Morgan's Run

Then the guilt began. Peg was dead, he was still in mourning. William Henry had not been gone three months—these feelings were impious, disgusting, u

But he was back at Willy Insell’s door at eight the next morning, turning his hat around in his hands, looking in vain for A

“Bon jour, Monsieur Richard.”

There she was! On the stairs leading to the garret.

“He is asleep,” said Richard lamely.

“I know. I gave him laudanum.”

She was wearing much less than yesterday, but perhaps she had just risen from her own bed: a pink lace robe, some kind of thin pink shift beneath it. Her hair, unpi

“I am sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No.” She put her finger to her lips. “Sssssh! Come up.”

Well, he was up already, just at the sight of her, but he followed her to the tiny eyrie where she lived and stood with his hat across his groin, gazing about like a bumpkin. Cousin A

“Richard? I may call you Richard?” she asked, plucking his hat away and staring round-eyed. “Oooooh, la la!” she exclaimed, and helped him out of his coat.

He was used to the decencies of nightclothes and darkness, but A

“You are very beautiful,” she said in a surprised tone, going all the way around him while the lace robe fell, then the pink silk shift. “I am very beautiful too, am I not?”

He could only nod, wordless. No need to worry what to do next; she was in complete control, and clearly preferred it that way. A less humble man might have balked at her mastery, but Richard knew himself a novice at this sort of activity, and had all a humble man’s pride. Let her take the initiative, then he could not be mortified by making a move she did not approve of, or might find laughable.

There were many beautiful ladies paraded around the better bits of Bristol, but voluminous skirts might hide spindled shanks or legs of mutton, and the breasts forced up by stays might sag to a suddenly spreading waist, a wobbling pudding of belly. Not so, Mistress A

She strolled around him again, then fitted her front to his back and rubbed herself against him with purrs and murmurs; he could feel the soft hair of her mound against his legs, jumped when she suddenly sank her manicured nails into his shoulders and pulled herself up until the hair was sliding voluptuously across his buttocks. Teeth clenched—for he feared that he would come right then and there—he forced himself to stand perfectly still while she inched around him, rubbing and cooing. Then she sank to her knees in front of him, threw her shoulders back so that her breasts reared up like red-capped, rounded pyramids, tossed her hair out of her face and gri

“I think,” she said in the back of her throat, “that I will play the silent flute.”

“Do that, madam,” he gasped, “and the tune will be drowned in a second!”

She cupped his balls in her hands and smirked. “No matter, cher Richard. There is many a tune in this ’andsome flute.”

The sensation was—sensational. Eyes closed, every fiber of him concentrated upon drawing this astonishing pleasure out for as long as his flesh could bear, Richard tried to store up as many different nuances of the experience as he could. Then, defeated, let himself come in dazzling colors, jerks and black velvet, his hands clutching her hair as she gulped and swallowed him down.

But she had been right; no sooner was the convulsion over than the tyrant at the base of his belly was up and wanting more.

“Now it is my turn,” she said, stalked as if she still wore high heels to the bed, and sprawled upon it, swollen crimson lips sparkling in the depths of her mound. “First the tongue in a la-la-la, then the flute in a march, and then—the tarantelle! Bang, bang, bang with the stick upon the drum!”

That was what she wanted, and that was what she got. All pretense at thought had long since gone; if madam demanded a full performance, then let it be a symphony.

“Ye’re a musical wench,” he said several hours later, utterly spent. “Nay, do not bother trying. The flute is tweetled out.”

“You are full of surprises, my dear,” she said, still purring.

“And you. Though I doubt ye learned such a varied repertoire on the likes of my poor single drumstick. It must have taken—flutes—clarinets—oboes—bassoons even.”

“Somewhere, cher Richard, you ’ave picked up an education.”

“Five years at Colston’s is a sort of an education, I suppose. But most of it I learned in making guns.”

“Guns?”

“Aye, from a Portuguese gentleman of Jewish persuasion. My master gunsmith,” said Richard, so exhausted that speaking was an effort, but realizing that she liked to chat after concerts. “He played the violin, his wife the harpsichord, and his three daughters harp, cello and—flute. I lived in their house for seven years, and used to sing because they liked my voice. My blood is probably Welsh, and the Welsh are much addicted to singing.”

“You also ’ave a sense of humor,” she said, hair brushing his face. “Very refreshing in a Bristolian. Is the humor Welsh too?”

He got off the bed and into his underdrawers, then sat on its edge to pull on his stockings. “What I ca

She twinkled her fingers in the air. “It amuses me.”

“And the silk gowns? This—this virtuous room?”

“Mrs. Barton,” she said, tone oozing contempt, “is a stupid old cow of a bitch!”

“Do not use that word!” he snapped.

“Bitch! Bitch—bitch—bitch! There! I ’ave shocked you greatly, cher Richard.” She sat up and crossed her legs under her like a tailor. “I cheat Mrs. Barton, Richard. I cheat ’er blind. But she thinks she is the clever one, lodging me ’ere to keep ’er silly old ’usband away from me.” She lifted her lip. “As for ’er, she can parade around Clifton to all the big ’ouses and boast that she ’as a genuine Frrrrrench maid. Bah!”

Dressed, Richard eyed her ironically. “D’ye want to see more of me?” he asked.

“Oh yes, my Richard, very definitely.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow at the same hour. Mrs. Barton is not early out of ’er bed.”

“You ca

“There is no need. I ’ave you now—why should Willy mind?”

“Quite. Until tomorrow, then.”

That day William Henry was, if not forgotten, buried under many layers of his father’s mind. Richard walked straight back to the Cooper’s Arms, up the stairs without saying a word to anyone, fell fully clothed on his bed and slept until dawn. Rumless.

“Your fish,” said A

“I do wish you would abandon those Frenchified affectations,” Mr. Trevillian sighed. “Was it very awful, my poor darling?”

“Quite the opposite, cher Ceely. His clothes were clean. So was his person. No nits, no lice, no crabs.” She was emphasizing her aitches. “He washes.” A smile of pure cruelty curved her mouth. “His body is very beautiful. And he is very, very much a man.”