The Chemickal Marriage

teeth chattered and her bare knees pressed cold against her breasts. The Contessa, hair wrapped in a towel, wore a white robe and cork slippers, all purloined from the baths. She poured brandy into a teacup and passed it across.

‘Drink. Slowly.’

Miss Temple took small, burning sips, hating the taste but grateful for the warming glow.

‘Now, will anyone follow?’

Miss Temple shook her head. The Contessa glared, this not being enough of an answer, and so Miss Temple provided a brief account of Mr Schoepfil’s assault on propriety and her own escape. At the end her cup was empty and she held it out for more. The Contessa poured for them both, tucking the robe about her knees. Behind the Contessa, in an untidy pile, lay several open hampers. Miss Temple’s arrival had interrupted smoked oysters in sauce and the Contessa restored the jar to her lap. She dipped a finger in the sauce, frowned at the taste, dribbled some brandy into the jar and resumed her meal.

‘You should eat. The passage will take hours.’

Miss Temple sniffed. ‘What passage?’

‘Channel between royal premises,’ replied the Contessa, chewing. ‘Enabling duplicity and outright crime. In a spasm of conscience the way was bricked up – those habits being impure. An astute adviser of this present queen made it his business to uncover the legend – in secret, opening the passage enough for one or two very sodden individuals, an expedience. And I made it my business to uncover him.’

‘Lord Pont-Joule.’

‘Would you like an oyster? They aren’t very good.’

Miss Temple shook her head and the Contessa tossed the jar at the far wall. She frowned at the nearest hamper. ‘Cheese?’

‘No, thank you.’

The Contessa brought a white-moulded toque to her nose. ‘It’s very ripe.’

‘Where does the channel lead?’

‘Well, that was the value of Pont-Joule. An older man, desire and capacity so rarely in twain, but philosophic and not sour. A life dedicated to nothing of course – to that moulting cow – but he saw the wind’s way. Can you?’

‘Royal premises,’ said Miss Temple with a sniff.

‘O who is a good pup?’ The Contessa broke the cheese with her hands and took an exploratory nibble. She raised her eyebrows with approval and then filled her mouth.

‘I expect they sent people to prison in secret,’ muttered Miss Temple, for the Contessa was no longer entirely listening. ‘Sent them all the way to Harschmort, underground.’

Once the brandy had done its work, however, Miss Temple’s old troubles returned. The Contessa had wiped her fingers on the robe and gone to another hamper, this filled with clothing, her squatting hips an unwelcome gust across the embers of Miss Temple’s desire. She looked away, down at the brick.

‘Perhaps I will eat after all,’ she managed. The Contessa waved vaguely.

‘It is for you or the rats. Or, with that straggling hair, you as the largest rat …’

Miss Temple forced herself to swallow a water biscuit and a lump of cheese, taken from where the Contessa had not chewed. Though it stuck in her throat, she reached in the hamper for more. But, as she reached, the Contessa flung an armful of various garments and the blanket was knocked from her shoulders. Miss Temple turned, covering herself with her hands. The Contessa laughed.

‘I had not planned for two, much less two of such differing sizes. With a corset to wrench it all in, you may be presentable. Probably not.’

‘I will wear my own things,’ said Miss Temple, pulling the blanket up.

‘A mere corset and shift? You will freeze. They will hear your teeth from St Porte.’

‘I do not care.’

The Contessa dropped her robe and stepped into a pale silk shift. She pulled it over her hips, smiled, and then, as Miss Temple could not but look, slipped one arm and then the other through. The Contessa paused.

‘Celeste, I believe you are biting your lip.’

Miss Temple only swallowed, wet hair in dark ringlets on her nape. ‘You know what has become of me.’

‘But do I know it well enough?’ The Contessa did the last button and tugged the shift against her breasts, as if for comfort, but primarily to drag the silk across her nipples, knowing that Miss Temple could not look away.

‘You are very cruel.’

‘Not only cruel. What would you like?’

Miss Temple rocked on her heels. ‘That’s a horrible question.’

‘Only if you have a horrible answer.’

‘You amuse yourself. You will kill me.’

‘I thought you were going to kill me.’

‘I am,’ whined Miss Temple.

‘Stand up, Celeste.’

‘I won’t. I can’t.’

The Contessa came forward and caught the hands Miss Temple raised to put her off. Miss Temple was lifted and the blanket fell away, her pale skin tight with the cold. The Contessa looked at her. Miss Temple trembled.

‘I am ashamed,’ she whispered. ‘I am not myself.’

‘Few people are.’

‘But you –’

‘We are not talking about me.’

Miss Temple persisted. She forced out the words. ‘But I – I am not kind. I am not pretty. I want things. I want people. I –’ She shook her head. ‘I am so hungry … so angry.’

The Contessa set a hand on Miss Temple’s breast, squeezing it with the dispassion of a farmer judging ham. ‘You are not ugly. Besides, that matters very little.’ The hand took in the soft pinch of Miss Temple’s waist and the turn of her hips. ‘The person who isn’t angry is a stone. And the person without desire is in the grave.’ Miss Temple squirmed, for the Contessa’s hand had dipped between her legs. An extended finger pushed without warning past hair and skin to wetness and slipped in. Miss Temple gasped.

The Contessa looked her in the eye. ‘We have done this before. Do you remember?’ Miss Temple nodded. The Contessa eased her hand into motion. ‘In the coach, with Oskar. To shame you. To derange your little heart. Did it work?’

Miss Temple shook her head. The motion was already luscious.

‘No. That was my mistake. But what did you learn?’

‘That I am my own,’ whimpered Miss Temple.

‘O that’s a lie, isn’t it?’

Miss Temple did not speak. The Contessa gave her hand a twist and employed a thumb.

‘I said that’s a lie, isn’t it, Celeste? You admitted as much just now, this close to tears … because you want a world that isn’t yours … because your pleasure is unbounded … because in your heart you are the biggest whore in all Europe.’

Another turn of her hand stopped Miss Temple’s objection.

‘Or is that wrong? Are you not? Or are you? What other word would you use?’

‘Why – O – why are you –’

‘Because someone has to die, Celeste. It won’t be me. For this – your demons? Banish shame. Accept desire. Most men deserve the whip. You are what you are now.’ The Contessa dropped to her knees. She met Miss Temple’s eyes. ‘Yes?’

Miss Temple could not move. Sure as the strike of a snake, the Contessa’s tongue shot home. Miss Temple cried out. She writhed, but the Contessa held her hips fast and the crest was already imminent, a swelling of unbearable sweetness. Her fingers found the Contessa’s head and pulled it close.

Miss Temple had tumbled panting onto the blanket. The Contessa gave her a cold-eyed smirk. ‘And what do you know now?’