Good Morning

Mentions of sex and sexuality.

“Husband.”

“Wife.”

As far as Jonathan knew, this room was only ever used between seven thirty and nine fifteen. He typically arrived first, the steam from his coffee rising in the sunlit gleam off the silver service, the day’s paper laid out on his plate. By the time he finished the front page and was ready for a second cup, Elizabeth would emerge from her chambers, already dressed and set for the day. She’d glide past the table, look out through the wide, south-facing windows, and give her assessment of the weather.

“Maybe a storm tonight.”

“Hm.” Jonathan poured her tea—one sugar and a slice of lemon—and lifted the cloche over the breakfast breads. She always told him to start without her, but he never got hungry until she entered the room. “Sleep well?”

“Most deliciously,” she said, spreading butter over her bath bun. “Are you riding out today?”

“Not if it’s going to storm.”

“You’ll have limited time.”

Jonathan shrugged. “You have more confidence than I when it comes to riding fast.”

Bright mist burst from the firm skin of a parting orange, Elizabeth’s agile fingers peeling away the pith. She slid one jeweled section between her lips, then gifted half the stripped citrus over to Jonathan. He brushed the sweet juice from her palm with coffee-warmed fingertips, watching the morning sun on her fanned lashes. She raised her eyes to his, bright, perceptive, and full of secrets, perhaps aware that she made sacred this hour of Jonathan’s day.

* * *

Hovering by the window, Jonathan watched the storm roll in. The black glass would flare with lightning, slicing deep shadows in roiling clouds. The grounds sweeping away from the estate were washed with lashing rain, rippling grass in a slate-grey sea, crashing against the yawning maw of the ravenous woods. Jonathan chewed off the last of his fingernails, sucking on the tender quick when he heard the door open.

“Husband.”

“Wife.” Jonathan turned, stomach seizing with chilled blood. “Antonia.”

The lady’s maid curtsied. “My lord.” She turned to Elizabeth. “My lady.”

Jonathan turned back to the storm. He didn’t need to look. He’d already seen the longing eyes, the parting lips. He’d already seen the hitching breaths, the stolen glances. He knew they’d touch one last time, fingers lingering against the sorrow of separation, unspoken promises thick in the air until the door clicked closed again. He didn’t need to look. It was burned into his brain.

“I’m ready.”

This was Elizabeth’s bedroom, not his. He felt like a trespasser in his own home. But he wouldn’t gift her the indignity of stripping in her dressing-room, walking down the hall to his chambers, and slinking back again. The idea that they would share a bed was quickly aborted during the honeymoon. “We can skip tonight.”

“No, we can’t,” Elizabeth told him. “It’s time.”

They’d negotiated the visits down to when they’d be most advantageous. They’d had some success, three and a half times, but the scheduled necessity turned Jonathan’s guts into a serpents’ nest. He’d forget, for a moment, even entertain the thought that this next time might be pleasant. Then, he’d catch sight of Antonia carrying down Elizabeth’s laundry, and remember that she’d be the one to change the sheets.

“Husband.”

She looked so beautiful. She did it on purpose, adjusting the drape of her lace dressing gown, fanning out the coils of her long auburn hair. She posed for him. And he appreciated what she was trying to do, but he also wondered if Antonia received such a display. What were the differing seductions for a husband or a maid? “I’m sorry.”

Elizabeth stood up and padded barefoot across the cool boards. She put her arm around his waist, and watched the storm. “We have to do this.”

“I know.”

“This is who we are. This is what we’re for.”

“Foxes are for killing hens, and that's why men build fences."

Leaning her head against his chest, Elizabeth said, “Do you know what pains me?”

Jonathan watched sharp lightning blaze over her soft hair. “I’d like to.”

“Everyone I talk to, everything I’ve read, says that there is one perfect soul mate, one true love, and some people find it, and some people don’t. How fortunate a person must be, then, to find two. Except that no one, not even the loves of her life, will believe her.”

The wind slapped the rain against the panes. “I suppose,” Jonathan said. “That if one love were chosen, and the other was chosen for her, it would be hard to believe she loved them both the same. If she were a dutiful woman, and it was her duty to love someone, maybe she’d do it whether she wanted to or not.”

Elizabeth leaned back to study his face. “You think she’s a liar.”

Jonathan stepped away, felt the cold air where her warm body used to be. “I think there’s a difference between what she wants to do and what she’s supposed to do,” Jonathan said. “And I’d hope anyone with a duty to her would feel responsible for her happiness.”

Thunder crashed through the windswept stormscape. “What if she wanted a child?”

“I know a man who wanted a child,” Jonathan said softly, tracing a ragged-nailed finger along the icy window pane. “Actually, he wanted a lot of children. Not just to name and bequeath to, but to play with and educate and welcome to the world. And a wife, too, to love so much that he’d let her have whatever she wanted. And he’d protect that.” He stepped back from the glass, hands twisting into fists. “Because he sees what it is, and he knows that it’s real. And he can’t make a child in her bed. Even if that’s all that anybody wants from him.”

Elizabeth touched his arm. “What if she wanted him to be happy, too?”

He shook her off, marching for the door. “Then she wouldn’t make him do this again.”

* * *

Jonathan typically arrived first, the steam from his coffee rising in the overcast gleam off the silver service, the day’s paper laid out on his plate. As far as he knew, this room was only ever used between seven thirty and nine fifteen, whatever happened to have happened in all the other rooms he owned. By the time he finished the front page and was ready for his second cup, Elizabeth would emerge.

“Husband.”

Hot coffee dribbled over Jonathan’s slack-jawed face. “Wife?”

Elizabeth glided past the table, looked out through the wide, south-facing windows, ready to give her assessment of the weather. Without a stitch on. “Oh, good, the storm has passed.”

Sitting her naked haunches down at her place setting, Elizabeth lifted the cloche over the breakfast breads. “I keep telling you to start without me.”

Jonathan breathed. “I’m…never hungry before you enter the room.” His hands shook as he poured her tea. Sugar. Lemon. “Did you sleep well?”

“Most deliciously,” she said, spreading butter over her bath bun. “Are you riding out today?”

Pulling his eyes up again, Jonathan said, “I’m not sure, after the storm.”

Elizabeth licked the butter from her hand, and glanced toward the door. “We have limited time.”

Jonathan swallowed. “You have more confidence than I when it comes to riding fast.”

Bright mist burst from firm skin, Elizabeth’s agile fingers peeling away the bitterness between them. She slid one warm section between her lips, then gifted her stripped flesh over to Jonathan. He brushed the sweet juice from her with warmed fingertips, watching the morning sun on her fanned lashes. She raised her eyes to his, bright, perceptive, and full of secrets, perhaps aware that she made sacred this hour of Jonathan’s day.