The Journal of a Vicar's Wife (13 page)

‘Why are you here?’ The words escaped my lips without me bidding them, and my eyes locked for a time on his rigid, swollen staff, protruding obscenely from beneath his breeches.

‘Because you are my wife,’ he replied, ‘and it is my duty.’ His face was unreadable.

I confess, such an announcement made my body spasm, for it was quite unlike Frederick to say such a thing.

He was correct; naturally the Bible speaks in no uncertain terms of the reciprocal duty of the husband to please his wife. Yet these were verses my husband had largely ignored.

He moved across my body with such surprising grace I felt myself cry out and close my eyes.

In that instant I could feel his breath, hot and wild at the juncture of my thighs. I froze, and another question tumbled from my mouth.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I am giving you pleasure,’ he whispered. His voice strained. ‘I have clearly been remiss in my duty.’

Then he moved forth, nudging my thighs apart. Again, I could feel hot, moist breath on my most intimate flesh.

‘Oh!’ I gasped. Frederick’s tongue moved and did the most unexpected thing. It flickered over and around my womanhood, searching beyond the curling hair there to meet with my most private flesh.

It was exquisite.

If an act could be likened to a jewel, his mouth meeting with my quim was like a tremendous Indian sapphire – unutterably beautiful and enthrallingly sensual.

I had the sense to wonder,
why now
? What had happened to make him behave so after such a long period of neglect?

I gasped, feeling my flesh contract beneath him. I could feel the bristles of his chin press between my legs as his tongue delved into my most private heat.

I writhed, wanting more,
needing
more, but equally bewildered by his unexpected ministrations. My womb coiled within my belly as his kisses to my sex grew in passion and fervour.

As my flesh raced to its crisis, Frederick pulled away, leaving my womanhood pulsing with need.

‘It is said … in I Corinthians 7:1–40, that “it is good for a man to have sexual relations with a woman … “’ He lowered his head and thrust his tongue deep into my body.

My word, he was right!

It was very good!

My sex contracted again, and I could feel pleasure building as he moved with smooth lusty licks and kisses. I threw my head back against my pillow in abandon and heard Frederick utter a groan under his breath. He thrust his tongue forth again and I arched to meet him. The resulting sound was wet and fleshy, and the sensation tore another cry from my throat.

“The husband should give to his wife her conjugal rights, and likewise the wife to her husband,” he growled.

‘Yes!’ I cried out at this almost miraculous acceptance. Faster still he licked, and on occasion took those hidden, private lips and sucked on them as a babe may do a nipple.

‘Oh, Frederick,’ I sobbed, and felt my thighs flinch and spasm as my end neared. His pace increased until his tongue danced frantically against my quim. I looked down then, only to see my pious husband’s darkly curled head buried betwixt my the pale flesh of my thighs. At that wicked, delightful sight, I could think no more.

‘Oh,’ I moaned and my entire body tightened. Frederick offered more little whips of his artful tongue.

How curious that this tongue that has taken me to incredible ecstasy is the very same one that doles out loathsome sermons!

I met with my crisis in a crushing wave of pleasure. The heat verily exploded from my intimate parts and roared through my body. It caused me to shudder violently and tighten my thighs about his face.

‘Maria!’ he groaned, his call muffled from the depths of my sex. For a moment, I feared I may have suffocated him, and my thighs fell open to allow him release.

With a gasp he raised his head, and I could see the evidence of my pleasure slick and shining over his chin and lips.

‘Maria,’ he said softly.

I did not know what to say, I was so utterly confused. What devil had possessed him to act this way? To offer me pleasure without any attempt at procreation was something I’d thought him entirely incapable of. In six years he’d not done such a thing.

‘Yes?’ I responded. ‘Do you wish to take your ease now?’ I asked. For certainly, even in the position where he lay, I could see his erection strain against his breeches.

His face contorted. ‘No.’ The word was abrupt and final.

My heart stuttered. ‘What do you mean, no?’

I could see the fine skin on his cheeks blush darker in the candlelight.

‘I have long denied you what is rightfully owed to you as my wife. My own holy self-denial should not burden you. I have been remiss in attending to your needs.’

I felt myself frown, ‘But … why now?’ I replied, uncertain of what else to say, for certainly, I have a terrible habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

‘Does it matter why I choose this moment over another?’ he replied, moving to stand, his tone growing agitated.

It did matter, very much. Yet I did not wish to irritate him with further questions.

A sigh broke from my mouth and I said nothing more. For a moment, my husband lingered by my bedside, as if he wished to say something more. Yet he did not.

‘Will you deny yourself always?’ I asked eventually.

He looked at me long and hard. ‘No.’

My heart seemed to be swelling with a delight I did not expect. Was this truly a change for the better? And heavens, what had brought it forth?

Thursday, 29
^th
July 1813

I can scarce believe it enough to write the words, but my husband has come to my rooms nightly to take me to the most dizzying of pleasures. Yet in doing so he has continued to deny himself. Not once after I’ve reached my release has he sought out his own. With his mouth damp from the flesh of my sex, he kisses my hand and departs, his phallus stretched and unsatisfied beneath his breeches.

I do not know what to make of it, certainly I do not. One would naturally assume that with his new, peculiar taste for my quim, his piousness may have decreased, but this is not at all the case. This day, over luncheon, my husband was moved into a veritable liturgy, lecturing me ceaselessly of my refusal to renew my Bible studies.

‘Mrs Reeves, it becomes you very well to continue in your reading. I have noted many passages which would be worth your consideration, and encourage you to read them.’

I looked up from my ham and bread. The heavy sinking of my heart indicated that I should just agree and move onto less controversial topics. Yet I did not. It seemed I couldn’t stop myself from responding in the contrary.

‘Yes, quite, I am certain I should. However, I have come to feel that it is rather your duty and passion to read incessantly of the Holy Book, not mine. So I hope that you will forgive me, when I refrain.’

Of all the expressions one could have expected from the pious Vicar at my response, grief was not one. His face contorted and hurt blazed across it, as unmistakeable and painful as a whip crack.

‘I would rather you reconsider,’ he said, his lips tight.

I know that I should be grateful that my husband satisfies my fleshly needs, and perhaps I am a terrible woman for denying him this.

Am I? Heavens, I’m a sinner surely, but, I do not wish to read the words of the Holy Book. Is it not enough I live with a man who spouts them continuously?

Certainly, it is.

I understand that my husband is currently making an attempt to offer me the intimate affections I have long craved from him – but I do not feel that his attempts at this late hour in our marriage warrant me continuing my Bible studies. It seems like a paltry trade. Would it not be just another sin to add to my mountain of others? I could read in falsehood, without thought or reflection, but surely that is not what he wishes?

‘Tell me, husband.’ I said instead. ‘What has provoked your renewed interest in my biblical knowledge?’

He frowned. ‘I have never lost interest in it,’ he paused, then added softly, almost with an embarrassed note. ‘Can you not see that I am trying to please you?’

Of course I could.

‘But why do you want to please me? You never have before.’ Perhaps my words were abrupt and cruel, but I could think of no others. I gestured helplessly around the dining room in confusion.

He flinched, and another look resembling hurt flicked over his dark eyes. ‘Must there be a particular reason?’ he replied eventually.

‘No, there doesn’t need to be any reason,’ I agreed. ‘But there usually is.’

The hurt dissolved, and he smiled then, his lips curling and offering me a flash of white teeth.

At that smile, heat flushed through me, and settled low between my legs.

Curse my weak, lustful body.

If Frederick noticed the flush that spread up my décolletage to my cheeks, he was gentlemanly and did not mention it.

‘Has it to do with Jonathan?’ I asked, eventually. ‘Are you still concerned about him? I have noticed you speaking quietly with him, often.’

There. I had announced my concerns.

The smile dropped from his face. ‘Maria,’ he said, and the use of my name startled me. ‘You know I abhor discussions such as these.’

I felt a flush of irritation. ‘Yet I wish to know. I cannot fathom you. I cannot understand you, and I would very much like too.’

Frederick paused, and his long fingers toyed with the stem of his wine glass. I watched his fingers skim down the cool length, and my breath hitched.

‘Then yes, I have spoken to Jonathan,’ he admitted replacing the wine glass after draining its red contents.

Oh dear!
I thought as my heart began to hammer. ‘And?’

Frederick was still a long and painful moment.

‘He confided to me that he thought you were lonely, and that I have been neglecting your needs. It was he who told me I was remiss.’

I swallowed. My nerves swelled like a choking lump in my throat.

‘He did?’

I wished to cry. After the revolting scene I’d created with poor Miss Martha Swan and Jonathan, I did not deserve his sympathy – and yet, this was exactly what he’d given me.

‘Yes,’ Frederick affirmed, his voice soft and unsure. ‘He said that although I give you home, food and safety, I have not offered you passion nor affection in our marriage. He told me women require these things.’ He paused and rubbed his chin boyishly. ‘The Bible also says much similar, and it is to my shame I had not considered those passages as well as perhaps I should.’

I nearly laughed, but did not. For how was one to respond and retain any modicum of dignity?

‘My dear,’ Frederick continued earnestly. ‘I hope in time you will come to love and forgive me my oversight.’

The tiresome lump in my throat grew tighter.

Love him?

I had discarded that notion years ago.

Could I love Frederick?

I like him well enough, particularly when he is not being the pious bore of a Vicar. But love? How could I love him, when I know he does not love me? Lord and Saints, Frederick had to be
told
to offer his wife affection, rather than giving it freely of his heart. I am not at all certain Frederick is capable of that kind of love.

Am I even capable of it?

The thought left me cold. Have I ever loved anyone? I thought back to my parents – an aloof and distant couple who inspired no deep and abiding affection in their children. Had I ever loved Jonathan? The answer was immediate; no. When he courted me, I was thrilled by the attention and the possibility of escape from my dreary existence in London. It was not love that lured me to him; nor was it love that lured me to Frederick.

I looked up at my husband. Goodness knows what the poor gentleman saw in my face, but I could readily see something in his. Care and concerned blazed there, as bright as the sun.

All of a sudden, I could stand to look upon him no longer. My sins weighed so heavily on my shoulders I thought they might break.

‘Excuse me,’ I choked, and made to stand.

‘Maria?’ he called, and extended a hand. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

I could not explain, I simply could not. Instead, I fled to my room.

* * *

I’ve stayed in my room all day now, though my husband has tried twice to coax me out.

How have I never known this of myself?

Am I truly a loveless woman and is it, after all,
my fault?

I simply do not know.

Wednesday, 4
^th
August 1813

I have of late, been feeling a sense of intense guilt over my adultery, particularly now that my husband has been making increasingly ardent and sensual attempts to please me.

His concern is such that he has actually noticed my melancholia; something he has never noted before. Why, today he sent for Mr Cole, the physician.

I argued fruitlessly with him, stating that I am quite well, but Mr Reeves would have none of it. Indeed, his worry seemed merely intensified by my protestations.

During a lengthy examination, involving palpating of my belly, listening to my heart, and observation within my mouth, Mr Cole suggested that I am suffering from melancholic hysteria. How a man is able to determine such a malaise from the observation of the physical body rather than the mind is quite beyond me.

Oh, but who am I to argue with the physician? He is right, is he not? I most certainly suffer a deep melancholia – a melancholia entirely of my own making. I could argue the notion of hysteria, yet I did not, for what good would it do? Mr Cole would not listen; men rarely truly listen to women at any rate. No doubt our protestations are merely evidence of hysteria.

To this end Mr Cole insisted upon me taking laudanum. He even poured it into a spoon and cajoled me into swallowing it. Having never had need for the stuff previously, I was unhappy to discover it is a loathsome concoction! Its bitterness was lightened with sherry, but it remained utterly foul, and, far from releasing me from my melancholia, it made me ill. I explained to both gentlemen that I knew exactly what would shift my melancholy mood; a tipple of brandy – or two. I’ve often found it takes the sharp edge off my melancholia nicely.