knew the woman in the lacy peignoir. Her mother had expertly applied her powder earlier in the day; her freckles had been subdued, not just on her face but on her bosom and arms. She was, she’d thought to herself, about to step into a life that she hadn’t even tried to imagine since she was a little girl and full of dreams. Downstairs, the musicians played a final song that bid her guests good night. Her bedchamber window was open. She heard the sounds of carriage wheels on the drive as guest after guest left. She tried to be patient, knowing that Hest must remain downstairs until the last one was gone. Eventually, she heard the door close a final time, and recognized through the open window the voices of her parents bidding Hest’s father good night. They would be the last, she was sure. She freshened her perfume. Two carriages departed. She blew out half the scented candles, dimming the room. Downstairs in the house, all was still. In the candlelit bedchamber filled with elegant vases of fragrant flowers, she anticipated her husband’s arrival. Heart thundering, she waited, ears straining, for the sounds of his boots on the stair.
And waited. The night deepened. And chilled. She donned a soft lambswool shawl and settled into a chair by the hearth. The evening insects stopped their chirring. A lonely night bird called and received no response. Slowly her mood sank from expectant to nervous to anxious and then foundered in bewilderment. The hearth fire that had warmed the room burned down. She added another log to it, blew out the guttering candles in the ornate silver stands and re-lit the other ones. She sat, legs curled beneath her, in the cushioned armchair beside the hearth, waiting for her groom to come and claim his right to her.
When the tears came, she could not stem them. After they passed, she could not repair the damage to her powdered face. So she washed her face clean of all pretence, confronted her dappled self in the mirror and asked herself when she had become such a fool. Hest had stated his terms clearly, from the beginning. She was the one who had made up a foolish fairytale about love and draped it over the cold iron trellis of their bargain. She could not blame him. Only herself.
She should simply disrobe and go to bed.
Instead, she sat down again by the fire and watched the flames devour the log and then subside.
Long past the deep of night, in the shallows of early morning, when the last of her candles were burning low, her drunken husband came in. His hair was rumpled, his step unsteady, and his collar already loosened. He seemed startled to find her awaiting him by the dying fire. His gaze walked up and down her, and suddenly she felt embarrassed for him to see her in a nightgown that was virginally white and elaborately embroidered. His mouth twitched and for a second she saw a flash of his teeth. Then he looked aside from her and said in a slurred voice, ‘Well, let’s get to it, then.’
He didn’t come to her. He walked toward the bed, loosening his clothing as he crossed the room. His jacket and then his shirt fell to the thick rug before he stopped by the four remaining candles. He bent at the waist and with a single harsh whoosh of breath, he extinguished them, plunging the room into darkness. She could smell the liquor on his breath.
She heard the bed give to his weight as he sat down on it. There was one thump and then another as he tugged off his boots and dropped them to the floor. A rustle of fabric told her that his trousers had followed them. The bed sighed as he dropped back onto it. She had remained where she was, frozen by shock tinged with fear. All her sexual anticipation, all her silly romantic dreams were gone. She listened to his breathing. After a moment, he spoke, and there was a note of sour amusement in his voice. ‘This would be much easier for both of us if you also were in the bed.’
Somehow she arose from her chair and crossed to him, even as she wondered why she was doing it. It seemed inevitable. She wondered if it was her lack of experience in these areas that had raised her expectations so high. As she left the hearth’s warmth, she felt as if she swam a cold river to cross the cool room. She reached the bedside. He had not said another word to her; the room was so dark, he could not have been watching her approach. Awkwardly, she seated herself on the edge of the bed. After a time had passed, Hest pointed out heavily, ‘You’ll have to take that off and lie on the bed if we’re to accomplish anything.’
The front of her nightgown was secured with a dozen tiny bows of silky ribbons. As she undid each one, terrible disappointment rose in her. What a fool she had been, to tease herself with thoughts of how his fingers would pull each ribbon free of its partner. What a silly anticipation she had felt as she had donned this garment; only a handful of hours ago, its extravagance had seemed feminine and seductive. Now she felt she had chosen some silly costume and assayed to play a role she could never fulfil. Hest had seen through it. A woman like her had no right to these silky fabrics and feminine ribbons. This was not to be romance for her, not even lust. This was duty on his part. Nothing more. She sighed as she stood and let the nightgown slide from her body to the floor. She opened the bedclothes and lay down on her half of the bed. She felt Hest roll to face her.
‘So,’ he said, and the spirits on his breath now brushed her face. ‘So.’ He sighed himself. A moment later he took a deep breath. ‘Are you ready?’
‘I suppose so,’ she managed to say.
He shifted in the bed, coming closer to her. She rolled to face him, and then froze, suddenly dreading his touch. It shamed her that despite her fear, she felt a flush of warmth as well. Dread and desire mingled in her. It reminded her with disgust of two of her friends who had endlessly nattered on about the dangers of being raped by Chalcedean raiders. It had been all too apparent to Alise that they were as titillated as they were frightened by the prospect. Stupid, she had thought them then, making breathless fantasy of lust and violence.
Yet now, as Hest’s hand settled on her hip, she gave a small involuntary gasp. No man had ever touched her bared flesh before. The thought sent a shiver over her skin. Then, as his touch turned hard, as his fingers gripped her flesh hard to pull her close, she gave a low cry of fear. She had heard it might hurt, the first time, but had never feared he would be cruel about it. Now she did.
Hest abruptly gave a small huff of breath as if something were suddenly more to his liking. ‘Not so different,’ he muttered, or perhaps his words were, ‘Not so difficult.’ She scarcely had time to think of them, for with a suddenness that drove the breath from her, he pushed her onto her back and he shifted his body onto hers. His knee parted her thighs and pushed her legs open. ‘Ready indeed,’ he said, and thrust against her that which she had never seen.
She managed to accommodate him. She gripped the bedsheets; she could not bring herself to embrace him. The pain she had been told to expect was not as great as she had feared, but the pleasure she had heard of in whispers and had gullibly anticipated never arrived. She was not even certain that he enjoyed it. He rode her quickly to a finish she didn’t share, and then drew his body apart from hers immediately afterwards. His trailing member smeared warmth and wet across her thigh. She felt soiled by it. When he fell back onto his half of the bed, she wondered if he would now drop off to sleep, or would rest and then approach the matter again, perhaps in a more leisurely way.
He did neither. He lay there long enough to catch his breath, then rolled from the bed and found, at last, the soft warm robe that had been laid out for him. She more heard than saw him don it, and then there was a brief flash of dim light from the hooded candles in the hall. Then the door shut behind him and her wedding night was over.
For a time she remained as she was on the bed. A shiver ran over her. It became a quivering that developed into a shuddering. She didn’t weep. She wanted to vomit. Instead, she scrubbed her leg and her crotch with the sheets on his side of the bed, and then rolled over to a clean spot. She worked at pulling air into her lungs and then pushing it out again. Deliberately, she made her breathing slow. She counted, holding each inhalation for a count of three and then breathing it out as slowly.
‘I’m calm,’ she said aloud. ‘I’m not hurt. Nothing
