think…’
‘Maria! You must call me Maria!’ I cried.
He leaned closer and touched my arm. ‘Maria.’
I thought for that fleeting moment he understood, and hearing him speak my name made my heart swell with sweet and utter longing.
‘Please,’ I whispered, leaning into him, ‘ Do not go . Do not let these words be the last we speak today.’ I kissed his clothed arm.
It was clear my gesture of affection appalled him. ‘It is luncheon,’ he said, and his voice shook. ‘I ought to depart downstairs.’
‘No,’ my voice was weak. ‘Stay.’
He turned his pitiless eyes on me, but for just a moment, I believe I saw longing there; a longing as deep and profound as the one I found in myself.
‘It is improper,’ he said.
Anger swiftly replaced my longing and I stared up in disbelief. ‘Why is it improper? I need you … Frederick. Prove to me that you feel more for me than our occasional, perfunctory conjugal relations would have me believe.’
I opened my heart to him with those words. Truly I did. I said what had burned in my breast year upon lonely year.
But what he said next near broke my heart.
‘You read too many novels.’
He pushed me away. ‘Relations betwixt a man and a woman are for procreative purposes. You are speaking through lust – a mortal sin.’
With that, my husband was transformed into the pious vicar. My hand slipped from his arm and I turned away, not wishing him to see the pain across my face.
‘I shall call Minny to dress you,’ he said curtly.
I did not turn as he departed. I could not, but I listened to him leave – each footstep like a nail in the coffin of my empty marriage. My melancholia rose like a beast from nightmares. Finally, I sank down into the chair by my window and stared out over the garden, seeing nothing. I could not even weep.
I do not know how long I lingered, but as I did a knowing, a certainty, grew within me. I could not change him . My husband would never give me what I craved. I would spend another six years alone and pining in this bedroom, childless and alone, wracked with fleshly cravings that he would never allow himself to sate.
The longer I sat, the more my melancholia was replaced by something potent and fiery. My anger grew, as it is wont to do.
It is sinful perhaps, unfair, very likely – but I confess now that I am determined not to pine any longer. Whatever small measure of guilt I have felt over my intercourse with Mr Goddard shall be no more. The questions over my morality I shall never ask of myself again. For I am decided. I shall have what I want, indeed I shall, if not from the man to whom I am wed, then any who offers it to me.
Saturday, 22 nd May 1813
I have not written in many weeks, in part because there was naught of import to write, and in part because I had no wish to. I can say that my anger at my neglectful husband has not abated and to this end, I have seen little of the man, and I cannot say I am disappointed.
Since that fateful conversation, Mr Reeves has taken to avoiding me and I to avoiding him. He has, naturally, left me with ample biblical readings to while away my time, but I confess to not reading them. Instead, I have gone about my duties quite gaily. I have visited the Hatfields and Miss Louisa’s hand is making a fine recovery indeed. In addition, I have indulged myself thrice with Mr Goddard; once in our sitting room, once in the woods behind the dairy, and on the last occasion we had a tryst in the abandoned cottage behind Stanton House.
I had hoped, most sincerely, that our trysts might result in getting me with child. For I understand now more than I did before that I will not suffer to live another year in this empty, loathsome house. To this end I have prayed to the Lord for a child. Yet I was tragically disappointed. No doubt the Good Lord, in his wisdom, has chosen to smite me for my sins – for my courses arrived a week since, and I have been confined to the house. It is indeed a
‘Maria! You must call me Maria!’ I cried.
He leaned closer and touched my arm. ‘Maria.’
I thought for that fleeting moment he understood, and hearing him speak my name made my heart swell with sweet and utter longing.
‘Please,’ I whispered, leaning into him, ‘ Do not go . Do not let these words be the last we speak today.’ I kissed his clothed arm.
It was clear my gesture of affection appalled him. ‘It is luncheon,’ he said, and his voice shook. ‘I ought to depart downstairs.’
‘No,’ my voice was weak. ‘Stay.’
He turned his pitiless eyes on me, but for just a moment, I believe I saw longing there; a longing as deep and profound as the one I found in myself.
‘It is improper,’ he said.
Anger swiftly replaced my longing and I stared up in disbelief. ‘Why is it improper? I need you … Frederick. Prove to me that you feel more for me than our occasional, perfunctory conjugal relations would have me believe.’
I opened my heart to him with those words. Truly I did. I said what had burned in my breast year upon lonely year.
But what he said next near broke my heart.
‘You read too many novels.’
He pushed me away. ‘Relations betwixt a man and a woman are for procreative purposes. You are speaking through lust – a mortal sin.’
With that, my husband was transformed into the pious vicar. My hand slipped from his arm and I turned away, not wishing him to see the pain across my face.
‘I shall call Minny to dress you,’ he said curtly.
I did not turn as he departed. I could not, but I listened to him leave – each footstep like a nail in the coffin of my empty marriage. My melancholia rose like a beast from nightmares. Finally, I sank down into the chair by my window and stared out over the garden, seeing nothing. I could not even weep.
I do not know how long I lingered, but as I did a knowing, a certainty, grew within me. I could not change him . My husband would never give me what I craved. I would spend another six years alone and pining in this bedroom, childless and alone, wracked with fleshly cravings that he would never allow himself to sate.
The longer I sat, the more my melancholia was replaced by something potent and fiery. My anger grew, as it is wont to do.
It is sinful perhaps, unfair, very likely – but I confess now that I am determined not to pine any longer. Whatever small measure of guilt I have felt over my intercourse with Mr Goddard shall be no more. The questions over my morality I shall never ask of myself again. For I am decided. I shall have what I want, indeed I shall, if not from the man to whom I am wed, then any who offers it to me.
Saturday, 22 nd May 1813
I have not written in many weeks, in part because there was naught of import to write, and in part because I had no wish to. I can say that my anger at my neglectful husband has not abated and to this end, I have seen little of the man, and I cannot say I am disappointed.
Since that fateful conversation, Mr Reeves has taken to avoiding me and I to avoiding him. He has, naturally, left me with ample biblical readings to while away my time, but I confess to not reading them. Instead, I have gone about my duties quite gaily. I have visited the Hatfields and Miss Louisa’s hand is making a fine recovery indeed. In addition, I have indulged myself thrice with Mr Goddard; once in our sitting room, once in the woods behind the dairy, and on the last occasion we had a tryst in the abandoned cottage behind Stanton House.
I had hoped, most sincerely, that our trysts might result in getting me with child. For I understand now more than I did before that I will not suffer to live another year in this empty, loathsome house. To this end I have prayed to the Lord for a child. Yet I was tragically disappointed. No doubt the Good Lord, in his wisdom, has chosen to smite me for my sins – for my courses arrived a week since, and I have been confined to the house. It is indeed a
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