The Journal of a Vicar's Wife Read online

  Henry groaned, and I heard my own surprised cry break from my lips. He felt wonderful there, deep inside my sex, stretching and filling me in a way my husband so rarely did.

  With another cry, I slid up his staff and slipped back down. I did so with considerable force, for the brutality of the act offered me satisfaction like no other, and in some peculiar manner I felt that if our rut was a forceful one, my sex’s appetite for more may somehow be lessened – but it never was. I repeated the action over and over, the sounds of my flesh hitting his echoing in the still air of sitting room. My womb began to tighten. The urgency grew within Henry too, I could see it plainly in the contortions of his lovely face. Quickly, I slipped my hand down betwixt my legs, and stopped our frantic rut. My hand found that place where Henry’s staff rent my quim wide. My flesh there was stretched taut and my secret lips swollen. My fingers lingered but a moment, exploring the contrast of his hard, hot length and my body pulled tight around it. If only Frederick would allow me this! My nether hair was soaked as I found that special part of my sex that evoked an even greater pleasure. With Henry’s staff locked deep in my quim, I rubbed myself, just so.

  My breath quickly hitched and everything low in my body tightened anew.

  ‘Move,’ I hissed at Henry. His blue eyes went wide but he did as he was bade. He thrust up and down as I played and rubbed against that sensitive place.

  I could not stem my crisis. With the suddenness of a lightning strike, my sex clenched and that sweet, heady pleasure grew until I contorted around Henry and ground down upon him, wishing I could force all of him into me so that we could both feel the wonderment.

  At length, my crisis abated, and my sex clenched about Henry several more times. He looked up at me, his brow furrowed. He needed his own release; I knew he’d held off just long enough to be certain I had met with mine. With a smile, I began move once more, the last paroxysms of my pleasure contracting around his staff as he cried out and plunged his last.

  For a time, I remained straddling Henry, relishing his lingering presence as his phallus shrank and eventually slipped entirely from my body.

  I sighed, and stood.

  I looked about the room; religious paintings and my husband’s bookshelves caught my attention. A whiff of his scent seemed to drift past my nostrils, as if a ghost had just passed by.

  The guilt came, as heavy as a lead cloak and even more crushing.

  ‘Thank you, Henry.’ I said, and felt his seed slip from my sex and sluice down my thigh. I ignored it, for there was naught I could do. I’d wash before Frederick returned. Without further delay, I picked up Henry’s shirt and handed it to him, only to find he was already busy re-buttoning his britches.

  ‘We’ll not do this again, Mrs Reeves, shall we?’ he said softly, as he always did, catching my eye and smiling.

  ‘Of course not,’ I replied, as I always did.

  With silent regard, I helped him dress, as was my habit after our sinful joining. He offered me another suggestive smile but otherwise said nothing more. I did not want him to.

  I know that what we did was terribly wrong, but for a man whose position leaves little time for amore and a woman bereft of affection in her marriage, our physical union is entirely and unrepentantly … convenient.

  * * *

  When Henry had left, Minny came in to collect the tea. It remained completely untouched, the cups unused and tea un-poured. Minny’s expression did not change. She nodded, however, and collected the things.

  ‘Luncheon will be shortly,’ she said. ‘Shall I run you a bath afore or after?’

  ‘I’d rather like one now, thank you,’ I said, the slick seed on my thighs a conspicuous reminder of my actions.

  She nodded and left.

  Naturally, Minny and Mrs Cartwright know of my liaison. I knew they hope as much as I, that it will eventuate in a child. Mrs Cartwright’s husband died not long after Minny turned eight, and thus my husband hired them both as domestic servants. There is very little for them to do for just Mr Reeves and I, and I know they long for a babe’s cries to echo throughout the house.

  Do not mistake me; I do not take pleasure in Mr Goddard for the express purpose of breeding – though that would be a happy event if it occurred – but my house-staff conveniently believe it to be so. Once I overheard Mrs Cartwright gossiping, hinting that my husband and I were barren. Not long after, she happened across Mr Goddard and I naked and mid-rut. It was terribly embarrassing, but I confessed a lie to her then. I told her I sought out Mr Goddard’s attention so that I may have a baby. She believed me, and has been the very model of discretion ever since. She agrees that the vicarage needs a child’s laughter, and considers poor, pious Mr Reeves incapable of providing one for me.

  So, if not for purely procreative purposes, why do I do as I do? Why do continue to sin against the holy bonds of matrimony, and sin against myself in adulterous fornication?

  I am lonely. I am sad. I can admit it here in this journal as I can nowhere else.

  My marriage is unhappy in more than just the visceral sense. My husband, though I do not doubt his goodness, does not love nor want me. He married me for pure convenience. He needed a bride and I was the one offered to him. Thus I find my pleasures where I may. It is coincidently fortunate, however, that this pleasure may one day gain me a child.

  I know there are women in my position who might be grateful for their husband’s neglect, but I am not. It has taken me years to understand – and even admit – that I verily crave the attentions of a man. I want my sex filled with a man’s flesh, I want to reach that sweet pinnacle of pleasure – and now I do, albeit with a man who is not my husband.

  Many, I suspect, would think me a very improper, wicked and unfaithful wife if they ever discovered this truth, and in the literal sense I am all those things. Yet, I care for my husband and keep his home. I offer him my body and life in matrimony. If he cares not for that body, and wants only the house kept, is it then such a sin what I do?

  My only significant concern is that one day he may discover my indiscretions, and I do fear his reaction. He is a good man, it is true, but there are few who would accept easily the extramarital relations of their wives – and I suspect Frederick is no exception.

  * * *

  Frederick returned late. The grey day had turned into a dark and thunderous evening. I fear I had indulged in some pre-prandial brandy in his absence, which I find I do quite often.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Reeves,’ I said and kissed him upon his cheek as he removed his hat and hung it dripping on the hatstand. Mrs Cartwright came and fussed over the wet droplets that shone in the candlelight.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Reeves,’ he said cordially, his malcontent from the morning gone. His dark eyes were almost black in the candlelight, and his hair curled around his face, softening the otherwise hard lines. ‘I trust your day was a good one?’

  I smiled at him; the brandy I had downed earlier made me mischievous.

  ‘Quite!’ I said gaily. ‘Mr Henry Goddard came today with his wares.’

  Mayhap I imagined it, but did I discern a fleeting expression of suspicion and confusion flutter over my husband’s face? Absurdly, I found myself beginning to giggle.

  ‘All was as it should be, then?’ he asked after a moment of solicitous thought.

  ‘Oh, quite. In fact, he gave me rather a lot of cream.’

  Again, his jaw tensed, as if he knew I was playing with him. I was being exceedingly naughty playing so obviously with these double entendrés, but the brandy and boredom were too much. So, I covered my mouth with my hand to wipe away my mirth.

  ‘Is receiving cream a standing part of your order?’ Frederick asked, and I bit my lip to stem an outrageous laugh.

  When I released my lip to reveal a naughty grin, I finally replied, ‘Why no, not at all. Truthfully, I just require milk. Yet there is much pleasure to be had in the prompt and timely delivery of a little cream, wouldn’t you agree?’

  It was too mu
ch, I had started to laugh now in earnest. I was being rude, and I personally found my rudeness entirely amusing.

  ‘Really, Mrs Reeves. What has gotten into you today?’ he snapped, clearly displeased by my inexplicable merriment.

  Well, what could one say to that? I looked up into his increasingly stern expression and flew in to fits of giggles. With a sigh, he shook his head. ‘Honestly, this behaviour is most vexing. Have you been drinking?’

  I sobered a little then, and ran my hands down my gown, smoothing it. ‘Only a little,’ I admitted. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Reeves,’ I said, stemming another laugh that was swelling in my breast. ‘Shall we have supper?’

  He looked down at me once more, his expression peculiar. ‘Indeed, I am rather hungry,’ he admitted, and offering me his arm he led me to the dining room.

  Our cook had made a simple but tasty meal, as she always does. It was promptly served by Minny, who blushed under Frederick’s polite questioning. At 14 now, she is a plump and unassuming looking woman, her cap a little too large and her apron a little too tight. She bobbed and excused herself quickly, leaving my husband and I to dine alone.

  I dread dining alone with him, so great are the silences, which was why I often drink a brandy before.

  I watched my husband, and my previous mischievous mood slowly darkened. He sipped from his wineglass and I watched his elegant fingers curl around the stem. I bit my lip. I wish he would touch me as eagerly and gently as he did that glass, and that his lips might touch mine as the wine did his.

  I sighed. ‘How was Mrs Richards’ infant?’ I asked eventually.

  ‘He passed.’ my husband replied, and guilt assuaged me. Had a little innocent babe passed yonder whilst I glutted my unladylike appetites on Mr Goddard’s hard and ready member? I blushed, and the brandy swilled like curdled milk in my belly.

  ‘I’m terribly saddened to learn of it,’ I whispered, my voice catching. ‘The poor thing. Poor Mrs Richards. I shall have Cook make a stew and take it on the morrow.’

  Frederick surprised me then, by smiling and gently taking my hand and offering it a squeeze. My heart fluttered at his unexpected gesture.

  ‘That would be most kind of you,’ he said, approval shining in his eyes.

  Ridiculously, I felt buoyed by his praise, and gathered my confidence to open discussion once more.

  ‘I cannot understand why a life so young should be cut so short. It seems cruel does it not?’

  Frederick’s smile faded, and frown grew in its stead. ‘Does not the Bible say ‘For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die’? Today was that babe’s time, difficult though it may be for us to understand and accept. ‘He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.’

  He extracted his hand from mine and fixed me with a stare. I felt suddenly chilled by his abrupt disapproval.

  ‘You would do well to continue your Bible studies, Mrs Reeves,’ he chided. ‘Your ignorance in this can be nothing but an embarrassment to me, especially if you wish to go forth and offer Mrs Richards consolation. You should fortify your knowledge on these subjects, so that your words will offer not only solace but knowledge of the Word of God as well. To this end, I shall select some passages for you to study this evening, so you may go forth armed with God’s Word tomorrow and offer your sympathies.’

  I knew at that instant he would not be coming to my rooms that night, and that whatever glimmer of approval I had seen in him had died, almost as certainly as had the Richards child.

  ‘Of course, I should be most grateful,’ I replied, as gently as I was able.

  I did not attempt conversation again, and we ate in silence. Eventually it was my husband who broke the tedium of the meal.

  ‘I received a letter today,’ he said, and sipped from his wine glass. He delved in his jacket pocket and extracted a creased correspondence.

  ‘Indeed? From whom?’ I asked, placing down my fork.

  ‘My cousin, Mr Jonathan Reeves,’ he said, studying my face for some sort of reaction.

  ‘Oh,’ I responded and, felt a little sick upon hearing the name.

  Frederick frowned. ‘He has been asked to take his father’s position working with Lord Stanton in assisting with the tenants. He requests that we may be able to house him on those occasions he comes to Wiltshire.’

  I hesitated. ‘Oh,’ I repeated.

  Frederick’s face softened a little. ‘Knowing as I do your former attachment to my cousin, I am asking if this suitable. If not, I shall speak with Lord Stanton himself, and see if we can find some other alternative accommodation for Jonathan’s visits to Wiltshire.’

  His concern was touching, and I felt a rare moment of affection for my stiff and unyielding husband.

  ‘My former attachment?’ I murmured and took a gulp of wine.

  ‘Why yes, you did once hope to marry him, did you not?’ he added.

  Yes, it was true. I had wanted to marry Jonathan Reeves once upon a time, indeed, but he was from a terribly impoverished family and with a dowry as modest as mine, our future would never have been a comfortable one. It had been little surprise when my father refused his offer for my hand. It was six years ago now.

  I had naturally been disappointed, but very shortly after Jonathan’s failed offer, my father offered my hand to Frederick, who was in the market for a bride, instead. I had little time to think of him again. My father had been of the belief that my ‘lively nature’ was liable to cause our family disgrace if I did not wed someone more appropriate, and soon. Truly, there was naught I could do but agree to the marriage. Besides, I knew Frederick would make a better match for me. Frederick’s financial situation and social standing as vicar of a wealthy estate made an eminently more desirable prospect than Jonathan’s modest proposal. So, knowing that it was a good match, I accepted and we were hastily wed.

  ‘Mrs Reeves?’ Frederick asked. His tone had grown stern.

  ‘Yes of course, I wanted to marry him once, but that was years ago!’ I said brightly. ‘Now I have you, and couldn’t be more pleased,’ I lied.

  Frederick smiled a little sadly at that. ‘Shall I let him know that you would welcome his visit as much as I?’

  ‘Of course,’ I nodded. ‘Is he married then?’ I asked, having not seen him for some time and being very much isolated from the London scene in Wiltshire.

  ‘No, I do not believe so.’

  I bit my lip to stem a flutter of excitement that had begun to grow in my belly. When I’d known Jonathan, I had been young and an innocent. After his failed marriage offer, I’d been hastily wed off lest word of my affections for the impoverished gentleman spread. Thus, now, I am no innocent, but a married woman. I know much of the world and how it functions. I am of the heartfelt opinion that having another gentleman in the house could be exciting, and an entirely pleasant change from the endlessly dull sermons given by my husband.

  ‘Well, no doubt he may find one of the girls in the village to his liking. Mrs Davis’ daughters are very amenable girls, and very skilled,’ I said.

  ‘You wish to be his match-maker?’ My husband’s voice was amused.

  ‘I don’t see why not. Mrs Davis’ husband is from a very fine old family.’

  ‘You are very kind to be thinking of such things,’ he said.

  I nodded without saying anything. Though these words came from my tongue, I had no desire to see them come to fruition. No indeed, other plans had set seed in my mind – and they were not kind in the least.

  This evening, I retired to my rooms later than usual. I had spent time beside the fire sewing and considering the arrival of Mr Jonathan Reeves. As I walked into my room, I could smell my husband’s scent linger. I frowned and looked about – for he was not there. With a despondent sigh, I changed into my nightdress. As I turned to make for my bed, I saw, lying against the white coverl
et, my Bible. It was open to a page, and I noticed slips of paper marking other passages further in.

  My readings for the evening, then.

  My husband had not retired without designating me Bible studies.

  How terribly kind of him.

  I bit my lip, willing myself not to be disappointed. I would have very much preferred my husband to be laying abed waiting for me, rather than my Bible. Still, I picked it up. It was heavy in my hands as I slipped into my bed. I knew I could do naught but read those passages, for I had little doubt that in the morning my husband would test my learning.

  I read the first poignant passage on grief from Isaiah, then several from Philippians, and three from John. My eyes were growing tired in the flickering candlelight when I turned to one last, neglected bookmark:

  Ephesians 4:1-3: I therefore, a prisoner for the Lord, urge you to walk in a manner worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love …

  What the Devil does it mean?

  I have read that passage many times and yet I still cannot quite understand its meaning! Is this some secret message of affection from Mr Reeves? I can scarce believe that to be true! In all our years of marriage he has never indicated true affection for me. Perhaps it is merely some indecipherable passage that I in my ignorance cannot interpret correctly?

  Perhaps, or perhaps not.

  Oh! And if it were some declaration of affection, it would certainly make my connection with Mr Goddard even more sinful!

  I want to ask him. Yet I must not. This day has been a long one, and my eyes are growing weary. Perhaps in the morning it will seem clearer.

  Tuesday, 4th May 1813

  I found this morning that Frederick had departed for his vicarly duties before I had risen. This is not an uncommon occurrence, though perhaps I slept later today than is my usual habit, mainly due to my wakeful night of reflection. Minny had left a cup of tea beside my bed. I stared at it, the steam still rising in weak wafts. Beside the teacup was the Bible, still open at the confusing passage Frederick had marked for my consideration.