Purity Marred
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A very good society
Pearl's hand left Albemarle's and her eyes scanned his face, desperate to remember everything about this moment - remember the feel of his fingertips on her palm, the warmth of their still somewhat wide-eyed surprise - loving, loving surprise. Surprise that she knew, somehow, was mirrored on her own face. That things had come to this - that she had kissed them and they had kissed back...
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No books, neither prose nor poetry could match the unmistakeable emotion in the gentle tremble of Pearl's lips, the tenderness in his smile. Throw out the library, hurl it all to the wind, for the feeling of true emotion had arrived and Pearl's skin tingled at the newness of it all.
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Oh, that Nelson could have inspired this feeling in her - oh, that her mother had matched Albemarle and she the way it surely must have been intended by God. For hadn't God wept for the freedom of their knowing, in candour, what they felt?
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If this - this knowledge - was the reason Eve had been cast from eternal bliss, why! A thousand apples would Pearl eat on a thousand eternally beautiful mornings to know what she knew now.
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As their face withdrew from the carriage, with the hesitant invitation to dinner, and the further invitation to perhaps pass some time prior or after the meal, Pearl's smile dimmed slightly as she nodded. For this was not an eternal paradise, and propriety, the curse of all mankind, reminded her of the sins that others would perceive.
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For they were sins, as well her mother had reminded her. Her eternal soul was at risk, for had she not tempted, as Eve, the time and affections of a soon to be holy person?
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Where, in propriety, was the chance to do what was right? What was good? For a union with Nelson was not right, and the lack of love between them was not good. Despite her concerns with Albemarle's decision to take the cloth, she had understood why. He was a good person, and for all Nelson's desire to strengthen the family, to build society, to impress those with the ear of Her Majesty the Queen; his methods were abrupt, his tone, though rarely sharp brooked no argument, and his manner left her feeling manipulated somehow, as if there could be no question of right, or good, but only what is.
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Or what was.
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He had left her alone in a splendid, richly appointed prison, and she had broken free. What had been was no longer possible - could no longer be possible, for there was no shackling a soul that learned nothing could contain it. To look back was to become Lot's wife, a statue of salt upon a hill, petrified in time, lost in the horror of the past.
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And who did she have to thank but her best friend - the one who interlaced their fingers and steadied her, who stood with her as she gazed into the wind, wondering when she would be released from the grasp he held on her soul, even as she felt her feet turning to salt with the tears she could not scream to the wind? Who could she tell but that self-same best friend, the one who always knew what to do - how to use unspoken feelings for good, to utter words no one else in her life had ever dared speak for fear they would pour unbroken forever? That friend for whom a spark had been kindled, gently fanned by the breath of those words, the heat of touches she was sure must be in jest, or else...
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The friend who had left her upon the steps and fled. The friend who had not returned to claim what was hers if ever she had wanted it - who now was far away and unknowably distant in affection? In need?
What had frightened her so that she felt she must flee? What absence had taken her mind that she had not thought to take her best friend with her? For Pearl would have gone, and none of this would have come to pass - if only she had reached out a hand they would be together and she, Pearl, would protect her from all those fears if only she could.
There was so much fear in Little Thorndon - fear of knowing, fear of not knowing, fear of becoming or not becoming...
Fear of what was good or right or happiness or loss...
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Their glances spoke of a deeper knowledge, their cheeks apple blushed when they looked at each other, sometimes.
Sometimes.
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The mismatch of David and Goliath surprised all onlookers. Despite her insular nature, and her family's strategic movement, Amelia seemed alone, alone with her target, alone with the piercing ability to strike at the thing she desired most but afraid to stand against the titanous Goliath and demand it be given for it would be given as He decreed.
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Would that they were all peasants. One could not begrudge the small town commoner their base needs, for what else was there? What else was there to fill the mind and occupy the body? Did peasants grunt and thrust and grab and touch for pleasure, or to fulfil the expectations she knew she...
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The carriage stopped and the footman opened the door, offering a gloved hand.
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Home.
For how long?
And how long before she was returned to the sea to sink in its misery?
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She smiled faintly, took the proffered hand and left the carriage, looking up at her prison.
"I shall be dining with the Baron Liliput this evening. Please inform the staff."
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Soft
Contemplation
In bed
I could almost pretend
That I love him
His breath quickens
His skin
Hot
I almost feel
But
The ceiling reminds me
You see
There’s a pattern
Up there
It’s beautiful and pale and delicate
I can trace it with my eyes
Though I can’t follow it
I can’t keep my eyes on it
We move
He moves
And
I pick up
another line
Not there
Not there
Oh!
There.
There.
There.
No.
There’s a crack in that pattern.
That delicate, pale, beautiful pattern
And sometimes I think
I think
I think it is there
For me to pour my soul into
For when he cradles my head in his arms
To drive a soul inside me
And I gasp
I gasp
When he gasps
My soul is not there
But my body
It wants to feel
It wants to feel what matters so
It wants to feel what softens his eyes
And lightens his hands
And quickens his heart
I
He
I…
I think he loves me, you know
I think he thinks he loves me
But how can you love someone
When their soul is in the crack in the ceiling?
And
The thrust of the problem here
As sweat pours from my body
As my breath hitches
And my fingers curl
And he calls my name
And the world goes dark and my soul hides from even me
Is that maybe I could have loved him
Maybe
Maybe I could.
​
If I didn’t love you.
Genesis
Before you, my body was as stone.
Unyielding, cold, hard, lifeless.
​
​
Your touch did the impossible, softened the stone to clay, opened eyes to see you.
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And with my mouth I use that breath to whisper words you need to hear, my lips close, grazing at the sense.
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​
There was no before you. There was no time for before you, for you appeared as life began.
​
Your smile begat curved lips, which begat the breath that now I take freely.
​
And though I now have wings I choose to lie upon the earth where the air is heavy and to live is to feel.
Before you, my mind was set, my dreams bland, unwilling.
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You gave of yourself to me, a piece of your stability, your clarity and wings with which to fly.
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And softer, softer still, I learn to yield, the rib you gave upturned toward the sky in sacrifice to your touch.
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​
With lips, and breath and smiles and touch I yield to the inescapable sense of life I have been given by those I hold dear. Even as they reach to pull me closer to the brink of existence, I fear no life can contain the sensation rippling through me - that I must perish or else transcend for there is no humanity left.
Only hot, hot clay thrown and moulded to desire and need, gasping for completion, eyes open, mouth curved in supplication, wings beating futilely upon the earth, trembling, trembling heat building to a roar that cannot be contained within a proper woman, cannot be contained within a woman - man - person, but all. The memory of a thigh glides across the memory of a mouth. Teeth grasp at the potential of a breast. Tongues meet and slip to necks to taste while nails graze skin to hold tight hold tight
and wait
wait
wait for all,
no,
none left behind and then
​
Life.
Uncertainty
Pearl didn't sleep that night. Tenderly, so tenderly she held Zainab, barely trusting herself to feel the crackling potential just under her skin. She held the older woman to her breast, arms wrapped so tightly, so loosely, so certainly that Zainab could probably hear the patter of her heart like a timpano, but at least Zainab could not see the younger woman's face.
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The ceiling here was smooth and clean and pale, and if that didn't make the entire situation just that much more difficult to bear Pearl didn't know what could. Her soul, which she was so used to sending far from her body was here, deep in her, listening and making suggestions she had never considered could ever come to pass. And yet here she was, and with the barest hint of a movement every touch, every glance, every waking dream could occur in a moment. Fingers longed to grip the arms they stroked, to leave a mark of her visitation. Her lips ached to lean down to the neck she could see outlined in soft moonlight and bring retaliatory gooseflesh. Stroking Zainab's back lightly, she marvelled at how everything had gone so incredibly, spectacularly wrong. Everything this summer had gone so wrong - so very very wrong. She should not be here, in Zainab's arms. Zainab was betrothed, she herself, married. And yet, in this one day she had managed to destroy the lives of so many with barely a thought.
​
Barely a thought. What was she thinking?
​
The scent of alcohol blended with that of Zainab and forced thought from her mind. All she knew was what she felt, and what she felt was so very muddled.
​
Their positioning hadn't been accidental: the last time Zainab had cried, her face had been so forcefully emotionless that Pearl had vowed never to look upon that sight again. With every exhale, Zainab breathed warm air upon Pearl's chest and the younger woman waited. She knew Zainab was awake, but she could not see her face. If she wanted - needed - to cry, she could do so knowing Pearl would not - could not - see her face.
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Her reaction to the two was so different, she realised suddenly. With Zainab she wanted nothing more than to hold tight and weather through whatever tempest ensued until it blew out all at once and all that was left was the woman at its centre. One who maybe, maybe when the storm had passed would still be there, would not have run from her. With Albemarle, she wished to explore, slowly, gently, carefully, the person who had offered nothing but himself. She longed to feel their face with her fingertips, to gently draw nails across their back, to look at them through curtains of hair and feel what it was to be at peace. It was all she'd dreamed of since she was a child. Always, that belief:
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When I grow up I shall marry my best friend.
​
She had not meant to do any of the things she had done this day.
​
The bell tower had been defaced to help Albemarle. She knew they wanted to help people. It's just who Albemarle was. Had always been. But to become a vicar? No, of course not. The influence she held over people told her that a flock might want to listen, but to listen was not to act. What he needed was the ability to act on their behalf to provide for them and for that...that was the job of a Baron. Ruin their chances of taking the cloth and they would be free to pursue other matters as well as help - for they would always help. Albemarle needed to continue the family line. He needed to provide an heir or what was the point of the influence? He needed a legacy. For that, they need a spouse.
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A grimace crossed her face as she considered the plan that had failed so utterly. Her eyes darted around the room, to the hearth, a desk, the wardrobe and she sighed softly, holding Zainab a little closer.
​
She, Pearl, was married young. Nelson was a good match and one who wanted her. It was done. It was finished. She understood the role she was to play and played it magnificently. But then she hadn't. It was time to get back on track, do as any good wife and good friend would do. Turn away from temptation. Failing that, she was well placed to have the temptation turn from her. Turn it to Amelia...visiting for the summer. Ruin his chances of becoming a holy person, then turn him toward Amelia and let nature take its course.
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But Amelia and Zainab...
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And then they had asked what more she wanted...
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And Nelson had been gone...
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How hard it was to keep from temptation when temptation was so very close.
​
There was one thing keeping her from slipping a cool hand into Zainab's nightclothes - one thing keeping her from giving in entirely to the rebellious blood rushing through her body, telling her to touch, taste, suck, hold in ways she'd never been tempted to before.
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Love.
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She loved them. All three.
She loved them.
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Had God wept for joy or were they tears of laughter, for this seemed the perfect mockery. To be perfectly capable of loving all but her husband, and perfectly incapable of giving any of them what they wanted.
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This should never have happened.
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She'd vowed never to show her affection to either of them and in one day, one day she had managed to break that vow to pieces. She'd vowed to love and cherish and comfort her husband until death.
​
Had she died the day she was married, or was it yet another broken vow?
​
Was there a vow she could keep? Some stone unturned that she could raise and hurl to the glass house of her life?
​
If so, it need only present itself to her grasp and she would treat it the way she had treated everything else: with good intentions and remarkably poor outcomes.
​
Was even being here, refusing to leave Zainab be and remaining in the room, in bed with her worse? Every decision she had made this day was consistently worse than the former, and she marvelled at her ability to make yet worse ones. Was it worse for Zainab, jealous Zainab, to be in her arms? Was she hurting Zainab purely for being in her presence? Was it as painful to her as to Pearl? Was the heat as strong, the minute sense of every movement, the sharp pang of arousal as powerful? She had stayed to care for her friend and yet -
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"Show me what it was like when he kissed you."
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Zainab's whisper was a caress on her bosom and Pearl's already flooded mind exploded with responses and questions and fantasies and dreams and fears. The space between heartbeats became the canvas of her soul, unrolling on and on into the universe as she tried to process what was said.
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Her mind fled back in time to that morning, waking and asking if there was a letter from Zainab (she had stopped asking whether Nelson had written weeks ago - the response was consistent and it had been months). Dressing for the day, she had seen again the piles of letters she hadn't sent Nelson, the letters she had received from her mother reminding her to care for her soul, the charred remains of her thoughts on what had transpired the week prior at Amelia's party and looked herself in the mirror.
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In that mirror she had seen the face of a woman disappearing inside herself in her own home. She had seen loneliness and heartbreak and aeons of loss. The face in the mirror was old and sad and empty. She hadn't slept, she'd barely eaten, had kept commitments but not planned further ones
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the tedium of living the life of another woman was wearing her down and she would soon die of it. Her hands remembered the way Albemarle had touched her - not the feel of skin, but the strongly held care. The trust. Her heart had fluttered in its cage as they - the one who had shown her that feeling was not forbidden - reinforced the cage in which she sat. The gilded cage of care was still a cage.
​
She couldn't bear what she saw in the mirror. How was she to live this way? At least when Zainab was here there was someone she could trust to speak with candour if not with passion. But Zainab was gone, and Albemarle was closing.
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But not closed. So she had put on her jacket and gone into the morning to speak with him. Persuade them of a better course of actions.
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Follow the plan.
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And after? A different woman walked into the house. She'd forgotten Zainab - for Zainab had gone...gone to...fuck...
And Nelson? Gone. Fucking or otherwise. She didn't know. Though deep down, very deep down, she cared. She cared an awful lot and she wasn't sure why. But it didn't matter. He wasn't there and Albemarle was as they had been her whole life and that alone was bliss. That he loved her - that he was willing to renounce everything he'd worked for...
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"Show me what it was like when he kissed you."
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Glorious. New. Different. Alive. How to express what she had felt. Almost as though she'd taken ill - as though words would no longer fit in her mouth or else dribble down her chin like so much wine, bold and deep and rich. She had been terrified of his reaction when she kissed him the first time. The second? When they kissed her back? In the space between heartbeats her mouth opened to try to describe what had happened, but
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"Show me."
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Breathed, it sounded carnal and raw and desperate and empty and all encompassing at once. It sounded like a woman desperate to feel, and if Pearl had so much love in her she was full to bursting, so full her mother had seen it - even Grahnt had seen what Nelson had - the undisguised longing for their touch, the whisper of a promise of unfettered lust, unadulterated and most certainly sinful in this tightly bound society...the sensation that she was willing to throw away all to grasp greedily and gulp to the last adulterous drop...
​
If she had so much, should she not share it with one she loved?
​
Or should she withhold the feeling she shared with Albemarle in hopes of tempting new ones from Zainab? Her invitation to stay the night had been ambiguous to say the least - perhaps she would reject Pearl's affection anyway - affection so freely offered in spirit but in flesh?
​
She could admit to herself if not to any other that she had been hoping to pass time alone with Albemarle this evening - so much so that she had spoken out of turn and her mother had...
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But her body even now betrayed her, welling with a cloudy musk that she was certain would cut through the dark - for in absence of light, did not the other senses grow sharper? Did not the skin take on a different hue, the blood pump more purposefully, the sound of the breath tell stories words could not?
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Knowing, now, of Zainab's affection for Albemarle, her love for this unknown other, she almost wished she had spoken of all this sooner. Months ago, in the rain, a droplet had run down Zainab's cheek and Pearl had longed to kiss that cheek, drink that rain and go in search of more. Zainab had removed her boots, her jacket - oh to have removed more! Knowing what she knew now, her mouth would have chased every drop down to the last, only to rejoin the others before the fire and warm them all by any means available to her.
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Oh! To return to that day, when things felt simpler.
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Perhaps that was why candour was so discouraged - candour led to pleasure, and pleasure led to the breakdown of reason. Chaos reigned when pleasure arrived.
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But was that a bad thing? What did she have left, anyway? Everything of this day had been chaotic, so why not more? More, her body urged, and she lifted a hand to caress the dear, dear face resting upon her. More, her body nudged, and the fingers of the other tightened slightly. She looked down at the head on her chest, fingers stroking a face, lightly brushing hair back and away from where it had fallen. Her fingertips were on fire as they grazed down Zainab's neck, a whisper on skin, exploring softness she hadn't explored before.
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Was this what Zainab needed? Was it really what she wanted?
And where would it lead? What consequences could come from this?
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A Prayer to My Lord
As we lay here
Our bodies soft and limp
And muscles aching in sweet
Sweet satisfaction
I marvel at the sky
Between the leaves of overhead trees
As softly moulded as we beneath
So softly moulded
They could almost be one tree
With boughs that spread
As arms
In quiet supplication
In that soft contemplation
Of
Of
Of a…
Those trees with boughs in their way
Flung out to beg the day
That all the wonders it beholds
Will last and grow
And live in His shadow
For
For
For He…
My apologies but I must note
The crack upon my ceiling
The perfect smoothness upon hers
Are nothing
Nothing
Nothing
To the sky above my lord and
I
I
I weep
For I have never known such pleasure
In the giving of pleasure as to see
The visage of my Lord as he
Looked upon me
Truly to see the pleasure writ there
Is to look upon the glory of the Lord
My Lord
O! Lord…
If this, Lord
Is the true intent of marriage:
To love and to cherish
To take and to hold
In sickness and in health
To death
Ye! Even to death.
I would endure a thousand thousand deaths
If I could but behold the face of my Lord
As they endure one death wrought by this tender flesh
Mine own hands and mouth
Such a sight is worth all earthly consequence
Indeed it is a small price to pay
To see the Lord my heart holds dear
And feel his hand within my everlasting soul
Amen.
The Heart of the Pearl
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It would have been much easier if I hated him, but I don't. He's charming and witty and funny and very good looking and wants what's best for both of our families and very well liked and if we had just been friends I think we would have made a very good team but
but he's not Albemarle.
And I can't help that my eyes follow him around the room. I can't help that he is a compass to my true self. And I know that it's selfish of me not to think of my family and do what is expected and needed and for heaven's sake we at Kensington Palace and there is a baby on that dais who will one day be queen and everything should be wonderful and marvellous and beautiful but why do I feel so empty and lost?
Mother won't discuss with me what I need to talk about. She and Nelson have been very good at avoiding me when what I need, now, as soon as possible, is to speak with them. Both. Either. Both. Eventually. Alone.
I meant what I said. If to be with Albemarle means to be cut away from my family then...then to hell with it. How can I want a life full of finery and beauty and still be so so miserable?
Now that I have seen the mask I hold to my face, I cannot live within it.
Now that I know what it is to live without that mask - to be free of the desperation of society - to be lovely without it...
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(they called me lovely)
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Now that I know this face, how do I cover it?
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My eyes scan the room whenever Albemarle leaves my view for a moment and I look up into the face of my attentive husband, desperate to please and I wish I could hate him. I peer into those emerald eyes wishing I could find some way to despise their hue, to feel the urge to pluck them from their sockets and cast them onto the floor for daring to try to see past my mask and -
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I cannot.
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How strange it is...how hard it is to see everything that everyone sees - the wonder that is the perfect husband, a king of men and yet not see the flush of love and need I saw as I kneeled upon a rock before Albemarle. Even as my eyes rest upon my husband, even as the ghost of a smile crosses my mouth I feel the pull of my soul across the room as they return to view and the ghost - even the ghost - is dedicated to him.
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It always was. Carved into my heart as the ten commandments upon stone.
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Thou shalt love.
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I do not know what they said to Zainab, but they are fraught and unhappy and I wish to run to his aid and soothe, but... but we both know I cannot.
Please, my love. Please do not send my soul from your side. It already cracks from the strain of being so far from you now.
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A Daydream
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I am four years old, and I am wearing my first pearl gown. It is the first of many mother will let me wear and I am ever so proud that she is trusting me to wear such delicate fabric to play at a party. I have been very careful to stay away from mud, to eat cake and drink tea very carefully and to keep my fingers clean for I know how grime can make white gloves dirty so easily, and how quickly dirty fingers can mar the soft, pale fabric. I want mother to be proud of me.
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I am walking home - mother said she would meet me at the gate a few yards away (of course she could see me the whole way, I know that now) so I could feel grown up for the few yards between the road and our gate.
In the world beyond my dream, as I tripped and cried, you were there before mother could get to me, six years old and already a gentleman as you passed on your pony with your father. You saw me fall and slid from your mount, rushing to help, dry my tears and promise you would tell my mother what had happened, how it hadn't been my fault, how I had been so careful. We both wore gloves that day, but the warmth of yours in mine was so firm, so comforting, I never forgot it. It was a grip that said you would never let me fall again, and I trust it more than I trust myself.
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In my dream, as I watch you across the ballroom, my arm linked through my husband's, you were never there. I was never imprinted, like a lamb to a shepherd - you were never imprinted on my heart. In my dream, my husband reaches a hand to cover mine, squeezes reassuringly and I feel the care he offers as the best example of care I have ever experienced. I feel it as I should, with pride and satisfaction and desire and most of all, with love.
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In my dream, we have children, and they look like him, and I am proud to be a mother to such handsome children. Proud to bear such creatures borne of love and passion and need.
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In my dream you are as the mist, a fleeting thought, a memory burned away by the sun of my true love.
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In my dream I do not wish to run away with you, I do not wish to run to you now and hold you in my arms, I do not wish to throw the arm from my waist. In my dream I do not wish to find a quiet moment with you to mimic the sight I saw between Zainab and Amelia. In my dream I do not want to tear at your clothes to feel your skin on mine. I do not want to pull your mouth to my body, only to gasp in holy exultation. In my dream your hair has never been in my hands, or your eyes on my breasts. In my dream I do not need to know from experience exactly how Zainab rearranged her face in a picture of calm serenity. In my dream I do not need to wonder how it is that you make my body feel sensations I have not felt in the time I have known my body - in the time anyone has. In my dream, I do not know my body. In my dream I do not know my mind, for I sleep upon the silken pillow of society and decorum.
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In my dream, it is not a dream.
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But we both know dreams are for children.
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Another Daydream
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In the hours before the ball, I couldn't think about Albemarle - couldn't even think of them in fear that my heart would break and tears would fall, so I thought of you.
You, with the power to stop a heart with a glance
You, with the power to control rooms and flood bodies with anticipatory pleasure
You, with whom just a few days earlier I had spent the night
You, who had asked me to stay
You, who refused to use me as a distraction from the love you hold for another.
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But what if that love had been for me?
And what if Albemarle had not helped me to my feet?
And what if you were not to be wed to Amelia?
And what if it was I you desired in Paris?
What if I were your mecca, the centre to which you turned to give thanks?
The one to whom you made pilgrimage?
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Your skin would sing with my blessings
Your lips swell with my love
Your body sweat and shake with the gifts I have to give
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Who needs to leave the country, when the world is with you in a single room?
Who needs sustenance when passion dripfeeds entirely?
Who needs a mask when it is stripped away by sweat and completion?
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In a moment, I felt every potential gather in my body
And sealed it with that kiss.
Appreciation of the Soul
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Watching the room on the arm of my husband, I look, calmly at first, then more frantically, for faces that are neither miserable nor unfriendly and my eyes alight on the third of my most recent companions. Standing close enough to Albemarle that I can feign interest in her and her family's movements around the room rather than his my eyes follow the curve of her lip, the bust of her gown, the way the light touches her skin. The pride in her bearing puts me to shame, and I wonder whether she and Zainab have spoken since Zainab returned.
​
They arrived separately, but it could mean anything - her brother had arrived with his fiancée, after all.
​
As I watch, for just a moment my eyes hang on hers, then follow the line of her gaze to Zainab. She bites her lip in thought just slightly and I suddenly have to hold back the urge to take her arm and invite a waltz around the room.
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For all that rumour says she is untameable, for the times Nelson has spoken of how well her family has done to raise such a headstrong, powerful woman, she seems the sort to be in desperate need of affection - something that right now I can understand.
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For a moment I contemplate Albemarle once more - they didn't sleep well, and I can see it in the darkness under their eyes but there is nothing I can do presently - to keep searching would be to accept madness.
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Amelia, though. I have only known her recently, but in no way have I known her. A flash in my mind takes me back to the day we saw her prowess with the bow and arrow. I know how strong she is - the musculature in her arms, her stance now, the way her gown falls at the back as it curves down...
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My lips part as the image of hers gently pressed to mine becomes more urgent, a hand reaching to stroke a face, my eyes given the freedom to caress away any uncertainty in her countenance. Where Albemarle brings out my passion, and Zainab my arousal, Amelia...Amelia brings out my care. With her I would want to prove that the tiny scar I saw on her ankle was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. While I worship my lord, I would give devotions to my lady, light a flame in her core from that same scar - the beginning of all - and warm her heart by adoring her body and adorning it with my own. My lips would be sure to tenderly awaken every inch of her to the fact that the body I devote my ministrations to, the body I pay homage to: her body and soul are worthy of every drawn, held, gasped second we spend. Spent, together. Of crucial importance to me it is that she, and she alone, for no more reason than who she is, knows she matters.
​
The moment passes, a word is spoken, my body tense, held. How is it that I am in the arms of one who is not any of the three about whom I dream?
Bravery? No.
​
Until Zainab mentioned it, I hadn't considered the potential that my actions - our actions - could have further reaching consequences. Mother mentioned something about children a few days ago too, but...but 3 years with Nelson...
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and I...
​
I don't think that's something I need to be worried about, really.
​
There are much more pressing concerns. Zainab, Albemarle, Amelia...Marceline...Nelson...
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Zainab is now awfully important, and I'm worried for her. I am trapped in a marriage from which I could run, perhaps. She is the right hand to a Sultan, now. The right hand to a Sultan, and...
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Sometimes looking at her is like looking at a little bird trapped in a cage that is slightly too small. And I know the cage is too small, but every time I open the door the bird looks out then retreats even further and I just don't know what to do.
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And Amelia...I just want to give her the world, because I don't know what it is she wants and surely if I give her the world, some part of it would be a part of what she desires.
In all that's happened what I wanted, always wanted, was to do what was best for Little Thorndon. I wanted to repair the church, I wanted to get those lanterns along the highway improved, I wanted the cobbles on the main street changed because so many horses were going lame there...I wanted Little Thorndon to be a happy place. One that perhaps people would want to stay in. Zainab and Amelia travelled so much and I thought it was because of all the little things in our town that discomforted them. Or that perhaps our way of life was too dull.
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And now I find myself not wanting to stay in Little Thorndon either. I couldn't bear it, in fact. Back to Shrewsbourne, back to my prison. Yes, it was my fault that Nelson left, but why leave me alone for so long? And with Zainab gone and - and I tried to stay away from Albemarle as best I could to practice being a good wife until he returned but the months dragged and that house is a prison and -
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I can't return. I simply can't. Not to that house. Not to be left there. I can't.
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And yet deep down my heart flutters as hard as Albemarle's because it is exactly what Nelson could do. I must find a way to make him give me a divorce, because I can't spend more time alone there. Especially with Zainab and Amelia gone...and if we don't find a way to stop it, Albemarle too.
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Albemarle too.
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My heart, my soul, my love...all gone, leaving only the flesh to desiccate in the shell of Shrewsbourne Manor.
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No, Amelia, I'm not brave. Not even a little.
I'm desperate.
I'm desperate and panicking.
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Because maybe Grahnt was right and I'm going to break Albemarle's heart.
Maybe mother is right and there is no way out of this.
Maybe Nelson is right and I just need to try harder.
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Maybe everything I'm doing is wrong.
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But it feels right. It feels like the right thing to do, so is it not what one must do?
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The Lord went 40 days and nights in the desert.
40 days of temptation from the devil.
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But which is the devil here?
My love or my responsibility?
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All I know is that once I speak with Nelson, everything is going to change and I can't go back.
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The thought alone makes me shake, but I do not know if it is with happiness, terror or grief, for it is a closed door to who I was.
Pearl Meyer.