Chapter Nine

Intermission

 

 

 

The next day, Miranda stayed in bed. She was stiff and sore. More than that, she was scared. The risks that she had ignored the previous night were glaringly visible to her in the light of day. Dangerous neighborhood. Dangerous men. She shuddered to think about how the evening might have ended. What had happened to her good sense?

She had always been sensible, careful, responsible. Now those qualities seemed to wither away in the fierce heat of her lusts. Each time lust took her, she crossed another line, moved into more extreme carnal territory. It was not the risk that drove her—at least that was her intuition. It was more a sense that something waited for her ahead, beckoning, tempting her on, a pleasure so pure and blinding that it would erase all her doubts and satisfy her forever.

The phone rang. She did not answer, but strained her ears to listen to the answering machine. It was Mark.

“Hi, Miranda. I just wanted to apologize for last night. After I left, I kicked myself for not giving you what you wanted. What I wanted, believe me. Let’s get together soon and talk, okay? Give me a call.” He left his number and hung up.

His voice made Miranda feel strange. Their few minutes of intimacy the previous evening felt like a dream. In contrast, she could recall every sordid detail of her rutting with the bikers. She knew that Mark would not approve of her adventure on the wrong side of town. Not because he was a prude—something told her that he was more sexually adventurous than one might guess from his wholesome demeanor and mid-western roots. But he would see, as clearly as she did this morning, how she had compromised her safety in pursuit of new thrills.

She was not sure she was ready to talk to him. She needed to ponder the whole situation, figure out what she really wanted, try to second-guess her subconscious. Right now, though, she had a grueling headache. Barefoot, she padded to the bathroom to pee and get some aspirin, then to the kitchen to put down a bowl for Heathcliff. Then she climbed back into bed, pulling the covers over her head to blot out the daylight.

She must have slept. It was mid-afternoon when the telephone woke her. Again, it was Mark.

“Miranda? Where are you? I looked everywhere for you today. All around the department, in the library, at the grad center cafeteria. I hope nothing’s wrong. Please, call me.” His voice was full of worry. Miranda felt guilty for making him suffer. After a few minutes, she got up and dialed the number he had left.

There was no answer, though. Miranda found herself talking to his machine. “Hi, Mark. Thanks for your calls. I’m okay. I just had a really bad headache and decided to stay home today. I’ll talk you soon.”

Hearing his voice, even recorded, somehow made her feel better. She decided to take a shower and get dressed. The hot water was delicious, coursing over her skin, sluicing away her aches and her anxiety. Even the tenderness between her rear cheeks, heightened by the almost scalding water, did not bother her.

I’m going to start making conscious, rational decisions about sex, she thought. I’m going to stop pretending that I am a helpless victim of my own desires. If I want to do something out of the ordinary, I may do it or I may not. Either way, I’ll take responsibility for my choice, and I’ll consider the real-world risks.

Miranda wasn’t sure that she could keep this resolution. Still, she felt relief as she threw on a summer shift and went to make herself something to eat, as if a weight had been lifted from her heart.

Sipping iced tea and nibbling on a piece of toast, she wondered what to do with the rest of the day. It was already close to four p.m. Too late to get any work done, she thought. She opened the back door and stepped out onto the fire escape.

The afternoon was lovely. A breeze off the river freshened the air and rustled the ivy clinging to the alley’s brick walls. Slanting sun burnished the upper windows of the buildings opposite, but at the ground level the alleyway was already in shadow. Unidentified floral scents drifted to her, perfumes made volatile by the day’s warmth.

Miranda suddenly knew what she wanted. She brought a kitchen chair out onto the wrought iron platform. Then she went to fetch her iced tea, and Beatrice’s diary.

 

August 2, 1886

 

This evening my husband escorted me to the theater. The bill was a production of the comic opera ‘The Mikado’, which was so popular in London last year. I was pleased to have my husband’s company. His business occupies him so completely that he rarely has the time to join me for a night of entertainment. Nevertheless, I will confess that I was not much in the mood for the silly lyrics and fanciful plots for which Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan are so renowned.

The affair of the stables still haunted me. The marks had long since faded, but I remembered vividly my abject desire to please the Master at any cost. I could close my eyes and smell the leather and hay, feel again the fiery trace of the crop and the answering conflagration in my sex. Something had shifted in me, that day. There was some subtle rearrangement of myself. My wayward desires burned hotter than ever, if possible. For the first time in my life, though, I was afraid to satisfy them.

Thus, I sat preoccupied through the first act, applauding politely for the songs, the wordplay and the exotic Japanese costumes, but for the most part with my thoughts focused inward. At the first intermission, when my husband suggested that we take some refreshment, I was glad of the chance to move about and shake some of the darkness from my soul.

My husband acquired two flutes of champagne. I fear that I drained mine more quickly than was ladylike. We milled around the hall, greeting acquaintances and my husband’s business associates. I found that I was growing more restless by the minute. Meanwhile, gulping down the champagne had made my head ache. My claret velvet evening costume felt unbearably hot and constricting. Indeed, it was far warmer in that crowded hall than out on the summer street.

Finally, I excused myself and made my way to the ladies’ lounge. This was a spacious, lavishly appointed chamber on the ground floor of the theater. One wall of the lounge was lined with mirrors, lit from above by modern electric bulbs. However, the corners of the room, occupied by chaises and armchairs, were pleasantly dim.

I stripped off my suede gloves and unbuttoned my basque, finding some measure of relief as the form-fitting garment relaxed its grip on my torso. The lounge, being at ground level and well-ventilated, was noticeably cooler than the chambers upstairs. Nevertheless, my head was still pounding. I lay down upon one of the couches and closed my eyes.

I must have swooned, or slept, overtaken by the champagne. I woke suddenly, startled to find a young woman kneeling beside me. She was cooling me with my own rosewood fan, a worried look in her brilliantly green eyes.

“Are you unwell, Madame?” she asked, her voice heavily accented but full of genuine concern.

“Vous êtes française?” I asked, recognizing in her voice some of the same lilt as in my maid Pauline’s speech.

“Mais, oui! You speak French!”

“Of course,” I replied in her own tongue. “My mother believed that one could not be fully civilized without having at least some facility in the French language.”

She clapped her hands together, delighted. Truly, she was an exquisite creature. Auburn ringlets fringed her brow and tumbled in little cascades over her bare shoulders. Her complexion looked white as cream and smooth as butter. Her full lips were painted ruby-red. Her remarkable emerald eyes sparkled with humor and intelligence. I guessed that she was in her mid-twenties.

She was gorgeously dressed, far more fashionably than I, in a gown of apple green faille and cream satin with gold fringe. I recognized the style from last month’s Harper’s Bazaar. Perhaps the mode had reached New York, but no lady in Boston was that up-to-date. The bodice was cut low, baring her elegant neck. Off-the-shoulder, puffed sleeves trimmed with embroidered satin gave the costume an innocent look that belied the significant amount of flesh that it bared. Glancing down, I saw that her delicate feet were encased in pale green slippers, of the same silk as her dress.

“Madame,” she said, concern crowding out the amusement in her eyes, “you look very flushed. Should I call for some assistance?”

“Thank you for your kindness, Miss, but this is only the effect of the heat and an unaccustomed glass of champagne on an empty stomach.”

“Actually, it is ‘Madame’,” she said, smiling and showing me her elaborate wedding band. “Please, though—you must call me Madeleine.”

“In that case, Madeleine, I insist that you address me as Beatrice.”

“Avec plaisir, Beatrice,” she replied, and we both laughed.

In fact, I felt quite giddy, far more exhilarated than could be explained by the alcohol. This woman enchanted me. As we conversed, I found my eyes straying to her bosom, hidden under her embroidered corsage. I traced mentally the graceful lines of her throat, circled with a simple pearl necklace. I watched her pale hands make animated gestures as she told me something of herself.

She was in Boston only briefly, accompanying her husband who had business here. The next day they would take the train to New York City. She had begged him to bring her to the theater tonight, so that she could have a bit of fun. So far their visit to America had involved mostly stuffy dinner parties where the talk was all of railroads, factories and the market for cotton.

“So, have you been enjoying the performance, Madeleine?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, indeed” she replied. “But to be honest, I enjoy your company more.”

Then without warning, she leaned over my reclining form and kissed my mouth.

I thought for a moment that I would swoon again. A tidal wave of desire swept over me as I felt those red lips against mine. Without thinking, I wrapped my arms around her tiny waist and pulled her closer. I could feel the rigid bones of her corset against my chest, and underneath, her vital flesh.

Her kiss was wholly different from any that I have received from a man. There was no sense of urgency, and no attempt at control. She kissed me languidly but with total attention, as if she were tasting some rare vintage. When she opened her mouth and I felt her tongue sampling me, it felt natural to part my own lips and invite her inside.

Kissing Madeleine was simultaneously exciting and comforting. Candlelight, apple blossoms, crisp clean sheets. Sunlight dancing on a lake. Rabbit fur against bare skin. The succulent treasure of a ripe peach. Images like these flooded my mind, as her taste and touch flooded my senses. She slipped her hands inside my unfastened basque and cupped my breasts through my chemise. I gave a little cry of delight. She must have felt my nipples contract and lengthen at her touch. She strummed them rhythmically with one finger of each hand, sending bolts of lightning to my loins. I sighed when she took her lips from mine, then cried aloud as she fastened her mouth on one of my nipples. The thin cambric of the chemise heightened the sensation, sliding over the rigid nubbin of sensitive tissue. Almost desperately, I tried to touch her breasts also, but they were out of my reach.

“Madeleine, my darling,” I whispered. “Undo your waist. Unfasten your stays. Let me savor your sweet naked flesh.” I had never before felt desire for a woman. Now, I wanted Madeleine with all the ferocity I had ever felt for a man. I wanted to run my hands over her creamy skin, tracing her curves, exploring her hollows. I wanted to suckle at her breasts and taste the saltiness of her sweat. I wanted to bury my face in the auburn nest of curls that I knew would guard her sex and breathe in her woman-scent.

Whence came these strange and unfamiliar desires? I knew little of Sapphic practices. Pauline had told me a few stories about women who love women, but the details were always left vague. I wonder about this now, why making love to one of my own sex felt so natural to me, but at the time, my only thoughts were of my gorgeous green-eyed companion.

She would not remove her clothes or allow me to touch her nakedness. However, she bid me lie back on the chaise, lift my knees and part my legs, and I did so gladly. Then she kneeled on the chaise between my spread thighs, and raised my skirts and petticoats. I could no longer see her, but I felt her delicate fingers untying my drawer strings. Then there was the delicious shock of cool air on my private parts. Madeleine had my fan again, and she set up a stiff breeze that ruffled my fur and made me ache for relief.

We remained thus, it seemed, for a long time. Madeleine fanned my cunny and gazed at me. I grew more desperately randy.

“You are very beautiful, Beatrice,” she said finally, in English. “Your sex lips are coral-hued, and curled like some exotic seashell. Your golden fur is silky, covered with your dew.” As she spoke, she began to stroke the hair decorating my mound with light fingers, combing and parting it, without touching the hungry flesh below it. I writhed, trying to press myself against her hands, with little success. I began to understand that Madeleine was no novice in the art of loving a woman.

“Be patient, chérie,” she said. The accent made her voice sensual and exotic. “Relax and allow me to please you.” How could I relax, with this desire raging in me? I whimpered a bit, silently begging her to take me.

Gently she used her thumbs to part my folds and expose that bud of flesh at the heart of pleasure. She blew upon it, her breath warmly moist. I twitched and groaned, feeling myself swell, feeling that I would burst. When I felt her tongue touch me there, I did burst, exploding into a climax that left me dazed.

She was not through, though. Almost before my spasms had subsided, she was using her lips, tongue, and teeth to bring me to a new crisis. She was devilishly skillful. My juices drenched the couch. I gripped the arms and arched my back, grinding my cunny into her face, and spent again. By the end, I had my fingers tangled in her curls, pulling her head into my crotch, destroying her elaborate coiffure. She responded with new, more forceful maneuvers, forcing both thumbs deep into my channel and clamping my clitoris between her teeth.

Finally, when I was weak and trembling, my sex still throbbing from a dozen crises, she sat up so that I could see her. She looked disheveled and dissolute, her cosmetics smeared, her face shiny with my essence. Nevertheless, an angelic smile graced those talented lips, and her beryl-green eyes danced with mischief.

“Well, Madame, I hope that you are feeling better now.”

I sat up and kissed her one more time, marveling at the ocean taste of my own sex. “Madeleine, after your ministrations, I may never recover!”

“Mais non,” she responded with mock seriousness. “Madame has a strong constitution.”

Just then we heard it, the ringing of the bell announcing the start of the next act. We both hurried, trying to repair the damage to our countenance, hair and apparel. As I had partially disrobed while she remained clothed, she was ready first. She swept toward the door, her silk gown rustling, looking only slightly less perfect than when I had first set eyes on her. Her hand on the knob, she turned and gave me one more glorious smile.

“Adieu, Beatrice,” she said softly, “et bonne chance.”

“Au revoir, Madeleine,” I replied. But she was already gone. Meanwhile, I knew in my heart that I would never see her again. For the first time in my history of secret encounters, that thought brought with it some regret.

The second act had already begun when I rejoined my husband in the loge. Players in white makeup and pigtails were prancing about the stage, singing some ditty about the unfairness of fate. Thomas, my husband, gave me a sharp look as I seated myself. He leaned toward me, whispering.

“Are you well, Beatrice?” he asked, stroking the suede that encased my hand. “I was concerned at your long absence. You were very pale when you excused yourself.”

“I was taken by a sudden faintness,” I said. “I was resting in the lounge. I am feeling much better now, thank you.”

Thomas brought my gloved fingers to his lips. “I am glad to hear it, my dear. Certainly, you are looking well, almost glowing.”

“Thank you, Thomas,” I whispered, and kissed his cheek.

I tried to focus on the opera, but its clever logic and catchy tunes were lost on me. All I could see was the couple with their backs to us, two boxes ahead. The theater was dark save for the spotlights, but it seemed that the woman was wearing a green gown and that her hair was a tumbled mass of auburn curls.