“Cecil!”
“Hullo!” he called, and leant out of the smoking-room window. He seemed in high spirits. “I was hoping you’d come. I heard you all bear-gardening, but there’s better fun up here. I, even I, have won a great victory for the Comic Muse. George Meredith’s right — the cause of Comedy and the cause of Truth are really the same; and I, even I, have found tenants for the distressful Cissie Villa. Don’t be angry! Don’t be angry! You’ll forgive me when you hear it all.”
He looked very attractive when his face was bright, and he dispelled her ridiculous forebodings at once.
“I have heard,” she said. “Freddy has told us. Naughty Cecil! I suppose I must forgive you. Just think of all the trouble I took for nothing! Certainly the Miss Alans are a little tiresome, and I’d rather have nice friends of yours. But you oughtn’t to tease one so.”
“Friends of mine?” he laughed. “But, Lucy, the whole joke is to come! Come here.” But she remained standing where she was. “Do you know where I met these desirable tenants? In the National Gallery, when I was up to see my mother last week.”
“What an odd place to meet people!” she said nervously. “I don’t quite understand.”
“In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers. They were admiring Luca Signorelli — of course, quite stupidly. However, we got talking, and they refreshed me not — a little. They had been to Italy.”
“But, Cecil — ” proceeded hilariously.
“In the course of conversation they said that they wanted a country cottage — the father to live there, the son to run down for week-ends. I thought, ‘What a chance of scoring off Sir Harry!’ and I took their address and a London reference, found they weren’t actual blackguards — it was great sport — and wrote to him, making out — ”
“Cecil! No, it’s not fair. I’ve probably met them before — ”
He bore her down.
“Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old man will do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with his ‘decayed gentlewomen.’ I meant to read him a lesson some time. No, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before long you’ll agree with me. There ought to be intermarriage — all sorts of things. I believe in democracy — ”
“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You don’t know what the word means.”
He stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque. “No, you don’t!”
Her face was inartistic — that of a peevish virago.
“It isn’t fair, Cecil. I blame you — I blame you very much indeed. You had no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize that it is all at my expense? I consider it most disloyal of you.”
Lucy was bewildered; her heart pattered and she brought her hands to her head. “What now?” she thought. “What now?”
“Did you say something, my dearest?” Cecil said, leaning farther out of the window.
She withdrew her hands and gazed up at him. “No, Cecil, nothing at all. Return to your smoke.” She waved him off with a hand.
Dear George. She had left him behind, far behind in Italy. Never once did she imagine she would ever again see the man who had stolen her heart. How confusing all of this would prove. When Charlotte forced her away and told her it was for the best, Lucy had no choice but to follow her chaperon. No choice.
When they met the Vyces in Rome she was heartbroken, but then Cecil came along and encouraged her affection. He seemed all that was good, gentle, and he possessed the works of a stable and dependable husband. Not just a man who would merely live life. In time, she warmed to his fondness of her; and in the following days, he drew her attention so that she was only allowed to think of him.
He had proposed marriage to her again and again, and his genuineness to love her seemed true. Though his affection was peculiarly intellectual, somewhat without emotion, Cecil did seem stable.
Lucy thought back to the failed kiss. Indeed, he had made an honest attempt to kiss her at the pool, he truly did. Was it solely his fault that he had failed miserably? Perhaps she had been too stiff, setting him off. Certainly Cecil would become more confident once they were married, when all mystery was revealed.
But now, all seemed different. Simply hearing George Emerson’s name had reawakened her feelings for him deep inside her. It placed controversy in her heart’s path at a time when all was settled.
Her lies had followed her home. All would be a muddle.
Had she only been truthful, had she admitted to all what she felt in her heart, had she not simply relied on the logics of her mind, and certainly not to Charlotte’s flawed reasoning, mightn’t all have been different, especially today?
She recalled that last night at the Bertolini when she had made up her mind to speak with George as soon as he arrived back. Charlotte purloined her opportunity. Saddened, Lucy had retired to bed fearful that she would never see her Dear George again. She was mistaken. He entered her chamber through the secret passage. He was still dripping wet from his long walk back to the Bertolini, though his spirits were not in any way quenched.
Quite the opposite, his chest was filled with flowing adoration for her, proposing that they should be married at once.
She had no choice but to refuse him, to lie to him, to squelch his every hope. How it pained her dreadfully. Yet, it was the only way to release him from loving her so profusely. She remembered how he stood there in stark horror. Until …
“You do love me,” George said, insisting that she answer.
“George, please. Do not be unreasonable. We have had our fun, now it must end.”
He grasped her arms and stared into her face. The light of the bedside candle flickered, casting shadows. “You must come away with me. Let’s us go now.”
“I cannot.”
He looked savagely around the room as if intending to pack her things himself. “There.” His eyes rested upon her luggage already packed. “What do I see?”
“We leave at the break of dawn. Charlotte and I.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You cannot leave me, my darling, my love, dearest Lucy.”
“Would you be away from your father?” she said, grasping for words that might make him understand.
Though he did not. Lucy watched in horror as George clutched at his wet hair, raking his fingers through the straggled strands. Her heart was breaking, too, perhaps already shattered into a thousand pieces. “Let us end with a kiss,” was all she could think to say.
He dropped his hands to his sides and stood motionless. “Don’t you see … ?” His voice was desperate.
Yes, Lucy did see. She saw all that she desired. She vividly recalled their passionate lovemaking on the hillside. Not thinking, but reacting, she ran her hands across his loins, the result of which immediately subdued George, bringing him under her control.
She quickly unfastened his trousers, letting them drop to the floor. All that covered him now were the threads of his shirt. The garment clung to his chest still wet from the rain. She struggled to unfasten the buttons, but her fingers slipped and weren’t able to move fast enough. She could wait no longer. She threw caution to the wind and grasped the shirt by its sides. With great force, she ripped the garment open, scattering buttons to the floor.
And now, George, her Dear George stood before her in the raw physical flesh just as she desperately desired. He had no secrets. Not in the flesh, not in the mind. Though painfully, she did. With dread, Lucy felt the shame of her lie in telling George that they were finished, but with her physical desires taking over, she set those thoughts aside.
She took his member in her hands and began to stroke its long, broad length. He responded by growing harder and harder as she had her way.
She urged him down to the bed and stood before him. She clasped both of her hands around his member and brought it to her mouth. She parted her lips and without d
elay she began consuming him.
Pulling and suckling, she slowly drew him in and out of her mouth, stopping to swirl at his crown. And the more she swirled the more he responded, beginning to rise and fall to her every command.
“Ah, my darling love,” he said through breathless words.
Though she did not respond and only continued to play. She took a long moment to swirl her tongue round and round and then stopped to explore his lines and form by tracing every detail of his crown. Then she wandered its length and found her tongue exploring further down to where his jewels were encased.
He was all in a man she desired. Dear George, how would she ever live without him? It would be death among the living.
Wincing, she pushed the very thought from her mind and drew his rampant member deep into her mouth and began suckling with more vigor. More, more, more … until he began to groan with immeasurable pleasure.
She withdrew him from her mouth and whispered, “George, Charlotte may hear us through the walls.” When he opened his eyes and nodded at her, she kept him waiting no longer and returned to her play.
He gripped the blankets with both of his hands, bundling them together with tightly bound fists.
She swirled her tongue over his delicious crown as though she were consuming nectar from the gods. The more she tasted his fruit, the more she consumed him, spiraling her tongue round and round as though spinning gold from his pleasure.
His breath hastened as she worked, but she didn’t stop.
She clasped a hand around his precious set of jewels, rolling them between her fingers, heightening his pleasure. He expelled a quiet sort of laugh and she knew that he was smiling without having to look.
She began to suckle his member again, slowly at first and then began building upon a rhythm.
His body tightened and his hips undulated and thrust forward.
To intensify his desire, she dipped a finger farther below to which:
He shuddered.
She circled.
He quivered.
She circled.
He gasped.
She teased.
He panted.
She suckled.
His words were lost and the only sound that emitted was that of the purest pleasure a man could know.
Still, she continued, playing him as her pawn. With reckless abandon, she played him wildly and wantonly with a fervor she could not have known existed within her being until this moment in time.
He rolled his head to and fro on the pillow, tightening his grasp on the blankets as though begging for mercy, although she did not yield in the slightest. Swirling at the crown, suckling his length, fondling his jewels, dipping deeper, deeper … until at last, he was undone.
With a loud cry, a groan, that masculine sound that issues forth at the height of a man’s passion: shuddering, quivering, gasping, and panting, he released, spilling his seed to the desires of her tongue.
When his body came to rest, she rose to join him at his side, although their fun was at a sudden close. Lucy heard the sound of a door down the hall opening to the hallway.
“George!”
Though he lay contented, completely relaxed.
“George!” She shook him.
He opened his eyes. “Come to me.” He held his hand to her.
“Quick, you must go!”
“What?”
“We are discovered!”
“What!” He rose in the bed.
“Charlotte! She comes.” Lucy pulled George by the arm and he obediently sprang from the bed.
Footsteps pattered toward her door.
“Oh, dear,” Lucy fretted.
“Is it locked?” George looked toward the door that opened to the hallway.
“I don’t know. Perhaps not.”
“Let me go.”
“There’s no time. Under the bed,” she said and urged him down to the floor.
George scrambled underneath the bed, fanning the bed skirt just as the door flung open. Lucy quickly kicked his clothing to the foot of the bed and her clever George not missing a beat, grasped the garments and pulled them out of sight.
“Dear Lucia,” Charlotte spoke at once, “whatever is going on in here?”
Lucy stood next to the bed. “Charlotte, you startle me.”
Her cousin walked hastily across the room. “Are you having nightmares again? That ghastly young man.”
“No! Charlotte — ”
“Has he come to you?”
“Charlotte. I assure you that I am quite alone.”
“Why is your candle still lit?”
“Please, let me rest. Tomorrow is long.”
“Clearly you are unable to rest alone. If it is nightmares you suffer, I will gladly offer my company.” Charlotte placed her candle on the bedside table opposite Lucy. She grasped the blankets and placed herself upon the bed. “It is not my typical practice to nurse others, though I can clearly see that you are in need and want of the companionship of a friend.”
“Charlotte, you mustn’t.”
“You needn’t complain. Though I know that I annoy you so, that want of a younger companion would have suited you more. I do apologize for not having taken greater care with you. For had I, this dilemma of our escape would not be upon us. I blame only myself. Take care that our secret is safe.” Charlotte blew out her candle.
“I implore you, cousin!”
“To bed, dear girl. Morning comes soon.”
With great complexity of mind, Lucy was compelled to obey and into the bed with her cousin she had no choice but to go.
“Snuff the candle, dear,” her cousin heeded. “Least we face more difficulties in our sleep.”
Lucy obeyed, leaving George stranded underneath the bed.
When Lucy awoke in the morning, she quickly discerned that Charlotte had removed herself from the room.
“Thank heavens,” she said to herself and then quickly sprang from bed and lifted the bed skirts. George was gone.
Dear George, such troubles we do find …
That was the last Lucy had ever seen of her George. She never believed that she would see him again. Not for all of eternity.
Though this was not to be, her very Cecil had brought George to her quite by his own mischievous deeds. Now it would be quite impossible to think.
Confounded, Lucy faced the view that had always brought her comfort, but she could only stare aimlessly now. “Oh, Cecil,” she said, although he was no longer at the window to hear her elaborate upon the sentiments of her mind.
She left him. But in a deeper sense, she left Cecil in more ways than he might dared to have fathomed …
As “Temper!” he thought, raising his eyebrows. Cecil had only meant well by bringing the Emerson’s to Windy Corner.
No, it was worse than temper — snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner.
Chapter XI: In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat
The Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons to Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through the negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement, met Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were duly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the newcomers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse’s equipment that she permitted Mr. Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his head, to be forgotten, and to die.
Lucy — to descend from bright heaven to earth, whereon there are shadows because there are hills — Lucy was at first plunged into despair, bu
t settled after a little thought that it did not matter the very least. Now that she was engaged, the Emersons would scarcely insult her and were welcome into the neighbourhood. And Cecil was welcome to bring whom he would into the neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to bring the Emersons into the neighbourhood. But, as I say, this took a little thinking, and — so illogical are girls — the event remained rather greater and rather more dreadful than it should have done. She was glad that a visit to Mrs. Vyse now fell due; the tenants moved into Cissie Villa while she was safe in the London flat.
“Cecil — Cecil darling,” she whispered the evening she arrived, and crept into his arms.
Cecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that the needful fire had been kindled in Lucy. At last she longed for attention, as a woman should, and looked up to him because he was a man.
“So you do love me, little thing?” he murmured.
“Oh, Cecil, I do, I do! I don’t know what I should do without you.”
Several days passed. Then she had a letter from Miss Bartlett. A coolness had sprung up between the two cousins, and they had not corresponded since they parted in August. The coolness dated from what Charlotte would call “the flight to Rome,” and in Rome it had increased amazingly. For the companion who is merely uncongenial in the mediaeval world becomes exasperating in the classical. Charlotte, unselfish in the Forum, would have tried a sweeter temper than Lucy’s, and once, in the Baths of Caracalla, they had doubted whether they could continue their tour. Lucy had said she would join the Vyses — Mrs. Vyse was an acquaintance of her mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan and Miss Bartlett had replied that she was quite used to being abandoned suddenly. Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained, and, for Lucy, was even increased when she opened the letter and read as follows. It had been forwarded from Windy Corner.
“Tunbridge Wells,
“September.
“Dearest Lucia,
“I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in your parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturing her tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat very woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a door open opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his father had just taken the house. He SAID he did not know that you lived in the neighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of his past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid him to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune, and I dare say you have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you.
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