by Peter McAra
‘It’s when a man asks a woman to marry him.’
‘Well, of course it’s a declaration of my intentions, then,’ he said masterfully.
‘Then I accept.’
‘Good,’ Harry said. Eliza feared she might burst with happiness. She felt her face almost splitting as she grinned.
‘I think you’re supposed to kiss me now,’ she said. Solemnly, he turned to her and kissed her lips.
‘That was — lovely,’ Eliza said when she drew breath and opened her eyes. ‘Will we do that often when we’re married?’
‘Of course. Every day,’ he said.
‘I’d like that. I’d like to be married to you, ‘she murmured. He kissed her again. Reluctantly, they dressed and retraced their steps to the house.
‘I loved that, Harry,’ Eliza said as they reached the house. ‘Can we do it again one day?’
‘We’ll do it every day,’ Harry said, and squeezed her hand.
Notwithstanding the vagaries of the English summer, the pair swam in the lake many times during following months. Eliza noticed her white skin turning brown, and worried that her mother might ask her how this had happened.
‘I can wash myself, now, Mother,’ she said. ‘My friends at the Great House will think I’m a baby if my mother must wash me.’ Her foster-mother sighed.
‘My beautiful baby is growing up. Let me wash you sometimes, child. I like to see how beautiful you’re growing. I was pretty like you when I was your age.’ Eliza nodded and slid away. Her foster-mother would not approve of the golden tan now covering her whole body.
A string of smiling summers wafted over the village of Marley. Harry and Eliza grew to adolescence, still enjoying their naked afternoons by the lake each year. As Eliza’s shape changed from girl to fertile woman, she watched Harry’s body make its transition to manhood from one summer to the next. Still, during their afternoons lying close and naked after their swims, they shared the innocent closeness of their time together as young children.
‘We’re going to be married one day, Eliza.’ Harry said one balmy afternoon as they nestled close in a patch of sun. ‘Remember. All those years ago?’
‘I know. I want to marry you.’
‘I’ve already declared my intentions, remember,’ Harry said. ‘And you’ve accepted. So what happens next?’
‘We wait, I suppose,’ she said, not wanting to hint at the blooming passion she had long felt for the youth she’d known for most of her life.
How long do we wait?
‘A very long time,’ she said. ‘Until you’re twenty one.’
‘But that’s five years.’ He sighed. ‘Wait. I have a wonderful notion.’ It was not often that Harry took the lead in creating good ideas.
‘What is it?’
‘You remember Mr Harcourt told us about savages; their ways, their customs? How they live on islands and catch fish. And eat each other?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how when they promise something very special, they mix their blood, and that makes them keep the promise, even for years and years?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why don’t we?’
‘What a good idea. But where do we get the blood?’
‘Oh. That’s easy. Here.’ He pulled a pin from the lapel of his discarded jacket, and before she could protest, he had pricked his palm, grabbed her hand, and repeated the act. ‘I’m sorry, Eliza. I thought if I did it quickly, it wouldn’t hurt so much.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’ She looked down at her hand and saw the trickle of blood oozing into the lines of her palm. He held it in his own bloodied hand.
‘I promise that I, Harold James De Havilland, will marry Eliza Downing when I am one-and-twenty. So help me God. Now you say it, Eliza.’ She looked solemnly into his eyes.
‘I promise that I, Eliza Mary Downing, will marry Harold James De Havilland when he is one-and-twenty one and I am twenty, almost, so help me God.’ She drew her hand away from his and looked at her palm. Already their mingled blood had become sticky. She kissed him on the lips. Kissing had always been a pleasant habit for them, though Eliza admitted to herself that for the last year or so, she had looked forward to it with a strangely melting passion. Through many a sleepless night, she held her pillow close, kissed it longingly, whispered sweet nothings to it. And wondered whether Harry might perhaps have begun the man’s version of the same. Now, they lay together on the grass, still naked, hand in bloody hand.
‘How many children should we have, Harry?’ Eliza asked, tweaking her voice to sound lighthearted, jokey.
‘Four. Two girls and two boys.’ He smiled, turned to her has they lay close. ‘Then there’s the simple pleasure of making them. Which I…rather look forward to,’ he said, and fell silent.
Eliza had often marvelled at Harry’s slowness in showing the behaviours that grow with men’s bodies as they reach manhood — the surge of hot blood that turns some men into rutting male animals overnight. She’d seen such happenings all her life; seen village boys grow tall, sprout beards, fight, brag, flaunt their strength, court maidens they’d scorned all through childhood.
Now, in the languid heat of the summer afternoon, she watched Harry’s member grow rigid. He had led with the interesting question of making children. She watched his eyes lock onto the triangle of golden curls that had lately blossomed between her thighs. She smiled to herself. Could this be his manhood’s awakening?
A hot wind surged round them, a miniature tornado. Then it died to a pregnant stillness. He smiled at her, and she melted. In his eyes she saw the love that had lately burst into the open on another languid summer afternoon. But now the glow in those eyes seemed even more alive, more overpowering, than ever before. He stretched himself at full-length on the ground beside her. His eyes beckoned her to lie beside him. Then he lay silent, looking up into the blue sky. A balmy quiet settled over them like a softly draped blanket, making her body relax.
‘I’m going to take a swim,’ he said. ‘It’s too hot to do aught else.’ In moments, he stood before her, grinning. Now the sight of his body arrested her. She took in the mat of fuzzy dark hair that now covered his chest. His stomach muscles clenched as he moved. His shoulders seemed to have broadened by inches. He fired another quick grin at her, then dived into the water. She caught her breath in sympathy the moment the chill of the water hit his nakedness. He surfaced a few yards from the shore, and waved.
‘You must, must join me, Eliza. The water’s perfect.’ She turned away. ‘Come on, girl.’
She stood, watching his body turn rigid as she moved. Then, as his eyes widened, she threw herself into the water, laughing. It was as if they were children. They dived, splashed, caught each other by the ankles, swam between each other’s legs. A hundred times he took her on his shoulders, then threw her into the water as she screamed with laughter.
After what seemed like an hour of childish fun, he left the water and lay on the bank. She joined him. The sun had all but fled the sky. How long had they frolicked, oblivious of all else but each other? The air was warm. They lay close.
‘What are you thinking, Eliza?’ His voice wafted by her ear. She struggled to find a thought, any thought, that would distract her from the naked man beside her.
‘You may not believe this,’ she murmured. ‘I was thinking of that scene from The Odyssey Mr Harcourt gave us to read. Where Nausicaa and Ulysses meet by the lake one afternoon. Perhaps you know it?’
‘How could I forget?’ he said. ‘The story of two lovers, was it not?’ He paused. ‘Ah, yes. Nausicaa discovers Ullysses, naked and wounded, as she prepares to swim in a hidden pool in the marshes?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Both were naked at the time, were they not?’ he asked.
‘So you do remember,’ she said.
‘I do. It was — romantic.’
‘Yes, Ulysses, it was. You were wounded in battle, and Nausicaa cared for your wounds.’
‘I’m wounded in battl
e again, Nausicaa.’
In moments, the sun would disappear behind the hills. In an hour, darkness would blanket the landscape. As Eliza decided to reach for her chemise, Harry rolled over and kissed her, hard on the lips. He took his time, savouring each moment. The glowing embers in her body flared as the searing surge swept over them. She writhed with pleasure. And the more her body asked for more, the more he gave.
He lay close, naked, his body wet. The rising tide of his excitement flooded over her, lifting her high, matching his animal heat. Their kisses waxed longer, deeper, hotter. A hunger swept through her body; a hunger that could not be denied. She wanted more. More kisses, more flesh, more of the man she would always love. Her hand found his neck, his shoulders, his belly, his burning iron-hardness. She must have him — all of him. Yet he was…cautious. Decent. Even in the searing heat of the primal needs of their bodies, he waited.
‘I want you,’ she whispered into his ear, licking it with her hungry tongue. ‘All you have to give me.’ She felt his hand move; slow, questing, over her body. First it brushed her nipples, then lingered, exploring them in unhurried detail with thumb and finger. Then his mouth, his teeth, added heat to the fire his fingers had lit. Spasms of happy lust coursed through her wanting body. Those hot fingers moved on, tiptoed slowly over her neck, her armpits, her groin, her thighs, her buttocks, into the lusting wet female core that seemed almost to scream aloud for him. Every movement of those exploring fingers fired shuddering paroxysms inside her.
‘Now,’ she groaned. Her voice was guttural with need. She must have him. Nothing else mattered. But he held back, fingering her, kissing her, whispering loving words in her ear. ‘Now! Now!’ And still he held back.
‘No, Eliza.’
Tears of need — hot, urgent — washed her face. ‘But I — ’
‘No.’
‘I want you. I beg you.’
‘I want you too. More than man ever wanted anything on this earth. And I say no.’
‘But — ’
‘Eliza. You know that I cannot…ruin you. Ruin the rest of your life.’ He drew his body away, kissed her. His voice came in a gravelled, halting whisper. ‘Would that we could be as Nausicaa and Ullyses. We cannot. I must refuse you because I love you. Can you not see that?’
In the depths of her soul, she could. What man would have said such words? She knew he wanted her. Every cell of his body shouted so. And yet he denied himself. His love must be greater than any other in the history of the world. Her sobbing quietened. As she lay, she schooled herself to breathe slowly, quietly. Slowly her lust for him wafted down like a thistledown descending to earth…
A sudden close-by rustling of dead leaves shocked her.
‘There you are!’ Louisa burst from the tree-covered path. ‘The two of you! Naked! I will tell Father. This very minute!’ She turned and ran. Neither spoke as they dressed. Silent with shock, they returned to the Great House.
Abed in her cottage that night, Eliza stretched and moaned. Sleep would not come. But for the rest of her life, she would take comfort from her memories of that afternoon. Harry had proved his love by the greatest sacrifice a man could make.
CHAPTER 7
That evening, the viscount called his son to his study after dinner. Harry knew that the taciturn man would have devised some way to put an end to his son’s joyful years with Eliza.
‘Mr Harcourt tells me you do well at your studies, Harry.’ He cleared his throat, eased into the spreading leather armchair where he lately spent most of the hours of the day. All his life Harry had known that when his father did that, he was about to make a weighty pronouncement.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Tell me, do you enjoy your studies, boy?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I have a mind to send you to Oxford forthwith. The term starts soon. I think you are old enough, and studious enough.’
‘But, sir, I like it here. Mr Harcourt is an excellent tutor, and I — ’
‘My son, you will learn things at Oxford which Mr Harcourt could never teach you.’ Harry struggled to escape the blow he saw descending; a blow which would smash his burgeoning happiness into dust.
‘What will happen to Eliza?’ he managed to say as he winced with the hurt of the blow.
‘She has served her purpose.’
‘But…she helped me in my learning. Very much. I’ve — ’
‘My point exactly. She has challenged you in your studies. Indeed, so much so that you’re ready for Oxford a year or two before I expected.
‘But Louisa? She needs — ’
‘Louisa says the girl cheats at chess. Louisa can never win against her. I’ve told Mrs Hawkins not to send her to tomorrow morning’s lessons.’
‘But Father. Eliza… I… She’s my friend. We’ve spent a goodly portion of our lives together. She’s like a sister.’
‘She is not your sister, boy. She is a village child, born of village stock. The village people are chattels, boy. They exist to serve us. They are like cattle, if rather less useful.’
‘But Father, Mr Harcourt says — ’
‘Enough!’ Harry saw the purple rising in his father’s neck. ‘Damn Harcourt! It’s high time you went to Oxford.’ John De Havilland took a long breath. ‘Do not question me, boy. I am your father. I’ve instructed the servants to pack your bags. Jem will drive you in the coach. He will commence the journey with you tomorrow morning.’ He paused. Harry sensed his father might be bracing himself to leap some intimidating hurdle. Now the older man coughed.
‘Did you roger the girl?’
‘Certainly not, Father.’
‘Don’t bother to invent fairytales, my son. Tell me why you spent long summer afternoons lying naked beside a comely young woman, old enough for a dalliance. And did not roger her.’
‘I…like Eliza.’ It would not do to blurt out the truth.
‘How many times have I told you?’ The viscount pursed his lips. ‘You must keep your distance from the working class.’ He looked across at the tall, broad-shouldered young man, took in the trademark swathe of dark hair falling across his brow. John De Havilland knew that absence makes the heart grow fonder. At Oxford, his son would likely lie awake at night thinking of home and, more likely, of the wench. For a moment, he recalled the wayward thoughts of his own youth, his illicit moments with a saucy chambermaid called Jemima. He’d been sad for a night or two when he learned she’d been sent away because she was with child. For a moment, he wondered what might have become of that child. Then he shrugged, turned to the son who stood before him, expectant.
‘Surely you understand by now that the peasantry is different from the nobility, Harry?’ he said. ‘Why, I sometimes suspect that peasants are not real human beings. Does not the Bible tell us they are fit only to be hewers of wood and drawers of water?’ Harry drew a long breath, unsure of the biblical validity of his father’s quotation. Whatever, he must not disclose that over past years, his feelings for Eliza had grown like a vigorous vine, smothering his mind with love for her.
‘Have you rogered the girl?’ The viscount repeated.
‘No, sir. I have not,’ Harry answered, wishing his father would stop using the word.
‘I came to like Eliza very much, father. Her intellect is truly astonishing. She — ’
‘Never mind her intellect, son. I asked you about her body.’
‘We have been the best of friends since I was seven years old.’
‘Well then, boy,’ the viscount asked his son testily. ‘Why do you not wish to roger her?’
Harry would tell his father the plain truth. ‘I…have wanted to, sir. Often. But — ’
Sir John coughed. Harry dragged his straying attention back to the present, to the grave, unsmiling man opposite. In the latter years of his schooling, Harry had read in the classics that a special sacredness, an overpowering tenderness, magically sweetened the act of generation between a man and a woman who loved each other. In his dreams, he’d allowed
himself to imagine that sweet lust many times, knowing all the while that his feelings for Eliza were so much more than the animal heat triggered by the thought of her naked body.
‘But what?’ Was that a suppressed chuckle in his father’s voice? ‘You must tell me. Why haven’t you rogered the wench?’
‘I could never…hurt an innocent maid.’ Harry’s voice carried the ring of truth.
‘Hurt? I’ll wager she hungers for it, boy. Peasant wenches are like that. Like cows taunting the bull. I’ve seen them a hundred times — at the inn, in the fields, dancing at the fair, stealing behind the hay rick on a warm evening at harvest time.’ He looked into his son’s eyes, saw that he was not convinced. ‘If you don’t, some village lad will do it soon enough, I’ll warrant.’
‘If a young maid should…get with child, father, it would be the ruin of her. I could never — ’
‘I see,’ the viscount said. ‘So it’s love, is it?’
Harry must not tell his father of the heady sensations that surged through him whenever he saw Eliza, or imagined her ravishing body. But he must confront his own feelings before he answered; must be honest with himself as well as with his father.
My world is empty without her. All through the long nights alone in my bed, I dream of her. I do love her.
‘I respect Eliza, father.’ He paused. ‘I could never wish her harm.’
‘Very well, my son. I will try to understand.’ The viscount sighed, leaned back in his chair. ‘You are a man now. Come to a man’s estate, as the saying goes. But now I say that word, it reminds me that I have sad tidings for you.’
He watched as his son digested the import of those words. Then he stood, eased his aching limbs from his armchair, reached for the brandy decanter and the two glasses that stood on a table beside his desk. He poured a generous nip into one glass, a finger into the other. Then he drained the larger nip, refilled his glass, and slid the other towards his son.
‘You will recall that some few years back, I sold our herd of Jersey cattle to our neighbour Ernest Thurber, and replaced them with sheep?’
‘Yes sir. You said at the time you planned to grow wool for the new spinning mills being built all over the country.’
