Laura

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

When there is imminence of hope one does not always speak of it. Better to enchant the mind with dreams than wait upon reality. Hence my uncle on returning broods and holds himself most properly within himself. I have no dreams as yet but let the fragments of the day drift through my mind.

“Let your thoughts fall as blossoms fall. Look straight ahead and not upon the ground, for there their agitations will disturb your mind.”

So father spoke.

“And when they cease?” I answered, “cease to fall?”

“Then they are gone-are gone.” With that he, too, was gone. So brief our conversations sometimes were. I believe them of a purpose to have been-to his intent, that I might store the grain but hunger not for harvest. Or I cogitate too much, perhaps, for even thoughts of thoughts should sometimes cease.

Upon telling my aunt of his saying, she replied, “It is as if there is a pebble on your shoulder, finely balanced. You endeavour to forget that the pebble is there, but ever remember it, and so your mind turns round and round, the squirrel in a cage.”

“How then shall I forget the pebble on my shoulder?” I asked, though mindful that the parable was lost on me. At that she brushed my shoulder, smiled, and said, “You see, it is gone!”

I am a stranger here. I have no one to ask.

We are late upon our returning, having supped at an inn amid a harrying of folk from Epsom, dusty in their coming, calling for tankards. “You shall not fuck me tonight. I am not your whore!” So was heard from a table and all heads turned, then bent again to plates and blushed or grinned. I neither blushed nor grinned but looked and saw a young girl dart outside. Pursued, she stood, her shoulders trembling on. A man of military mien held awkward to her side.

“There was a misunderstanding of it, Kate. The words were not ill meant.”

“I am not a whore-am not!”

Calls from the table made and they returned.

“Come on, lovey, he meant nothing by it.” So was said.

I rose, my uncle following with doubtful air, fumbling for handkerchief instead of sword.

“You should take more care of her.” So my words were addressed. Idle and bluff, all sat and hapless stared.

“It was meant in jest, Madam.” The soldier's stiff reply.

“Have a care that your jests do not find you out.”

We were gone then and my uncle happy upon it.

“She was not a whore, was not. I knew it by her look,”-was made defenceless by my protestation.

“All women have their price, is it not said?” His smile was eager, then became forlorn, died its small death upon the carriage floor. Coming at last upon my hotel I am asked of the morrow.

“We shall see, perhaps. I may give thought to it.”

“It was an arrangement Laura. Acceptances were given.”

“By whom indeed? You may ask me again, ask me again. Goodnight.”

The one I have forgotten waits, furtive by my door, hand huddled to her coat, the night upon her mouth.

“I thought you were not coming, Miss-ever coming. He waits downstairs. I told him of your coming. A great pleasure he will make of it, he says.”

“Has he not jousted with you yet, in some far linen room, behind the arras?”

“The what, Miss? No, he hasn't done nothing, not yet.”

Her eyes contain anxiety. I should not jest upon her morrow's meal.

“Take a sovereign, Lucy-here. I am tired upon it tonight. Say nothing to him save that I am indisposed. Mark that he pays you for your time.”

“Yes, Miss. I'm sorry for it. I shall see you again, shall I not?”

“Or shan't you-yes-perhaps. One never knows the way of the world. You will bathe me again. Of that I am certain.”

“I would love to do that, Miss. Your limbs are like satin.”

“You prefer me to him, I believe. Perhaps we are of the same tribe. Have you had knowings of Charlotte?”

I hold my door open-perhaps with promise. My question falls and rings upon the ground-a coin that only urchins may retrieve.

“Oh, her-no, I don't know of her. I saw her once in the corridor, I believe. She ever changes, here and there, is gone. Is she a wraith, Miss, or real? I ever have a sensation of her.”

“Perhaps you are she-she, you. Have you not thought of that? Do not fret upon it. I come upon such musings.”

“Ill still do it with him if you want, Miss.”

“Do you want to? I believe you want to. Will he put it in your bottom? Do you permit that?”

I have drawn her within. It is dark within. Our mouths merge, breasts bulb.

“If you like. Oh, you make me wriggle at the thought of it. Will you kiss me while I do? I left my drawers off ready for it.”

“You would spoil the scene? They should be at your ankles. Will you squeal?”

“No, Miss, I won't. He is ever waiting. If you want your sovereign back, you can, for he will pay me.”

“Be not spendthrift, Lucy. Ever guard your treasures. Is it not as nice to talk about as to do? Let me feel your bottom. Are you oiled-made ready for the rampage? Will your mouth open? Does it open?”

“When it goes up quick, I do, I know it does. That were the way I was put to it first.”

“I am sure of it. You have a prettiness of purpose there. It mounds well. I shall hold your cheeks open. Do you like them to be smacked first, held down, made prey to it?”

“What a lovely way you talk! I wish I had words like yours. You have me up on tiptoe now with your feelings. It is nice to have it smacked first, ain't it? Do you know it is? When I am red and rosy there I feel better for it. When it goes up, then-ooh, Miss, let him do it!”

“Very well then, bring him up. Have care to be silent, utter no cries. He must come in you full before he withdraws. I would not see a drop escape.”

“It never do.” She giggles and is gone. I dispense my cloak, bonnet, and wait. I am upon a moment come, shall play the watcher to their toil, will sleep perhaps the better for it, do not know. He is handsome, quiet, a small moustache, no beard. So should they all be so, their voices polished and well turned.

“Is it to be thus? You will not then undress?”

“It is to be thus. What is your name? It does not matter. Have you a wife, foundlings, waiting? Let me smack her first. Doff your trousers in readiness, draw up your shirt.”

Have I said this before, in some far corner of the universe? His eyes glitter at my ankles. He will find no gold-only the pale orb of her waiting as she bends to me, the cleft well clefted and her quim out-peeped. At the first smack she wilts, cries out within her head, and then is still. My palm leaves imprint on her ardent moon, roses and cream. With further smacks the red is deeper splurged. Her buttocks work, jerk, thresh. His prick is high. “Oooh-wah!” Her quietness in excitement breaks.

She is ready. I believe her ready.” So he mutters, urgent, and would move.

I believe her not. Another three. Show your balls, sir.”

At his first going in I hold her cheeks-stand delicate beside their play, my eyes too hot for comforting as rubbery her ring around his tool expands. There is a grunting of it and a gasping. Half in, he hesitates, then thrusts, is deep embedded, holds to her. His head hangs back. Remarkable his eyes, smack bottom smack to belly ever thrust. A fine coming he will have of it, bursting of fruit. His jaw sags. So I ever wondered and now see it so. Did I look thus, far-full bent, huff-puffs of sound, legs ever further spread and thrust to it?

“Entertain me. Do not come in her too soon.”

Bulgings of eyes and promises of bliss. There is deeper pleasure in remembrances, hopeful arrivals of the time for it, the agitations of the legs, the small movements, anticipations. I have watched the clock, known cream in my mouth, have licked at chocolate, would have my lips, tongue, endlessly move in waiting.

“Wait and be still as a tree waits.” Thus my aunt. I did not listen to her always in my agitations. Of trees I thought of loneliness and sap, then knew her right. “My drawers fall as the leaves fall, but I wait not for the seasons.” So I wrote once in my diary, wanton writing, then laid the ink so heavily upon it that none could read the words save I, knowing them hidden quiet behind their veil.

His knees bend further. He is at her full. The knob, red rimmed, appears and glides within.

“Oooh-ah, Miss!”

“Be quiet, Lucy, you are spoiling it. Go at her, sir, empty your balls.”

What a coarseness is here! The air contains it. He grunts anew, his Adam's apple jerks. Unseemly are displays. I turn my eyes yet ever wend them back to where he works, his piston easing deeply in and out. How proud her cheeks, protuberant and sweet! I bend and coil her hair back, kiss her mouth. Her tongue displays an elegance of love. He is coming, I know it by his snuffling; she receives. Her tongue long-licks about my own, is wet. Emerging comes his column, spouting on, is driven deep, there held, and spurts its last.

“You may leave.”

My voice is winter and his eyes are hurt. Limp in its thickness hangs his grenadier.

“Come, sir, she don't want us to stay-was strict upon it.”

“What a strange woman you are! I have never come upon the like of it.”

His eyes would challenge mine. I hold my back to him and brush my hair.

“Be sure that you come to bathe me in the morning, Lucy.”

“Yes, Miss. It were right nice, Miss. Thank you, Miss.”

Knowing not what to say-such people know not what to say-she flirts with empty spaces and departs. He lingers, would have details of me, I suspect, is confounded that we are of the same class. In summer, wearing gaiters, trailing gun, he will speak of politics, philosophy, and art.

“May I visit you-call upon you?”

“You may not.”

I do not turn-regard my image in the mirror, seeking a flushed look that I do not find.

“It would be a pleasure so to do.”

“Goodnight. Your wife waits and your foundlings wait. Begone.”

“I have no children.” Edginess intrudes. Feet move upon the carpet. He departs.

How empty are rooms when all but oneself are gone! I would cry for my remembrances, but know no tears. Some etchings in my mind disturb my stillness. “Bring her, of course. “Amelia's words ring thus. Where does she move now, dress, drink, urinate, and stroll among her maidens, slapping thighs?

I am not a whore.

I am not.

I am not, I am not.