New England Bride

The warmth of the fire now filled the void between my thighs, and insinuated itself within the very lips of my womanhood. The probe of my inquisitor's fingers became more intimate as the seconds ticked by, prodding and poking uncomfortably at what I could only guess. My breath came in ragged gasps, thundering in my ears…but was it my own? Perhaps it was a mere flight of imagination, but it seemed that the heavy sighs that echoed in my head came not from me, but from behind the Chinese screen.

Cringing, I closed my eyes and wished it to be over, longing to have my small clothes back on once again. "Done, Dearie," whispered the crone, removing her glistening fingers. "I'll make my mark as to your virtue, I will, but I wonder how long you'll stay that way," she laughed, indicating the milky coating on her fingers.

Quickly, I gathered my pantalettes and turned from the screen in order to replace them in their proper position. I had barely tied the cord about my waist, when John Thomas left his exile and joined us before the fire.

"She's passed then?" he asked the crone, a knowing look in his eyes. "I'll have you make your mark here, Madam, and you may leave with my thanks and a coin for your trouble."

The old woman placed an X on the appropriate spot, and then biting the coin, she turned and was gone. "Now it's your turn," he said facing me. "Are you sure you still want this alliance?"

I thought but for an instant, then hastily accepted the quill. My fate lay with heaven now, and I forced my misgivings behind me. I would not be a spinster, a woman barren of child and warmth. I would be the wife of Sean Alan Thomas Esq., a married woman of admirable standing in the village of Wellington, New Zealand. I would have his name, his children and his bed. God help me. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 2

The first few weeks aboard ship were pleasant enough, and I heartily enjoyed both the bustling ports along the eastern coast, and the companionship of my nephew-to-be. At every anchorage, vendors gathered along the wharf, hawking their wares and praising the craftsmanship of my future husband's ship, the "Unicorn."

The wool which had made its way to northern ports from New Zealand and sold for a handsome profit was gone now, and in its stead were treasures from America, coveted goods to appease the markets of Wellington and Auckland. Fine silks and Irish laces, smuggled through Confederate barricades from Europe and delicately crafted silver finery from world-renowned Boston silversmiths made their way onboard. Light Southern cotton and dark Kentucky tobacco, both rare during the War, now filled the holds and molasses by the keg, to be made into Jamaican rum cluttered the decks.

The Unicorn was a beautiful square-rigged ship, if that is the word one uses for ships. Her decks were sleek, and her cabins well appointed. Our passage along the southern seacoast, was without incident. Fair days and starry nights greeted our every move, and crisp breezes sang a song of a wondrous summer to come.

John, for that is what I called him now, was my constant companion aboard ship. In port, he was quick to conduct his business, then return to escort me along the byways of the city to share in its pleasures. Our nights at sea were spent in the privacy of my tiny parlor, chatting and laughing over the happenings of the day, or discovering the stars atop the slowly shifting deck which carried us ever farther from the only home I had ever known.

Finally came the day when we broke free of the American coastline to make our way through the Indies and into open sea, bound for the Straits of Magellan at the extreme tip of South America. The ship now lost its protection from the barrier islands and bobbed mercilessly, rolling on glassy swells until I feared that I would have to spend the rest of the trip below decks attending to my toilet.

John Thomas was my lifeline in this however, perpetually caring for my discomfort and calming my unfounded fears. I don't know if it was then or later, that I discovered that I loved him.

Perhaps it was the realization that no man had ever paid me this degree of attention that first drew me to him, or perhaps it was the curious feeling that grew within me each time he steadied my hand along the rolling deck…but I loved him. I was to be the wife of his uncle, bound by contract in marriage to a man I'd never seen, and in love with another. Fate was indeed an ironic mistress.

My soon-to-be nephew, it would seem, held no such feelings for me. In all ways, his manner was above reproach. One would have thought me a cherished aunt in long standing, were it not for the relative closeness of our ages. It was from his lips that I learned of my future husband, and of the ways of my new homeland.

New Zealand was a young land, a place where a man's metal stood the test, and a woman's fortitude meant the difference between a ripe old age and an early grave. My husband's homestead lay a rough journey of some fifteen miles to the southeast of Wellington, at the confluence of the Wai-kohu and Karori rivers, in an area known as Waiariki. It was a solitary place, populated mainly by the sheepherding families employed on the property and a small Maori village. The few women who had been courageous enough to brave the current native hostilities were few and bound by law, loyalty and necessity to their husbands who worked the flocks. A lonely life at best, and a tragic one of occasion, they were a sturdy breed who faced their lot with solid resiliency.

My husband was a widower of many years, his wife having fallen ill with consumption and been buried with her kin in Wellington. That there had been no offspring from this union was curious, for they had been joined in marriage for almost 10 years. It was for this reason that the elder Thomas, my future husband, wished a wife of child bearing age, that he might gain an heir of his own bloodline before he reached his seniority.

Perhaps it was because of the stereotype of the sturdy American woman, or the desire to be shed of additional in-laws, but he had chosen to take his new bride from America. And so, on the next trading voyage to Boston, he had added a bride to his list of return cargo. I had been bought and paid for as much as the bales of cotton below decks, procured as breeding stock for my husbands lineage.

As the weeks rolled by, the fantasies of my faceless husband began to take on the shape of John Thomas. I chose, in my girlish fashion, to visualize my marriage as one of romantic perfection, instead of legal and hereditary necessity. I had been chosen as the willing consort of a foreign prince, a coveted prize to be cherished and adored for the rest of my days. No whim was too bold, no pleasure to far afield for me, for I was the "Chosen One." For me anything was possible. I had but to voice my desires, and they would be instantly mine. My husband, who exalted me above all else, would see to it.

Our offspring, a hearty throng, would be comprised of handsome boys and angelic girls, dancing carefree among the wildflowers as the world envied us. Life would be perfect, the living manifestation of a dream.

It was not until we had made our tenuous crossing through the Straits that I found my fantasies dashed to the ground. John and had been strolling along the deck, my first outing since braving the rough seas along the Argentine coast. We settled along the prow and John had begun to point out the southern constellations that seemed so foreign to me. He had just drawn my attention to the Southern Cross, when I closed my eyes and made a wish upon a shooting star.

John laughed at my winsome ways, his warm tones washing over me like sweet honey. "What did you wish for?" he asked. "You can tell me. I'm the soul of discretion…I swear!" he chuckled.

He was looking for a game, I thought, a bit of amusement to fill a few moments of tedium, and so I decided to share my fantasies with him. Dramatically, I described my Prince and the wondrous life I had come to dream of, never noting the lull that had overtaken him. Finally, my tale completed, I looked toward him to gauge his response.

My companion was silent at first, as though warring between reason and honesty. Finally, as my apprehension reached uncomfortable proportions he began to speak.

"Caroline, is that what you expect in New Zealand…a fairytale? Do you anticipate a life of romance and flowery perfection? If you are to have any chance of happiness in your marriage, then I think you must face reality head on, and not bury yourself in childish dreams. I thought you knew that."

I had known that my fantasies were fanciful…but childish dreams? Warily I appraised John's stance, his demeanor, and found the shadow of dread creeping over my soul.

"Tell me, John. What is reality then? Are you friend enough to tell all?"

John cleared his throat and heaved a heavy sigh, as though a heavy burden had been placed upon his shoulders. Then turning in the moonlight he curled his finger beneath my chin and captured my gaze.

"My uncle is not a genteel man, the kind of man you would find in the drawing rooms of Boston," he began. "He's a man used to the toil of his own hands, to the rough life of a new land. He is crude offtimes, and demanding in his ways. He'll expect much of you, Caroline." He paused, then clearing his throat once more he continued.

"My uncle has had many women, New Zealanders, tending his needs since his wife passed away, but none of them survived their own discontent. All returned to Wellington in short order. Perhaps this is why he chose a bride from so far away. Leaving would not be an option for you. You'd have to stay."

My fantasies shattered, I stood in shocked silence until my voice once more found me. "And, what of these women, then? If your uncle has had so many, why has he not married, bid them stay and produced offspring to carry on his line? Has he not found them to his liking?"

John laughed at that point, not the merry laugh I had become so used to, but a low, indelicate sound that made my skin crawl. "Oh, he fancied them, alright. My uncle is a lusty man, my girl. He's akin to a beast in the fields when it comes to women. If one had born him a child, I daresay he would have married her and claimed his heir. But, given the numbers of women who have warmed his bed, I have surmised over the years, in fact, that perhaps an heir is not possible."

A double shock assailed my mind, cruel and unexpected blows. Had I traveled to the ends of the earth in order to remain childless after all?

"Then why has your uncle sent for a bride, with no heir in sight? Why has he been so cautious as to secure an untried maiden for his bed, when any willing strumpet would have done as well?" I asked, my eyes filling with tears of remorse.

He sighed and turned his attention briefly away, preferring to avoid my distress. "We all have our fantasies, Caroline. You have yours, and my uncle has his. Perhaps he still dreams that the fault lay with his wife and her successors, and not with himself. At any rate, it is like him to want a bride of proven virtue. He doesn't care to be second in anything, and certainly not in his wife's bed. Your innocence will appeal to him. He'll enjoy…"

There he stopped, and no amount of urging could coax him to continue. I began to cry in earnest then, fat tears rolling down my countenance in twisting contrails along my jaw. My legs began to shake so horribly that I feared they would fail me and I would crumple to the deck.

Seeing my distress, John reached out his hand in comfort, an arm encircling my waist, steadying me in my time of need. "I need to retire to my cabin, John. This has all been a great shock to me! Would you take my arm, for I fear my footing in this unsteady condition."

Together, we made our way toward the narrow stairs that lead downward into the bowels of the ship, and on to my cabin. John led the way here, for my ability to function had been compromised and I wavered dangerously.

Finally, we reached my doorway and he escorted me inside. There I collapsed on the bed and began my wails anew, the hopelessness of the situation overcoming any claim I had ever had to modesty.

"Caroline…I don't know what to say! If I'd had any suspicion that you were so unaware of the conditions of this contract, I would have never… Please, stop crying, Caroline. What's done is done. You'll die of melancholy before we dock at this rate."

I turned then and buried my face in the pillows, my muted sobs rising in forlorn counterpoint to the sound of wind and waves beyond. John was beside himself. His massive palm now gentle and caring as it stoked my hair in consolation.

"I have something that might help in my cabin," he offered hesitantly. "Let me leave, and I'll return with it straightaway."

True to his word, John was once again at my side before the tide of my grief had risen to insurmountable proportions. In his hand he held what appeared to be a flask of blown glass, dark green and half filled with a ruby red liquid of some unknown variety.

"French wine," he offered. "I have a number of cases for my uncle in my cabin. I've taken to liberating a few bottles along the way," he laughed.

Quickly searching the room, John soon found a bone china cup along the side board and began to fill it. "Try this." He offered. "It's said to have miraculous calming properties. Don't worry, there's not enough there to have you hanging from the mizzen in your pantalettes."

I blushed at his reference to my underpinnings, and took the fragile vessel from his hands. Then, pressing my lips to the finely chiseled edge, I took a hearty draught. Unaccustomed as I was to spirits, the first gulp left me breathless and in dire distress. Choking on the tailings of the heady liquid, I soon felt the trail of fire it seared into my innards, and the fiery comfort that begin to settle into the pit of my stomach.

Again I sipped, not so eager this time, and found my second attempt not quite so demanding. Moments ticked by, and a warm lassitude began to overcome me. The fears that had besieged me now began to fade into nothingness, and a new, bolder countenance rose to fill their place. Perhaps if I told John how I felt, I surmised in a foggy state, then all of this would become unnecessary. I would have my fairytale, babies in abundance, and the husband of my dreams. We could settle a homestead in New Zealand and start a life together.

Tentatively, I reached out my hand and lay it atop his thigh in order to draw his attention. Immediately he jumped, as though I had set his breeches on fire!

"Caroline! I wish you wouldn't do that," he blurted out. "Sometimes you're all a man can bear. Don't you know what dangerous waters you're treading upon?"

Dangerous? Was I dangerous then? Surely that was not the case! Again I reached for him, this time drawing him beside me on the edge of the counterpane, his hand in my own.

"John," I began, "…do you have any feeling for me? For, if truth be known, I have developed an attachment for you."

There, I'd said it! Hurrah for the boldness that came with French wine, I thought, the better to speak the truth when only the truth will do.

Nervously, John coughed, and laying a pillow across his lap he looked deeply into my eyes. "Caroline, you don't know what you're saying. It's the wine talking, not you. You're to be wed to my uncle. Nothing can change that. To think otherwise is merely spitting in the wind. This must go no further!"

Stunned, I braced myself for another assault. Then, taking his hand I placed a delicate kiss into his palm. "This has been on my mind for weeks now, John. It must be said before all is lost. Am I so plain that you have no feeling for me at all?"

"Plain!" he replied. "You think yourself plain? Who has filled you with this cruel falsehood? Since the moment I laid eyes on you in the courtyard in Boston, I've thought of nothing but your rare beauty. Has no one ever told you that?"

"Then why…" I began, now pressing my lips against his fingertips. "I don't understand. We could take our vows before the captain this very night, and spend the rest of the voyage as man and wife. Would that not please you?" I asked, my hand now finding its way to his thigh once more.

Silently he sat beside me, clutching that dratted pillow against his lap as though to protect him from the trials of the damned. Instead of quelling my ardor, however, his silence and the swirling languor that had overtaken me now compounded to give vent to boldness that I had never experienced. Brazenly, I leaned forward and placed a kiss upon his generous lips.

"Caroline!" he gasped, his eyes growing as intense as his speech. "You mustn't do such things! A man can only be expected to bear…"

Again I kissed him, and tossing the pillow aside, I attempted to curl myself into his lap. This time John was not as distant, and as I settled myself against the hard, uneven contours of his thighs he began to return my advances with an intensity of his own.

"Oh, Caroline," he whispered huskily, his lips crushing against my own. "You have no idea…" And then he gently reclined me on the counterpane, his fingers parting the hooks of my bodice. My heart beat thunderously in my ears as I felt his lips trail hungrily along the length of my throat, coming to rest on the lacy edge of my chemise. Then, with shaking hands, he raised the hem of my undergarment and drew one dusky nipple into his mouth and began to suck.

I was in heaven! It was as though my very blood were afire! Was this then the mating ritual of man and woman? If so, my mother had been sorely mistaken, for even now I hungered for more, whatever that might be.

Now John Thomas spread me full length atop the coverlet and continued to feed eagerly at my breasts. His right hand, as though summoned by my own silent pleas, then made its way along the length of my hose, scrunching up my petticoats as it made its way toward my vanishing hemline. Once more I felt a curious moisture make its way between my thighs, but this time in copious profusion. Had I lost control of my bladder, I wondered. Was this also part and parcel of French wine?

Finally, my skirts in disarray, I felt his huge hand insinuate itself between my inner thighs to the point where the slit of my pantalettes gaped for the purpose of urination. He paused but for a second, and then I felt his masculine fingers massaging the fine silk of my mound, trailing in the bubbling effluent that escaped my private domain.

Transfixed, I watched as he raised his hand to his mouth and began to taste the creamy sauce that had escaped so humiliatingly from my body. What was he doing? Why…

And then he pressed me roughly against the bed, his huge body covering my own as he positioned himself between my thighs, a hungry look of abandonment overcoming his congenial countenance.

"No man alive could say you 'nay', Caroline," he growled as he tore at the buttons of his britches. "…and I'm very much alive. My uncle…"

And there he paused, as though given sudden access to a vision that was his alone. "My uncle…" he repeated, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "My uncle has sent me to bring you intact to his bedchamber. Would that I could bury myself in your moist flesh, I would be a happy man. But if I have any honor within me, I must withdraw."

Then, with a remorseful stare he removed himself from my person, and grasping his trousers together he hurriedly retreated from my bedchamber, leaving me to collect the remains of my clothing as I would. Silently, my eyes filled with tears of frustration and loss. Humiliation overcame me, and I turned upon my pillow and sobbed inconsolably. There would be no reprieve for me from the fate to which I had consigned myself. My only hope lay in the possibility that John Thomas had underestimated the motives of his uncle. Barring that, I was lost.