~ View of a Cemetery ~
A Victorian Romance and Erotic Short Story
by Lady T. L. Jennings
October the 31st, 1853
“Dear diary,” William wrote, and looked out through the window. The rain had stopped momentarily but would probably come back with renewed strength, maybe as snow, later during the night. He took a sip of his tea and looked down on the nearly empty page in the diary and continued:
“Nearly a year has passed since I first met her. Strange, really, the way time flies. It feels only like yesterday,” he wrote and lost himself in the memory. Everything changed last year when Aunt Elizabeth decided to move to Bath, since the London air no longer agreed with her, he thought.
He had been brought up by Aunt Elizabeth, to lessen the family shame; his mere existence had ruined every chance for his mother to be married. As the years passed by, William continued to live with Aunt Elizabeth, helping her with small errands while saving money for his own future marriage. His connections were fairly good, much thanks to Aunt Elizabeth’s influence; but as a natural child, he had to compensate economically if he wanted a beneficial marriage. He knew that he could not be regarded as handsome; he was too tall and slim, and his reddish hair, which indicated perhaps an Irish father, was not favourable either. Not that William himself really cared anymore; he was already seven-and-thirty, but Aunt Elizabeth cared enough for both of them and had not given up hope just yet.
It had nearly broken her heart when William had told her that he would not join her to Bath. Pleads and promises of social events, new introductions, theatres and dancing could not persuade him, and with a vow that he would come and visit every summer, he had seen the carriage leave London and then moved to his new apartment, located in a less fashionable district, within a week.
The chubby landlord had described the apartment as ‘smart and quiet, well suitable for a young bachelor like yourself’, and the rent was low. With two rooms, a small bedroom and a newly renovated bathroom, the apartment was more than William had ever hoped for. And quiet, yes indeed, with the rest of the property waiting for new tenants after the bathroom renovations, and with a view of old Winchester cemetery, nothing would probably disturb him or his writing.
During the same time that Aunt Elizabeth had started talking about moving to Bath permanently, William had, acting on an uncharacteristic whim, in all secret sent three of his best short novels to an editor. He had, of course, used a pseudonym. William was slightly embarrassed by his writing avocation, but he wrote nonetheless: small poems or poetry, novels both short and long, William had been writing for as long as he could remember.
Days of anguish and remorse followed, until–to William’s utmost surprise–the editor replied and wanted to meet him in person and discuss the production of ten short stories to be published in a rather well-recognized magazine.
*
In his journal William wrote: “It is the small things which sometimes lead us to the great adventures.” And indeed, had he not sent his novels to the editor, he probably would have moved with Aunt Elizabeth to Bath, and he would never had met his beloved.
He had rearranged the furniture in his apartment and converted the former dinner table to a writing and reading desk in front of the window in the sitting room. He did not plan to have any dinner parties or social gatherings, so no one could object to the lack of a dinner table. Furthermore, he had placed the antique loveseat in front of the fire, where he now could have his meals and read. With this clever arrangement, he could use most of the daylight and only had to use the firewood to heat up one of the rooms. The only thing that slightly bothered him was that the window in his study was facing the cemetery, but making maximum use of daylight for work was not disrespectful, was it?
A couple of weeks went by and in the end of October, the first snow arrived and took London by surprise, which happened almost every year. William had been working late again, consumed by his writing, and he had completely forgotten his cold tea on the desk. He looked up from his writing to stretch his sore back, which made small complaining noises after hours of work.
A small flicker outside the window caught his attention. Was it a light, a small lantern? Who could possibly be down at the graveyard lighting candles at this time? he thought. Or could it be… thieves? Grave robbers? He shuddered, but then had to laugh at himself. All this writing had clearly stirred up his imagination! Still, he decided, it was his civil duty to go down there and investigate, so he put on his winter frock coat and leather gloves.
The street was deserted and covered in new snow. A few carriage trails could be seen in the snow, and William hesitated a moment in front of the iron gates at the entrance to the cemetery, suddenly torn between the battle of Comfort and Curiosity. Comfort allied itself with Common Sense, which said that entering a graveyard after dark could be a folly, but both nonetheless lost against Curiosity.
Just a short visit, and then back to the study, William promised himself as he walked along the walking path, buried in snow.
The cemetery rested in the shadows of large unpruned trees. William walked slowly along the snow-covered path, which was framed by old brittle graves in various stages of degradation. He tried to read the old inscriptions on the graves, some dating back at least two hundreds years, and some with unreadable engravings were probably older still.
William was just about to turn around and leave, thinking that his civilian righteousness had been paid, when he caught sight of something in the corner of his eye. In the monochrome-coloured graveyard, a little red candle had been placed on top of a small tombstone just at the edge of the light from the streetlamp. The candle was not burning anymore, William noticed as he approached, but the small grave was uncovered from snow and cleared from moss and old leaves. The rest of the cemetery seemed neglected; apparently no gardener had visited the graveyard for ages, however someone was tending this tomb.
Lucy Ann Whitaker
3rd of April 1762 ~ 11th of December 1781
Beloved daughter and fiancée
“Our Angel, Rest in Peace.”
So poor young Miss Whitaker still has someone who cares for her, William thought. She had been engaged, but her fiancé must be at least ninety by now and her parents must surely be dead. Maybe a devoted younger sister or another relative came here to tend her grave. But why light candles at the tomb at this time? It did not make any sense.
Well, at least no one has desecrated the graves; quite the opposite, William thought as snow started to fall through the thin autumn foliage above him. He hesitated, then took off his glove and bent down to touch the candle. Hm, the wax is still soft and warm. Someone has been here in the past few minutes, probably less. William looked around with the strange feeling of being watched. Is Miss Whitaker’s relative still here?
William suddenly felt vulnerable and cold. His feet sent silent complaints concerning their discomfort. He walked fast toward the ornamented iron gates and the warm light from the burning gas light along the street. But with one hand on the gate, he turned around again, uncertain.
“Hello?” he called out, feeling silly but also, inexplicably, a little afraid.
“Is there someone there?” he continued and took a step away from the gate. He thought he saw something–someone–standing in the shadows behind one of the trees. Yes, there was someone there; a woman, he was sure. He took another step forward.
“Eh, my name is William. I… ah, live nearby…” he said, not knowing what to say. Surely the lady must be numb with cold; it certainly could not be healthy to be outdoors in this wretched weather.
He was closer now, just a couple of yards away. It was indeed a young
woman, pale with long brown entangled hair, a torn, old-fashioned dress and naked feet. She was standing half-hidden behind a tree. She was maybe twenty years old, small and feminine, with a perfectly oval-shaped face and large brown eyes.
“Leave me, William,” he heard her say in a low voice, but of course he could not do that. This was clearly a lady in distress. He took another step forward and gently offered his arm to the young woman hiding in the shadows.
“My lady, I mean you no…”
William never had the possibility to finish his sentence; it all happened too quickly. One second he was reaching out toward the young lady, and in the next moment she charged at him. He fell backward, sprawled in the snow, as she bent over him. “Forgive me,” he thought he heard her say, and he felt her ice-cold hands embrace him and a small sharp pain against his neck. Reality went black.
Blood coloured the white snow red.
*
“Oh my God! My God, what have I done? Please, St Mary, let him live, for all that is holy…”
“…I did not mean it. I am so, so sorry.”
“William? William? Can you hear me?”
He was so cold. And so tired. He drifted back into oblivion.
*
“Tea, sir?” she asked, and offered him a cup of steaming hot tea.
“Thank you,” said William weakly, and sipped from the hot beverage.
He felt as if he was waking up from a dream, disoriented and confused. He was lying on the loveseat under several blankets, and a young, pretty lady was sitting in his armchair by the table.
“Eh, my apologies, but who are you? And what happened… at the cemetery?” His memories started to come back to him, but they did not make any sense.
“No offence taken, sir. My name is Miss Lucy Whitaker and I am afraid I… attacked you. I did bring you here though–afterward I mean–and I think you will...” She hesitated and added, “Ah… get well.” But William had a growing feeling that she had meant to say something completely different.
Lucy sat curled up in the armchair staring into the fire as she continued. “This is my story. I was born in 1762 and I died nineteen years later, in 1781. I do not know how exactly… I was waiting for my betrothed Jacques, outside the theatre. He was a little late, and suddenly someone grabbed me from behind, and that is more or less the only thing I remember. Since then I have haunted the cemetery, afraid to leave. A half-ghost, not accepted to enter heaven, but not condemned to hell either.”
She paused and stole a quick glance in his direction before resuming her story: “Winchester cemetery was old already at the end of the eighteenth century. I have walked it for decades, feeding on small animals and stray pets. It has had few visitors over the years and yesterday was the first time I… I… attacked someone. I am so utterly sorry,” she said, her voice full of sorrow.
“My lady, are you saying you are a… a vampire? A beast…or a demoness?” William could not help but ask. This beautiful young woman in a torn burial dress was the tainted one? An embodiment of Lilith herself? “Will I become like you now?” William asked carefully.
“No, I… do not think so. You see, I died and then I woke up again, while you merely… got ill. But you survived, thank God,” she said, and he saw two trails of tears leave her eyes.
“My lady. Eh, Miss Whitaker. Please, do not cry,” he said awkwardly and rose a little unsteadily from the loveseat.
“Do not come near me!” she exclaimed, and sunk away from him in the large leather armchair.
“It is all right, my lady,” he said and patted her shoulder. The young woman was clearly deranged, but he would do anything to make this little beautiful creature stop crying and soothe her grief.
“But you do not understand,” she sobbed unhappily. “I want you near me. I want your touch and… I… I crave you.” She looked up into his eyes. Her pupils were completely dilated and dark.
She was so warm, he realized, as he touched her shoulder. So warm and young. And so… female. She even smelled good. Under the earthy leaf smell she smelled like… like a kitten, sleeping in the sun. Her tangled hair was soft to the touch. He stroked her curls and placed a tangled lock behind her ear.
“There, there,” he said soothingly.
“William, if you do not leave me right this second, I am not responsible for my actions, neither as a damned creature nor as a former member of the weaker sex!” she said, her voice strangled.
“Hush, my lady. You are not really well…” William said and patted her shoulder again. The poor young woman was clearly disturbed, and probably hurt as well.
“…Not responsible for my actions…” she whispered slowly and stood up, tip-toe, and kissed him.
He was too surprised to draw back. When he tried, she had already placed her unexpectedly strong arms around his neck, and he lacked the strength to pry them away. In fact, he felt strangely helpless, as if it were someone else who acted instead of him as he kissed her in return. His hands involuntarily reached her waist and pulled her closer.
She, on the other hand, shredded his clothes as if they were made of paper, and pulled him down toward the floor with him on top of her. She kissed him deeply while he fumbled with her dress and struggled with the endless buttons. He wanted her desperately. Having been a lifelong bachelor with little sexual experience, except for a few embarrassing acts in his youth, he was almost delirious with lust. Gone was etiquette and shyness; left were only the burning need and desire to be with her, to enter her and take her.
And finally, the last pieces of clothing were removed and she lay, naked and perfect with her back arched, in front of the fireplace on the wooden floor. He wanted to savour the moment but it was impossible to resist; he entered her with a small cry that was matched by her soft scream. He kissed her again and stroked her perfect apple-shaped breasts, complete with small, mischievous pink nipples, as he continued to push against her. She entangled her legs around his waist and kissed him back, her fingers intertwined in his hair. The feeling of her round and full breasts and hard small nipples, and the wet and warm sensation as he moved against her, together with the sight of her beauty as she lay underneath him in the light from the fire, made him increase his pace. He knew he would come soon, without any possibility to stop himself or to withdraw, when suddenly she came with a small growl. He came a second after her, as he knew he would, deep inside her, uncontrollably and with a pleasure that bordered on insanity. As he collapsed on top of her, he felt the familiar sharp pain against his neck, and as he once again drifted off toward unconsciousness, he thought he heard her say his name.
*
He woke up again, numb with cold and under all the blankets on the loveseat but without his clothes. Lucy was there, warm beside him with almost flustered cheeks. William sighed blissfully and looked down on her as she lay with her head on his chest.
“Who are you? Really, I mean?” he asked.
“I told you. My name is Miss Lucy Whitaker, born in 1762,” she said quietly.
“Mmm…And what are you exactly?”
“Does it matter?” she asked, large brown eyes looking into his.
“No…” he answered truthfully, kissing her forehead. “It does not.”
The world was truly a mystery, and he realized that he was strangely and utterly in love.
*
“A year later, and still so very much in love,” William wrote in his journal.
The sun was going down, the shadows extended. She preferred to stay at the cemetery during daytime, claiming it made her feel safe.
She will be here in a short while, William thought.
He wrote one last sentence in the diary before he closed it:
“I do not know how long time we will have together, or what will happen in the future, but I am happy here and now, and perhaps that is all that matters…”
William put the journal down and went to stand by the window with the view of the cemetery. In a couple of minutes, after dusk, he would be able to se
e her walking between the graves and then open the ornamented iron gates to the cemetery. The wait seemed to last an eternity.
***
~ THE END ~
Did you enjoy this short story and would like to read more?
~ Secrets and Seduction ~
- a Victorian Romance and Erotic short story collection. Vol. III.
(Coming in December, 2012)
~ Corsets and Cravings ~
- a Victorian Romance and Erotic short story collection. Vol. II.
~ Lust and Lace ~
- a Victorian Romance and Erotic short story collection. Vol. I.
~ Blackmail ~
- a Gay Victorian Romance and Erotic Novella.
~ Seduced by a Dandy ~
The first novelette from "Different Desire",
a Gay Victorian Romance and Erotic novelette collection
~ A Gentleman’s Secret ~
The second novelette from "Different Desire",
a Gay Victorian Romance and Erotic novelette collection
~ Captured by Him ~
The third novelette from "Different Desire",
a Gay Victorian Romance and Erotic novelette collection
~ About the author ~
Lady T. L. Jennings writes all her stories by hand into classic journals. (The picture was taken in Bath, where Jane Austen lived between 1801-1806.)
Lady T. L. Jennings is a shy writer who loves the Victorian era and afternoon tea. She lives on the outskirts of Oxford in England, and writes Victorian erotica and romance with a dash of gothic mystique in longhand with a fountain pen. She collects books, corsets, and lovers (all with varying levels of success).
Visit her website: www.mysecretquill.com or follow her on Facebook or Twitter for the latest news regarding writing and free stories.
View of a Cemetery (Lust and Lace) Page 1
