SMARTS!

by Jay Lawrence

  * * * *

  The next morning dawned chill and overcast, an icy wind blowing from the north and rattling the leaded panes of the bedroom window. Frederica had spent a restless night, tossing and turning within the capacious bed, unable to grow warm, until a shallow, nightmare haunted sleep claimed her for the few dark hours before the pale sun rose.

  I must tell my husband what I witnessed. Surely he will banish his precious concubine when he hears the sordid details of the woodland tryst. But yet, it is almost as if they are both ensnared by some black bewitchment, unable to break their unseemly alliance. Perhaps there is an Urquhart curse and it has damned us all...

  Frederica dressed slowly, her weary body aching from the night's events. The fine red lines of briar scratches marked her calves and forearms and she hoped she could conceal them from her husband's piercing gaze. The nightgown was torn and she hid it in her sewing box, meaning to repair the damage later in the day. Her reflection in the looking glass was pale but resolute.

  I must be brave. I must confront them both.

  Looking down from the lofty gallery, the young woman spied Lord Urquhart and his love slave settled before the fire, Sydonie's dark head buried in her master's lap. A wild surge of indignation surged through Frederica and she almost called out in anger, but held her tongue, gripping the dark polished wood of the gallery rail.

  Why is she here? The daylight hours belong to ME.

  At that very moment, Frederica felt the child quicken within her belly, a soft fluttering as delicate as butterfly wings. Hot tears filled her eyes as she watched her husband extricate his full erection and push the solid member between Sydonie's lips. Her lavish mouth closed upon the silky glans and then slowly drew the entire length of the thick shaft into her throat. Lord Urquhart groaned and closed his eyes in ecstasy. They did not notice the small silent figure, which crept down the stairway, her outraged gaze fixed upon their sensual play.

  First thing in the morning, before breakfast has even begun. Are they dallying late because the love slave took a midnight excursion to orchestrate a satanic mass?

  Sydonie's head bobbed rhythmically up and down between her owner's thighs and Lord Urquhart grasped two handfuls of her luxuriant hair, grinding his hips against her busy face. Frederica paused by the heavy oak sideboard, her fingers caressing the gleaming column of a tall brass candlestick.

  No more. I can perform that service for my spouse and just as well. He has no need to keep the devil's whore to suckle his horny pole. You are arrogant, dear husband, vain and trapped by your obsession to have a bevy of beauties ever at your sensual beck and call. A mere wife is not enough to salve your infantile urge. One, two, three, four, five pretty maids, all in a row. What matter how many? The end is the same.

  Carefully, Frederica removed the half-burned taper from the solid candlestick, never taking her eyes from the moaning couple by the fire. Lord Urquhart seemed to be nearing his climax and Sydonie's broad rump gyrated beneath its tight coating of scarlet velvet as she sucked faster and harder, her dark hands clasping the crisp front of her master's pristine shirt.

  Enough already. If anyone pleasures my husband, it is I, Frederica, Lady Urquhart. Not some gutter witch. All or nothing, my precious love. Your little wife will not be spurned in favor of some evil trollop.

  Raising the candlestick above her head, Frederica approached the groaning pair, feeling her full breasts ache beneath her tight bodice, her entire body a discordant symphony of intense frustration.

  He has not touched me for weeks. A mere peck of a kiss on the cheek, that's all. When I had become accustomed to lengthy hours of lust.

  Transported by ecstasy, Lord Urquhart cried out, discharging a copious quantity of hot semen into Sydonie's hungry mouth.

  "Enough!"

  Screaming the words aloud, Frederica slammed the brass column down upon the love slave's head with all the strength she could muster, hearing the sickening crack of the young woman's skull. Her husband's eyes snapped open, astonishment turning to horror as he witnessed his furious wife pound her rival's broken body with the blunt implement.

  "Frederica! Dear God, what have you done? Oh, dear Jesus!"

  They stared at one another in silence, as if frozen in the midst of some Greek tragedy. Her passion swiftly ebbing, Frederica allowed the heavy candlestick to drop onto the rug, unable to wrench her eyes from the grim tableau. Splashes of bright blood stained Lord Urquhart's shirt and his fingers were still entangled in the love slave's hair. Slowly, carefully, he withdrew his hands and turned them over, gazing at the moist scarlet palms with mute incomprehension.

  "What have you done?"

  Just as the question was repeated, a soft vibration began to shake the walls of the great hall, steadily growing until it seemed that the whole house pulsed with sound. The glass mantles in the great chandelier above their heads began to tinkle in their iron fittings and books fell from shelves, thudding onto the wooden floor. Some strange mutation was taking place in the lifeless form in the velvet dress. The lush ebony tresses shrank to a coarse dark fur and sharp claws sprang from the tips of the long, slender fingers. Terrified, Frederica scrambled backwards from the dreadful sight, until her passage was blocked by the legs of a chair. Still, the metamorphosis continued, until there was no trace of coppery skin but only a weasel with bright black eyes, which leapt from Lord Urquhart's lap and scurried away through the trembling house. Gradually, the odd vibration lessened, then ceased altogether, leaving a deep silence, as if the very world had come to an end.

  "She has gone. My Sydonie."

  Then it seemed as if a second transformation was taking place. An unfathomable change had come over Lord Urquhart, the wrinkles on his face appearing to deepen and his skin to lose its healthy glow, becoming pale and papery above the collar of his linen shirt. The sharp gray eyes lost their luster and began to dim, the milky orbs of cataracts dulling their former glint.

  He is growing old!

  "Oh Frederica. Dear, sweet child."

  Even Lord Urquhart's voice was a shadow of its former self, still soft but roughened by a rasping wheeze as his ancient lungs labored to issue the words.

  Dear God – don't let him die and decay before my very eyes!

  "You have broken the spell, my darling. Now, we can be free, after all these years..."

  "The spell?"

  Frederica crawled across the bearskin rug, unable to stand, as her legs felt as if they might collapse from under her. Her husband looked down at her with such a tender gaze that her heart turned over and she took his leathery hand in hers.

  "The curse of Urquhart Hall. An abomination I brought upon myself when I allowed that creature to share my home. But it is a long story, my dear. First, there is something I must show you..."

  Slowly, the old man rose from his chair, extending a gnarled hand to his trembling young wife.

  "Come, my dear. I have much to show you. Much to explain."

  Together they crossed the great hall, Frederica glancing warily up at the monstrous iron chandelier, which still swung slowly back and forth like a gigantic pendulum, its weight maintaining a ghostly momentum. Lord Urquhart led the way to the forbidden north wing and they proceeded at a stately pace, pausing several times along the lengthy corridor so the old man could catch his breath. Eventually, they arrived at the heavy oak door, which stood ajar. Unwillingly, Frederica stepped into the greenish gloom of the inner passage, feeling a sea of goose bumps rising on her arms and her heart began to flutter as she saw the dreaded window with its wall of verdant plant life.

  But it is still winter. There shouldn't be such greenery! Why did I not realize that before?

  Painfully, Lord Urquhart scrabbled in the thick dust that coated the window ledge until he found a certain place, which yielded to his searching fingers. A small compartment had been carved into the wood, about the size of a tinderbox. Wheezing with the effort, the old man turned a strange iron key and a loud clattering rumble echoed through the narrow s
pace, as if some hidden machinery were grinding into action. Frederica jumped back as a black hole began to open at her feet – a concealed trapdoor in the wooden floor. Gradually, the ancient mechanism revealed an opening just wide enough to admit a man and the couple peered down into the murky depths. Rusting iron bars were set into the wall of the pit, forming hand and footholds.

  "Must we go down?"

  Horrified, Frederica stared down into the well of darkness as her husband slowly lowered his creaking form into the void.

  "You shall be quite safe, my darling. A few spiders, that is all. This is another secret hiding place, devised during the Civil War like the flogging bonds in the wine cellar. Here, loyalists were kept safe from Cromwell's troops and certain death at the hands of the inquisitors."

  Slowly, they descended into the enclosed space and Frederica fought to dispel a crushing wave of claustrophobia as the dank walls seemed to press in on her from all four sides.

  It feels like being interred alive. Pray to God the trapdoor does not close above our heads.

  Seven iron steps led down to a tunnel entrance and Lord Urquhart crouched down to enter the mine-like channel, nodding to his wife to follow him.

  I can't breathe. I must have light and air.

  Gathering her wits with a Herculean effort, Frederica entered the constricted passage at her husband's heels, spurred on by a glimpse of greenish light at the end of the tunnel. Soon, they reached the source of the glow and, blinking like moles, emerged into a cavernous space. Astonished, Frederica gazed up at a lush canopy of tropical plant life. High above their heads, a glass roof protected the tender trees from the harsh English weather and a tiny brook splashed and gurgled as it wove its way between the voluptuous palms. Smiling at his young wife's incredulous expression, Lord Urquhart took her hand and led the way to a secluded corner of the indoor garden where two large wicker chairs were artfully placed beside a small pool of gleaming carp. Disconcerted, Frederica watched the orange and black fish glide around their lily adorned home.

  "But I don't understand. How can this place exist? There is nothing visible from the outside of the house..."

  Lord Urquhart laughed and settled himself in one of the chairs, its woven back fanning out like a peacock's tail behind his diminutive form.

  "Recall that we went down to cellar level, my dear. Although it seems as if this lofty glass ceiling must protrude above the chimney tops, it lies half a story beneath the slanting roofs, invisible to all but the birds that perch upon the slates. My father had it built as a gift for his first wife – my mother – who died when I was born. It seems that Urquhart men have poor luck in choosing childbearing wives."

  Frederica placed her hand upon her husband's arm in a comforting gesture.

  "How awful. Was your stepmother kind?"

  "Not especially, yet I cannot say that she was cruel. There was another entrance to this herbarium – naturally, my mother would not have entered it by means of the secret hiding place, as we did today – but my father had it sealed. He could not bear to set eyes upon my mother's favorite resting-place. When he himself passed on and I became the master of Urquhart Hall, I restored the secret garden to its former glory, but decided to have the former door bricked up again, once the work was done. Isobella and I would delight in sneaking away for hours of clandestine pleasure, far from the prying eyes of the servants. It became my little folly and a sweet revenge upon my father."

  "But, William, I still do not understand..."

  Frederica waited for her husband to correct the familiar form of address, but the sharp reprimand did not come. A faint smile played about the old man's bluish lips, then his features adopted a serious expression.

  "You must see a full portrait of my wife. Of Isobella."

  "I saw the marble image in the mausoleum. I know that I resemble her, William, and I sense that is why you took me for your bride."

  "Oh my dear young love. Look..."

  Frederica followed her husband's gaze and her eyes gradually discerned a shadowy figure beyond the vibrant blooms of a bougainvillea bush. Slowly, she rose and walked towards the huge portrait, an oblong canvas placed inside a shallow alcove.

  She is my double but for her hair and the color of her eyes. She could be my own mother.

  The artist had captured Lady Urquhart in the nude, reclining upon a chaise lounge, her thick dark tresses cascading over the pale green silk. Long, graceful arms languidly stretched above her head in a gesture of surrender, and smooth thighs were parted as if an ardent lover waited in the wings. Her flesh was olive toned and above the perfect, brown tipped breasts, a familiar necklace gleamed against the Mediterranean skin, cornelian sunflowers and golden leaves.

  "My necklet! She is wearing my necklet!"

  Lord Urquhart stood beside his wife and placed his arm about her trembling shoulders.

  "Yes indeed. You see, I longed for you to wear it in her honor, so I pretended I had had it made to match your brooch. I regret the deceit."

  A shocking wave of realization washed over Frederica and she stared at her husband, echoing his words.

  "To match my brooch. How can this be? Why is she wearing my mother's jewelry? Or do I possess your first wife's brooch? Tell me!"

  Lord Urquhart paused, as if unable to find the right words to explain. Finally, he sighed and kissed his young wife on her forehead.

  "I cannot conceal the truth from you any longer. Isobella was your aunt, my dear. Your mother's sister."

  Frederica gasped and for a brief spell, the room began to sway. Dazed, she sat down beneath the brilliant deep pink blossoms of the bougainvillea, attempting to digest what Lord Urquhart had disclosed.

  "My aunt. They never told me of my mother's family – only that she was a whore, a disgraceful creature who had brought the Roe name into disrepute. I suppose I thought she was an only child. But that means..."

  "I am your uncle, Frederica."

  Horrified, the young woman stared at her husband, first in disbelief, then anger.

  "How could you? How could you take me and use me so, knowing that I am your own flesh and blood?"

  "Oh my dear..."

  Mute with fury, Frederica clasped her knees, feeling the gentle movements of the child within her womb and she determined to remain calm for her baby's sake.

  "When I heard that Frederick sought to marry you off, I could not help but ask to see an image of my niece. What began as mere curiosity grew into a wild obsession when I gazed upon your perfect face and saw my Isobella, returned from the grave. I had to have you for my own, my bride – at any price. I paid a king's ransom for my bonny bride."

  "And did you flog poor Isobella too? Make her crawl into her home on her hands and knees, her stockings torn to shreds? Did you cuckold her with buxom maids?"

  At this accusation, Lord Urquhart placed his head between his hands and sighed deeply.

  "No, my love. Isobella was the very light of my life. I cannot express what she meant to me. But when she died, a terrible darkness came to claim my soul and I traveled across the continent, seeking what I do not know. Peace, perhaps. But peace cannot be found in the tawdry solace of the opium den or the gaudy bordello. On that fateful journey, I found Sydonie and I was too weak to resist her spell. God help me, I let her bleed me dry."

  "Where did you find her? In a brothel?"

  Lord Urquhart looked ashamed.

  "Alas, yes. In the most wretched, evil part of Limehouse, down by the turgid, rat infested Thames. I sought lurid sensation to distract me from the sorrow that threatened to consume my mind and heart. I did not care if the footpads leapt out from the shadows and robbed me of the coinage in my purse. At that time, I do not believe I feared a sly knife between my miserable ribs. And, of course, my lack of terror kept me safe and I wandered through that scurrilous world with nary a scratch upon my form..."

  Lost in thought, Lord Urquhart's gaze returned to the portrait of his first wife and his rheumy eyes filled with tears. Frederica felt a s
trong rush of compassion and she held his hand, feeling the faint and sluggish pulse.

  I wonder how much longer the poor man will live.

  "So, I drifted from one black hearted place to the next – losing at cards in the gambling dens, then losing my senses in the smoky back rooms where some cunning Oriental would divest me of my remaining funds in exchange for a hookah of dope. And the women, with that cloying, sickly scent of decay, rotting flowers, dressed up like dolls for my pleasure, painted faces and taking their breasts out at dinner for me to fondle. Rouged cheeks and rouged nipples. There was one place which seemed better than the rest – Madame Marguerite's establishment – away from the docks, in a better locale. Oh, you paid well for her girls, that was never in doubt, but they were younger and prettier than other whores. A Gentleman's Pleasure Is Our Pleasure. That was Madame M's pitch, which she was fond of repeating, while securing a shiny sovereign within her little bag. Her girls would do most anything – take a spanking or give one – and that is where I met Sydonie. She was offered as a Sultan's former concubine, fully versed in the Arts of Love. Of course, I knew that wasn't true and she was most likely the illegitimate offspring of a Lascar seaman, but I lusted for her all the same. And with that lust, I sealed my fate..."

  "You were corrupted?"

  "In truth, I was bewitched, Frederica, by the darkness in my own soul which resonated with her siren's song. No one can truly understand until they have found that evil twin whose longings dovetail with one's own shadow, intertwining like mating snakes. It takes a death to break such a curse, as you have seen."

  At that moment, a distant commotion was audible, and Lord Urquhart looked disturbed as faint sounds of angry shouting and a fierce hammering upon some outer door drifted down to the secret garden. What little color remained in his papery complexion faded to a near translucent white and he placed his trembling hands over his eyes in a weary gesture.