CHAPTER SIX #2
Because they weren't men, for a start. Constance swallowed that glib reply before it passed her lips.
Odd, how often the subject came up with Isabel: she'd spent the nine years of her adulthood thus far never feeling compelled to discuss her choices as regards to her marriage.
But then, Isabel was the only one who'd ever asked.
Even Lally, who'd actually shared her bed for a time, had accepted the situation with merry aplomb.
Perhaps the real reason was that she'd never had a conversational partner with whom the matter was significant.
That was something she ought not think too hard about.
"The first was when we were both little more than children," she said carefully.
"Neither of us anticipated more than simple pleasure - we were young and we enjoyed each other.
The one who came after my marriage I did not wed, for obvious reasons.
And the one in-between . . ." She chewed on the inside of her cheek.
"They felt - that our union would not be .
. . advantageous. That there were other paths available to them which would yield greater rewards.
We . . . did not part on the best of terms. And after that, I suppose I saw no point in seeking out a love match. "
It was as close to the truth as she could get without revealing things best kept hidden.
Cecily, her first love, had not caused her any great pain: they had both been fifteen, newly excited by their own bodies and the discovery of their shared desires, and had parted cheerfully upon exhausting all the enjoyment they could get from each other.
Lally had never been anything but a spot of sweetness in the depths of winter, and they'd both known it: she'd arrived in Linden with a family of peddlers to wait out the worst of the winter's rages, and once summer had arrived, they'd been on their way. Emmeline, though - Emmeline had hurt.
You thought I'd give up a household and a family of my own?
she asked. For you? It was the for you that had hurt: not that the calculation had been necessary, but that there had been no calculation at all.
She had never even thought of choosing Constance, and it was only Constance's youthful love-blindness that had made her think otherwise.
She could still remember the days afterwards curled in on herself in bed, with Matilda - who'd thought she'd come down with a fever - fussing and Jack attempting to cajole her back into good spirits.
Once she'd gotten up, she, Jack, and Peter had concocted the marriage plot not long after.
She'd learned her lesson. As for Emmeline, she'd married a glassblower not long after, and she and Constance had never seen each other again.
Constance preferred it that way, and she suspected Emmeline did, too.
"That was poorly done of him," Isabel said. "To make you believe in his good intentions when he meant otherwise."
Isabel's voice broke the spell of her memories.
Constance shook her head. "They did no such thing," she said, firmly.
"I tricked myself into believing it, and found my assumptions were unfounded.
And I learned my lesson, and that was an end of it.
" It had been better that way, truly: having someone in her life with that sort of power to hurt her had been a terrible idea, though she hadn't known it at the time.
Nor was it fair of her to expect someone who did not share in her good fortune to take that sort of risk. She knew that.
It never seemed to stop her wanting, though.
"Still," Isabel said. "A man ought not consort with a woman unless his intentions are honourable. She has far more to lose than he does."
"Well, I lost nothing," Constance said, keeping her voice light, "so no harm was done."
Isabel looked back down at her needlework, a stray curl falling down in front of her eyes. She shook her head, trying to displace it, only to huff in annoyance when it fell back to its original position. Constance took pity on her, reaching out to tuck it behind her ear. "There you go."
For a moment, she thought she'd made a mistake: Isabel had gone very stiff and still. Perhaps she had overstepped; perhaps the gesture had been too intimate. Then she noticed the flush creeping along Isabel's hairline, the way her lips parted to let out a soft breath, and she thought – hm.
"Did you ever consider it?" she asked, keeping her voice as casual as possible. "Taking a lover of your own? I've known women who did, when their husbands were not to their liking." She hadn't, as a matter of fact, but that was hardly the point.
There was no mistaking Isabel's reaction that time: her spine straightened so quickly, Constance was half-afraid she'd hurt herself. "I did not," she said through her teeth, the picture of offended pride. "I took a vow before God, and I honoured it."
Constance shrugged. "We all break some vows.
The confessional would sit empty if we didn't. And I think it's no great sin, to seek comfort where you can find it.
" She watched Isabel closely as she spoke.
"No young man ever caught your eye? Surely there must have been many better-looking than your husband. "
The look Isabel gave her then was blank.
"No," she said, and she seemed genuinely baffled by the suggestion.
"None did. Who could be worth the risk? For – for -" She waved a hand in the air, evidently at a loss for words.
"The women of your acquaintance who did – indulge themselves must have been easily swayed, for I've never known a man who could tempt me to such – such looseness. "
That, Constance believed. Her reaction had been both swift and strong, but it was not the reaction of a woman caught out in bad behaviour.
Rather, the thought of being stirred by a man's touch seemed entirely alien to her.
Of course, some women, having been forced to endure the unwanted attentions of an elderly husband, found the experience unpleasant enough to swear off men entirely.
It was possible Isabel was one such. Or . . .
One of Isabel's hands lay flat on the table, while the other went on going up and down with the needle.
Constance sidled closer to her on the bench and set her own hand beside Isabel's, their fingers lightly brushing.
She did not miss the way Isabel's gaze darted downwards, then away, as if the sight of that glancing touch was too great a temptation.
Her tongue darted out to swipe across her bottom lip, and her other hand paused in its work, fingers curling against her palm.
They had touched hands before, of course: but never with intent like this and she could tell that Isabel sensed it, even if she did not wish to acknowledge it.
"Looseness is as may be," Constance murmured, "but we all need pleasure.
Deserve it, even. And I think you deserve it more than most." She nudged their little fingers together, and felt a thrill run up from her fingertips to her face.
"If you'll forgive me speaking so plainly, life has not been as kind to you as it might have been.
Why not take what is owed to you?" She kept moving her little finger, almost rubbing it up and down against Isabel's.
Below the table, they were seated close enough that they pressed together from knee to hip, the soft warmth of Isabel's thigh snug against Constance's.
There was not a hand's length between their shoulders, and if Constance turned her head, her lips would brush Isabel's cheek.
Isabel visibly steeled herself as she turned to look at Constance full in the face.
Her cheeks were pink, her eyes wide and limpid, and Constance was almost certain that, if she leaned in for a kiss, Isabel would not pull away.
Her body, which had been so stiff with tension only minutes earlier, was now pliable as it curved towards Constance.
Emboldened, Constance moved her hand a few inches over so that it blanketed Isabel's, then twined their fingers together.
"I'm not – owed – anything," Isabel said in a low murmur. "I only have . . . responsibilities. As we all do. You make too much of me."
"Mmm." Constance pressed their palms together. "And if you were – owed something, I mean – would you take it?"
The stray curl Constance had pushed back earlier had fallen out of place again; they were so close now, she could feel it brushing her cheek.
Isabel didn't appear to have noticed. Her gaze had dropped to Constance's mouth, and she licked her lips again, apparently unconscious of having done it.
Constance leaned in. "You say no one ever tempted you," she said, almost in a whisper, "but if someone had – would you . . . ?"
Isabel's lips parted. Constance could feel her breath on her face. But whatever she had been about to say – or do – was interrupted by the sudden, violent sound of the front door being flung open.
# # #
The resounding bang of the door hitting the far wall was loud enough to make Isabel jump.
Constance did too, but she transitioned so smoothly into sliding away from Isabel on the bench that one could hardly tell what they'd been doing.
Isabel whipped her head around, her heart lurching into her mouth – had someone seen them?
What if it was Hilda, come looking for her?
Had there been anything to see, anything a bystander might look on with suspicion?
– but the figure she beheld in the doorway was a stranger, and did not appear to regard her at all.
She was a golden-haired girl who looked rather like Constance, if Constance were ten years younger and a head taller - and if Constance were capable of producing the sort of scowl that animated the girl's face.
The scowl wasn't even directed at her, and Isabel still recoiled from it.