Embrace Ch 01

Full of champagne and nerves and bone tired she waits. The chambers of this magnificent town house are far grander than her family home. Amelia's many petticoats and beaded gold brocade gown feel heavy now; great big flouncy old fashioned things. It has been a long day, standing for hours. If she sits, the sharp edges of the corsetry digs into her thighs, so the newly married Baroness stands by the dresser and pulls the bell cord again.

If Angela was still her maid, Amelia would be out of this tiresome gown by now.

The maid who finally comes to assist is young. She has a sweet round face and kind eyes, not stern at all. She smiles as she bobs a crooked courtesy, and stammers, "So sorry my lady, sorry you had to wait for me, the house is all muddled you see, all anyhow, and nobody thought to tell me you see, not until you were already here..."

Amelia let's the little flurry of nervous chatter peter out. She raises an eyebrow as the maid simply stands there wringing the corner of her apron in her hands. She decides at once this maid might need firmness, but doesn't deserve unkindness.

"Fetch a button hook then girl and make a start. You'll find one inside the grey vanity, there, near the round boxes. And be careful. This was my grandmother's gown."

As the maid fumbles through Amelia's belongings, the baroness gathers up her layered skirts and takes a slow walk over to the nightstand. She pours herself a large glass of water from a crystal decanter and drains it. Then she stands still as the serving girl begins unfastening what feels like a hundred buttons, down her back, down her sleeves, unpicking half a dozen little seams, and finally unlacing her, so the beastly gown drops to the floor.

"Thank heaven." Amelia sighs with relief. She accepts the offer of a steadying hand, and steps out of the broad circle of shimmering fabric. At once the maid gathers up the dress and spirits it away to another room. Amelia shivers. The hearth is too small to warm the vast room.

"It's my house." she muses.

As much as Amelia desires marriage and witnesses her parents' close affection for each other, the mechanism itself sounds very unromantic. Just this morning, mother explained. Franz will want her to lie back in bed. He will lie on top of her and enter her, and it will hurt. She must always be ready to do it, and it will get easier, mother said.

Clearly Franz is too preoccupied to make proper arrangements for his wife. She unpacks a silken shift and thick housecoat for herself, but before there's any sign of the maid returning, the outer door to her chambers flies open with a bang.

Franz staggers in, barely attired in a black chinese robe. His eyes see through her for a few seconds before he brings them to focus.

Amelia stumbles over her words.

"I'm just getting... I'm still getting ready for you..." her heart pounds so high in her breast she fears it will jump out and choke her. She takes the barest step back and reaches back to unfasten her own stays with trembling fingers.

Is it blasphemous to pray?

He sways on his feet as he walks to her bed. She hurriedly tosses her stays aside, and moves over to take his arm and steady him. It feels surreal, wearing only her shift, shoes and stockings, unchaperoned in the presence of a man.

She is duty bound to receive him and bear his children. The reality of it is terrifying.

"Put out that light." He slurs.

She blows out the candles in the wall sconces, and feels her way back to him through the unfamiliar space. She lies back on the damask and opens her thighs.

Amelia yelps as he drags her over to him, and presses his mouth against hers. She gags at the taste of tobacco and spittle. He takes her rump in his hand and squeezes harder and harder until she yelps in pain..

"Get up on your hands and knees." His impatient fingers scratch between her legs.

"Oh Franz, please take your time..."

"I want you wet. Open your sweet little mouth and suck my fingers."

His fingers taste salty and stale, like piss and sweat, and she gags again.

"Open your knees." He flips up her shift to expose her shivering rear and slaps it smartly.

Thoroughly miserable now, she complies. All the while his dirty fingers thrust into her face. She has never endured such an assault on her dignity. He begins to stroke her bottom as he violates her mouth.

"You're all mine now, no different to the chairs you'll sit on and the food you'll eat. Never forget that." He slaps her a little harder. "Answer me."

She nods her head. There is moisture building between her legs. He gathers it up on his fingers and changes hands.

"Gah!" She tastes her own bittersweet musk and shudders. He laughs and mercifully leaves her poor mouth alone.

"Come on. Let's do this." He drags her legs off the edge of the bed and slides one of his wet fingers into her. She grits her teeth. He adds another. She grimaces. He adds a third. She howls. "Good girl. Good girl." He saws back and forth. Amelia bites her knuckles and keens softly. "No one can say you've never been fucked now eh girl?" He pulls out and slaps her again. "Speak up!"

"No sir! Oh god but it hurts!" Her eyes sting as they fill with tears.

He stands behind her and she feels a pressure, a warm softness push into her fucked hole. It's almost soothing after his rough hand. He rocks back and forth, and a tingle builds to a heat that spreads from her raw sex to her teats. She moans softly as he fucks her like a dog mounting a bitch. The tears fall from her eyes onto the coverlet.

Gradually his pace increases, the small relief from her spit and wetness fades, and she tenses as she chafes and tears. Her pink teats come to hardness, chafing against the brocade. Amelia moans at the alien sensation. Her body knows its purpose after all. She shouts in time with his rapid pounding, willing this to end, needing something more. She pulls at her own hair and the sharp pain of it makes the throbbing ache inside more savoury somehow. Heat spreads throughout her tortured flesh as her breasts knock together.

Then he begins to soften. He pulls away from her and leaves without another word. She keeps her eyes pressed shut for a minute before she dares slump to her knees. She sobs quietly into the fine coverlet. It aches between her legs, but the steady heat remains.

"Oh God, have mercy on me," she whispers, "give me strength."

A flare of light cuts across the bed as the side door is opened. Amelia is relieved to see the maid silhouetted in the doorway. The girl relights the candles on the dresser. She doesn't say a word.

Amelia stands shakily, goes back to the same spot as before and waits. The maid unbuckles Amelia's court shoes and unties her garters. There's a gentle tap at the door, and the girl rushes to answer it. She carries in a pitcher of water the valet has brought.

Amelia crosses her ankles to catch a trickle of something running down her calf, and swallows another sob.

"This one is cold my lady." The maid dampens a soft muslin. She kneels at Amelia's feet and rests her hand on Amelia's trembling knee.

Amelia straightens her shoulders and sets her feet apart. The maid catches the offending trickle of blood in the washcloth and rests it's coolness up between her lady's thighs to soothe her. Though Amelia is mortified that anyone should understand, she is grateful.

With the cool cloth pressed down there, the burning subsides. Sitting on the dressing stool would be painful. She sinks to her knees instead and allows the maid to minister gently to her in silence. Warm water, scented with roses melts her tears of shame away.

Her bloodied shift and stockings are set aside, and the new garment is gossamer silk so translucent the stiff peaks of her firm little breasts lift the fabric. She could weep again but sniffs back her tears. Mother helped her choose this shift for her wedding night. Everything is going wrong.

The anxious maid's hand lingers on the bruised thigh as she offers her mistress a chamberpot.

"I can manage this myself thank you." Amelia sniffs. "Turn down the bed for me please."

"As you wish my lady."

Amelia watches the girl turn back the heavy covers and make the neat row of pillows and bolsters into a more comfortable place to rest. The kind girl finds a lambswool comforter with which to line the nest.

As Amelia sinks into bed, the maid gathers the blankets up and tucks her in at the shoulders. "Do you have all you need my lady?"

Shadows dance in the corners of the room. It is a grand old house full of secrets no doubt. Since childhood Amelia has never slept alone.

"I know you're tired but please don't leave until I fall asleep."

"How... yes my lady, of course." She dips her knee again awkwardly. "As you wish."

Amelia tries to sleep. She makes a good show of it but her mind cannot detach from her aching body. Cannot let go of all the gentle words in Franz's letters. Cannot accept that this; the reality of it; is so very different to what she expected. So mother said it would hurt. Mother and father sleep in the same bed every night. They fuss and argue at times, but she cannot imagine them...

"My lady," the servant asks, "might I bring this seat a little closer? It's cold with the draught under the door."

"Please do." Amelia turns over and watches the girl bring the stool to the bedside closer to the fireplace. "You were not in the hall when I arrived?"

"No my lady, please forgive me, I was on an errand. There are only six of us where there were once ten. Mrs Willis left last week because well... and Heather is cooking but she's not the cook. We should really have a cook." The girl stops and bites a knuckle. It's certainly not her place to freely offer such opinions.

"It's alright.' Amelia frowns to herself. "I appreciate your honesty."

Mother told her to take a firm hold of the reins early on managing the house. Disinterest or lack of skill would reflect badly on her upbringing. The serving girl gives the best account she can of the dismal state of household affairs and as Amelia listens, the quiet lilt of the maid's chatter sends her off to sleep.

*

The young baroness wakes in her own time. From the wan light, she judges it to be early. As much as she dreaded leaving her childhood home, the greater part of her gladly anticipated the status and freedom that would come with it. No governess, no maid and no mother. She slips a hand beneath the bedsheets and winces as her finger tests what remains of her innocence. She certainly did not expect to be waking up alone on the first morning of her marriage, but since there's no one here to chide her she guiltily strokes that delicious spot that Franz managed to completely miss last night.

The fear of damnation puts paid to her desire almost at once. The best antidote for sin is labour. Amelia puts on her dressing robe and house shoes and peers out the window. She can see her breath. She enjoys the silence for a short while before ringing the bell. She winces again as she sits at the dresser, though it's not a bad sensation at all, the ache. The dull throb. Oh lust. Once awakened it is hard to put back to bed until it's fed.

There were ten servants but now six remain. Judging by the multitude of rooms, ten seems a low number to begin with. Those that remain cannot manage indefinitely. If the maid's ramblings are correct, four have left because they have not been paid. Amelia has small hope of hiring others to replace them.

It is a long while before the maid attends her, together with an older woman in the same grey uniform. The maid makes short work of untangling Amelia's hair and smothering her in powder while the woman organises Amelia's belongings and unpacks. She tuts and frowns to see a good portion of the stout luggage is filled with nothing more than sheet music, picture books, and correspondence. Amelia was never short of beautiful clothes, but this last summer her body has filled out so much in the bust that about half her dresses still fit.

"I must learn all your names." Amelia says with more authority than she feels. "I've no excuse not to if you are only half a dozen."

The maid blushes. "I am called Greta, my lady."

"What of yourself, good woman?"

The older woman shakes her head wearily. "Heather, my lady. And the scullery girl and pot boy are Henny and Max. Danny is the driver, and Johan the valet. He has a gentle way with horses too."

"Eight souls in this huge place." Amelia shrugs. "Tell me, what is the hour?"

"Little after seven when we came up." The woman scratches her head beneath her cloth cap. "Henny's a good girl. She'll fetch me if the master wakes."

"Glad to hear that." Amelia's head is a little fuzzy from a night of celebration but she is still hungry for breakfast. "I'm all at sea. I have no idea what his plans are for today. Greta, might you inquire after his health with Johan, and see if you can find me a clue what to wear?"

The girl gives a crooked curtsey.

"No no no. Not at all. Here, watch me, both of you." Amelia stands before the hearth and pays her respects to the grand portrait of one of Franz's ancestors. "You need not lift your whole foot off the ground. Right away that will throw you off balance." She lifts the hem of her sheer nightgown so they can see her feet. "Slide your right foot behind the left and lift only the heel, you see?" She pauses like that a moment. "Then bend the knees evenly, together, for no longer than a second or two. I'll go a little longer if I ever live to meet the empress but otherwise it's too much. Then lift back up and slide your best foot forward again. Easy. Now you show me."

Still blushing the poor maid apes Amelia's example. She smiles triumphantly as Amelia gives her a dainty round of applause.

"If you can, also ask the valet if he wouldn't mind bringing up the account book for the household expenses."

"Yes my lady." This time Greta's curtsey is perfect.

"Oh brava, brava! Enchanting!"

The maid scurries away with a giggle.

Heather rolls her eyes and carries on folding clothes away until she has emptied another chest. "Well, I suppose breakfast needs to be set my lady. Does anything take your fancy?"

"I shall thank God for anything you prepare. Please, set my place downstairs. I shouldn't like to hide away up here any longer, and before you go, Heather, there should be a framed tapestry of a pastoral scene in one of the long boxes. Can you make a place for it on the wall there so I can see it from my bed?"

"Right away my lady." For the first time, the old woman smiles. "I saw it just now. Is it a work of your own hand?"

"In part." Amelia nods. "My sister and I made it together. She has the matching half of it." She neglects to mention the number of times dear Elise had to untangle it all for her. The final level of craftsmanship is certainly not her own achievement. Given the choice, Amelia would prefer music over needlework any day. Papa always encouraged her to practice, he was always so proud to hear her play. Or to write her own music, or play the poet. There's no point being sentimental.

Greta returns a little red in the face. She remembers her manners and catches her breath before speaking.

"My lady... Johan is gone. His lordship is gone. I'm so sorry. Little Max said they left when it was still dark, though he's not sure of the hour."

Amelia sits back down at the dresser. A lump gathers in her throat. The shame of it. Forced to sleep alone on her wedding night and now this. Her fears spin a web of possible reasons for such an outrage, none of them good. She presses her lips tight together and sighs. She pictures her mother's reaction if her father or brothers had dared to do such a thing. There would be swooning and raging and sulking and scheming. Perhaps the servants are waiting for her to break down in tears like the petulant child they imagine she is.

"Well then. I shall require the green silk taffeta and the grey muslin shift, the one with square half sleeves. That should cover most eventualities. Don't bother with breakfast. I shall take coffee alone in the solar."

The servants glance at each other for a moment before dipping the knee and busying themselves.

Amelia takes in all the boxes and cases and is overwhelmed by the reality that this may be all she has in the world. She gives herself a shake and tells herself not to be so melodramatic. Franz will have had his reasons. Perhaps he will share his troubles when he returns. She finds the music box Elise sent as a wedding present and turns the little key. As the sweet little chimes ring out the opening of Bach's prelude, part of her drifts away from all this. Her heart already feels lighter.

*

Franz grants her freedom she could not have imagined. She entertains guests, enjoys all the artistry the city has to offer, but soon the humiliation grows too much. The sidelong glances, the endless enquiries as to her husband's health, a respectable married woman does not attend every other gathering alone. With Franz often called away at short notice on his personal business, managing the houses and estates becomes her responsibility. The servants and tenants are grateful and it is somewhat fulfilling to do her best for them.

Now it's been a year. Twice he came to her bed since the wedding night. Twice he mauled her without setting his seed inside her, leaving her hot and breathless and unsatisfied. She begs him over breakfast to consider their duty, consider their families, and he laughs at first. He tells her, children would make her even more sour, fat and ugly. He tells her she would be a terrible mother. He tells her to spend all she wants at the dressmaker, the patisserie, the opera, only never speak of having children. When she asks him where he goes at night he throws his fork down and leaves the table.

Every month she bleeds, she weeps. Her prayers for some kind of miracle go unanswered, her friends merely caution patience and virtue, but her letter to mother brings a swift response which leaves the taste of bile in Amelia's mouth. Of course, by the grace of God, any man can father a child. But why not Franz?

*

The doctor has ordered all the curtains drawn. He has forbidden visitors. Amelia can hear Greta waiting miserably just outside the bedroom door. They risk whispering to each other only when Franz is out. The girl says Heather has been taken; god knows where. The loyal servant who ran every errand of Amelia's without question brought the greater share of blame upon herself.

Amelia feels her heart pound in the swollen left half of her face. Two of her teeth are missing, her hair is wild, her eyes are wild. It hurts all down the left side of her ribs and hip. That must be how she landed and slid down the stairs. The doctor left a sleeping draught, something for the pain, but somehow she doesn't want it. The sharpened rhythm of breathing steadies her nerves.

She is lucky she's not in the fool's tower, but the guilt is driving her mad. The doctor says that only a mad woman would drug her husband to sleep. It was extreme, granted, but he wouldn't listen to reason. What sane woman could allow her husband to continue to exhaust himself on infernal business night after night? What sane woman would turn a blind eye to his unnatural infatuation with the strange Hungarian sorcerer? Watch Franz waste away, his own affairs neglected?

Now, in the light of day it all sounds like madness, because there is no such thing as sorcery. There is no such thing as enchantment that makes one man swoon at the sight of another, that turns the heads of men and women alike and bends their will. And her entire world, her entire life, has shrunk to the size of her bedroom.

Franz keeps the key. He unlocks the door twice a day to allow Greta to offer a frugal tray of food and remove the night soil. There's never quite enough water to last the day. Amelia doesn't dare look at her husband, let alone speak to him.