Letters From the Hesperus

He came softly upon me Marie, but strong – gentle as ever your hands were, but a comfort in his power. His body, kind but hungry, arched and stroked and moved against me until I cried out beneath him. His touch caressed me, roused and lingered, learning the way of our bodies – oh, Marie. How can you be so like and so beautiful? His touch, gentle, your touch the night of our wedding, his touch this night we were brought together, your hand cool upon my brow – I felt it there at last, soothing, comforting, God, Marie – ah, Tom! He touched so gently it was hardly felt, and stroked, strong and warm, hard and smooth, all upon my tender skin. Then he lay close down upon me, groaned and kissed me, and called me by my name. With all his love he took me, and came at last into my body.

What words. Oh, bliss. Ecstasy. Pain forgotten. No thought of fear. Only Tom, come at last to me, filling the ache of my body until I sobbed to feel him. Tom, my friend, my hungry lover close upon me; I cried out and he panted desperate, pressing home a wild love until I begged and shook again. He sank deep, gasping, then touched his hands upon me swift and strong. He brought me to sobbing, brought me there with him until he shuddered within me, and I with him, crying out, again in the darkness. All was one, all touch, all love, all tenderness, and I swear Marie – he saw you there, that last moment, your soft white palm upon my brow, your hand outstretched to touch his cheek. We saw you, both – cried out, and loved you. Your smile, Marie. It aches into my heart, but God – the gift you gave us. That final gift. Your blessing.

He stirs. So sweetly. I love you, Marie. I go to him.

Your Richard

Lisbon

February 16, 1865

I write, Marie, as I await his coming. What tremor comes upon me now with the thought of his body brought to mine – I hardly know how to say.

He comes to me this night, Marie – this night and every night. What peace sings in my soul, at last, when I lay down with him. The scent of his body. The touch of my lips on his skin. His limbs warm against my own, the low, sweet draw of his breath, beautiful to me now and always.

I see now, Marie, what brought you to my deck – what set you to walk the night uneasy. Forgive me, my darling. My torment was your own. I longed to hold you to this earth. How I longed to keep you. But – God, the words are pain still. Pain deep but sweet, Marie. I begin – to let you go. Your soul to rise. And I will see you on that day when the troubles of the earth fall away from me.

And Tom will come to us. And we will rejoice, we three together – we with but one spirit, that shall never be broken again. We will come to you, Marie, and your eyes will light upon us, and all love and faith forever will be ours.

You will not come again. I know this in my heart. Three nights past now, I have had no dream – no dream but this, that I woke in my cabin and found Tom there with me, his body made my own, his strength and easy power come gentle to my touch. Tom, my beloved, here and always.

You came to bring me back to him. You came to bring him unto me. You came to slake the mourning that laid us both near unto death, and give again into our lives a light, a hope, a promise. I love you. I love you both with all my heart.

And now, Marie. The time is come. Tom comes again this night. His eyes are warm. The sorrow that we both have felt mayhap will never leave us; I pray it does not, for from night to night, not troubling you in your endless sleep, I would dream of you – not from uneasy graves or misery too long held close, but from love, and tenderness, and remembrance. I would have us dream of you together, as when we knelt last night, Marie, with your picture before us, and prayed for your soul – and gave our thanks for this last gift of your loving heart. You are forever with us.

Marie. I write this once and always. I love you. My heart is yours. And now I know that you will love it only more, for finding Tom within it.

No more words, Marie. I put them from me. Do you see my heart? How it beats for you, and for Tom, and for all of life that I begin, at last, to wake to?

We come upon a distant shore. Our business holds us yet some weeks. But soon Marie, we will return to Portsmouth. We will come back to the little dell, to the church that stands amid the oaks, when April is come and the blackthorn is blooming. We will come to the green sward of the church, to a gentle bed where an angel lies dreaming, and there beneath the white bloom's fall that lies like tender snow upon the grass – there we will put these pages to rest, to lie forever in your care.

Our hearts, Marie. We love you.

Richard

Thomas