The Moss House

by Clara Barley

  Would I wish to live at Shibden as she suggests? It is cosy. I like the company she has of her aunt, father and sister and they seem to like me well enough. It is busier there than here and feels more alive. I may quite like to live somewhere like Shibden Hall with its wooden panelled walls and large fires, so tucked away from the world.

  But here there are happy memories of when we were small. I remember how we would play in the entrance hall on the black and white tiles like a chessboard. The black tiles, should you stand on them, would fall away and drop you into Hell. The white tiles were safe and solid like the Earth. Although fanciful, the fear grew innate and even now, I step delicately along the white tiles. Just a few weeks ago I dropped a glove and as it fell towards a black tile, I honestly believed for a moment that it would disappear as if down a hole.

  Moving away from here may be best for me after all. I should consider it.

  How do I explain to her my silly exit from the Moss House? I’d felt a panic rising and didn’t want her to see. I dashed out into the trees to catch my breath and let my tears out. I hoped she would come for me, but the door stayed closed. I waited, but the woods closed in and I had to summon all my courage to march back up to the Hall. Luckily I saw her groom and asked him to take me home. What must he think of us? He readied the horses quickly, but there was enough time… and she did not come for me.

  I had a dream that I was on a life-sized chess set, full of pieces. I was a pawn on the front row, waiting to be moved forward in sacrifice. Miss Lister was behind me, the king. She gave the orders for pieces to move and watched them fall as she made notes for her diary. She moved me onto a black square and as I fell, I heard her laugh. A triumphant laugh, as if she had won. Miss Lister will always win.

  Chapter Eight

  Winter, 1832: An awkward interruption and a Happy New Year

  Miss Lister

  Christmas is upon us. A new year dawns. I carry on with business as usual for Shibden. I can barely keep on top of the estate, yet even so my precious time is ever more taken up with wooing Miss Walker.

  I am now begging for her affections. I hear myself tell her she need only love me a quarter as much as I love her, and I’d be happy. What foolish words! When did I become so meek? I hear myself mewling and dislike what she has made me, yet I am still optimistic she will submit. I know I must be gentle but am reminded by my reflection that I may not have many more chances to find love. How long do I wait for her returned affection, when she, twelve years my junior, could easily try again with man or woman?

  I am changed. I told my aunt, in whom I’d previously confided about my desire for us to set up home together, that it will not work. I gave the excuse that Miss Walker will not give up Crow Nest, nor I Shibden. I will give up Miss Walker instead. I look back over my diary pages and see the times she has cried, changed her mind, left me frustrated. She should be lucky to have me. Finally, several months from our first kiss, I decide I shall move on without her. I feel somewhat relieved.

  Mrs Priestley visits with her usual festive cheer and a hamper of delights for our family. She tells me she thinks my visiting Miss Walker this year has been good for her and she’s noticed a considerable change in her demeanour since meeting me and spending time with me. That will be all the orgasms, I want to tell her, but keep that to myself.

  I may be good for her, but I doubt now that Miss Walker has been any good for me.

  With nothing else to amuse me I venture to her house again to give my own Christmas greetings. I am all set to end it, but it seems cruel at this time of year so I secretly hope the season of goodwill will prompt her to make up her mind. I will give her until the end of January.

  As I stomp over to her estate in the bitter cold, leaving my family around a warm fire with wine, I remember how each time I head over this way I believe it may be the last. How long can we keep this game up? I start to think again of travel plans for next year. I have my atlas out at the ready. Nothing prevents me leaving but her. Let us see how far she is prepared to go for me. One last try.

  After a few glasses of wine, I get my hand up her skirts and she allows me, but keeps her thighs pressed together so all I feel is her drawers. She asks me if I will stay with her and keep her warm for the night. The way she says it is not in the least arousing; I’m aware she means fully clothed. It is torturous to be so close to her, but the barriers of cloth and frigidity are as insurmountable as a ten-foot wall.

  I refuse to stay and angrily stomp all the way back again to Shibden, close myself in my room and take my own pleasure, several times. I am too annoyed to sleep so get back up and read some of my diary, once again looking back over the months since I met her. If I was looking on at my own situation, I would firmly advise myself to give up on her.

  Miss Walker

  I receive word from my dear friend Mrs Ainsworth that she would like to visit in the new year. We have known each other since we were children. We were so close until she married. I have not seen her now for many years, but we always write at Christmases and birthdays. Unfortunately, she says she will be coming with her husband. How I wish she would come alone, but at least I will see her. I can talk to her freely, not about everything, of course, but I can tell her of my friendship with Miss Lister and what she proposes; that we shall live together as companions and have a joint household and swear to never marry. Mrs Ainsworth may think us peculiar, but she will hopefully see that it makes sense. I’ll not mention the Moss House. I’ll not look her husband in the eye. I’ll not be afraid of him.

  Miss Lister has it in her head for us to take a trip to York in the new year. She wants me to see a doctor about my aching back and to see if he can advise me on why I am so tired, when Miss Lister, twelve years older than me is able to wake up with a strength and vigour I’ve never possessed and walk farther than I could dream of. Miss Lister acts as if seeing him is urgent, but I know I have always been this way and other doctors have never found a cure for my back. I think the real reason to go is that she wants to visit old friends and introduce me.

  When I mentioned Miss Lister’s suggestion of a visit to Doctor Belcome to Mrs Priestley, she tells me he is brother to Mrs Lawton; Miss Lister’s friend Mariana. The way she said her name made me think Miss Lister was very close to her. Mrs Priestley is innocent of Miss Lister’s real desires, so would think nothing of it – but I feel a pang of jealousy. Who was Mrs Lawton to her?

  I attend the usual family gatherings over Christmas but whilst there think about the Listers and wish I was with them at Shibden. I bravely smile and dance and have enough wine to keep my spirits up and face my family, all gossiping about my new friend, asking when am I to be wed and what the Listers are like? Elizabeth and the children come down from Scotland, which brings such relief and company for me, but he is with them too. He gets drunk and offends Mr Priestley and looks at me with leering eyes. I hide in the drawing room with Elizabeth and the children until his dominating presence appears and claims her, and I am left with warm wine and sleeping children in my arms. The rest of the house is filled with laughter and merriment and all I want is to be with Miss Lister. Thankfully she says she will come over on New Year’s Eve and keep me company once this annual family pother is over with.

  Miss Lister

  On New Year’s Eve, despite the cold outside and the cold creeping around my heart, I find myself wishing my family a happy New Year early and take the carriage over to Crow Nest as I promised her I would. I’m not sure why I am bothering. My beloved Moss House has been a single-person dwelling these last few weeks.

  However, not long after my arrival when we are ensconced in her living room, her servants forget their role to knock on the door and announce guests, and so our dear friend, Mrs Priestley, who has come to offer good tidings for the New Year, swans straight in and catches us in each other’s arms.

  I jump up by the fire, but Miss Walker is red. None of us know what to s
ay and I am not sure how long she has been stood there, watching. After a few moments of silence, Mrs Priestley turns and leaves.

  We must be aroused by this discovery as instead of running after our dear friend and trying to explain, we begin kissing again and then race to her bedroom. This time she allows me to remove her clothes, all except her stockings as she is chilly, and under the bedclothes our skin presses against each other’s and my hands freely touch all the hair and skin of her queer with no clothing in the way. I run my hands all over her body, which finally is mine to caress and squeeze as I feel down each of her legs and the softness of her buttocks and run my hands behind her, arching her up towards me as I run my tongue down her neck, between her breasts, kissing her belly and protruding hip bones, then down into her hair. I move so I can kiss her, truly kiss her down there, and find her opening with my tongue and gently push it inside and around her; licking, kissing, sucking, my hands holding hers by her sides as she groans with pleasure. She mumbles for me to stop but I push harder with my tongue, harder and faster, her hands clasped in mine, her legs writhing on the bed and her breath coming faster and faster.

  Thank you, Mrs Priestley!

  I rather hoped she would walk in a second time. This would confirm without a shadow of a doubt my intentions towards innocent Miss Walker – but this time the door was firmly locked.

  Miss Walker cannot help but let out a cry as her body shudders. I release her hands and sit back, pulling off all the covers to see her fully naked for the first time, hot and flushed. For a moment she lies there, allowing the pleasure to subside, her eyes closed, her delicate lower lip clenched between her perfect teeth, arms outstretched, legs apart, beautiful, vulnerable, mine.

  Then of course, she remembers all her insecurities and pulls the covers back over herself. I slump beside her and begin to kiss her again. I tell her how beautiful she looks, and she softens, allowing me to move in close to her and pull her body against mine, skin against skin. I hold her closely. How can I make her confident? How can I make her free? Seemingly encouraged, she reaches down and remembering how I pleasure her with my fingers she does the same to me. She is no expert and so takes some time, but the excitement of seeing her whole body for the first time allows me to succumb and then we fall asleep in each other’s arms.

  I dream that a dragon comes to take over Shibden and he will not leave unless I sacrifice Miss Walker to him, and in the dream, I do. I do not hesitate. I wake up feeling guilty, but she has already risen and redressed as if nothing has happened.

  Miss Walker

  Oh dear, there is nothing I can do. I am no good at lying. If Mrs Priestley were to ask me out loud, or even in a letter, I would have to tell her the truth. It’s been a week now since New Year and no word from her since she ran from Crow Nest. I should have gone after her, perhaps told her I’d been upset over something and that Miss Lister was comforting me – but I do not know how much she saw. Miss Lister said that she must have seen enough to be certain for her to have left like that. She will probably never speak to either of us again. I’ve lost a friend! What if she tells others about us? Mr Priestley, my cousins, my aunt?

  Then to have done what I did afterwards! Instead of going after her, begging forgiveness, telling her I’d been led astray, that I would never see Miss Lister again, instead I take her up to my bedroom and allow her to… like a common whore! Oh, how low I have fallen!

  But can I really blame Miss Lister when I have been complicit all along? This is what I want, this pleasure. These desires come from me. Everyone will now know anyway – why do I not just move in with her and hide away at Shibden? I will not have to face anyone else again. I am an independent woman of means with no need for any contact with my family and friends. If they do not like what I am then so be it! They are no friends of mine. It seems because I am different from all that’s expected of me that Miss Lister is my only true equal. I shall be with her alone. She will be enough for me.

  My mind is made up. My answer is yes. I will be her companion, partner, whatever she wishes. I will commit to her.

  I’ll ask Mrs Ainsworth what she thinks when she arrives. I value her opinion. She has never met Miss Lister and does not know the politics of our families and estates. I will not, of course, tell her everything, but she can help me decide. I wish she would visit alone! Her husband is best avoided; he reminds me too much of an indiscretion, something I have tried hard to forget. I write to her and say I am unwell and wish for her to visit me alone as it will be tiresome for her husband with no male company.

  Miss Lister

  January races on and we meet regularly at the Moss House. We are both naked more often now, and giving and receiving pleasure as if we are a married couple. Will she commit to me? She still will not tell me what her mind is. She tells me she is too worried about Mrs Priestley. She changes the subject to her friend Mrs Ainsworth who will be coming to visit shortly and how we shall show her the sights of Halifax. I tell her it will be a quick trip, but she does not laugh. She promises a decision by the end of January, assuming my offer is still on the table. I do nothing to correct her.

  This Ainsworths’ visit in January that she talks of may do her good. Mrs Ainsworth seems to be a close friend and Miss Walker tells me she’ll ask her advice about my offer. They have known each other since they were children. I suggest she could rent one of her properties to them – she would have an income from it and gain friends nearby. She likes the idea at first, but it appears she is more friends with the wife than the husband, and she then seems to change her mind and conclude that a visit will suffice. I hope Mrs Ainsworth may help Miss Walker decide to move in with me.

  I have booked for us to visit Doctor Belcome in York soon and we shall see what he can advise about her back. She moans all the time about it and yet seems quite happy to just sit and not lift a thing to exercise it. I rub it for her gently and it feels as good a back as any other I have felt. She seems so fragile; I hope Doctor Belcome can help me fix her, make her strong.

  Miss Walker

  My nerves remain on edge over Mrs Priestley, what gossip may spread, the Ainsworths visiting, giving Miss Lister a decision and now having to see a doctor. What on Earth shall I tell him? I surely cannot be honest with him… or perhaps he knows. Perhaps that’s why Miss Lister wants to make such a trip to see him. Perhaps he is the only one in the world to whom I can talk freely. Perhaps he can give me some medicine to cure me of it. Cure me of these feelings. Quieten my mind.

  I remember a piece of talk from many years back. A rumour about Miss Lister from when she was young. That her school friend went mad and was taken to the asylum in York. I’m sure that this is yet another reason why people wrote to warn me about her. No one could ever imagine her true secret or intentions towards me; they were not worried for my soul but for my mind. It seems that everyone in Halifax, in Yorkshire, in fact, knows that Miss Lister turned her school friend insane!

  The girl is still locked in the asylum. Perhaps that’s where Miss Lister is taking me. She’s had enough of me and is going to have me declared insane by a doctor and locked away!

  Chapter Nine

  Winter, 1833: A carriage ride to York

  and news of an accident

  Miss Lister

  As the horses’ hooves finally clatter onto the cobblestones of York, I feel at home. An excitement rises in me as we travel through the gatehouse in the high city walls, through the bustling streets as the carriage heads up towards the Minster. I insist on taking Miss Walker there first. Though she protests tiredness, she has never seen it before and so I drag her there in confidence she will be in awe of it as I have been every time I have visited.

  It is a cold January morning but the sun shines brightly, as though God Himself is reminding us of His presence. I sit her down in a central pew and tell her of its history, the architecture, the import of those buried here and the stories captured in the beautifu
l glass. I show her the damage by the fire just a few years before and the work undertaken to restore its former glory. She sits in wonderment and I slide my arm around her – I cannot help myself. I feel privileged to share this with her, see the delight of a new discovery on her face. I cannot wait to take her to new lands, new cities, new cultures, beyond anything she can imagine from her life in Yorkshire. The heat abroad will do her good too. I vow that this will be her last winter in these cold climes. I shall take it upon myself to find us a place in southern France where we can retire for warmer winters. I shall make her strong again.

  As she sits in the pew, following my finger with her gaze as I point at some marvel or other, I see that she is beautiful, as if coming into full bloom so many years after she should have done, but she is managing it at last. I am the gardener who has tended her roots, fed and watered her, sheltered her and now am planting her into the world itself.

  Of course, she starts to fidget and says she is still cold from the carriage, that the cobbles have made her back ache and she cannot concentrate on much, knowing she is to see a doctor tomorrow. Can we get that over with first, she says, and then she will enjoy herself more, treat me to some gifts in the shops and buy us tea. I, however, could sit here for hours, and if she had been any other companion I may have sent her back to the carriage and on to the hotel without me while I wandered the streets or walked the walls, but I do not wish to leave her, or her to leave me. York is not going anywhere so I escort her dutifully back to the carriage and once at the hotel I order tea to be brought to our rooms and send out my groom to buy some sweet pastries and, if he can find it, a book about the Minster which I can read to her. Soon the fire is lit and we sit together on the sofa before it. I cover her with every blanket I can find and slide myself in next to her, giving her all my heat as she sips gracefully at her tea. The pastries arrive and we eat them most unladylike without plates or napkins and let the crumbs fall where we sit. I lick her fingers clean.