrying a tripod and William’s own foil.
“Is this the one, sir?” she dropped a curtsy, proffering him the weapon. It was, indeed, the one. The foil in question had belonged to his father and was passed on to him just before he was to depart for Cambridge. William thanked the girl, dismissing her, as Miss da Silva set up her equipment.
Miss da Silva bid him to remain in the chair, as relaxed as possible, and she placed Stella to the side and slightly behind it. Dressed in a pretty peach-colored dress, her hair braided and set appealingly on top of her head, his wife, upon Miss da Silva’s bidding, put one hand on the back of his chair. Thinking that Stella should like that, William rested his right hand on the hilt of his father’s sword possessively, the point of it against the floor.
From the other end of the room, Miss Rosina da Silva looked at them and smiled.
“You are an exceedingly handsome couple,” she said, simply. “Please, look here,” she pointed to the lens, before disappearing under the cover she had thrown over the camera. But in his admiration of his wife, William disobeyed that gentle order. Instead of looking at the camera, he looked up, catching her eyes with his and immediately getting lost in the sea of green. When the flash went off, he barely noticed.
When, three weeks later, their portrait arrived from Miss da Silva’s studio in London, anybody who wished to see it would have to fight Lady Stella for it, for she would not part with it for anything. In time, the handsome portrait moved from Stella’s bed-stand to the mantel across from their bed, having taken an honorable place right under Miss Elena’s k’tubah.
The beautiful summer, the happiest of his life, soon drew to an end. As he rode around his estate, William noticed, wistfully, the signs of impending autumn. He thought longingly of how happy he had been throughout summer, and consoled himself with the thoughts of all the pleasures autumn was to bring: the beauty of Bloomfield as the leaves turned; the comfortable warmth of eiderdowns; the crackling of the fireplace; no longer feeling stifled in his coat and tie; and, above all—and as he thought of that, he blushed—the longer nights.
September: Misery’s Company
William
“Ha!” William exhaled loudly, making a lunge at Dick Fenwick, his long-time fencing partner. In an unseen before stupor, Fenwick made no effort to parry, and William but pinned him to the wall. They had been fencing partners ever since William was seven—even then he chased the reticent, older Dickie around with a birch twig. By the time William’s father gave him the treasured foil, the childhood diversion turned well into an obsession; now respectable gentlemen and neighbors, William and Fenwick met three times a week to partake in their favorite form of exercise (though lately, William noticed to himself, a wholly other form of exercise, with Stella as his most willing partner, has seemed to take priority).
“Touché,” Fenwick said, sliding his foil into its sheath. “Well done, Hester.”
“Never mind that!” William was appalled. “What has come over you today, Fenwick? You have been simply awful—I barely recognize you.”
“No, nothing. My mind is just off—elsewhere.”
”I noticed that!” William said, harshly. “Perhaps you should be so kind as to retrieve your mind from wherever it is wandering before our next practice.”
“Hester! You are most unkind,” Fenwick laughed, but his uneasiness was easily noticeable. Having put away his foil and stripped the tall black gloves, William reached for the coat to throw over his shirt.
“Is everything well, Fenwick?” he asked his brother. “Are you in good health? Is Vanessa?”
Fenwick assured him that everything was, indeed, well; but William knew him well enough to hear that he was lying.
“You are beginning to worry me,” he said to his friend.
“Hester, my distress is of a rather private nature,” Fenwick said, curtly. “It would be altogether inappropriate for me to share it with you.”
“Does it concern my sister?” William asked. Seeing his friend nod, reluctantly, he added, firmly. “Then it concerns me intimately.”
Fenwick threw an unsure glance at him; William was, after all, his best and oldest friend.
“Very well,” he said, as the two men made their way into William’s study. “But first, I shall need a confidence from you.”
William closed the door behind them and poured them each a brandy.
“Ask.”
“How are your—your conjugal relations with Lady Stella?”
William balked at this question; for, as he had pressured his friend into this line of discussion, he did not count on being asked such an intimate question himself.
“Do you see what I mean?” Fenwick asked with desperation. “It is almost impossible to discuss—“
“No,” William said, gathering his composure. “It is very possible to discuss, if one does not stoop to baseness. Stella’s and my relations in that area are fine, Fenwick.”
“What do you mean by fine?”
“I mean that I am very happy—with my marriage in general, but with that area specially. Now you answer my question.”
He already regretted having asked that, for he realized where it was going and doubted the propriety of discussing that aspect of his sister’s life.
Fenwick sighed, studying the contents of his brandy glass with benumbing particularity.
“Well, Mrs. Fenwick, she—she tolerates me. She has never refused me, to be sure. But every time we are together, I feel like a violator—like I am forcing her—“ his voice trailed off as he turned around to gather his composure. “She won’t let me keep a candle burning—it has to happen in complete darkness; it cannot happen during the day or in the morning; and Hester, the night-dress she wears to bed!” There was a clear note of despondency in his voice at this last revelation.
William was lost; he did not know what to say. That Vanessa, with her superior mind and strong will, should prove to be a substandard lover, did not surprise him in the least. If she had made up her mind to despise the carnal side of love, Fenwick could do little to dissuade her. Fortunately, his friend seemed to need no answer; gulping down his brandy, he continued in a most plaintive voice:
“Do you remember the book I gave you before your wedding?”
William nodded, coloring slightly. When Fenwick first approached him, a week before his wedding to Stella, and handed him his Dr. Breckland’s manual, William was appalled. In fact he was almost insulted and declared, that he needed no degenerate’s writings to teach him to fulfill his husbandly duty. Yet, Fenwick insisted he keep it:
“It could spare you and your bride quite a bit of anguish,” he said. “Just give it a once-over, Hester, I promise it will not bite.”
William took the gift reluctantly (after all, Fenwick was older and far more experienced), but spent that very night reading it, looking greedily at the pictures, engrossed and engorged. Since that day, the book remained near their marriage bed; and more than once did William thank his friend for such a thoughtful gift.
“Have you and Lady Stella made good use of it since then?”
William felt himself redden more; because of his rather strict views in this area of life, he was not accustomed to the free-flowing banter that often filled the gentlemen’s clubs of London. It was exceedingly awkward for him to talk about this; but he was the one to start this, he should see it through.
“Yes,” he admitted. “We have found it rather useful, I must tell you.”
Drifting away momentarily, he remembered the last time they were together, several weeks ago. He had left early in the morning to meet with Mr. Preston, his overseer. All through their meeting, he thought, longingly, of the woman, so warm and inviting, he had left sleeping in their bed. After Mr. Preston had quitted his study, William rushed back to the bedroom, hoping to find her still asleep. She did, indeed, slumber, her face angelic in the morning light, her dark hair strewn, fragrant, around the pillow.
Standing near the bed, William watched his wife; he seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. Finally, he disrobed, quickly, and slid into their bed. Looping his arms around her waist, he pulled Stella to him, pressing her against his body, which responded immediately to her nude form, so warm and supple.
He lay still as long as he could, his lips pressed to the back of her neck; but he was a young, virile and eager. Slowly, his hands began to caress the curves of her body, gently rubbing her nipples. She moaned and shifted, turning around; she opened her eyes and looked at him. A blissful smile spread over her lovely face, which William proceeded to kiss with enthusiasm. They remained like that for a while, silent, kissing in the yellow morning light.
A gentle sigh escaped his wife's lips: “William, my love, I want you…”
These were such welcome words, and it was the first time that she was bold enough to say them. William gasped inwardly, astonished at his own amazing fortune—
… “Hester, you are not listening to me!” Fenwick said accusatively.
William snapped out of his happy reverie, quite embarrassed. “Forgive me, I got carried away,” he murmured, hiding his eyes.
“Do you see now?” Fenwick asked, desperate. “Do you see, Hester? You are able to just drift away thinking about the time you spend with your wife—I, on the other hand, should rather avoid thinking about mine at all—for it is nothing but dissatisfaction and frustration!”
William could only mutter that such a cold reaction was “common,” to which Fenwick reacted somewhat violently.
“It is common, but I have always thought myself able to awake the woman—to make her want me—I am no innocent schoolboy, you know—“
”Spare me that,” William said dryly. Fenwick was his only friend, yet, as much as he loved him, William had been appalled to learn that his friend frequented certain London establishments—though of the highest rank, of course, but bawdy houses nevertheless—during his bachelor days. William own father had discouraged that stringently, of a mind that there was no carnal impulse, which a man’s superior mind could not master.
“You know what I think of that.”
“Bloody hell, Hester!” Fenwick exploded. “Not all of us enjoyed the lifestyle of a recluse, to which you so gladly subjected yourself at Cambridge!”
William pursed his lips tightly.
“Fenwick, I consider this comment highly offensive.”
Fenwick sighed, raking his hands through his hair. "Do forgive me, Hester," he said. "It is just that--I love her and desire her so ardently, and she just shuns me--" his voice trailed off, and William turned away, embarrassed to see his old friend so undone.
There was a knock on the door and as William opened it, Stella's sweet countenance made him recall all the things he was so thankful for.
"The tea is ready," she said, quizzically observing Fenwick's hunched figure by the window. "Is anything the matter?" she whispered. He made round eyes at her, which meant he would tell her later, and caught himself thinking that over this summer, his wife has become his closest friend and confidante. She retreated and he turned back to his brother.
"Give Vanessa time," he said peaceably. "She is so very young, Fenwick, and you have only been married for a month--she will come around, my friend."
He preferred to think that; Stella, whom he told about it that night, was somewhat less convinced, and suggested, half-heartedly, that she speak with Vanessa. A sigh of relief escaped her, however, when William politely refused her generous offer: Fenwick had not authorized him to speak of this to anyone, and, in addition, he could not imagine how she would even approach this question with Vanessa, who was exceedingly secretive and private. So they preferred to think that eventually, it should all work itself out: either Vanessa would grow fonder of her husband, or the poor fellow himself would grow accustomed to her cold reception.
Yet, something else entirely happened.
Early autumn was gentle that year; because most of the trees around Bloomfield Park were pines, it was hardly even noticeable that it had come. Only the great oak on the easternmost border of the estate signified that it was, indeed, already September.
Stella's disposition was slowly growing better, though nausea still tormented her each and every morning. Though they still shared the same bed, William and his wife hardly ever made love now: his fear of harming his precious offspring had finally taken over. He was thankful that she was much too sickly to really regret the cessation of his attentions; and he contended himself with the thought that one day, it would all end and he would have his wife back again.
It was also during this time that Samuel finally proposed to Anabelle Fenwick. William was devastated--he had began to hope that it was nothing but a fleeting fascination with a beautiful woman, bound to pass. No amount of pressuring could make Samuel change his mind: William pleaded with him, told him, rather cruelly, of all the reasons why he thought Miss Fenwick to be an abominably bad match for his brother, reminded him of their father's last words--that they should only marry someone who loved them ("Now that is a cheap trick, brother," Samuel said with uncharacteristic forbearance), even told him the story of his own near-engagement to Anabelle--it was all in vain. To his great chagrin, William could exert no real influence on his brother: at three-and-twenty and amply provided for by their generous father, Samuel was a man of independent means.
"Well, then, what do you want with me?" William finally asked, cross. "You do not need my permission--or you should never have it!"
"No," Samuel agreed. "I do not. But I do esteem you greatly, Will, and I would like your blessing."
William bit his lip: this was a painful reminder of a conversation he himself had had with their mother only three months ago. He gave Samuel his blessing, though his heart was not in it.
What even more vexing was that Samuel insisted on marrying Miss Fenwick immediately and even obtained a special license for that purpose. William pressed his brother for his reasons for such an untoward hurry; sitting in front of him in his study, Samuel remained calm as the sea, and William was left to guess.
"You did not--" the older brother said, and, struck with sudden realization, cried: "Oh my G*d, you did!"
Samuel's face remained impenetrable; this was quite out of character for him, for their usual roles were quite reversed. Normally, it would be Samuel who would rant and rave and pace around the room; but the very thought of Anabelle made him a stronger, better man, and William could do nothing about it.
So they were married, in great haste. Fenwick was very displeased, though more with his sister than with Samuel, and Vanessa was openly jubilant about having Anabelle out of the house. Shortly before the wedding, Samuel had finally let the Linwood estates, some thirty miles away from both Bloomfield and Hereford. It was a comfortable enough distance to have your relations at, but not close enough for Anabelle to visit more than once a month. Finally, as it turned out, the situation was agreeable to all.
The new Mr. and Mrs. Hester visited with Lady Hetty in London (William was quite confounded at the friendly attention his mother bestowed on Anabelle--precisely that, which she had so egregiously denied to his Stella), and Vanessa convinced Fenwick, who seemed to do everything she asked of him, to take her there as well. She needed new sheet music, she said, and she was infernally bored at Hereford. So off they went.
It was a cool and rainy night in mid-September, and William, on his knees, was stoking the fireplace in their bedroom. Stella, cuddled in a blanket on the sofa, was engrossed in one of Mr. Merimee's gothic stories. She liked them: his tales of vampires and walking statues frightened, yet tantalized. There was something adorable and childish to the way she reacted to them; now, too, she leaned off the couch and tugged at the back of his shirt.
"I knew it, I knew it!" she cried. "It is the statue, the statue that killed that poor man!"
It was at that moment that someone rapped, rather loudly, on their bedroom door. Dropping her book, Stella squealed in terror, and William, unaccustomed to be disturbed so late in his bedchamber, was rather surprised.
What he saw when the door opened was hardly any less surprising than if Merimee's terrifying Venere d'Ille had come to claim him. Soaked from the rain, white in the face and completely, utterly, shamefully drunk, there stood Fenwick.
"What are you doing here?" William stepped outside of the bedroom, pushing his along. "You were supposed to be in London! Where is Vanessa?"
An unbelievable thing happened: his old friend, a man tried and strong, covered his face with his hands, and wept, pathetically. William's heart sunk. Grasping Fenwick by the shoulders, he yelled at him, furiously, demanding to know the truth. Surely something awful had happened, to leave Fenwick so undone!
"She--is--she is gone," his friend finally managed. William felt weak in the knees and leaned, heavily, against the wall. And it was then that Fenwick said, stunning him further if only that was possible: "I have let her go."
William stared at Fenwick, dumbfounded. The door opened, and Stella came out into the hallway, pulling her dressing-gown tightly about her shoulders.
"What is the matter?" she asked, her eyes darting from her very white husband to his very smashed friend. Fenwick, continuing to break down, slid down the wall and sat on the floor, weeping like a madman. Stella rushed towards him, grasped his hands and begged him to tell her what had happened. William, stunned, remained hunched against the wall--it was as if someone had dealt a painful blow to his midsection: he could not stand up straight.
Finally, Fenwick spoke. From his garbled account, they deduced, with great relief, that Vanessa was alive. Beyond that, it was difficult to ascertain anything, and Stella suggested that they take the poor man to a guest room and lay him to sleep. William was reluctant to let him go before he had extracted all the necessary information from him; but as his wife wisely reasoned, if there was any more information to be had, it would not happen tonight, for Fenwick was getting drunker by the minute. So he followed Stella's advice, and, with Barrington's help--"No, sir, Mr. Fenwick arrived alone, on horseback; no, Mrs. Fenwick was not with him"--dragged his pathetic best friend to a bedchamber.
Oh, what a night that was. William paced like mad around their bedroom. Stella, though herself mad with worry, attempted to reason with him.
"She is obviously alive," she said. "Richard would never leave her in any kind of danger, you know him too well for that."
William almost bellowed back at her: "YES!!! But what the hell does it mean: "I have let her go"?"
Stella winced at his language and removed herself to the bed; he continued to sit in front of the glowing fireplace, deep in thought, from time to time rising to pace around the room. He was sick with worry; slowly going mad, as he was unable to banish Fenwick's weeping mien out of his mind, he envisioned the worst possible scenarios. Thus he spent all night and finally fell into a nightmarish slumber on the couch in front of the fireplace.
He was up with the first morning light, and made his way to Fenwick's bedroom. His friend met him halfway, very pale, freshly shaven, and extremely grave.
"Well?" William asked, staring at him with Zeus-like fury in his eyes. Of all people whom he could trust! "What have you done to my sister?"
"I have let her go," Fenwick said simply.
"What do you mean by that?!"
IT turned out, that meant exactly what it sounded like. "She was miserable with me," Fenwick said as they enclosed themselves in William's study. "I could not but see it. How could I hold her back, Hester?"
William shook his head in disbelief. "So you turned her out of doors?!" he cried.
"I have given her back all of her dowry," Fenwick said.
"Have you then annulled your marriage?"
"No," Fenwick shook his head. "It should be up to her whether she wants that done. She is a free woman, and if she so wishes, she shall be one officially."
William strode towards his liquor cabinet, opened a bottle of brandy, and poured himself a full glass. Gulping it down, he thought: this is not happening, I am not having this asinine discussion, my sister is not scavenging in the gutters of Whitechapel--
"--to be sure, Hester, she has a situation."
"A situation?" William cried, slamming his glass down.
"Yes. She is to sing with Royal Opera company."
A fit of hysterical laughter seized William. So that what it was all about! Vanessa could not wheedle the permission to sing out of him, so she worked her magic on her husband.
"She is to be a singer?!" he cried, laughter gurgling violently in his throat, mixed with liquor. "My sister is to sing on stage, having abandoned her family, her husband--"
Fenwick inclined his head gently.
"I prefer to think of it as a temporary vocation for her," he said.
"Not from the looks of you yesterday you do not!" William snapped. This was unbelievable; idiotic; he could not believe his ears. But if he wished to appraise the situation fully, he would need the particulars. Forcing himself to sit down in a chair, William poured himself another glass of brandy and offered one to Fenwick (which the latter accepted gratefully).
"Pray tell," he said, "how has this outrage come about?"
Stella
How it came to be that Vanessa had left Mr. Fenwick and remained in London was a mystery to us all. He refused to speak of it, having assured us that she was well and that it was her fondest wish to do so; but he drank himself into the darkest depression every night. William kept him from returning to Hereford, as I knew he worried that the man was a danger to himself.
William wrote to Lady Hetty and waited, impatient, for her reply. When it arrived, it was wholly unsatisfactory, as she had remained in a state of shock similar to that of her son-in-law.
“Vanessa has not come to speak with me,” she wrote. “I know from dear Anabelle that she is in London and is to sing Rosina in La Notte de Figaro on 1 October. I should have you, William, come and fetch your sister, as her husband has proved himself to be woefully inadequate at controlling her.”
“Don’t you dare,” Mr. Fenwick said. “She is my wife, you no longer have control over her. I have made the decision to let her go.” William gnashed his teeth, but had to agree. His guardianship over Vanessa had ended, and to that effect he wrote to his mother.
These nights, he slept badly, if at all, and was a pain to be near. My sweet gentle husband has grown cold and explosive, intermittently. I
tried my best to be kind to him, yet my own patience was running short, and, one night, I locked my door. He knocked, and called my name unsurely, but I was firm—at least in appearance, for I lay in my bed, weeping.
The next morning, William did not come to breakfast. A terrible feeling of guilt took over me—that I should deny my husband comfort when he is in such distress! Standing by the window, I saw him ride out on Zanzibar, furiously spurring the poor animal, and, had I thought I should be able to catch up with him, I would follow him running.
That morning, I was an awful teacher to Alexandra, my mind drifting away and my nausea tormenting me every moment of our
lesson.
“…William the Conqueror defeated King Harold at Hastings in 1066—“ Ali recited. “Stella, are you listening?!” I looked up at my
poor charge; her lips trembled and there were tears in her eyes. “Something has happened to Nessa, hasn’t it?” she asked in a trembling
voice.
We had not apprised her of what had happened; in William’s estimation, this was news wholly inappropriate for a young girl to
learn. After all, everything was still too much in the air, and there was too much we, ourselves, did not know. Here, however, I
could hold back no longer, and at the risk of angering my husband, I shared with Alexandra what I, myself, knew.
She was shocked; she cried. “Does Nessa not love us anymore?” she asked me. I was left to calm her down, yet I was poorly
equipped for such a task--for I was beginning to believe that myself.
My life at Bloomfield Park had been nearly perfect until Vanessa's escape; now, our entire family seemed to be falling apart. I forced myself not to dwell on it, lest I should hurt my child, and took to one occupation, which was always guaranteed to make me feel good. I picked up the guitar William had given me during our honeymoon, and started playing the first song that came to mind. Soon, my heart felt lighter, and the little hurricane in my stomach settled down.
My eyes closed, I sang an old song I had once learned from my mother. Why I chose it, I did not know, but something inside of me cried, and my guitar wept as well.
"Tres de la noche vo pasar
Con todos mis amigos.
En tu ventana vo pasar
Sonando mandolino.
Sali a la puerta, te veré.
Sali a la ventana.
Ávlame y descúvreme
Secretos de tu alma.
Por la tu puerta yo pasi
Y la topi cerrada.
La llavedura yo bezi
Como bezar to cara--"
I was interrupted by three loud claps. Opening my eyes, I saw William in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. I looked searchingly into his eyes, to see whether he was still angry with me, but saw only sadness.
"How true," he said, and translated: "I went by your door, and found it locked. I kissed the door--"
"—llavedura, the lock," I corrected him, feeling myself grow very red in the face. I had taught him the words to some of the songs I sang; he spoke Spanish fairly well, and it was not exceedingly difficult for him to understand.
"--like I have kissed your face. Now, am I a good student of your language?" he asked, approaching. I looked up at him and felt myself color even more.
"William," I muttered, "I wish to apologize--"
"For locking me out of your bedroom last night?" he finished, lively. "Worry not, beautiful Stella, worry not--there are enough bedrooms in this house to accommodate its owner."
Tears were dangerously close to my eyes; I lowered the guitar onto the rug. "And which one did you choose?" I asked him.
He was silent for a minute, before admitting, with a guilty air:
"Not one. I slept on the couch in the library. I cannot be in a bed without you, Stella."
I bit my lip to keep myself from breaking down. William knelt swiftly by my side, raised my chin and looked me in the eye.
"I came here to tell you that you were well within your right last night," he said. I was dumbfounded, and he explained. "I have been most uncivil to you lately, which is all the more egregious, considering your delicate condition. Please forgive me," he said earnestly, bringing my hand to his lips. Babbling, my hands trembling, I hurried to assure him that he had already been forgiven...
"Now, you forgive me," I said.
"I am tempted to do so," he laughed. "What should help it greatly if you kissed me--"
It was done, with all the possible ardor.
"--and," he added, when I finally released him, "if you sang a song for me. Actually, a particular song. The one about the girl with green eyes."
I was only glad to oblige, feeling vastly improved. The song was called "Arvolicos d'Almendra"--"The Almond Trees."
"Arvolicos d'almendra que yo plantí
Por los tus ojos vedrulis.
Dame la mano, niña.
Que yo por ti,
Que yo por ti me va morir.
La puerta de mi querida ya se avrio.
De lágrimas ya se hinchó.
Como la primavera
Qu'ansi salió
La bella niña que amo yo--" [16]
At this, he stopped me with a kiss, and, having released me, murmured against my lips.
"La bella Stella que amo yo!"
So we reconciled, but things were hardly any better and the mood any happier at Bloomfield. There was still no news from London, and I saw William slowly go mad with worry. He and Mr. Fenwick barely spoke, but he still insisted that the latter remain at Bloomfield at all times. His friend treated William's fear with perfect indifference and even some good humor.
"Your husband is afraid I should lay hands on myself," he told me one morning, after William had left to deal with a tenant dispute that threatened to grow into a murderous fight.
"Should you ever do something like that?" I asked him, trying to be straightforward.
"I am too much of a coward for that," he smiled sadly. "And too much of an optimist."
He was still holding out hope for Vanessa's return, I understood. I shrugged my shoulders and acquiesced, though my heart was breaking for the poor man. No, I did not believe that Vanessa would ever return.
It started raining and went on, like so, for days at a row. William was often gone on estate business; he was unwaveringly gentle with me and cold with Mr. Fenwick. Unlike me, he did not have compassion for a husband who could not keep his wife near him.
As regards his husbandly duties, which he once promised to fulfill to my complete satisfaction, William did abandon them now entirely. Because I was still not feeling well and associated my bed with nothing but restful sleep, I let that go.
Beyond Alexandra's lessons, I now occupied myself with reading and playing chess with Mr. Fenwick, who was rather good at it. One, as we sat so, biding our time until it was proper to retire--William sat in the corner, toying with Aslan, who was growing bigger by the day, and Alexandra had already gone to bed--Mr. Preston, the estate overseer and steward entered, and bid my husband to speak with him.
"What is it, Mr. Preston?" William raised Aslan and placed him back in his basket..
"Pressing business, sir," Mr. Preston replied, and I saw that he was all soaked from the rain and very pale.
It turned out that persistent rains had washed dirt away from a large mount, upon which several small houses had been rather negligently constructed, causing two of them to collapse.
"There have been victims, sir," Mr. Preston said, his lack of equanimity apparent. William rose, dark in the face; the houses apparently
belonged to his tenants.
They soon left, having donned appropriate attire, Mr. Fenwick with them. I was sick with worry: nightmarish visions of walls of dirt and muck collapsing on top of my husband and burying him under an impenetrable deadly slate haunted me all evening. When I finally drifted away, still sitting in the chair in front of the fire, nightmares tortured me and just before dawn, I was woken up by the cruelest twinge of nausea. Tumbling out of the chair, I rushed upstairs.
Afterwards, I barely made it to my bed and fell into it, still fully dressed, having only kicked off my shoes. Sleep claimed me right away, dreamless this time. When I woke up, the sun was shining, but I was still in the same position, still wearing the dress from yesterday. This meant that William was not home yet; surely, he would have undressed me had he seen me slumbering like this!
I washed my face and went downstairs, where Mrs. Livesay looked grave, and no men were in sight.
"They are still at the collapsed site," she said as she poured me a cup of tea. "Still digging. How are you feeling this morning, Madam?"
Dreadful, I thought, holding my hand against my stomach, but well enough to go looking for my husband. I ordered the carriage, and was
told that there was no-one to drive it, as all men were at the disaster site, trying to alleviate the effects of the collapse.
I could not drive, either, so I would walk. I asked Mrs. Livesay for directions, and she did not try to keep me from going. Alexandra, running down the stairs, insisted upon going with me, but I was not sure if William would approve of my taking her.
"I think you should take Miss Alexandra along," Mrs. Livesay said, authoritatively. "I do not know whether Master William would approve of you walking out alone, in your delicate state."
"Mrs. Livesay, I am with child--not an invalid," I said, annoyed somewhat. Alexandra, however, would not listen, and ran out, following me, right after I quitted the house and walked to the hill.
"Very well," I said, angrily, "you are on your own when your brother questions your presence here!"
Together, we strove on; we walked for a long time, sliding on the grass that was still wet from the rain and circling puddles judiciously. Soon, it became very apparent to us that the estate was in great uproar. The closer Alexandra and I came to the sight of the collapse, the more people we saw hurrying to and fro, and the very fact that they barely noticed us—for it was not often that the mistress of the house ventured into the tenants’ area on foot, to say nothing of the Master’s youngest sister—spoke volumes to the state of their distress. All around us, people, both men and women were seen scurrying about with bags of sand, planks of wood and shovels. All were dirty and dark in the face; many were crying.
I was going to inquire from someone whether the Master had been seen about, when I, myself, saw him. Flanked by Mr. Preston, he walked ahead of a group of men, carrying a shovel on his shoulder. His jacket and waistcoat had been discarded, and all of his person was streaked with mud. It covered his shirt and breeches and made dirty icicles of his hair.
Upon seeing me, his countenance changed from somber to aggravated.
“Stella,” he said, rather harshly, “what are you doing here? And you brought Ali? What were you thinking?”
“She did not bring me, Willie,” Alexandra piped up, “Mrs. Livesay bid me accompany Stella.”
Ignoring Ali’s defense of me, William glared at me from above.
“Forgive me,” I said, seeing that he was in no state to be argued with. “I simply worried about you, dearest. There was no word from you—just sitting at home nearly drove me mad.”
His countenance softened, but he still sounded harsh when he said: “This is no place for you, Stella, and especially not for Alexandra. Come, I shall have someone take you home.”
“Perhaps I could help you somehow,” I said, loathe to leave him.
“There is nothing you can do,” he said. He sounded very tired, all of a sudden. “There is nothing anyone can do.”
I knew that he would tell me of the extent of destruction and the number of victims, had it not been for Alexandra. As it was, he hesitated, but the visions of the carnage he had just witnessed took over, and he related to me, sighing, that their digging all night long did not produce any satisfactory results. That was all he said, and I knew that they had found no-one alive.
It was traumatic enough to hear that, but I also chanced to look just behind me, where, at the border of a gigantic gap, which had once been a rather large mound with several houses on it, a number of bodies lay, covered with sheets. I knew that Ali immediately followed my gaze, for a small “Oh!” came from her. To my great surprise, she did not swoon, but simply grew very white and clenched her teeth. With a very uncharacteristic curse, William grabbed his sister’s shoulder and turned her around.
“Do not look!”
But it was impossible to escape it, for it was a warm day, and, together with the heart-rending weeping, a decidedly foul stench permeated the air.
“I cannot keep you here, Stella,” William said curtly. In all honesty, by this time I was not sure that I, myself, wanted to remain, either. And as for Ali, she was positively pallid and rocking slightly on her heels.
“I shall have Mr. Preston drive you home,” my husband said. There was no arguing with this, of course. Unfortunately, before Alexandra and I left the scene of the disaster, there was another dreadful incident of which we became witnesses.
For William had barely finished speaking when I spied Richard Fenwick who walked in our direction. Much like William, he looked grave and grimy. But it was what he held in his arm, which was most painful to stomach.
It was a girl, a young woman. Though she was already wrapped in a sheet, it was possible to deduce her age and sex by the slightness of her form, which Mr. Fenwick so fiercely clutched to himself and by the long blond hair which trailed, ever so slightly, on the wet grass.
So distressed Mr. Fenwick was, he walked towards us without seeing us; William, upon seeing his grisly possession, scowled most furiously and strode his way. I clutched Alexandra’s head to my shoulder, making her look away.
All of a sudden, a shrill cry cut through the air. A woman, disheveled and as dirty as everyone else in the sight, rushed towards Mr. Fenwick, weeping. It was impossible to tell her age, but, to my horror, I soon deduced her to be the dead girl’s mother.
“Martha, Martha, me girl!” she called. Mr. Fenwick stepped aside, dropped to his knees, and lay Martha onto the grass, very gently. William, seeing that his brother’s quest to save this one had proved fruitless as well, gently held the mother back by her shoulder.
“Mrs. Fullerton—” Mr. Fenwick said, addressing the mother. An animal wail escaped the poor woman’s lips and, all of a sudden, she swung wildly at him. Despite William’s grip on her shoulder, Mrs. Fullerton managed to land a heavy blow against Richard Fenwick’s cheekbone, making him sway and topple on the grass, next to her daughter.
The woman’s husband, a tall man with shaking hands, rushed in and grabbed his wife by the arm.
“Please forgive us, sirs,” he muttered senselessly. “We only just went away for the evening, to visit Annie’s sister—she is heavy with child—please forgive my wife, dear sir—our children, left them there, five of them, sleeping soundly in bed—who knew, Lord, who knew—Martha here is the oldest, will turn sixteen at All Saints’—“ pulling his wife away and concurrently bowing, as she thrashed and wailed—“the youngest one is but five, forgive us, forgive us,” he continued to bow.
“Comfort your wife the best you can,” William said to him softly. “I shall make funeral arrangements for your children, Mr. Fullerton.”
Mr. Preston, at William’s silent bidding, rushed to help the grieving couple and gently led them both away, the woman still weeping, the man numb in his misery. Their poor child remained on the grass; a thin arm with a delicate wrist and long, pretty fingers, extended from under the sheet. I still kept Ali’s face pressed against my shoulder, but I, myself, could not bear turn away anymore than I could bear watch.
Stooping low, William gathered Martha Fullerton’s body in his arms, and carried her back to where the remaining Fullerton children lay, along with another twelve or so victims of this disaster. I was finally able to release Ali from my grasp, and she staggered back, holding her hand to her mouth.
Mr. Fenwick still sat dejectedly on the grass, holding his head in his hands.
“Please get up,” I said, extending him a hand. He took it, and, as he rose, I was able to see the harrowing bruise left by the poor, grieving woman, shine from his cheek. “Come back to the house with us,” I said to him. “Someone must tend that.”
He shook his head dejectedly, but said nothing, still mute. Turning around, he well-nigh ran back to the side of the collapse, and I soon saw him negotiate the makeshift stairs into the gap.
William returned, along with Mr. Preston, who was now to take us back to the house.
“When shall you come back?” I inquired of my husband. He scowled, stretching his back.
“That I do not know,” he said.
I knew that to further press him on this subject was futile.
“I shall have a bath ready for you when you return.”
A shadow of a smile crossed his lips. “Thank you, sweet,” he said. “I should have kissed you had I not been so frightfully dirty.”
Forgetting all about propriety, I stood on the tiptoes and flung my arms about his neck.
“Please keep safe,” I whispered into his ear as he clasped me forcefully to himself.
Our trip back to the house was somber. I was worried about Alexandra, who sat dejectedly in Mr. Preston’s wagon, staring straight in front of herself. Sheltered as my youth had been, I did grow up in Whitechapel and saw, when I was thirteen years old, a man swinging from the gallows. The most dramatic thing Alexandra had witnessed, until that awful day, was William shooting a rabid dog, which had attempted to bite him. I reached out and took my sister’s hand.
“Ali,” I said softly, “They did not suffer.” This was the only consolation I could offer her.
“They are with the Lord now, are they not?” she inquired of me, still squinting against the sun. And howbeit our understanding of the word “Lord” was different, I concurred that indeed, these people were now in a better place.
Once we were inside the house, I had Mrs. Livesay start the water for the baths for when the men returned. I could not remain all alone in my apartments, so I sought the company of help in the kitchen. Ali retired to her room to lie down, but soon came downstairs and sat with us dejectedly.
“There is so much misery in this world,” she said as Mrs. Livesay set a cup of tea in front of her. “So much misery. These people, the Fullertons, what will become of them?”
“William will not let them perish,” I assured her. But what I thought and did not say was that however much William could provide for them in a pecuniary way, their lives were shuttered forever by the loss of their five children, and here, with all our money, we were powerless to help.
“Your brother is a liberal landlord, Miss Alexandra,” Mrs. Livesay said, taking a seat on the opposite end of the table. “And a good man. He looks after his own.” But Ali was not becalmed.
“If he does, then how could he not see that that mound was unstable?” she inquired testily.
Mrs. Livesay lowered her eyes and pursed her lips; she stood for no criticism of her employer—like so many other people, of the four Hester siblings, she clearly preferred my husband.
“Ali, I am certain your brother has already asked himself that question. But he is only human—and he does not have it that easy. Please be kind to him, my girl.”
Mrs. Livesay threw a glance of covert admiration at me. “Lady Stella speaks the truth, Miss Ali. Master William already does more for all of his folk than any of the gentry around here! He is a generous and kind man, and this tragedy is not his fault.”
She inquired of me whether anything else was needed; when I replied in the negative, she swept out of the kitchen, quite furiously. Seeing that, the rest of the help pretended to busy themselves with work, and soon, I began to feel like we were intruding upon them in our idleness. So Alexandra and I retired upstairs.
“Can we do something for these people, Stella?” Ali asked me as we climbed the stairs up to her room. “Anything?”
“Of course,” I said. “We shall all attend the service tomorrow. And after that, William will think of something, too.”
Yes, I thought bitterly, our good, kind, nearly omnipotent William. Could there be something he could not do?
The men returned from the site of collapse several hours later. Sitting in the downstairs drawing room—Ali did finally fall asleep in her room, after I sat with her for half an hour—I heard them stomp angrily upstairs, profanity flowing. I hardly ever heard William curse, and this showed me how painfully distressed he was. As I had ordered to have water constantly boiling, a bath would be ready for him in minutes; beyond that simple comfort, I could only offer him my company to make him feel better.
As I was about to follow him upstairs, I espied a letter on the post tray. Distraught as I was, I had not thought to look at it before; it must have arrived while I was absent from the house. Picking it up, I noticed, to my great joy, the Da Silva coat of arms gracing the envelope: the missive was addressed to me. So, before I went in to my husband, I decided to read it and sat down, tearing at the envelope.