clock on the mantel and the distant sounds of the servants clearing breakfast from the dining room. "Forgive me, my dear," said Beatrice in a strained voice. "You are like her in so many ways, I simply assumed you were like her in this respect, as well. .."
Jessie looked up quickly. "Like whom? Mother, what are you talking about?"
"Never mind, dear." Beatrice reached out to close her hand over Jessie's. "I hope you took care not to say or do anything last night which might lead Harrison to think you hold him in aversion."
Jessie blinked at her mother and might even have laughed, had it not been for the strange burning in her chest that stole her breath and left her feeling empty and sad. "A moment ago, you were warning me against allowing Harrison to take liberties with me. Now you seem to be telling me that I must be careful not to discourage him."
"Jesmond ..." Beatrice paused, as if summoning the will to put her thoughts into words. "These things are so awkward to speak of, but now that you are to be wed..." She drew in a deep breath and let it out in a shaky sigh, her gaze resolutely fixed on the large, ornate Sevres vase near the windows as she forced herself to go on. "Most women find the male—" she hesitated, searching for an acceptable term "— physique both threatening and repulsive, and the intimacies of the marriage bed unpleasant. Nevertheless, it is something that we all must endure, when our time comes. It is the price we pay for our children, our homes, our positions in society." She brought her gaze back to her daughter's face. "Remember that."
It was Jessie's turn to look away. Her mother's words hung in the air, bleak and sad and whispering softly of things that had not been said, that would never be said. Jessie rose and went to stand before the white marble mantel to stare down at the empty grate. She had never had any illusions about her parents' marriage. How could she have, when she had never seen them kiss, never known them even to touch when they could avoid it. They had lived their lives in parallel rather than together, going through their days in the same house yet not really sharing it, their dislike for each other something that was always there, politely hidden but nonetheless palpable, stealing the joy from their offsprings' childhood and bringing that pinched, sour look to Beatrice's face. Or was it the things she forced herself to endure in her marriage bed that had hardened Beatrice's mouth, Jessie wondered, that had killed whatever spark might once have animated her mother's now bland, drooping features, and left her bitter and sad.
"Is that all you wanted to say to me?" Jessie asked quietly.
Her mother busied herself with her embroidery, the needle flying in and out, in and out with unerring correctness. "Yes, I believe so. I see no reason to speak of this again."
Jessie was at the door when her mother stopped her. "Do you go for a ride this morning?"
One hand curling around the edge of the door, Jessie turned in surprise. "You said you didn't want me to ride until after your garden party."
"Oh, well—" Beatrice waved one hand through the air in a vague gesture. "I think perhaps you've grown too restless of late. Go ahead and get changed. I'll ask Warrick to send a message to the stables."
Jessie walked, slowly, up the stairs, feeling guilty and confused and ashamed. She had not set out, deliberately, to deceive her mother. She had not lied when she said she hadn't enjoyed Harrison's kisses. And yet.. . and yet she knew, too, that she was not one of those females who found the male physique repulsive, and she shuddered to imagine Beatrice's reaction if she knew the real truth. If she knew her daughter had stood on the banks of the River Daymond at sunset and admired the way years of hard physical labor could sculpt a man's naked chest. Or that her dreams had been haunted ever since by memories of a man's naked back, strapped with muscle and crisscrossed with a pattern of
Jessie looked up quickly. "Like whom? Mother, what are you talking about?"
"Never mind, dear." Beatrice reached out to close her hand over Jessie's. "I hope you took care not to say or do anything last night which might lead Harrison to think you hold him in aversion."
Jessie blinked at her mother and might even have laughed, had it not been for the strange burning in her chest that stole her breath and left her feeling empty and sad. "A moment ago, you were warning me against allowing Harrison to take liberties with me. Now you seem to be telling me that I must be careful not to discourage him."
"Jesmond ..." Beatrice paused, as if summoning the will to put her thoughts into words. "These things are so awkward to speak of, but now that you are to be wed..." She drew in a deep breath and let it out in a shaky sigh, her gaze resolutely fixed on the large, ornate Sevres vase near the windows as she forced herself to go on. "Most women find the male—" she hesitated, searching for an acceptable term "— physique both threatening and repulsive, and the intimacies of the marriage bed unpleasant. Nevertheless, it is something that we all must endure, when our time comes. It is the price we pay for our children, our homes, our positions in society." She brought her gaze back to her daughter's face. "Remember that."
It was Jessie's turn to look away. Her mother's words hung in the air, bleak and sad and whispering softly of things that had not been said, that would never be said. Jessie rose and went to stand before the white marble mantel to stare down at the empty grate. She had never had any illusions about her parents' marriage. How could she have, when she had never seen them kiss, never known them even to touch when they could avoid it. They had lived their lives in parallel rather than together, going through their days in the same house yet not really sharing it, their dislike for each other something that was always there, politely hidden but nonetheless palpable, stealing the joy from their offsprings' childhood and bringing that pinched, sour look to Beatrice's face. Or was it the things she forced herself to endure in her marriage bed that had hardened Beatrice's mouth, Jessie wondered, that had killed whatever spark might once have animated her mother's now bland, drooping features, and left her bitter and sad.
"Is that all you wanted to say to me?" Jessie asked quietly.
Her mother busied herself with her embroidery, the needle flying in and out, in and out with unerring correctness. "Yes, I believe so. I see no reason to speak of this again."
Jessie was at the door when her mother stopped her. "Do you go for a ride this morning?"
One hand curling around the edge of the door, Jessie turned in surprise. "You said you didn't want me to ride until after your garden party."
"Oh, well—" Beatrice waved one hand through the air in a vague gesture. "I think perhaps you've grown too restless of late. Go ahead and get changed. I'll ask Warrick to send a message to the stables."
Jessie walked, slowly, up the stairs, feeling guilty and confused and ashamed. She had not set out, deliberately, to deceive her mother. She had not lied when she said she hadn't enjoyed Harrison's kisses. And yet.. . and yet she knew, too, that she was not one of those females who found the male physique repulsive, and she shuddered to imagine Beatrice's reaction if she knew the real truth. If she knew her daughter had stood on the banks of the River Daymond at sunset and admired the way years of hard physical labor could sculpt a man's naked chest. Or that her dreams had been haunted ever since by memories of a man's naked back, strapped with muscle and crisscrossed with a pattern of
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