“Then what is it?” Camille persisted. “Do you not wish to cool off?”
Maddie did, and yet she remained at the edge of Camille’s blanket, her knees tucked to her chest. “Will you watch me?” she asked at last, toying with the top button of her bodice.
“If you want me to.” Camille eyed that button intently. “I shan’t take my eyes off you, I promise.”
That assurance was all Maddie needed to hear. She fumbled with her bodice and cast it off with her camisole, then wriggled out of her skirts. Her corset was abandoned next, followed by her boots and stockings. She considered keeping on her drawers, but thought better of it when she saw how keenly Camille’s eyes followed the girls who didn’t. Though her hands were trembling, she unfastened the waist drawstring and let them drop to the ground, then scampered to the lake and submerged herself in it.
Knowing full well what immediate effect the water would have on her white shemmy, she surfaced facing Camille and awaited her appraisal—which came in the form of a kiss. Camille pressed one to her fingertips and blew it in her direction, then settled back against the tree with a broad, satisfied smile on her lips.
4
Saturday evenings were reserved for glasses of warm sweetened milk, biscuits, and classic literature. The girls would gather around, jostling for position as Camille settled in an armchair in the parlor and read to them, pausing at intervals to quiz them on the text, assessing their comprehension of the subject matter.
All but Maddie clamored to win favor. While her peers vied to be the first to answer any questions Camille posed, her participation dwindled as she became ever more absorbed in other pursuits. Whenever possible, she assumed a spot beside the arm of Camille’s chair, sitting at her feet like a loyal puppy. From that vantage point, she had a perfect view of Camille’s boot-clad ankles and was often lucky enough to espy a flash of stocking.
Attempting to do so without being caught, she’d rove her eyes up and down Camille’s skirts, looking for the telltale line of her garter. How high did her stockings go? Did she garter above the knee or below? As a child, Maddie gartered below the knee. Most girls of her class did, but as she grew older and found herself in better company, her garters were raised a few inches above her knee, as was more befitting of her new position in life.
Sadly, Camille’s garter line was well concealed beneath multiple layers of flounced silk. For all the hours Maddie spent with her eyes pinned to Camille’s thighs, she caught not the faintest glimpse of it, but her fascination did not go unnoticed.
After every reading, Camille held one of the girls back to help her straighten the room before bed. Empty glasses must be gathered up. Crumbs must be swept away. Cushions and blankets must be returned to their rightful places. To be fair about the business, she rotated through the small group in alphabetical order, and Maddie waited with mounting impatience for her next turn: another chance to be alone with Camille.
She loved the way Camille moved about the room, humming to herself as she beat the indentations of adolescent buttocks out of the cushions and shook biscuit remnants from the folds of the blankets, her skirts swishing about her ankles. They often talked. Camille regaled her with stories from her past, and once, under the guise of extra practice, they waltzed in front of the hearth.
It was an unhurried, intimate dance, and in the privacy of the parlor, Camille made no objection when Maddie stood too close. In fact, Maddie was certain that she tightened her grip.
“You’re such a beautiful girl.” Camille harnessed her firmly by the waist and drew her near, their flushed faces illuminated by the candles on the mantel. “You’re a good learner, too—intelligent and quick-witted—but you’ve been quiet these past few weeks. Is there something wrong?”
Maddie shook her head. As time went on, she found words increasingly difficult to come by in Camille’s presence.
“You’ve been distracted during our readings,” Camille continued, their dance slowing. “Is this what you’ve been looking for?” She halted them, brought Maddie’s hand to her hip and nudged it down, letting it glide over her body. “Does this satisfy your curiosity?”
She pressed the teen’s palm firmly to her outer thigh, and there, a few inches above her knee, was the telltale ridge of an elastic garter.
Maddie couldn’t breathe. Her breath was trapped in her lungs, her mouth agape. She wanted to freeze that moment in time—capture it forever, as in a photograph—but it was shattered in an instant. At the sound of footsteps in the hall—likely the housemaid coming down to begin her evening chores—Camille slapped her hand away and withdrew.
“Off you go to bed now.” She dismissed her dumbstruck charge. “I shall see you in the morning, bright and early for church.”
That should’ve been enough. Maddie should’ve been delighted with that single moment of stolen impropriety and never have expected anything more, but the very next time Camille called her name, she was determined that there should be a repeat of the indiscretion. Preferably one without the interruption of the maid. Indeed, she felt so sure of it that when the glasses were cleared away, the crumbs were swept, and the cushions and blankets were tidied, she failed to depart. Camille bade her an abrupt goodnight, but she stayed put.
“Is there something on your mind?” Camille kept to a reserved distance. “If there is, do spit it out. I haven’t the patience for guessing games.”
Maddie edged closer and extended a hand. “May I feel it again?”
Camille suppressed a shiver and laughed. “Whatever for? Don’t be silly.”
If she’d been more astute, Maddie would’ve seen the pain etched on Camille’s brow at the moment of rejection. She would’ve seen the furrows of tension that puckered her unblemished forehead, and heard that her laugh was hollow. She would’ve noticed how Camille turned her back, not to show callous indifference, but to obscure the welling of tears in her eyes. Instead, feeling disparaged, she hung her head and slunk from the room.
5
Once a week, Camille took the girls on an outing. Whether she opted for the nearest beach, the zoo, or a noisy London music hall, there was always some event that necessitated a good deal of primping and preening and dressing in one’s Sunday best. Of course, regardless of the destination, the highlight for Maddie was in competing for the much coveted spot beside Camille on the train.
She rarely succeeded—the other girls were much too boisterous—but every time she got beaten to the post, Camille flashed her a sympathetic smile. Somehow, that made the loss more bearable. The acknowledgement of her struggles fueled her determination—no matter if it conveyed shared disappointment, as she hoped, or merely pity—and late one evening, after they nearly missed the last train back to the house and everyone was in a state of fatigue, she finally shoved her way into the passenger carriage ahead of the pack.
That night, Camille sat by the window, fanning herself with a folded playbill. The air was particularly stale and stuffy, and as Maddie shifted on the padded leather seat, trying to get comfortable, she noticed Camille’s dainty ungloved hand resting between them, inviting touch. Not that she had the temerity to solicit contact. Fearing another rejection, she feigned nonchalance and laid her own hand there, inches away. It felt dangerous, but a quick glance around the carriage assured her that the other girls were oblivious. Most were sleeping and the rest were trying to.
Though she knew she was trespassing, she crept her hand across the divide until the tip of her little finger grazed Camille’s. She expected nothing. Convinced that her attentions were unwanted, she waited to be pushed away. Instead, she felt a warmth. Camille’s hand slid over hers, plucked it from the seat, and whisked it onto her lap, laying it directly over her garter.
Maddie stifled a whimper. She had no right to touch Camille in such a way, yet as she roamed her greedy hand over the garter, feeling above and below it, Camille seemed in no hurry to rob her of the experience. In fact, the stoic older woman never gave any indication that anything untoward wa
s taking place, nor that she was at all affected by it. Throughout, she remained gazing at the passing countryside, even though complete darkness blanketed the scenery and there was nothing whatever to see.
Exploiting her unusually permissive mood, Maddie chanced more. Without warning, she helped herself to Camille’s hand and placed it on her own thigh, over her own garter, urging reciprocal intimacy, and she thought she heard a gasp.
At first, Camille’s hand lay limp, as if in shock. Seconds ticked by, then it moved. Camille’s thumb brushed her garter, then the whole hand squeezed. As a beam of moonlight hit her face, Maddie saw that her eyes were closed. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and swallowed hard, but was too soon jolted back to her senses when the train slowed at the next station. One of the other girls stirred and her hand drifted away, the heat lost.
Never a word was spoken, and a full week of uninterrupted tedium—and scrupulously, infuriatingly good behavior—passed before Maddie had another spectacular chance to become more intimately acquainted with Camille’s garters. Indeed, it was gloriously unexpected, for the evening of their next excursion began fraught with unpleasant tension.
In a glaring deviation from the norm, Maddie made no bid to secure the seat beside Camille on the outward bound train journey. She had a plan. Having concluded that there was little chance of any inappropriateness taking place when the other girls were all so wired for a night out at a London theater, she opted to reserve her efforts for the return trip, but the unintentional slight had a strong and immediate effect.
Rather than the usual pained smile from Camille, a flutter of confusion etched itself on her brow. Her naturally full lips seemed tight, her mouth small and taut, and she fell peculiarly quiet, barely saying a nice word to anyone until she lubricated her good spirits with a little booze during the first intermission.
Champagne was her drink of choice that night. She bought each of the girls a glass, which brought on giggles aplenty, but Maddie felt sure it all went straight to her bladder. Needing to relieve herself, she broke from the group to use the lavatory, which was simply a small room with a single private stall, a washbasin, and a padded chair on which to sit and wait. She heard someone enter behind her, but thought little of it until she’d seen to her necessaries, emerged from the stall, and found Camille standing by the washbasin.
She had one foot propped on the seat of the chair, her sapphire skirts hoisted over her knee, the hem of her petticoat on display, her leg bared beyond the top of one ungartered black stocking. Her whole leg, from ankle to …
“I’ve had a frightful mishap.” She dangled a broken garter in the air. “Do you have anything I might use to spare my dignity?”
Her mouth too dry to answer, Maddie jerked her eyes away. She had nothing in her pockets but a few mint humbugs and a hanky, but her hair was bound with red satin ribbons. Thinking one of them would suffice as a makeshift garter, she unraveled it from her up-do.
“Ah, yes! That will work! Might I borrow it?” Camille held out her hand.
Maddie wiped her suddenly clammy palms off on her dress and walked the ribbon over to Camille, trading it for the snapped garter: a limp strip of black elastic decorated with ruffled black satin and lace. Strangely, upon closer inspection, the garter did not appear frayed or worn. The break looked clean, is if it had met with the blade of a pair of sewing scissors.
“You may dispose of that.” Camille closed Maddie’s hand around the broken garter, then fastened the red ribbon in a bow around her thigh, securing her stocking in place. “There.” She admired her handiwork. “Will that suit the purpose for now, do you think?”
In the grip of some unprecedented impulse, her head whirling with the possibility that Camille might’ve purposely engineered the failure of her garter, Maddie bent forward and pressed her lips to the splash of alabaster thigh above Camille’s stocking.
Rendered momentarily speechless, Camille’s eyes widened and she drew a sharp breath, but made no objection to the gesture. Nor did she make any attempt to cover herself.
“Maddie,” she whispered. “My darling …”
At the sound of her name, Maddie leapt back, deeply embarrassed by her impudence. “I’m so sorry!” She shuffled away in disgrace, pocketing the broken garter. “I’m sure I don’t know what I’m about!”
From then on, Maddie kept her distance. Even when she knew Camille was trying to solicit her company, she remained withdrawn. Until the day she received a most unwelcome letter from her parents. That day changed everything.
6
Well after lights out, Maddie knocked frantically upon the door to Camille’s study. She’d been ignoring her parents’ letters for several weeks, and had a stack of them heaped on her vanity. When she eventually decided to open them before bed, the news she found therein induced instant panic.
She knocked again.
Camille responded hastily to the second round of harried knocking, her bodice and under-bodice unfastened down to her bust, exposing her corset and the chemise beneath. “Whatever is it? What’s wrong?”
Maddie couldn’t answer. Her attention was immediately diverted from her troubles by the sight of Camille’s lace-trimmed blue satin corset, the prominent bust gores embroidered with intricate loops and swirls. Oh, those bust gores …
“Forgive me.” Camille followed the trajectory of her eyes. “I wasn’t expecting to be disturbed.” She clasped her bodice together. “What is it that you need?”
As much as she tried, she couldn’t conceal her undergarments, and as much as Maddie tried, she couldn’t raise her eyes.
“For heaven’s sake, do come inside before the maid happens by and sees you gawping.” Camille released her bodice and pulled Maddie into her private candlelit sanctuary. “What is it that causes you to seek my company so late? You ought to be in bed.”
“They intend for me to marry him,” Maddie wailed, grief returning to her as she waved the offending letter at Camille. “What am I to do?”
“Marry whom?” Camille plucked the letter from the air and pored over its contents.
“I’ve never even met the boy,” Maddie cried. “And nor do I wish to! If they make me go through with it, I shall refuse the business.” She folded her arms defiantly. “I shall run away. It will have to be annulled, for I will not give myself up to him.”
“Sshhh.” Camille petitioned her to lower her voice. “Sit.” She led her to the sofa. “You have been sent to me to prepare you for marriage. You know this, yes?” She retrieved a half-consumed glass of brandy from her desk. “Such a letter cannot have come as a surprise.”
“But I do not wish to marry,” Maddie declared boldly. “I think I should wither and die if I were confined as a wife.”
“I understand your predicament.” Camille sat beside her, brandy in hand. “Perhaps better than anyone.”
“Then tell me,” Maddie implored her. “What am I to do?”
“You are to do what we all must do,” Camille answered solemnly, but honestly. “Enjoy what little freedom you have, while you still have it.”
To Maddie’s ears, that didn’t sound much of a solution. “Why must I do as they please? Why can’t I be like you? You have a fine life, and you’re unbound by any man.”
“Not by a man, that’s true. But I am bound just as severely by many other things.” Camille sipped her brandy. “As I’m sure you’re already well aware, it can be inordinately difficult for a woman to obtain that which she truly wants.” She touched a corner of the letter to the flame of a candle set on the table beside the sofa and watched it burn. “Very often, it is the prudent thing to accept a circumstance that’s far from our ideal. In the end, it’s a matter of survival.” When the flames got too close to her fingers, she flicked the letter into an empty coal scuttle beside the hearth.
“What of love?” Maddie scooted closer, their knees touching.
“Love is the harshest master of them all.” Camille allowed her to advance. “One is never more a prisone
r than when in love.” Her voice almost cracked. “Perhaps you might grow to love this boy.”
“Could you?” Maddie pulled a face. “Could you grow to love a man?”
Camille downed the rest of her drink and set her empty glass aside. “No.” She eased back into the cushions. “I’m not suited to marriage.”
“Neither am I.” Maddie burst into a fit of tears. “Don’t you see that?”
She lunged forward, and Camille welcomed the distraught teen to her breast.
“Hush now.” She held Maddie to her bosom. “Calm yourself.”
That proved impossible, and Maddie sobbed heartily until she fell asleep in Camille’s comforting arms. When she awoke some hours later, she found herself wilted against Camille’s chest, her face pressed to the older woman’s tear-dampened décolletage.
They were lying next to each other on the sofa, Camille half-reclined against the cushions, her head propped on her arm, and as Maddie pulled away, her gaze was snared once again by Camille’s escaping bosom. Seeing no harm in feasting her eyes, since Camille appeared to be in a deep slumber, she peeled back Camille’s open bodice, exposing the upper swells of her generous, tightly constrained breasts, admiring how they heaved with each breath.
Feeling brave, she laid her hand on one of the bust gores, the rigid, steam-molded fabric protecting Camille’s chest like a plate of steel armor. Dissatisfied with that, she then ever so lightly tickled a finger from Camille’s neck to her cleavage and dropped a kiss there.
One kiss.
Two.
Three …
She peppered Camille’s skin with a flurry of soft kisses and laid a hand on her thigh, feeling again that sacred place where she gartered. Oh, to see it once more! She pinched the hems of Camille’s skirts between her fingers and raised them an inch. Only an inch.
Barely breathing, she paused, made sure Camille was at no risk of waking, then revealed more, baring the tops of her boots and her shins. It was too much. Fearing that Camille might stir and realize she’d been molested, Maddie backed off the sofa and scurried away.
The Ruin of Us Page 2
