by Jay Lawrence
They had come to the top of a broad flight of stone steps which led down to a lower level of garden where tall grass grew in a waving sea and, in the midst of the neglected meadow, a pale building with a rounded roof like the cupola of an Italianate church rose against the bright blue sky.
"What is that?"
Slowly, they descended the icy steps, then Lord Urquhart carried Frederica across the ocean of green, eventually setting her down at the entrance to the glittering temple. Turning to squint into the shadows of the open entrance, the shivering young woman realized that it was a mausoleum, a magnificent tomb of pure white marble.
Most apropos, as I fear I shall die if He does not kiss me.
"Don't be afraid, my darling."
I'm afraid I cannot wait until tonight. I am a whore, just as they espoused, Uncle Frederick and Wade and Tom. I would fall onto my knees this instant and beg you to take me here and now in this house of death! Terrifying as it will be, I can never be whole until I am pierced and writhing, agonized as a gasping perch upon your spear. Show no mercy, my Lord, for I am but a harlot at heart...
"Come, child."
Together, they entered the gloomy heart of the marble temple, Frederica unable to tear her eyes from the man who held her captive with the merest nuances of his voice.
I am ensnared. Bewitched. Oh, sweet Jesus, please may I never awaken from this dream!
"My beloved late wife, Isobella. The first Lady Urquhart."
"Oh!"
They stood before a large disc of the gleaming ice-like stone upon which the image of the first Lady Urquhart had been carved in relief. In profile, the graceful contours of her youthful head and shoulders gazed out upon the unkempt meadow, her generous mouth smiling enigmatically, the bountiful ringlets of her hair arranged in the manner of a Roman empress.
"It's me!"
Horrified, Frederica sank down onto her knees, clasping Lord Urquhart's grass-soaked trouser legs.
"Please don't kill me, my Lord! I will do anything to please you. Anything!"
Lord Urquhart began to laugh.
"Oh, don't be a ninny, you foolish bairn! Why would I murder a lovely young woman who is about to give me everything I have ever desired? You are quite enchanting. Can't you see that? Ah, I shouldn't tell you these things or you'll soon grow immodest."
"But she looks just like me. Why? Did you choose me for my resemblance to your wife?"
"Hush, my darling. You are becoming a little overwrought. A mere coincidence, that is all. Look! This is an image carved in marble. You are distinctly flesh and blood. More flesh and blood than I bargained for, as I strongly suspect you are yearning for your husband to make love to you. Am I correct?"
"Oh yes!"
"Well, fear not, sweet child, your time is very near. Very near indeed. But I brought you here to see the sincere compliment I pay you in taking you for my bride. I loved my first wife very deeply. I request that you honor her memory as long as you bear my name."
"How did she die?"
A vague but insistent fear courted Frederica's mind and she hurriedly arose from her position at Lord Urquhart's feet. The stone floor of the mausoleum was as chilling as an ice flow in the Arctic Sea and the cold had swiftly penetrated her layers of petticoats and cozy dress as if they were but a single flimsy layer of organza. Sadly, Lord Urquhart traced a gentle forefinger about the swan-like curves of his first wife's profile.
"Isobella passed away giving life to our child, a daughter who was stillborn. I am haunted by her agonized cries, Frederica. But nothing could be done. Nothing."
And it may be his last chance to take a young wife who could bear him an heir.
Uncle Frederick's words returned to send a fresh chill down the young woman's spine and she shivered violently. Lord Urquhart placed a reassuring hand upon her back and it seemed as if his fingers melded with her flesh, eliciting a fresh convulsion of a somewhat different kind.
"Come, my sweet. This is no place for the youthful to linger! There is a cozy fire and a light breakfast waiting for you in your bedroom. When you have eaten, young Chastity will come to aid Venus with her toilette."
"Chastity?"
"It is a virtue. Didn't you know?"
Arm in arm, they retraced their footsteps to the house, gay laughter echoing from its blackened sandstone walls. Grinning gargoyles watched their progress from the four corners of the steep, slated roof and a shadowy figure slipped between the barren trunks of the dormant winter trees.
* * * *
"Chastity, miss."
The young girl looked up as Frederica entered the bedroom and smiled apologetically at the tiny bundle clasped to her bosom. The downy head of a newborn baby was just visible above the folds of a shawl and its determined mouth worked rhythmically upon the apex of the girl's enormous breast.
"Won't be long now. She'll be good an' quiet an' doze before the fire. Don't thee worry."
Frederica busied herself with removing her cape, which had brought a fresh smell of the winter garden into the slightly musty room, but found her eyes kept returning to the young girl's chest.
Heavens! What incredible bounty.
Carefully, Chastity inserted the tip of her little finger between the child's gums to break the suction and the baby's head lolled, almost drunk with the creamy milk, which dribbled from her delicate lips. Still, Frederica stared, unable to wrest her eyes from the huge breast, which resembled a firm balloon with a long, succulent-looking nipple.
Goodness, I am almost tempted to kneel and take a drink myself! How inviting she is.
With swift, practiced movements, Chastity bundled the magnificent bosom back into her bodice, tucking a soft cloth between her chemise and dress to absorb any leakage. Again she looked up at Frederica and smiled sheepishly.
"I makes too much milk, miss."
A sharp pang of jealousy startled the young bride and she forced herself to smile reassuringly at the brown haired girl who squatted on a low stool before the blazing fire, the slumbering baby on her ample lap.
"You are very fortunate, Chastity. Blessed with so much ... of everything..."
At that, the young girl burst out laughing, her vast cleavage wobbling almost obscenely and again, Frederica's eyes could not stray from the pulsating orbs.
"That's what the Master says, miss. Shall I draw thee a bath, miss?"
Suddenly sober, no doubt remembering that the other young woman would shortly become the second Lady Urquhart, Chastity scooped the dozing infant into a basket and straightened her skirts, awaiting her orders. Casting a covetous glance at the child, Frederica realized that there was something strangely familiar about the little girl's features. Something about the bone structure and the color of her hair and skin. The quizzical curve of her dainty eyebrows...
Don't be foolish. You're getting nervous about the ceremony. Next winter, you may have a precious bundle of your own. Pray to God it slides out as readily as this girl's brat! Her hips must be as generous as her chest.
The young girl busied herself fetching pails of hot water to fill a hipbath before the fire and, self-consciously, Frederica undressed, painfully aware of the less lush proportions of her trim figure. When Chastity's back was turned, she looked down to appraise her own creamy bosoms and wondered whether a pregnancy might swell them to more luscious dimensions.
I should like my husband to feed from my straining tits, taking them out at dinnertime to nurse a little, after the meat and wine and cheese. I shall wear a loose, beribboned gown so that he may access them with ease, latching on like a starving child whenever the mood takes him, my rich milk dripping from his chin. Feed me, Frederica.
"How shall we dress your hair, miss?"
Startled from her fecund reverie, Frederica turned to see her wedding gown laid out upon the bed.
"How did he know...?"
A fresh crop of goose flesh crept across the young woman's body as she appraised the gown, which lay, arms outstretched, like a passive bride awaiting her Lo
rd and Master. The gown was beautifully made of heavy cream silk, its deeply scooped neckline promising an alluring décolletage. The bodice was decorated with what looked like a myriad of tiny beads, all glinting in the bright light of the frosty morning.
Could they be diamonds?
But the style was outdated by, oh, around twenty years or more. Perhaps fashion trends did not reach this isolated part of the country. And the dress looks a little yellowed. A second hand gown? Surely not. A horrifying thought suddenly took hold of Frederica's mind and she rose from the water, looking down upon the dress and veil.
"Chastity – was this the first Lady Urquhart's wedding ensemble? Can you tell me?"
The young girl seemed to blanch slightly, fading her normally ruddy complexion; then she mumbled:
"I don' know, miss. Best get thee dry so you don' catch a chill."
Frederica continued to stare at the beautiful gown, tiny rivulets of warm water wending their way from the graceful curves of her shoulders, down her slender back and over her gently rounded buttocks.
I'm not voluptuous like this rosy milkmaid, nor even as statuesque as Sydonie, who stands tall as some magnificent burnished totem, both with heavy, luscious breasts. What will He think when He first sees me undressed? Will He laugh at my inadequacy, my paltry form? And why must I marry in a corpse's gown, with the specter of my predecessor haunting my every step?
"I'm not wearing that dress!"
Suddenly enraged, Frederica stepped out of the enameled hipbath and the young girl rushed forward to dry her, exclaiming:
"But, miss, you must! 'Tis the Master's wish!"
"The Master may be deranged by grief and I regret that, Chastity. However, I do not see why I should play a ghost on my wedding day. I may honor the first Lady Urquhart's memory another way, perhaps by leaving flowers upon her tomb..."
The young girl's face was twisted with inner torment and she bit her fulsome bottom lip, taking Frederica's hand in entreaty.
"You don' understand, miss..."
"Oh, I see. You're concerned you'll lose your position if I do not appear as expected..."
"It's not that, miss. It's just that you must do as you are told. We all must, all of us girls. 'Tis not right to disobey and risk a whipping..."
"A whipping?"
A wave of horror washed over Frederica and, suddenly feeling dizzy, she clutched the edge of the mantelpiece, feeling the intense heat from the dancing flames upon her thighs and belly. Something subtly, insidiously pleasurable was emerging from the chaotic web of terror, tugging at the damp curls which concealed her moistening passage and running its maddening hands over her breasts and buttocks...
Tonight my husband shall enter my body. It will never belong to me again... I must comply or He will whip me, like a spaniel or a filly. Perhaps He'll ride me mercilessly until I'm well and truly broken in... He must know that I'm a whore. Of course – Uncle Frederick must have told him!
"You needs to eat something, miss."
The young girl still hovered, anxiously glancing at the mantel clock, the slender hands of which were poised upon the noon hour. The baby stirred and let out a single piercing shriek as Frederica stepped into the wedding gown, shivering as the chilly silk made contact with her freshly bathed skin.
It's as cold as a shroud.
"Ah!"
They were tiny diamonds, she was sure of it! The dress was exceptionally heavy but it was lovely. Sedately, the young woman crossed the bedroom to examine her reflection in the glass. How foolish she had been to make a fuss! It might have resembled a museum piece as it lay limp upon the bed, but seemed to take on a completely different aspect when worn. The silk looked quite white in the bright light from the window. Chastity busied herself with lacing up the back of the bodice and Frederica watched her modest décolletage appear to rise and swell in a most gratifying fashion.
Thank heavens for artful seamstresses!
However, the young maid was quite right; she must eat something before the ceremony, as it almost seemed that her reflection shimmered and danced in the dazzling light of the mirror. Coyly turning to admire her figure in profile, the marble image of the first Lady Urquhart flashed upon her inner eye, as if superimposed upon her own living flesh.
She is not happy that I wear her dress.
Averting her glance from the mesmerizing glass, Frederica looked down at the wintry garden, her heart missing a beat as a shadowy form ran full tilt along a neglected path and melted into the frost-etched trunk of a gnarled oak tree.
* * * *
"At least I do not have to walk to church."
A pony and trap waited by the imposing portico and Frederica stepped out into the glinting day, snugly enveloped in an ermine cape.
I resemble a fairy princess, yet I have no attendants. I travel alone to meet my destiny.
"Very fine, miss."
Ah, it was the voice of the mysterious lantern bearer! How odd. She was obviously female, yet dressed in masculine garb, like a pantomime boy.
"Is it far?"
The driver did not respond but chirruped the sturdy pony on, and Frederica stared at the back of the woman's wide brimmed hat, searching for a stray wisp of hair or glimpse of skin, but every inch was covered with heavy black cloth. The trap began to climb the steep and rutted drive and her attention turned to grasping the edge of the hard wooden seat for support, as the vehicle swayed violently from side to side.
I shall be bruised all over. And, maybe, marked again, before the night is through...
"'Tis not right to disobey and risk a whipping..."
Oh, this feels like the queerest blend of Christmas morning and an impending execution! Which will it prove to be, my Lord? I suspect both, in equal measure...
Eventually, the trap lurched out between the gateposts and the silent driver turned left onto a narrow road lined with melancholy cypress trees.
So this is what it looks like. Oh, please let it be a pretty church, not a gloomy sepulcher, so I might feel wed rather than entombed...
Resignedly, Frederica lowered the delicate veil and watched the bleak November day retreat, stark, black trees vague skeletons beyond the subtle mist.
"Ah, there you are, my dear."
An elderly clergyman hovered by the open door of a tiny church, rubbing his gnarly hands together in a futile attempt to keep them warm. A brisk and icy wind was rising and a handful of crispy autumn leaves spiraled down upon the young bride as she stepped nervously from the trap. The minister extended a hand to assist her and she felt his trembling grip as they swayed together in the chilling current of air.
Poor old man. He must suffer from the palsy.
"I am Reverend Leckerstone."
Peering through the gauzy veil, Frederica discerned that the old man also had a nervous twitch – in fact, it seemed as if one side of his face was permanently contorted, twisted awry. A shadow fell across the blackened sandstone facade of the ancient building and, high above the deserted churchyard, an iron weather vane rattled at the top of the narrow spire. A large black cloud was threatening to engulf the sun and cold drops of rain were beginning to spatter the young bride's gown. Together, they walked into the darkening interior of the church, the dress' train sweeping the uncarpeted aisle with a soft sound like a sibilant whisper.
There he is, my father/husband. Old enough to be giving me in marriage, not taking me. But there is no one to offer me to my groom, just a doddering minister of God to propel me to the altar. No choir, no sweet orange blossom. Only silence. The quiet of the grave. Where are the children, scrambling for pennies? And the young girls throwing rice? Here, it would be quicklime...
"Darling."
Lord Urquhart smiled encouragingly at the ivory ghost which stood beside him, her features a smudged mask beneath the concealing veil. Trembling slightly, Frederica felt his gaze take in her lush cascade of auburn ringlets and milky expanse of uplifted bosom before returning to the altar as the Reverend began to speak.
"Dearly beloved..."
But there is no one here, beloved or not! Just row upon row of empty pews, concealing nothing more than a few dusty spiders. Does anyone worship here anymore? There are cobwebs in the Christening fount. Perhaps there are no baptisms in this abandoned parish, only burials...
It seemed that the Reverend Leckerstone's wavering tones retreated to a dull background hum, apparently quite unintelligible, except that Frederica responded when offered her cues, vaguely aware of her own voice, distant as an echo. The church was almost as dark as if night were falling and a sudden ferocious gust of wind rattled the roof, loosening several slates and causing them to come clattering down into the churchyard.
Everything here is decayed, barren...
Now, Lord Urquhart – William was his Christian name – could she ever refer to him thus – was lifting her veil, lightening the gloom a little as he bent to press his lips against her cheek.
"Let me see you, precious. You cannot hide from your new husband!"
Firmly, he swept back the diaphanous cloud, exposing Frederica to the dim light from the tall leaded window in the chancel.
"Dear God!"
As the bride was revealed, the Reverend Leckerstone recoiled in horror, staggering backwards until he came to rest against the altar, a look of abject terror contorting his twisted features to a dreadful parody of the demonic gargoyles at Urquhart Hall. Moaning softly, he clutched his chest through the musty cassock and continued to stare at Frederica, who was safely enveloped in her husband's arms.
"Lady Urquhart! Sweet Lamb of God. Lady Urquhart."
Far above their heads, the madly spinning metal cockerel of the weather vane leaped from its rusted post and skittered down the wet slates of the church spire, scraping and scratching like malevolent skeletal fingers before landing in the sodden grass of the graveyard, its copper neck broken by the fatal fall.
* * * *
"I do hope the poor Reverend will make a swift recovery. It was a dreadful turn."
They sat together in the swaying trap, Lord Urquhart attempting to shield his young bride from the driving wind and rain with a voluminous cape. Tenderly, he squeezed her shaking shoulders and kissed her softly on the forehead.