Laura

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Father said once that one should be as wood or stone, regarded and yet not, unregarding and yet not.

“You sermonise but do not know the lesson,” my aunt said to him, though there were threads of laughter in her voice for sometimes she chided him upon his speakings and then Papa would confess such failures of communication as he felt accountable for, adding-perhaps with a touch of awkwardness in his voice-that one should communicate without words. That it is easy to do so by smiles or frowns or noddings of the head, I understood, but could no further immerse myself in what he intended and so, as often, let it slide from my mind, though like the morning journey of a snail it left a glittering upon my thoughts, a small ground radiance of belief in his deep understandings.

At the coming of morning, the groom stands motionless outside. I view him in my passing through the foyer where the swing doors stand and London growls its wakening to the world.

Breakfast is taken amid a twittering of thoughts, a whiteness of linen, sparklings of china and gleamings of silver. One has an attachment to such things. Hannah and Jane fidget, are come upon apprehensions.

“We have no baggage. Mama might think it strange that we have no baggage,” Jane avers.

She is younger now than in the night, the effervescence of her belly-heat diminished.

“It is of no matter, Jane. One's possessions are one's possessions. They may not be taken without receipts, notes, documentations. There are laws upon such matters, surely.”

“You were ever exact, seeking attitudes upon such matters, Laura.”

“Does it not become one so to be, Hannah? Let us not dally overlong. Once over the Thames, the world will come clearer to us. The sky is higher there.”

The groom touches his hat upon our appearance-a gesture mechanical and born of servitude. His clothes are old yet new yet ageless, like his face. I have forgotten his name. Hannah reminds me that it is Jervis. The name sounds as his attire looks. In our passage we take the same route that I took with my uncle to Epsom. The girl who stood with a pail beyond a cottage door regards me yet again. Her simple dress is unchanged. She seeks neither retreat nor advancement nor adventure but ever waits. I wave to her. She turns her back on me. We have quarrelled once perhaps and I am left still unforgiven. I must come upon her again on my return, seek explanations, explications, simplicities of understanding.

We are too hot-or with the windows down-become dusty. Travel by carriage is ever so. I do not ask about trains. In all truth I have forgotten the route. It may come clear to me upon seeing the bridge that was spoken of with Charlotte, yet I think the bridge was before, before this time and in another time.

In a low-ceilinged tavern at mid-morning Hannah laughs a difficult laugh and rubs her boots upon the sawdust floor.

“We have nothing to say!”

“What is to say? Upon arrival we shall take lemonade and small cakes on the lawn. Our linen will be changed. There will be comfortings. Let us bathe together in the same water, one upon another.”

“I shall be first! Let me be first.”

“Yes, Jane, you shall be first. Wear a white dress with pink ribbons. I would have you look angelic. Hannah, we shall be as sisters again, wear blue or brown. He ever liked our legs in brown.”

“I wish not to know of it, Laura. Are we not too young?”

“We shall see. It is better to travel hopefully than to arrive. Thus my father taught me from the Chinese wisdoms.”

“I do not know the meaning of that.”

Hannah so replies, looks pettish, but understands fully. I know her little tricks, her deviations. She has not forgotten Jervis, who, forbidden though to look, held her legs apart and stared ahead, hands strong at ankles that were mutinous.

Within a further hour we are come upon our destiny. And now I remember. I remember now the leaning of a Cyprus tree, the yawning of a hedge, carved stags upon the columns to the gates black in their ironness.

“We have no need to go through the house.”

Hannah in descent stares all around. Two gardeners lazy move and pluck at weeds.

“If you do not wish, Hannah, if you do not wish. Let us go by the side gate, for they will have heard our coming. In this quiet.”

Once in the hall was Hannah seized, as I recall. There were times when this was not thought untoward, dependent on the hour, the mood, the sun, swillings of wine, and carelessness of thoughts. We had returned, all of us returning, coming from some country ride, neither solemn nor mirthful, the rooms waiting as rooms wait. It was known perhaps that Hannah would be taken that morning, for she had been wilful at breakfast and had sat sloppily in her saddle, her bottom rumptious, and rebellions in her eyes. In the hall, in the very passings and passagings of our arrival, had she been seized, mouth clamped, into a cupboard hustled. The others, unregarding, swept within the drawing room, dispensing hats and cloaks, calling for sherry. From the hall had come bustlings and thumpings so that Hannah's mama with a frown had closed the door.

We ate wine fingers, I recall-slim biscuits flat or round and flavoured in their making with milk and Nuits St. Georges. Charlotte and I–I do not recall that she was ever a servant but was sometimes other-passed them in and out of our lips and smiled, for cupboardings were frequent and at mid-morning when the blood was up were particularly lusty, a man's genitals being excited by friction on the saddle. The cupboard was adjacent to the drawing room though being separated not only by the wall but by a partition within the cupboard itself so that there was a hollow place between. This acted however as a form of echo-chamber, for there was a split in the partition itself and so ghost noises were emitted to us.

Sucking upon our wine biscuits, which were crisp and made so to be eaten, and frequently licking at the tips, we heard on that occasion Hannah's gasps and I knew her to be upon a padded bench made of a purpose so narrow that her legs would hang down on either side of it while he-balancing himself upon its middle-would be well shafted up into her cunny and so hold her perfectly corked.

I, being to the rescue finally, found her still reclining with the pale of her belly showing, her thatch well moistened, one garter loosed and a blear of tears in her eyes, which I disregarded. The cupboard, being some eight feet long by four wide, was not a tidy place nor was meant to be. Old walking sticks and a broken umbrella stood in one corner. When a young woman was taken in there for the first time, her drawers were frequently left lying in a corner for a maid to retrieve, though one or other of us took upon ourselves this chore lest it otherwise look unseemly.

The picture such comes clear to me. Hannah lied when she said she was not mounted thus but ever her bottom pestled. She fears still to go through the house at mornings, yet I sense that being ridden in this way had a certain attraction for her.

“Were you not wilful of a purpose, Hannah?”

I halt her in her going. Jane has run ahead. The side gate swings and squeaks.

“I shall not be again. Teach me the avoidances! We are not yet come upon it, are we? Not yet, not yet!”

“They will be waiting for us.”

The side gate squeaks again and we are come upon them. Green paint on the conservatory peels and hesitates, is guilty in its severance from the wood. Some panes of glass are milky still. A table there within where Hannah lay is covered now with flowerpots, dust of loam. She had her legs apart and wore white stockings that are not yet woven. Or they lie in wait for her, secreted under lavender and silk.

“You have not taken long, then-not too long!”

Their mama waves in greeting. Jane perches for a moment on her father's lap, then sprawls upon the grass, is indolent.

“Are you well, Laura?”

He rises, then. Our hands would touch. The space is not yet here to touch.

“She has a slight pallor about her, Ewart-should seek the shade.”

Agnes was ever a kind lady. I ever knew her so to be. I believe she is Agnes. Her eyes are boutiful, fulfilling of all things. She is at times the wood or stone of which my father spoke. Her smile is lined with velvet and her words with love.

“I am well. We would bathe. May we bathe?”

“Together? What a splendid chance of thought! You do not ask, you never need to ask. Have someone tell the maid. Will someone tell the maid?”

A vagueness takes her and she looks about. The shrubs stare, stir their leaves, whisper of otherness.

“I will tell her, Mama.”

Jane rushing, ever rushing now, is gone. A door bangs. Agnes frowns and claps her hands as though both in despair and merriment.

“She is still a child! Would not eat her breakfast. I know not what will become of her.”

“She will eat her lunch, my dear. Fresh from her bath, she will eat her lunch.”

So her papa chuckles. His thoughts contain my breasts, my thighs. Perhaps there will be a peephole into the bathroom whereby he might see. I am roguish to such fancies, yet would not be. I shall examine the walls, make soundings at the door.

Perhaps in the night…

“What shall we do today, Mama?”

Hannah moves in her enclosures, folds the air about her. Careful, delicate, she touches not a chair, a hand, an arm.

“What do we ever do, my pet, but discourse on the usefulness of life, preparations for pleasure, readings from the classics, peckings of embroidery? Papa means to buy you horses, did you know?”

“No-I did not know.”

Her glance takes his in, wondering, then drops. She paws the ground as might her future stallion.

“We shall to the fair on Thursday, then? Shall we go to the fair to choose them?”

I intervene within a narrow gap of thoughts, intentions not made plain or crumpled up.

He smiles. “There is no hurry upon the matter. They have yet to learn to ride, may do so on my own before they take to theirs. Is that not the best solution to the matter?”

Hannah converses now with her mama, parting the shield of air about her, entering on the newness of the day. What shall we do today, Mama, what shall we do today? I turn-the moment is propitious, I believe. Accompanied by her papa, close the doors. Our isolation is perceived and known. The chatter in the garden chatters on. A breeze idles through the trees but will not look. It knows its placings, its discomfitures.

“Laura, I shall bathe in turn after you. Leave the water.”

“If you so wish. Will Agnes stay upon the lawn?”

“If I so wish.”

Our lips merge, melt-our tongues intrude.

“You ever changed your linen first, Laura.”

“Yes. You never kissed me thus before, your hands beneath my skirt. Pray do not fondle too high. I am moist from journeys there.”

“Moist between your cheeks and moist before. Let me but feel you lightly through your drawers. How bulbous will your bottom mound into the bath! What perfumes you will leave!”

“You intoxicate yourself with your imaginings. I in my turn might say how rich your cock will be with sperm and spendings. Did you teach me to talk thus? I have never talked thus! Tell me I have not!”

“Lewd in your fancies and ever by day a lady-would you have me say this? It is true. Did not the others follow when you beckoned, sparkling of bush, your lovelips thickly dewed?”

“Charlotte brought her tongue to me. I recall now. Over the sofa's edge and I was held.”

“What is to forget? No more than what is to remember. When there were huntings of girls, shy the fillies, then you ever led. Calm in your commandings, you saw to their strappings, the bleatings quick subdued, the legs spread wide. When there were cozenings and comfortings to be done, you saw to it, whimperings of wildness put down, the velvet of your lips assuaging. I have seen you docile at the fire by dusk with angels on your eyelids, yet have seen you wild as flames, your bottom squirming to the penis thrusts.”

I giggle, cannot help myself; the time is all wrapped-in, yet lies about as might cloth unfolded after many years.

“You said once that I bubble like a stew.”

I make my voice a baby-voice as he would wish.

“Bubbling and wriggling, was that not ever the lure of you? Jane is unclothed by now. You had best attend her.”

“Shall you play stallion to the fillies, then?”

I am filled with laughter even as a room is filled with music. There is comfort here, the music heard, unheard. He frowns a little. It is not the time. Hannah enters, followed by Mama. I, quick released, obtain an attitude of waiting.

“Is there linen clean? Chemises, drawers?”

Agnes is at the bustle, enters the hall and then ascends.

“Oh, Laura, Hannah, hurry! The water grows less warm.”

Jane's shrilling trill descends. The time unfolds, the time unfolds. The bathroom-an immensity of space whose fireplace waits for winter-draws us in. Splashings and laughter, fumblings, foolishness.

“Mama said we would speak of ordinary things, sit upon the five-barred gate, prepare for picnics. Mama will chaperone us.”

“Yes, Hannah, yes.”

“How dull she is!” Jane laughs and frills the water with her hands, the first to sit within. I enter, poised between her legs, embrace her to the lapping of the warmth. My titties nudge her mouth, she licks the tips, drawing the nipples up to sweet brown points while Hannah will not look and will not look.

“Come, kneel, Jane. Move your bottom up and down within the water's weight as I do mine. How nice it feels, the surging to our cunnies! Now, Hannah, come within- oh, do but try!”

“I cannot. How foolish of you. What kissings you make!”

“Our lips will be the more ruby for it and our breasts the harder. You shall not spoil today, my love, or I will have you whipped. Come, Jane, she is a spoilsome thing, and she the elder! Have your splash then, Hannah, and retire.

Hereafter your papa will take the water. Drawers and chemises will suffice until you find your rooms. Draw up your stockings well and keep them taut.”

“I would stay with you, Laura, until the lunchbell sounds.”

“You may not stay with me, Hannah. You know the way of it-the teachings are prescribed. Each must make ready for her future fate.”

“I shall lock my door then.”

“You will get no benefit from that. Have you forgotten there is still a waiting time? Did I not promise? Out with you, dry yourself and go. In your walking move your bottom well. Such things are looked for. Roll your hips a little but not overmuch.

“I will not, shall not!”

Face crimson, she departs. Jane, loathe to move, receives my fingers at her bottom's bulge.

“Powder it, my pet, that it may be scented, polished to the touch.”

“Yeth. I shall not lock my door, I promise not.”

“One kiss, my love, and I shall make your cunny tingle for it all the more. In crossing and uncrossing your legs when you sit today, take care to do so slowly that your stockings hiss of all that lies above.”

So am I mistress sudden of this realm? A clock chimes deep below, is resonant takes comfort from its sound.

Agnes is to some seclusion gone, changing her gown, errant in wardrobes. She will brush Charlotte's hair or Charlotte hers. Their breasts will be reflected in a mirror. Oiled is the surface of the water with our leavings. His balls will float in it, his stem stiffen. Hemispheres of bliss will in his dreams plump down upon his knob.