Emily was sitting in the morning room when the doorbell rang. She was not expecting visitors that day so listened carefully as Katherine walked across the tiled hall floor to answer the door. Voices murmured and the door clicked shut. Once more Katherine's shoes sounded on the tiles as she came to bear her message. The morning room door opened. In seconds, Emily took in two things: the look on Katherine's face and the envelope in her hand. Katherine held it towards her, her hand clearly trembling. Emily stood, reached out and took it. With numbed senses she opened it and unfolded the paper it contained. It was one of those telegrams where only the details needed to be filled in. Certain words jumped out at her: 'painful duty', 'death', 'killed in action'. A brief cry escaped her lips and then, as Katherine watched helplessly, Emily crumpled to the floor.
She came back to consciousness once again in the armchair where she had been resting. Katherine and Mrs Marsden, the housekeeper, were looking on anxiously as Jenkins waved a bottle of smelling salts under Emily's nose. She could only assume that Jenkins himself had lifted her back into the chair although she had never credited him with such strength. He had only remained as their gardener as, at 68, he was too old to sign up. That's not to say he had not tried. Emily could still remember laughing as he returned from the recruitment drive complaining that they would only sign up the younger men, men such as her husband Charles. She looked down at her hand. The telegram was still crushed in her fist. Mrs Marsden broke the silence.
"Ma'am, is it...your husband? Is he hurt?"
Emily handed her the crumbled paper. Mrs Marsden smoothed it out, read it and stifled a sob. Katherine too, started to cry.
"Oh ma'am, I'm so sorry. Whatever can we do?"
No sound could escape from Emily's lips. She just shook her head and waved in the direction of the door. Mrs Marsden nodded and, with her arm around Katherine's shoulders, moved towards the door.
"You too, Jenkins, " murmured Emily and the old man stood up slowly, grasped her hand briefly and left, closing the door behind him. For what seemed like hours, Emily sat, staring at a point somewhere above the fireplace. No tears sprang to her eyes. As time moved on, the light in the room changed. A sudden darkening, caused by gathering clouds outside, brought Emily back to reality. She stood up and moved towards the table by the door where Mrs Marsden had left the telegram. She picked it up and read it twice, taking in every word. Placing it back on the table, her hand then moved to her left side, gently touching her dress over the point where she knew a dark bruise was still to be found. She winced. Rolling up her left sleeve, she could see the purple marks left by her husband's fingers as he had grabbed her and thrown her across the bedroom only the previous week when she had refused to sleep with him the night before he returned to the front. She could still remember his cruel taunt, "Well, at least I can get a Belgian whore when I get to Ypres." Those had been the last words he had said to her. She hoped his death had come before he had the opportunity to search out any such girl. The thought of him dying whilst still frustrated brought a smile to her lips. A giggle grew in her throat and, by the time it escaped from her mouth, it had grown to a laugh. She placed a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. It wouldn't do for the servants to hear her laughing when she was supposed to be in mourning.
That night Emily stood in her bedroom, naked in front of the full length mirror. She had asked Mrs Marsden to draw a bath for her before she left for the evening and it awaited her in the bathroom next door. Returning her gaze to her reflection she gently touched the marks on her body. They varied from dark bruising to fading yellow patches. Here and there were small pale scars and even an angry red mark on her upper arm where Charles had once stubbed out a cigarette. She let her touch linger on some of the marks. Some were still tender and she winced as her fingers brushed them. Breathing deeply, she raised herself and fixed her reflection with a steely gaze.
"No man will ever hurt me again. He is dead. The bastard is dead!"
Hearing the words out loud, so brutal and so final, made her realise the truth. Momentarily she choked but the sob caught in her throat and disappeared. With a finality to her step, she moved towards the bathroom.
A few short minutes later, she lay in the warmth of the bathwater. She closed her eyes and thought about her life. She could start again, find someone new. Someone who would love her rather than treating her like an unwanted animal. Again her fingers brushed over her body but this time she was not marking her damaged flesh. Now she was exploring her new self. She touched her right breast, cupping it gently and stroking her nipple with her thumb. She felt it growing hard. Urgently, she squeezed it between her thumb and forefinger. The sensations spread from her nipple like electricity flowing through her body. Her free hand moved into the water and nestled between her slightly parted legs. She ran her finger through her wiry triangle of hair, searching out her smooth lips. She parted them gently, feeling the wetness there that owed nothing to the bath water. Running her finger up her slit, her body shuddered as she reached the growing bud near its apex. She circled it slowly, biting her lip and wonderful sensations coursed through her body. This was not the first time she had masturbated. In fact, Charles being at war for the last three years had given her a number of wonderful opportunities to explore her own body. She knew that, when he had been home on leave, she had never received any satisfaction from him. He would frequently get drunk and then force himself on her, ignoring her cries as he roughly penetrated her. However, once he had left, she allowed herself to give her body the pleasure it craved. She was certain Mrs Marsden and Katherine must have been suspicious as she seemed to spend a large amount of time in the bath.
Coming back to the moment, her finger was still circling her clitoris but she knew she needed more to bring her crashing to an orgasm. Pressing with the heel of her hand against her tender bud, she inserted two fingers deep into her wet pussy. She loved that word, loved the coarseness of it, loved what it described. She could feel the explosion growing inside her and pumped her fingers deep into her hole, pressing hard onto her clitoris.
As Emily's muscles spasmed around her fingers, she cried out, "You bastard, you never made me come. Not once. I hate you! I hate you!" She continued to finger herself long after the feelings had subsided but, as she slowed down, she was surprised to find that her face was wet with tears.
That night, she slept more deeply than she had in years.
***
The next week was a constant round of visitors, all commiserating with her over Charles' death. She had to remain the grieving widow, paying lip service to the 'great loss' she felt. On the fifth day, Katherine entered the drawing room to tell her that a Mr. George Garner was at the door. Emily started. George! Charles' younger brother. She had not heard from the family at all. She had written to pass on the news of Charles' death but, as the family had tended to keep away from them, she had not expected a response. She instructed Katherine to admit him. Standing, she prepared herself to continue her façade of grief. The door opened and George entered. It had been at least five years since she had last seen him but he had not altered. He was dressed smartly but the most noticeable thing was his pronounced limp, leading to him walking with a stick. In fact, it was this limp that had led to him being refused a posting in the army, meaning he was left at a desk in Whitehall. Charles had always referred to him bitterly as 'the cowardly George', despite his clear incapacity.
"Emily." He greeted her with a slight incline of the head.
The atmosphere between them was uncomfortable. Emily wanted to scream at him yet knew she had to keep her composure.
"I had not expected to see you, George. It has been, what, five years? I did say in my letter that there would be no funeral. It is my understanding that Charles will be buried in Belgium."
"I know that, Emily. Mother was against my coming but I had to see how you were."
