The Journal of a Vicar's Wife (12 page)

I thought back to the book on sutures he’d bought, and which I’d refused, only to find it returned to the sitting room bookshelf.

‘Why, yes,’ I admitted. ‘Thank you again for its purchase, but also for not returning it … I truly do not deserve such a kindness.’

I looked at him, studying his response, and noticed the skin about his eyes tighten.

‘Why do you think you do not deserve such a kindness?’ he asked, his voice gentle, almost coaxing.

I knew I should tell him. He was offering me a moment to unburden all my fears and lies upon him.

Yet I could not. I feared what he would do.

Besides, what could I say? That I’d taken another man to my bed, that I’d watched his cousin bed the governess, and then like some Greek
ypocrite
had lectured them about the dangers and evil of such behaviour?

‘Oh, there is not one reason in particular. I am just tired. Do not listen to my ramblings.’

For just a moment I saw Frederick bite his bottom lip and glance away. His long hands tightened around the cup, and I wondered once more if he knew more than what he gave away.

Perhaps I shall never find out.

Tuesday, 20
^th
July 1813

The days have continued in a similar vein to those I have already described. Jonathan returned briefly yesterday and his mood was bitter.

I was naturally made to endure a meal with them, and to this day I have never experienced such unpleasant awkwardness. Jonathan would scarce look at me, let alone open conversation – which in turn caused my husband to increase his suspicions, which then made me fall into an even greater a state of perpetual fear.

When the hideous meal was done, I retired frightfully early.

To compound my desperate unhappiness and fears, due to the length of time between intimate meetings with either Goddard or my husband, last night found me lying abed with my hand feverishly buried betwixt my thighs. Forgive me, but I now seek pleasure from my own hand in lieu of any gentleman.

Surely it is less a sin?

My finger caressed that hardened nub until my womb tightened. I splayed my legs wider so my fingers may access that wet, hot heat and fill me as no other currently does. I felt the muscles of my core tighten about my thrusting fingers, before I returned my attention to that hard, sweet place. I gasped to myself and repeated the pattern, over and over until finally I could stand it no longer and I drove myself to senseless crisis. I writhed in my bed as my sex made to spasm around my fingers and my hardened nub throbbed with unbearable pleasure.

Then, there was a knock upon my door.

My panic returned, and my hand flew from my soaking nether parts.

‘Mrs Reeves?’ I heard my husband call.

I panicked then. Had I called out in crisis? Had my husband somehow overheard me abusing myself?

‘Yes?’ I returned, my voice stuttered by lingering, impassioned pants.

What the Devil did he want?

To confront me of infidelity?

Chastise me for neglecting my Bible studies?

Or could he possibly want his rights? After such a long abstinence, surely even he must feel the need for ease?

I felt my cheeks grow to a blush, and my heart stuttered frantically. Certainly, he would notice the moistness of my quim if he did, and wonder why I should be so ready?

‘May I enter?’ he called through the door.

I could not deny the man, and thus there was only one answer I could give.

‘Of course.’ I stared at the hand that had so recently been buried deep in my core. It glistened with the remnants of my pleasure. Hurriedly, I dried it on the bedclothes as my husband entered.

The summer sun had not quite set, so early was my retirement, yet he brought forth with him a candle, resting it down on my mantle before closing the door behind him.

‘Is there something you require, Vicar?’ I asked, hoping he could not scent the perfume of my passion in the air.

He waited a moment, his gaze observing me acutely. ‘I …’ He fumbled on his words.

‘Yes?’ I asked, thankful that my breath had returned to normal.

‘It has been some time since we were last … intimately acquainted.’

Gracious. He finally noticed?
The thought was uncharitable, but my husband’s sudden nocturnal interest in me could only confirm that Jonathan still had not divulged my adultery.

‘It has,’ I agreed. ‘Do you wish intercourse now?’

‘No.’ He shook his head.

I tried to keep the disappointment from my voice. ‘Well, then, how can I assist you?’ I sighed.

‘I have listened to what you have said, and said repeatedly over the years.’

I frowned. ‘Have you?’ That seemed most unlikely, and I did not even attempt to keep the derision from my voice.

‘Yes, and it is my wish to try to accommodate your … requirements in a more comfortable fashion.’

I stared at him. Did he know that I’d accommodated my own requirements with Mr Goddard, and now my own hand? No, surely not, for if he did, certainly I would be thrown from the vicarage – and polite society entirely.

‘I see,’ I replied, although I did not.

‘Indeed,’ he said.

‘Pray, how exactly do you intend to do this?’ I asked, confused but also intrigued.

My husband’s face coloured. ‘I am yet to decide, but I thought that …’

‘Yes?’ I prompted.

‘That perhaps I have been remiss …’

Suspicion flared in my mind. My husband would never have come to that conclusion on his own, surely? Who had spoken to him? Mrs Richards? Mrs Cartwright? Minny? Heaven forbid, mayhap Jonathan
had
said something?

I felt my own expression crumple with a frown. ‘Whatever has brought you to that conclusion?’ I asked.

Another florid flush of colour stained his cheeks – like a boy caught staring up a lady’s skirt. ‘Nothing in particular,’ he said, though his manner was so stiff I thought he might crack like some ancient vase.

I was silent at his answer, my disbelief evident. Something
must
have happened to make him reconsider his ways, but if not Jonathan’s terrible news, then what?

Friday, 23
^rd
July 1813

A few days have passed since that suspicious conversation, and despite Frederick’s suggestion that he may have been remiss in his attentions towards me, naught at all has changed. No, that is not true; naught has changed, except perhaps the increasingly gentle nature of his words and manners towards me.

For example, this afternoon, with Jonathan absent, we took a turn about the vicarage grounds. Generally the gardens are Mrs Cartwright’s domain, but I have preference over which flowers are planted. We stood by a delightful display of roses and daisies, a veritable panoply of colour.

‘These are very fine,’ he commented.

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘I particularly like pink,’ I said, but my voice was soft. I felt so wicked; these pleasant interactions with the man are deeply unsettling, especially when I hold such a dark and terrible secret from him.

It was then that Mr Reeves did the most astonishing thing. He plucked a pink daisy from the bush. It was small in his large hand, and even more beautiful for it.

‘There,’ he said. With an absurdly lovely gesture, he tucked the small flower behind my ear and stood back to regard its effect.

I blushed like a girl at her first dance.

‘You look very well, Mrs Reeves,’ my husband said. A sudden gust of summer breeze rustled through the garden, and I caught his gaze, partially obscured by a loose tendril of my hair.

My heart thumped traitorously. I suddenly and quite desperately wanted to embrace this lovely new Mr Reeves, with his shining eyes and gentle, admiring gaze.

‘Thank you,’ I replied and suddenly looked away, confused. I should not look at him this way, should I? I am still an adulterous wife, and one day it will be discovered, and then what?

Tuesday, 27
^th
July 1813

Lord Stanton’s wife has delivered another healthy girl. This is a relief. I fear so when women go to childbed; my studies in medicine have taught me that birthing is a dangerous business.

My husband has visited the new babe, and spoke of her in the kindest of terms. As I have observed in earlier entries, my husband’s attentions towards me have grown increasingly cordial. So cordial in fact, that of an evening he requests that I sit beside him to sew; a novel thing, and a pleasant occupation. Still, despite this, it is unsurprising that I still harbour troubled thoughts.

It remains clear Jonathan
still
has not told my husband of my infidelity, as he so angrily promised he would. I have found that on Jonathan’s every return I am filled with dread. It is like a dark cloud that hangs above me, every time the gentleman is near.

I cannot believe he has forgiven me. Indeed, no. For Jonathan does not speak to me, nor even look at me, most times. Still, his silence is preferable to any divulgence of my sins to my husband. To this end, I have continued to remain chaste, though it has been intolerable.

My courses came and went over a week ago, so it seems my last activity with Mr Goddard gained me nothing but Jonathan’s contempt.

It is peculiar, but I have come to I realise now, with my husband’s increasingly kind attentions, that I was perhaps mistaken to ever have considered taking another lover, or even considering allowing another man to sire a child upon me.

Of course, this is not to say that I do not find my enforced chastity and childlessness a great and bitter frustration. For some nights I dream of creating a babe of our own, and I wake bereft and sensually frustrated. I sinfully abuse myself, sometimes as many as three times a day, simply to offer my mind and body consolation.

How vile I am.

I spend my day in contemplation, sewing, reading or assisting the unfortunates in the village – for there is little else for me to do.

So, one can imagine my surprise when my husband entered my rooms last night, since he has offered no physical attention to me in such a time.

My candle had gutted and I lay abed, staring at the light that flickered through the lace of my curtains. It is rare I close the heavy drapes in summer, for the breeze is a welcome thing in the stifling air of my room.

When my door creaked and opened, I fair nearly fainted. My husband entered, carrying his own candle once again.

‘Mr Reeves?’ I exclaimed, sitting up with a startle. ‘What are you doing?’

His expression grew pained.

‘Forgive me, Mrs Reeves,’ he said and drew the door closed. It clicked shut and my flesh erupted with gooseflesh. There was no mistaking that gesture.

Without further word, my husband placed his candle beside my own guttered one on the mantle, and without preamble leant down upon the bed.

The wood creaked with his weight, and my heart fluttered.

I looked up and caught my husband’s eye. His expression was torn, but his dark eyes almost mesmerising in their intensity. I felt my breath catch in my throat in surprise. He met my sharp inhalation with yet another tortured expression. His hands moved toward the sheets that covered me. I looked down at them, as they curled around the fabric, peeling it from me.

Good Lord in Heaven! He was finally to make good of his promise! What an unexpected turn of events.

Ordinarily at this point in our carnal dance, I would cast the blanket aside and hitch my nightdress to my waist to allow him access. Yet tonight, I remained still. For all that I wanted to welcome him to my bed with open arms, I was not falling into old habits – for look at all the good they’ve done me! If my husband wished access to my most intimate place, he would have to request it, or search it out himself.

Mr Reeves hesitated a moment, and I wondered what thoughts may be passing through his head. I did not have to wait long before he peeled the covers back down past my waist and beyond my thighs. The cooler air of night made the hairs on my legs stand, and I released another gasp. Still, I made no move to lift my nightdress as I may once have done.

A look of utter frustration passed across my husband’s face.

‘Will you not assist me?’ he asked.

I caught his eye then. ‘Assist you with what exactly, Vicar? In recent times I have come to learn that one should not assume anything. So I shall not assume you wish access to me – lest I be rebuffed,’ I said in reply.

His face heated. I have little doubt he was surprised by my attitude towards his attentions. For usually I enthusiastically encouraged access, but no. Not now.

Lord forgive me, is belligerence a sin as well?

My husband looked at me, clearly perplexed as well as displeased. Yet he didn’t reprimand or chastise me.

‘I quite understand,’ he agreed and my astonishment at his unexpected response made me mute. With but a slight display of apprehension, his fingers moved to the hem of my nightgown. As I lay abed, it already had ridden over my knees, displaying my calves and ankles. His touch was feather-light as it skimmed the skin of my legs and met with the cloth. His eyes darkened in the flickering candlelight and he lifted the hem higher.

Despite my doubts of his affections, or rather my affections for him, my quim felt heavy, and I knew without seeing that it was moistening and preparing itself.

Frederick lifted the hem as far as mid-thigh, before the cloth caught beneath me stopped any further unveiling.

He coughed politely. ‘Please, would you mind assisting me now to raise your nightdress?’

I hesitated a moment, not entirely sure whether to do so, but eventually I lifted my buttocks from the mattress to allow the nightdress to ride high over my nakedness.

For a long moment, my husband gazed at me, or rather my body. His expression was rapt and hungry in a manner I was quite unused to seeing. What had overcome him? Why was he here in my rooms undressing me? He had never done so in quite this fashion before.

A cold stirring of unease rippled across my mind. Had Jonathan said something? Was this some cruel trick he was playing?

No. I could not believe it was so. Frederick is many things, but not intentionally cruel.