‘There, there, you are not the first, nor the last, I fear to fall for the charms of Jonathan Reeves.
I wanted her to know that she was not alone, for I had suffered due to this family, and would suffer to my dying day. ‘Has he promised you passion? A future?’ I asked, and watched her plain face flush and confirm my fears.
I felt another hot stab of rage, and threw a withering glance at Jonathan.
‘Mr Reeves?’ she asked very softly. ‘Whatever does she mean?’
I watched Jonathan’s face grow increasingly guarded. ‘I cannot fathom her meaning.’
‘Can you not?’ I retorted.
‘No, madam, I cannot,’ he growled.
‘Well, for that I am wounded,’ I replied, for genuinely I was. Did he remember nothing of the affections we shared? Had he never considered the consequences his failed proposal had on my life? Could he not see that he was in some way responsible for the dreary existence I now endured? I turned to Miss Swan.
‘Has this gentleman – though I hesitate to use the word – promised you his hand?’ I asked gently.
Miss Swan did not reply, but her face grew ashen.
I shook my head. ‘So he did me, many years ago, before I married his cousin.’
The young lady gasped.
‘He promised me that he would save money for our future. He made me think we had one.’
Jonathan released a low growl. ‘Maria …’
‘Allow me to finish, Jonathan,’ I said. ‘You have taken your ruse further with Miss Swan than you ever did with I – still it is my Christian duty that she ought to know your true intentions do not involve matrimony at all.’
‘That is untrue,’ he growled, and his fists clenched by his sides. ‘I love Miss Swan. I will marry her as soon as I can finance a good home for her.’
‘You loved me once,’ I added. ‘You told me so.’
I looked towards the stricken young lady and felt a terrible guilt. Was I wrong to burden her with this information? Yet, she had a right to know. She must know that dallying with men could have a disastrous effect. I am no angel, I know this. I am in fact a terrible, wicked sinner – but perhaps I could save Miss Swan the same fate.
All I could do was try.
‘Maria,’ Jonathan argued. ‘We were terribly young.’
‘Yet, you promised me a future,’ I replied.
‘Your father refused my offer, and my father forbade me. There was naught else I could do.’
‘We could have gone to Gretna Green,’ I whispered. And saved me from this lonely marriage, I did not add.
Jonathan’s sigh was one of pure frustration. ‘We could have eloped to be sure – but as I recall, you swiftly left and married my cousin instead.’
I felt my face contort unhappily. Was that what he thought? That I’d wanted this lonely life with Frederick? Of course, I could have refused him, but my father had given me precious little room to refuse. Surely Jonathan knew that? If Jonathan had just left me well alone, perhaps I’d not have had to marry Frederick at all. Then I would never have been tempted to be unfaithful.
I was about retort when poor Miss Swan screamed, ‘Enough!’ Her eyes were wild and terrified and she lurched to retrieve her discarded bonnet. ‘I have simply heard enough! Excuse me.’
She moved towards the door, but Jonathan disallowed it. ‘Martha … please, don’t go. We ought to discuss this.’ There was such a note of longing and passion in Jonathan’s voice that I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly. He gripped Miss Swan’s hand, his face a mask of passionate agony.
‘Release me at once, Sir!’ Miss Swan shrieked, pulling wildly at her arm.
Jonathan released her, and the lady hesitated not a moment but fled from the house.
I stood there some time, in absolute, resolute silence, watching a conflux of emotions pass over Jonathan’s face.
‘Why?’ he croaked, his tone bitter. ‘Why did you do this?’
I found myself biting my lip. ‘I didn’t want her to end up like me.’
Jonathan loomed before me, angrier than I could ever have imagined.
‘Like you? Miss Swan is nothing like you.’
I recoiled, the sting of his words painful to hear. Still, I had to make him understand.
‘Because of our failed courtship, my father pushed me into my marriage. You know how terribly unhappy my marriage is with Frederick. I wanted to protect her from …’
‘No!’ he snarled. ‘You didn’t. You just want Miss Swan to be as miserable as you are. I had a plan for the future, Maria, a plan to make Miss Swan a good home, and now you’ve ruined it! You selfish, wicked woman.’
I reeled at Jonathan’s poisonous words.
‘No,’ I tried to say, but he would not have it. I do not think I have seen such fury on the face of a man before.
‘I had thought you above this petty jealousy, Maria. I thought I understood you, and you understood me. Rest assured, woman, I shall speak to your husband of your infidelity. I should never have kept it a secret.’
‘Jonathan, no! You mustn’t.’
He narrowed that furious gaze upon me. ‘I must, and I shall, Maria. I was a fool to trust you.’
‘No, no!’ I cried. ‘He’ll …’
‘He’ll what? Shame you? Beat you? Kill you?’ Jonathan snarled. ‘Well, so be it. I shall not grieve for you.’
With those terrible and final words, Jonathan left me there in that dusty and dilapidated cottage.
As I write my recollection late this evening, I can hear Jonathan and my husband speaking. Of what? I can only fear.
Monday, 12th July 1813
I awoke this morning to an empty house, empty except for the bustling Mrs Cartwright and Minny. I dressed modestly and all but crept like some devilish fiend down the stairs to observe and assure myself there was no Jonathan or husband in the vicinity waiting to confront me with my wickedness.
I had heard the men speaking until the wee hours of the morning.
I shuddered and walked into the kitchen.
If Frederick knew, why had he not thrown me from the house? I half-expected to see him glowering beyond the door, but when I opened the kitchen I was confronted not by my angry, cuckolded husband, but Mrs Cartwright kneading bread instead.
I heaved a sigh of relief.
‘Mrs Cartwright?’ I spoke softly, ‘Have you seen the Vicar or Mr Reeves this morning?’
Mrs Cartwright bustled from the kitchen. ‘Yes Ma’am, Mr Reeves has taken a hack to London, and the Vicar is doing rounds.’
I hesitated, and ran a hand down my bodice. ‘And they were in good spirits? Nothing untoward?’
Mrs Cartwright’s eyes narrowed. She knew of Jonathan’s discovery; any business in the vicarage was not news to her. ‘In fine spirits,’ she said, stiffly. ‘Nought to concern yerself with.’
My shoulders sank lower with relief. ‘Well, that is very good.’
Mrs Cartwright’s smile was only mildly sympathetic. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘Will Mr Jonathan Reeves be back, do you know?’ I asked.
She nodded, ‘Yes. In a week or so.’
I frowned then. ‘Oh.’
After this stilted conversation I took time to do some sewing, hoping it should take my mind of my troubles. As I pulled it from my sewing box, I saw my Bible, flowering with new strips of paper, placed purposefully beside my seat.
I could not read it now. I would not.
Tuesday, 13th July 1813
My husband was surprisingly kind to me today – though I do not deserve it.
Still nothing has been said about Jonathan or the wicked secrets he keeps. So it is that I shall walk about on tenterhooks, fearing the release of that dreadful information.
At breakfast, Frederick greeted me quite cordially and even poured my tea before Minny had the chance. There was a lovely air of gentility about him that I am not at all accustomed, yet could appreciate, even though my every spare thought seems to be afflicted by fears of discovery.
‘Why, no,’ I replied, trying to stem the skittish tone in my voice. ‘I had thought perhaps to offer my afternoon at the Bentley’s farm.’ I hesitated, brushing my skirt. ‘Mrs Bentley is in confinement with her sixth, and I had thought she may appreciate an extra pair of hands.’
My husband’s brow furrowed, but his eyes brightened with evident approval. ‘That is very generous of you,’ he commented, and sipped at his tea. I watched his hands curl about the handle of the cup and worried at my lip. How would it feel to have that hand wrapped about my waist with affection and passion? I wondered, but shook the thought away knowing it fanciful. My husband has never held me with affection, let alone passion.
He was quiet for a moment, as he took another sip.
‘You have been quiet,’ he commented. ‘Do you feel at all well? Here, have more tea …’ He poured me another cup. I bit my lip again.
Of course, his uncharacteristic concern for my health was pleasing, but it also made my heart hammer with fear. If I could not suppress my fears, his questioning would no doubt increase – and if it increased, how long would I be able to keep up my charade?
‘I am well,’ I replied with false brightness.
He didn’t return the sentiment; instead, he frowned. ‘I trust it is not Jonathan’s departure that has caused your subdued mood?’ His voice was soft.
Panic, strong and pungent, stabbed through my body, and I prayed it would not show upon on my face.
‘No, not his departure, and I am not at all subdued …’ I replied and gripped at my freshly poured tea.
‘Good,’ he replied. He fondled his cup of tea again. ‘Have you by any chance been reading that text?’
I thought back to the book on sutures he’d bought, and which I’d refused, only to find it returned to the sitting room bookshelf.
‘Why, yes,’ I admitted. ‘Thank you again for its purchase, but also for not returning it … I truly do not deserve such a kindness.’
I looked at him, studying his response, and noticed the skin about his eyes tighten.
‘Why do you think you do not deserve such a kindness?’ he asked, his voice gentle, almost coaxing.
I knew I should tell him. He was offering me a moment to unburden all my fears and lies upon him.
Yet I could not. I feared what he would do.
Besides, what could I say? That I’d taken another man to my bed, that I’d watched his cousin bed the governess, and then like some Greek ypocrite had lectured them about the dangers and evil of such behaviour?
‘Oh, there is not one reason in particular. I am just tired. Do not listen to my ramblings.’
For just a moment I saw Frederick bite his bottom lip and glance away. His long hands tightened around the cup, and I wondered once more if he knew more than what he gave away.
Perhaps I shall never find out.
Tuesday, 20th July 1813
The days have continued in a similar vein to those I have already described. Jonathan returned briefly yesterday and his mood was bitter.
I was naturally made to endure a meal with them, and to this day I have never experienced such unpleasant awkwardness. Jonathan would scarce look at me, let alone open conversation – which in turn caused my husband to increase his suspicions, which then made me fall into an even greater a state of perpetual fear.
When the hideous meal was done, I retired frightfully early.
To compound my desperate unhappiness and fears, due to the length of time between intimate meetings with either Goddard or my husband, last night found me lying abed with my hand feverishly buried betwixt my thighs. Forgive me, but I now seek pleasure from my own hand in lieu of any gentleman.
Surely it is less a sin?
My finger caressed that hardened nub until my womb tightened. I splayed my legs wider so my fingers may access that wet, hot heat and fill me as no other currently does. I felt the muscles of my core tighten about my thrusting fingers, before I returned my attention to that hard, sweet place. I gasped to myself and repeated the pattern, over and over until finally I could stand it no longer and I drove myself to senseless crisis. I writhed in my bed as my sex made to spasm around my fingers and my hardened nub throbbed with unbearable pleasure.
Then, there was a knock upon my door.
My panic returned, and my hand flew from my soaking nether parts.
‘Mrs Reeves?’ I heard my husband call.
I panicked then. Had I called out in crisis? Had my husband somehow overheard me abusing myself?
‘Yes?’ I returned, my voice stuttered by lingering, impassioned pants.
What the Devil did he want?
To confront me of infidelity?
Chastise me for neglecting my Bible studies?
Or could he possibly want his rights? After such a long abstinence, surely even he must feel the need for ease?
I felt my cheeks grow to a blush, and my heart stuttered frantically. Certainly, he would notice the moistness of my quim if he did, and wonder why I should be so ready?
‘May I enter?’ he called through the door.
I could not deny the man, and thus there was only one answer I could give.
‘Of course.’ I stared at the hand that had so recently been buried deep in my core. It glistened with the remnants of my pleasure. Hurriedly, I dried it on the bedclothes as my husband entered.
The summer sun had not quite set, so early was my retirement, yet he brought forth with him a candle, resting it down on my mantle before closing the door behind him.
‘Is there something you require, Vicar?’ I asked, hoping he could not scent the perfume of my passion in the air.
He waited a moment, his gaze observing me acutely. ‘I …’ He fumbled on his words.
‘Yes?’ I asked, thankful that my breath had returned to normal.
‘It has been some time since we were last … intimately acquainted.’
Gracious. He finally noticed? The thought was uncharitable, but my husband’s sudden nocturnal interest in me could only confirm that Jonathan still had not divulged my adultery.
‘It has,’ I agreed. ‘Do you wish intercourse now?’
‘No.’ He shook his head.
I tried to keep the disappointment from my voice. ‘Well, then, how can I assist you?’ I sighed.
‘I have listened to what you have said, and said repeatedly over the years.’
I frowned. ‘Have you?’ That seemed most unlikely, and I did not even attempt to keep the derision from my voice.
‘Yes, and it is my wish to try to accommodate your … requirements in a more comfortable fashion.’
I stared at him. Did he know that I’d accommodated my own requirements with Mr Goddard, and now my own hand? No, surely not, for if he did, certainly I would be thrown from the vicarage – and polite society entirely.
‘I see,’ I replied, although I did not.
‘Indeed,’ he said.
‘Pray, how exactly do you intend to do this?’ I asked, confused but also intrigued.
My husband’s face coloured. ‘I am yet to decide, but I thought that …’
‘Yes?’ I prompted.
‘That perhaps I have been remiss …’
Suspicion flared in my mind. My husband would never have come to that conclusion on his own, surely? Who had spoken to him? Mrs Richards? Mrs Cartwright? Minny? Heaven forbid, mayhap Jonathan had said something?
I felt my own expression crumple with a frown. ‘Whatever has brought you to that conclusion?’ I asked.
Another florid flush of colour stained his cheeks – like a boy caught staring up a lady’s skirt. ‘Nothing in particular,’ he said, though his manner was so stiff I thought he might crack like some ancient vase.
I was silent at his answer, my disbelief evident. Something must have happened to make him reconsider his ways, but if not Jonathan’s terrible news, then what?
Friday, 23rd Ju
ly 1813
A few days have passed since that suspicious conversation, and despite Frederick’s suggestion that he may have been remiss in his attentions towards me, naught at all has changed. No, that is not true; naught has changed, except perhaps the increasingly gentle nature of his words and manners towards me.
For example, this afternoon, with Jonathan absent, we took a turn about the vicarage grounds. Generally the gardens are Mrs Cartwright’s domain, but I have preference over which flowers are planted. We stood by a delightful display of roses and daisies, a veritable panoply of colour.
‘These are very fine,’ he commented.
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘I particularly like pink,’ I said, but my voice was soft. I felt so wicked; these pleasant interactions with the man are deeply unsettling, especially when I hold such a dark and terrible secret from him.
It was then that Mr Reeves did the most astonishing thing. He plucked a pink daisy from the bush. It was small in his large hand, and even more beautiful for it.
‘There,’ he said. With an absurdly lovely gesture, he tucked the small flower behind my ear and stood back to regard its effect.
I blushed like a girl at her first dance.
‘You look very well, Mrs Reeves,’ my husband said. A sudden gust of summer breeze rustled through the garden, and I caught his gaze, partially obscured by a loose tendril of my hair.
My heart thumped traitorously. I suddenly and quite desperately wanted to embrace this lovely new Mr Reeves, with his shining eyes and gentle, admiring gaze.
‘Thank you,’ I replied and suddenly looked away, confused. I should not look at him this way, should I? I am still an adulterous wife, and one day it will be discovered, and then what?
Tuesday, 27th July 1813
Lord Stanton’s wife has delivered another healthy girl. This is a relief. I fear so when women go to childbed; my studies in medicine have taught me that birthing is a dangerous business.
My husband has visited the new babe, and spoke of her in the kindest of terms. As I have observed in earlier entries, my husband’s attentions towards me have grown increasingly cordial. So cordial in fact, that of an evening he requests that I sit beside him to sew; a novel thing, and a pleasant occupation. Still, despite this, it is unsurprising that I still harbour troubled thoughts.
The Journal of a Vicar's Wife Page 9
