Laura

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The coach is ill-prepared, unpainted, creaks. The coachman sits, brown hat, brown cloak, and waits as one might wait for sunsets, April dawns, the falling of a raindrop from a leaf.

“Where's to go, Miss? Shall we by south or north or east or west or by our own devising?”

“Are you a geomancer, then-one who makes prickles in the dust to guide his journeys by?”

“I ain't none of that, Miss. Don't know what that is. Make prickles in the dust to travel by? How's it done, then, eh, how's it done? That's what I'd like to know.”

“Castings of stones and sticks, maybe. Noddings of head. I also do not know. The word is pretty, though, do you not think? I caught it from a book my father owns and trapped it as one does a butterfly. It flutters in my mind, now here, now there. I put it to such usage as I feel.”

“Words is funny, Miss. As for me, some I uses, some I chews, spits out if I do not find them proper. My dear mother says, spit out that word, she says, and grind it into dust.”

“A proper lady then, by all accounts. She withers in a cottage while you wait? I shall not keep you long upon it then. Are you from here or there or far?”

“Not far, not there, not here. I knew I would be summoned. Had a feeling of it. Strange folk they are and proper to a T. The beds grow cold, I hear, and only used for sleeping. Sometimes the house is boarded up and sometimes not. The folk don't come this way at night. You never come this way at night?”

“I would be fearful of the potholes, frogs, toads, witches' trails. How hard the seat! I shall not journey far. Is there a station near?”

“Not far, no.

I am speaking for him. His are not the words but from my thoughts impelled. He will take bread and milk, a pot of ale, mull over all the day, find wonder in it. Sniffing at my skirts in memory, hell play his mischiefs in a small back room, linoleum cracked and dirt to corners shuffled. Too urgent will he come, my eyes in his, ever there pasted on his tawdry walls, cock in, cock out, the small tight quims appealing. His mother will listen at the doors, cackle her dryness, and retire to bed a huddled mess amid the mass of night, her nails unclean, her withered eyelids shut.

I shall not grow old, I shall not grow old, I shall not grow old.

A hour and we are come upon the bustle of the town. My gown, enriched by wealth, there gathers eyes.

“What of your baggage, Miss? It were brought out so quick I knew not the counting of it.”

“Bring it down, bring it down, bring it down. This hostelry will do-the Duke of York's. I shall meander here, there, all about. Tell them that Sir James Brede's daughter comes.”

“Ay, Miss, I will, and the best rooms laid for you. If you was to need me here tonight, if you was.”

“Such an occasion I cannot envisage. Will a sovereign do? Take two. You have a wordly air about you and may go far.”

My little flattery is done, wrapped up and handkerchiefed anew. The shops here have a pretty look of dark and light. The windows gleam, the rough stones smooth beneath my toes. I shall buy baubles, take them up for laughter, give them to the maids who serve me well and fasten cameos above their breasts.

Eyes haunt me from a doorway and I look. She moves among old clothes and lengths of twine, the daylight dusty in her sombre look. I know her for the girl who stood with pail and put her back to me. She lissome stirs and now approaches me.

“You have my ring. I knew you had my ring.”

“Yours? Was it yours?” I gaze her up and down-white dress, a trifle dirty, not bizarre. Hat with a wide soft brim that once I wore.

“I knew the stones the twistings and the bits. Hannah, she took it, said that it was hers. Jane cried, was chased into the woods across the field. I heard her squealings till she were put down.”

“You have journeyed far for it, have you not?”

The ring is of no moment. I pass it to her. Hand trembles and she puts it on; dress changes then to blue but no one stares. The dress is new. I wore it not before, nor she. Changeling and foundling, ever will she come.

“I was to go today. Aunt Aramintha was to take me there. Tea upon the lawn and chattering.”

“Was, were, or will? The time is all undone. Wait till the summer's end or harvest time. We had no need to quarrel on the ring. Did we have need?”

“I thought you'd keep it, that was all. Shall I, then, go back now? I know not where to tarry.”

“Come with me. Semantha is your name.” It comes upon me like a bell, is struck and rings.

“Of course-you know that, silly, course you do. Papa is with the gout and all put out with me. Mama will take the waters if she can. The house is all locked up, the cottage, too. I saw you pass. You waved. I turned away. What a horrid uncle he is and I hope you did not do it with him.”

“What a thing to say, Miss, in the street! Have you such boldness on you now? Come, let us to my rooms, prepare the day, lay out the hours and count the minutes past.”

“Did you? Did you do with him? Did you?”

“You sillikins, of course not. Would I do? When you were last put up, put down…ah yes, I have the memory of it now.”

“Oh, do not mention it, pray not! How improper were our little games! Nose to nose and mouth to mouth we were, each bumping, wriggling, working to their whims. All squashed I was, Laura, and you laughing, Hannah saying he must take it out. In a corner she was and her face on a cushion.”

“Pouf! Make not much of episodes, Semantha, coming together of moments, enlacings of the days. There shall be tea and quietness now, discoursings on the usefulness of life. A truce is called to it, their rosaries fast held.”

“Around his naughty thing, I know! That's how he puts it in and works away, jinglings of beads and smacking of his balls. Both together they were and their legs up.”

“Shush! What a naughtiness is about you today that you prattle as you do! Come, come within. I have my rooms prepared, my niceties conveyed. If they are not aware of who I am-we are-there will be ructions.”

All is obsequiousness and quiet, the carpets scarlet and the drapes.

“Your rooms, Miss, yes, of course, your rooms.”

Full passage made, we to the elevator led, whisked all about, avoiding hazards, hamperings of feet, rugs, chests, and brass spittoons.

The rooms are small and yet commodious. Semantha bounces on the bed, comes up, goes down, moves hips and sinks again, her ankles neat in stockings white.

What shall we do today, Mama, what shall we do?

I sit beside her oh the bed, gaze in full hope upon her young, smooth face.

“Is it true that there is reality, Semantha?”

Her eyes, wide with surprise, are doves descending.

“Oh yes, oh yes. I took my medicine today, had breakfast with my aunt, saw to the menu of the day, upbraided cook, and kicked the dogs away. Papa took out his hunter, saw the time, and all was well. The sun rose high and clear. I shall have mulberry wine and dance my way all through the evening.”

“What medicine pray? Everyone is about medicines today, placebos, pills, and beads-anxieties.”

“Ho! Medicines indeed! You know well what I meant. Did we not always call it that? When first injected with the fruitful prong I struggled, then took heart and suffered it, tight easing in my passage, oiling me with early warnings of its succulence. Such a syringing did I have-oh my!” She laughs and kicks her legs, looks sudden coy, begging I think her not too wanton in her ways.

Messages of thoughts and memories. They are too slender here. I fret at that. Never too young for it and ever playful, white of dress and white of limbs. Let the messages come, trill at my fingers.

“Never wanton you, Semantha, no. You had the innocence at play which brought his cock up first, I do believe. You lisped when kissed and struggled not to feel a hand within your drawers. Strawberries and cream you said your titties were, the nipples gently sucked each morn, your bottom tickled in the bed. Made play between them with you, did they not? Cock at your bottom and her lips to yours.”

“Oh yes, I laughed, but I was scared. I'd never seen it up before. Aunt Aramintha wafted up my nightgown then and held me tight. 'Fuck, fuck,' she said-oh, such a wicked word! 'Come, tease him further not,' she said, and laid my hand beneath his balls, arm straining far behind my back. He who would tread his angel twisted me about, his naked staff against my belly burning. Aunt held my arms and laughed and nipped my ear. Then, seizing up my thighs, he put it in and said that he was only cozening.”

Our lips together now, our breaths come fast.

“Fucking, Semantha-fucking-say!”

“F…Fucking, oooh…oh, put your finger there!”

I have intruded on a word I would not speak, but now is said and done, curled up and dry. Plant it between the books you do not read. It has no eminence, ugly of sound, meaningless of purpose. Rinse your mouth. Take flowers to bed and dream of pale things.

I would uncover now her breasts, but we are visited. A knock discreet upon the solid door. Arranging my gown with care I go, a flush too high upon my cheeks.

Bury the word and let it have no roots. I would be done with it, to silence put.