Isabelle sat close to the open window, trying to coax a little breeze into the sour air of her bedchamber. She could smell her husband everywhere and she wrinkled her nose in disgust at the thought of him, coming into her beautiful room and polluting it.
This was her sanctuary – the only place that had been hers since the day she was born, and she hated the nights when he would visit her here. He would come late in the night, when she was fast asleep, and loom over her – always the worse for drink. He would climb onto the bed, lay his heavy body above her and wrestle ineffectually with her clothes. She would feel the sharp stab of his member and he would be inside her – pushing himself against her with his foul breath against her neck.
The only mercy was his brevity – as he was finished in moments, leaving his 'fetch' to leak from her even as he dressed and went on his way.
Today – as with every day that followed his visits – she would be left sore and unfulfilled, wishing him away to leave her in peace. She had heard her ladies' maids speaking about this moment between man and woman – and to hear them was a wonder – something so far removed from what her husband brought to her as to render it unrecognisable. Sometimes she would sit, as she did this morning, and wonder about their version of it – wonder who were these men and women who took pleasure in one another's bodies and who would moan and writhe as their bodies came together.
Today as she sat in the window seat she lifted her nightgown high above her waist and imagined a man being able to ignite something inside her, something that could make her want him to come into her – to make her slippery and make her moan. She took her finger and drew it lightly across the soft hair that covered her, moving her legs slightly so that she could see the pink nub of her sex, peeking shyly out from the dense thatch of hair.
She allowed her index finger to trace the line of her inner lips, searching for the feeling that other women spoke of. She was aware of something awakening – like a hibernating animal coming slowly to wakefulness – but it was distant feeling, and nothing like the great passions she had heard described.
Outside, in the distance, she heard a sound and jumped guiltily, rearranging her gown to cover herself and blushing even though no one could see. Below the window, in the courtyard she could hear voices and she looked out to see a small band of people gathering in front of the great house. She could not hear their words, but their voices were light and easy, brought to her on the fresh scented breeze.
Amongst them there was a stooped old man, his hair almost white, wearing a coat too heavy for the weather, a young boy of about nine years, who was wearing a hat with a huge feather in it, two woman, both barefoot with black hair and the same full hips and breasts – she wondered if they might be sisters. The odd little group parted and behind the ladies there was a man of maybe thirty years, with a shock of curls that lay against his shoulders and a broad, Slavic face.
The whole group were immersed in their conversation, and from her vantage point Isabelle watched unnoticed as they stood squinting in the midday sun. Suddenly the man produced a fiddle, and the old one a small skin drum and they began to strike up a tune. The women sang and the boy clapped and the courtyard was filled with song.
Isabelle stopped breathing, fearing that the sound of her own breath would render her unable to hear to beautiful sounds drifting to her room. The words were unfamiliar; some were not in English, but the song reached into her bosom and gripped her heart. She wanted both to weep and to laugh and she felt the suffocating heat of the stifling room and wanted to rush out into the courtyard to join them.
She gazed down to the ragged group, in their gaudy colours, and was struck by their ease and their free ways. She longed to stand outside in the sunshine, in a loose dress, with her feet bare. She longed to laugh and shout and sing till her lungs ached – for here she was contained, held captive by a life of expectation and duty. A wife to a man with only the basest interest in her, lady to a horde of servants whose lives revolved around keeping her restrained – nobody treasured her for her own interests or desires – she wasn't even sure she knew them herself.
In a heartbeat she called to her ladies' maid, "Suky! Suky! Come quickly!"
"What is it my lady?" Suky's ruddy face appeared at the door.
"Take a drink to the singers, it is a hot day and they may like a cold draught."
Suky's face said everything. Here was her mistress behaving out of character, being herself and indulging her whim. Isabelle felt piqued with annoyance – why, when she was mistress of a grand house, with money and power and all that should follow it, could she not make a simple request without judgement from her own servants?
She glared defiantly at Suky, and was aggrieved to see that her look of consternation remained until she had left the doorway.
Some minutes later Isabelle watched as Suky took a large pitcher out to the Gypsy troupe, looking at once afraid and mistrustful. Isabelle could see their gratitude, and with some annoyance watched the interplay between the young maid and the man of the group.
There was something in the way he moved his body – an animal quality that seemed to take hold of him and move him toward the girl with interest. She could see Suky blushing even from this distance, but she could also see her warming to the attention and speaking more boldly to him.
Suky must have spoken plainly, and told of her mistresses' generosity in sending the drink, for all members of the group suddenly turned and looked up at the window, and Isabella had to swing back from the pane to avoid being seen there in her night attire.
The group drank heartily before singing a final song and leaving the grounds. Isabelle watched, captivated, as the colourful figures retreated, in particular watching the sway of the younger man's hips as he walked.
