Authors: Lisa Andersen
“I have looked forward to this,” he said. “I am sorry that I waited so long.”
“It is quite alright, Your Grace,” Monica said, not knowing what else to say. “I—I have looked forward to it, too.”
It was strange to stand in a room with a man and know that he wanted Monica. It was a breach of the protocol by which she’d lived her mouse-life. Men had danced with her, and one man had even tried to court her, but never had they looked at her like
that
. Never had there been such open affection on their faces. And now here was His Grace, who for some reason Monica could not discern,
wanted
her, and made a show of making it clear.
The moment floated like a snowflake on the wind, and then it fell and Mother lurched forward. “Please, Your Grace, will you sit?”
They were all seated, and Marie was shuffled out of the room into the care of Lyla, who peeked around the door for a quick look at His Grace. She was gone before he saw her. Marie went with little argument, and then it was just Auntie, Mother, and Monica in the room with His Grace.
He leaned forward and looked at the women in turn. “I have,” he said, looking down at his knuckles, “waited a long time for a woman to whom I could give an affection I thought entirely destroyed in the war.”
Mother almost started at that. Auntie grinned her mannish, wide grin.
Monica inclined her head. “I admit I have not waited for a silver-tongued man, but now that I have found one, I do find him quite pleasing.”
“Monica!” Mother cried.
His Grace smiled. “I admit I did not search for a barbed-tongued woman, but now that
I
have found one, I find
her
quite pleasing. My ladies, the air is beautifully fresh today. Being so close to the sea invigorates one. Perhaps we should walk about the grounds before we eat luncheon?”
“You and Monica go ahead, Your Grace, if you wish,” Auntie said quickly before Mother could say anything. “And
me
and Ethel will follow.”
Mother
jumped to her feet. “There is no need for that,” she said stiffly. She cast
a bitter
look at Auntie. It was clear what she was trying to do: breach the rules by which they all lived and allow His Grace and Monica to walk unheeded amongst the overgrown shrubbery of their estate. But Mother would not have that. Despite her own passionate and ultimately doomed courtship – or perhaps because of it – she could not permit any wrongdoing under her watch. “No need,” she repeated. “I am quite ready to walk the grounds. Of course, sister, you may stay if you wish.”
“No, no,” Auntie said, heaving her
great
bulk from the chair. (The chair creaked with relief.) “I shall join you.”
His Grace rose to his feet. “Come then, my ladies,” he said. “Let us see what this August sun can do.”
The four of them hastened out of the door as though it was a race, leaving the footman looking bemused and a little disoriented. His Grace walked briskly, his
fine
build seeming strong and domineering. Monica found herself tracing the curve of his legs in his tight britches, and a strange sensation came over her. She found herself imagining what it would be like to
grab
those legs, and then she thought:
What if he should
grab
my legs? How should that feel?
It was wildly inappropriate, and yet as they walked, she could not banish the thought.
“Are you with us, my lady?” His Grace said. “You seem adrift in dreams.”
“I am here,” Monica said. She looked bravely into his face. “Yes, Your Grace, I am here.”
*****
There exists in this world quite inexplicable connections,
Monica mused.
Yes, quite
inexplicable
. Who can say why this or that man is attracted to this or that lady? I mean the men who court beneath them, as His Grace is surely doing. Why should His Grace be interested in me? Perhaps it is the animal in him that was unleashed in the war. He is clearly half a wild man in his respect for social etiquette. Perhaps the war stripped him of all that. Perhaps my long lonely years stripped me of it, too.
His Grace and Monica walked ahead of Auntie and Mother, out of earshot if they talked quietly but never out of their line of sight. His Grace spoke in hushed
whispers
and leaned over her so he blocked the sun. “I cannot stop thinking
of
you, my lady,” he said. “I simply cannot. I close my eyes and see your face. I open my eyes and see your face. You are
very beautiful
. How you are unwed, how you are called a mouse, is bemusing to me. I know it is wrong of me to say, but I found myself wishing to kiss you.”
Monica knew that she should be appalled by this, that she should see it as
brutish
behavior, but she did not. His Grace was too attractive to her; that was the truth of it. When she heard those words coming from those lips, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking what it would be like to have those lips on her. How would it feel?
How would
she
feel?
She felt a heightened sense of self by being an object of his affection. She discovered that she was carrying herself with more dignity, her head raised a little
higher, her
face struggling for impassivity during the open and scandalous lovemaking.
“Imagine it,
Monica.
” He said her name like word of luck. “Imagine it.
Imagine
me leaning in and kissing you
upon
the lips. Imagine my lips on yours and my hands upon you. Imagine our lips battling with each other. And then imagine the pleasure we would both feel. I do believe if we were not being observed, I would kiss you right here.”
“I wish you could,” Monica said, staring boldly into his eyes. “I
truly
wish you could, Your Grace.”
“You are a dangerous woman,” His Grace said. “How is it you have been dubbed
mouse
?”
“Perhaps it is because of what I learnt when Father died and stripped me of my prospects.”
“What is that, my lady?”
“I learnt that the world only cares what it can get from you. The world does not care for originality or passion unless originality or passion is profitable. The world does not care for ladies who express their innermost thoughts unless those thoughts are tied to a tidy dowry. Why should I play the part of a smiling lady when lords only dance with me so they can tell their friends that they danced with ‘that Burrows girl’?”
“So
why
show your true self to me, my lady?”
“Because you are rich and of good position,” Monica said.
“Is that all?” His Grace said. He was looking at her curiously, as though he had never seen a lady before, or
he
was reevaluating every encounter he had ever had with a lady through Monica’s eyes.
She felt she had power over
him at
this moment, and she decided not to abuse it. She would tell him the truth. “No, that is not all,” she said. “I believe there is an It.”
“An
It
?” His Grace laughed. “I concede you have stumped me.”
“Yes,” Monica persisted. “I believe there is a feeling between a man and a woman that cannot be described, not even by the term
love
. I believe this
It
, whatever it may be, is the defining feature of all truly happy people. One has to look at a potential husband and feel
It
, and if one does not, then one must accept a decline into spinsterhood. With you, Your Grace, I definitely feel
It
.”
His Grace suddenly stopped. He nodded behind them. Mother and Auntie were far back. Auntie had contrived to stop at some
overgrown
roses to distract Mother. Auntie was facilitating scandalous behavior of some sort, most likely because she wanted His Grace to give himself wholly to Monica, and thus elevate them all. Monica distrusted the motive, but with Mother’s eyes and body turned away from them,
she
felt she was alone with His Grace. But she did not know how long this moment of aloneness would last.
“Kiss me!” she cried.
“My lady!” His Grace exclaimed, but he was moving into her even as he exclaimed his shock. He reached up and grabbed her face with both hands. His hands were rough with war, and when he looked into her eyes she traced her own eyes along the scar. Then she closed her eyes as he leaned in and placed his lips
upon
hers. They were warm and moist, and Monica parted her lips and allowed her tongue to touch his. Pricks and tingles moved down through her body. His Grace let out
a low
groan, and Monica sighed with pleasure. Something stirred in her womanhood: an affront to the world her mother’s mother had inhabited; an affront even to the world she inhabited now.
The kiss stopped – neither knew who stopped it – and the couple turned to Auntie and Mother. Mother was just turning, and when she looked once more
upon
her daughter and His Grace, they were standing
properly
apart, and now a negative thing could be
said
about their conduct.
His Grace’s face was flushed, and Monica knew from the heat in her cheeks that her face was bright red.
“Monica,” His Grace whispered. “That was—something.”
“It was,” Monica agreed. “Yes, Your Grace, it was.”
“I should like to do it
again
when opportunity permits.”
“And you shall,” Monica said. “You can do it as much as you like.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and Monica knew from the look in his eye that it took
a momentous
effort in self-control not to ravage her right there. Monica, for her part, wished Mother and Auntie would drift away into the clouds for a time, and leave the two of them alone, stranded, together.
Mother walked as quickly as her stick-like legs could carry her, and Auntie rumbled behind like a carriage. Soon His Grace and Monica were joined by the older women, and Mother made a show of assuming the role of the
matron
.
“Shall we return to the house, Your Grace?” she said. “I fear walks like these are too bold for a woman of my age.”
And I shall not leave you and Monica
unattended
was the unspoken message.
“Of course,” His Grace said smoothly. “I am so
very hungry
.”
His eyes met Monica’s. Was she hungry too?
Oh, yes, Your Grace,
she thought, the kiss still warm on her lips.
I am famished.
*****
Three nights later, Monica sat by her window and gazed out at the stars. The house was silent except for the occasional summer breeze that caused its floorboards to creak, as though ghosts walked amongst them. Monica watched the stars with apathy and a sense of desperation. His Grace had visited with them these last three days, but they not been alone; they had had no chance to carry out their
scandalous
, unjust desires. They had had no
chance
to shun the mores by which they were shackled and succumb to their baser desires. Monica watched the
stars
and wished for a moment that she could become one.
Now you
are being
morbid,
she thought. But
she
could not help it. She did envy the stars – even
whilst
knowing it was foolish – for they were static and eternal and shined so bright.
She was thinking these thoughts when a stone clattered against the window. She started and
leapt
backward away from the window. Once calmed, she approached the window tentatively, as though specters lurked beyond it. Another stone clattered against it, and another. They were thrown softly. Curious, she opened the window and looked down. “Is somebody playing a game?” she whispered into the night.
“My lady.” The voice was clear. It was His Grace, Roland Dare. “Monica, it is I,” he said. “I ... Tell me to leave, if this offends you. I just – I could not stay away. I have watched you these past three days, and tonight I found myself overcome with the urge to see you. I realize what this means – what this looks like – and if you command it, I will leave. But I cannot bear this temptation
anymore
. Have I offended you, my lady?”
Inwardly
, Monica saw a version of herself where her soul was more suited to high society, where she would decry this sort of behavior from an alleged suitor. In this
imagining,
she fled from the room and woke Mother. But this was not the real Monica. The real Monica – the one gazing into the darkness below – was overcome with excitement. Her heart pounded in her chest and for the first time in her
life,
she felt truly alive, truly un-stifled.