The first night he comes to her, they hold each other like children, lying together in her bed, the night enveloping them both in velvet darkness. Her dark hair loose and spilling over both their shoulders.
They had both decided together that they should do it. An almost silent negotiation was made. Neither of them really liked being alone in the dark.
"Would you let me come to you?" he had asked her quietly, furtively, as they stood alone downstairs in the servants' hall, "After hours."
Her eyes widened a touch at the suggestion.
As they agreed, she slipped out of her room, took the key from the latch by the door, unlocked it and returned to her bed. Her heart was hammering almost out of her chest. It was fifteen minutes before she saw the light from the corridor as her door opened just a fraction and he slipped inside.
She looked up at him through the darkness.
"Do you want me to turn on the light?" she whispered.
"No, it's alright," he told her, "I can see you. I can see your eyes. They're shining."
She smiled up at him. He was standing at the side of her bed. She shuffled to the side, allowing him the space he needed. Before he put his feet up on the bed, he reached down and put something on the floor.
"What's that?" she asked him.
"My wash bag," he told her, "I thought, if Mr. Carson saw me in the corridor-…"
"Good thinking," she told him.
She lifted the blanket up and over him. It was then that it occurred to her that they had never discussed why, precisely, he had come to her, only that he would. The time for that would have probably been before she wrapped him up in her bedclothes. But he too was looking uncertain.
"Phyllis," he asked her, murmuring her first name softly into the dark, "Can I hold you?"
She smiled, reaching her arms out for him.
"Yes, of course."
They don't do this every night. Only when they have the nerve to, they do not want to be caught out. There is an unspoken signal, a certain look, they exchange in the evenings letting each other know that tonight will be one of the nights they don't sleep until they are lying together.
He has come to love the darkness now. The darkness is the softness of her, and her smooth hair, and softness whiteness of her body, her touches. And the tenderness of her kisses, because now they kiss, softly, as he comes to lie beside her.
His hands gently clutch the soft fabric of her nightdress which dips down in a crescent, showing him to the sweep of her collarbone and the flatness of her breastbone. He tries to show her with his eyes, through the darkness, how beautiful she is to him because he knows his mind, his throat, cannot articulate the words. He tries to tell her in the way his lips touch hers.
Somewhere along the line, their kisses cease to feel chaste. She holds him a little more tightly against her. It is still comforting to be with her, but it is a different kind of comfort. And that is when he knows he has to tell her, no matter how difficult it is for him to get the words out.
"I love you, Phyllis."
She meets his eyes. She is not smiling, but he knows she means to. She is serious.
"I love you too, Joseph."
Her arms are around his neck and she pulls herself even closer to him. That night he falls asleep with her legs wrapped around his, his face resting against her breasts.
The next time he comes to her he finds the bedside light is on in her room. She is sitting up in bed. Instead of her white cotton nightdress she is wearing something he has never seen before; grey silk, thin straps over her shoulders. Her legs are largely bare, bent at the knee, hugged to her chest. She looks shyly up at him through the parting of her beautiful, thick hair. He is overwhelmed that this is for him. Once more, he curses himself that he cannot find the words for how happy he is to be here with her like this. But she sees. Timidly, her smile trembles back into her face. As he walks towards her, she shuffles so she can kneel up and meet him when he reaches her bedside.
"I'm in love with you," she whispers before their mouths touch.
Her arms wrap around his neck, pulling him down to the bed with her.
In time, his dressing gown and pyjamas join his wash bag where he left it on the floor. She bends her leg at the knee again, wrapping them around his waist, tilting her hips, encouraging him to push into her. They make love as quietly as they can. They try desperately to be gentle with one another, but in the end it becomes fraught, desperate. Her hand clutches the back of his head.
"I'm in love with you too," he whispers, breathless.
They capitulate together, and the beautiful darkness shallows them both.
End.
Please review if you have the time.