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Authors: Juliana Ross
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thoughts into words. I licked my suddenly parched lips and opened my mouth to speak, but no sound emerged, not so much as a squeak.
My first reaction, my immediate response, was a flush of startling, all-consuming joy. He had seen what I had wanted, had marked how it matched his own desires, and had set it before me like a rare and costly gift.
That was the poison of it. I wanted him, but at what cost? I should gain a great deal of pleasure and some moments of companionship, but at the risk of losing my good name, my husband’s good name, and my own peace of mind.
He wanted me for his lover . I shut my eyes, needing a respite from the intensity of his regard, but it was no use. My mind’s eye brimmed full with the memory of how he had looked at me a moment before. As if he wished to devour me, body and soul, and in so doing erase every trace of the woman I was. The woman I had assumed I would always be.
“I thought you were going to ask for a kiss, not an affair,” I managed after a mortifyingly long pause.
“Sorry. I did consider it, you know. Wooing you with kisses, letting things progress more naturally.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t think I could wait, to be honest,” he admitted, the timbre of his voice roughened by need. “The memory of that one kiss has kept me awake for more nights than is good for me. You haunt my dreams. My waking hours, too.”
Our eyes met, and I saw just how badly he wanted me. He wanted me more than reason, more than sense. More than a man ought to want the widow of a keenly mourned friend.
I could only sympathize, for I, too, had spent many uncomfortable hours imagining what might have followed that evening, had I not pulled away. It had been enough to enflame my thoughts and leave me restless with unmet, unspoken desires.
“It hasn’t even been a year since John died. I don’t know if I truly wish to take such a momentous step. If I can take such a step. I’m interested, but I don’t know...”
“I understand.”
“When he died, I was sure I’d never be attracted to another man, not ever. Not because I didn’t wish it, but rather because it seemed impossible. So this is all rather surprising.”
“Of course.”
“You must find my prevarications very tiresome, but may I think on it? I promise to give you an answer without delay.”
“Take as long as you need,” he reassured me, his voice as warm as an embrace. “A woman like you is worth the wait.”
* * *
Again a sleepless night in my solitary bed at Mrs. Dawson’s Hotel, again a wearying journey home by hansom cab and railway and donkey cart, the weight of my unmade decision dragging at me like an anvil tethered to my ankle.
I wanted to go to bed with Tom—of that I had no doubt. But I had been a widow for less than a year, scarcely more than three hundred days. I still woke in the night, reaching out for John, searching for his warmth and comfort in the darkness.
If I become Tom’s lover I would break no vow, nor would I hurt John. He was beyond such earthly concerns, and even if I could speak to him, ask for his blessing, I felt certain he would give it, although as a man of God he would undoubtedly counsel me to marry Tom rather than fornicate with him.
I didn’t want another husband, but I did want a lover, very much so. And in Tom I had found the perfect candidate. He lived far enough away that I could only see him at intervals, which would increase our desire for one another while also avoiding awkward expectations. I had my life in Aston Tirrold and he had his in London. He was a confirmed bachelor, while I had resolved to remain single. Neither of us wanted love.
We would meet once a month, discuss my progress on the guide, and afterward make love. We might even test the veracity of some of my suggestions.
That alone was enough to put the pen in my hand.
Moreton Cottage
Aston Tirrold
Berkshire
29 September 1870
Dear Tom ,
I should like to tell you that I agree to your
My first reaction, my immediate response, was a flush of startling, all-consuming joy. He had seen what I had wanted, had marked how it matched his own desires, and had set it before me like a rare and costly gift.
That was the poison of it. I wanted him, but at what cost? I should gain a great deal of pleasure and some moments of companionship, but at the risk of losing my good name, my husband’s good name, and my own peace of mind.
He wanted me for his lover . I shut my eyes, needing a respite from the intensity of his regard, but it was no use. My mind’s eye brimmed full with the memory of how he had looked at me a moment before. As if he wished to devour me, body and soul, and in so doing erase every trace of the woman I was. The woman I had assumed I would always be.
“I thought you were going to ask for a kiss, not an affair,” I managed after a mortifyingly long pause.
“Sorry. I did consider it, you know. Wooing you with kisses, letting things progress more naturally.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t think I could wait, to be honest,” he admitted, the timbre of his voice roughened by need. “The memory of that one kiss has kept me awake for more nights than is good for me. You haunt my dreams. My waking hours, too.”
Our eyes met, and I saw just how badly he wanted me. He wanted me more than reason, more than sense. More than a man ought to want the widow of a keenly mourned friend.
I could only sympathize, for I, too, had spent many uncomfortable hours imagining what might have followed that evening, had I not pulled away. It had been enough to enflame my thoughts and leave me restless with unmet, unspoken desires.
“It hasn’t even been a year since John died. I don’t know if I truly wish to take such a momentous step. If I can take such a step. I’m interested, but I don’t know...”
“I understand.”
“When he died, I was sure I’d never be attracted to another man, not ever. Not because I didn’t wish it, but rather because it seemed impossible. So this is all rather surprising.”
“Of course.”
“You must find my prevarications very tiresome, but may I think on it? I promise to give you an answer without delay.”
“Take as long as you need,” he reassured me, his voice as warm as an embrace. “A woman like you is worth the wait.”
* * *
Again a sleepless night in my solitary bed at Mrs. Dawson’s Hotel, again a wearying journey home by hansom cab and railway and donkey cart, the weight of my unmade decision dragging at me like an anvil tethered to my ankle.
I wanted to go to bed with Tom—of that I had no doubt. But I had been a widow for less than a year, scarcely more than three hundred days. I still woke in the night, reaching out for John, searching for his warmth and comfort in the darkness.
If I become Tom’s lover I would break no vow, nor would I hurt John. He was beyond such earthly concerns, and even if I could speak to him, ask for his blessing, I felt certain he would give it, although as a man of God he would undoubtedly counsel me to marry Tom rather than fornicate with him.
I didn’t want another husband, but I did want a lover, very much so. And in Tom I had found the perfect candidate. He lived far enough away that I could only see him at intervals, which would increase our desire for one another while also avoiding awkward expectations. I had my life in Aston Tirrold and he had his in London. He was a confirmed bachelor, while I had resolved to remain single. Neither of us wanted love.
We would meet once a month, discuss my progress on the guide, and afterward make love. We might even test the veracity of some of my suggestions.
That alone was enough to put the pen in my hand.
Moreton Cottage
Aston Tirrold
Berkshire
29 September 1870
Dear Tom ,
I should like to tell you that I agree to your
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