quiet surface waters my tale was drifting on, and drop down into the murk of memory where I knew the pain and emotions lurked.
“After that afternoon, things were still well between us, for a time.
We would sneak into the other’s room, or steal away to the hay loft or the woods whenever we could to… ease one another’s adolescent fervor.
Truly, he always initiated our trysts. Outside of when we were alone and actually engaged in the activity, he would not speak of the activities or our meeting to engage in them; nor would he allow me to. He struck me on several occasions for doing so. And there was one time when he trounced me thoroughly for wiping my hand on the sheets. He had been terrified the maid would know. I had explained that I was sure the maids knew everything anyway, and I always used the bed linen. I went to breakfast with a black eye.”
I shook my head. “I remember mother getting that look she has. And Shane daring me to say anything with his eyes. And Father, he did not look at me at all.”
My anger was surfacing out of the murk, and I took a long pull on the bottle. Sarah looked sad and did not ask for it back.
“I think we may need another,” I said.
“You finish it,” she said.
I set it down. I had distracted myself sufficiently. I found the emotional distance I needed again, and went on.
“Then came the period when he began to shun me publicly, not around the family, but around the few friends and acquaintances we had. He called me sodomite and all manner of things. Then he would drink and show up at my room in the wee hours of the morning. He would apologize and explain that people were talking and one of us had to be blamed, and everyone thought I was something of a sissy, anyway. I was mortified, but he always soothed me and I always let him.
Eventually it became more than even my love of him could overlook, and I told him no more and began to block my door.”
I could not let myself think anymore. I simply let the words tumble out, as I had once rehearsed them in some fantasy I held about speaking of it all to someone. It was sad and amusing to me that I had fantasized about such a thing. I concentrated on that, and not the meaning of the words I spoke.
“That was when the real trouble started. That was when he began to use force to take what he wanted, and our liaisons were no longer pleasurable sessions of mutual release but increasingly violent violations upon my person. I would fight him on occasion, and he would beat me senseless and do what he wanted. Yet I still did not take up arms against him. And I knew I could tell no one, as I would somehow be held to blame in all of it. And, in some way I did feel I was to blame.
It was not until he destroyed my horse that I admitted the situation was truly intolerable, and not a thing he would grow beyond or overcome.
And then I left.”
I was pleased with myself in the telling. I was not crying, though my eyes were moist and my throat constricted. Nor had I shouted or broken anything. I had not delved into the emotion much at all.
“I have never relayed all of that to anyone before,” I said.
It was true. I had not told it all even to Alonso, as I had been too ashamed and thought he would think less of me for allowing any of it to happen more than once.
“I am sorry I asked it of you,” she whispered.
“Nay, nay, it was for the best. I should have told someone years ago.”
“I have seen…” She paused, and I found her eyes as teary as my own. She gave me a grim smile. “I have seen him exhibit some of the behaviors you describe. I have heard whispered things about those years. I have examined this room and seen evidence of strife. I have seen him strike servants. I… He has always displayed the utmost kindness to me. Yet, I sense violence deep in his soul. I found it intriguing. I thought of him as being like all the heroes from the stories, virile, stoic, misunderstood. And… now I feel somewhat the
“After that afternoon, things were still well between us, for a time.
We would sneak into the other’s room, or steal away to the hay loft or the woods whenever we could to… ease one another’s adolescent fervor.
Truly, he always initiated our trysts. Outside of when we were alone and actually engaged in the activity, he would not speak of the activities or our meeting to engage in them; nor would he allow me to. He struck me on several occasions for doing so. And there was one time when he trounced me thoroughly for wiping my hand on the sheets. He had been terrified the maid would know. I had explained that I was sure the maids knew everything anyway, and I always used the bed linen. I went to breakfast with a black eye.”
I shook my head. “I remember mother getting that look she has. And Shane daring me to say anything with his eyes. And Father, he did not look at me at all.”
My anger was surfacing out of the murk, and I took a long pull on the bottle. Sarah looked sad and did not ask for it back.
“I think we may need another,” I said.
“You finish it,” she said.
I set it down. I had distracted myself sufficiently. I found the emotional distance I needed again, and went on.
“Then came the period when he began to shun me publicly, not around the family, but around the few friends and acquaintances we had. He called me sodomite and all manner of things. Then he would drink and show up at my room in the wee hours of the morning. He would apologize and explain that people were talking and one of us had to be blamed, and everyone thought I was something of a sissy, anyway. I was mortified, but he always soothed me and I always let him.
Eventually it became more than even my love of him could overlook, and I told him no more and began to block my door.”
I could not let myself think anymore. I simply let the words tumble out, as I had once rehearsed them in some fantasy I held about speaking of it all to someone. It was sad and amusing to me that I had fantasized about such a thing. I concentrated on that, and not the meaning of the words I spoke.
“That was when the real trouble started. That was when he began to use force to take what he wanted, and our liaisons were no longer pleasurable sessions of mutual release but increasingly violent violations upon my person. I would fight him on occasion, and he would beat me senseless and do what he wanted. Yet I still did not take up arms against him. And I knew I could tell no one, as I would somehow be held to blame in all of it. And, in some way I did feel I was to blame.
It was not until he destroyed my horse that I admitted the situation was truly intolerable, and not a thing he would grow beyond or overcome.
And then I left.”
I was pleased with myself in the telling. I was not crying, though my eyes were moist and my throat constricted. Nor had I shouted or broken anything. I had not delved into the emotion much at all.
“I have never relayed all of that to anyone before,” I said.
It was true. I had not told it all even to Alonso, as I had been too ashamed and thought he would think less of me for allowing any of it to happen more than once.
“I am sorry I asked it of you,” she whispered.
“Nay, nay, it was for the best. I should have told someone years ago.”
“I have seen…” She paused, and I found her eyes as teary as my own. She gave me a grim smile. “I have seen him exhibit some of the behaviors you describe. I have heard whispered things about those years. I have examined this room and seen evidence of strife. I have seen him strike servants. I… He has always displayed the utmost kindness to me. Yet, I sense violence deep in his soul. I found it intriguing. I thought of him as being like all the heroes from the stories, virile, stoic, misunderstood. And… now I feel somewhat the
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