‘Hetty…’ he begins, looking at her with something like despair, something almost fearful.
‘Oh, Albert!’ Hester whispers desperately. ‘Why do you always push me away? Don’t you love me? It is no sin, for man and wife to touch each other, to lie in each other’s arms…’
‘No, no; it is no sin, dear Hetty,’ Albert replies.
‘What then? You do not love me?’ she asks, stricken.
‘Of course I do, silly thing! Who could not love such a sweet wife as you?’ He releases her arms, clasps his hands across his chest again in a seemingly casual manner; but it is a guarded gesture, putting a barrier between them.
‘I’m not silly, Albert; I… I don’t understand. Are we husband and wife in name alone?’
‘We are husband and wife in God’s eyes, and that is a sacred thing, an unbreakable thing,’ Albert says, his voice almost fearful. His eyes roam the room, as though he longs to escape it.
‘I know it, and I’m glad of it; but… our union is not consummated. And what of children, Albert?’
‘I…’ Albert shuts his eyes, turns his head away slightly. ‘A family… a family is what I want. Of course it is, Hester…’
‘Well, though I do not pretend to know a great deal about these things, I know we shall never have one while you will not touch me, or kiss or hold me.’ Without meaning to, Hester bursts into tears. They are hot on her cheeks, and make her eyes burn.
‘There, there now; stop that, Hetty! We shall have a family, all in good time! We’re young yet, and… perhaps we are too young. Perhaps it would be better to wait a while longer, until we are both more tutored in the ways of the world…’
‘I am twenty-six on my next birthday, Albert. You will be twenty-five. Many women younger than I are mothers thrice over already!’ She sniffs, blotting at her eyes with the cuff of her nightdress. ‘But it is not just that – not only that! I need… I need tenderness from you, Albert!’
‘Hetty, please. Calm yourself,’ Albert begs, and he looks so strained, so trapped and awkward that Hester relents.
‘I don’t mean to make you unhappy,’ she says, swallowing her sobs.
‘How could you? Dear Hester,’ he says, and in his eyes is a look of helpless anguish. He watches her cry for a moment, and then rolls onto his side, towards her, and brushes her cheek with his fingers. He seems to come to a decision. ‘Very well. Will you turn out the light?’ he says, and Hester is shocked to hear his voice shaking. Mutely, she complies.
In the darkness, Hester waits. Albert moves closer still, so that the length of his body presses into her side. She turns her face towards him, and can feel his proximity, the way her own breath hits his skin and bounces back to warm her. When he kisses her she leans into him, crushing their mouths together. She can’t seem to catch her breath. The room spins and it is wonderful, intoxicating. She puts her arms around him, fingers splayed to touch as much of him as she can. She gathers up his shirt, bunching it with her fists until she finds the skin underneath, and runs her hands along it, delighting in the heat of it, the smooth texture. Albert shivers at her touch. Gently, she pulls him closer and closer, so that he loses his balance and has no choice but to lie on top of her. Holding him tightly, feeling the weight of him squeezing the air from her lungs, a strong surge of joy shoots through her. She smiles in the dark, and kisses him again.
‘My Albert… I love you so much,’ she breathes. His kiss is firm, lips clamped together. Hesitantly, Hester opens her mouth; just a little, but Albert pulls back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says quickly.
‘No, no. I…’ Albert whispers, but doesn’t finish the sentence. His hands are at either side of her face, lightly holding her head and stroking her hair. Hester wriggles a little, desperate to feel his hands move lower, to feel his touch on her breasts and stomach and hips. On instinct she moves her knees apart, a fraction at a time, so it seems as if it is his weight that pushes them open. He comes to rest against her pelvis and Hester moves her hands to his hips, to hold him tighter to her. The feeling is irresistible, compulsive. There is a delicious ache in the pit of her stomach, butterflies of anticipation making her shudder. She lets her hands stray to his buttocks, and pulls him closer. Albert freezes. His face pulls back from hers and she can hear his breathing, fast and almost panicky.
‘Albert, what’s wrong?’ she asks, craning her head up to be kissed again. But Albert pulls further away. He swallows audibly, and carefully climbs off her, to lie on his side of the bed, not even touching her. ‘Albert, please! Tell me what’s the matter!’ Hester whispers, the sting of this rejection all too sharp.
‘I’m so sorry, Hetty,’ he says, meek and desolate. Hester’s heart aches for him, and she bites her lip to keep from crying. But try as she might, she can find no words to comfort him, no way to say that it doesn’t matter. Because at that moment it matters more than anything else in the world. She lies silent for a long time, too upset to sleep; she can tell from his breathing and his stillness that Albert is also awake. They lie there inches from each other, but it seems to Hester that a wide gulf stretches between them.
In her attic room, Cat begins a letter to Tess. The hardest thing for me, in that rotten cell, was knowing that you were somewhere nearby, in just such a cell, but still I could not see you or speak to you, she writes, the candle’s flicker making the shadow of her pen leap and stagger. This is not true, though. The hardest thing had been waiting in the morning’s pale, cold light, which woke her early, as she heard the trolley and the footsteps come down the corridor towards her. She heard it stop, heard doors open and close, heard the screams and scuffles behind them, the choking sounds, the retching and coughing, the swearing of the wardens. All the while it came nearer and nearer, all the while she knew she would be next. Her turn was coming. The waiting for it was the worst, the fear of it debilitating. In a haze of hunger and dread, she had lain for an hour, some mornings, listening to that trolley squeal and rattle its way towards her. The sound of it pushed a bow wave of horror into every cell along the row, so strong it was almost palpable. The few simple items aboard that small vehicle were enough to cause strong hearts to falter, and tears of sheer terror to well in Cat’s eyes.
I’m going to send this to Broughton Street in case you have been in touch there, in case you’ve left word of your whereabouts, she continues. She pauses, grips the end of her pen between her teeth. How can she not think what to write, to her best friend? To the person she thinks of most often? I do miss you, Tess. Here is not such a bad place, I can see that with my waking eyes, but all the while I feel trapped. I feel like I am still in prison. Do you feel it too? Ever since you and I made our escape from the house to that first meeting – that was when we were free, Tess! For the very first time. I didn’t think it would end up this way. Cat stares at her own scant shadow on the wall, falling into the memory of it. They weren’t even supposed to be friends, a parlourmaid and a kitchen-maid. Cat ranked higher, and was not supposed to talk to the lower servants, not even at mealtimes at the long table in the servants’ quarters where they all met, three times a day. Tess shared a cellar room with the scullery-maid, Ellen, at first. But then the room, which was below ground level, was flooded out one night, and took weeks to dry. Mildew furred the walls, damp put a stiff chill in the air. So Ellen was given a truckle bed in with the first kitchen-maid, and Tess joined Cat in the attic.
Tess was only sixteen, little more than a child. Cat taught her to read a little, told her of faraway places, read to her from Byron and Milton and Keats. Tess’s eyes would light up at each twist and turn in the story, at each horror and wonder. When the Mariner killed the albatross, when Isabella planted her lover’s head in a flower-pot.