Spring at last!

I've opened my window, and the drafts finally do not chill or bite. I can always tell when the weather has broken from the smell of mud in the park across the street. The trees, flanked on all sides by gray, temple-like façades similar to that of our house, will bud in a few weeks. And then-daffodils; tulips; hyacinth! I tremble with anticipation.

And lo, the friendly peddlers have appeared with their wares. Loaves of bread; pungent fish; fruits and vegetables. I'm reminded of the times my guardian has let me go with the housekeeper over to St. Dunstan's marketplace. The very birdseller I always visit on the way there (I've always wanted a pet) is in fact on our street now; he sees me and bids me good morning. How does he know my name? Several regulars at the market do by now.

My guardian has been at work all morning, so I feel particularly giddy under this well-deserved sunshine. I watch everyone passing below me: great ladies in bonnets adorned with ribbons and flowers; less fortunate folk in scruffy, limp clothes carrying shopping baskets or loitering against the gate into the park. And there's that woman again. She's asking the richer ones for money, but, predictably, they spare her not the least glance, marching onward determinedly under frilly parasols. I wish I had the courage to give her alms myself.

There's a young sailor as well traversing our street, eye-catching in a soothing vibrant dark blue uniform. He's carrying a large knapsack. He finds the bench directly across from our front door, sits down, and produces a sheet of paper from his pocket, perhaps a map. Where did he come from? Where is he trying to go?

"Young men," said my guardian, "are what nice girls should be wary of. If you let one of them do too much, you'll be cast out and starving on the streets."

"Do too much? Cast out? What do you mean?" I quietly asked.

"If a girl is so foolish as to bat her eyelids at a gentleman of loose habits-a sailor, for example-she is as good as fallen. Those men don't think of what they do. And there's no helping it; you can't check human nature, so you have to keep wary of how men see you. If they receive the wrong message, you'll be sorry." He smirked as he loves to do.

That was before my revelatory discussion with Carmilla, so my fear was magnified by the unknown nature of what he was referencing. Why wouldn't he tell me more?

The sailor looks up. I realize I'm almost leaning out of the window. From this vantage point, his skin appears clear and luminescent, but it might be rougher; who knows. His hair cascades in rich, thick black curls that glimmer under a sun emerging from the clouds. Is he looking at me? I realize I've been singing a little to myself as I normally do when I'm alone; sometimes the song cannot keep within my mind and passes my lips before I know it. Surely he couldn't have heard me all the way down there!

I'm not afraid. There's a crystalline brightness in the sailor's eyes that separates his aura from that of Beadle Bamford and other men on the street I've found threatening. He is as unlike my guardian as is conceivable, and I like it. Look-he stands back up, not diverting his gaze! Rosy Grecian lips part and form a friendly smile. My pulse is wild; I'm sweating. In face, strong jaw, and form, he reminds me of the statues of Antinoös I've found in books of Classical sculpture from my guardian's library. And now, oh yes, oh yes, our gazes have locked. Warmth like the warmth of May flows through me from a mysterious, secret source, and I throb underneath my skirts. ("A woman's pleasure is one of the great miracles of nature," said Carmilla.) I lean outward a little. . .

He jumps, suddenly affright. It's the lunatic; she's pressing him now! I can't hear what they're saying through the sounds of all the other people on the street. The sailor asks her something, glancing back up to where I am. A moment later, the woman-God in heaven! She just bluntly squeezed his. . . unmentionable area. What a brave lady! I suppose, with her age and witch-like appearance, she is more learned in what you feel when a sailor walks by. As for him, he controls his embarrassment, extracting a few coins to hand to her. Noble soul, he must be. The woman, satisfied, hobbles away past my line of sight, perhaps to engage in witchcraft. She's smiling in a way that would suggest it.

The sailor meets my eyes again, and my core trembles blissfully. Smiling again, he gestures with his hand-come down. A young man is inviting me to speak with him?!

I scurry from my room, descending the stairs as fast as I can without tripping. No sign of Wentworth or the housekeeper, thankfully. At the front door, I stop. What does this sailor want to say or do? If he's a scoundrel, he certainly does not carry that aura-but I've only just discovered him. And yet. . . a sailor must know truths of the world that I cannot, having spent the majority of my life in this house with a man who keeps information from me. Carmilla taught me several delightful skills and truths, but there must be more. I reach for the doorknob.

There he is, right on our doorstep, standing upright like a gentleman. He's so much taller than I am-how old is he? Shaking, I draw near him, unsure of what to say. Something in the brightness of his eye tells me that he can help me learn and grow.

"This is for you, Johanna." He extends a hand.

"You found out my name!" I draw my own hand to my face, blushing. The lunatic must have told him (but how did she find out?) I reach with my other hand for whatever he's giving me, and then our fingers touch. Compared to me, he has great, strong fingers, coarse and calloused from all the lifting and rope-pulling he must do. From his palm I extract a small, understated string of pearls.

"Oh my," I gasp, "Do you mean it? A string of pearls! Thank you, kind sir. I don't know how I can possibly repay you-"

"You need not repay me, miss. I just wanted to. . ."

"Johanna!"

"AAAIEE!" Of COURSE he's just getting back right this second! Damn it. I scream so easily; this is the worst time to trigger that! My guardian storms up the doorstep, not bothering to take off his hat.

"Johanna Barker, what is the meaning of this? What do you have to say for yourself? Hm?!" He's glaring; I can't look except at the ground. "I told you you're not supposed to talk to young men. My child is not a slut."

I'm hiding the pearls behind my back. "He knocked on the door, father, and Wentworth wasn't here so I thought to answer myself, but I didn't know who it was. I would never encourage a strange man; you know I love you, father, and I treasure everything you teach me. Please forgive me, oh, please-"

"Hush, hush, my girl. Will you look at me?" He removes his hat. I obey him as tears warm my cheeks. "There, there. It's all right." He pats my cheek. Then, abruptly, he turns round to glare at the sailor. "As for you, boy. . .what right do you have to intrude onto my property? Leave my daughter alone. Do you understand me?"

"But sir-my lord-I only wanted to-"

"LEAVE! And if you come back, I will have you flogged to the bones."

I can't watch this. I hurry back inside, to the parlor, hiding the pearls in my bosom. My guardian slams the door, following me. I run to sit on the couch, wildly shaking and looking down at the carpet in my practiced pose of submission.

"Puss?" A rustle as he hands his overcoat to Wentworth. Then he comes to me. "Johanna, I'm not cross. Don't cry, Puss. I believe you." Something tells me he enjoys every moment of it whenever I cry.

"But you're kept in this house for a reason, you know," he adds. "In a place like London, it's too easy. Too easy for a girl to fall. The most important thing in your life right now-right now, at least-is your purity." Does he mean what I think he means? "I don't believe you encouraged the sailor, but I want you to promise me you'll stay away from boys until you're married."

"I promise. . . father." He gets something out of it when I say "father," it's so obvious. "When will I marry?"

"In due time, my love. Don't worry." With that he leaves, probably for his private parlor where I'm not allowed in.

The most important thing in my life is my purity. Who knew? Thank God Carmilla isn't around to have heard that: if she had, I imagine she'd howl like a wild animal at him and at me.

I stay in the parlor, thinking about the sailor and what the sight of him made me feel. He knows the world and its people firsthand. He is my gateway to everything my guardian has denied me. Or am I conjecturing? Perhaps our souls knew one another in a past life and that's why he was drawn to me. I'm not unwilling to believe such things.

It's Friday now. The next day. I'm in my room as usual. He doesn't particularly like it when I wander about the house, except if I go right to the public parlor. Now and again he bids me appear before his colleagues when they're over to play on the dusty pianoforte he has there. Barristers, solicitors and the like. I wonder if he knows that I know he has a private parlor?

So what should I do today? Is that sailor still thinking of me? The memory of his physical presence envelops me with pleasure, most definitely that of which Carmilla spoke to me. Outside it's still warm, so I open the window and breathe. Then I go to my vanity to look at the pearls, shimmering like something of the realm of gods and goddesses. From the bottom of the ocean. None of them are perfectly round upon close inspection. I've never seen anything like them.

Time to embroider. I jump over to my bureau, crane on tiptoes, and lift my box of needlework supplies down. Inside my hoop, roses made of curled ribbon shimmer as well, beautifully tactile, connected by bright and organic vines on linen of the cleanest white imaginable. I have to finish the garden. In mere moments, I am so madly engrossed in sewing my flowers that perception of the environment around me dissolves, a rare but triumphant experience. When this happens I really feel like I'm creating something worthwhile and important. Yes, embroidery is important. It's the one art on which girls and women have a monopoly, as far as I know, and an aesthetically powerful one at that. And art isn't easy. I lose track of time, but then that's a given.

Clack! I gasp, nearly jumping. My guardian steps in, standing erect and decorous like he does whenever he lectures me. For some reason he's wearing his judicial robes, and I catch sight of grey hairs peeking out from under the collar. It matches his stubble. I greet him with " Good morning, father" to calm whatever temper he might have built up. But he doesn't look like it. Why is he holding his Bible?

"Johanna, come here, my dear. Sit." He gestures towards my chair. I set down my work and obey.

"I see you've opened your window. What does that mean, child?"

"Well, sir-" I try not to sweat- "I wanted fresh air."

"Is that all? I should sincerely hope not, for the sailor has returned since yesterday, begging like an animal. You mean you haven't heard him-or," he adds with growing venom, "encouraged him with your eyes?"

"Why would you suspect me of coquetry, father? All my life you've told me time and again of how imperative it is for a girl to avoid. . ." He eyes me curiously. ". . . to avoid falling."

"That is true. Which is why you are to be married soon."

"Soon?!" I start from my chair, hot with disbelief. "Must I marry soon?"

"Yes; I'm sorry, but you must." He's looking away from me, pensive yet with underlying nervousness. What on Earth can he be thinking? Another moment and he looks me in the eye again.

"Puss," he says in that chillingly soft tone, "You've been such a good girl for me. You ought to marry a man who will give you what you deserve-who will protect you from the advances of ungodly men. You must be guided, otherwise you will not become a proper woman. Not all men could do this." He falls to his knees. "My dearest love, I've done so much for you as a guardian. I know I have earned more tender affections than what we have shared all this time." Flushing, he seizes my hand, looking up pleadingly. Without thinking to consult me, he plants a maddened kiss on it. All I can do is gape, aghast, choking audibly. Oh no. Lord assist me now. It's no joke. It's no joke.

"You-" I stammer. "-you?!" I want to cry.

"Search your soul. You know you owe me your hand. No man would love you like me!" He's not letting go of me. "I shall feed you cakes and chocolates, or whatever you wish, and dress you like a dancer." Not the lewdest of professions?! Coquetry was a bad thing a second ago! "Listen. I know what Carmilla used to tell you."

"No." I can't help saying it. He smirks.

"Puss, that does not displease me. I know now that you have the knowledge to be the perfect wife for me, after being such a lovely obedient daughter."

"Sir-" I try to begin. He's contradicting what he usually says.

"Don't complain. This is the right path for you, and you know it. I've settled the ceremony for Monday." He releases my hand, going to leave the room. "Papa has to go to work now. I'll be gone until three-thirty, and during that time you're going to think about the debt you owe me. Do you understand?"

What else can I say? "I understand, sir."

"Good girl. I love you. Goodbye. . . Puss." Evidently choleric, he strides away, not bothering to shut the door. The key to my room is still in the lock, even.

No. No no no no no no no no. It's exactly as bad as I feared. I throw myself on my bed, unable to breathe, then heaving in a way to burn my dry throat. Hot tears flood my eyes. Isn't the man proposing supposed to wait for the woman's answer and then obey it?! Lord my God, how can I bear to become his wife and live? What horrors could a deceitful man like him make his subordinate do? This is humiliating. Whatever amount of humanity I possessed will be wrenched from me the moment he makes me totally his.

I didn't shut my eyes; they glazed over. But I can still see the open door through tears. And there's the key. The key!

There's only a few hours until my fate is sealed, and only one way out of dehumanization. I rise, get the key (it works on the front door, too; I've seen my guardian use it there) and sprint back to the window. Wait-how will the sailor know it's from me? Luckily, there's an inkwell with papers on my vanity. I hop over to it, rip a small piece off one sheet of paper, and write Come to me. -Johanna. Then, hasty in numbing, heart-pounding fear, I wrap the key in the paper, not forgetting to blow on the ink first. Back at the window, I open it as far as it will go, then throw the key down onto the pavement. Clink! Good, it didn't break. Oh, Lord, he said the sailor returned to our street-will he find it? Sailor, you are my only means of salvation.

I'm too agitated to concentrate on anything other than hoping he'll come. At first I pace around and around my room, then I flop on the bed and pretend to nap. My head hurts. Damn him. Not the sailor, the other him.

Thump. Thump. Thump. My pulse goes into overdrive. Someone's coming up the stairs, and his feet aren't heavy enough to be my guardian's! Is it him?! Is it him?! Out of breath, I sit back upright, fixing my savage mane of hair and swallowing. My door is still open so he'll know where I am.

The steps inch closer. A door opens, then another, closer to mine. I shut my eyes, taking deep breaths, longing to calm down; rubbing my temples. When I open, the sailor has materialized in my doorway.

"Johanna," he says breathlessly.

"You came!" I cry, leaping forward. Oh, how he looks at me! He's so tall; such earnest, innocent eyes and such a toned, robust form clad in soothing deep blue! He returns my key to me, no less. "May I sit down with you?" he asks. I nod, patting a spot next to me on the bed.

"Oh sir," I begin, "Thank you so much for coming. You have to help me. I'm in so much danger. My guardian-is forcing me to marry him!" My headache is going, but I can't stop shaking. Would he mind if I touched him right now?

"The man you called father? Oh my God, no. What an abomination! I knew he was a bad man."

"He isn't my true father, of course," I sob, "but I saw him as such, until he started scaring me. He thinks men should be able to do what they want with their wives, no matter what! It's actually the law, did you know that? I heard him talking to the Beadle about it once; I was so upset and afraid. Do you understand what that means I'll have to go through?" I fall onto his shoulder, impulsively throwing my arms round his neck. He's warm.

"Shhh. . . That's it, you can hug me if you wish. . . Don't cry."

"Don't cry? My life as a free person has been denied me! I should kill myself!"

"No!" he cries, cradling me in his arms and rekindling the pleasure I felt yesterday tenfold. "You will do nothing of the sort! Don't say that. I know what we should do."

"What?"

"You can marry me instead before he gets the chance."

Somehow we're both reclining now; his big taut arms hold my back to his warm chest. My backside is touching between his legs. For a moment the only sound is my fearful panting as I roll around to face him. I've never wanted to know anyone's body so much. Our eyes meet. "Will you kiss me?" I whisper.

He obeys, and I whimper with need. Smooth, moist softness over my mouth and a hand stroking my hair. "Mmm," he purrs. I know exactly where I want him to touch me now. Under my skirts it aches with passion and want.

"I shall marry you?" I confirm, suddenly underneath him.

"Yes, and your free personhood shall be respected, I swear it. You won't have to kiss me again if you don't want to." I do anyway, tasting his mouth. "Sir," I giggle, "I still don't know your name. Are you aware of that?"

"Oh, a thousand apologies! I'm Anthony. Anthony Hope."

"Pleased to meet you." I smile. Then we're kissing again, our hands mapping one another's bodies. Anthony smells nothing like my guardian-musk and sandalwood. My legs open just a little, trying to encircle his form. He brushes his fingertips over my jawbone and into my hair, now exploring my neck with his lips. I feel new tears swell in my eyes, but for a different reason than before. This is making me deliriously happy. "You feel so good," I sigh.

"I'm glad."

"What shall we do after we're married?"

"Hmm. Would you be opposed to a voyage around the Mediterranean?"

"A voyage! It cannot be! Have you the means?"

"It's what the captain of my ship was planning on. We'll be sailing out of Plymouth on Monday. So would you like it?"

"Certainly. Spain and Italy would help me forget the life I have here." I'm still crying. "Oh sir, your kindness overwhelms me," I choke. "Do you promise to look after me when we're married? Will you honor my thoughts and desires, as my current guardian has failed to do? Promise."

He sits back up, drawing the warmth away from me. "I shall be completely at your disposal. You shan't have to do anything you don't want to do."

Someone is making noise in the street near the front door. "Oh no!" I gasp, jumping up. "Oh my God! Did you hear that?!"

"What?"

"Out in the street; I think he's coming back. You have to-" It's too much to handle. I bury my face in my hands. Don't let this happen! "Could you go to the window and see who's there? I'm too frightened." As I try to control my breathing, which is becoming abrasive, I feel him get off the bed.

"He isn't there, Johanna. It's okay."

I look back at him-oh, that smile! How it stirs me! "Well. . . Anthony," I continue, "you might want to go now before he gets back. He said he'd be back at three-thirty."

"That's not for some time! But. . . I guess I can go if you really want me to. No use taking a risk." He comes back to where I'm sitting, stroking my cheek with his calloused hand. "Until tonight, dear girl." Cupping my face in both hands, he kisses me one last time. Soothing, warm and wet.

"You are such a wonderful man, helping me like this."

"Well, my mother always taught me to aid fellow creatures in need. All good souls deserve attention to their welfare."

"Goodbye!"

When Anthony's steps fade into silence, I lie back on the bed seeking what bodily warmth his presence may have left. Is he in earnest? Might he bed and abandon me instead of devoting his time and effort to my welfare? It's no matter: I could find a situation as a governess somewhere under a different name once I'm out of my guardian's reach-if I'm ever out of his reach. Maybe I need to pray again.