by Clara Barley
I was nervous for weeks, not sure why on Earth I’d agreed to even meet him. There were a few things she told me that made me wonder, made my step skip a little at the thought that this could be it. She told me he had a kind face and was earnest. He had served briefly with Sutherland many years ago as a clerk and then dabbled in printing and travelling, then went home to look after his mother and sister when his father died. He was now in want of a wife. The situation would be to live with him half the time at his home in Scotland, near my sister, which would have been wonderful, and half in Yorkshire, where he could keep an eye on the estate. He was a good businessman, she told me, and again she said that he was kind.
I was relieved on his arrival that he was so pleasing to look at, as well as charming, and yes, very kind. He stayed with my aunt and visited me each day for a week. I was excited to see him and we talked easily of our lives and families. He was not much taller than me and had soft hands that were always clean, and I allowed him to take mine in his as he promised he would treasure me.
I had always been afraid of larger men, looming over me; I would always be at their mercy. Men do not realise we spend our lives afraid of them, for at any moment they could turn on us and snap our necks. Once snared into marriage they can do what they will with us. They seem oblivious to their power and strength, that even the strongest will of a woman cannot match in size and muscle.
He did not drink, which I was much relieved to learn. He told me his father had drunk himself to an early death and so he had never touched a drop of alcohol, for he had never admired his father’s qualities when under its influence. I have seen my uncles and cousins drink at gatherings and grow louder and cruder and insult each other and their wives and then beg mercy the next day, after irrevocable damage has been done.
I was an easy win really; he just had to be small, kind and sober. Simple qualities of most women, except for a few callous gossips, but harder to find in men, at least in those that I had seen paraded before me thus far. Only in my father and brother did I see such a kindness that no matter their size, no matter that just one of their hands around your neck could force the life out of you, you felt you could trust them; I have seen it in so few, it sorrows me. Men are a different breed to me. As a cat to a lion, animals the same in their basic needs and wants, but so different in form, temperament and wildness. The most a cat can do is scratch. A lion can tear you limb from limb.
Each day as Mr Fraser visited, I knew I could bring myself to kiss him, hold him, learn the lines of his body and how to please him. I would learn to love him, bear him children and give him all my attention and care. He proposed to me before he left, and I accepted.
My reminiscence is interrupted by a note from Miss Lister asking to meet again and my heart quickens.
Miss Lister
A letter arrives from Mariana, when really it is a reply from Miss Walker I am hoping for; another note asking me to call on her or to tell me she is coming over to visit. I hope she has received mine.
How quickly Mariana fades when I have a new interest. Life has got in the way, the days have wearied us, age progresses and now draws us apart. Mariana and I now have far more days apart than together. Her letters seem shallow, informative, not as they once were. Our letters used to be exciting, begging of each other to confirm our next meeting, exulting that we missed each other and found everyone annoying as no one else could compare. But now as I read her words, she seems distant; an old flame, as they say. She is fading into the background. My life now has a new breadth of possibilities stretching before me, a new companion who may come and live with me here at Shibden, who may travel with me to the farthest corners, who may pleasure me, who may end up where I always envisaged Mariana to be: next to me, nearby, for all time.
I wonder if Mariana can feel herself fading from my life? Will the presence of Miss Walker remove the smoke from her eyes and reveal to her how she feels, that I am her true love, her husband? Has it been too long? Have we hurt each other beyond repair? Or will the thought of truly losing me to another be enough to sway her heart back to mine?
Another visit from Miss Walker and a walk to the woods, another kiss, another secret. She worries that we will be seen. I shall have to build us a private place where we can meet, so she will relax and let me kiss her unhindered. I assure her the legalities referring to men kissing men are far removed from affecting women. Women, particularly single women with no attachments, are free to do as they please.
She lets me kiss her again.
Miss Walker
I live for our walks, our kisses, but a guilt grows in me about a truth she does not know. My engagement.
I received a letter from Mr Fraser only a few days after his proposal to tell me he had fallen from his horse. He told me he would mend soon and looked forward to seeing me and planning our wedding. He wrote to me again to tell me he loved me and not to worry, not to rush to Scotland to see him as I had offered, as he would drive down and collect me as soon as he could. He told me he would take me to meet his mother and sister and that they couldn’t wait to meet me.
I thought the next letter would confirm the date of my journey to my new life, to meet my new family, but the letter that arrived was from his sister, who told me with great sorrow that Mr Fraser had died of a fever. He had worsened quickly overnight, though he had seemed to be recovering, and died the next morning. She and her mother were with him. He told them to tell me he was sorry to let me down and he wished me every happiness. They invited me to see them, to attend his funeral with them, but it was too much for me to bear; to have been surrounded by strangers, to meet people who could have been my family, to see what life I could have had if God had been kinder to me.
Because we were only engaged, I was not allowed the same rights as a widow to grieve. Only my aunt, my sister and my friend Mrs Ainsworth even knew. We’d not announced it yet. If we had been married, they would have accepted me as Mrs Fraser, the widow.
Just a few weeks later, my aunt insisted that I accompany her visiting. She wanted to get me out of the house and my misery, a secret misery that only she truly knew of. Although she had not been there for many years, she made us call in on the Listers. Awfully, at meeting Miss Lister, and her kissing me, my mind swayed from grief to joy in such a quick time that I lost myself to it and forgot I should be sad.
Miss Lister does not know of my bereavement; I have never told her. How wicked of me! Perhaps I do not deserve any friends at all.
Chapter Six
Autumn, 1832: A new retreat for hidden encounters at Shibden
Miss Lister
Autumn sets in. Summer has passed in a blur since I secured Miss Walker’s kisses. We are now almost daily to-and-fro between our homes and sometimes meeting in between where our lands meet, keeping up our public appearance with tea with my family, her aunt, who slowly seems to be warming to me, and mutual friends like Mrs Priestley, whilst always contriving to be alone. She even came into my bedroom last week and we got to a bit more than kissing, but I must bide my time with her as she never truly relaxes. She seems to close up and fall silent but does not seem to have the words to explain. I believe she is conflicted, as many women are, about what is natural, and despite my reassurances we have not got much further than kisses and fumbling, but I have a solution to that. Unfortunately, as I am not the sole owner of the estate, I had to ask permission.
It had all been fine until my damned father and sister decided to join me. My dear aunt and uncle were quite happy for me to learn the management of the estate, be involved and make my own judgements, which has been rather fortuitous over the years; but upon my uncle’s passing and in leaving the Hall and estate between Aunt, Father and myself, he caused us to all cluck about like chickens cooped up under the same roof. While my sister had seemed content living at our late mother’s estate in Market Weighton, she too decided to move over and fill up more room in Shibden Hall with h
er quietness and tutting. While my aunt and uncle always seemed happy with my company and satisfied by my choices of friends and pastimes, my sister seems intent on unnerving me. She asks too many questions and gives too many looks of disapproval which make me, usually so sound in my own judgement, begin to question things and lose strength. Everything is imbued with doubt, from who rents our land and buys our coal, to what I wear and eat.
How do people live like this? Always doubting themselves? I see how they have remained stuck in their ways for so long. Especially my sister: the biggest decision she’s made in her life was coming over to stay at Shibden, and daily she harks on about it, even though done with, as if she is still in the process of deciding if it is a good thing or not; as if she is not here, but somehow floating between the two residences, neither enjoying nor missing either as she has not committed to one or the other.
But never mind them; I’m now spending much of my time in my new Moss House with Miss Walker in my arms and my lips on hers.
They all thought me mad to commission a new building in amongst the trees at the bottom of the slope towards the beck, especially as summer was already leaving us for colder times. I told them it was for sketching and reading, and so I could have some peace, and they eventually agreed for the small amount it would cost. I had my permission. What need they know of my real want of privacy?
I commissioned some local workers for a simple structure of wood and clay with some small windows, high enough not to be looked into, a thatched roof, fireplace and a heavy wooden door. I built it for Miss Walker, always worrisome about who will see us. It saves her having to be polite to my family on every visit while we itch to be close. I finally decided to call our new little dwelling the Moss House, as after much deliberation on its name I noticed the beautiful green moss on the trees nearby and I look forward to a time when the little house will be overcome with it too. Rather cleverly it keeps us away from them all, and the prying eyes of servants too. It is ours alone. There is just one key to its door, which I carry upon me.
Little do my family know what goes on in our Moss House. Our secret place that no one else is permitted to enter. No one but I, and the woman of my choosing. Our private sanctuary where we can be ourselves, unguarded and unobserved, and fall into each other’s embraces for hours upon hours. My heaven, my haven, my home. How would our families react if they knew? They believe we sit here reading and sketching and exchanging pleasantries. Little Marian’s head might explode with the discovery, though it may well do her some good; I do not imagine she’s ever kissed anyone or even touched herself down there. I should, as the elder sister, speak with her about pleasure and share my knowledge. My, how that would awaken her from her stupor. Or it may be that she is saucier than I could ever imagine? No. Very unlikely.
For a few months now, we have had our kissing and pleasure in our private domain, tucked into the trees, protected against the colder weather and rain the season now brings, but the little thing torments me further every day.
After all these weeks and months together, I need to know how she feels about me and our future together. I cannot invest such time and energy into wooing her and planning our future if she may strike off with another at even the poorest of marriage proposals. I tell her we need to commit to each other, it is only fair. She refuses to give me an answer despite my insistence. I said she could have until my birthday next April, months away, and she promises it sooner, but still delays.
She is as bad as Marian and Father with her indecision. How have any of them survived this long? At least with Miss Walker the indecision can be explained, partly, by her mollycoddled upbringing where the poor thing didn’t have to make a single decision for herself until her parents died. It is their fault for raising such a meek child, so dependent on others. The only chance she stood was being watched over by her brother, who by all accounts sounded delightful, but then he went and died on his honeymoon, selfishly leaving a widow with child, later stillborn, and his two hopeless sisters. What chance did they stand?
This waiting on an answer makes me anxious and I snap at her. It’s been months. How hard can it be? I wish she would just choose. It is not a matter of life and death. It is a matter of love and surely, if she loves me she will commit to me and if she does not love me then she will not, and we can quit this ridiculous charade. Of course, I will miss our kisses. But the Moss House does not have her name over the door. I will find someone else to enjoy it with.
Damn her, why does she plague my mind even when she is not with me?
Miss Walker
How can I tell her? What will she think of me? We have kissed and more in her Moss House. Months have passed, and I have remained dumb. I should have been grieving; I have acted too quickly. Now she wants commitment as if we are to be engaged. How can I tell her my fiancé has died, and not long before we first kissed in summer? Oh God, I am awful. I thought I loved him. I thought I was grieving. And yet one look at Miss Lister and all I wanted to do was to kiss her.
I shall write her a letter perhaps. Oh, that’s cowardly, but she makes me afraid. She judges me unfairly. She cannot understand. She tells me she has never loved before me, though I’m sure that cannot be true. But if it is, and I am the first, can she bear that I have loved another?
Oh, my poor Mr Fraser. A sweet, gentle man, who would have loved me and protected me and treated me kindly.
How do I break this to Miss Lister?
Miss Lister
With my face under her skirts she tells me in a quick sentence that she was engaged to be married, but he died just before we met. I am dumbfounded. No hint of this revelation prior to this moment. I am lost for words. She looks at me and I cannot tell if she wants me to sympathise, be angry or just plain continue.
Somehow the latter does not feel appropriate, so I do the gentlemanly thing and lay her skirts back down and sit beside her, taking her delicate hand in mine. I do not speak, for fear of saying the wrong thing. I wonder if she loved him and think perhaps that’s why she’s been such a prig all this time. Is she grieving, and all this was an escape to take her mind off him? Oh, damn it, has she been using me?
Miss Walker
She holds my hand and looks at me earnestly. She does not speak so I feel I must go on. I’m very conscious of how hot I am suddenly and that it probably wasn’t the perfect moment to broach this, but it’s done. So, I explain.
Miss Lister
She starts to cry and reveals that she had been engaged to a man. He’d only been dead a month before she first kissed me and within four months, here she is sat on my knee and I with the taste of her on my lips.
She seems to have genuinely cared for the poor fellow and been prepared for marriage. Then a shock. Then I swagger in and assume she’s single and available and just a bit of a prude. Does this change things between us? I’d rather hoped she had never had feelings for a man; that way I could be sure she felt as I do about women. To hear her declare that she was willing to marry a man makes me wonder about everything.
I manage to talk her from her tears with a thousand apologies. If I’d have known I would never have made any moves towards kissing her. We would have remained friends until she was past her grief. I would never have pressured her for a decision on our relationship if I’d have known she’d not long ago been engaged to another.
No wonder she could not give me a decision. But why keep a thing like that to herself? Does everyone know but me? What a fool. No wonder her aunt warned her off me if she thought I had no care for her grief.
I listen to her talk about him; he sounds a fool, but nice enough, and handsome she tells me, as if I care. Penniless of course. If he’d been a Count, I could have seen his love as genuine, but the Walker sisters are a good catch for their wealth. Surely she saw this. She’s better off with him dead.
After hearing of her grief, I think back over the last months at how it explains her hesita
nce but does not explain her passionate kisses at all. She cannot have liked him that much. I wonder how far she got with him? Did he touch her and hold her as I have? Was he larger than me, stronger, were his kisses rough, did his stubble scratch her delicate face?
Miss Walker
How can I feel so torn? I love her, in truth. I love every moment with her. The newfound sanctuary of our little place in the woods. I feel safe in her presence, her touch, I lose myself in her arms, but the moment I think of our future together, think that what we are doing may be wrong, a storm grows inside me that I cannot control. I feel guilty, a sinner, as though all this will be snatched away from me, that it is all just a dream to be woken from.
Miss Lister
Just days later in the Moss House again she seems quite recovered from her confession and laughs and jokes about other things. I take the opportunity to pick her up and place her on the floor before the fire. I lean over her and have my hand up her skirts before she can protest. I wonder if he had her? She does not resist, and I give her pleasure, roughly, holding her down with forceful kisses to her mouth and neck as she squirms. She sighs and hums with the joy of it. When she is done, I roll onto my back beside her and pleasure myself as she watches, caressing my hair and then my breasts through my blouse. She does not reach for my skin or go near my queer. It’s still rather one-sided.
Miss Walker
I have told her how much I like her. I talk of our futures as if they are written together. We discuss Shibden as if it is the home of us both. I’d be happy to share my money with her for our joint endeavours. I am relieved to have found someone who does not want me just for my money; she wants me for me. When I am with her, in the moment, I forget the world outside, forget that we are the same, forget that we are not husband and wife, that what we are doing is wrong.
