Indigo - The Swordswoman's Tale - Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Cydonian Politics - Clarissa is Found - Keeping a Journal - Picnic with St Jane - The Boatman is Found - Something is Resolved

Should I write, then, of what happened, on the road from the Wandike to Lymond? How, in my carriage, I watched as Eliza seduced her sister Lucy? Or shall I write of what has just occurred, of where I discovered Clarissa had spent her morning, and of what happened thereafter? How strange, that I should suddenly find myself with so much to say now that my days might well be numbered on the fingers of two hands. I spend so many hours scratching away with pen on parchment when, for all I know, deVere is marching here, today, his black hound’s banner snapping in the wind over the blue and gold of the Queen’s musketeers’. King’s, probably, by now. I’ve had no news from Cydonia, but I do not doubt deVere will have sat poor Humphrey on the throne - his only choice, really. Shame. I was rather fond of Humphrey - now His Majesty, Humphrey the First.

News, and gossip; and how many times has my life been spared, my fortune bettered, by paying close attention to the occasional word overheard in passing, by chance? And news of this momentous occasion could be mine for the asking. Were I to send Orphe to the Ladysmith, I’d have a detailed accounting of Humphrey’s coronation at Whitfriar’s by sundown - what he wore, how he spoke, who carried the train, where deVere stood, and how my Lords Oxbridge, and Hungerford, and Stepney reacted. I’d know even what meats were laid forth on the table afterwards, how sick Humphrey became after his toast, which of the Gauntists’ daughters would be handed him to wed - within the week, I imagine, to demonstrate for all the bargain is sealed, the rift mended. With a little more digging - an envoy, to Cydonia; another perhaps to Saint Martin’s Inch, to confer with the factors there - I would know of Stilé’s response, and Estrave’s; I would know how gold was being spent, and where; whether men were moving north, or east; where muskets, and cannon; where horse; where sail. And I would know when best to make my escape, and how to begin my mischief.

Instead - instead I sit in my harem pants and I drink strong whiskey and I smoke and I write, and I make most glorious and most depraved love, for is there any other kind? It was a poet, an Estravite, who said, “Anyone who has not awakened in a strange bed beside a face he will never see again, who has not left a brothel at dawn wanting to throw himself into the river out of sheer, physical disgust at existence itself, has missed out on something.” Well, here we are. And oh, my Eliza, and oh my Lucy; and me - I am not missing out on anything, anything at all.

Late this morning, when I set down my pen after writing of Molly’s death, and of my rape (there is no other word) of Eliza, I went searching for Clarissa. I knew where to find her, though I did not want to, so after I pretended to search the kitchen, and the scullery, I pretended to be surprised to find myself mounting the back stairs, and stealthily creeping down the east wing, to the apartment I’d set aside for my girls.

The curtains on the large bed were drawn, as were the curtains on the window itself; sunlight filled the room, and I could see them all. Clarissa lay on her back, her head by the foot of the bed, her legs still in their white knee stockings spilling over the side. Lucy knelt over the girl’s shoulders, her pale white back to me, and her golden hair spilled down as she threw back her head, and lifted one hand to her bare, pale breasts, her other steadying herself on a bedpost; and even from where I stood I could hear the wet and hungry sounds Clarissa made as she kissed Lucy’s sex, and see the pleasure thrilling through Lucy as she did so - kisses I didn’t know Clarissa could give at all, let alone so well. And standing on the other side of the bed from me, Eliza, in the high-necked black dress Mrs. Woolf has cut down for her, her arms at her sides, a wistful little smile touching her lips, as motionless as I myself was.

It all seemed to hang there for one golden, languid moment, like the endless trill in a coloratura’s aria, or one of Fiennes’s light-filled paintings - one hidden away in a corner of his studio, I should hope. I could tell by her breathing, and the way she tossed her head, forward, then back, the golden hair spilling from her shoulders, that Lucy was climbing that hill, with the help of Clarissa’s mouth, and hands. I could see one of Lucy’s feet, in a dusty black stocking, laid by Clarissa’s hip. One of Clarissa’s shoes hung half off her dangling foot; the other had fallen who knew where. Lucy leaned forward then, a little, catching herself on the edge of the bed, and I could see where the red ribbon tying off her stocking pinched her thigh, and I saw Clarissa’s hand, her fingers gleaming liquidly in the hot noontide light, as it ran along that thigh, along the skin of it, up, up along her hip, her flank, to meet and tangle with Lucy’s hand at her breast, and I imagined them tweaking one pink nipple. “Hanh,” said Lucy, “hanh!” and she lowered her mouth to Clarissa’s hand and kissed it, and let it fall, slowly, back down the skin of her flank, hip, thigh, to cup one bare, pale buttock and pull her in close and tight. Lucy leaned still further forward, beckoning to her sister, and Eliza took one hesitant step. “Oh, Lady,” groaned Lucy, as she reached out to brace herself against Eliza’s shoulder, and she tilted her head, and Eliza lifted hers, lips parting, and as their mouths met Eliza’s eyes caught mine across the room and she shrieked.

It could have been comical; perhaps it would have been, were we different people, or if it had happened some days, or weeks, later, or earlier, than it did. Eliza stepped back suddenly, hands clapped to her mouth, as Lucy lost her grip on her sister’s shoulder and began to overbalance, windmilling one bare arm, her hair whipping around as she tried to catch herself on the edge of the bed and turn to see what her sister was staring at. She was groaning, too, in a wordless mixture of surprise and a little rage, and a sudden sharp disappointment as the mounting wave of orgasm inside broke off and left her dangling, balanced on one knee, one hand, one black-stockinged leg kicked out for balance, the long slim lines of black wool and red ribbon and white thigh and buttock full of the sudden accidental grace of a fencer overextended, reaching for balance, straining for the mark. She might have held herself, too, had it not been for Clarissa, who, startled by Eliza’s shriek, was struggling herself, trying to sit up, and she banged her head against Lucy’s thigh and kicked her own feet for leverage (sending that shoe flying across the room, to hit the rug before me) and over Lucy toppled, with enough time to cry out before she hit the floor, thump! on the other side of the bed.

We all stayed there for another endless moment, frozen, no one sure of what to do or say: Clarissa, blinking owlishly at me, her face expressionless, her mousy hair in disarray, strands of it flying from her head in all directions, the neck of her dress opened and shoved down, over her shoulders, pinning her upper arms, her breast board loosened and twisted so that one breast plumped out over it, her nipple red and full, a flush tingeing the skin below her throat, her lips and chin wet; Eliza, staring, her green eyes wide to either side of her long pale hands, still clapped over her mouth and nose, as if to keep something in, some words or a cry, perhaps; and Lucy, lying on the other side of the bed, unseen, a thump and a rustle as she rolled over, maybe, or got to her knees, perhaps. And the frozen moment stretched, and lengthened, a second bearing more weight than any second should, as none of us moved, and none of us said anything, all waiting for something, anything else to happen.

“Ow,” said Lucy.

Clarissa, her eyes downcast, pulled herself off the bed and to her feet, as Eliza helped her sister up. I bent down to pick up Clarissa’s shoe as she shuffled up to me, pulling her dress back up on her shoulders, twisting her breast board around and back into place. She took the shoe from me with a little curtsey, and was about to leave, and it was precisely because we couldn’t say anything about it, we couldn’t acknowledge what had happened. Clarissa hadn’t even tried to wipe Lucy’s dew and her own spittle from her mouth, she ignored it, all of it, hoping this moment would go away like some bad dream. It was precisely because I couldn’t, shouldn’t have said anything at all that I smiled and said, “Clarissa. Wait a moment.”

And she stopped, trembling. I reached into a pocket and pulled out a handkerchief and reached over and wiped her mouth with it. She blushed quite red and her mouth soured and she would not meet my eyes. “There’s some mending on my bed. Take it to Mrs. Woolf when you clean.”

And I waited, and made her say it: “Yes’m.” Another little curtsey.

“Clarissa,” I said, as she turned to leave. I lifted the handkerchief to my nose, and favored her with a smile.

“Yes’m?”

“Do something about your hair.”

And she left, in as much of a rush as she could without seeming to flee.

“Was that necessary?” asked Eliza.

“No,” I admitted.

And now I have two pages of parchment covered with speculations and ruminations, on politics, and the succession, and I smoked two cigarettes as I wrote them, and spent some time staring out at the trees tossing in the rain-wet wind. It was late afternoon, a storm was passing away somewhere to the south, and I could smell autumn in the air. And then I have seven more pages, covered in a hurried scrawl, writing of mouths, and thighs, and, and my girls. Oh, Lady. And my third cigarette is half-smoked, and it was only now, when I paused, to try and think of how to write in words what I saw, how to capture that on paper, without paints, and a skill I’ll never have. It was only now that I looked up to realize the sun has set, night has fallen, and Clarissa must at some point have come in to light the candles.

I think it’s obvious what’s important to me.

How... exhilarating it is to write of these things, words I have never thought to write down before. How oddly thrilling, to call up in my mind the scene, the girls on the bed, the sounds, the smells, the way they moved, and then to try and carve it out of ink and parchment on the page, in words, to rig a scaffolding of syllables about it, to try and encode the music of it the way troubadours wrote down their songs long ago, so that now an old beggar can sing with the voice of a man centuries dead. Much is left out: the earthy smell of Lucy when she is aroused, at once musky and sharp, like fresh-ground cumin; the look on her face as she climaxes, a grimace of pain and pleasure and effort, as if she is lifting a great weight, so unstudied, almost like an animal; so different than her sister, whose eyes close, who looks almost as if she is about to weep softly before her eyebrows rise and her mouth purses and her breath starts in short, flat heaves, crying “Who? Who?” under her breath; I think of her, with her schoolmates in the open dormitories of one of My Lady’s schools, a schoolchum snuggled close, hands busy under nightgowns, or hidden under blankets, mouths licking at cunnies as legs twist around heads, trying to orgasm without anyone hearing, a chorus of quiet whos; and I wonder if she would be more free with herself, more like her sister, if she had come to it as her sister did, with no fear. I have left out the colors of Lucy’s skin, and Eliza’s, the white gold of it, so pale when laid next to the olive tint of my own; the way Lucy flushes in the oddest of places, behind her knees, a precise spot the size of a coin in the sweetly curved notch of her clavicle; the way her hair stands out wild and free from her head, stray tendrils tumbling into her face when least expected, to be blown away with fetching exasperation, a thick child’s mane, overgrown, untamed by bands and ties and kerchiefs, as Eliza’s was. Nor did I mention Clarissa’s strong legs, which I had never seen before, in their white knee stockings, her dress up about her hips, or the curve of her hand as she tenderly cupped Lucy’s buttock, or the jealousy that flashed through me when I saw her fingers caress Lucy in so familiar a manner, or the sudden images of how this had come to pass that flickered in my brain, that were but temporary phantoms until I scratch them here: A calculated seduction, perhaps? Lucy under the bedclothes, pulled up to her chin as she flirts, feigning some difficulty or other, or makes some difficult request of the serving girl, only to fling aside the bedclothes and laugh as the girl stands agog at her brazenness, her beauty? Ha. No. Writing a thing down does not make it any more possible, or true. An accident, then: Clarissa walks in on some innocent chore or other to see Eliza kneeling before her sister, kissing her between her thighs, her tongue licking just below the tiny thatch of her golden écu, as Lucy, naked but for black stockings tied with red ribbons above the knee, tangles her fingers in her sister’s golden hair, pulling loose the black ribbon that ties up Eliza’s curls. And Clarissa gasps, perhaps; they run to her, to comfort her, it is too much, her head swims as the sisters lift her skirts, hands playing along her thighs now as lips brush lips, and kisses flicker from one to another to a third, like sighs... And I left out the intent which formed, with a leer, in the back of my brain, to call Clarissa to me tonight, after the girls have gone to their bed, and to see what, exactly, she knows, and how she learned it.

All left out of my account, when I first wrote it down, and though I now have alluded to some of it, I have still barely scratched the surface - and this is but one encounter; not even that, but one interrupted moment of pleasure, a brief stop, perhaps, on the journey the three of them would have made this afternoon had I not walked in when I did. And yet so many images, so much to see and smell and hear and taste and touch, and so many thoughts, fancies, frenzied half-formed wishes; so many tensions, so many possibilities. So many different kisses; so many different ways to orgasm. Too many, certainly, to hope to catch but a fraction of them in paper and ink.

And yet. I have been keeping a journal now for many years, since my days in the musketeers. And before today, had you asked me, I would have told you my life was in those pages. Where I went, what I did, how I spent my money, what I thought about my day, the weather, the news. Let me copy out how I described the events of five days ago, the seventh of Fructidor:

Rd 17 m, axle trble, stop 2 hrs to fix. Did not make Ladysmith, encamped o.o.d. Ate stores: v, cur. (dry), brd. Good clrt—Windham’s. Used last of St.J. No csh outlay. Expect Lymond late p.m.

Which says much for the state of my accounts, and my diet, and I appreciate the note reminding me of the distributors of the claret; it was a quite good claret. But there is only one oblique note regarding what was perhaps the most important occurrence of that day.

We did not speak as we rode along that morning. Eliza did not look at me, but spent her time gazing out the little window beside her. Her sister sat close to her, holding her hand, and dozed, her head resting on her sister’s shoulder, bouncing with the jolts of the carriage. For my part, I spent the morning smoking, taking care to blow the smoke out the window next to me, and I amused myself by gazing upon my girls. I believe it was then I noticed how Lucy’s face was rounder than her sister’s; how much wilder her hair was; how Eliza’s legs were longer, slimmer, her breasts subtly smaller in proportion than Lucy’s, and resting higher on her chest. Eliza sat with her stockinged legs pressed tightly together, her ankles crossed; and she would from time to time pull at her chemise, tugging it down over her thighs, though it could not hope to cover the bare skin between the hem and the top of her stockings, unrolled as high as they could go, a full two inches over her knee. I said we did not speak; I was wrong. Eliza asked me for a wrap, or a rug. I smiled, and politely declined, pointing out that the day was quite warm. She did not press the point.

Orphé informed me before noon that we would need to adjust the front axle; as he felt confident of his ability to perform the repairs himself, we made a picnic of it, stopping in a farmer’s fallow field. As I stepped out to unpack the picnic things, and some food, Lucy awoke, yawning. The top two buttons of her chemise had once more come undone, and it fell open as she stretched prettily. Eliza scolded her quietly. As I walked around to the back of the carriage, she was buttoning her sister’s chemise, and Lucy was looking down at her and smiling. It still amazes me that I travel now with plate, and china, and glassware - even if I will not stand for the footmen considered necessary for their proper deployment. Nonetheless, there they are, nestled in red velvet in a wooden trunk strapped to the back of the carriage; dusty, perhaps, but unbroken. I fetched some rugs from beneath Monsieur Orphé’s seat, spread them on the ground, and laid out the cold venison and the bread, as Orphe bought some butter from the farmer’s wife - or so I remember, which makes my note regarding “no cash outlay” rather mysterious. I must have forgotten. I fetched the bottle of claret, and four of the glasses, and, after pouring off a glass for myself, walked one over to Monsieur Orphé, who had stripped off his weskit and opened his shirt, and stood contemplating the wheels a moment.

“They’ll want to get out,” he said, taking the glass with a sharp nod of thanks.

“Give me a moment,” I said.

I paused before opening the carriage door, kneeling and pulling from my boot a small leather sack I hadn’t opened in at least six months - since deVere’s winter party; I’d put a pinch in the hollow between my thumb and the back of my hand, like snuff, and let Anne Mobrey, Curwen’s youngest, lick it up, as the Queen watched. After that night, there was but a pinch left - St. Jane’s wort, as they call it; dried and crushed and imported from Stilé, and more expensive than saffron - but its pungent scent tickled my nostrils even so. I dusted the two empty glasses with what was left and poured in the claret, swirling it with my finger to make certain it was well-mixed. I tried not to sneeze. It is slow to take effect through the mouth, but alarmingly quick through the nose; I already felt a warmth lighting my belly, a pleasant languorous weight settling in my arms and legs - though how much was the drug’s effect, and how much my knowledge and anticipation of it, I could not say.

I threw open the carriage door to see Lucy, bent over before me, adjusting one stocking, tugging it back over her knee. “Excuse us!” cried Eliza.

“If you would allow me,” I said. Setting the glasses down on the floorboard, I reached up to tug Lucy’s garter ribbon tight and tie it off. Lucy smiled as I did so, but covered her lips with her hand, looking to her sister with wide eyes. “You girls will want to leave the carriage. Monsieur Orphé must do some work on it, and if you remain, you will be quite jostled.”

“This is most improper,” said Eliza. “I seem to remember you promising we would be given clothing.”

“In good time,” I said. “We are off the road, and away from anyone who might see us, if that is your concern.”

“One of them,” she said, but I was already offering my hand to Lucy, who took it, and I helped her down, out of the carriage. She ran out into the grass, her hair blowing wild in the wind. I turned to Eliza, who stood, smoothing the front of her chemise over her thighs, and her hand trembled as I took it. I did not let it go when she stepped down, but pulled her closer to me.

“My... lady,” she said, confused a moment as to the proper form of address.

“Indigo will do,” I said. I reached down and picked up the glasses with my free hand. “Here,” I said. “Some claret, for you and your sister.”

“Ah,” she said.

“See,” I said. “I am not all bad.”

Lunch proved a lively enough affair, despite its perhaps rocky start. The claret was a hit with the girls; Eliza pronounced it good enough for her Headmistress’s table, which was funnier then that it is now, on parchment. And if Eliza took great pains to wrap her legs in one of the rugs, sitting carefully and demurely, mindful of the straps of her chemise as she leaned forward to select a slice of bread, or to pluck up a currant, one at a time, well, Lucy was free enough for both of them, sitting close to her sister, refusing to cover her legs with a rug; “It’s too hot,” she pouted, seemingly unconscious of her state of undress. Her top button had once again come undone; when she knelt, sitting back on her heels, she did not notice her chemise had ridden up over her hips until her sister irritably tugged it down for her, snapping, “Do behave yourself.” But a flush was hot in Eliza’s cheeks as she did so, and an embarrassed smile licked at her lips; and when she turned away to pluck another currant, Lucy, with a sidelong look at me, leaned over to poke her sister in the ribs. Her chemise rode up again. When Eliza slapped at her finger, irritably, she sat back, giggling, and her thighs were as bare as they had been before, from the tops of her unrolled stockings to the sweet curve of her buttocks, nestled against her black-stockinged heels. Her hair blew in her eyes, and she blew it out again, rolling her eyes.

Toward the end of our picnic, Lucy was already rubbing the skin above her stockings; she shifted her weight so that she could wriggle a finger under the wool, where the knot in the garter ribbon, above and behind her knee, rubbed her skin. Eliza had loosened the rug, stretching her legs out, and she did not seem to mind her sister’s restless improprieties - but she did seem to be sitting uncomfortably, adjusting her weight every few minutes; I imagined the heat building, in the darkness, in both of them, and I bided my time. Monsieur Orphé came over to us wiping his hands on his shirt, which he had removed, and I noted (with some annoyance) the frank fascination with which the girls stared at the sweat gleaming along his wiry shoulders, his thin, hard chest.

“We will not make it to the Ladysmith,” he said.

“That’s fine,” I told him. “There’s that nice spot beside Bookin’s Water, only an hour or so away. The falls. Let’s camp there for the night and make Lymond tomorrow.”

He nodded, and all was in readiness.

I packed up the picnic things, as the sisters helped each other back into the carriage, as Orphe harnessed the horses. Eliza sat primly, not looking at me when I climbed into the carriage, but outside. Lucy sat close to her, leaning against her, her head resting on her Eliza’s shoulder, her legs curled up beside her on the bench. I knelt before them.

“The seat can be adjusted,” I said. I reached under the bench, brushing Eliza’s calf as I did so; she jerked from my touch. I flipped the lever and pulled forward, and the bench reclined a little. “There,” I said. “There are some cushions,” I offered.

“Thank you,” said Eliza. Lucy, sighing, snuggled more closely to her sister. I reached out to stroke Lucy’s cheek, and she smiled; I stroked her lips with my thumb, and she kissed it, quickly, looking at me with her dusky blue eyes. Patience, I reminded myself. (It is a virtue.) I stretched out on my bench and settled down to bide my time, half-closing my eyes, folding my arms. The carriage lurched into motion.

Little things: Lucy, ever more irritated by her stockings, shifting her legs, finally untying the garters and rolling them down over her knees, rubbing at her skin; Eliza, reaching across to hold her hand a moment, stopping her. The third or fourth time this happened, Eliza did not take her hand away. And their fingers linked and interlaced, and Lucy pressed their joined hands against her thighs.

“I’m hot,” she said.

“Shh,” said Eliza.

Lucy pressed her nose against Eliza’s shoulder. Eliza turned her head, pressed her lips against her sister’s forehead. “Settle,” she said. “Take a nap. Rest.”

Lucy mumbled something, almost a whine. “I’m restless,” she said.

“Shh,” said Eliza.

Lucy unlaced her fingers, though Eliza’s hand remained in her sister’s lap. Lucy reached up and toyed with the buttons of Eliza’s chemise. Eliza pushed the hand away, and it ended up in her lap. Lucy pouted.

“Don’t,” said Eliza.

“I’m itching,” Lucy said. “I’m hot.”

“Shh,” said Eliza. “Don’t.”

I kept my eyes half-closed, still feigning sleep. Still biding my time.

“What did she mean,” asked Lucy, in a whisper. “When she said ‘honey.’”

“Don’t ask,” said Eliza.

“But,” said Lucy, stirring a little, moving her hand higher along her sister’s thigh.

“Stop,” said Eliza.

“You’re hot,” said Lucy.

“Don’t,” said Eliza, sharply, knocking Lucy’s hand from her lap, pulling her shoulder away from her sister. Lucy lay back, pouting.

“You mustn’t talk of such things,” said Eliza. “You mustn’t do such things. They’re indecent.”

“But I’m so warm.” Lucy pulled her knees up to her chest, and I saw her buttocks, her cunny, pink and open just a little, glistening in a pert pout. She tucked her chemise between her thighs, pulled it out, tucked it back again.

“Do sit still,” said Eliza.

“I saw what you did this morning,” said Lucy, wickedly. I, for my part, kept very still. Eliza said nothing.

“I said, I saw what you did this morning.”

“I heard what you said.”

“Was that what she was talking about?”

“Hush.”

“Is that what you’re supposed to show me?”

“You’re not to speak of such things.”

“Father let me--”

Eliza slapped Lucy, hard. Alarmed, Lucy sat silent, tears welling up in her eyes. Eliza stared at her, breathing heavily, a little wild-eyed. I managed not to leap up. Wait, I told myself. Bide your time. Let it unfold.

“I’m sorry. But you must never speak of such things. They aren’t to happen. Do you understand?”

Lucy nodded, a tear trickling down by her nose. Eliza shifted closer to her, reaching out to pull Lucy to herself. She stroked Lucy’s cheek, lifting her sister’s face so that she could look into her eyes. “I’m sorry. There’s too much to try to explain. You must trust me. Do you understand?”

And Lucy nodded, sniffing. Eliza leaned forward and kissed her forehead. I knew how they were feeling, then. St. Jane had settled into their bellies, and reached out its seductive warmth through their veins; their fingertips tingled, the air smelt sharper, they felt flushes running along the skin of their thighs, the small of their backs, their necks, cheeks, throats. Sweat slicked the skin behind their knees, and trickled down their wool stockings. Their nipples engorged, rubbing almost painfully against their linen garments. And their cunnies enflamed, raging, weeping almost between their thighs.

So it was not a surprise to me, then - though it surprised them both, indeed - that when Eliza pulled back from kissing her sister, Lucy sighed, and Eliza froze for a moment, her lips parted slightly, and Lucy looked up and suddenly pressed her mouth to her sister’s, in a quick kiss that was over almost before it began.

“Lucy,” said Eliza.

“Please,” said Lucy. “You’ve told me.”

“Lucy, we can’t.”

“Please. I wanted to. I want to. I liked it.”

“Lucy. It’s wrong.”

“You’ve told me. You’ve done it. I saw you, this morning.”

“Not with you. I can’t. It’s wrong.”

“Why!”

Slowly, Eliza leaned down and kissed her sister, a longer kiss, soft, tender. Lucy clenched her hands into little fists.

“Because,” said Eliza. “You are my sister, and it would be wrong.”

She stroked Lucy’s cheek, and Lucy looked down, and then reached out and brushed Eliza’s bare thigh. Eliza said nothing, but kept stroking Lucy’s cheek. Slowly, deliberately, Lucy slipped her hand along Eliza’s skin, under her chemise, lifting it, until she held Eliza’s hip. And then back down again, and across to the other thigh, both pressed tightly together.

“Please,” said Lucy.

Eliza shifted her weight a little. Lucy brushed her hand up again, lifting the chemise, her fingertips brushing Eliza’s belly, and I could see the pale golden thatch of Eliza’s sex. And then down again. Eliza said nothing. Lucy brushed her sister’s thighs again.

“We’ve never,” said Lucy.

“It’s wrong,” said Eliza.

Lucy frowned at her, pouting, her eyes flashing at her sister. “I,” she said, “don’t care.”

And she lunged forward to kiss her sister, gripping Eliza’s shoulders as they toppled backwards, to one side, and Eliza did nothing, didn’t push her away. Lucy crouched over her, straddling her, her sex hovering over Eliza’s thighs, and her tangled hair fell over like a curtain as she lifted her mouth from her sister’s. “Kiss me,” she said.

“Lucy,” said Eliza.

“Kiss me.”

And Eliza did. She licked Lucy’s lips, and Lucy opened her mouth, and their tongues played as their mouths crushed together. Lucy whimpered as Eliza shifted her legs, bringing them up, so that Lucy could rub her cunny against them. Eliza threw her arms around her sister, and pulled her down into a fierce embrace, as their kiss went on and on. Unnoticed, I sat up, opened my eyes, let their embrace stoke the fires building inside me.

A rough jostle of the carriage broke their embrace, sent Lucy rolling back against the cushions, gasping with sudden laughter, and as she sat up she tugged her chemise up and struggled out of it.

“Lucy!” said Eliza.

Lucy threw it behind her, stroking her skin, her small breasts. “Ohh,” she said, “it feels so good...”

“Lucy,” said Eliza, propping herself up on her elbows.

“You must take yours off. You must! I want to feel you against me. Your skin.”

“We must stop this.”

“No!” Lucy said, and she yanked at the throat of her sister’s chemise, ripping a button free with her sudden vehemence. Eliza tried to pull back, but Lucy fumbled with the buttons, opening them all, pressing kisses to her sister’s chest and throat. The straps fell from Eliza’s shoulders, slipping down, baring her breasts, falling to her elbows, her waist.

“Lucy,” said Eliza. “Please...”

Lucy licked at her ear.

“My titties,” breathed Eliza. “Kiss them...”

And Lucy licked and kissed her way down from her ear to her sister’s breast, kissing one, licking the skin along its slope, stroking the curve of it with one hand, reaching out with her tongue to take the nipple into her mouth, savoring it. Eliza shivered, then gasped, as Lucy squeezed her nipple between her lips.

“Oh, Lady,” said Eliza. “Ow,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” said Lucy, breathlessly, but whatever hurt she’d done had already been forgotten, as Eliza pushed her sister away, briefly, wrestling her arms free from the straps of her chemise, letting it settle about her waist as grabbed her sister and pressed her close for another kiss, their arms pulling tight as if each was the only other thing in the world, their breasts pressing together, their stockinged knees and thighs bumping together as they tried to press closer, closer.

“Oh,” said Lucy, between kisses. “Oh.”

Somehow, I missed it, the moment Eliza’s hand slipped between her sister’s legs, the moment her finger slipped inside her sister. Lucy placed a hand against Eliza’s shoulder, bracing herself, pulling back a little, arching her back, and she gasped, and I saw it then, Lucy’s golden curls cupped in Eliza’s palm as it undulated there, between her thighs.

“Oh,” said Lucy. “Oh.”

“Shh,” said Eliza.

And they kissed again. And again.

...I set aside my pen a moment, after writing that, walked to my window, looked out at the night, clear now, cloudless, the stars bright, the last few fireflies of summer busy at the bottom of the field. I feel I owe you some explanation, perhaps, for why I did what I did - whether you, oh reader, are my Queen, or a Brother in Codlatan. Why I took such delight in the corruption of these girls, drugging them, tricking them into each other’s arms. For I almost quivered with it, watching them, watching Lucy taste her first kiss at her sister’s lips, watching Eliza driven to it against her better judgment, caressing her sister, stroking her, lifting her to her first orgasm, and when it came, when Lucy cried out in excitement, her eyes wide open, when Eliza groaned, and hung her head, closing her eyes, her hand stilled between Lucy’s thighs - I nearly had an orgasm myself, just from the sight of it. I should have something to say, about why. I don’t.

I stood then, trembling, undoing my weskit, opening my shirt. The sisters clung together, gasping. “Oh,” said Lucy, “oh, I’ve never.”

“Lucy,” said Eliza. “Please.”

“What,” said Lucy.

“With your hand. No, there.”

I knelt on the bench behind Lucy, pressing myself against her, my nipples, heavy with blood, brushing the skin of her back, and the touch thrilled her. “Oh,” she moaned, leaning back against me, into my arms, “oh.”

“Lucy,” said Eliza, her voice weighted with desire thwarted, need frustrated.

I kissed Lucy’s neck, and she turned her head to look at me, and I kissed her mouth, savoring the taste of her, delighting in the enthusiasm of her little tongue as it licked at my lips, my teeth, my own tongue. “Now, now,” I murmured, shifting myself so that my trousered groin pressed against the small of her back, and her lips brushed my cheek as I felt for her hand, and she tried to kiss me again. “You’ve had yours,” I said. “It’s your sister’s turn.”

“Oh,” said Eliza, seeing me for the first time, through the red film St. Jane leaves over one’s eyes. “Oh, Lady.”

My hand on Lucy’s, I guided her between her sister’s legs, and felt the heat of Eliza’s sex there. “Gently,” I said. “Stroke the lips. Like her mouth. Like your fingers were kissing her mouth.”

“You’re so hot,” said Lucy, her voice filled with wonder. “So soft.” She leaned forward and kissed her sister, gently, on the lips. Eliza’s eyes were closed, and she did not move, but trembled slightly.

“Now,” I said. “Gently.” I cupped my hand under Lucy’s, fitting my fingers to her, curling them up in mine. “Follow my finger.” I extended my index finger, slightly curled, and felt her smaller finger crook against it. “Gently.” Probing forward, unseen, between Eliza’s spread thighs, I felt along the slick, wet lips of her sex. Eliza shuddered. “Please,” she said.

“Like this,” I said.

And pushing gently, we entered her, our two fingers sliding together, slowly, between the tight, hot walls of her cunny. Lucy gasped, to feel herself inside her sister. Eliza pressed her lips together, holding back a cry. And I smiled. “Hold still,” I said. “We don’t want to hurt her. I’m going to take my hand away--”

“No,” said Eliza. She opened her eyes, and looked at me. “No.”

“All right.”

Lucy followed me as I rocked my hand back and forth, and our fingers moved slowly in and out of Eliza. She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Lucy’s mouth, then mine. Our tongues touched, and she breathed sharply.

“Careful,” I said. “Feel with your thumb.” I found Lucy’s thumb, pressed against her sister’s thigh, guided it along the lips of Eliza’s sex. “There’s a stiff little boatman down there, standing at attention.”

“A boatman?” said Lucy, smiling. “Why is it called that?”

“I’ll show you, later, perhaps,” I said. “Do you feel him? Right there.” Eliza’s was small, but quite hard, swollen, perched atop her lips. Eliza started.

“So full,” she moaned.

“I feel it!” cried Lucy, in delight.

“Stroke it,” I said. “Gently. Be careful. Watch what it does to your sister.”

Eliza’s dew was running over my hand, and Lucy’s hand, joined together. Lucy’s finger pushed back and forth as her thumb stroked, inexpertly, perhaps, and I pressed my hand up to push our fingers against the top of Eliza’s cunny. And Lucy watched, eyes wide, as Eliza squeezed her eyes shut, breathing quickly, “Who,” she cried, “who, who, who...” And with a tremendous shudder, the warmth of St. Jane shaking through her, she orgasmed hard against our fingers, falling back against the cushions, her hips jerking, as Lucy fell against her, kissing her belly, her breasts, her throat.

“Oh,” said Eliza. “Oh, Lucy. Don’t.”

“Lucy,” I said. She looked up at me, and I beckoned her to me, and she fell into my arms as Eliza sat up, still panting, still trembling.

“Oh,” said Lucy, “that was wonderful!” And we kissed, and kissed again, as her little fingers stroked my breasts. “I want to do that to you!”

I laughed. “In time,” I said. “In time.”

“We’ve stopped,” said Eliza. And it was true. Sometime in our bucking about, the carriage had stopped. “Where,” she said, and she swallowed, and sat up straighter, “where are we?”

“Somewhere safe. A few hours away yet from my house, where we will be staying.” I held out my hand to her. After a moment, she took it. I pulled her to me, and held my girls close, stroking their hair, as Lucy’s hand played with the buttons of my trousers, and Eliza rested her head against my shoulder. “We are together, now,” I said. “Do you understand?”

“Can we do that again?” said Lucy.

“Of course,” I said. “We can do it every day, if you like.” She had worked open two of the buttons, and her little hand darted inside, her fingers feeling for my sex. “Gently,” I said. “Carefully.” I sighed, and kissed the top of Eliza’s head. “Eliza? Do you understand?” I felt the heat of what little St. Jane I had imbibed - or the ghost of St. Jane - ignite as Lucy’s fingers fluttered between my lips.

“Yes,” said Eliza, quietly, her breath stirring my nipple. “We’re yours.”

“And I,” I said, as Lucy kissed my throat, “am yours. But most importantly, you have each other. Look at me, Eliza.” She lifted her head, slowly. I stroked her chin, her throat, her breast. “Do you love your sister?”

She nodded.

“Do you?”

“Yes,” she said, in a whisper.

“Would you want someone to come between you?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

“I love you, ’Liza,” said Lucy.

“And I will make sure that never happens. You are safe, with me,” I said.

“Are we,” she said, but Lucy had suddenly pulled her hand from my trousers and flung her arms about her sister, pressing kisses against her, and slowly, Eliza hugged her sister close, and returned her kisses.

I stood, undoing my trousers, sitting on the opposite bench to yank off my boots as the sisters, arms about each other, legs entwining, kissed and kissed, fingers tangled in each others’ hair. Boots off, I stood up again to pull off my trousers. “Girls,” I said. Lucy looked up, as Eliza kissed her cheek, her throat. “Pull off your stockings. We’re going bathing.”

And I threw open the carriage door.

Monsieur Orphé had parked the carriage in a small, steeply-sided bowl, with trees pressed close all about. The horses had been led away, to the field above, no doubt. Bookin’s Water fell over the lip of the bowl in a small but lively waterfall, filling the bottom of the bowl with a deep, cool pool of water, hidden away from the road, a quarter of a mile distant. Lucy cheered, and began undoing the ribbon holding her stockings up, and Eliza sat up, and after a moment, struggled to lift her chemise up and over her head. Naked, we three stepped out of the carriage, looked at each other, breathed in the soft, warm twilight air; then with a whoop Lucy leaped into the pool, followed by me, followed by Eliza. Lucy and I splashed into the deep water, floating above the rocky bottom, and she swam up to me, kissing me, then swam over to her sister, crouching by the shore, and kissed her. As she pulled Eliza deeper into the pool, I splashed out, went back to the carriage, and found my small bag of soaps, little cakes scented with orange peel.

“Here,” I said, throwing them cakes. They broke their embrace, and, delighting in the smell, began to lather up the soap. “Wash each other’s backs,” I said. “It’s more fun, with two.”

And Lucy began to scrub her sister’s back, and Eliza’s hands fell still, as Lucy’s traveled over her back, her buttocks, her thighs, around to her belly, up to her breasts. Lucy pressed close to her sister, and Eliza turned her head, and they shared a long, deep kiss, as I sat in the shallows, soap forgotten, and watched. Their blond hair, darkened by water, pressed against their skulls, their necks, the curves of their bare backs, still gleamed in the late light. Their pale skin shone over the dark, cool water. Their kiss broke off, slowly, lingering. Lucy whispered something in her sister’s ear, and Eliza nodded. Lucy pushed away from her sister and began to swim towards me, and Eliza slowly followed.

“It’s your turn,” said Lucy.

“Is it,” I said.

“Your hair,” she said, pointing to my sex. “It’s white.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Is it because you’re old?”

“No,” I said. I smiled.

She reached out, brushed my thatch with her fingers. “Why is it called a boatman?” she asked.

“I’ll show you. Kneel down.” She did. I spread the lips of my sex for her. Behind me, Eliza waded up, and began to soap my back. She pressed her lips, cold with the chilly water, against my shoulder. “Look,” I said to Lucy. “Come close. It won’t bite.”

She giggled, and pressed her fingers against my thigh.

“Do you see how it comes together, like the prow of a boat?”

She nodded.

“Closer,” I said. “Look closer. Hold the lips open with your fingers.”

She pressed closer, her fingers fumbling with my sex, baring it to the evening air, her breath against it, sharp, sending thrills through my legs, my belly. Eliza’s hands cupped my buttocks, kneading them, her fingers slick with soap against my skin, as her nipples, her breasts pressed against my back, and she kissed my neck.

“Do you see him?” I asked Lucy. “The little red man, standing there in the prow of the boat?”

She nodded.

“Lick him,” I said. “Taste him. Kiss him.”

She did, and I closed my eyes.

Lucy didn’t need to be told; I braced myself as her fingers spread me, and as she sipped at my honey, tasting it for the first time, she licked down, then up again, from cunny to boatman, her chin pressing into me as she kissed me again and again. Eliza’s fingers slipped between my buttocks, slick with soap, and I felt her fingertip suddenly pressing against the button of my arse. I gasped. Lucy feasted on me, grunting with her effort in digging as deeply into me as she could, and Eliza splashed cold water against me, washing away the soap, and I groaned. And then Eliza knelt behind me, and I felt the warmth of her breath against the chilled flesh of my buttocks, and though I would never have expected her to have known of it, she spread them, and her tongue licked out to find my arse, and then her finger, pressing inside, slipping in as far as the first joint as her lips pressed kisses against my buttocks, my thighs. Oh, Lady, Lucy before me, and Eliza behind, their mouths busy, fingers slipping in and out of me, and I could not hold back any longer. I threw my head back, crying out, coming again and again. And when we retired to the carriage, wrapped in rugs to stay warm, we fell asleep in each other’s arms, and I was awakened early in the morning by Lucy’s soft cries, as Eliza licked and ate her up from sleep. So much more than my notes about how far I went, and where I camped; what was eaten from stores; where I found a good claret, and a reminder to find some new St. Jane’s wort. Not that I think I will have need of it, any longer.

Too many kisses to set down on paper, perhaps; so much of my life has been filled with moments like these, and women like my girls (though none, really, were so beautiful). But I must try. Where else is there to be a record of it? Not in my abbreviated notes, in my journals. Not written anywhere at all. Not even spoken of, expect late at night, on pillows. My Queen and I, lying together, would laugh quietly over how young Anne of Curwen cried out when the dusting of St. Jane, pressed against the lips of her cunny, filled her belly with liquid fire, and of how my tongue, and the Queen’s, had quenched that fire with more pleasurable kisses than she had ever known. Nothing else. Nowhere else.

How better then, to spend my last days, than in recording this shadow life? Calling up the ghosts of old loves, pleasant times, setting them down, building a scaffolding of words to try and hold their memory fast to something when I’m gone. Even if it is just the smoke that will rise when this parchment is burned. (Unless I’ve written so well, called up the beauties of my girls, and my Molly, before your eye so that you spare this page, hiding it away in the rumored library of banned books, buried deep beneath the cathedral in Cydonia. Have I? But I will never know. So much the better.)

There are, of course, other divertissements. I must exercise my fingers, cramped from holding the pen so long. Shall I throw off my pyjamas, slip naked between my cool sheets, ring for Clarissa, and surprise her by flinging off the bedclothes at an opportune moment?

Perhaps.

Tomorrow, then, I shall begin to write.

Continued in Chapter 5

---