Chapter Nineteen #3
Then, Bram became still. With a great groan, he collapsed across my back, and I fell beneath him.
I felt the hot rush of his seed, the shudders that ran through his body.
When they ceased, he lifted himself slightly and withdrew, then rolled onto his side.
His arm blended into mine. I could feel a trail of stickiness across my thigh; the throbbing of my cunny; smell his hot manliness.
Bands of frustration tightened my loins.
Boldly, I twisted towards him, reached for his hand, and drew it towards my aching centre.
I parted my legs so there was no mistaking what I wanted.
Before I could place his hand there, he snatched it away, and began to untangle my hair, which had come loose.
Then, almost solicitously, as if I was an invalid, he covered me with the blankets.
He sighed and drew me into his arms. My head was against his chest. The coarse hairs tickled my cheek; his heart began to resume a steadier beat.
With vacant eyes, I watched the Stygian silhouettes climb the walls and ceiling.
What had just happened? It was so unexpected, so …
What? Passionate? No, it wasn’t that, though there was no question Bram had been filled with desire.
But was it for me? Or was I simply the vessel he used to quench it?
Why had Bram turned me over? Was it so he didn’t have to see me?
The few times Bram and I had relations, perfunctorily, as if we were strangers, I’d been on my back.
Was this his preferred way? Or was it because I was now a mother, he couldn’t bear to look at my body?
I searched for something to say, to break the silence between us. All my words had fled. In the space they left, sadness, and another emotion I didn’t want to identify, crept.
Then, still holding me close, Bram murmured. ‘You were wonderful on stage tonight. Magnificent.’
‘How could you tell?’ I whispered hoarsely. ‘I looked and behaved just like ninety-nine others.’ Should I tell him about Oscar’s flowers?
No. I’d keep Oscar’s gift to myself.
I loved her.
Bram didn’t answer. He lay there, eyes closed, his breathing gradually deepening.
After a while, I raised myself carefully on an elbow and studied him.
Watery moonlight entered the room through the gap in the curtains.
He looked so young in repose, all the cares of his daily life erased from his features.
The lines were softened, his wide mouth immobile.
Even the dark circles beneath his eyes faded into other planes and angles.
The little pulse in his neck, just visible where his beard ended, fluttered.
How vulnerable was a throat, I thought. Bram’s was very white, completely unblemished.
The steady beat, so revealing of one’s heart.
When it came to me, did Bram have a steady heart?
Damn the niggling doubts that ate at my peace.
Only, they didn’t arise from nowhere, did they?
Why could I not love him the way a wife should?
Why could I not love him as I had Oscar …?
Could I love another man? Should I? It wasn’t vain to acknowledge there were men eager to bed me – James Whistler, William Terriss, John Millais, even Gilbert’s friend, the up-and-coming politician Harry Cust. Then there was the Prince of Wales.
Believing me to be a member of the chorus, he’d made his intentions apparent in the Beefsteak Room tonight.
When Ellen told him I was Bram’s wife, it only increased his ardour.
I wondered what would happen if I showed interest in Oscar. What would he do?
I burned with shame for even thinking it. I was no Ellen, no Lillie Langtry. God knows, I could never break my vows. Was it so great a sin to imagine doing so?
I lowered myself back onto the pillow, trying to ignore the hunger between my legs, the stickiness. I should rise and return to my own room, sort my tempestuous thoughts, but I didn’t want to disturb Bram.
After a long while, just when I thought I could make my escape and was beginning to slide out of the bed, Bram rolled towards me. His member pressed into my side, hard, primed. He sighed with such longing, it gave me pause.
‘Oh, Henry,’ he murmured.
Oh, Henry.
How those words haunted me; those, and the memory of his unyielding manhood, rigid against my thigh.
Together, they plagued my every moment. I drifted about the house, simmering with confusion.
I was plunged into a tossing ocean, and every day was a fight to keep my head above water.
Unable to think of hosting an afternoon tea, I ceased to send out invitations.
The thoughts I’d buried deep in my heart now bubbled to the surface. Was my marriage a sham?
Oh, Henry.
I began to look at my husband anew. Suddenly, his friendships with other men, with that poet he wrote long ardent letters to in America, with his friend Hall Caine (a foppish little man, I thought cruelly), became freighted with new meaning.
I’d observe the way Bram would clap brawny tradesmen on the back, his palm lingering.
How he’d bend towards the stagehands, smiling into their eyes.
How he’d stand close to handsome William Terriss, whispering, before they’d burst into gales of laughter and clutch each other’s forearms.
But William had a wife, didn’t he? Henry and Ellen were lovers.
Not that it always made a difference. I’d been wondering if Bram had a mistress, but what if he sought satisfaction somewhere else altogether?
I’d heard stories about men who, to hide their real inclinations, married and had children.
Was I a disguise Bram wore to hide his true nature?
I began to wonder where he went every night after the performance.
Was it the Beefsteak Room as he said? Did Henry really keep him there entertaining sponsors and patrons until the sun rose?
Or was Bram lurking in some seedy establishment that catered to certain tastes, a nearby molly house?
What were the men up to when they retreated to Henry’s apartment in Grafton Street?
Oh, Henry.
I wanted to say something, ask him, only I didn’t know how.
My entire life I’d spoken my mind, refused to be cowed …
until now. This was different. What would I do if Bram told me something I didn’t want to hear?
Leave him and return to Ireland? God forbid, did I divorce him?
Imagine what the family would say. What our friends, society, or those who made a game of such things would mutter.
It was all well and good for Genevieve Ward – she was a countess, an applauded actress.
Who was I? Who was Bram? We’d be utterly ruined.
Not just me and Bram, but our son as well …
What if I was wrong? What if this was something my wretched imagination had conjured so I didn’t have to be intimate with my husband anymore?
I was locked in a turmoil of self-doubt and unhappiness.
How did other women deal with such things?
Their worries about their husbands? Their marriages?
Themselves? Who did they unburden themselves to?
There was no-one I could confide in, not even Ellen.
She loved Bram. I couldn’t put it in a letter to Phil either. I just couldn’t.
I was completely alone in this.