Italian Sonata: Noire - Volume Two

by de Maupassant, Emmanuelle

  The Conte di Cavour is the first to speak.

  ‘How warm it is this evening, despite the sea breeze. You’ll permit me to open the window wider? Perhaps the dusk air will refresh us? It’s inordinately stuffy within this carriage.’

  Without waiting for a reply, he leans over and does just that, allowing the coolness to enter in.

  They pass the very outskirts of the town, gaining a clearer view of the rugged mountain tops ahead.

  Padre Giovanni looks up from his Bible, ready to offer his thanks for this consideration, which is most welcome, but the words die in his throat before they can be uttered.

  The gentlewoman, sitting so daintily and decorously, modestly veiled and gloved, has loosened the buttons at her neck. Not two or three, but, already, six or seven, such that the jacket of her costume has fallen open almost to her navel. Beneath, where her blouse should be, it is not. Nor is there chemise, nor camisole, nor corset. There she sits, erect and proper, but with the flesh of her upper torso exposed.

  The padre’s instinct is to cry out, to voice his alarm, to rage at her indecency. His lips move to shape his protest and yet…not a sound emerges.

  She twists a little towards him and, in so doing, her jacket strays open, revealing the inner curve of what swells beneath.

  Her skin is smooth.

  Unblemished.

  He cannot look away.

  She reaches to the pins at the back of her coiffure, and removes one, so that a single coil of curled ebony-dark hair falls free. With care, she places it forward, to hang against her chest.

  With her eyes upon the clergyman, so that he might know her intent, she moves the fabric of her jacket to one side, to expose fully the sweet roundness of her breast. Hers is beauty indeed: such softness, and youth: her areola the palest pink, and large.

  Neither man speaks a word.

  Keeping her gaze upon Padre Giovanni, she moves her hand, still gloved, to cup her flesh. She holds the orb against her palm, as if displaying, offering, inviting. Her hair brushes the nipple: satin against silk, midnight against moonlight.

  She teases her curled strand against the soft nub, and squeezes gently.

  The peak grows pert.

  The Conte is tempted to utter some word of admiration or encouragement. It would be most appropriate.

  Instead, he holds his tongue.

  Padre Giovanni is incapable of speaking, his mouth having turned quite dry. His fingers clutch still at his Bible; in fact, several of the pages have crumpled rather badly.

  The lady leans forward, her breasts swinging free of her jacket, bending until she grasps the hem of her skirts.

  And then, and then, and then…

  She lifts, slowly, inch by inch, the taffeta, and muslin of her petticoats: above the ankle of her boot, revealing the white of her stocking, then past her shin and calf. She pauses at her knee, her eyes flicking to the Conte, to check that he is still observing her.

  His mouth twitches a little, as if he might at any moment laugh.

  She continues, raising her skirts, revealing legs slender and shapely, until the top of her stockings come into view: stockings fastened with ivory ribbon.

  The lady, if such she really is, wears no other undergarments besides her petticoats. Her drawers are noticeably absent.

  She moves her feet apart, first a little, and then more, until her legs are wide, the fabric of her lower costume bunched at the top of her legs, draping down either side.

  Her gloved hands move across her thighs, where the gauze of her stockings meets her naked skin. She lingers there, playing with the ribbons.

  The padre’s fingers flutter against the pages of his book, and lose their grip. The volume falls to the floor with a thump, its corner catching his smallest toe, extracting a yelp.

  As if growing impatient, she pushes her skirts entirely upwards and reveals, at last, the moist fur of her cunt.

  The padre’s voice emerges in a single shocked squeak. Lorenzo permits himself a slight shift in his seat, tugging his britches into greater comfort.

  She removes one of her gloves: unfastens its buttons, and tugs, until her elegant fingers are free. The lady stretches her hand, as if it were a cat’s paw, the claws of which require extension.

  With all languor, her fingers find the slickness between her legs. She arches back into the pleasure of that touch, so that her jacket falls fully open. Her breasts push upwards, and her nipples stiffen under the gaze of the two men sitting so very close.

  Legs parted. Labia parted. Her secret self, parted.

  Her wild and wicked centre, her delicious nub, protrudes from dew-sodden petals. With the lightest of touches, she folds back that rose, wishing to reveal its darkest recesses.

  Here I am, she declares silently. Here is all there is to see. Here is what men desire: the essence of womanhood, from which all life springs. Look and admire.

  The padre feels himself both ice and fire: a pillar of salt and of water. With certainty, he can no longer feel his legs.

  The lady’s performance is now for herself, as much as for them. Her head lolls back, and she rocks against her fingers, first slow, and then harder. The air is heavy with the sour-sweet stench of her.

  No more the tease of a slow reveal. No more feigned innocence. Here is her lust, raw and beautiful.

  Her breasts rise and fall rapidly with her quickening breath, and the urgency of her task. Her jaw slackens and clenches, her tongue wetting her lips, parted and panting. She works at her task, eager to extract the honey of her pleasure.

  And then her gasps begin, faster than her heartbeat.

  Her undulations accelerate, as if a wrathful snake coils and stretches in her womb, commanding her hips to writhe in an exquisite battle. A great jolt shakes her, traveling from her sex, through her belly and spine, erupting from her in fierce proclamation. She is a shimmering raven, taking off in flight, flinging off the trappings of her humanity, becoming one with the air and the night.

  Time stops for some moments, though not one of the three can measure them.

  Lorenzo has to admit, she has surpassed herself, and he has witnessed some performances in his time.

  ‘Brava, Lucrezia dear,’ he commends, raising his hands in applause. ‘I should have known better than to throw down such an enticing challenge to one so talented.’

  The lady allows herself the smallest of smiles in acknowledgement, fumbling with her buttons, her fingers somewhat numb from the feverish flood bathing her body.

  ‘I’m sure I speak not only for myself but for our good Padre in offering you my heartfelt admiration,’ continues the Conte. ‘How unfortunate it is that we’re almost at our destination, for I feel certain that a second act would have proven most welcome. A good hard fuck does one the world of good, and the padre looks rather in need of a tonic. A rough poke of your delightful cunt, my dear, would have revived him no end, I’m sure.’

  Padre Giovanni’s eyes blaze, his mouth working to express his outrage, but the appropriate words fail him.

  Her locks re-pinned, Lucrezia throws down her skirts, and turns to face the clergyman.

  ‘Take no notice of my half-brother’s crude taunts, Padre,’ she soothes. ‘He’s a child you know, always eager for novelty. I imagine that you, more than he, as a man of God, appreciate the true revelation of a woman’s passion: a flame lit by Divine God himself, and placed within exquisite flesh, to His own design.’

  Having arrived in Scogliera, the two leave Padre Giovanni in peace.

  To his great shame, his lap is damp.

  Betrothal

  On a certain Thursday in late March, 1899, between the hours of ten and eleven, a small party has assembled at the church of the Holy Trinity, in the parish of Kensington, just west of Hyde Park Corner, on the Brompton Road.

  As the newspapers will report, the bride wears a costume more suited to a fancy dress event than a wedding, in the style of an Indian Mughal. Despite the unconventionality of her choice, those in attendance
agree that it suits her well. Her crimson jacket has been embroidered with humming birds and bumble bees, accentuated above the hip by a wide, golden sash.

  From its waistband, she later produces a miniature scimitar, surprising those at the Wedding Breakfast with her dexterity in using it to cut the cake.

  Emerald drop earrings, a gift from the groom to his bride, peek from beneath titian curls, artfully tucked into a scarlet turban.

  The groom’s sister, Lady Cecile McCaulay, standing as maid-of-honour, is attired more traditionally, in a green velvet suit, puff-sleeved in the Gigot fashion, tapering to a narrow forearm, worn with a jaunty hat atop her blonde hair.

  Both carry a bouquet of orange blossom and white roses.

  Standing before the Almighty, the groom bestows upon the forehead of his bride a kiss. It's not too late for them to turn back: to take to their heels. Neither are tempted, however. They are exactly where they wish to be. If Lord McCaulay feels a lurch of uncertainty at the sight of his future wife fluttering her eyes at the handsome young minister waiting for them at the altar, he sets this aside. He is a man besotted, and such extremes of love cause us to make light of those foibles from which, under other circumstances, we might flee.

  Lord McCaulay has pursued Lady Franchingham with sufficient steadfastness and ardour, it appears, for her to allow herself to be caught, although those guests closest to the bride might speculate as to the terms under which the contract has been made.

  Marriage is a covenant to which Maud had pledged never to succumb, in pursuit of feminine liberation and independence. Yet, here she is, allowing her hand to be held and a ring placed upon it. Their vows are spoken in earnestness, and they shall be true to one another’s desires; though the nature of what they mean by this promise is not quite in keeping with convention.

  Every inch the blushing bride, her face is flushed with pleasure. How wonderful it is, after all, to find ourselves surprised by the serendipity of our choices.

  Surely, it’s of little significance that Maud’s wedded state brings her access to a handsome sum, placed in trust at her parents’ death, and released only upon her marriage.

  As the bride’s slippered feet trip daintily up the aisle, she’s thinking already of the warmth of her husband’s arms, and his strong hands moving up the pale skin of her leg. Perhaps all brides think of these things, however pure and simple and modest they appear.

  They emerge into spits of sleet, and a gust takes Maud almost off balance. She clutches at her groom and so taken is he by the surge of joy in his heart, that he lifts her ostentatiously into his arms and carries her down the last of the church steps, into the waiting carriage.

  ‘What a devoted couple they make!’ exclaims the priest. ‘A true love match, I’ve no doubt.’

  A number of the bride’s friends, cheering the newlyweds as they emerge onto the Brompton Road, are unknown to readers of The Times or The Illustrated London News. One might say that their choice of attire is more risqué than is usual for a Society wedding, and the rouge upon their cheeks a little too enthusiastically applied. Among them is the celebrated milliner Ms. Tarbuck, who has supplied the headdresses of the bride and her maid-of-honour for this happy occasion.

  The bride’s great-aunt, Isabella, remembers the bag of confetti in her handbag, and manages to flutter a handful of rose-petals after the laughing couple.

  Eyes bright with happiness, Cecile loves Maud and Henry more than any others in this world; their joy is her own.

  Beside her, shaking the wet from her skirts with a grimace of displeasure, is her Oxfordshire aunt. For her, the ceremony holds no allure, far less in such weather, but the marriage of her nephew must be celebrated. How selfish it is to leave children orphaned, she thinks, so that such duties of attendance fall to other relatives.

  It won’t be long, she supposes, before a match is made for Cecile. She makes a mental note to speak severely to Henry on the matter, as soon as the party return from their travels. If other suitors are wanting, she believes wedlock to her village parson, newly widowed, might prove suitable. Old enough, and dull enough, to provide a steady, guiding hand.

  Yes, thinks the Oxfordshire aunt, it’s the least I can do.

  Honeymoon

  The newlyweds waste no time in departing for their honeymoon, Lord McCaulay having booked passage from Dover to Calais, across the Channel, on the SS Mona, a handsome paddle-steamer.

  Henry had thought to leave his sister in the care of his aunt, safely in Oxfordshire. However, at Maud’s insistence, Cecile is to make her first journey abroad.

  ‘She has been too much in narrow company,’ chides the new Lady McCaulay. ‘A tour of the European capitals shall be just the thing, and our little Cecile will return far wiser.’

  ‘In all things, you’re right, my love,’ Henry concedes. ‘I’ve been remiss in failing to earlier expose her to the elegance of European culture.’

  Cecile’s final letter of appraisal, sent from the Beaulieu Academy for Ladies, had stated that her genteel deportment was just as was to be most hoped for ‘in a dignified young lady of fashion’. There were other, minor, accomplishments: an elegant writing hand, an ability to recite the great poets, and talent with an embroidery needle, alongside her singing voice and her playing of the pianoforte. Beyond this, very little.

  Henry finds that he cannot but muse on the contrast between Cecile and Maud, who attended the very same establishment. Maud’s broad knowledge of certain aspects of the natural sciences, and the sharp application of her brain to her own entomological studies, are sufficient to put most men to shame.

  His sweet Cecile is a model of demureness, patience, and generosity of spirit, readier to think well of others than badly. She is more than willing to look favourably on the world, ensuring a disposition of grace and warmth.

  She’ll make some chap very happy indeed, Henry has often told himself.

  Maud’s ability to persuade others to her way of thinking is infallible.

  ‘If she’s to find a fitting husband, we must ensure not only her refinement, but encourage her conversation beyond the sensational novels she so admires,’ Maud explains. ‘Much as we adore Cecile, you will hardly wish her to remain forever in our home.’

  ‘Quite!’ Henry agrees, his brow furrowing in alarm. The necessity of marriage for his sister has been playing upon his mind: an issue he has meant to address, but has never gotten around to acting upon.

  ‘Of course, she can hardly be expected to ‘discover’ a husband for herself,’ continues Maud. ‘We must, when the time comes, introduce her to those we think suitable.’

  Henry nods in approval, reminding himself, once again, how fortunate he is in having chosen Maud for his wife. She possesses not only beauty and charm, but wit and brains. He has married her, in truth, for the blaze of physical passion she evokes in him; however, he has also come to think of her as his intellectual equal.

  ‘With the new century knocking at the door, times are changing,’ Maud reasons. ‘While a man of notable social standing may not yet expect, or desire, his wife to express too strong an opinion on matters of the world, or on those who live in it, he yet requires her to be the engaging hostess at his table. Some awareness and intellectual comprehension must be cultivated.’

  It is true, Henry reflects, that no man of position wishes to be known for having a wife with the mind of a child: no matter that such a quality was prized in his grandfather’s time.

  * * *

  Presented with the opportunity to travel, Cecile could not be more delighted. How she has longed to see the mountains of Switzerland and the medieval towns of the Rhineland, as described in her favourite novels. Packing her trunk, she has found room for Mr. Wilkie Collins’ tales and those of Mrs Braddon, as well as her volumes of The Mysteries of Udolpho, and The Castle of Otrano. They are faithful friends without whom she cannot contemplate making an extended trip.

  What will Europe be like? she wonders, as they board the train from London’s C
haring Cross, to take them to the coast. A place of dark-haired, romantic-eyed gentlemen, ancient castles, and gardens filled with lush blooms and exotic perfumes.

  English rain spatters the window but, in her imagination, she is already warmed by the golden, Mediterranean sun.

  I might drop my glove and one, bowing, shall return it, meeting my eye for a brief moment. In that mingled glance, our souls will speak.

  Her pulse leaps a little at the thought.

  He’ll press his hand to his heart and promise eternal adoration. Perhaps…

  * * *

  The sea crossing is not long in duration, which is just as well, since Cecile finds that her stomach is inclined to pitch and heave in sympathy with the boat.

  How tiresome, just as she begins her travels! None of the heroines she so admires would suffer from such a weakness, she feels sure.

  She retires to her cabin, as do Henry and Maud, voicing a desire to rest from the fatigue of the journey.

  Lord McCaulay has barely shut the door behind them before his bride is pulling off her cumbersome underthings and guiding him to the bunk.

  ‘My love,’ she murmurs, sitting astride her husband’s lap.

  ‘My love,’ he sighs.

  To the heaving sway of the boat, she rocks, the occasional jolt of a wave thrusting her upon him.

  * * *

  By the time they board the train from Calais to Paris, Cecile has recovered her appetite, and is keen to partake of afternoon tea. Announcing themselves indisposed, the newlyweds lock themselves into their compartment; from the ensuing moans, Cecile guesses that the motion of the train is afflicting them.

  Luckily, her own constitution is restored, and Cecile is emboldened to search out the dining car. Not wishing to sit alone, she places herself at the table of two elderly ladies, who make her most welcome. A pot of Darjeeling and a selection of eclairs and fondant fancies are soon placed before them, and the time passes pleasantly. Old ladies, Cecile finds, are always eager to recount tales of their youth, and to share gossip on notable figures of their own sex. The Browne-Huntley sisters are no exception.