The Railway Girl

by Nancy Carson

  Arthur felt his throat tightening and he swallowed hard to lubricate it. ‘I’m sure you are, Isabel … Shall we er … look at another idea I had for Dickie’s grave?’ His voice seemed high-pitched with constriction.

  ‘Yes … Forgive me for pouring out my troubles …’

  ‘Oh, there’s nothing to forgive, Isabel.’ Feeling inordinately hot, he opened out another drawing. ‘I feel flattered that you should confide such secrets to me. I feel flattered that you’re able to tell me things that are so … so private …’

  ‘I should be equally flattered if you were to confide such things in me as well, Arthur. You know, I feel very close to you … Do you mind if I am very honest with you?’

  ‘No, course not.’

  ‘The truth is …’ She paused before revealing what she meant to say. ‘I’m drawn to you, Arthur. Please don’t mind me admitting it. But it’s wonderful to feel that there’s somebody after all who you can share secrets with. Especially a man.’

  ‘I … I feel drawn to you as well, Isabel,’ Arthur hesitantly admitted with a tentative smile, urged on by the obstinate ferment going on inside his trousers. ‘I shouldn’t, I know … I have a sweetheart who loves me …’ An image of Dorinda flashed into his mind, and then he realised that Isabel knew nothing of Dorinda. As far as Isabel was concerned his sweetheart was Lucy, whom she had met. And then, for no accountable reason, pictures of Lucy and Dickie romping naked all pallid and white in Moses’s bed invaded his consciousness. Wouldn’t it be ironic, and such poetic justice, if he and Isabel were to engage in similar activities? But vindictiveness was not a word that existed in Arthur’s vocabulary. In any case, his mind was running too fast, his imagination was far too wild in thinking such outrageous thoughts, no doubt driven by his insistent erection.

  ‘Do you and your sweetheart ever …?’ She failed to finish the question to enhance its meaning.

  ‘Ever what?’

  ‘Well … I mean, do you share a bed at any time?’

  He gulped. ‘Lord, no …’

  ‘No? How can she keep her hands off you, Arthur?’

  ‘Off me?’ he queried, confused by such a notion. ‘Well, she manages to quite well.’

  Still overlapped behind him, Isabel rested her chin on his shoulder. He could smell something very fragrant on her, some perfume perhaps. Very pleasant. Strands of her rich brown hair were tickling his cheek.

  ‘Arthur, you know I’m not grieving over Dickie, don’t you? You know I’m content to see the back of him, although I would’ve preferred that he hadn’t been killed, that he might just have run away and left me, with one of his women. I don’t see any reason at all for the customary two years of mourning over him – not inwardly – although I’ll have to be seen to abide by it outwardly, I suppose. I fancy kicking my feet up. I swear, when this grave of his is finished I shall dance on it … and if you want to dance on it with me, I’ll welcome you with open arms.’

  Arthur turned around to better see her face, induced by the innuendo in her last phrase. She was smiling, all her admiration for him blatant in those clear expressive eyes of hers. On impulse he leaned his head towards her and kissed her on the lips, a brief but very telling kiss.

  ‘That was nice,’ she remarked, evidently surprised.

  Arthur could feel the blood coursing through his veins. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Lord, I don’t know what came over me … You’ve been a widow not five minutes. I should be ashamed taking advantage like that. I didn’t mean any lack of respect.’

  ‘Lack of respect? Ashamed? Is that what you feel just because you kissed me? And so nicely? I feel flattered, Arthur. I feel no disrespect … I liked it!’

  ‘There’s another person I have to consider, Isabel,’ he heard himself say. His conscience was fighting back, damn it.

  ‘Lucy … Oh, yes.’ She lowered her eyes and he was moved by the way her long lashes rested with such femininity on the gentle curvature of her cheeks. ‘I keep forgetting about Lucy.’

  Again he was plagued by the image of Lucy and Dickie in bed. He lifted Isabel’s chin and their eyes met. Slowly, deliberately, almost defying his own nature, he tilted his head to kiss her again. This time they lingered. Isabel’s lips on his felt so soft, so cool and so pleasant, and he felt that inexorable stirring in his loins again that usually left him feeling so empty and so frustrated once the excitement had been thwarted by Dorinda’s innate prissiness. They broke off and Isabel changed her position on the settle, so that she was sitting beside him but with her back towards him. Then she leaned back and he had no alternative but to take her in his arms. They kissed again, and there was no doubt where this was leading.

  ‘What time are your children due back?’

  ‘When I fetch them.’

  His heart was pounding, his head throbbing as they kissed again. Encouraged by her responsiveness, his hands roamed over her breasts, skimming over the material of her dress. She offered no resistance. He took a peep at her and saw that her eyes were closed, concentrating on extracting maximum pleasure from his lips. There was something about her. Oh, there was definitely something about her that stirred him. He was helpless in her arms, lost, unable to resist, despite the guilt he felt over deceiving Dorinda; guilt which was inexorably decreasing in direct proportion to his increasing desire.

  ‘I want you, Arthur,’ Isabel breathed into his ear. ‘Oh, I’ve waited so long for you.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘Yes, for you. We have an affinity, you and me. Two lost souls who have found each other. I knew it from the moment I first set eyes on you. For years I’ve known that eventually you’d come along. I never dreamed that it would take Dickie’s death to bring us together, but somehow, somewhere there was always you.’

  ‘You know what real love is all about, Isabel – in bed, I mean. You’ve been married … I’m no dab hand at that sort of thing, having never been wed.’

  ‘Well, you don’t have to have a diploma,’ she smiled. ‘There’s not a fat lot to it. Some folk reckon it’s overrated anyway, but it’s something that drives us all, whether or no. It’s the point all lovers have to get to, to be real lovers.’

  ‘I’d like to get there with you,’ he whispered.

  ‘Then let’s not wait any longer,’ she said softly, an appeal in her eyes.

  She swung her feet to the floor and stood up, holding her hand out to him. He needed no second bidding, took her hand and allowed her to lead him up the narrow twisting staircase to her bedroom.

  Dickie’s bedroom. The late Dickie’s bedroom.

  There were two doors off, which opened into two smaller bedrooms, the children’s. In her room stood a wardrobe, a dressing table with a mirror, a piece of embroidery or a sampler of sorts adorned one wall, and a podged rug lay at the foot of the inviting brass bed. She sat on the edge of the bed and bade him sit beside her, her eloquent eyes following him minutely.

  ‘Have you never been with a woman before then?’

  ‘Never,’ he answered honestly.

  ‘Goodness, how dull for you.’ She smiled warmly. ‘I suppose there has to be a first time for everybody. But does the prospect of being taken the first time by a recently bereaved woman put you off?’

  ‘Not since that woman is you, Isabel. I wouldn’t be here if it did. Anyway, you make yourself sound like an old woman, which plainly you’re not. I believe you’re younger than me.’

  ‘How old are you, Arthur?’

  ‘Twenty-seven.’

  ‘I’m two years younger. I met Dickie when I was eighteen.’

  ‘I wish I’d known you when you were eighteen.’

  ‘I wish you had as well.’

  She tilted her head and allowed him to kiss her again. It was a hungry, searching kiss. Never had he kissed a woman like this before, so ravenous was he for her, and her avid response lit him up, increasing his desire.

  ‘Let’s undress ourselves and slip into bed,’ she whispered tantalisingly. ‘Can you unhook
the back of my dress?’

  She turned her back to him and lowered her head. He fumbled with the hook and eye, more intent on admiring her slender elegant neck and the fine little hairs that populated it below the mass of her dark hair that was swept and pinned up on top of her head. But in a few seconds he had undone the dress, and she thanked him. Tenderly, he kissed the back of her neck, sending a shudder of pleasure up and down her spine before she stood up to undress. He watched mesmerised as she slipped off her black dress and it lay like an inky pool around her feet till she bent down and scooped it up, to lay it over the chair which stood at her dressing table. He began undressing himself, unable to take his eyes off her as she undid ribbons and buttons, took off her petticoats and chemise and removed her stockings. As she stood before him naked and quite unabashed, he was moved by the sight of her breasts like full peaches, by the smooth firm skin of her midriff, the gentle feminine curves of her waist and her hips, and the perfect triangle of dark hair. Her thighs were slender and unblemished and he saw how smooth and perfectly round were her buttocks.

  She leaned forward to pull back the bedclothes and got into bed. Then, she threw back the sheets on his side as an added enticement, and he slid in beside her, acutely conscious of his wagging erection and attempting vainly to hide it from her vision. At once they were in each other’s arms and the feel of her warm, smooth skin, her breasts pressed against him, was the most glorious sensation he had ever experienced.

  ‘Kiss me,’ she breathed, and he kissed her.

  While their lips were interlocked, his hands roamed the soft contours of her body at random, and he thought his overworked heart would burst from its relentless pounding, pounding, pounding. He ventured south and located that delicious mound of soft warm hair. She uttered a little sigh of pleasure as he gently advanced beyond it and tentatively rubbed her between her thighs at her delectable butter-soft place, which made his fingers all wet and slippery.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ she whispered earnestly.

  He bent his head and ran his mouth over her breasts, and could smell the sweet, musky, natural scent of her body, a delight he had not anticipated. He lingered at a nipple before he eased himself gently upon her. She parted her legs to accommodate him and reached down for him, took him in her hand and guided him into her with a little gasp of pleasure. They rocked together slowly, tentatively at first, experimentally, as if they were both first time lovers, probing, sensing, appreciating the sweet sensations they provided for each other. In his lack of experience, Arthur too soon reached his climax and instinctively moved to withdraw. Isabel, with her greater experience, anticipated him and held him close, pulling him hard into her, denying him exit.

  ‘No, Arthur,’ she sighed. ‘I want every last drop of you.’

  He groaned with the ecstasy and agony of profound orgasm, their rhythmic movement unstoppable, increasing in intensity until Isabel was sighing vocally and repeating his name over and over.

  She finally rested, also spent. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  They lay joined for some time afterwards, silently hugging and squeezing. Arthur did not know what was expected of him, so was glad to take his lead from her. He was content to lie quietly, still connected, until his wonderful erection subsided.

  ‘I wonder what the time is?’ he remarked when both had emerged from their reverie.

  ‘Why? Do you have to rush off to see Lucy?’

  ‘No, not particularly.’

  ‘Good. Then I’ll go down and make us a cup of tea.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  She flashed him an impish grin. ‘You mean, you’re done with me so soon? You’re casting me aside already?’

  ‘Not if you don’t want to be.’ He grinned in disbelief, for he’d reckoned that to have suggested more would have appeared greedy and ungrateful.

  She shook her head, almost shyly, as she sat up. ‘I think you have a lot of catching up to do, Arthur … But then, so do I …’

  ‘Isabel, why did we never meet when you were eighteen and I was twenty?’

  ‘Next week,’ she said softly, looking up at him intently as they stood together by the back door. They were pressed against each other, holding hands at their sides. ‘Can you come next Saturday afternoon again when you’ve finished work?’

  ‘But I’m supposed to be going to Bristol next Saturday.’

  ‘Oh …’ Genuine disappointment registered in her eyes. ‘Then come for tea on Sunday and meet my children.’

  ‘I won’t be back by then … No, I’ll come Saturday,’ he said decisively, realising he would have a lot more fun and derive a lot more pleasure here than he would with Dorinda. ‘Hang it, I won’t go to Bristol. I’ll come to you instead.’

  She smiled her gratitude. ‘Oh, Arthur …’ she sighed, and snuggled up to him. ‘I’ll make sure Julia and Jack are at my mother’s again …’

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose it would do to let them see their mother with another man so soon after their father’s death.’

  ‘Not only them,’ she said. ‘We must be very discreet. Nobody must know about us. Not just for the sake of my reputation, but yours as well. You’re engaged to be married, remember, even though it pains me to acknowledge it. You’re promised to somebody else.’

  He was tempted to admit that it was actually a lie, that he was not engaged after all, but he sensed that somehow, for her, it added to his appeal in the sense that stolen fruits taste sweetest. So he did not deny it. Let her believe it. For the time being it could do no harm. And besides, if he denied that Lucy was his intended, Isabel might begin to wonder what the girl was doing attending Dickie when he was first injured, and he was keen to protect her from any insinuations.

  Sunday 12th September 1858

  Dearest Dorinda,

  I am so sorry that you cried in the hansom on your way back home from Temple Meads. I certainly didn’t intend to upset you that much. But, for the life of me, I can’t understand your argument about you choosing not to have children and the victims of the railway accident not choosing to be victims. I don’t understand your logic. All I meant was that you worrying over childbirth was petty compared with what those poor folk suffered, and I still think it. Nothing will change my mind. It also applies to me. My toothaches and chills that I used to moan about are nothing compared to that.

  Also, I don’t know what you are trying to achieve by setting a time for a wedding as an ultimatum. I presume that if I don’t agree, then you wish to break off our courtship. Why the rush? I’ll ask you to marry me when I’m good and ready, if at all. Not when you issue me with an ultimatum.

  Anyway, I can’t get down to Bristol as we’d planned. Talbot and me have far too much work. It’s amazing how the deaths from that accident have meant us picking up new orders for graves. It only wants another outbreak of cholera and we could make our fortunes, if only we could cope with the orders. So I’ll try to get to Bristol the week after if I can. The invitation would still stand for you to come to Brierley Hill but for your silly notion that you’d pick up fleas. I never picked up a flea from my bed in all my life, only ever from that stupid old dog of ours. But it’s your decision.

  Keep well, and give my best to Cyril, and your mother and father.

  Arthur.

  Chapter 25

  All the following week, Arthur could not expel thoughts of Isabel Dempster and the two hours they had spent together. Not only was she constantly on his mind when he was awake, but he also relived their passion over and over in his sleep, wakening from his dreams every morning with an ardent and renewed desire for her. He could scarcely believe what had happened, or that she should find him so irresistible. At the same time it concerned him that a woman so recently bereaved should allow it to happen. Maybe he should not have allowed it, maybe he should have been more honourable, holding her mourning in greater reverence, but he felt he’d had little choice. At the time, though, he’d had very little inclination to stop it, and even less courage, since it all see
med to have occurred at her initiative.

  He wrote again to Dorinda, motivated by guilt.

  My dear Dorinda,

  I think I was a bit too short with you in my last letter and I want to apologise. Nothing would ever induce me to be mean to you and upset you, and I don’t know what came over me. I hope you will forgive me. Anyway, when I see you on the 25th you can scold me for being so vile and I will accept it willingly, knowing that I fully deserve it. I am due to arrive at ten to six, so I hope you will be at the terminus to meet me.

  Talbot sat on the jury again when the inquest was resumed yesterday. I attended myself for a short time but when it was obvious they were not going to call me into the witness stand again I left. Talbot told me what had gone on and it doesn’t look too good for that head guard, Frederick Cooke. All evidence suggests that he failed to put the brake on to try and stop the runaway coaches, but they say he was sober for all that. The engineers ran some experiments, letting the same number of coaches containing the same weight as the excursion train run free down the incline, and applied the brake at different times. Each time the coaches were pulled up before the place where the crash happened. It certainly suggests Cooke did not do his job, and he jumped out of the guards’ van before they crashed.

  But enough of that. Of course I miss you, Dorinda, and I am looking forward to seeing you. Give my fondest regards to your mother and father and Cyril.

  Yours very affectionately,

  Arthur.

  Despite feelings of guilt, Arthur could hardly wait till next Saturday when he was due to visit the extraordinary Mrs Dempster again. He arrived with more sheaves of designs for her dead husband’s grave as his decoy.