Branwell had seen me in every light and from every angle. He’d hitched up my skirts against the wall of the Monk’s House, admired my naked body under the dappled sunbeams fighting through the thatch of George Walker’s dirty old hovel, felt his way to me when all was black in the dovecote, which smelled of hay, cheap gin, and piss.
When the lights were all but extinguished and the curtains were drawn, Sir Edward began to undress, not looking at me.
He was shy.
I turned away too.
So many layers. I unbuttoned my dress and draped it over a chair, unhooked my crinoline, unlaced my corset.
Once I was down to my shift, I risked another glance at him.
This time, he was watching me.
“Lie down,” he said.
I went to peel off my underthings but he shook his head.
Instead I came as I was to the bed. I sat, swung my legs before me, leaned back and gazed at the dark canopy above, its pattern indistinguishable in the gloom.
A creak.
A shadow looming over me.
Sir Edward’s breath was warm against my neck, but still he didn’t touch me.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, trying not to sound too eager. I arched my back in an attempt to reach him.
I needed proof that I was still alive, that this part of me hadn’t died along with Branwell.
Sir Edward brought his hand to my breast, the linen still between us.
I gasped.
His other hand was pulling down my drawers and creeping up my thigh, but not for my sake. For his. He was feeling out his target.
Seconds later, he pushed into me. Quick, yes, but it didn’t need to be good the first time, did it? With Branwell, that first time had been frenzied. It was only later that he’d learned— But no, I mustn’t think of him now. With my body I thee worship. I had to prove that I was all Sir Edward’s.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and my legs about his back, kissed a soft spot of skin behind his ear.
“Edward,” I whispered, rocking with him. “Edward.”
He stopped abruptly.
I drew back my hands as a reflex, although my ankles were still crossed around him, the hairs on my legs prickling in the cold.
“What is wrong?” I breathed.
“Lydia, you are acting like a whore,” he said.
My heart, poor caged thing, did a death throe inside me.
My legs fell with a thud to the mattress.
“There, it is not your fault,” Edward said, softening. “But you are my wife now. Lie still.”
He brought his hand to my face and stroked me.
I willed myself not to cry.
Seconds later he thrust into me again.
The pillow was cold against my cheek, the sheet was folded too tightly around the mattress for me to grasp it.
One strike, and another, and another.
The black awning of the bed billowed above us three more times, then fell still.
15th November 1848
Allestree Hall
Mama,
I hope your wedding was all that you wished for.
Mary’s was a fine celebration, although her subsequent letters from Keighley give me some anxiety about her happiness. The Claphams don’t live as well as she had hoped, and her husband is often absent. Auntie says she must give marriage time and that brides often feel so. Is that true? Either way, I will see Mary soon. In a little over a week, I go to stay with her. We will visit Miss Brontë together, if her sister Emily’s health has not worsened. They fear at Haworth she will soon join her brother.
For now, though, it is hard for me to be the only one left. I had even taken to writing to Ned, but he insists on replying in pig Latin. My spirits were already depressed and then, a few days ago, Uncle Charles arrived, looking very grave. I thought it was on business, as he spoke with Uncle William first, but then the pair of them called me into the study and told me what was the matter.
Will Milner means to sue me.
I didn’t understand at first what it was he could sue me for. Uncle Charles called it a “breach of promise,” but when had I promised him anything? Then they read me a passage from one of those foolish letters that Lydia helped me write years ago.
Oh, Mama, I’ve never been the sort to blush or to agonize over mistakes in etiquette as girls in novels are wont to do. But just then I wished that the ground would swallow me whole. I couldn’t defend myself or even blame Lydia. She’d known then nearly as little as me.
When I stayed silent, my uncles made excuses for me, saying I had learned from you or “hadn’t been watched by the governess, that scoundrel’s sister.” And I started to say that it wasn’t true and that Miss Brontë was the best governess we could have wished for.
They didn’t care what I thought, but sent me away and conferred again, this time with my aunt too. And when I came back, Aunt Mary took my hand and patted it. She told me that she and Uncle could pay lawyers, and even the Milners if necessary, to make those girlish letters melt away. I need only trust them to advise me and I might make myself a fine match—with the Jessops’ son, perhaps, who is due to visit next week.
But I could not help thinking, Mama is Lady Scott and has money now, mightn’t she help me? And, were I to owe such a debt to Uncle and Aunt, what if I found myself unhappy like Mary, married to a man of their choosing?
Mother, I am frightened. I delight in the open field and the fair chase, in having no one before me, just a straight shot to the horizon. Must I give that up? Must I be hemmed in? Aunt and Uncle are good and kind, but I’d much rather have my freedom from Will Milner delivered by your hands.
Ever your loving daughter,
Bessy
22nd November 1848
Southampton
Bessy,
I cannot abide these dramatics. A girl cannot spend her life riding horses or clinging to the freedom of her youth.
You have two choices. If you wish to marry young Milner, do so. If you wish to marry someone else, take my sister and her husband up on their offer.
You will learn, in time, that your mother cannot fix everything. What would you have me do? Change the world and your place in it?
Your letter was forwarded to me in Southampton, where Sir Edward and I are seeing to the fitting out of his yacht. We will be in London briefly but will soon leave England.
We want to get into warmer quarters for the winter, and the yacht is to meet us in Marseilles.
I will send you an address where you can write to me. I will answer when I can, but you mustn’t expect to hear from me for some time.
Very truly, your mother,
Lady Scott
EPILOGUE
December 1848
IT WAS QUIET ON the deck of our yacht, save for the lapping of the waves.
Sir Edward was in the cabin below. He’d been worried I would catch a chill. “Yearning for solitude again, Lydia?” he’d asked when I told him I’d wanted to read. But then he laughed and told me it was warm enough to sit out if I wrapped a thick shawl around me and placed another across my lap.
A seagull screeched overhead. I drew the packet toward me, although I’d read the contents twice since its arrival.
I’d turned it over, perplexed, and examined it by candlelight four nights before as Sir Edward snored in our hotel room. Something had warned me to wait until he was asleep to open it. Who would send such a heavy package all the way to Marseilles? Hadn’t they cared for the expense?