Bound with Love

by Megan Mulry

  She looked at her supposed friend with murder in her eyes. “Thank you.” Then she unfolded the paper, the crinkling page the only sound in the room, and began reading.

  Vanessa listened and was instantly drawn into the gothic scene: whipping rains, frantic running through a bleak midnight forest, a strange man in desperate pursuit, whom the woman was both drawn to and afraid of with breathless anticipation. Vanessa could hear Archie’s breath hitch when the pursuer finally caught up with Selina’s heroine. Gripping and yanking of arms, skin against skin, slippery from rain and sweat, accidentally torn muslin, demands for honesty and then, with Selina’s voice trembling a bit as everyone in the room held their breath, the consummating fiery kiss.

  Selina sat down abruptly, her cheeks a deep crimson. The deadly silence must have tormented her, but Vanessa loved that moment of pause, when the artist was in the midst of having exposed herself so blatantly, so shamelessly, and everyone else was in the moment of both experiencing and trying to interpret the experience. Archie broke the silence, making one of his schoolboy wolf whistles—raw approval—and the moment shattered into shouts of congratulation and raucous clapping. Selina looked like she would have crawled under the table if she’d had her way, but her best mates—the young man to her right and the young woman to her left—who had prodded her mercilessly to read her work, each kissed her chastely on the cheek, and she settled somewhat.

  Vanessa rang the bell again and everyone simmered down once more. The myriad footmen entered the room and began passing around dishes of food. Turning toward Nora—pretending to join the conversation she had started with a handsome painter from Italy who’d recently arrived—Vanessa caught the glance that passed between Selina and Archie.

  The young woman’s eyes glowed with excitement and longing. She was the woman running through the forest, and clearly she was inviting Archibald Cambury to be the man in hot pursuit. A moment later, Vanessa saw Selina turn to her pretty young friend, the pianist Beatrix Farnsworth, and kiss her again, lightly on the cheek. Archie inhaled through his nose and quickly picked up his fork and knife and began slicing into his pork loin with avid interest—and, if Vanessa wasn’t mistaken, a low moan of frustration.

  “I’m nearly done with the Courtney portrait if you’d like to come to my studio this week to see it,” Nora offered, sending the middle-aged Italian man into a wildly gesticulating fit of pleasure.

  “Si! Sarei entusiasta di vedere il tuo lavoro e parlare con voi circa mio progetto in corso!”

  Vanessa joined the conversation in earnest, following along in Italian and smiling at the handsome Florentine, Tomaso Reggio. A few times, after they’d been together several years, she and Nora had experimented with having a man in their bed, but quickly ruled it out. They’d both enjoyed it—the presence of someone new had served to sharpen their attraction to one another, like a subtle spice that takes an already delicious dish to a more piquant level—but it had rapidly proven far too complicated.

  Vanessa and Nora were bound to one another like soldered steel, and it wasn’t fair or kind to make a third person feel like some sort of . . . gratuity. Also, Nora especially seemed to engender a powerful devotion that repeatedly led to desperate proposals and dramatic begging, especially from inexperienced men. When one young stager had threatened suicide after the two women refused to make the dalliance into anything more permanent, both Vanessa and Nora had agreed they were finished with such diversions.

  Furthermore, as much as Vanessa considered herself a crusader for sexual freedom, she certainly did not want the Camburton summer colony getting a reputation as some aristocratic molly house or countrified brothel.

  That said, even though they’d agreed to keep the physical perimeter of their bed as a sort of moat that could only be crossed by the two of them, they occasionally invited a painter or sculptor to sketch them from across the room. Vanessa watched as the worldly Tomaso stared at Nora’s lips while she spoke. Like many people, Nora changed subtly when she was speaking different languages. As soon as she started speaking Italian, for example, her entire affect took on a sultry, fluid quality. The language itself transformed her into a more sensual creature—regardless of whether she was speaking of her paints or the way the light and shadow were proving difficult in her current work—and she sounded far more seductive and alluring than when she spoke English. Simple words like vernice and ombra became tempting propositions.

  Vanessa nodded and interjected the occasional polite opinion, but the heat between her legs was increasing . . . and distracting. Of course Nora sensed it—she’d always been attuned to Vanessa’s desire, but lately the two of them were keenly aware of each other. Without the slightest interruption in her conversation with the Italian, Nora reached for Vanessa’s thigh under the tablecloth and let her hand rest high and close to her hot center.

  Exhaling slowly, Vanessa reached for her water glass and took a sip. Nora’s hand tightened and Vanessa heard her say to the Italian admirer, “Perhaps you’d like to come to my studio this very night.”

  He flushed—then (almost) collected himself admirably. Poor man, thought Vanessa, so addled by the beautiful Nora White. As was she.

  “Si!” he squawked, then lowered his voice when he realized it had cracked and a few people nearby had turned to see what he was on about. “Si.”

  “Excellent,” Nora said in English, then turned to whisper in Vanessa’s ear. “I want him to draw us making love, darling. He’s quite strong with his lines, rough and direct. Very accomplished. You’re so beautiful tonight.” She pulled away enough to look into Vanessa’s eyes, and squeezed her thigh again. “And you’ve been so kind and patient with me this week—like all weeks, I suppose, but—I’d like to do something special. Would you like that?”

  Vanessa could do nothing but sigh and nod like an idiot. The burning in her nostrils made her feel like some sort of rutting beast. She wanted to take Nora right there at the table, dip her mouth to the pale turn of her neck, tug at the edge of her low-cut bodice that showed the luxurious rise and fall of her breasts. She wanted all of that with an urgent now-now-now beating a war drum in her mind and in her center. But an hour or two hence would do.

  She replied with careful civility, “Yes. I would like that very much.”

  “I said I had no interest in meeting her, and I meant it.” Anna tossed aside her riding gloves and unfastened the jaunty hat she’d worn with the new dove-gray habit Sebastian had ordered from London. After setting down the hat, she slid the palm of her hand down the smooth velvet along her bodice and then let her fisted hand rest on her hip. All three of her lovers—turned coconspirators—were waiting for her in their shared drawing room on the west side of the large manor house. The children were conveniently absent. “I won’t do it, I say. Are you going to try to bully me into it?” she snapped to no one in particular.

  Pia spoke first. “Anna, darling—”

  “Don’t you dare Anna-darling me, Pia. I’m in no mood to be coddled. You all have been harrying me for days now.”

  Despite the harsh words, Pia rose from the sofa where she’d been sketching the two men while they worked at the partners desk across the room. Sebastian and Farleigh looked up from their tasks and watched warily as Pia approached her.

  Anna had nothing if not an iron will, and she did not reveal the slightest hint of emotion or self-doubt. But she suspected Pia knew the roiling upset that swirled within her. Pia stood there, with that adoring half smile. They knew each other too well.

  Shutting her eyes to avoid that knowing look, Anna was simultaneously desperate to lash out in anger—rail and shout against the mess of fate and history and life—while also wanting to collapse into this woman’s arms, to lean upon the person who knew her best. And loved her anyway. Loved her against every bit of reason. Loved her even when Anna displayed her most venal, churlish, peevish self. Loved her inside and out, in a way that Anna would never be able to love herself. Not even close. Because deep down, the lowest,
meanest part of her believed—nay, knew—that she was unlovable. From the moment she was born.

  Yes, she was confident and strong and honest, but lovable? Highly unlikely. In the past few years, staying close to Pia, and then Sebastian and Farleigh, she had begun to learn that she wasn’t entirely unlovable. Those three people seemed to adore her, but Anna usually ended up thinking they must be deluded, confused. Off their nuts.

  Pia must’ve seen the emotions passing across Anna’s face. “Anna,” she whispered gently, reaching up to cup her face with her strong hands. “Look at me, darling.”

  Anna rarely cried. Not at her wedding. Not at the birth of her child. But lately, God help her. Right now for example, the stinging press of tears once more threatened at her eyes, the burning at the back of her throat, merely because Pia was so close, proffering her usual sympathy and tenderness.

  With a swift flash of inspiration, Anna thought she should whip Pia soundly for making her such a slop bucket of emotion, or get Farleigh to spank Pia until she cried for mercy. How dare Pia force her to look at all these long-dead emotions?

  But that was it, wasn’t it? The emotions were not dead at all.

  “I don’t want to,” she whispered, opening her eyes the narrowest crack to see Pia’s warm gaze holding steady.

  “Well, that’s better,” Pia soothed, rubbing her thumb along Anna’s lip. “Not wanting is a world away from won’t.” Pia let her hand slide from Anna’s cheek to curl around her nape. Anna resisted slightly, but Pia tightened her grip and pulled Anna into a slow kiss.

  Anna grabbed the loose fabric at the back of Pia’s dress, not sure if she was holding on or fighting her off. She kissed Pia hard in return, teeth and tongues clashing, in an effort to turn the painfully tender embrace into something erotic and carnal, something she could control.

  But she couldn’t do it. As much as she dominated Pia in the bedroom, she was unable to dominate Pia’s emotions, much less her own. Pia was relentlessly gentle, letting Anna scratch and tear at her, all the while kissing her back with soft encouragement. Anna finally broke, crying and embracing her, desperate for her unyielding kindness. She clung to Pia for an endless time, trailing kisses down her neck and then back up, close to Pia’s ear. Finally she whispered, barely audible, “I’m so afraid, Pia. I’m terrified. She will not want me.”

  Pia squeezed Anna tighter to her, their breasts and hips crushed together, and whispered back, “We’re all afraid, my love. You need only have a sliver of hope, for my sake. For your daughter’s sake.”

  Anna buried her face into Pia’s strong shoulder and exhaled choppily. “I’m not accustomed to asking for help. But I need it. I need so much, Pia. Please help me.”

  Nora couldn’t hold the paintbrush steady. The day of Anna’s arrival was finally upon her, and despite Vanessa’s valiant efforts to keep Nora busy in every possible manner, she could no longer keep her mind focused on anything but finally meeting her daughter. She was in a constant state of distraction, feelings of hope and despair battling inside her on a minute-by-minute basis.

  She made a few sweeping strokes across the sky in the background and then set the brush down at the base of the easel in defeat. “I can’t work.” She wiped her hands on her smock and began to untie the bow at the back with shaking fingers. “What if she’s decided not to come? What if something’s happened along the journey?”

  After reading the Dowager Duchess of Mandeville’s letters until she had committed every word to memory, Nora was no more optimistic than she had been upon first hearing the news about her daughter’s existence. She had written back several times to say how much she would welcome a letter from Anna; nothing ever arrived. She had convinced herself the young woman would loathe her. How could she not? Nora groaned in frustration.

  “Well, thank heaven for that! I haven’t been able to concentrate for hours.” Vanessa put her pen alongside her accounting book and nearly leapt from her chair. “Let’s go for a long walk. They’re not due here until two o’clock or after. We’ll tramp off our worry. It’s not even ten. Please let’s walk. The nervous energy is making everything impossible.”

  Nora hung up her apron slowly. “Very well. But I don’t want to walk far, in case they’ve made good time; I want to be nearby to greet her . . . them.” She knew she was on very shaky emotional ground, because even Vanessa’s boundless energy and constant efforts to buoy Nora’s mood were now starting to annoy her. She had snapped at her a few times, and then usually offered a guilty apology for her ill humor.

  “Yes, we’ll stay within the confines of the park. Come.” She reached for Nora, and the two of them headed out of the sunny studio. On their way through the shadowy front hall, they stopped to collect their summer hats and, for Vanessa, her favorite walking stick. As she turned to leave, she noticed there was a letter from Georgiana on the silver salver. “Oh, do you mind if I read it?”

  “Of course you should—or better yet, why not bring it and we can find a quiet place for you to read it aloud to me?”

  “That sounds perfect.” Vanessa slipped the letter into one of her deep pockets. Ever practical, Vanessa had all of her dresses made with capacious pockets sewn invisibly along the seams.

  They made their way through the boxwood maze, then along the lake and into the shade of their favorite forest path. Neither spoke much, but they leaned against one another and passed the intervening hour in a fortifying silence. They decided to stop in a shadowy glade to read Georgie’s letter. Vanessa reached into her pocket and pulled out the envelope. Again she traced her index finger over the stamps and the foreign, curving letters in the wax seal.

  “She’s so far away from me.” Vanessa stared across the parkland as if she might be able to spy Georgie there.

  It wasn’t lost on Nora that the daughter she’d never known was finally coming home to her, while Vanessa’s daughter never wished to come home again. Vanessa’s relationship with Georgie was complicated by the force of their personalities; without realizing it, Vanessa had raised her daughter to be so strong and independent that she had rendered her own role as her mother completely obsolete. This had led to the current standoff that had Georgie roaming the wilds of Arabia, being the jubilant adventuress her mother had raised her to be . . . and Vanessa resenting her for her absence.

  “Do you want me to read it to you instead?” Nora offered.

  “Would you mind? I can picture her more easily when I’m not expending all my effort deciphering her miniscule script.”

  Nora smiled. “She has an elegant hand, very similar to yours. You simply infuriate one another with your similarities.”

  “You wait until you meet your daughter and see how you feel when she leaves.”

  “I’ll forgive you for saying something so cruel, because I know you meant it in a loving way. Now give it here.” Holding out her fingers with an impatient flick-flick, Nora took the letter from Vanessa.

  After settling her back against the trunk of a tree, Nora patted her lap. “Come. Rest your head here. No doubt Georgie will have wonderful tales of camels and sheikhs and dangerous adventures.”

  Vanessa sighed and put her head down on Nora’s thigh. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  After carefully breaking the wax seal, Nora held the opened sheets with one hand while she absently caressed the turn of Vanessa’s neck and the rise of her bosom with her other hand. Vanessa purred like a cat in Nora’s lap.

  “That’s better. We’re both far too agitated.” She started reading aloud and had to stop occasionally to chastise Vanessa for her constant interruptions.

  “‘I’ve finally been allowed to visit one of the most mysterious Bedouin horse breeders in all of Arabia. He has agreed to sell me two of his stallions—at an outrageous price—but they are worth every bit of coin in the realm. I am buying them at Mayson’s request, and they shall be delivered to Derbyshire sometime this fall.’”

  Vanessa commented, “Bedouin horse breeder? The living conditions must b
e deplorably squalid.”

  Nora gave her a quelling look before she continued. “‘The son of the Bedouin chief has also taken a shine to me, and allowed me to learn everything about his falconry operation. He has gifted me two of his prize snowy-white falcons, which I will also bring to England for breeding.’”

  Vanessa interjected, “The falcons will probably be dead by the time Georgie sets foot in Camburton Castle.”

  “You criticize everything she does. Why can’t you simply admire her for who she is?”

  Vanessa shut her eyes, and Nora stroked her jaw. It made Nora feel better about her own chances with Anna, this feeling of being happy for someone you loved, rather than somehow eager to improve them. Nora had raised Georgie and Archie in many ways, but she had always defaulted to the role of a kindly aunt. For many years, she thought she was deferring to Vanessa’s role as their “real” mother, but now she was coming to see that was simply how she would have mothered her own child—with a forgiving kindness.

  “Vanessa, love, she is exactly what you raised her to be: independent, forthright, fearless. She’s living with sheikhs in the desert, for goodness’ sake. What could be more exciting?”

  “You’re right, of course, but it doesn’t change how I feel. She’s out there being adventurous and whatnot, but she’s always alone. Don’t you see? Do you think that son of the Bedouin chief loves her? Who loves her?”

  “This must stop, Vanessa. When you speak in that way, the awful, unspoken implication is that you fear Georgie is unlovable. And because I know full well that you see her as the mirror image of yourself, that on some level you must fear that you too are unlovable. Have I failed so miserably in convincing you of that simple fact? That you are beloved?”

  Vanessa turned her head and kissed the fabric of Nora’s dress over her stomach. Her voice caught. “I don’t really know . . . I don’t really understand why you love me.”

  “Oh, you sweet thing. You simply cannot continue to see your own daughter in that way. Much less yourself . . .” Nora rested Georgie’s letter carefully on the grass, making sure the precious vellum didn’t touch any mud or leaves that would sully it. She resituated herself so Vanessa was lying back, flat on the summer grass, and Nora straddled her hips.