Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  No greetings. No pleasantries. Matilda, taking a deep breath, decided to act as if everything was completely normal.

  ‘I still cannot believe that Ellen still allows you to continue working here.’ As an opening remark it was decidedly flippant, but it dissolved the general air of tension that had filled the room. Maldon, clearly not expecting such a biting comment, smiled. ‘Especially given her current condition.’

  ‘She told you, then?’

  ‘No. I guessed. Sometimes her hand drifts to her stomach when she thinks no-one is looking.’

  ‘I see. Well… she has raised no objections to my work.’ Maldon’s smile grew wider; he settled a little more comfortably in his chair, pushing his papers aside. ‘If anything, I believe I am considerably less of an annoyance to her when I am out of the house. She is far more competent than I at every aspect of the journey that awaits us.’ He softly shook his head, her smile fading. ‘And yet… even thought Ellen has said nothing to me, I find myself liking my chosen trade less and less.’

  ‘I see.’ This was considerable news; Matilda fell silent for a short while, giving it the gravity it deserved. ‘Your coming happiness has changed your perspective?’

  ‘No.’ Maldon paused; the tension came again, weaker this time, but definitely present. ‘I… I can pinpoint my change of heart to the happiness one of my oldest and best friends is currently enjoying.’

  Harding. Matilda’s heart was currently very full. She slowly sat down, removing her gloves, not daring to look at Maldon as he spoke.

  ‘This is why, I must confess, I was deeply surprised when you entered. I had not been expecting you to come back at all.’ There was a pause. ‘I… I do hope that you have come to say goodbye to us. The alternative, as lucrative as it would be financially, would be far too much of a burden to bear.’

  ‘Of course I have come to say goodbye.’ Matilda raised her head, suddenly defiant; she stared at Maldon without blinking. ‘I resent the assumption that I would stay.’

  ‘I only said it because I know, without a doubt, that Harding would have refused to place any kind of limitation on your conduct.’ Maldon stared back, his face less hard than Matilda had imagined it would be. ‘It has never been the kind of man he is.’

  ‘A brutish man? One who seeks to control his wife as if she were cattle?’ Matilda knew that she was treading on thin ice, but decided to push forward regardless. ‘When Ellen speaks to me of your life together, I hear no indications that you place any limits on her conduct.’

  ‘Ellen is Ellen.’ Maldon’s eyes, although patient, showed a hint of annoyance. ‘You are—’

  ‘A whore.’

  There was a moment of intensely awkward silence. Matilda looked at Maldon defiantly, summoning up every last reserve of haughtiness, before abruptly crumpling into her chair with a soft, pained sigh.

  ‘You really do care for him.’ Maldon’s voice was full of gentle surprise.

  ‘I do. I know it seems ridiculous, but I do. I have for a long time.’ Matilda wiped away a tear. ‘And I understand your surprise. I understand everyone’s surprise… but he is more surprised than anyone else, and I do not think that I can bear it.’

  ‘Be patient with him.’ Maldon leaned forward; his voice was full of honest appeal. ‘Please. He… he has suffered more than you know.’

  ‘He has told me that his first marriage was not happy. He refused to say anything further.’ Matilda shook her head, trying to stop the tears that were rapidly filling her eyes. ‘I did not wish to ask.’

  ‘Elsa Mortlake was a vicious, vicious woman.’ The vehemence in Maldon’s voice shocked Matilda. ‘I have never met a person with such a singular lack of goodness, of happiness, of patience… it was as if she were a blank slate, with no capacity to produce the sentiments that all humans are meant to be capable of.’ He shivered. ‘But she wanted Harding. Wanted the life that he could give her. And Harding, idiotically noble as he is, decided to give her the life she claimed she wanted so much.’

  ‘But she grew bored.’ Matilda’s voice was hollow. ‘Did she not?’

  ‘More than bored. Cruel. She openly took lovers, sometimes in their house. Had at least two children by them… Lord knows what she did with them.’ Harding’s voice was bleak; his shocking words were almost secondary to the emotion Matilda saw in his face. ‘But Harding protected her. From the unkind words of others, as well as her own hysterical exaggerations.’

  ‘But protection is not always the best path.’ Matilda wiped away another tear. ‘It can constrict as much as it protects. For the protector, as well as the person being protected.’

  ‘Wise as ever.’ Maldon offered a handkerchief. ‘Come now. Harding’s suffering is long over.’

  ‘I apologise.’ Matilda clenched the handkerchief in her fist, another wave of sorrow bringing fresh tears to her eyes. ‘I… oh, he must have been so sad…’

  Unable to bear the thought of it, the idea of Harding being so unhappy for so long, she began weeping in earnest. It was only when Maldon’s hand closed gently over her own that Matilda realised she had been crying for some minutes.

  ‘You really do love him.’ There was a hint of wonder in Maldon’s tone. ‘You do.’

  ‘Most dreadfully.’ Matilda sniffed. ‘I do not care at all if other people do not believe me. But… but I care most dreadfully that he does not believe me.’

  ‘He will. In time.’ Maldon squeezed her hand as he released her. ‘I assure you.’

  ‘How?’ Matilda looked at him imploringly. ‘How can you assure me?’

  ‘Because I know the man almost as well as I know myself.’ Maldon nodded decisively. ‘Believe me… if you are here, doing your part, then he will be doing his. Doing all that he can.’

  It was horribly cold at the cemetery. Harding spent his usual portion of time walking along the neatly tended rows of graves, giving coins and kind words to the drab women and men tasked with cleaning the stones and plots. He normally visited once a month, like clockwork; his sudden appearance among the tombs caused a fair amount of comment, although nowhere near as much gossip as he had suffered in recent weeks.

  Tipping his hat to the elderly gentleman who sat wheezing and reading a newspaper by the small entrance, Harding made his way to his wife’s resting place. It was as clean and well-kept as always—he paid handsomely for the privilege—and Harding, coming to a stop, felt an unusual sense of peace.

  He never normally felt anything, coming here. It was the one concession he had made to the eyes of others; it would have been strange for him to not visit his deceased wife, and so he did. He did not know if Elsa’s family appreciated the gesture; they had never contacted him, not once, since the funeral.

  Harding stood by the handsome gravestone. He read the name written on it with tired, aching eyes.

  ‘I have been carrying you around with me for a long time.’ He murmured the words under his breath, aware of the other mourners nearby. Everyone already thought he was quite mad; he certainly didn’t want Matilda reading reports of him speaking to his former wife at her graveside. That would be hurtful for her. ‘A terribly long time.’

  It felt as if he had been protecting her memory for eons. Encouraging false memories of the woman, rather than letting her true, tarnished self come to light. Elsa had been manipulative, cruel, aggressive, cold, confining in innumerable ways… but she had needed his protection. And so, denying his own happiness, he had protected her.

  ‘But you were my wife.’ Sudden tears filled Harding’s eyes; he forced himself to stand still, looking at the engraved name. ‘You were my wife, and you did not deserve your fate. And… and I did not deserve what you put me through.’

  An agonising confession. One that made him want to sink to his knees. Or better still; walk home, walk home to his townhouse, the house that was now beautiful because Matilda was inside it.

  That was why he had come. Matilda had been right; he had ghosts to lay to rest. Not ghosts that walked in white linen, rattling ch
ains… but ghosts all the same. One particular ghost, which he had been letting rob him of his contentment.

  ‘I would like to thank you.’ He said the words so softly that they carried away on the breeze, barely audible. ‘Without your cruelty, I would never have become so kind.’

  It was almost dark. Matilda couldn’t help watching the sun sink below the windows, turning everything in the hall a rich, burnished red. She had sat on the stairs like this for some hours; hugging her knees, silent, knowing that there were innumerable things that a lady of the house should be doing. Cushions to embroider, novels to read, servants to admonish… of course, there were hardly any servants left. And when she felt like this, so tense she could shatter, the lack of staff was almost a boon.

  At least Cook would be making something delicious. She would probably keep cooking long after the house had crumbled to its foundations, London crumbling with it. And Jonquil, the quiet, shy little maid that hadn’t managed to speak a word to Matilda ever since they had returned to London, had gone to the trouble of making her a cup of warm, spiced milk and bringing it to her on the stairs.

  The milk was good. Comforting. Matilda took another sip of it, trying to let it calm her, wishing that she didn’t feel more and more anxious the later the hour became.

  He would come back. Wouldn’t he? After the moment they had shared the previous night, he had to come back. He wouldn’t have finally given up; he wouldn’t be securing a divorce, or gambling away his fortune, or speaking to Maldon and his other friends about what an atrocious mistake he had made. He wouldn’t be giving his side to the scandal sheets, telling London’s gossipers that his chivalry had been horribly misplaced.

  Or perhaps he was. Perhaps Matilda’s work today had all been horribly in vain. Perhaps they would begin living entirely separate lives, ones full of resentment, anger, pain… lives much like those of most fashionably married couples, come to think of it.

  He would have to give her money. Enough to live on. Matilda hated to think of it; hated to think of Harding sending her money, keeping himself entirely separate from her until they died. He would live here, alone in this austere house, sure that no-one loved him.

  Lord, how she loved him.

  Putting down the cup of milk, wiping away a tear as she rose, Matilda moved to the door. The sunset was even brighter than normal; it had to be the snow, the snow that by now was falling thickly as clouds began to cover the sky. Opening the door, bracing herself as the wind slapped at her face and hands, Matilda closed her eyes as she breathed in the scent of smoke and ice.

  There were footsteps. Heavy, decisive footsteps. As tension filled her again, shivering, inexplicable tension, Matilda opened her eyes.

  Harding. Harding, making his way up the path, his footsteps crisply outlined in the snow; Harding, silhouetted by the setting sun. Christopher Harding, her husband, his face dark and fraught with emotion in the dim light… coming to her. Coming home.

  She hadn’t thought he would come back. It was only now, seeing him return, that Matilda realised she had doubted she would ever see him again. Wherever he had gone, whatever he had done, she didn’t care. He had returned to her; he was coming to the door, his gaze fixed on her, the street behind him of no concern at all.

  She had to go to him. Matilda stepped forward, lifting up her arms—but Harding was moving too quickly, practically pushing her away as he closed the door with a quick, hurried slam.

  She stopped, transfixed, as Harding kissed her. Kissed her without speaking a word; kissed her with such raw, evident passion, his cold, smoke-scented hands reaching up to cup her face, that Matilda wondered for a moment if she had stumbled into a dream. A dream where everything she wanted, everything she had hoped for, was happening at once.

  ‘I—’ She didn’t even know what she had been going to say before Harding’s mouth covered hers again. I am sorry? I am happy? I thought I would die when I saw you had left?

  I love you?

  Yes. Yes, that seemed correct. Even if she couldn’t say it, she let the thought fill her. I love you, I love you. Oh, how I love you.

  Now she knew that he had been holding a part of himself back the previous night. Yes, he had given a part of himself to her, just as she had given a part of herself to him—but there was a wildness in Harding now, a barely checked, violent passion in the way he pushed her against the wall of the entrance hall, that let Matilda know that he was finally allowing himself to move freely.

  She had feigned helplessness so many times. Pretended to be vulnerable against an onslaught of lust; it was one of things requested so often in the pleasure-house that it barely needed to be said. But here, pressed against the expensive wallpaper of Harding’s house—their house—Matilda finally felt the breathless, trembling ecstasy that came when at the complete mercy of someone who she trusted completely.

  Harding’s hands were rough on her skin, his hair full of the scent of wood-smoke and snow as he slowly, ruthlessly explored her mouth. Yes. Matilda whimpered as Harding’s tongue stroked over her own, caressing the roof of her mouth as his body pressed tightly to hers, solid, comforting even in its potency. This was the wild encounter, driven by sentiment rather than calculation, that she had always longed for… the encounter that she had mourned, giving up for lost, when she had chosen the life she had chosen. The man she loved, wordless and snow-dusted, kissing her with unchecked lust against the wall because he couldn’t wait to take her to a bedroom.

  She couldn’t help herself. Flinging her arms around him, pressing her body to him as tightly as she could, Matilda kissed him with all the passion that had been growing within her ever since she had first seen him. Ever since she had realised, with the astonishment of a true cynic, that Christopher Harding was a man worth falling utterly in love with.

  She wanted to bed him immediately. Perhaps even the bed was irrelevant; all that she wanted was him in her, around her, finally making her his. Matilda couldn’t remember ever feeling so feverish in her own desires, so unwise; the pleasure-house had robbed her of the joy that came in wanting to be bedded, making it nothing but a transaction. Now, with Harding, it had come roaring back with the strength of a winter storm. She pressed her body rapturously against his, hoping he could feel the trembling thrills that ran through her, gasping as she felt the hard, unyielding bulge in his breeches that meant he wanted her with the same ferocity.

  She blinked, startled, as Harding briefly pulled away. He reached out to an ornament covered table that sat by the door, his face grim with want as he gripped the table’s edge with his fist. Not bothering to look at what was on the table, he swept the contents onto the floor with a thrust of his hand. Matilda held a hand to her mouth, crying out in surprise as various ornaments cracked and splintered on the carpet, until Harding pulled her to him again. With one hand he pushed the table in front of the door; with the other he lifted her, his strength suddenly evident as he placed her on the table.

  Matilda’s feet dangled above the carpet, her slippers half-falling off as Harding moved himself between her thighs. He had sat her at the perfect height; her face was level with his, her hips curled to meet him… even now, in the depths of his passion, he was thinking of her comfort, and that knowledge made Matilda sigh with longing as she leaned back against the door.

  ‘Yes.’ She gasped as she felt him spreading her thighs; his hands were so hot against her skin, his grip hard and uncompromising as he opened her to him. She had wanted this; wanted to feel exactly this, Harding’s fingers digging into her flesh as his cock strained against his breeches, hard and unyielding against her centre. Matilda raised her thighs higher; she knew she was shameless, animal in her needs, but she felt as if she had been waiting for years… as if she had been waiting her entire life for an encounter she could feel this passionate about.

  With an aggression that she had only seem glimmers of before, after the insult from the gentleman on the street, Harding tore at her dress. The expensive plum-coloured dress, the one that he
had paid so much for, tore at the bodice under his uncompromising fists; Matilda held a hand to her mouth, wishing she could feel dismay, but all she felt was joy. He did want to feel her body under his hands, he really wasn’t ashamed, or disgusted by her. The look in Harding’s eyes, the fierce, desperate kisses that made her lips feel as if they were aflame, told her more than any words ever could.

  ‘Don’t hold back.’ She whispered it, the sound half-lost in kisses; she never wanted to stop kissing him, even when there were important words to be said. ‘Please.’

  ‘Never again.’ Harding drew her bottom lip into his mouth; Matilda whimpered with pleasure as he bit it just enough to hurt. She leaned back eagerly against the door, pulling herself free of her dress with the same frantic urgency that he had. ‘Never.’

  ‘Take me here.’ Matilda shrugged away the last remnant of her dress still clinging to her; the garment fell away from her body, bunched at her hips where Harding held her, nothing but her shift remaining. She felt the cool air of the entrance hall kiss over her half-clad skin, the thrill of it more scandalous than any of the depraved tableaux she had ever been a part of. ‘Right here.’

  Harding’s mouth covered hers again; Matilda found herself aching for his teeth against her bottom lip once more. As if he had read her thoughts; he did it again; harder this time, more definite, as his hands reached upward to brazenly cup her breasts.

  ‘You want me.’ Harding’s low whisper was full of the last of his doubt. He stroked his thumbs over her breast, sending delicious chills through Matilda’s skin as his teeth grazed her neck. ‘I cannot believe that you want me.’

  Matilda couldn’t bear it. With clumsy, frantic hands she reached for his breeches, tugging them downward, practically ripping through the fabric in her eagerness to reach his stiff, rigid cock. Harding’s shocked gasp of pleasure ran through her as she gripped his shaft, revelling in the silken steel of it, bringing it to between her thighs as she ran the head along her entrance.