Lucy held her breath as she sat motionless, waiting for George to speak. His presence caused her heart to flutter, and she wondered if he noticed the blood rushing to her cheeks.
“My father,” he said, “is in his bath, so you cannot thank him personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by me to him as soon as he comes out.” George glimpsed at Lucy, a glint of light shone from his fiery eyes, and then he quickly looked away.
Indeed, George would return to her. She clearly saw his intentions in that fleeting expression of his; he was so apparent to her, but thank goodness to her alone. Lucy’s heart raced, her bosom rose higher with each and every breath, and she felt the buds of her bosom beginning to flower.
To feel his touch, those fingers of his reaching for her …
Miss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities came forth wrong end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the delight of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of Lucy.
“Poor young man!” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone.
“How angry he is with his father about the rooms! It is all he can do to keep polite.”
Or not, as Lucy secretly knew. Not anger. It was that beast in him, anticipating what joy they would share together.
“In half an hour or so your rooms will be ready,” said Mr. Beebe. Then looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own rooms, to write up his philosophic diary.
“Oh, dear!” breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered the apartment. “Gentlemen sometimes do not realize — ” Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was reduced to literature. Taking up Baedeker’s Handbook to Northern Italy, she committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine History. For she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the half-hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a sigh, and said:
“I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will superintend the move.”
“How you do everything,” said Lucy.
“Naturally, dear. It is my affair.”
“But I would like to help you.”
“No, dear.”
Charlotte’s energy! And her unselfishness! She had been thus all her life, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. So Lucy felt, or strove to feel. And yet — there was a rebellious spirit in her brought about by George’s kiss, which wondered whether the acceptance might not have been less delicate and more beautiful. At all events, she entered her own room without any feeling of joy.
“I want to explain,” said Miss Bartlett, “why it is that I have taken the largest room. Naturally, of course, I should have given it to you; but I happen to know that it belongs to the young man, and I was sure your mother would not like it.”
Lucy was bewildered. She felt deprived of not being able to lie in the bed that George had slept.
“If you are to accept a favour it is more suitable you should be under an obligation to his father than to him. I am a woman of the world, in my small way, and I know where things lead to. However, Mr. Beebe is a guarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this.”
“Mother wouldn’t mind I’m sure,” said Lucy, but again had the sense of larger and unsuspected, as yet unlabeled issues.
Miss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished her goodnight. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato, and the foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon. As Lucy drew in a deep breath, savoring the pristine air, she longed to escape through the window with her Dear George and experience life.
Miss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more.
“What does it mean?” she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing, obnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so, since it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed, knowing within her bosom that her window to life was closing, if not already closed.
Chapter II: In Santa Croce with No Baedeker
It was pleasant to wake up in Florence, to open the eyes upon a bright bare room, with a floor of red tiles which look clean though they are not; with a painted ceiling whereon pink griffins and blue amorini sport in a forest of yellow violins and bassoons. It was pleasant, too, to fling wide the windows, pinching the fingers in unfamiliar fastenings, to lean out into sunshine with beautiful hills and trees and marble churches opposite, and close below, the Arno, gurgling against the embankment of the road.
The morning was pleasant indeed, thought Lucy as she leaned out the bedroom window. She drew in gaping breaths of fresh air as she remembered her visitor in the night. She wasn’t long for bed when she heard a slight tapping sound as if a mouse were running along the floorboards or maybe inside the walls.
Anxious, Lucy sprang up, pulling the blankets to her neck. Not moving a limb, she listened for the noise again.
From the wall, a creak sounded as though something, some creature, some phantom, were chewing its way through the walls.
Lucy clutched the covers. “Hello?” she whispered, straining to see through the dark.
A rustling sound came from the direction of the window. When no one answered, she thought next that it was only a bird near the seal of the open window. Nesting, perhaps. She turned toward the window, but saw no movement at all, though the moon had come into view and its light was now spilling across the room in a solitary line.
Another creak.
She quickly glanced back inside the room. She saw a shadowy movement along the wall. Was her mind playing tricks or could it be a phantom? Gripped with fear, she felt the air catch in her throat. She gasped, unable to scream.
The wall sprang open.
Lucy’s heart jumped.
“It is only I,” a man quickly spoke in a quieted voice.
Though he did not say his name, Lucy knew her lover had come.
The secret entrance in the wall closed.
“George?”
He did not answer, but rushed to her side. He was naked from the waist up, clothed in only a pair of loose fitting muslin pants. His smooth chest glowed in the light, though his face was obscured by the shadow.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said insincerely, though she clung flimsily to her sacred vow, that of chastity and all that was expected of her.
“Would you have me leave?” his voice was gentle, seductive, alluring.
“Yes,” she hesitated, “no. Though how might I ask you to stay? I … well, I am … ” She needn’t tell him that she was a chaste gentlewoman; that she was virtuous must have been obvious to him.
“Then I will go,” was all he said; but he did not, he remained. He reached for her blankets and gently pulled them from her grasp. Lowering them, he freed her to the night and to his manly gaze.
A shiver spiraled through Lucy and she quickly brought her hands to her bosom, which was only scantly covered by her thin peignoir.
Not asking, George once again took his liberty. With a single hand and no more than a finger, he touched her chin and slowly tipped her head back so tha
t her neck was outstretched and the whole of her being hung in the balance of his hand. He was so close that she felt the heat radiate from his body and warm the flesh of her arms and face not unlike the down of a dove.
Moonlight suddenly revealed his face.
Mesmerized, Lucy stared longingly into his eyes, then released her protective hands, letting them fall slowly to the bed. Only the sheer fabric of her peignoir separated them. She was captivated, his prisoner. Had she wanted, she could not have escaped his control.
Led by hungry lips, he lowered his face slowly and deliberately toward hers. He wanted her body, he hungered for her lips, to gaze into her eyes and to feel the softness of her skin against his, to feel the rhythm of her moving with him, the warmth of her breath rising and falling with him in a passionate embrace. He desired to touch her breasts, to feel their full softness in his hands and with his mouth. They had both waited their entire lives for this moment. Yet, he stopped before the kiss as though he were reminding her of his impassioned touch. He was so close now that they shared one and the same breath. With each rise and fall of his chest, she felt the sparks of his fire surge through her loins. He rendered her helpless, speechless.
Her mouth parted, anticipating the moment he would place his gentle lips upon hers; he was so close, though he clung to the thin line of air that separated all that defined their impassioned souls.
A breath later, he spoke not a word, but lowered his lips to hers and filled the cavernous gap.
His touch was supple, soft; his kiss ever so gentle though she wanted more. She wanted the same passion that he had lavished on her earlier that day.
But he pulled away, saying only, “Lay back.”
“George … ” The air caught in her throat, “I mustn’t … ” But it was no use, with a single finger he urged her back into the bed, where she compliantly eased down at his guidance.
Standing above her, he clasped a lock of her dark hair in his hand, swirled it, and then laid it to the side. With a single finger, he found the strap of her nightgown. With little resistance, he slipped the strap from her shoulder and lowered the gown until the creamy white of her bosom was revealed.
“I need you,” he said. “I’ve always needed you.” His words were soft, but powerful.
She felt a ripple of unspeakable desire race from her bosom to her lower limbs; she craved his touch. She would have it now.
He took his time and studied her in the dim of the moonlit night. He returned his finger to her cheek and traced the line of her jaw, through her décolletage, stopping to circle the sensuous hollow of her neck.
Lucy felt her heart flutter as he slowly moved his finger lower until he reached the budding tip of her bosom. She drew in her breath and bit her lip.
With that finger of his, he did circle the bud, round and round, until Lucy began to purr. “Ahhh,” she released a pleasureful song.
He warned her with a quieted, “shush,” though he continued to circle the bud of her bosom, impelling her wilds.
Under the spell of his touch, she slowly spread her legs, letting her flower begin to unfold its delicate, moist petals, while her nightgown rose to her thighs, revealing her feminine form.
Still, he circled the bud of her bosom, round and round.
Raising her hips, she sighed. A plea for more — a lower, deeper touch.
Then he clasped the tip of her bosom and squeezed gently at first, then more assertively until Lucy moaned longer and harder.
“More,” she breathed her words, at the same time undulating her hips to his squeezing caress.
He did not speak, but at last, he released the bud and slowly lowered his finger to her navel, where he circled once. And then moving lower he began to trace the outline of her hips. He slowly brushed his finger across the curls flowing from her undergarment, and with a finger, he slipped inside her delicate lingerie. With an enduring stroke, he ventured his finger wayward and across her flowing feminine flesh to slowly mix her honey.
Lucy moaned loudly, harder, raising her hips to meet his hand and that whirling finger of his. But he slipped out of the undergarment and with that lone finger, he clasped the top of her garment and pulled. Folding her legs, she raised her hips and with little effort, he gently tugged at the cloth, sliding the garment, which hid her secrets, down and off her so that her feminine form was now one with the night.
Once again, she opened her legs, sighing as he glided his fingertip up the length of her calf, behind her knee, and softly around to her inner thigh.
“More,” she purred. “More!” She needed his intimate touch.
Complying, he rolled his finger over her budding flower, where he found her nectar and began mixing it through her intimate folds as though painting a work of art. She panted more and more as he slipped his finger round and round, exploring the lines of her form until his finger once again found the blooming bud of her intimate flesh. Once there, he circled his finger slowly round and round, caressing the budding pearl.
“Don’t stop,” she begged. “Stay there,” she moaned, “ … forever.”
He stroked faster, dipping lower to mix her palette.
“More … ” She raised her hips to meet his stroke.
Then he found her pearl again and lightly massaged.
She moaned harder, deeper, filled with a pleasure that she had never felt. Her breath hastened. What was happening? An electrical pulse coursed through her limbs, racing down to the ends of her toes. She shut her eyes tight as he heightened her arousal. So intense, so intense.
Then he withdrew his miraculous touch the very moment she felt herself falling through time and dipped lower to the opening of her sheath.
Lucy sucked in her breath as he circled, taunting her with the tip of his finger. Her hips moved harder, more rhythmically. She felt as if he owned her, body and soul.
Then he circled back and found her pearl again, elevating her to newer heights.
“I, I … ”
He circled faster, stronger until …
“Dear George … ” She released a cry as she crested.
Not a moment later, there was the sound of a door opening from another room. Footsteps pattered along the hallway.
Lucy sprang forward.
“Charlotte! Quick hide … under the bed.”
George leaned forward, pressed his lips to hers and without a word, turned and hurried to the wall from whence he came.
A tap came upon the hall door.
George tugged on the secret door.
“Who goes there?” Lucy called out through the dark.
“It is I, your cousin, Charlotte. May I come in?”
“Give me a moment, Charlotte.”
Lucy hurried from the bed and scampered across the room to where George was fumbling to find the secret door.
“Hurry,” she whispered. “Hurry.”
At last, he found the latch, and when the door sprung open, he stepped through the opening in the wall.
“Go,” she said, touching a hand to his chest.
He closed off the entrance into the wall, but only at the very moment Miss Bartlett tried the door from the hallway. Lucy turned as she heard the latch release. She had foolishly left her bedroom door unlocked.
“Lucia? Are you quite all right?” Miss Bartlett asked quietly as she entered the room, not wanting to wake any of the other guests. Though once inside, she tread across the room with great resolve.
“Charlotte, it’s late,” Lucy said, scolding her cousin. “What brings you to me this late in the night? Are you unable to sleep?”
“I heard you crying,” Charlotte said, sounding on the verge of panic. “I thought you must surely be suffering from one of those ghastly nightmares of yours.”
“I should hardly think — ”
Only after a few minutes of insisting that she was all right did Lucy convince her cousin to depart and return to her own bedroom. Once Charlotte had left, Lucy lay back down on her bed, catching her breath while grappling with
a flood of emotions and thoughts that would keep her restless, sleepless for much of the night.
“Nightmare!” The only nightmare was her cousin’s appearance …
Though that was last night and now morning had finally sprung.
Staring dreamily out of the window, Lucy watched her feathered friends glide through the air. As they were, she too was carefree without a worry in the world. All of Italy lay before her eyes. The view was perfect.
Indeed, Charlotte had been wrong, very wrong. It was no cry from a nightmare that she had heard in the night. Though if George had not escaped in that last sliver of time, it surely would have resulted in a nightmare more profound that any she had ever suffered. None of that mattered now — it was morning, and all in the world was as it should be. She was in Italy, where lovers were free to revel in the passions of the flesh.
Over the river men were at work with spades and sieves on the sandy foreshore, and on the river was a boat, also diligently employed for some mysterious end. An electric tram came rushing underneath the window. No one was inside it, except one tourist; but its platforms were overflowing with Italians, who preferred to stand. Children tried to hang on behind, and the conductor, with no malice, spat in their faces to make them let go. Then soldiers appeared — good-looking, undersized men — wearing each a knapsack covered with mangy fur, and a greatcoat which had been cut for some larger soldier. Beside them walked officers, looking foolish and fierce, and before them went little boys, turning somersaults in time with the band. The tramcar became entangled in their ranks, and moved on painfully, like a caterpillar in a swarm of ants. One of the little boys fell down, and some white bullocks came out of an archway. Indeed, if it had not been for the good advice of an old man who was selling button-hooks, the road might never have got clear.
Over such trivialities as these many a valuable hour may slip away, and the traveller who has gone to Italy to study the tactile values of Giotto, or the corruption of the Papacy, may return remembering nothing but the blue sky and the men and women who live under it. So it was as well that Miss Bartlett should tap and come in, and having commented on Lucy’s leaving the door unlocked, and on her leaning out of the window before she was fully dressed, should urge her to hasten herself, or the best of the day would be gone. By the time Lucy was ready her cousin had done her breakfast, and was listening to the clever lady among the crumbs.
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