Chapter 4
Alfred
Dear Henry,
I hope my letter finds you well—I know that, since May, you have been exhausting yourself every day in Parliament.
You have done so much to get the Company out of India and I know you fear the Crown will be no better.
But I hope now you have a little time to think of yourself and make sure you’re not run ragged.
Your work is so important that I feel foolish writing to you of trifles. And yet I know that is exactly what you entreated me to do. So I will do so in the hopes it will amuse you. And amuse you, I fear, it shall.
I met my new patroness today, the infamous Miss de Lacey.
Will you judge me harshly if I tell you that she is very beautiful?
I have never met a woman so comely. It is deuced inconvenient, particularly since she appears to abhor me for being her father’s choice. Even if she didn’t, of course, such admiration means nothing.
Yours,
Alfred.
It is Wednesday.
Four days after my tea with Miss de Lacey.
And while I have managed to avoid self-abusing again, the visions of her have not abated.
Every morning, I wake up with my heart and cock pounding.
Sleep is merely an invitation to imagine her, it seems. The dreams shock and shame me—but also bring me to untold hardness.
Unfortunately, I never spend in my sleep as I know other men do. It would have saved me an exceptional amount of bother if I did. Even the rectors at Charterhouse used to say a man could not be blamed for what visited him in his sleep.
But I have never been blessed with that type of release.
And such a state of affairs has never been more unfortunate than now.
At odd, terrible moments I find myself cursed with a cockstand. Miss de Lacey crosses my mind and I am turning to the wall or pulling a book over my lap.
Yesterday, I happened upon Mr. Perry on the road to town.
I know he visits Miss de Lacey at Trescott Abbey nearly every day, and he was clearly headed there when our paths converged.
Perry is a stout, middle-aged man, but still, the frequency of his visits and Miss de Lacey’s reputation made me wonder if she beds him.
But now having met her, I tell myself it is impossible. I cannot believe it.
Nevertheless, seeing the man brought her into my mind. I had to feign a broken bootlace.
I couldn’t well walk along in broad daylight with a cockstand raging in my trousers and Mr. Perry at my side.
I don’t keep a carriage. My father regards a carriage for a single man like myself an extravagance, especially when much of my parish is accessible on foot.
I do keep a gig for instances that truly require a conveyance.
When I have a wife, however, I will need a carriage—it is one of the expenses that keeps me from marrying sooner.
These are the pounds and pence that bar me from the marriage, the family, that I want.
At night, I try to lose myself in a novel. Of the chaste variety, of course. But it is no use.
Almost always, I end up taking out my green book. The one that I shouldn’t own. I pull it from beneath the manual by Acton.
The book is the story of a man’s sexual adventures throughout his life. He is everything that I cannot be. It takes him from his youngest encounters to the trysts of maturity.
I read over my favorite scenes, tormenting myself. I imagine doing with Annabelle de Lacey everything that I read.
I am depraved.
I am mad.
I am driven out of my wits.
I fall asleep, somehow, aching with need.
Today I am paying calls, hoping my duties will chase these impossible visions from my mind.
Now, I walk up to one of the cottages on the de Lacey estate.
It belongs to an old couple, a Mr. and Mrs. Ludlow, who live there with their young granddaughter Victoria.
The Ludlows are very elderly and often don’t have enough food to get through the week, so I carry a basket with provisions.
The Ludlows and their granddaughter are sweet, but their state generally depresses me.
Today, I anticipate their dreary cottage with relief, however.
It is probably the one place in the world where it would be impossible for me to become aroused, no matter how much I think of Miss de Lacey.
“Vicar,” Mrs. Ludlow calls as I approach the threshold. “Look at this, Mr. Ludlow. Mr. Saintsbury has come to pay a visit.”
“Good afternoon, vicar,” Mr. Ludlow says. “I’d get up to greet ye, but my leg is giving me a sorry pain again.”
“Aye, it’s true. Whenever it’s about to rain he gets this way. And our Victoria’s feeling poorly too. But I thank God that it is not worse, as we all should. Don’t you agree, Mr. Saintsbury?”
I smile at Mrs. Ludlow’s humble cheerfulness. She is a good woman. It is for the Mrs. Ludlows of the parish that I wish I could be truly pure.
“Many should have your wisdom, Mrs. Ludlow, but I believe few do. I have brought a bit of beef for you, salted already, and potatoes and turnips from my garden.”
“Oh, such generosity! Mr. Ludlow, did you hear?”
“Aye, my love. Mr. Saintsbury, you are very kind.”
“It is nothing. Had I known Victoria was ill, I would have brought her a draught. May I see her?”
At that moment, I hear the clatter of horses and carriage wheels outside.
I glance at the livery and my stomach drops.
I suppress a groan.
No.
No, it can’t be.
I thank God that I am standing in the Ludlow home. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to withstand her presence.
“Oh, heavens, Mr. Ludlow, it is Miss de Lacey. Come to call too. Why we are two of the luckiest old fools in Christendom, with such friends. Mr. Saintsbury and Miss de Lacey at once.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
What on earth is she doing here?
From what I understand, she does not visit cottagers. In the two months since she arrived in Trescott, I have heard not a whisper of it.
I turn.
She is already there.
She is standing in the doorway, wearing severe grey. She should be in deep mourning, but she is scandalously not keeping it, despite the recent deaths of her father and two brothers.
Her nearness makes my head immediately swim.
“Miss de Lacey,” Mrs. Ludlow says, crossing the threshold and clasping her hand. The warmth of the greeting surprises me. “Always a sight for sore eyes, aren’t you, dear?”
“How is Victoria?” she asks. “I came as soon as I could.”
“Ah, that good Mr. Perry. I told him he did not have to go all the way to the Abbey to tell ye. It’s not serious.”
Miss de Lacey shakes her head. “It was no trouble for him. You know that I’m always calling him to the Abbey. If it is anyone causing him bother, it is me.”
“Hush! As if you don’t have all the right in the world. With that big estate to run and all your cares in London too.”
I have gone from surprised to taken aback.
Not only is this banter completely unexpected, but Miss de Lacey’s cold sneer of yesterday has been replaced by an expression of concern.
If her countenance is not quite warm, it approaches it.
She has yet to relinquish Mrs. Ludlow’s hand.
I was unaware that Miss de Lacey even knew the Ludlows personally.
Yes, Mrs. Ludlow had mentioned victuals sent “from the Abbey,” but I did not understand that Miss de Lacey came herself.
“And we have Mr. Saintsbury here with us. I was just telling Peter that we must have the kindest neighbors in all of Dorsetshire.”
Miss de Lacey shakes her head. “We treat you only as you deserve.”
“It is very good to see you, lass,” says Mr. Ludlow.
I stare at this impertinence. To refer to Miss de Lacey as lass!
But Miss de Lacey merely smiles. I have never seen her do so before. Her smile is a bright, searing thing of such exquisite beauty that I feel hollowed out, gutted, at being admitted to its presence.
“I have brought that poultice for your leg. My man will bring it from the carriage.”
At those words an Abbey footman appears carrying a small trunk.
“Dr. Morton has made up a draught for Victoria’s throat too. You know they work but taste dreadful.”
“Aye, but she must drink it. I will see that she does,” Mrs. Ludlow says grimly. “Come.”
She gestures towards both myself and Miss de Lacey. Miss de Lacey moves towards the second room in the cottage. I follow her and find the little girl, Victoria, sitting up on a neat little bed. She has a drowsy expression.
“How is your throat, my love?” Mrs. Ludlow says.
The girl moans and puts her face into the pillow.
“You must be a stronger girl than that,” tuts Mrs. Ludlow. “And you are very fortunate, for Miss de Lacey has brought a draught for you.”
The girl shakes her head, brown curls tossing.
“None of that now,” Miss de Lacey says. “Look up at me.”
The girl obeys. Her face is tear-streaked.
“You must drink it,” Miss de Lacey says. Her voice is stern, but it is still far softer than any she used with me yesterday.
The girl pauses, clearly considering her options. Then she nods.
Her grandmother puts the draught to her lips. I stand there, feeling ineffectual.
When she has swallowed the entire draught, Miss de Lacey gives a nod of approval. The girl smiles.
“Feel better now, Miss Victoria,” Miss de Lacey says, standing.
I follow Miss de Lacey back into the front room. It has begun to rain, and light drops are hitting the ground outside.
“I must away,” Miss de Lacey says. “Come, Mr. Saintsbury. I will take you back to the vicarage. You can’t walk in this rain.”
My mind rebels. No, I can’t go with her. The idea of riding with her in a carriage is agony.
I will humiliate myself. Worse than last time. I know it and my stomach drops with dread.
We reach the outdoors. I gulp the fresh air after the close warmth of the cottage.
“I will walk,” I say, once we are out of earshot of the Ludlows. “I do not mind the rain.”
Miss de Lacey looks at me. Once more, her face is an impassive mask.
“Get in the carriage, Mr. Saintsbury. It is an order.”
“I-I-I-” I stutter, the word stretching in the moist air, an embarrassing, naked sound.
I cannot enter that carriage. I know what will happen. So close to her, I have no hope of not becoming aroused. And if I get a cockstand—a cockstand—in that carriage, I will surely lose my post.
Even Miss de Lacey, the notorious Miss de Lacey, could not countenance such depravity. In her vicar no less.
“I won’t accept a refusal, Mr. Saintsbury,” she says, climbing into the carriage.
Of course, to deny her will also endanger my post.
I swear softly.
I must count on my self-command.
Surely I can withstand her.
I must.
With the stakes so high, I have no other option.
And I have spent recently. Twice, to my shame. Surely I can stave off a reaction.
I climb into the carriage after her.
The conveyance pulls forward.
“You do not keep a carriage?” she asks.
“It is not worth the expense when I can just as easily walk,” I answer, trying not to look at her, trying to keep the inhibiting effect of the Ludlow cottage with me.
“Many men of your station would regard a lack of carriage as beneath them.”
“Foolish. When I don’t need it.”
“Except when it rains.”
“As I said, I would happily walk in the rain.”
She says nothing then. I still haven’t looked at her, but I can smell her delicate scent on the other side of the tight space.
A scrap of vanilla. I noticed it yesterday, but only subtly.
Now, in these close quarters, it is much stronger.
Strange. Vanilla seems too sweet a scent for such a harsh woman.
My blood warms. But I still believe in my ability to withstand her if I can distract myself.
“I didn’t know you were so intimate with the Ludlows,” I say.
“Betsy was my nurse when I was a child,” she replies coolly.
It seems a vulnerable statement, somehow.
I cast my gaze across the carriage.
And, God, it is a mistake.
Her beauty is severe, almost ascetic, especially with her dark dress against the gold damask of the carriage interior. I feel drawn to her in a way that I don’t understand. I want to fall at her feet and pray to her like the Catholics do to their effigies.
Heresy, I scold myself.
I am behaving like a Low church lunatic.
“Ah,” I merely say. “I didn’t realize.”
“Yes. They are the only people in this godforsaken place worth anything at all.”
Obviously, I cannot agree with such a thing. But she is my employer, so I say nothing.
And it is another mistake. Because in the silence her scent and her nearness further infiltrate my consciousness.
I realize, horribly, that I won’t be able to stave off what is to come. I only hope she will not notice.
I begin swelling in my trousers. I attempt to reorient myself on the carriage seat so that my state is obscured.
But I despair of the action. I am hardening, lengthening, and unfortunately my cock is an indecent, large thing. I have only one hope.
My hat, which sits on the seat next to me. I only need reach for it.
I am, without a doubt, hard. My cock is clearly visible in my lap.
Her glance, however, is thankfully out the window.
I reach for the hat, grasping the brim, and the movement attracts her eye.
She studies me for a moment, her brows crinkling.
And then she looks down.
I freeze.
She is a woman of the world.
She will not mistake what she sees.
Nevertheless, I hope that she will somehow miss the obvious.
I close my eyes just for a moment so that I do not have to meet her gaze.
My cock strains. My mortification deepens.
Even within my panic, I fantasize about her touching it.
I try with everything in me, even though I know it is futile, to bring myself back into a state of composure. I try to think about any number of unpleasant and horrible things.
But no matter what I do, my cock, like a goddamned blood hound, knows she is near, and will not flag.
“You have a cockstand, Mr. Saintsbury.”
The words cut through me.
In that moment, I know I will lose my post.
I have no notion of what I will tell my father.
How could I possibly explain?
But such thoughts are pushed from my mind.
Because when I open my eyes, she is staring right at me.