Was it possible for a woman to give herself the same pleasure?
She usually forbade herself from feeling anything when she wiped herself after urinating, but she knew the sensations that fleeted at the edge of her touch, and now she gave in to the curiosity building within her. She slipped a hand beneath the water, tentatively touching the forbidden place. The bud at the centre was engorged under her fingers, throbbing and alive. It felt as though it would jump as she moved her fingers over it, letting the water tickle and tease.
She was breathing hard, and let her hand move in circles, delicately, softly. A tremor was building within her. Was this what it was like to be with a man? But that act involved the man’s part, the part of him that melded with a woman. She thought of the engorged flesh bobbing like something alive in the Gypsy’s hand, and imagined what it might feel like to have such a thing inside of her. She slipped two fingers inside herself, and found that she was slippery and warm. She moved her fingers deeply in and out as she let her thumb caress the rosebud at her centre. What had taken her so long to make this astonishing discovery? She wanted the sensation to last forever, but a wave was building inside her that she could not hold back. She pressed her hand hard, deep into her and against herself, and gasped, holding back the cry that she wanted to voice. She was shocked to realise that within this private little earthquake she wanted to be calling his name, whoever he was. Not the Gypsy, not Sir Clement, or any man she had ever met. Some warrior prince perhaps.
The wave crested and passed. She was alone in a tub of warm water and guiltily removed her hand.
Maybe Withy was right. Maybe such men existed only in plays and fairy tales.
DINNER THAT EVENING WAS A FESTIVE AND CROWDED AFFAIR. IN honour of Jane’s birthday and to accommodate the large gathering, the meal took place in the banqueting house that stood to the east of Bentley Hall. Jane had always loved the banqueting house, built in the eccentric Flemish style with high chimneys and dormer windows—a fanciful edifice designed to surprise and delight. Besides those that lived in the family home—Jane and her parents; her oldest brother John; his wife, Athalia; and their nine children; and her brother Richard, only a year older than she—her brothers Walter and William and their wives were there, as well as Withy and her husband, John Petre; her cousin Henry Lascelles; and of course Sir Clement Fisher, seated beside Jane. Her health was drunk and all were in good spirits.
“I have a special gift for you today, my Jane,” her father, Thomas, smiled. The bald top of his head shone pinkly with perspiration, a fluffy cloud of hair standing out above each ear. He handed a little book across the table, and Jane stroked a finger across the soft red calf’s leather binding with gilt lettering.
“Oh, Father! How beautiful!” Jane cried, opening the volume. The title page read Poems: Written by Wil. Shakesspeare, Gent, and on the facing page was an engraved portrait, the eyes looking out at Jane in a peculiar, almost cross-eyed way.
“I thought it would please.” Thomas smiled. “It’s got the sonnets, ‘A Lover’s Complaint’, ‘The Passionate Pilgrim’, and a few poems by Milton and Jonson and others. And it’s a little easier to carry outside to read than the folio!”
John and Athalia had a book for her, too—A Continuation of Sir Phillip Sidney’s Arcadia.
“By Mrs A.W.,” Jane murmured.
“Just published,” John said. “By a lady author, as you can see. Perhaps you’ll become one yourself.”
“I can scarce wait to start reading!” Jane exclaimed, beaming.
“Then I daresay we’ll know to look in the summerhouse should anyone need to find you!” Withy said, to general laughter, passing Jane a length of snowy handmade lace.
There were other gifts—a silk paisley shawl from her mother; yards of fine cloth from her brothers William and Richard; two little purses worked with fine embroidery from John’s daughters Grace and Lettice, aged fifteen and thirteen; and ribbons and garters from the younger girls still at home, Elizabeth, Jane, Dorothy, and Frances.
“I haven’t got anything for you yet, Jane,” her cousin Henry Lascelles called from down the table. He grinned at her and shook a lock of light brown hair out of his eyes. “But come with me to the fair in Wolverhampton next week, and I’ll buy you whatever you like!”
“Hmm,” Jane mused, her eyes twinkling. “A new horse, perhaps, with a saddle and bridle worked in silver?”
“Ha!” Henry shot back. “Perhaps next year.”
“I’ve made something for you, sweeting.” Nurse stumped forward and presented a stout pair of stockings, knitted from heavy grey wool.
“They’re plain, but they’ll keep you warm,” she pronounced. “Not like those silly silk trifles you like.”
“Thank you, Nurse,” Jane said, kissing Nurse’s ruddy cheek and letting herself be enfolded in the capacious bosom. “I will feel even warmer, knowing that you made them just for me.”
“I hope you’ll accept a little something from me, too, Jane,” Sir Clement said.
He reached into the pocket of his dark green coat and pulled out a pair of gloves in fine blue kidskin, which he set beside her plate with a bow of the head. His blue eyes shone at her, a little shy, and Jane was conscious of the family watching her suitor and her reaction to him.
“How lovely,” she said, touching the softness of the leather. “Like the colour of bluebells. Now I shall welcome the first day of frost.”
She met his eyes and smiled. He really was very handsome, she thought. Piercing blue eyes above high cheekbones, a strong jaw, no trace of grey yet in his wavy brown hair, though she knew he was more than ten years older than she. Why did she feel no thrill of happiness and excitement, nothing but a vague wish that the evening was over and done with?
As the meal went on, the news from the north dominated the conversation. The exiled young King Charles had arrived in Scotland the previous summer from the Netherlands, and in recent months had been massing an army.
“I say His Majesty will not push into England now, or indeed soon at all,” Henry declared. “Lambert beat the king’s troops under General Leslie scarcely a month ago, and without more men—many more men—he has no hope.”
“Exactly,” Jane’s brother Richard cried. The faint spray of freckles stood out on his cheeks when he was in the grip of a strong emotion, as now, making him look younger than his twenty-six years. “Which is why I say he will cross the border, and that England will rally to his banner. The Papists in the north and his supporters throughout the country know that the time is now.”
“What say you, Sir Clement?” Thomas Lane asked, and all eyes turned to the guest. He had served as a captain under John, and Jane wondered if he would fight again if it came to it. He took a thoughtful swallow of wine before answering.
“I agree with Richard. Cromwell has divided the king’s forces, and marched on Perth. All is in confusion, but His Majesty may seize some advantage from that by moving decisively now.”
“But he has not enough troops to win,” Henry argued, his voice rising. He, too, had fought in the wars, serving as cornet in John’s regiment. “He must have help from England, but the Royalists who would help him are afraid, have suffered so much already during the wars. John’s house and lands were confiscated! My uncle here had all his horses and cattle seized and sold, the profits going to the Stafford Committee. And did not the villains just assess you once more, Uncle?”
“Yes, indeed,” Thomas said. “A hundred pounds in January.”
His voice was calm, but Jane knew the depth of feeling that lay beneath. Her father had been a justice of the peace, but the title had been stripped from him when the war began and the Lanes had fought on the side of the king, and since then he had regularly been burdened with onerous levies and fines.
“Exactly!” Jane’s brother William cried. He pounded a fist on the table, making the silverware