A brush of lips on one cheek would’ve been an acceptable way to welcome a friend or relation to the parsonage—not that the Brontës had many of either. Deep kissing, however, would’ve been out of the question. As for sex outside the protection of marriage, just thinking about it would bring on the vapours.
Charlotte was the only Brontë sister who walked down the aisle. The author of Jane Eyre declined the first marriage proposal she received, assuring her admirer he would find her eccentric and impractical. She was later persuaded marriage would provide ‘clear and defined duties’, and tied the knot with her father’s curate. Lisa hoped for Charlotte’s sake that the bride sailed the heights of ecstasy on her Irish honeymoon. Whatever the curate lacked in expertise, Charlotte would have made up for with her imagination.
Soon after, Charlotte was pregnant. Nausea and fainting fits developed into serious illness. Some say Charlotte was a victim of dehydration from morning sickness. Others insist she caught typhus from a household servant. Either way, Charlotte died four months pregnant on 21 March 1855. Compared to her younger sisters, she’d reached a grand old age—thirty-eight.
As for Emily and Anne, they were afflicted by a disease that had the scandalous ability to cause Heated Blood. Doctors agreed tuberculosis could transform decent people into sex maniacs. Special hospitals were built to keep men and women apart. Winking, waving and smiling were forbidden, along with provocative activities such as hair curling, face painting and letter writing.
Emily and Anne were spared such indignities. They suffered at home, nursing each other into their graves. All the thwarted desire seething under their petticoats was channelled through their pens.
‘You look different,’ Jake said, pouring himself a coffee next morning.
‘What?’
‘Have you lost weight?’
Lisa bent to shake food into two bowls on the kitchen floor. Parts of her body felt deliciously bruised.
‘I’ve never known a bird to eat cat food,’ he mused, watching the cockatoo waddle across the room.
‘Oh, and you didn’t touch your dinner,’ he added. ‘It’s still in the fridge.’
It had been close to midnight by the time she’d crept up the driveway, and only Portia’s window was yellow with light. Lisa had felt like a naughty teenager as she tiptoed upstairs.
Lisa ignored Jake’s comment about her untouched dinner. ‘Kiwi thinks she’s a cat,’ she said as she plonked a tub of butter on the table. ‘She wants everything Mojo gets.’
The cat galloped to Kiwi’s side and crunched contentedly from his bowl. Kiwi dipped her face into her dish and rolled a couple of pellets in her beak.
‘Quite a sight,’ Jake said.
As Lisa rinsed a plate, images from the previous night looped through her head. She’d flopped on her bed, too sated and tired to shower. Besides, clomping around in the bathroom at that hour could’ve raised suspicions.
With Scott seeping through her pores and Mojo wrestling for a comfy spot in the curve of her knees, she’d hardly slept. She’d risen early and showered, soaping away the residues of pleasure. Then, weirdly energised, she’d embarked on a frantic round of floor mopping.
‘Is that a new perfume?’ Jake asked as she passed him the sugar bowl.
Did she still reek of pheromones? She shook her head and set four more places at the table. The grooms-to-be were unlikely to rise for another hour. And Portia was incapable of getting out of bed before eleven a.m.
A pale face appeared at the door. Belle glanced anxiously at the animals.
‘It’s okay sweetie. They won’t bite,’ Jake said.
Belle seemed to think otherwise. Lisa lifted the food bowls and carried them outside. Cat and parrot trailed after her like pilgrims.
‘It’s not the animals so much as the hygiene issue that concerns me,’ Belle said, settling herself at the table.
Lisa opened the fridge and revelled in the feeling of her battered backside. Deerskin burns.
‘Juice, Belle?’ she asked with hostessy charm.
As she poured the orange liquid into Belle’s glass, she realised Jake must’ve felt a similar guilty pleasure after weeks of cheating on her. No wonder he’d come home oozing charm.
‘I mean, there’s such a thing as bird flu,’ Belle said, wiping the rim of her glass with a tissue. ‘And cats get AIDS.’
‘Yes, but they can’t pass AIDS to humans,’ Jake explained in a tone he’d used when helping Portia with her homework.
‘Aren’t you allergic to cats?’ Lisa asked.
‘Not so much these days,’ Jake replied, crunching into raspberry jam on toast.
Belle wiped her spoon and fiddled with her muesli.
‘So what did you think of Scott’s plans for your garden?’ Jake asked.
Lisa felt her cheeks redden. The imprint of Scott’s body was all over her, inside and out. They hadn’t gone near his computer.
‘Great.’
‘What’s he dreamt up?’
Lisa swallowed a gulp of cold coffee. ‘A fishpond.’ She was shocked by how easy it was to tell a lie.
‘What sort of fish?’
She couldn’t tell if Jake was interested or suspicious. Maybe he’d heard her creaking up the stairs. ‘Goldfish.’
‘Won’t the birds get them?’
‘Not if there’s plenty of waterweed.’
Belle scrolled idly through her phone.
‘So what are you two up today?’ Lisa asked, rattling in the sink.
‘Well, I’m certainly not going to a local hairdresser. Have you noticed every woman in this town has the same haircut?’ Belle babbled.
‘Really?’
‘They’ve all got a short-back-and-sides thing going. Like they’ve had head lice or something. We’re going shopping in the city. I mean, what do people wear to gay weddings—sequins and feathers?’
Jake smirked. Lisa wanted to slap him. She assured them the dress code wouldn’t be any different from a traditional wedding.
‘Jake needs new socks, anyway,’ Belle added.
He always did have sweaty feet. Lisa was making such a commotion at the sink she didn’t hear the tap on the back door.
‘Scottie, my man!’ Jake said, offering the visitor his hand. ‘We’ve just been talking about you.’
The flash of uncertainty across Scott’s eyes was quickly replaced by warmth when he saw Lisa. They bathed in a nanosecond of remembered intimacy before shielding themselves behind masks of civility.
Scott heaved what appeared to be a large wooden pole into the kitchen. ‘Put this thing together this morning,’ he said. ‘Thought Kiwi might like it.’
So he hadn’t slept either. The pole had a base at one end and a horizontal perch and feeding bowl at the other.
‘She’ll love it!’ Lisa said, beaming.
Scott placed the stand in a corner and ran a cloth over the wood. It was handsome, as far as bird poles went.
‘So what’s this I hear about the goldfish pond?’ Jake asked.
Scott’s cloth hovered. Lisa cleared her throat. ‘I was telling Jake about the fishpond you’re planning to put in near the driveway,’ she said.
Silence echoed across the kitchen.
‘Oh you mean the billabong,’ Scott said.
She could’ve kissed him.
‘What’s a bigglebong?’ Belle asked.
‘It’s a pond that gets left behind when a river changes course. If we dig down a bit, we might find the remains of one and maybe create some wetlands.’
‘Fascinating,’ Jake said.
The thrill of deceiving Jake was tempered with caution. Scott had just told a lie as effortlessly as she had. Perhaps she’d been too quick to trust him.
‘Yeah, I got my printer going, too,’ Scott added. ‘The plans are in the ute if you’d like to take a look.’
So there was a billabong. She felt weak with relief.