“They will come to that. Renewed and virginal will come to that and in their ways of wisdom-yet unfound- will know no evil. Let their bottoms work in rhythm for the nonce and rinse their mouths with wine. Have lavender and myrrh laid at their pillows for the scent of it. Guard that their nostrils and their teeth are clean, their bottoms oiled and ready for the cork. Impress obedience and hide their drawers. Be party to their follities and whims. Have nothing but the best liqueurs. Tickle their cunnies with a feather just to bring them up.”
“Shall Jervis hold them, Miss? 'Twere a fair game of it made with Miss Hannah last time.”
“I do not trust the man, if man he be. He casts no shadow in the sun. Hannah will be good. Will you not be good, Hannah?”
“Shall you not stay, Laura, and I will be good.”
She is flirtatious now and moves her hips as I intend, her nipples ready brown to suck upon, her bush fluffed up, thick, ready for the dew. I hold her arms and kiss her as she stands.
“Be mindful, Hannah, to be good, as all we must. Lick your lips a little, make them shine. Blush not when in your drawers he feels and do not strain your neck away. Extend your leg a little, so, and keep your thighs apart. Pulpy with come your quim will feel, your belly straining more to draw it in, warm flesh to flesh and all the kisses made. Twirl your tongue, be bold, and gasp your gasps. Cling tight 'til all is done and the last drops surrendered.”
“Miss, I will come with you, if you want.” Now Charlotte's voice intrudes.
“No need, my sweet. Hannah will be good. Jane, too. You have no other resting place to journey to as yet.”
My words perhaps are cruel yet I would not be encumbered, made to speak of idle things, frivolities. Solid the ground and empty blue the sky. A kestrel wheels, stoops on a thoughtless bird. So death is done and all seen in the sun. Some small Icarus now its wings has lost. Feather-falling, falling down, here-there-and gone.
If I came this way again, should come by night-the hedges hissing, scorned by stars-the house would be bright again and glow. Conversations would be elegant, the punchbowl filled, the girls more settled in their beings. One would discourse on Hamlet's tale or measure out the lines of Shelley's verse, pray for poor Chatterton, admire da Vinci's lines.
Jane would wear pink stockings-Hannah white. Some ceremonials would attend their new initiations year by year, season by season as their fashions changed, frilled petticoats and ribbons quick undone.
I should seek now elegance, not secrecy. The sofas should be grey and gilded at the edges, a sparkle of the gold against their thighs. Boucher would paint them at their frottings sweet, the ladies clapping as the men prepared to mount, lappings of tongues and solace of warm thighs. Upon their coming each man would withdraw, sprinkling their deep-furred nests with dews of love until all frothed and bubbled in the night.
If I came this way again, should come by night…
Behind me now the letterbox is raised. The voice of Charlotte sings out, clear and hurt yet snagged with spite that I do not now turn.
“Cant come again, Laura.”
“Cant come again.”
“Cant come again!”
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,
