'Then what do you know of the union between a man and a woman?" she prodded.
In despair, he clutched the book. "Nothing," he snapped, anger
joining his embarrassment, "but I did not realize it was a tutorial matter to be discussed along with the Dialogues of Plato."
"It isn't," she replied, her voice as level as his was rising. "Still, it must be understood—"
"What must be understood?" he demanded. "What must be understood beyond the fact that I love you, will always love you, will never love another as I love you . . ."
The impassioned repetition began to sound childish in his ear. In despair, he turned away and took his embarrassment to the window, where he saw the high April moon casting a warm light on the inner courtyard. He closed the book in his hand, seeing clearly her purpose now, a gentle dissuasion, trying to talk him out of his love.
"I'm sorry I brought it up/' he said. "It was wrong of me."
"No," came the voice behind him, a conciliatory voice, offering hope. "And I'm not sorry you brought it up. I think we've both known since"—she paused as though searching her mind for a date— "since the night of old Jane's death that neither of us would be capable forever of. . ."
Slowly he turned. "Of what?"
"Of denying ourselves."
He stepped down from the window, as perplexed as ever. Was she playing her old tricks, beckoning with one hand, slapping away with the other? "Then I don't understand," he confessed again.
"I know you don't," she agreed, "and you must." At last she stepped toward him, the light from the lamp illuminating her face clearly, a face which seemed suddenly drained of color, as though in spite of her appearance of calm, her turmoil was as great as his.
"You. . . claim you love me," she began.
"And I do."
"There are years separating us."
"Meaningless."
"There will be other women in your life."
"None."
"And you will truly marry one day."
"Never!"
"You may be shocked by the act."
"I want you."
Only the dressing table separated them. Still she spoke, as though determined to argue them both out of their need. "We would be committing a sin," she said bluntly.
"In whose eyes?"
"God's and man's."
"We're not responsible for their vision."
"Our lives would never again be the same."
"How would they be different?"
"The intimacy, once established, would have to be fed."
He found her hesitancy touching. "Our chambers are close. I'm here nightly. . ."
"To brush my hair."
"To want you. To look upon you and wonder how much longer I can . . ."
Suddenly she turned away. At first he was afraid he'd offended her. Then he heard her own whispered doubts. "I . . . wouldn't want to . . . disappoint you."
Still clasping the Book of Common Prayer, he came up behind her. "How could you disappoint me?" he said.
As she turned, he saw disbelief in her eyes. "Truly you've never known a woman before?" she asked again, as though amazed.
No longer embarrassed by his confession of truth, he shook his head. "I was offered a whore once, but my father interceded."
Suddenly she bent over, her hands covering her face.
"Harriet?" He leaned close in concern. But she moved quickly away, as though determined that he not touch her.
She clung to the dressing table as though waiting out the weakness; then, as though nothing at all had occurred, she sat primly down before the mirror and to his reflection said, "Read the Ctre-mony of Marriage while I dress—"
"Dress? Where are—"
"Please read," she whispered. "I want you to hear the words, and I want to hear them."
He looked at her and wondered wearily if all mating was so difficult and complex. If so, how did the world ever proceed?
Then he was no longer concerned with the world, for in the most graceful of gestures she pulled the ribbon at the top of her dressing gown, which released the pale pink silk about her neck, and in one fluid cascade the gown fell about her waist, revealing a portion of those mysteries about which he'd wondered so often.
"Read, John," she commanded softly, apparently impervious to his fascination. In the reflection of the mirror he caught his first unobstructed view of her breasts, perfectly molded, so full that the inside of her arm brushed against them as she reached for the pitcher of lavender water.
Unable to maintain his position, he'd just started up behind her when suddenly there came a soft knock at the door. He turned on it, fearful that at any moment the door might swing open, the tableau clear for all to see.
He moved quickly away and looked back at Harriet, fully expecting to see her in the frantic throes of drawing the robe up about her shoulders. But she sat perfectly still, naked to the waist, a damp linen in her hand, and called calmly out, "Who is it?"
"Peggy, my lady," came the timid voice on the other side of the door. "Shall I prepare you for bed?"
Without hesitation, she lied gloriously. "No, Peggy, I'm already abed. I need nothing. And come morning, wait until I ring for you."
"Very well, my lady. Pleasant dreams."
"You, too, Peggy."
During this brief exchange, John stood rigidly to one side, his eyes moving back and forth between the two female voices, confounded that neither of them shared his agitation.
But they didn't, and after listening a moment to Peggy's receding footsteps, he looked back toward the dressing table, to see a living painting, the voluptuous woman preparing herself, one hand now lifting the weight of auburn hair, the other guiding the linen dampened with lavender water across her neck, then down one shoulder, then gently down between her breasts, lifting them in a self-caressing gesture.
He was suffering terribly. Again he started forward.
"Read, John, I beg you," she whispered.
"Harriet, please—"
"Read," she said to his reflection. Then sadly she added, "At least we can commence with civility."
Laboriously he returned to the chair near the dressing table and opened the Book of Common Prayer with the intention of following her command to the letter, and for all his good intentions he saw the small black words swimming across the page.
"Begin," she urged. Again he tried to do as he'd been told, though at that moment he made the mistake of looking toward the dressing table and saw her standing, the robe totally abandoned now around her feet, her hips rounded, curving in on a soft dark triangle, a most unmalelike smoothness, a compelling absence . . .
The palms of his hands were moist, and he transferred that moisture to the thin parchment pages, causing them to stick together. At last, in a voice that was scarcely audible, he read, " 'In the presence
of God and His Holy Congregation, we are gathered here to join together this man and this woman in Holy. . .'"
He looked up, thinking he'd done quite well, and saw her listening, one hand clasping the dampened linen, arrested in its progress down the right leg. In the angle at which she stood, the line of her back and buttocks was one magnificent classic curve, like the curve of a newly risen moon, or a dawn sun just appearing.
"Please go on," she whispered, rousing herself out of her frozen reverie, and rousing him as well as through blurred eyes he saw the statue move, extend the white linen to her toes.
Making a massive effort, he lowered his eyes to the page. " TVIatri-mony is an honorable estate, instituted by God, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt God and His church/ "
At some point, his eyes became adept at devouring several lines at once, so that he could speak and look up all at the same time. The point of the ritual still eluded him, though it clearly was giving her enormous pleasure. He'd never seen her face so enraptured, though in truth his eyes were seldom on her face. At each angle in which she turned, new secrets were revealed; a tiny birthmark on her u
pper left thigh in the shape of a perfect circle, the smooth white skin on the inside of her upper arm, the small of her back, her breasts . . .
He lowered his head, sensing that from this night on the world would no longer be ordinary. How long she intended to continue his torture, he had no idea, but he suspected that his agony would end when the vows ended, and with that in mind, he read rapidly. " 'Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's Holy ordinance . . .'"
At times he thought he could not draw sufficient breath to continue, and a few minutes later he thought it a minor miracle when the end of the vows came into sight, and he heard his own voice, though it was scarcely recognizable, " . . and keep thee only unto her so long as ye both shall live.'"
A short time later, he read the benediction. "'God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost, bless, preserve and keep you and fill you with all spiritual benediction and grace, that ye may so live together in this life that in the world to come ye may have Life Everlasting. Amen.' "
Silence. He closed the book and closed his eyes as well. He leaned over and rested his head in his hands. At that moment a lovely fragrance, like roses, came closer, accompanied by a soft rustling and the almost indiscernible weight of a hand on his shoulder.
"Come," he heard her whisper.
He looked up to see her, a vision in white, a gown of such airy fabric it seemed to float about her.
Before he could respond, she was leading him toward the door.
"Where are we going?" he whispered.
But she said nothing and paused at the door, peered out as though to check for late-night servants, then again she grasped his hand and led him out into the dark corridor.
He followed after her in willing obedience. The apparition leading him through the darkness would have to stop sometime.
Then true knowledge would commence. Then he would discover for himself what every man must discover for himself, the secret at the heart of the world, how the designs fit together, why men penned verse and painted paintings and sculptured statues, all dedicated to the love of a woman.
Never in the history of the world had there been a more eager student. He tightened his grip on her hand.
She could lead him to the very pit of hell, and he would willingly follow.
She knew precisely what she was doing, had known from the beginning, when she'd rescued him from the odd-boy cellar and moved him into the luxurious chambers directly down the corridor from her own. She'd known that ultimately it would come to this, a late-night flight down the corridors of Eden, with him behind her, a willing lover, leading him stealthily as Edward once had led her toward the small door in the east wall, past the graveyard and gardens and finally out onto the freedom of the headlands, and on to the glen in the distant woods, the one spot at Eden she'd refused to visit since Edward had taken her there almost seventeen years ago.
She knew precisely what she was doing, and what sane woman would do otherwise? What reasoning woman would turn her back on such a gift from Providence, a chance to relive the one brief and truly passionate love of her life? No sane woman would do that, not even Harriet, though the battle had been long and arduous.
Through God's infinite mercy, Edward had reappeared, and it was Edward following behind her, a younger Edward to be sure, but that was perhaps the most glorious part of God's gift. This Edward needed her. Now it was her turn to perform tutorial duties, to lead and instruct as once she had been led and instructed.
So consuming were her thoughts that as they reached the lower
floor, she almost took the wrong turn, to the right, which led into the Great Hall and the ever-constant eyes of the watchmen.
Taking the correct turn now, she was afraid to look back until at last she spied the east-wing door and pushed it open and felt the mild reviving April night air.
Then freedom. Then the first glorious ocean breeze, the headlands beautifully illuminated by the light of the full moon, his face before her, a smile on his lips as though now he had perceived her plan, as though he too suddenly felt the strictures of the castle fall away. As he gathered her to him, she responded by locking her arms about his neck, where, with mouths opened, their lips met, mutual identities lost and unimportant.
"Not here," she whispered at the end of the kiss. "Come, let's run. It isn't far."
How kind the night was and how rapidly they took the horizon line of dark woods, and a few moments later, pushing their way through the underbrush, it occurred to her that this would be different. The first time she and Edward had come here had been in the high clear light of afternoon. Now they would be forced to rely upon their hands, the sensitivity contained within their fingertips, for the moon was obscured here by the thick canopy of foliage overhead.
She was aware of him standing beside her, an almost timid stance, still waiting for her lead. Then take it, she urged herself, and within the moment the white gown was loosed about her waist, her arms free.
"Come . . ." She smiled and led him to the center of the glen, her hands now removing his belt, moving down the buttons of his shirtwaist, a slow gentle disrobing where occasionally he seemed to help.
She sensed the apprehension within him and recalled her own and tried to remember how Edward had eased it. And finally, as he was removing his boots and trousers, she stretched out on the cool green moss, remembering before how she'd looked up into the very face of the sun through lacy green trees.
He stood beside her, as though awaiting her next communication. She reached up for his hand and drew him down beside her.
"Are you afraid?" she whispered.
"Yes."
"No need," she reassured him.
An inauspicious beginning. She would have to do more. Slowly her hand moved down, stroking, until at last a sound of deep breathing began to rise close to her ear.
Suddenly he gave a low constricted moan and rolled atop her with a force which startled her, his legs pushing hers apart, his hands pinning her wrists over her head. Beneath the weight of his body, she found she could not move, and with one urgent thrust he entered her.
Then it was over.
She closed her eyes and thought with a smile that rape had occurred, not lovemaking, and she indulged him a moment longer, gave him a chance to recover from sensations that must have been as unsatisfying for him as they were for her.
Then, "John," she murmured. "Release my arms, please. There's no need."
He drew back as though only now aware of what he'd done. "I'm . . . sorry," he gasped.
She waited, then slowly sat up beside him. "Are you well?" she inquired gently.
He nodded, though he sat in a despairing position, knees raised, head buried.
She knelt before him, still feeling the brief sensation of his weight on her body, but feeling little else. She'd never thought it possible, the speed with which he'd performed.
She brushed back his hair and felt his forehead damp. What a night of instruction she had before her. She lifted his hand and placed it over her breast.
The lessons commenced, the complex lessons of postponement and gratification, the subtle enjoyment of pressure and sudden lack of pressure, the art of deliberation, of savoring each sensation, of building slowly. He was a newly humbled student and she a patient tutor who on occasion surprised herself with her expertise, recalling that other time, that other Edward, who had with such gentleness taught her in one brief afternoon the miracles that could be wrought with the human body.
Finally, when the first streaks of dawn were altering the night sky, she looked up from an interval of rest and saw him approaching her, a different expression on his face now, a somber look of control. As she opened her arms to him, he surprised her by lifting her to him, where expertly he guided her legs around his waist, his touch firm and sure, and with ease their bodies fitted together, and with her eyes closed she felt his broad hands supporting her, pressing her closer, the warmth inside her now, the mystical center focused somewhe
re near the entrance to her womb, his lips gently pulling on her
breast, his hair brushing against her throat, a skillful, expert invasion which caught her off guard, the crest commencing, a different memory, yet the same glorious sensation.
Still it came, a searing heat which culminated in an explosion that caused her to cry out and cling to him, her head limp against his chest, his mouth close to her ear, where all she heard was his whisper, repeating her name over and over again.
Blessedly their passion subsided, for neither could have endured more. Now incredibly she felt shyness as he covered her with the crushed white gown.
"Are you cold?" he asked, lying beside her.
A foolish question, as she doubted if she would ever be cold again. She shook her head and gently caressed his face, pleased at his pleasure.
For a long while they lay silently and watched the dawn. At first she had worried that they should return to the castle under cover of darkness. But as the morning light spread and she saw clearly his face beside her, she put aside her fears and spread the white coverlet over him and nestled warmly into his arms.
In the rising light, she looked at him sideways and detected changes on his face. He looked older. Due to her guidance, he knew intimately his manhood and the rich power contained within. She raised up on her elbow, the better to see him, as alike to that other man as though they were twins. Her newfound happiness made her greedy, and she felt a compulsion to implore him never to leave her.
Apparently he saw her distress and intuitively pulled her down on his chest and locked his arms about her. "I will never leave you," he vowed, as though he'd read her mind. "Never," he repeated.
She closed her eyes in the sheltering warmth and wondered how she could ever reassemble the fragments of that pathetic woman known as Lady Harriet. How could she again become Richard's and Mary's mother, and mistress to the servants? And the most difficult question of all, how could she survive the coming daylight hours without him, knowing the thousand meaningless rituals she had to struggle through before nightfall and once again they might be together.
As though he shared her silent bewilderment, and as though in fortification against the coming abstinence, he entered her again, gently, slowly, almost sadly. Now above her head she saw the brightness of sun, a leafy greenness, that other scene recreated perfectly.
The Eden passion Page 21
