Once Beloved

by Amara Royce

  Together they struggled to get her skirt out of their way. His movements stayed gentle but not tentative. Neither of them cared to be patient. He seemed surprised when she moved in his lap to place her knees on either side of his hard thighs and even more surprised when she helped him unfasten the flap of his trousers. Did it matter if he thought her wanton? Too late for such worries now. She needed him with her, inside her, with a desperation that overpowered all good sense.

  Her eyes fell shut as his fingers found her and guided their bodies together. They fit so well. And he was so gentle, so gentle. Even the way he worked himself into her needy body was restrained and tender, as if he feared harming her. The feel of their bodies joined, of him moving within her as she rose and fell, was beyond comprehension. He groaned as they found their rhythm, and his hands gripped her, pulling her down to meet his thrusts. Too soon, his movements quickened and grew rougher. He gasped and bucked, suggesting his crisis was fast approaching. If she wanted to go over with him, she would have to take matters into her own hands. She reached down and touched herself, brushing her fingers against that sensitive nub.

  Maybe it was the movement or her low moan that caught his attention. He stopped, mid-thrust, and said, in a gruff, lust-heavy voice, “What are you doing?”

  She opened her eyes to find him staring down their bodies, obscured by their clothes. “You are about to spend, are you not? I mean to finish along with you.” She hadn’t stopped her hand, and she rocked her hips to encourage him to continue. It took an effort to force out words as pleasure built within her. “You need not attend to me. Just keep going.”

  He pulled back and stared down at her, his face contorted with passion and confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “See to your own pleasure,” she said quickly, “and I shall see to mine. Just don’t stop. Heavens above, don’t stop!”

  With his brows furrowed, he looked almost angry. But he did as she bade, picking up his rhythmic motions even more forcefully. He glanced down again, and her fingers brushed him, making him grow even firmer and thicker within her. She would have to hurry.

  Just a few more thrusts, and he stiffened beneath her with a harsh shout. She closed her eyes, blocking out the sight of his face twisted in a semblance of exquisite agony, and focused on the sensations tightening at the locus point beneath her fingertips. She gave herself over to the paroxysm that rushed through her, muscles tightening, back arching.

  As she struggled to breathe normally again, she opened her eyes to see Daniel staring at her. His moods and expressions were such a mystery. Was he disgusted by her? The fleeting ecstasy evaporated, leaving her chilled and shaken. After all her self-doubt, after all her reservations, she’d felt a sense of rightness as their bodies met. If he didn’t feel the same . . . if he regretted it . . .

  Still astride him—his softening cock still inside her!—she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. She stood and straightened her skirts, keeping her eyes averted from him as she heard him fasten his pants. Her vision blurred as she looked out over the hills, but she couldn’t let him see her cry. What stupidity. Damn, damn, damn.

  His touch was gentle, though, as his hand caressed her damp cheek and urged her to face him. He still looked angry, troubled, but his face held worry too.

  “Helena, tell me, are you able to fetch yourself like that often?”

  “I—” She shook her head and looked away again. What had seemed so instinctive a few moments ago, a natural part of her sexual life with Isaiah, now seemed strange and possibly wrong in this light. Many people condemned such actions as a sin. Was he one of them? If so, he was more of a hypocrite than she could have imagined.

  “Please, I need to know,” he insisted, quietly but ferociously. But she couldn’t bring herself to speak. She shook her head as more tears burned her eyes. Finally, he added, “I didn’t know women could experience the same end as men. In ten years of marriage, I never . . . my wife never . . . I didn’t even know to try to give Nancy that kind of pleasure.”

  “Never?” A guilty niggle of relief whispered at her. He didn’t recoil from her but rather from his own inner turmoil.

  He shook his head slowly. “I had no idea,” he said with wonder in his voice.

  “Women . . . that is, I can, yes.” She considered how much to admit. How much would be too much? He’d raised the specter of his former wife already. “My husband,” she said, faltering, “my husband was older and, as you might suspect, he was much more knowledgeable than I regarding what goes on in the bedroom. He sought my enjoyment as much as his own. He taught me ways to . . . bring about my pleasure . . . ways to explore what felt good.”

  When his face paled, she had more than adequate confirmation that she’d said too much. She turned away, all too aware of his disgust.

  “I should have known. I should have tried harder,” he said, with fierce recrimination. “I didn’t think women were made that way. I—she—”

  With sad relief, she realized that he’d turned his condemnation upon himself, and she hated seeing this good man mired in self-loathing. She explained, “Many couples don’t experience that and still enjoy being together, physically.” It was exceedingly strange to stand there, out in the open fields, talking with him about something so very intimate, despite what they had just shared. Dear Lord in heaven, they’d done that in open view in the middle of the day, on a stone slab!

  It was disconcerting to offer him reassurance when she so keenly felt the tenuousness of their relationship now more than ever.

  “Teach me,” he said firmly, distracting her from her spiraling thoughts.

  “Pardon?”

  “I find I want to feel that again.” His thumb brushed across her lower lip. “It’s been ten years, and I’ve never felt it this intensely before.”

  “Ten years? You didn’t seek a lover after she left?”

  “No. At first, I was sure she’d return. She’d realize what a terrible mistake she’d made.” His voice trailed off, but she didn’t want to push him. She waited silently until he added, “As the years passed, I couldn’t let go of the idea of her and her betrayal. No woman appealed to me. Even had I time, I had no desire.” His voice faltered. “I took release occasionally when a kind and willing lass crossed my path, but it was rare and fleeting and . . . empty.” Guilt and anguish laced his tone and twisted his face. “I didn’t even know this was possible, this immense pleasure, especially for women.” He sounded genuinely shocked, and then he sat up abruptly, tense with dismay. “Is this why she left, do you think? Because I did not see to her pleasure?”

  “Daniel, such speculation can only bring pain, not resolution. She had her reasons, but you might never know the full extent of them. It is entirely possible her leaving had less to do with what you gave her and more to do with what she wanted for herself. We cannot be all things to all people; I’ve come to believe we cannot fulfill all of someone else’s needs. I loved my husband, and we made each other happier than I could ever have imagined. But he needed things I couldn’t simply give him—a sense of purpose, a sense of duty, a sense of accomplishment. And I too needed things he couldn’t just present to me in beribboned packaging, things no one could give to me. I needed to find my own sense of purpose, beyond what other people expected of me. I was fortunate to find that sense of self working with the Needlework for the Needy Society and even more fortunate that Isaiah supported my efforts wholeheartedly.”

  “You are capable of anything, I’m sure. And later we will talk of this Needlework circle and how it relates to the factories and all of that. Much later. Now I want your undivided attention. I have been in the dark about the pleasures of the flesh for too long.” The slide of his body against hers as he moved downward, as his breath skated down from her ear to her neck to her collarbone, curled her toes in anticipation. The “pleasures of the flesh,” indeed! But then he paused, his warm breath teasing through her clothing. She couldn’t bring herself to speak.

  �
�I want you to teach me, Helena. I want you to show me all the things I didn’t know, all the ways I can make you feel good, make you feel that good.”

  “I don’t know all the ways.”

  “Whatever you know, I want it. I want to make your body shake with desire. I want to make you throw your head back in pleasure. I want to make you scream in ecstasy.”

  “I—I—how ambitious of you,” she whispered, finding it difficult to breathe.

  “You have no idea.” He glared at her with a ferocious determination. “I want it all now. Right now.” Then his mouth captured hers, his hands roaming her breasts, and she shuddered at his sudden intense focus.

  “Daniel, wait!”

  “More,” he said, his voice gruff and demanding. “Tell me. Show me. I want more.”

  “Look around you! This is madness. We shouldn’t have done anything out here, at the top of the world, for heaven’s sake! We cannot continue this now!”

  His hold on her loosened as he took in the landscape around him, awareness dawning in his eyes. He muttered a rough curse and moved a respectable distance away from her. She’d give anything to soothe his tortured expression.

  “I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage.”

  She had to stifle a laugh, but his serious tone took her aback. Taken advantage of her? “Don’t do that. If you took advantage of me, then it’s safe to say I likewise took advantage of you. I wanted this just as much as you. And if you want more, I am willing. But we cannot be foolish and adolescent about this. We cannot continue this here. It cannot be now. We’ve risked too much already.”

  “Then give me a time and a place.” He stood tense and stiff, his jaw clenched, as if he was struggling to keep himself in check.

  “Tomorrow night. Near midnight, when I’m sure the house is asleep.” He wasn’t the only one struggling with his desires. He wasn’t the only one who needed more. Anticipation curled along her spine, strange and complicated. The clamoring of her body was a mystery to her, but she couldn’t deny it. “I’ll come to you.”

  Chapter 22

  Helena couldn’t believe Gran’s miraculous recovery. It was still painfully slow, to be sure, but, when they’d first arrived, she’d feared her grandmother wouldn’t last the night. To see her, mere weeks later, sitting in in the parlor, humming softly as she read her Bible, felt much like a miracle. The sight closely resembled the Gran of her memories. Helena refilled a nearby vase with water and fresh flowers to brighten Gran’s room, just as she’d done every few days for the past few weeks.

  “Stop hovering and fussing, Lena. Come here and make yourself useful.”

  Yes, that was the Gran she knew.

  “Do you need anything?” she asked, automatically.

  “Just come in. I have a thing to show you.” Gran pointed to the window seat at the far end of the room. “You recall that seat is also a chest? The key for it is under the flowerpot over there on the sideboard. I’ve been saving some things for you.”

  Her curiosity piqued, she did as her grandmother instructed and found the window seat filled with leather-bound ledgers. More than two dozen of them, she estimated at a glance. “There are so many. Which would you like?”

  “Find the most recent one. I think it’s the right most one. You’ll find the year on the first page. Should be 1840.”

  1840. The year Mother passed the veil. Helena’s insides clenched, and for a moment she felt ill. One of the regrets that would follow her to her grave was not seeing her mother before she died. She swallowed hard as bile flooded her mouth, and she had to blink back tears. As she searched, she heard Gran move to her side. The books darkened from right to left, fading as they grew older. She wondered how far back they went. More than that, she wondered how much this conversation would hurt. She lifted the volume on the right and looked at the first page to confirm the year.

  “Do you know what those are, dear?” Gran was watching her carefully.

  “It looks like a record book.” And then the memory clicked into place. “My father used to keep notes in such a book. He’d record profits and losses and special events. He used to write in one at the end of every week.” She could see him at the desk, bent over a book like this one, asking Mother to confirm various details as he wrote. Such a mundane task, and yet, looking at a random page, she felt her father’s presence, if only for a moment.

  “Not just him,” Gran explained. “Your mother did too. The Thortons have kept almanacs for generations. These are just some of the ones your parents made.”

  “I remember Father checking these on occasion, especially when he was planning something, like whether to do the shearing early.”

  “Aye, the rains and drought, the level of the beck, the conditions of the flock. All manner of farm facts. But your mother and father recorded much more than that. You should read them.” Pointing to the book in her hands, Gran said emphatically, “Start with that one.”

  A tightness in her throat made it difficult to swallow, but she nodded.

  “Go on, dear, and have a look. I need to go up and rest, but I’ll see you for dinner.” Just before leaving the room, Gran added, almost so quietly she couldn’t hear the words, “I should have given you those the moment you arrived.”

  She went and kissed her sweet grandmother gently on the cheek. “You had much more pressing concerns. I’d much prefer to have you whole than to have a stack of musty old notebooks.”

  “Just read it, dear. I hope it can . . . shed some light for you.”

  She felt compelled to sit at her father’s desk and spread out the ledger, its dry pages yellowed by time. The cover creaked as if it hadn’t been opened in a long time. Most of the notebook held factual observations about the farm and the flocks, along with business records. Yet interspersed among all these statements were more personal and informal thoughts. Sometimes they were written as letters, never to be sent. She stumbled upon bits of poetry, some with a renowned poet’s name underneath and others signed by her mother or left unattributed. She hadn’t known her mother wrote poetry. She occasionally found news clippings and postcards tucked in. Her parents’ voices came back to her as she turned the pages, glimpsing bits of their everyday life. Her vision blurred as she read one of her mother’s brief poems about a lamb washed away by a flood. She had to close the book when fat tears landed on her arms, lest she damage the fragile pages. She sat back in her father’s chair, her breathing ragged. But she couldn’t ignore the pain and regret coursing through her. Regret for so many lost years without them. Pain that they were lost to her forever. How she wished yet again that her boys could have lived in the warmth of their grandparents’ company. She would give almost anything to have that time back, to have her family welcomed into the Thorton circle. But those choices hadn’t been hers alone to make, and neither her mother nor her father had ever given her an opportunity to reunite. It wasn’t fair that she’d had to choose. It wasn’t fair that there was no way she could ever make amends or obtain their acceptance. And it wasn’t fair that she’d lost her beloved Isaiah anyway. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks, soaking into her clothing, and she gave in to the sobbing she’d been trying futilely to control. She heard her own rough, gasping sobs and buried her face in her hands to stifle them, but nothing could stop the tide, and she let it take her.

  She didn’t know how much time had passed when Vanessa found her. The tears had finally stopped, as had the wrenching hiccups that resulted from her unchecked grief. Long shadows crossed the room, marking late afternoon.

  “Has there been news, Auntie?” her niece said, fearfully.

  “No, Ness, nothing like that. This is an old mourning that has been a long time coming.” Vanessa must have noticed her hoarseness because the dear girl went and got her a glass of water. Helena gulped it down gratefully. Even after finishing the drink, her throat felt parched. Her eyes were filled with sand and felt hot and swollen to the touch. She longed futilely for all the things she’d sacrificed
and all the things she’d lost. Only thoughts of her sons, her sweet boys, gave her the strength to compose herself and attend to the needs of the house. What good was mourning a past that couldn’t be changed? Her boys were worth the losses, the sacrifices. She couldn’t regain the love and joy she’d had in her youth, but she still lived. And she needed to believe she could create a new future for herself, one that didn’t involve hiding in the safety of her home. She needed to explore new paths.

  Chapter 23

  By the time she entered Daniel’s home that night, she was made up entirely of raw, exposed nerves. Reading the family almanacs had gutted her. That she still wanted to keep tonight’s assignation spoke volumes because she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of physical desire after such an emotional day. But she found herself drawn here, not out of lust, but out of a desire for his company. Strange that he, of all people, had become a person she trusted for solace.

  “I feared you’d change your mind,” he said abruptly. Whatever he saw in her face made him reach for her and pull her into his arms. “Shh, love, I’ve got you.”

  He sat her in front of the fireplace. Mugs of tea sat steaming on the table. He’d known she would come. For a while, he simply let her sit, absorbing the heat of the fire. No pressure, no expectations.

  “It’s been a topsy-turvy sort of day.”

  “How bad? Did someone hurt you?”

  “No, nothing of the sort. Too many memories. They haunt my every move.”

  “You can still make new ones.”

  “What I did . . .” No, she would not taint the memory of her life with Isaiah with any semblance of guilt or regret. “My marriage to Isaiah was the defining moment of my life. It made me. For the first time in my life, I knew what I wanted and chose to take my future in my own hands. I knew there would be consequences, and I accepted that the freedom to choose wouldn’t be easy or idyllic. But it was worth all the consequences to follow my heart and grasp at my own happiness.”