CHAPTER SIX
Abby led Lizzy down a hall to a gallery.
Well lighted by large, dual south-facing windows, the room was a veritable museum of erotic art: paintings, sculptures, engravings and pottery of all cultures.
From ancient Greek kylixes to contemporary Italian paintings, the art varied from subtly libidinous to graphic depictions of coition.
Lizzy wondered that she could witness it all, but she was to find the articles of the room paled in comparison to that which Mrs. Trenwith would later reveal.
The nearest wall was lined with rather benign paintings, including replicas of Annibale Carracci’s Loves of the Gods, Raphael’s La Fornarina, Francisco José de Goya’s The Nude Maja, and Reuben’s The Three Graces.
“The carnal is celebrated in other parts of the world,” Abby said. “In some, copulation is even a means to spiritual fulfillment. In China, the act of mating is an exchange of yin-yang, or the forces of life. The pleasure of a woman is encouraged to increase the essence of yin.”
Lizzy looked upon a porcelain figurine of a man and woman, both naked, lying together. He had a hand between her legs.
“From the Ming Dynasty,” Abby said.
They walked to a series of scrolls, each depicting a couple in a different position. Though the couples were often partially clothed, the private areas of the bodies were graphically drawn.
“Japan draws much of its influences from ancient China. These are called shunga, which I believe means ‘picture of spring.’”
Lizzy looked at the scrolls, incredulous that such contortions of the body were possible or desired.
They walked to a tapestry of an Indian prince crouching between the spread legs of a woman.
Lizzy liked the setting of the terrace with the moon above the couple, who lay upon multicoloured fabrics surrounded by ornaments.
The man and woman were gazing at each other with small smiles upon their faces.
“There is an ancient Hindu text that describes kama, or sensual pleasure, as one of four goals to a full and virtuous life.”
“Such perspectives are certainly appealing, seductive even, but also convenient,” Lizzy commented.
“Would you define morality as abstention from temptation?”
“It is not I who defines morality.”
“There are men and women who possess the inclination to sin, be it gluttony, adultery or murder. There are those who possess the tendency to be noble and virtuous. But in all of us, whether we sin or strive to be all that is good, there resides desire. Were we endowed with this quality merely to prove our will and ability to overcome? Are we the more honourable if we denied our thirst or other bodily urges?”
Lizzy put a hand to her temple. These were questions of a philosophical nature and required greater thought than she was capable of at the moment.
Her mind was still reeling from the information and the visuals before her.
She could not stem the feelings stirring within her from the provocative art.
Try as she might, she could not view the art before her dispassionately.
They proceeded to a display of Grecian and Roman ceramics and marble statues.
One marble statue was the god Pan with an extremely large phallus.
Beside it, upon a pedestal, lay a Roman oil lamp depicting a woman between two men.
Lizzy paused in front of a bronze figure of a woman, her legs spread, her hand at her crotch with what appeared to be a cock between her fingers. Lizzy gazed upon it more closely.
“I do not think it a penis,” Abby noted of Lizzy’s scrutiny, “but an exaggeration of the female clitoris, a most gifted organ.”
Lizzy flushed deeper. She had discovered the bud at an early age when exploring her own body beneath the bedcovers and had accepted that the most delightful and tempestuous sensations emanated from the stroking of it.
Feeling Abby’s gaze upon her, Lizzy sauntered to the next exhibit, a series of sketches of a naked woman locked into wooden stocks while a man holding a flogger stood behind her; a woman with her wrists and ankles tied to the corners of a St. Andrew’s cross, displayed before a crowd of men; and a woman hung upside down from the ceiling while men and women engaged in various positions of coupling below her.
Lizzy could not refrain from gasping. She wanted to study the pictures more but wondered if it would appear unseemly to show too much interest.
“Scenes inspired from the works of the Marquis de Sade,” Abby supplied. “I think they are quite well done.”
“You say he intended to criticize institutions and the hypocrisy of all manner of men?” Lizzy asked, attempting to ascribe a more virtuous merit to the man’s writings.
“And to titillate. To show that we are all capable of wantonness.”
Lizzy, her pulse quickened, said nothing. She had a sudden urge to confide her own dark desires to Mrs. Trenwith, but she barely knew the woman.
“The salacious quality of pain intrigues me,” Abby said, gazing at the sketches, “the enjoyment of it.”
“The enjoyment of it?”
“Great pleasure can arise from pain, and fleshly joy can be found from such forms of torment as you see here.”
Her heart now pounding, Lizzy could barely swallow. The warmth in her loins churned more strongly.
“This collection is the work of many years between my husband and I,” Abby continued, appraising the contents of the gallery with genuine gratification and even affection. “But you are overwhelmed, I think. Perhaps I had best return you to the Parsonage.”
Feeling in disarray, Lizzy nodded. Abby thanked her for her assistance with the books and determined that Lee would take her home in the carriage.
“If you wish, you may return the morrow to continue with the books, but if you elect, after contemplation, that you have no wish to continue your acquaintance with me, I shall think you no less for it,” Abby said.
“I shall continue to regard you as a delightful and intelligent young woman, Miss Elizabeth.”
Only when the carriage had pulled away from Trenwith House did Lizzy begin sorting through her astonishing afternoon.
The exhibitions of art had stimulated an uncomfortable warmth within her, much as the Cleland novel had.
She would require many more walks of great length to dispel the visions in her head.
But perhaps it was fruitless to attempt to dismiss what, if Abby were to be believed, naturally resided in mankind?
Instead of fleeing her desires, might she find it less taxing to accept them, or embrace them even, as Mrs. Trenwith had done?
And what was she to think of Abby Trenwith?
The woman’s prurient interests were most unexpected, but did they diminish her intellectual and charitable qualities, her pleasing disposition, and her refreshing candor?
Lizzy reflected back upon the art. The intercourse between a man and a woman was natural.
But what of the other representations—of a man placing his erection in a woman’s mouth, of men and women reveling in orgy, of Greek pederasty, and of torture?
The dinner at Hunsford Parsonage was a quiet one.
No one questioned Lizzy on her visit with Mrs. Trenwith.
Despite his confidence in Lady de Bourgh’s assessment of Mrs. Trenwith, Mr. Collins did not seek corroboration of his earlier counsel.
Lizzy was glad not to have to answer to any inquiries.
As much as she might disdain being in agreement with Mr. Collins and Lady de Bourgh, she could not wholeheartedly disagree with them.
Was Mrs. Trenwith to be trusted? Were her noble qualities genuine?
Was it fair to question them simply because of one fault—if it could be deemed a fault?
Mrs. Trenwith had certainly been under no obligation to reveal all that she had.
She could have denied knowledge of the Marquis de Sade novel.
Instead, she had been forthcoming, unabashed, even brave—for what she had shared with Lizzy, she risked criticism and scorn—but for her avowed disregard for the opinions of others.
Lizzy crawled into bed that night but was unable to sleep, her mind still whirling.
She shuffled through each image and repeatedly recalled the Indian tapestry.
Desire, already simmering since the afternoon, flared with a strength she could not ignore.
Her hand crept between her thighs and found its way to that little bud of flesh at the apex of her womanhood.
Languidly, Lizzy stroked the nub with her forefinger.
The application generated an agitation throughout her lower body, but worse was the absence of it, for when she stopped her petting, she felt bereft.
Her body wanted the return of that agitation.
Resuming her ministration, she stroked, pulled, and pressed herself there till the sensations sweetened, the indulgence richer than the most decadent trifle or the ripest sweetmeat.
Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to bathe in the pleasant aggravation.
She recalled all the artwork in Abby’s gallery.
Most of all, she recalled the sketches. She could not deny that she was drawn to them most. Rather than find them revolting, the representations stimulated.
She imagined herself bound to a cross and displayed to the lascivious gazes of several men.
The sensitivity between her legs grew and intensified until small but potent paroxysms rippled through her body.
She nearly cried aloud as her limbs jerked of their own accord.
Though her caresses now became uncomfortable, the satiation she felt was nothing short of wondrous, a true reward for her efforts.
She lay in the pleasant glow of fulfillment and knew then that desire, rather than dissipating, had come nearer to full bloom, and left her wanting of more.
More stimulation. More wantonness. More wickedness.
*****