their bodies to where he was nudging her, to where he was pressing for entry.
‘I’ll try not to hurt you,’ he breathed. ‘But it might, for a second or two.’
‘I don’t mind, my love. I want you …’
Her hands were on his hips, half expecting to have to hold him back if the pain was too great. She felt him enter, winced as he seemed to stretch her, and she whimpered at the sudden, sharp but anticipated twinge at his first gentle push.
‘I’m sorry …’ He halted.
‘No … It’s all right,’ she cooed. ‘Don’t stop … Slowly …’ Holding her breath, she gripped his buttocks and, without further thrusting, he allowed her to pull him into her at her own pace. She let out a little groan as slowly, cautiously, he filled her up. In some distant recess of her mind she could hear herself quietly sighing as she felt him moving gently inside her, against her … So this was lovemaking … This was how it felt … Well, it was not at all unpleasant, this ultimate expression of love … In fact, the longer it went on the more pleasant it became, the more heightened became her emotions … Soon, she felt Lawson pulsing within her and he let out a great grunt … and then he ceased to move any more, to her disappointment. He slumped, relaxed, spent.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked, unsure whether this was normal.
He nodded, his face in the pillow. ‘Never better.’
She hugged him. ‘Have I made you happy, Lawson? I haven’t disappointed you, have I?’
He shook his head, then rolled off her onto his back and closed his eyes. She ran her fingers gently across his chest, moist with perspiration. By the dancing candlelight she glanced adoringly at his handsome face, at his dark hair all ruffled, at his pulse beating fast in the hollow of his neck.
‘I love you, Lawson Maddox,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, I love you so much.’ She had given herself eagerly, earnestly, and now it was all over. ‘Hold me, Lawson,’ she sighed, snuggling up to him. ‘Love me …’ She wanted to share with him the spiritual closeness, this newly reinforced bond. It had been a wonderful experience, far more pleasant than she had expected.
He stirred slightly, his breathing steady as she waited for his response. She realised with frustration that he was asleep already and she drew the bedclothes up around them. She blew out the candle and lay awake for ages, overjoyed that they had consummated their marriage, that it was much nicer than she had dared hope … Yet she felt there should have been something more … She was disappointed as well that Lawson was not awake to talk about it, to tell him how she felt.
Then he stirred again.
‘Don’t forget to wash yourself out,’ he muttered, and rolled over onto his side.
Next morning they awoke early. She greeted him, her eyes bright with tenderness, her lips smiling her commitment. He made love to her again. This time, there was no lengthy foreplay to make her squirm with desire, and Lawson’s whiskery growth was scratchy against her smooth face as he thrust inside her more urgently than he had last night. But afterwards, she held him lovingly and was pleased to see him contented.
Bath was wonderful. They visited everywhere there was to visit, saw everything there was to see. That day they managed a tour of the city centre, peering in the shop windows of Milsom Street. They visited the recently discovered suite of Roman baths, they took tea in the Pump Room and tarried to listen to the fine band that played some beautifully serene music. When they had satisfied their curiosity as to the peculiar taste of the warm mineral water, they returned to their hotel and made love again.
Next day, Daisy was enchanted by the King’s Circus with its exquisite relief carvings, and thrilled to learn that some of the houses had been owned and occupied by such legendary figures as William Pitt the Elder, Clive of India and David Livingstone. They saw the Assembly Rooms, sadly dilapidated, but she imagined the genteel balls of a bygone age, the tea-parties, the card-playing. Queen Square fascinated her with its houses which were on one side the mirror images of those on the other. She was amused at the Bath chairs and the people who used them. Pulteney Bridge was a treasure trove of little shops and tea rooms that fooled her into thinking she was on a street and not walking over the river. Only when they walked along Grand Parade and she could see the bridge did she marvel at the illusion.
Every day they made love, usually more than once – at times of the day her mother would have frowned on – and Daisy was content that her husband found her so desirable. But she remained disappointed that always, afterwards, she yearned for some tenderness, some show of added affection, while Lawson always seemed oblivious to her needs, usually dozing off. When he touched her, when they laughed and teased and it was obvious they were going to make love, she was always excited, always pleased to give herself. Always there was the promise that some scandalously astounding pleasure was about to explode within her, though it had not yet. Oh, lovemaking was nice, to be sure. It made her toes curl … But surely there was more to it if what some of her friends had told her was true …
And why did he expect her to wash herself out afterwards every time? Surely he realised she wanted his children?
On their first full day back at home in Himley Road, Daisy got up, washed and dressed before Lawson. While she waited for Lawson to venture downstairs she explored the cellar and foraged for coal. She lugged a bucketful up the stone steps to light a fire in the scullery range. Using a draw-tin, the coals quickly ignited, so she would soon be able boil a kettle and brew a pot of tea. As she washed her hands she realised that having returned too late the previous evening to do anything about it, she was now faced with the disturbing reality that there was no food in the house to make breakfast, and no fresh milk to make tea. Pondering whether she should don her hat and coat and rush to the nearest corner shop, she stepped into the sitting room. At once she was drawn to the magnificent painting of the young girls draped over their Italian marble bench and could not help pausing to look at it for a few seconds, before turning to the bleak, uninspiring landscape outside her front window. As she peered out, she saw a milk float coming down the hill. She rushed to the front door, waited for it to approach, then hailed the milkman. He stopped, touched his cap and alighted from the cart.
‘Morning, ma’am,’ he greeted cordially. ‘Can I be of help?’
‘I take it you don’t deliver milk here?’ she said.
‘No, ma’am. Never bin axed.’
‘Could you? In future?’
‘Cerpaintly, ma’am. Am you the missus?’
She smiled at this description of herself. ‘Yes, I’m the missus. And could we have a couple of pints this morning, do you think?’
‘No trouble. I generally carry extra milk. Yo’ never know who’ll be wanting extra.’
‘I’ll fetch a couple of jugs then. I won’t be a minute.’
When she returned the milkman was making a new entry into his well-worn record book.
‘Maddox is the name, in’t it?’ he queried.
‘You know it already,’ she remarked with some surprise.
‘I’ve
