by Nancy Carson
As soon as she closed the back door behind them she slid the bolt across and they were in each other’s arms. In less than five minutes they were in her bed, which put paid entirely to his feelings of guilt.
On this their second session, he was even more hungry to learn from such a comely young woman, who had acquired her experience so respectably in the marital bed. After their initial earnest embraces, he decided to let her make the running and lay submissive, contentedly yielding to her whims and fancies. She kissed him lingeringly all over, teasing him with her tongue and her soft lips till he was aching with desire. Then there was the blissful moment of contact when she slithered her naked body across him slowly, like a cat stalking her prey, and their bodies aligned. She wriggled her hips to line him up for a perfect, well-executed entry that had them both gasping.
As they writhed together in glorious synchrony, he imagined for a few private, experimental moments that he was Dickie Dempster. What a lucky fellow Dickie had been in so many ways, having unfettered access to this woman who was so desirable and responsive. Yet he had spurned her for others. Those others must have made her worth the spurning. Lucy, for instance. What would it be like in bed with Lucy? Dickie had obviously found her entertaining. Would she be as deliciously pleasing as this woman, his widow, whom he was enjoying now for all he was worth? For that matter, what would Dorinda be like?
Isabel raised herself on her arms and looked down at him, her dark hair falling in loose waves around her face. The expression in her wide eyes told of the fun she was having. Clearly, she was enjoying herself, which was, in itself, something of an eye-opener to Arthur; he had only ever suspected that women did this sort of thing under sufferance. That a woman should manifestly relish the sexual act suggested to his limited imagination somehow that she was debauched. He pictured the outwardly pious women he saw at church and tried to imagine them doing what Isabel was doing to him right then, and with such abandon. He tried to imagine Dorinda again, that Isabel was Dorinda, but it was not an illusion he could easily feign, because he realised that for Dorinda the whole business would be far too messy and distasteful. Lucy, on the other hand …
‘I’ve waited a whole week for this,’ Isabel murmured softly into his ear through strands of her own hair.
She lowered her face and kissed him tenderly, her nipples lightly touching his chest, tickling him. He pulled her to him, so he could better feel the fullness of her breasts against him, then gripped the cheeks of her bottom, drew her hard onto him and thrust more vigorously into her. It was wickedly pleasant, this, virtuous or no. It was evidently no less pleasant for her. Somewhere deep inside he was aware of that familiar tingling. Did women get this same irresistible tingling too? It began to glow, intensifying, and he groaned at the exquisite sensation radiating from the depths of his groin through his entire body, from head to toe.
‘Don’t stop,’ Isabel sighed, on the cusp of ecstasy. She increased the speed and intensity of her rhythm, maintaining it until she emitted a series of whimpering moans and slumped upon him, spent. Strands of hair, wet from perspiration, clung to her forehead and her flushed cheeks as she nuzzled her face into the curve of his neck with a deep sigh of contentment.
‘Thank you, Arthur,’ she whispered.
‘There’s no need to thank me,’ he responded after a moment, pondering her gratitude, which seemed misplaced.
‘Oh, but there is.’
‘Why? I don’t understand.’
‘Because you give me such pleasure.’ She wriggled on him, still joined, to emphasise what she meant.
‘You still don’t have to thank me … Did Dickie give you pleasure?’
‘Not often enough. He was too stuck on his lady loves to worry about me.’
‘He must’ve been mad.’
She wiggled her bottom again and kissed his chest. ‘Do I give you pleasure, Arthur?’
‘Lord, yes.’
‘It should be pleasurable … For both of us.’
‘I never realised that women got as much pleasure from it,’ he said after another pause.
‘Why shouldn’t they?’ she asked, feigning indignation that he should consider it a male-only entitlement.
‘I don’t know. It seems too sinful. I always thought women were supposed to be pure and chaste.’
She laughed, amused at his naivety. ‘Like how we fondly assume our mothers to be, you mean?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘But even our mothers were young once, Arthur. And I daresay they were given to the same pleasures as us, once they’d got the taste for it. It’s human nature.’
‘I can’t imagine my mother …’
‘Not even on her wedding night? Nor for weeks and weeks after till the novelty had worn off? How do you suppose you came to be born? By immaculate conception?’
He smiled, acknowledging his ignorance of women and stroked her hair. ‘I suppose not.’
‘Course not.’ She slid off him and lay at his side, turned towards him, her hand gently fondling his belly. ‘It’s just possible that your mother enjoyed it too. Anyway, just because something is pleasurable, does it follow that it must therefore be wrong, sinful, as you suggest? Who cares anyway if it is? It’s only sinful when you’re unmarried and anybody finds out. What two people do together away from the prying eyes of the world is up to them, I would’ve thought, married or not. And nothing to do with anybody else. Besides, we’re not hurting anybody.’
‘My sweetheart would be hurt.’
‘Then don’t tell her. What the eyes don’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve about. Anyway, I haven’t asked you to give her up for me, have I?’
‘No … Would you want me to?’
She fingered the tiny hairs that populated his chest. ‘Only if you wanted to. But I wouldn’t dream of pressing you … I like you, Arthur, but there are other things to consider first anyway.’
‘What things?’
‘My children, for instance. You’re still a single man. You might not take to my children. They might not take to you … Anyway, you wouldn’t want to fall into the trap of marrying a woman out of lust, just because you enjoy bedding her, would you? And living to regret it when you grew tired of her … and her children …’
‘This feels like more than just lust to me.’
She looked into his eyes, smiled, raised her head and kissed him on the mouth. ‘You’re a romantic, Arthur. This is a lovely way to spend a Saturday afternoon, but let’s not fool ourselves that we’re in love.’
‘How d’you know I’m not in love?’ he asked.
‘I wouldn’t like to think you’re that susceptible and so easily diverted. Anyway, you’re in love with your sweetheart.’
They remained silent for a few minutes, each contemplating this conversation and all that it implied. Arthur’s mind had traversed to another aspect of this relationship with Isabel that had been troubling him, and he broke the brief lull.
‘One thing worries me about you, Isabel.’
‘Oh? What’s that?’
‘What are you going to do for money without Dickie’s wage coming in?’
‘Go on the streets, very likely,’ she said with a little chuckle.
‘You wouldn’t! I wouldn’t let you.’
‘I didn’t mean it, Arthur. It was a joke.’
‘It wasn’t a very funny joke. Jokes are meant to be funny. So how shall you manage?’
‘I don’t know yet. I’ll have to find work of some kind, maybe with my father … Unless I can tempt some widower with more money than sense to marry me …’ She chuckled saucily.
‘Would you do that?’
‘Yes, if I liked him enough.’
‘But that’d be like selling yourself, Isabel.’
‘That’s what women do. All the time. Why do you think women get married? Because they’re in love?’
‘Aren’t they?’
‘Some, yes, but not all. Some get married so that they can be kept, and the more comfortably the bet
ter. In return, they are expected to give themselves wholly. Those that do have to put up with certain things they might find unsavoury, but they’re generally prepared to go along with it, else they wouldn’t subject themselves to a marriage of convenience.’
‘Not all marriages are for convenience. Isabel. I would only marry somebody I loved.’
‘But you’re a man. And you’re a romantic. But then, you can afford to be … You’re not an impoverished duke or earl who needs a handsome dowry to restore his fortunes …’ She paused and raised herself, resting her head in her hands, and resumed gently fingering the tiny hairs on his chest. ‘I envy the girl you will eventually marry, Arthur, because I know you’ll make her an excellent and loving husband … And I know she’ll love you just as much as you love her.’
‘I don’t know about that, Isabel … Anyway, I want to help you with money. To help you keep your children.’
‘I won’t take money from you. Good gracious, are you trying to turn me into a whore? Your whore?’
‘Course not.’
‘But that’s what I’d be. Oh, Arthur, I have too much pride to let you do that, and too much faith in myself.’
‘I only said I wanted to help. You can’t stop me helping you if I want to. Anyway, what if you had my child after all this?’
‘If I had your child that might be different.’
‘Then we’d have to marry.’
‘If convention had its way,’ she commented evasively.
‘Would you want to have my child?’
Isabel sighed. ‘You do ask some questions, Arthur. I wouldn’t be afraid to have your child if it ever came to it, in or out of wedlock. I’m old enough to know that what we’re doing could cause me to have a child, of course, but it’s a risk I don’t mind taking because I’ve never been hidebound by rigid convention. Anyway, there are ways and means of avoiding pregnancy …’
‘I wouldn’t want you to have a child of mine out of wedlock …’
‘That would be up to me.’
‘I would expect a say in the matter, Isabel.’
‘You could say what you liked.’
‘Lord above, you’re an independent madam, aren’t you?’
‘I’m headstrong, Arthur. It’s what kept me going when Dickie was having his affairs.’
‘Tell me about how you got to know him.’
‘There’s not much to tell really. My father was an apothecary in Wolverhampton – and still is. I used to work for him sometimes in his shop, at busy times. One day Dickie came in for something – Dover’s powders, I think it was, for his sister – and we got talking. Oh, he was such a charmer … He asked me to meet him sometime, so I did and we started walking out regularly … And that was it. I fell for him …’
‘Did your folks approve of him?’
‘Not at all. His family were nothing, after all – harpies, some of them, although I didn’t know it at the time – whereas my father was considered something in the town, being a respectable trader. But, you see, my father didn’t know me half as well as he thought he did. He tried to stop me seeing Dickie, which only succeeded in fanning the flames of my love for him. I suppose he believed I would lose interest and give him up. But of course, I didn’t. He failed to realise I was headstrong enough to defy him and elope.’
‘And you call me romantic. So how soon was it that Dickie started messing about with other women?’
‘Looking back now, I think it was from the start. I’m sure now, that there was another girl he was seeing right at the beginning. Eventually, I fell out of love with him, as I told you, tired of playing second fiddle to his love affairs, tired of competing. But I was still trapped in this house with his children. Now that sounds awful, Arthur, but in truth the children were the only saving grace. His death has been an escape for me, and I’m not sorry it’s happened, even though that might sound callous. It’s why I can’t grieve. It’s the reason I’m content to lie here with you so soon after his death. Not because I’m a strumpet particularly – although you might think I am, Arthur – but because I detected in you something that Dickie lacked. I wanted to get to know you better and find out what it was. I quickly realised that you are a gentle, caring man and I wanted you to make love to me. I wanted to feel cared for, for a little while.’
‘And I wanted you, Isabel. From the moment you entered that room at the Whimsey where Dickie lay injured, I wanted you.’
‘Do you want me now?’ She said softly, looking at him with an impish gleam in her eyes.
‘Again, you mean?’
‘Yes, again, Arthur. Why not?’
‘I think I can manage it.’
‘Bless you. Then you can be on top this time …’
Because Arthur was due to go to Bristol the following Saturday, he arranged to visit Isabel Dempster on the Wednesday evening prior. Her children had been put to bed by the time he arrived so he had no opportunity to meet them. They made love on the hearth rug in front of the fire, not risking her bed in case either Julia or Jack woke up and happened upon them, for they were prone to sneaking into her bed if they woke up, Isabel explained.
So, Saturday arrived and, when he had finished work, eaten and washed, Arthur made the journey to Bristol and Dorinda, taking a bag containing his things. He was in half a mind to confess about Isabel and be done with it. He was not sure that he could carry off deceit in the way Dickie Dempster had, but it struck him how like Dickie Dempster he had become, with two lovely women in his life. For Arthur, it certainly was quite a novelty. All his adult life he’d struggled to win the admiration of one woman, let alone two. How life had changed. So he decided he would not tell Dorinda, but make the most of his duplicitous good fortune. Since his self-confidence was much higher these days than ever before, he might even attempt to seduce Dorinda if the opportunity presented itself.
Dorinda was at the station to meet him off the train. She was wearing a new shawl, an emerald green bonnet and dress that complimented her titian hair and matched her eyes. She smiled hesitantly when she saw him step down from the carriage, their argument and the subsequent coolness of his letters inhibiting her from rushing to him. So she waited until he had spotted her, and waved.
‘Hello,’ she greeted simply when he reached her.
‘You look pretty,’ he remarked, smiling, reminded at sight of her just how beautiful she was, rekindling his admiration and interest. ‘I haven’t seen that outfit before, have I?’ He gave her a brief kiss.
‘Oh, of course you have, Arthur. I’ve had this dress ages – the bonnet too. It just goes to show you never take any notice of what I’m wearing. I could wear an oilskin hat and hobnail boots, with gentlemen’s breeches up to my armpits as well, and I swear you wouldn’t notice.’
‘Yes I would,’ he protested. ‘That shawl. That’s new.’
She smiled affectionately, glad to see him, and took his arm as they walked out of the station. ‘Oh, you noticed that. Wonders will never cease. Yes, it’s new. Mother said I should have it to cheer me up, after you were so horrid to me. It’s Parisian cashmere.’
‘Not British?’
‘Why should I wear common Manchester goods?’
‘Because I can’t believe that foreign goods, especially French, are better than British.’
‘Well, you don’t wear shawls, Arthur, so you’re not likely to be able to tell the difference.’
‘Except in the price. What’s wrong with a shawl from Norwich or Paisley, if Manchester’s too common?’
‘As long as my father can afford to buy me better and more exclusive shawls, that’s what I shall have. Are you going to be argumentative all day and evening, Arthur? If so, I shall leave you here to wait for a return train.’
‘Oh, in that case, I’ll try to behave,’ he answered sarcastically.
‘Have you had a good journey?’
‘Till I changed at Didcot. Then this woman got in my compartment with a screaming brat.’
Dorinda made no comment about the sc
reaming brat. To comment about a child might have been to invite another disagreement about children in general, and the bearing and birthing of them in particular.
‘How are your mother and father?’ he enquired.
‘Mother gets fatter by the day, and Father gets thinner. She got herself wedged in the door of an omnibus last Wednesday.’ Dorinda rolled her eyes in scorn. ‘It must have been mortifying for her, but it didn’t stop her devouring an enormous dinner that same evening. You’d think she must’ve starved all day she ate so much, but I know very well that she ate half of a huge pork pie as well at midday, and a great wodge of fruitcake at tea.’
‘I’d hate to follow her into the privy.’
‘Oh, don’t be so revolting, Arthur. I hate you talking like that. It’s my mother you’re referring to.’
‘It was your mother you were referring to.’
‘But she’s my mother, so I’m allowed. You’re not. Especially comments of a sanitary nature.’
‘Or insanitary, as the case may be.’
‘Arthur, you don’t like it if I say things about your mother. Look how you jumped down my throat when I mentioned that I might pick up fleas in your house.’
‘Then if we have fleas, like you suggest, maybe I’ve got one of ’em in my drawers, which I shall transfer to the bed I sleep in at your house.’ He defiantly scratched his backside for effect.
‘Then you’ll have to be fumigated.’
‘It was a joke, Dorinda.’
Dinner at the Chadwicks’ house that evening was a little more sumptuous than usual, in honour of Arthur’s visit. They had roast beef done to perfection, with roast potatoes and apple pie to follow. Before the meal they drank amontillado, which had lain in their cellar for years and, during it, Mr Chadwick dispensed two bottles of claret he’d bought specially for the occasion. So by the time the meal was over, Arthur was feeling a little light headed.
Conversation afterwards was frivolous, but the family decided at about half past eleven that it was time for bed, since church would beckon next morning.
‘Have a glass of whisky with me before you go up, Arthur,’ Cyril suggested.
