with a welling of desire, the sweet suffocation of anguish, everything blooming magically during this interval of dreams. Every twilight corner of her life was suddenly filled with explosions of light and warmth until at last she could bear it no longer.
Sensing his mistress's limit of endurance, old Falstaff slowed to a gallop, then a walk, then he stopped completely and nibbled new grass while she, in her extremity, slid from his back, her eyes closed. With a gasp she stretched out in the grass, unable to express even in thought what had happened to her. She did not speak but lay absolutely still, one hand covering her breast, her eyes swimming over undreamed-of things.
Shamelessly she lay, her legs still softly spread, and it astonished her to discover, as she always did, how rich was the life of her imagination and how totally removed from the real world.
The fantastic game continued for two hours, she standing now and then to remount Falstaff, then ultimately sliding off again, to lie in the grass and study her feelings and think on things, not in words, but in images, shameful images, shamelessly conceived.
At last she rose a final time, calm and silent and spent, and the restoration commenced, the clean linen withdrawn from her jacket and used to remove the moisture of sweat from her legs and neck and face. Slowly she redressed herself in the restraining garments, still astonished
at how well she felt, how bearable now was the unbearable, her thoughts of James Eden and the coming engagement party, the underworld of her despair. It was simply a matter of learning to live in a world without danger or surprise, but she could do it because she would have to do it. It was expected of her. And she could do it because of her times alone in this meadow, astride that marvelous horse who out of all the creatures, human and otherwise, in her world understood her most completely.
Dressed at last, she withdrew the comb and restored her hair into a tight knot, and splashed lavender water gently about her neck to conceal the odor of human sweat. Then apologetically, gently she imprisoned old Falstaff once again in his bridle and bit, laboriously lifting the saddle and strapping it beneath him while he moaned softly and stamped at the earth.
"Next week," she whispered, in an attempt to console him, and console herself as well. Then with every defense and propriety laced rigidly into place, she pulled herself up into that prim position, knees together, and looked longingly down on the matted grass where she had recently lain with such abandon. Even though she'd been coming to her secret meadow for over a year, only now did she grasp the importance of the place. Were there meadows on Eden Point? And would there be a Falstaff for her?
No answers, and now she made haste for home, made equal haste to forget the sensations which had almost undone her. They were not negotiable where she was going, her undreamed-of things.
Long before she was ready for it, Hadley Park came into view, the rigid lines of the old estate seeming to speak in advance for the rigidity contained within.
And old Rudy was waiting for her, grinning up. "Nice ride, milady?" he queried softly.
"Very nice, Rudy, thank you." The step in place, she slipped easily from Falstaff's back and hesitated a moment for final instructions. "Brush him well, Rudy," she said, without smiling, "and give him an extra portion of hay."
The old man laughed openly. "He'll take what he wants, milady. It*s his nature and nothing I could do would stop or change him."
She looked again at the handsome animal, a slight wistfulness in her eyes. Then she lowered the black veil over her face, lest the wistfulness show, and walked sedately into the cool, dark interior of Hadley Park to face her mother, her father, the dread of the impending engagement with James Eden, and any other hazards, known and unknown which were yet ahead of her.
^cie
The Countess Dowager of Eden
Sensing his mistress's limit of endurance, old Falstaff slowed to a gallop, then a walk, then he stopped completely and nibbled new grass while she, in her extremity, slid from his back, her eyes closed. With a gasp she stretched out in the grass, unable to express even in thought what had happened to her. She did not speak but lay absolutely still, one hand covering her breast, her eyes swimming over undreamed-of things.
Shamelessly she lay, her legs still softly spread, and it astonished her to discover, as she always did, how rich was the life of her imagination and how totally removed from the real world.
The fantastic game continued for two hours, she standing now and then to remount Falstaff, then ultimately sliding off again, to lie in the grass and study her feelings and think on things, not in words, but in images, shameful images, shamelessly conceived.
At last she rose a final time, calm and silent and spent, and the restoration commenced, the clean linen withdrawn from her jacket and used to remove the moisture of sweat from her legs and neck and face. Slowly she redressed herself in the restraining garments, still astonished
at how well she felt, how bearable now was the unbearable, her thoughts of James Eden and the coming engagement party, the underworld of her despair. It was simply a matter of learning to live in a world without danger or surprise, but she could do it because she would have to do it. It was expected of her. And she could do it because of her times alone in this meadow, astride that marvelous horse who out of all the creatures, human and otherwise, in her world understood her most completely.
Dressed at last, she withdrew the comb and restored her hair into a tight knot, and splashed lavender water gently about her neck to conceal the odor of human sweat. Then apologetically, gently she imprisoned old Falstaff once again in his bridle and bit, laboriously lifting the saddle and strapping it beneath him while he moaned softly and stamped at the earth.
"Next week," she whispered, in an attempt to console him, and console herself as well. Then with every defense and propriety laced rigidly into place, she pulled herself up into that prim position, knees together, and looked longingly down on the matted grass where she had recently lain with such abandon. Even though she'd been coming to her secret meadow for over a year, only now did she grasp the importance of the place. Were there meadows on Eden Point? And would there be a Falstaff for her?
No answers, and now she made haste for home, made equal haste to forget the sensations which had almost undone her. They were not negotiable where she was going, her undreamed-of things.
Long before she was ready for it, Hadley Park came into view, the rigid lines of the old estate seeming to speak in advance for the rigidity contained within.
And old Rudy was waiting for her, grinning up. "Nice ride, milady?" he queried softly.
"Very nice, Rudy, thank you." The step in place, she slipped easily from Falstaff's back and hesitated a moment for final instructions. "Brush him well, Rudy," she said, without smiling, "and give him an extra portion of hay."
The old man laughed openly. "He'll take what he wants, milady. It*s his nature and nothing I could do would stop or change him."
She looked again at the handsome animal, a slight wistfulness in her eyes. Then she lowered the black veil over her face, lest the wistfulness show, and walked sedately into the cool, dark interior of Hadley Park to face her mother, her father, the dread of the impending engagement with James Eden, and any other hazards, known and unknown which were yet ahead of her.
^cie
The Countess Dowager of Eden
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