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i.
Death falls away, sometimes. In these heightened moments of life.
Let us paint the night with the heat of ourselves, you say, in the touch of your fingers against my skin, the touch of your want against my trembling breath, for I am destitute, there is wealth in sin, I know that all we do is good and a tear escapes my shuttered lids.
Let us abandon thought, you say, with your eager mouth and your rough, rough hands, splintered from work like my whole self, turning me around while tracing my neck, throwing me onto the bed with strength, the strength to take lives and give them back.
If this is all we are, I think, aflame but not yet gone, not yet, my mind still forming these remnants of thought, if this is all we are, we are good, we are so much better than I ever thought we could be, I do not know what that says about me but it might say something about my past.
Yes, you say, by shedding my dress, by grinning, grinning as you climb on top, by kissing my cheek, my bosom, my breath, to give me life and make me scream, cries of stunned delight. You do as you please, which is just as well, for I know not what I do. At your mercy, I soon discover the beauty of it, the blessing of a loving caress that could destroy but chooses not to. We waste the air with gasps of surrender, tasting the appetite on each other’s lips, joining as though we had always been joined, and then with practiced thrusts and innocent welcome drive to the release we crave, the wave of blinding bliss crashing over and over me.
Yes, I think, aflame and gone, yes, yes, yes.
ii.
It cannot be worse than before, I tell myself.
It cannot be worse than Francis.
There is an order to things and fate has placed us among the stars. My duty in life is bound to that. My duty is clear to me.
You place a gentle kiss on my shoulder. I slip out of my gown.
Let it not be said that I am not a good wife. Let it not be said that I cannot do what must be done. Frailty is not measured in the faintness of heart, strength is not measured in the will to resist. I will not be broken by the order of things, I will not be shamed for the convenience of my affairs. Their wild beating heart, dreaming of a different future, was never mine to indulge, I know that now that it has been taken from me by the man who saw fit to inspire it.
Hope is cruel. It stills your hand as well and as often as it spurs you into action. It is like desperation in that way. Now I feel neither. The time for delusions is past. Let this be the truth. Let this be my commitment to how it is supposed to be. I know you will aid me in this.
Your eyes flit over my naked form, shyly in a way I did not quite expect, never resting anywhere for fear of impropriety, the glint of triumph gone, replaced by the inability to savour it, adorned by the faintest blush rising to your cheeks, visible even in the dim light cast by the candles. You clear your throat and direct your attention to unbuttoning your ruffled shirt, needlessly excessive in style because few would believe you had it at all if not displayed in such a manner, the heritage of a family name disassociated from the authority of bloodlines centuries old.
I take a step forward, wanting to help but not daring to interfere without explicit permission. I know that you must have bedded women the same way Francis did, the same way most gentlemen do – without expending much care or affection, unless coins count as such. But I know, hope, that you feel differently about me. It greatly calms my nerves. For all your alleged greed, I doubt you could be as coarse as he was at first. There is reverence in your gaze, looking at me again, trained on my face, reverence and a confidence that you can always assume but never feel.
You kiss me with caution, chaste so as not to spoil those spoils of war, that sweet honey glistening on my lips, my lips that taste of nothing.
Is this what you saw many nights ago, I want to ask, having known your devotion for years and years, feared your approach and welcomed its presence, so stark in relief to the void at my side. Ross, Ross slips into my mind, the ghost of his touch a reminder of warmth, his effortless nourishment a punishing absence, his ease in piercing that veil of grace outmatched by his even greater desertion. How invigorating it must be to hold that power and know it not.
Are you thinking of him as well, I want to ask, aware of the childish feud over me, how could I not be, when you both love to remind yourselves that yes, she is mine, yours, for a moment or a lifetime or never again.
I am here, I want to say, so I slide a hand into your hair, undoing those perfectly coiled curls, to your surprise and joy, I know you always expect something in return but what I return is more than you expected, I know that as well. I am here, I say to you and to him.
What we lack in recklessness, we can make up in determination.
It could be worse, I think, running my fingers over your arms as I guide us towards the sheets, it could be worse. I have seen young beautiful women betrothed to old ugly creatures, ever since I could see, my mother assured me this was not to be my fate but I saw her laugh over tea and biscuits when some of them came and made her an offer. Her laugh was never true enough.
It could be worse, I think, when you bring your hand to rest on my hip, experienced but with a doubt you cannot shake, the doubt to never be good enough because no one ever thought you were. Buying the pretence is better than nothing but it is different here, in this communal space, where we will have to give and take and learn over time that we are all we have, truly; when the carefully crafted veneer of decorum cracks after a long day.
I feel it in the way you lower me, I feel that you want to worship me but there is little in the way of faith. Faith is trust that someone will love you, without conditions, but there is no trust in you, so you pay, pay, pay. Caught between the desire to please and the despair of not knowing how. I am flattered that you are even attempting to try. Most times you forego it in order to save the embarrassment. Failure is not an option. So I will show you that you are not failing. And maybe you will keep trying.
Not tonight, however. Tonight will not last long. We will taste the salt of sweat and fall asleep and when the morning light reaches us, I will marvel at your little smile and how soft your eyes look before you remember the stern expressions you prefer to wear in the presence of others.
This can be good, I will think.
Good enough.
iii.
Death never falls away, not quite. You are going to war. This might be the first and the last time we meet; meet all the way. It needed to be now. Here, in this place that I had not imagined, with you, who was always there, ever since I met you.
We laugh.
In between our little stolen kisses, placing the love we hold in the hidden corners, we laugh.
My poor uncle. What he would say if he could see us now. I fear his health would deteriorate instantaneously from mere shock. But let me not think about him. You chase away all that lies beyond this room by lifting the skirt of my dress. Shall we do it like this then? Quite right. We have little time and I am not sure your expertise extends to dressing a lady, though I already chose to wear my most unassuming clothes. Will you do me the favour of debauching me now?
Oh alright, not yet. You sit me down and kneel to remove my stockings, excruciatingly slow in your motions. How tantalizing. I always knew you were a tease. From this angle, your eyes so very close, cast down and sometimes darting up to meet mine, dipped in a sky blue smile, I consider myself the luckiest woman in the world. No palace has this view.
I move to interrupt your fastidious work, refusing to lie still like your corpses, pressing my lips against yours, moving towards the faintest hint of a stubble forming on your chin, minding not that it scrapes, leaving a trail of colour less red than I am supposed to be but just enough to be me. I will make you fashionable with traces of myself.
Do you object, Sir? I think not. Now you struggle to free yourself of your uniform, your unfairly attractive uniform, a service to fight should never be wrapped in something this enticing when in truth this, this right here, is all the call to arms you need. Do you not agree?
I do, you say, I do. We will have to wait to say it out loud.
Do you wish to－?
Yes, I do.
We talk little when that has always been my greatest joy. But we have no time, the light is already fading.
I arch to your touch.
Take me to a land where I have not ventured before, show me all the riches of the Earth, let me know that you will be back, that you will come back for me, my love; let me strip my dress, I care not if it tears, we need to give everything we have and share in it all, let me give you this, you will see death, I know not what it is but it is not this. We are whole, together, in the rhythm of life, not parts that need healing, not broken bits that you need to mend, your fingers may thread through mine to keep from moving, all that needs to move is you in me or so I think.
I do, you say, I do.
Do you wish to－?
Yes, I do, I do wish you to return.
You must.
We are one now.
Now and forever.