A Pretty Mouth (9 page)

“True enough, I suppose! Draw back the curtains, cousin, and hand me that tea—
ahh
,” he said, sipping it. “Better. I should not have lingered in bed so long, but ach—my head! How it aches!”

“Well, you had a long night,” I said over my shoulder.

“Indeed I did. Ventured out to that tomb—well, you must know that already. Dreadfully wet, and I fell—or hit my head—or something. Must have slipped.” He took another long slurp of tea and fell back upon the pillows of his bed. “Well, no lasting harm done. Still feel miserable, though.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“I wonder …” He looked at me. “You seem in a maternal sort of mood, eh? Would you be so kind—no.”

“Ask anything and it shall be yours, if it is within my power to give it.”

“Just sit with me, talk to me. Keep me company. I never had a relative to look after me before.”

Poor dear! “Let me read to you, then—and perhaps you will doze until supper-time.”

“Smashing idea, Chelone. What would you like to read?”

“You claimed to have a collection that would make me blush,” I suggested, having retained no small curiosity regarding his literary tastes. “Even if you no longer think me so easily shocked, I should like to see what you have.”

Even in the dim light—for though I had drawn back the drapes, the hour was late, and the sunlight waning—I saw him blush pinker than a rose! I had no expectation of his showing any shyness after the events of last night, and felt such a rush of tenderness for the dear boy that I kissed him on the forehead.

“N—no,” he stammered. “I was, ah, drinking last night, you see, and loose-tongued; I was not myself, and should not have mentioned such things about—about my family, myself, and …”

Such an endearing display! Charmed, I put my finger to his lips and shook my head. I was not to be dissuaded.

“Let me read something—I shall pick it. Just nod where you have stowed them. Coyness will only make me all the more eager!”

He looked miserable as a wet cat, but pointed with a trembling finger towards a valise not yet unpacked. Opening the top, I discovered to my delight that it was entirely full of pornography! He had a lovely old edition of
Juliette
, several volumes of
The Pearl
and
The Oyster
(I cannot fault him; though Lazenby has always been a competitor, his work is very fine), a chapbook of Swinburne’s “Reginald’s Flogging,”
The Sins of the Cities of the Plain
, which perhaps would explain his ability with arses—and, I was happy to see, quite a few editions of
Milady’s Ruby Vase
!

“I see you are quite an avid reader,” said I, which caused him to choke on the dregs of his tea. “Here, I have selected something. Let me read to you—ah, yes! Here is a good-sounding yarn, ‘What My Brother Learned in India’ by a Rosa Birchbottom.”

“Not that one,” he said with such trepidation I felt rather wounded.

“Why ever not?”

“I … please, Chelone. She is my very favorite author, and I fear I should—embarrass myself.”

“Rosa Birchbottom is your favorite author?” How could I not laugh! “Let me read this story, then. I trust your taste, cousin.”

“I—”

“My brother studied a great many things whilst in India, and upon his return he was good enough to teach me some of what he learned about the voluptuous peculiarities of the human body,” I read, or rather, recited half from memory. “Given that I am soon to die of a wasting sickness that has claimed my beauty, rendering me unfit to engage in any amorous sport, I have decided to spend my remaining days writing down some of the most exotic techniques he taught me, techniques to induce to sensual erotic pleasure in man or woman …
Orlando!
”

He had begun to weep, and I set aside the volume, feeling rather rotten indeed.

“Whatever is the matter?” I asked him.

“I am a disgusting creature,” said he, “to own such wicked books—and to ask a young lady to read them! Here I have you debasing yourself before me, and—”

“None of that,” I said sternly. “It is no debasement to read these words, pornography is not a wicked art! Oh, Orlando, I apologize. I was only so very amused. You see,
I
am Rosa Birchbottom. It tickled me last night when you implied I should read pornography—I write it for my living!”

“You?” he sat up straight and looked at me with fresh, adoring eyes. “You wouldn’t tease me, cousin?”

“Never, I assure you. I told you I worked for a periodical, did I not? I authored ‘What My Brother Learned in India,’ ‘The Personal Papers of Lady Strokinpoke,’ ‘A Penny Spent,’ and ‘A Sporting Attitude Indeed.’ I had to take a
nom de plume
or risk all sort of unpleasantness if our publication is ever shut down on obscenity charges. It is a bad pun, I know, but my very first story was a Mrs. Lechworthy tale, you see.”

“I have it in my collection,” said he, placing his hand upon my knee in an endearingly familiar manner. “I really think ‘Le Vice Anglese’ is one of the very best stories ever written.”

“Flatterer,” I said.

“Not at all—but …” He blushed again.

“What?”

“I am sorry, I was about to trouble you with an impertinence …”

“What could be impertinent between us, cousin?”

“Do you … ever … do you write from experience? Or is it all … imagination?”

The dear young man! “I know why you ask, Orlando, but fear not. Though I have in the past used my experiences to inform my writings, I never do so directly. And I never name names.”

“I see … so you are not, oh, how did you put it so delightfully in ‘A Penny Spent’?
Burdened by an exasperating virginity
?”

I laughed. “Is that a question you needed to ask me? Could you not tell?”

Orlando’s lip twitched and then his face lit up in the most handsome smile I had ever seen on a man’s face. “Oh, Chelone, I am feeling ever so much better now, you have raised my spirits to the point I think I could manage a bit of supper! Would you like to dress and come down with me?”

“Very much so, my dear Orlando,” said I.

“I am ever so glad you came to Calipash Manor,” he said. “Why—I feel as though I’ve known you my whole life. It is funny, before you arrived my father was speaking of twins, twins born into this family—do you not think we could be siblings? Look in the mirror, there—are not our faces quite alike?”

“I hope we are not twins,” said I, though it gave me quite a start to see how alike we were. “Are not Calipash twins always supposed to be cursed? Evil?”

“That was what my father told me, at least. Well, well, it seems an unlikely coincidence, does it not? But we shall talk more about it over dinner, eh, cousin?”

And thus I must hurry—he will be awaiting me! Oh, I am ever so glad I came home again. It is rare, when one writes under a false name, to meet one’s public in person! Very enjoyable, as is Orlando himself. I do think I shall have another go with him after our meal, if he is willing and able …

***

The dress I wore that night was not expensive, and though it had been turned once, I thought it looked well enough when I gazed at my reflection in the glass. My only regret was how high the neckline, for though I wore his gift none could see it. Still, its warm weight was a secret comfort to me, for he had given this present to me as a token of affection, and feeling it ‘round my neck reminded me that I needed not fear disgracing myself in front of my nobler relation with my ignorant manners and common conversation.

When I heard the knock at my door I very nearly turned my ankle in my dash to answer the summons. It was Laurent, looking very dashing indeed, and he even took my hand and kissed it when he saw me!

“Dearest Camilla, how beautiful you look,” he said, lasciviously licking his lips with his red tongue. “Why, my cock is half-standing just looking at you, remembering the rapturous sensation of Mr. John Thomas battering his way up inside of you, taking for my own your troublesome maidenhead! Careful, or I might make a mistake—and eat
you
instead of my supper.”

“I am glad you have not had your fill of me. I have heard it said in town that you are indeed a rake and libertine.”

“It is all in the past,” he assured me. “I have never thought to marry, but you, my cousin, have won my heart, body, and soul.”

Alas, for I was a fool to believe such words! I assure you, as I write this, locked up for crimes I did not commit, that no woman has ever suffered more than I on account of love!

We lingered over supper, which consisted of every food known to inspire amorous devotion: caviar, asparagus, oysters, champagne, artichokes in white wine, and finally, a tiny cup of potent chocolate. By the end of it I was swooning with passion and anxious to retire, but it was not to be. As a final course, Laurent’s housekeeper surprised us by coming in with two chilled glasses of a French anisette liqueur as a digestif—but when I reached to take mine off the silver tray, the silver-filigreed cameo Laurent had given me spilled out from the neckline of my gown.

“Thief!” cried his housekeeper. “Why, it is Lady Fanchone’s favorite ornament, long thought to be missing! How did it come to be concealed on your person, I wonder?”

“Laurent gave it to me last night,” said I, shocked by her implication.

“How could he, when it has been gone these ten years? As I recall it, Lady Fanchone wished to bequeath it to her only son and heir—and could not, for it had vanished!”

I thought Laurent would come to my defense, but when I raised my tear-filled eyes to meet his, I saw only cruelty there.

“Indeed, it had long been my desire to have that ornament turned into a cravat-pin—and here you are, possessed of it! My, my … Camilla! I never thought you would be the sort of girl around whom I should have to count the silver! To discover the woman I thought to make my bride is actually a low thief—and a thief so bold as to wear her ill-gotten possessions around those who might miss them!”

I know it does not speak to my honesty to confess here that I bolted from the table then, thinking to leave The Beeches on foot. But I ask you, dearest reader, what hope I had of protesting my innocence when Laurent—he whom I had thought devoted to me—was speaking such dreadful falsehoods? You, my friend, know that I am innocent, that I would never steal, but I was apprehended by the handyman before I had taken ten steps out the front door. I screamed and beat his breast with my fists, demanding he release me, but he was far stronger than I, and restrained me easily. Then a policeman was called, and the matter seemed more and more hopeless. My character is no longer known in these parts, after all, and so it was the easiest thing to conclude I was a thief!

To keep me from fleeing before my trial, I was locked into the tower with only a meager supply of candles to keep me from the grim darkness at night.

It seems a century past, but it was less than a fortnight ago that I was found guilty of the crime of stealing the cameo necklace, and tomorrow I shall be hanged for it. The town being so small I was locked back into the tower at The Beeches for safekeeping; they bring me my meals fairly regularly, but already my dress hangs off my body, so hungry, cold, and lonely am I. Woe is me! I asked my jailers for paper and pencil so I could write my story; this, as it is my last request, they have given me. Thus I have recorded all that transpired during my fateful journey to my home county, where, instead of love, I have found only death. My only conclusion is that Laurent always intended to cast me aside, and gave me the necklace to have a good reason to do so.

I have no regrets but one as to my actions in life, the things I have enjoyed and done—but trusting such a knave as Laurent and his hateful staff was a greater mistake than any of my amorous encounters. Would that I had taken Mr. Milliner up on his offer to elope with him! I am sure I should be happier than here, alone, in the darkness, awaiting my death.

***

That should do; I shall copy it out now.

Date unknown, time of day uncertain, languishing in the crypt

My plan has not worked, all hope has left me. I must conclude that either my dear editrix Susan did not perceive the cipher I painstakingly included in the handwritten conclusion I composed for “A Camilla Among the Beeches,” or it has not been sent to her as was promised. I suspect the latter; given the extent of the treachery I have experienced, I cannot believe in human kindness any longer.

Here I shall record what actually befell me more than a fortnight ago, if my sense of time has not been too much disturbed by living as I have been, in the Calipash family crypt. (I have counted meals, but they have been thrown down to me at strange intervals with no difference between breakfast and dinner, as I can no longer stomach much.) It pains me to write about my misfortunes, for this honors a hideous request, but at the very least I know this document will live on in the Private Library—which I have found out was never burnt, and exists today, and is now one book richer. I suppose it is every writer’s wish to compose something that others might enjoy, and though future Calipash heirs may take pleasure in the real account which inspired ‘A Camilla Among the Beeches’ more for my suffering than any greatness of prose, such is life.