I actually did some research about Victorian clothes for this one. They had to wear up to 6 petticoats. 6. S.I.X.
Very proud of the authenticity of this one. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: However much I may want to be the creator of A Great And Terrible Beauty, and Rebel Angels, and, in particular, Kartik, I am not. It's sad, but there you go.
Oh yeah, and this one is pretty risqué, so put the kids to bed.
If you have kids.
Which I don't.
For god's sake, stop frowning at the screen and read.
We are diving and drifting and dreaming, intertwined together as we sink gently to peace. I do not struggle or scream or try to save myself, because this is where I want to be. In his arms, safe and sound, forever and ever and ever.
The stones in our pockets drag us slowly down, and it is when the light, glimmering dully on the surface of the water, had faded from view, and I find myself icy, cold and sightless, that I begin to struggle. Twisting and writhing in his arms, I feel rather than hear a sharp rip as the seams of my dress tear. I slip out of the folds of material, swift and silent as nightfall, and feel him grasp at my ankles. With the stones long gone in the folds of my dress, there is nothing weighting me down. I begin to drift upwards, and the light begins twinkling again.
A strong hand wraps itself around my ankle: he has caught me. I try to kick him off, but he is far more powerful than me. I do not know whether I hear a laugh: it cannot be, it should not be, I am far below the world and all it's insignificant little melodramas. I am dying.
The air is forced from my throat as Kartik tugs me back down to him. His eyes are furious, yet I involuntarily press my body against his, for warmth and comfort. We are, once more, sinking, and again I hear that laughter. His arm is around my waist; my chemise is flooded with the lake water, floating up around me as we descend. I am ashamed, for he had made it clear that he does not love me. My legs wrap around his waist, even so, for I am terrified. It is like I am a child again, insistent that I am taken up to bed, because the monsters and witches and demons will steal me away otherwise. I feel the warmth of his skin tickle my bare thighs, and suddenly, we begin tumbling, rushing head over heels through warm, sunny waters, and this is not right, this is not real, for we are cold and bleak and alone and dead. He clings to me and we spin, faster and faster, and I find my voice is not lost, and I scream and scream his name, scream to stop, my arms wrapped tightly around his neck, my face buried in his feather soft curls. I can never remember being this frightened. This must be death, and I despise it.
There is a sound, coming to me over the rush of the wind and the shrill screams emanating from my own mouth. Kartik is speaking, soft and sure, yet his words send spears of ice driving relentlessly into my heart.
"Gemma, you have to let go! Do it!"
How can I let go of the one thing that is keeping me here? Keeping me alive? How can he ask me to let go of the one real thing I have ever known, how can I let go of our fevered kiss and fumbling fingers and gossamer dreams? How can he let me fall like this, without knowing we will be falling together?
"Gemma, let go! Now!"
I find my fingers being prised off the smooth expanse of his back, feel my legs wrenched form his waist, and find myself alone, so alone, falling and dying and never even living.
The clouds are sinking down upon me, tickling my face with their velvety softness. I press my face into them, through them and find that the world has burst into a million dazzling pinpricks of light. My eyes clench instinctively, I roll over and press my face into the sweetness of the rich earth and damp grass.
"Gemma?"
I choose not to respond. If I am dead, it is all his fault anyway, and even if I am not, I never want to speak to him again. He let me fall, and watched without a word.
"Gemma. Come on, I know you're not dead. Stand up."
It is anger more than anything that causes me to haul myself upwards, albeit inelegantly, and scream into his face, my eyes glittering painfully green (for I can see them reflected into his melting brown orbs), "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing? What the hell?"
He is taken aback, shocked into silence by my behaviour and my language. I glance around us, unsure of what has happened. I felt the darkness, suffocatingly empty, close around me once more, felt the cold slither along my bones, and felt the relief shudder through my body. I urged myself towards the light that was twinkling ahead of me. I cannot remember what happened then, but I know that we are safe, and, mysteriously, dry.
"What happened? Where are we?" For as I look about myself know, it becomes instantaneously clear that we are not back at the lake, with the silver surface and forgotten boathouse and worn rowing boats. We are someplace mysterious, magical and completely alive. Flowers bubble their way through vivid green grass, blooming and exploding in a myriad of colours before my very eyes. I feel the scent of a thousand blossoms drift like a ribbon around me, becoming trapped in my hair, in my eyes, and in my lips. I am instantly drowsy and ludicrously happy, like nothing could ever go wrong, like nothing ever has, like mother and Evelyn are not dead, like father is well and Felicity is simple and Pippa is alone and Ann is rich. And Kartik...
I turn towards him, and his is every inch the gentleman I have so wanted to see him as. His rugged clothes have gone; he is toned and tidy, a wondrous sight in gentlemen's clothing. He steps towards me, plays with a loose curl at the side of my head. It glints auburn on his fingers, which are smooth and clear and have clearly never worked a day in their life. I glance down, and gasp in delight and surprise, for my dress has been restored, shining and glorious, and I feel like a princess. He leans down, kisses me on the lips, and whispers softly in my ear, "Gemma, darling, I have wanted you to find this place for so long."
I do not understand what he means. He knew about it? He brought me here?
"What?" my voice comes out soft and breathy, even though I have just downed copious amounts of freezing lake water.
"Gemma, here we can be together and you will not have to be ashamed. Here, we are what we make ourselves. I am what you made me, and you are what I made you."
His arm encircles my waist, and I feel the softest of kisses, exploring my neck, my collarbone, my earlobe, lean back and relax and drift and dream away, and who cares if I have fallen, because I've fallen straight into paradise.
His nimble fingers unbutton my dress, and I feel it slip to the grass beneath us. My chemise is soft and opaque, and yet I am not embarrassed in his presence. He lowers me to the grass, lies next to me, and then suddenly I realise that something is wrong.
"Kartik ... no." I breathe into the spirals of his ear. He stops immediately, looks down at me with the utmost concern, and I smile in spite of myself.
"Kartik, don't you see? It is not this I want," I continue, motioning to his attire, "it is you. I love you, Kartik. You. I love you as a gypsy, and I love you as a danger, and I love you as..." I glance down, suddenly shy. "as a proper english girl would not." I look deep into his eyes, see the flicker of understanding flare once, twice, and continue. "I am not a proper English girl, Kartik, and I never want to be. Proper English girls sip tear and eat lunch and gossip at dinner parties. I want you, Kartik. Every inch the gypsy."
I close my eyes, reopen them, and he is back, in his rough cotton shirt and frayed, ragged trousers. His curls are wild and soft, and the stubble on his perfect chin irresistible. I lean up, kiss his once on the lips, and I know that this is what I want. I want to be in a world where I can lie with him, and lay with him, and kiss him and have him and no one will know a thing. I am here, and so is he, and this is all I need.
I do not remember clearly removing his shirt. I am suddenly gazing at a finely muscled, toned and tanned torso, flexing and moving with me. I am transfixed. I run my fingertips along, exploring every inch of him. It feels as though this is the first time, the first time of everything. We are not being foolish and irresponsible. We are in love. He shudders, like that time in the tent, and falls down into his back. I let my fingers trail along him, from the hollow of his neck to the waistband of his trousers. I can feel him tensing under my touch. I wonder what he is thinking.
"Gemma..." he murmurs, and I lean down and kiss him lightly on his stomach. I let my lips trail down the length of him, and then back up to his lips. He seems to come alive, slipping an arm around me and rolling over, so that he is trapping me beneath his weight. Easing my petticoats off, he begins kissing my neck, nipping and flicking with his tongue where my pulse flickers gently. I gasp, arching my back slightly, and he relents. I can feel his smile against the flesh of my cheek. His fingertips explore my neck and collarbone, and then ease the drawstring neckline of my chemise down gently, until the creamy curves of my breasts are clearly visible. I do not know where to look. It all seems so new. It is like I have been reborn, given a new skin, and I myself do not know it yet. His fingertips stray to my thighs, gently creasing the material until it is bunched around my waist. His hands reach round it my back and gently unbutton my drawers. I tense, not knowing what is to come. He can feel my worry, and so instead, begins to pull of my chemise. The cotton covers my eyes for a second, and during that time a thousand thoughts rush through my mind. He is going to see me.
Every inch the schoolgirl.
"Gemma, please, relax. I love you."
His words finally sink in, and so instead I embrace him. He finds my eyes, gazes deep into them, and my fingers find his waistband, ease down the ragged trousers. He kicks them off, and we embrace, just lying there for minute after minute, feeling our solidarity, our complete trust for each other flow through us, between us, take us over.
He kisses my collarbone, his hands stray to the waistband of my drawers, and I demand my privacy from there forward.
Didn't want to make it too smutty.
Please review, otherwise I shall be petulant and refuse to write any more.