by Mary Wood
‘Andrew, you have surprised everyone, you know. I mean, Dvina Portland! Good gracious, not a love-match, I’d wager. But, cash-strapped or not, you’d not get me—’
‘I think that kind of talk is rather out of order and extremely insulting to my intended, Guy, not to mention unhelpful.’
‘Well, you deserve it. I’m sorry, but it’s clear you are marrying for money, so you don’t get any sympathy from me. In fact, you get what you deserve: disdain. Your announcement at the ball the other week rocked us all to the roots, but having said that, of course I will stand as your groomsman and be honoured to do so, if only to support you through this dreadful mistake.’
‘I don’t know if it is such a mistake. Dvina is a good sort. Oh, I know she’s nothing to shout about in the looks department, but, you know, she is honest. There is no double talk with her, and she can be very funny. I have enjoyed her company . . .’
‘You sound as though you are reading from a script. All those things are good assets, and I have heard she has them in abundance, but what about when it comes to the bedchamber? Methinks you will still make regular visits to your whore, my good fellow, as I cannot see how lying with that great bulk could give you any satisfaction. The thought of having to do it, even as a duty, quite puts me off my lunch.’
This conversation, which he’d had a week or so ago with Guy, still haunted Andrew as he turned and saw Dvina walking towards him up the aisle. His mother walked in front of her on the arm of his brother-in-law, obscuring most of his view of his future bride. He smiled at Edgar standing beside him, who had leaned towards him and said, ‘Here they come. Oh, look. Rosalind – I mean, your mother – looks beautiful.’
Andrew agreed. His mother wore a pale-blue satin gown, fitted at her tiny waist and flowing out to the floor in box pleats. Over it, and matching the colour of her veiled hat, a delicate, darker blue lace coat billowed out as she walked. He’d never seen her look lovelier. He hardly dared look over her head to see Dvina. When he did, he couldn’t really make her out, as a veil of such close-knit, heavy lace covered her face that he wondered she could see through it.
The procession reached the altar steps. Edgar took the arm of Andrew’s mother and steered her to the right of the altar, leaving Dvina and her father in full view. Andrew offered his arm and smiled. Though she presented much better than he’d hoped – her figure, he presumed, laced into shape by strong corsets – he hadn’t yet seen her face.
Her long cream silk gown, with an organza overfrock ruffled into a bustle at the back, camouflaged her large rear effectively. He had to admit that it looked quite becoming and suited her tall frame, somehow making her appear much slimmer.
A sigh of relief came out louder than he intended. He coughed, smiled and said, ‘Nerves, sorry. You look lovely, Dvina.’ She nodded her head, but he still could not properly see her face or her hair.
The vows of his mother and Edgar passed, and their turn came. Her veil billowed out around her mouth as she spoke hers in a clear, rather loud voice. His own voice shook as he repeated his, making him feel rather foolish.
‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’
The words were hardly finished before Dvina flicked back her veil and proffered her lips for a kiss.
Shocked not just at the forwardness of this, but at the sight of her, he instinctively drew back. An uncomfortable murmur went round the church. Dvina’s face reddened and she dropped her eyes.
He wished he could undo the moment. It hadn’t been what it seemed. It was the difference in her that had taken him aback. He couldn’t say that Dvina’s rounded face looked beautiful, or even pretty, but it certainly looked a lot better than he’d expected. And her hair! Someone had done wonders with it, sweeping it back from her face into a mass of curls at the nape of her neck, leaving just a fringe and two ringlets each side. It suited her well.
Regaining his composure, he pulled her to him and kissed her lips. The softness of them stirred a feeling deep inside him, as did the sweet taste of her breath. He pulled away and looked into her eyes. ‘My dear, I . . . I didn’t mean to be rude. You . . . well, you surprised me.’
She smiled and whispered, ‘That’s the work of the maid Mother insisted I have. She has some very good tricks up her sleeve. I’m glad I passed, but don’t expect me to look like this all of the time. It’s jolly uncomfortable!’
He laughed out loud, then leaned forward. ‘No, as long as you are willing to some of the time, Mrs Harvey, just to please me,’ he whispered back.
She grinned. Her gums showed above her teeth, her face creased and her eyes disappeared, but he didn’t mind. For some foolish reason he felt very happy and relaxed, and none of it mattered.
The day had gone well, even to the point of Guy conceding some of Dvina’s good points, but Andrew felt exhausted and not at all ready to perform his marital duties. The kiss they had shared when Dvina had snuggled up to him the moment he’d slipped between the sheets hadn’t helped. The kiss itself had its merits, as once again her soft lips had given him pleasure, but the flutter of desire it had evoked had died when he’d pulled her closer. It was the feel of her. It reminded him of the nurse he’d had as a child and of the matron of his school: nice women, but motherly and plain, and not at all built for loving in a sexual way. The image had killed any hope he had of consummating his marriage. At least not tonight, and he wondered how he was ever going to.
Not wanting to be unkind, he held her close and stroked her hair, trying to invoke thoughts of Lilly, his favourite whore. Nothing worked. Dvina saved the day by saying, ‘Please don’t think you have to . . . well, you know. It’s perfectly all right not to. I have had a wonderful day, but that laced corset pulling me in as it did has made me ache all over. Bloody things. They’re like torture instruments.’
He laughed, more from relief than anything else.
‘You may laugh, but it isn’t funny. One day I’ll rope you into one and you can see for yourself.’
They both laughed at this, and he found himself holding her even closer, but more in the way he would a sister or a friend when giving them a hug. He could love her as a friend, he knew that, but as for anything else . . .
‘You had better stay with me tonight, though, Andrew. I promise I don’t snore. Only it would look odd, and embarrass me, if you went to your own bedchamber on our first night.’
He kissed her again, lightly, on her sweet lips. ‘I will. I’ll never do anything to embarrass or hurt you, my dear. Thank you for understanding. Like you, I am exhausted. Goodnight, dear.’
A sound woke him: a quiet but unmistakable sob. The light from the full moon swathed the bed, highlighting the form next to him. Disorientated, he listened for a moment, and as he did the day’s events seeped back into his memory, giving him the reason for there being a woman in his bed, and for that woman being Dvina. ‘Dvina? Dvina, are you unwell?’
‘No, I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep, and then I started to think what an awful situation we are in. You don’t love me, and I don’t suppose you ever could. Why should you? I have nothing to attract you or even to—’
‘That’s not true. I mean – well, I can love you. You are easy to love. Look, I’m sorry, I truly was very tired. Please don’t be upset.’ He reached out for her and once more she snuggled up to him. He lifted his head and kissed her eyes. Her arm came around his neck and their lips met. Her kiss didn’t tell of inexperience; she probed his mouth with her tongue, sending shivers through him. He found one of her breasts and, though very large, it surprised him to feel how firm it was. Her nipple responded to his caresses.
Her soft moans told him she enjoyed the sensation, as did the way her body writhed. His throat tightened, and a familiar clutching of the muscles in his groin urged him to push against her. Nothing about her repulsed him now.
Somehow she discarded her nightdress, and her flesh, soft and silky, cushioned his body like feather pillows. He liked the feeling. His senses heightened to the warm, loving, giving
of her, and to the absence of bony ribs, hard thighs and the demanding of pleasure.
Every part of her offered softness and sweet-smelling skin. He let his lips travel over her, tasting, sucking and gently nipping. Her cries of pleasure let him know she was ready for him, and he knew a moment when he had to hold back, so aroused was he that he feared coming before he had time to satisfy her.
As he entered her a moan echoed the pain she felt, but she didn’t tighten up on him or resist him. It took him a moment to fully penetrate her, but as he did so he soothed her with gentle encouragement and words of endearment.
When at last he felt the depth of her, the feelings taking him almost made him forget to proceed with care. Never had he experienced an untouched vagina, and he couldn’t match the feeling to anything he’d felt with the whores. Soon his thrusting became easier, and exquisite sensations pounded through him. Arched towards him, Dvina stiffened, and a plea for him to stop gasped from her. It took every ounce of his willpower to comply as the spasms pulsated, clutching him from deep within her, taking him to the brink. As her cry resounded around the room and she dug her nails into his buttocks, he could hold back no longer. His own juices released, and he was lost in an all-consuming wave after wave of rapture, bringing from him deep moans that he couldn’t control. My God . . .
Sweat dripped off his nose onto her forehead. She looked up at him and giggled. It wasn’t the loud, horsey noise she usually made, but a girly giggle that he hadn’t expected from her.
Easing himself from her, he lay back. His mind couldn’t equate what had just happened with what he had dreaded having to do as a duty. A happiness surged through his veins, and once more he reached out for Dvina. ‘My wife, my lovely wife, come here and let me cuddle you.’ And he found he meant every sentiment of what he’d just said. He found cuddling her a wonder compared to what he had experienced earlier. ‘I think I am falling in love with you, my wife. Yes, I think I am.’
Her voice, gentle and loving, answered him, ‘I know I love you, Andrew, and have done since I first saw you.’
This surprised him, but he questioned why it should. Why had he and others always thought of her as a . . . a dollop of a girl, rather than as a woman with feelings and needs? Well, he knew now they had been wrong. For the Dvina he had discovered was a good, kind, funny and very sexy woman. Instead of life stretching out before him in an ever-increasing spiral of discontent, he knew just the opposite and held an anticipation of good things to come.
‘Issy, eeh, it’s nice to see you. How’s things at Hartington House?’
‘Hello, Jane. Nowt’s changed, but then you’ve only been gone a couple of weeks. Have you settled into Tarrington House all right?’
‘Aye, I have. I love working for Miss Dvina, or rather Mrs Harvey, as she is now. And thou knows sommat: she’s reet happy. Gertie were wrong about it being a convenience marriage. Mr Harvey loves her, and she adores him. I’ll tell yer, Issy, he ain’t never left her bed to sleep in his own since their marriage and, between you and me, there were plenty of evidence on the sheets and her nightdress to tell of what went on that night an’ all.’
‘Oh, I am glad. I couldn’t bear to think of her unhappy. Well, I s’pose as it takes all sorts, as they say, but them two I’d have never matched in a million years.’
‘And what about you, you dark horse? How’s your plans going? Have you and Denny set a date yet?’
‘We have that, and you’ll be invited. We’re going to have a spring wedding: Saturday 14th April at 2 p.m. at St Gregory’s church. I couldn’t arrange it any sooner, what with the sudden arrangement of the double wedding we had to cope with and now Christmas being upon us. Besides, Mrs Baxdale is talking of getting a trainee in soon, so it’ll take me a while to teach her the ropes of the kitchen.’
‘Well, this might be of interest to you. I heard tell as Hensal Grange might be looking for a cook in the New Year, and they’re only just up the road from where you’re going to live. It could be just the thing for you, as I know you said as you’d miss the money when you gave up working. You should ask about it.’
‘Ta, I will. Funny me ma ain’t said owt. She usually has her nose to the ground, and she knows I want to work for a while until . . . well, thou knows.’
‘She might not have heard as yet. I’m privy to a few things afore the others, as Mrs Harvey talks to me. And Mr Harvey discusses some things in front of me whilst I am tending to her an’ all. I don’t spread owt I hear, but it ain’t as though this won’t be common knowledge. I mean, Edna is getting on a bit.’
‘Well, anyroad, ta for telling me. I’ll talk it over with Denny, only I have to go. I’ve only got the day off and I want to meet him from work. I’ll see you next time, eh, Jane?’
Issy turned into the ginnel, waving to Jane as she went. The news of a possible place at Hensal Grange had lifted her spirits some. She’d been pondering more and more of late how she and Denny were going to manage. Now she had hope. She walked the long way round to meet him. She wanted to go by the two empty cottages and peer into the window of the one Mr Harvey had allocated to them. She didn’t care about the state it was in; just seeing it, she could dream about how they would fix it up and where she would put everything. And now it might be possible to spend more of their savings on the things they would need. Eeh, I feel so happy I could do a little dance.
10
Bridie
Liverpool, 1875
Taking control of her life
‘There’s no work round these parts for a young girl. You should try to get into service; there’s a number of large houses in Birkdale.’
‘Thank you. You have been kindness itself.’ Bridie smiled at the shopkeeper, a small man whose head and neck were the only parts of him visible over his counter. ‘Are you for knowing where they post their vacancies?’
‘They don’t post them; you have to stand on the corner on market days. That’s every Tuesday, so that being tomorrow and Christmas only a week away, you could get lucky, as many will be looking to swell their staff for the festivities. Those who are looking to take on ride up to see if there is anybody suitable. Have your bags with you, mind, as they expect you to go with them there and then.’
Bridie’s heart lifted at this. To be sure, nothing could be simpler. Getting out of the house with her things would be after posing her a problem, but she’d just have to think of something. Once established, she could ask for a position for Beth. Now to find the bank, and see how much money it was that her pappy had left her.
As she went to leave, the shopkeeper surprised her by asking, ‘How long have you been off the boat, then? And who are you staying with?’
She answered his questions, but sensing his sudden disapproval of her, she was for leaving his shop as soon as she could.
‘George Bottomley? You’re a relative of his missus then, are you?’
With a quick nod of her head she skipped into the street, glad to be out of there, even if it did mean covering her nose against the smell of the dock.
Shielding herself from the ever-present wind, she walked round the corner. Here the huge buildings gave her a feeling of being swamped. Most seemed to be trading houses. She wasn’t seeing anything that looked like a bank, and after the effect she’d had on the man in the shop she felt afraid to ask anyone. She stood a moment and looked around her. Then she saw it, and her relief lifted her spirits. The red-brick building just ahead of her had the words ‘Liverpool Bank’ carved into an arch above a heavy, ornate wooden door.
The clerk peered at her over his glasses; his eyes held a mocking, unsaid statement. Maybe she didn’t look like his usual customer, but she had business here, so she lifted her chin. ‘Please could you tell me who it is I am to see about accessing my safety deposit box?’
His look changed to one of astonishment, and his voice faltered as he said, ‘Er . . . um . . . come this way, Madam . . . er, I mean, Miss.’
Bridie followed him, repeating to herself the codeword. Sh
e needed to maintain her composure, and forgetting the codeword would look odd.
He led her into a room and indicated that she should sit down. Taking down a large ledger from a shelf, he asked, ‘Name?’
‘O’Hara. Bridie Mary O’Hara.’
The pages caused a draught as he flicked through them. Stopping on one, he ran his finger down the columns until it hovered over a name. ‘We do have an O’Hara with a box registered, but . . .’
‘That will be me pappy, Michael James O’Hara. He . . . he is dead. ’Tis as I am his heir.’
‘Do you have proof?’
‘I have his death certificate here, and a codeword I am to be giving you, so you will know right enough I am who I say I am.’
He took the crisp parchment from her and unrolled it, his head bent over, revealing a stark white parting in his flat, grease-slicked hair. She cringed at him reading ‘Died by his own hand’, but kept her head upright, hoping her dignity would remain intact. As he laid the document down and eased his glasses further up his hooked nose, his dark eyes looked at her, impassive and uncaring, as he asked, ‘And the codeword?’
‘Ta suil fredom – liberty and hope.’
His lip curled in an unpleasant half-snarl, as if those words confirmed in him something he already suspected. She knew the feeling might just be her own guilt at knowing that the money stashed away must have come from her father’s dishonest dealings, but if that was so, she was for having no knowledge of what things. All she knew was that she needed it. She had to make a life for herself and, however much the box contained, that is what she would do with it.