Haunted by Love

It was such unutterable relief when her eyes did finally flutter and open, and I beheld again the beautiful blue of her gaze. I drew the arm-chair close to the stove for heat and helped her into it, placing shawls and blankets that she might be warmed. When she revived further I made for her a hot posset.

She told me she has fled the Hall and Him for this very evening, though they buried poor William, that darling poppet, but this morning, He did tell Rosa that He would bed her, saying, God be d—ned if he did not get her seeded with a new son by next Moon. Rosa suffered much for her refusal for he took her anyway, and with much force. He is not fit to be called a man; He is a beast and a brute.

"God, what a heartless monster that man was," Ruth interrupts her reading to vent her disgust.

My darling sleeps now and I worry, for her cheek is bright and I fear she shall be running a fever before the dawn. Pray the Lord she can come through it. Afterwards, when she is able, we shall go from here. I have some money and she the jewellery that she wears; it is not much but we shall have each other and be away from Him forever.

"That's all, apart from the extra bit at the bottom," she concludes.

"So she fled across the Moor to come here, in the storm. Then, a few hours later, Lovell turns up and, what? Breaks in? Then he kills Arabella in the struggle and drags Rosalind away?"

"That sounds plausible: the police report did mention signs of a struggle when her body was found."

"Let's see what the rest of the papers are," I suggest and we begin looking through them, handling the dry and rather brittle-feeling paper carefully.

"They're love letters!" Ruth exclaims a few moments later. "Listen: 'My dearest Bella, I cannot tell you how my heart soars in your presence. The sound of your voice or the sight of your sweet face fills me with such rejoicing but neither can compare to the feel of your hand on mine.'" She pauses, "There's just '18th March' at the top; no year, what about yours?"

I look at the paper I'm holding. "No, no date at all but I think mine must have been earlier because it's far less, er, intense I suppose. Here: 'Arabella, thank you for the time we spent today. I cannot tell you what a pleasure it is to have someone with whom I might converse as I might an equal. Your wit and spirit are a delight. I had not the chance to say this to you today for fear of being overheard, so I write now so you might read and consider this as you sit at home this evening. Though our situations and stations in life are at a disparity, I would consider it a great kindness to me if we might, when not in company, dispense with the formalities and be as friends are? Might you, when just the two of us, forego Lady Blyth or My Lady and call me simply Rosalind? With friendly regards, Rosalind.'" I look at Ruth. "I think Rosalind was lonely and wanted, needed even, a friend."

"And later they became lovers. Listen to this: 'I sit here this afternoon while you are with my William and, though I know it to be a sin, I find myself envying him, jealous that he can be with you and I not. Will you come again to my room tonight my darling? Will your lips rest upon mine and shall our hands explore each other once again? Oh my love, will you bring me the Trembling once more, your fingers knowing me as L never has?' Our Rosalind is pretty explicit, isn't she? No doubt what 'the Trembling' means."

"So, they were physically passionate, too! I wonder if the kiss we saw in the hotel was the night after that letter?" I ask, smiling.

"Maybe it was the night before," she smiles back and I cannot resist leaning across to kiss her. I think she is expecting a brief but affectionate kiss but I have other ideas. Thoughts of Rosalind and Arabella together and the memory of their kiss last night are stirring feelings within me. We came so close this morning and my body craves her touch again, longs for the Trembling just as Rosalind's did. My mouth opens, my tongue signalling my desire. She gives a little grunt of surprise but responds willingly. My hand reaches out and cups her boob, feeling the yielding softness under the textured warmth of her sweater.

It is perhaps just as well that it isn't too long before the creak of the stairs alerts us to someone descending. Disappointing though it is to have to end our kiss, there is the distinct possibility of us being caught with our hands in each other's knickers had we continued much longer! Even so, the glow of Ruth's cheeks and the shine of her eyes would tell anyone who looks that we were doing more than just chatting. Fortunately, Tom or Danny don't come through the kitchen but go out through the front door, presumably to fetch something from their van.

We make tea and toast, using the last of the bread which has become rather stale anyway. Wiping our hands carefully, we resume our study of the letters. There are twenty-two in all, some brief others longer and none have the years in their dates so it is a challenge to work out their chronology. The story of Arabella and Rosalind emerges.

There is almost nothing we can tell about Arabella save that she is obviously educated and one reference to her father being a 'yeoman farmer', which Ruth thinks means he was a landowning farmer rather than a tenant; he might even have had tenants of his own. For some reason, I get the impression that Arabella's parents are dead by the time of the letters, though I can't justify that. Sometime after her arrival at Purdew Hall Arabella and Rosalind became friends. The letters suggest that Arabella lived away from the Hall at first, presumably in this farmhouse. However, it seems that eventually, she moved to live at the Hall; Rosalind may have been the instigator because she seemed very pleased about it.

We can't work out how the two became lovers, who made the first move. Certainly, Rosalind responded enthusiastically and, knowing how I feel about Ruth, I have my doubts her passion would have gone entirely unnoticed, however discreet they sought to be. Perhaps that's another reason, or the real reason, Arabella was dismissed.

"Do you notice the way Rosalind always refers to Lovell simply as 'L' in the letters?" Ruth asks.

"Yes, a sort of shorthand, I suppose."

"Hmm, maybe but I wonder if it's that she cannot bear to name him, not when talking to her friend and lover," Ruth suggests and I think she might be right.

There is a long letter that must have been written just after Arabella was dismissed. In the letter, Rosalind also complains of Lovell's treatment of William:

The boy is overweight and soft, L has decreed, and must be toughened up. He is to have but simple food and less of it while Penworth has been instructed that the boy is to walk the bounds of the estate each day for his exercise, whatever the weather.

Ruth and I agree that it is this treatment that leads Rosalind to blame her husband for William's death. But there's something else, something even harsher, as Rosalind laments:

L has also ordered that I am not to go to him when he cries at night, for 'The boy has to know that none shall be there when he is at the school,' he tells me, to my sore distress. Last night, when I could stand no longer to hear William's weeping, I went to him. L was in a great rage this morning and has vowed that both William's bedroom and mine shall be locked at night to keep us apart...

"What a complete bastard!" is Ruth's opinion and I have to agree. It also explained Rosalind's ghost beating on the bedroom door, unable to go to her dying son.

There is a brief note that may be the last thing ever written by Rosalind as it is dated 14th October. It seems she intended to come to the farm to visit and to bring William so that he might see her one last time and say goodbye properly. I remember the vision I had that first morning as we went out to Ruth's car: a woman with a child approaching that cottage, a woman stood in the doorway.

We sit in silence for a while. "Well, this should certainly make for an amazing episode of your programme," Ruth observes. I have to think for a moment, for I'd forgotten that was where this all began, why I am here.

"I don't know. I'm not sure that a lesbian affair between a Lady and the Governess is exactly prime-time TV, even these days. And I can't face the others on the team suggesting air-brushing Arabella out of the story. I can just imagine Tina suggesting, 'Oh, let's replace Arabella with a hunky guy as a love interest; we can make him the Gamekeeper or a Gardener.' Arabella seems to have been the one source of friendship and love in what was a miserable married life for Rosalind."

"Perhaps you're tired and have become over-involved in the story," Ruth suggests, taking my hand. "You'll have to tell your bosses something and send them some kind of write up, surely."

"I think it's the other way round: the story has rather involved us, or that's what it feels like. The only reason you're holding my hand is because of the story."

"Then I owe the story a great debt of gratitude!" she says earnestly.

Nevertheless, I fetch my laptop and, with Ruth's help, I write up what we've learned or conjectured from the letters, together with the details of my other research. Of course, I cannot email the document to Rick and Marcus until I get back to the hotel. Ruth insists that I keep the love letters and Arabella's note with the other copies and notes collected. She has a point: it makes a substantial dossier for what is basically three days of work. The trouble is, I don't think I can bear to hand it over to Rick and Marcus and the others. Actually, the truth is that I can't stand to think of work or the BBC or London or even my flat because they're all not here, with Ruth. Yeah, I think I've fallen hard for her.

Twilight is gathering when the men leave, having stayed an hour longer than usual, apparently, and with a promise that there'll be power and hot water tomorrow. Ruth even believes them. Once we're alone she suggests that we walk into the village to the pub. "I don't really have anything in for dinner," she admits, "I've been rather distracted for some reason."

"Milking first?" I ask, making her laugh.

"I think you're turning into a farmer's wife!" she teases. I nearly reply that as long as she's the farmer I'd love that, but bite back the comment; it sounds just a little too much too soon, however gooey the idea makes me go inside.

The near darkness is cold and blustery as we go out but I'm well wrapped up. The pub is decent and warm but I feel a little obviously an outsider even though Ruth knows several of the other customers and introduces me as her "very dear friend from London." I do my best to be friendly and open, though their expectation of someone from London seems to be just the opposite.

Several drinks and a satisfying meal later we head home and as we leave the village there is a slight rise where the cold wind blowing across the Moor catches us broadside, carrying a smattering of bitter rain. I shiver, as much from the memory of that first night as the cold. I feel again the echo of the menace I felt before, though much less strongly; I am not lost now, I am starting to know this place and, above all, Ruth is at my side.

Inevitably, our arrival at the cottage is the cue for us to begin kissing and cuddling. Bed beckons irresistibly, though Ruth insists on placing a lamp in one of the windows. "It's Samhain," she explains, "Mum always did the same, saying with spirits abroad a guiding light was important."

Neither of us says it, but we both know we're going to make love and that we both want it. Ruth comes over and we undress each other, there in the softly lit kitchen. It is careful and deliberate; we take care to fold clothes and place them neatly and, I realize, I am happy for her to see me naked. She loves and accepts my body with its shortcomings and imperfections and that complete acceptance is wonderful. Her skin glows in the light of the flames, her silver pendant sparkling against the pale flesh of her chest.

We lie down on the bed together and kiss as our hands roam freely. I find unexpected pleasure in the feel of the soft crease of her spine as my fingers trace it down her back. The rounded cleft between the tops of her bum cheeks is even more wonderful, and I caress it as she lies on top of me kissing my neck and shoulders.

Our legs are interlaced, bringing hot, swollen pussies against thighs and we move gently for our own exploration. She works her way a little lower and begins kissing my boobs. The sensation is lovely but I have a complaint, "This isn't fair: I can't do anything to turn you on!"

"Trust me, Beth darling, this is proper turning me on," she assures me. I guess this taking turns must be a part of lesbian lovemaking. The words 'lesbian lovemaking' give me a shiver of excitement as does the feel of Ruth's lips on my nipple. I expect her to begin sucking but instead, she plays her tongue around it and over the hard point. I close my eyes and savour the sensations that are soon repeated on my other breast. I give little gasps and sounds of pleasure.

She slides from on top of me and I lie still, wondering what she has in mind. Something brushes my nose and I smell the warm musk of her skin. I open my eyes and she is on all fours over me, her firm nipple just above my nose and mouth. I reach out with my tongue to lick it; it slips away, sliding off my tongue which now chases it, lapping and flicking as it sways and weaves. I turn my head but her left nipple proves just as elusive! Still, the fun of this is in the chase, not the capture until, that is, I suddenly suck the evasive nubbin into my mouth with a sudden force that makes her squeal. I briefly worry I've hurt her but the sigh that follows reassures me.

Her hand glides over my stomach and I part my legs in anticipation and encouragement. I think I am wetter there than I have ever been and I know it will not take her long to bring me to my long-delayed climax.

My hand reaches out and finds her legs held together. I release her boob to say, "I want us to cum together darling," She obliges, parting her legs. As my fingers run up I can feel her inner thighs are slick with her juice. Simultaneously we penetrate each other; I cannot say how it is for Ruth but this is heaven for me: I want her to be within me, be a part of me as I become part of her. There is no single finger touching and exploration this time: our pussies simply demand to be fucked.

I repeat what I did this morning, burrowing my fingers deep to find the soft sponge of her G-spot once again as her fingers plunge inside me before dragging back and up over my hypersensitive clit. I really am not going to be long cumming. I remember Rosalind's words to Bella, her lover. "Oh, Ruth, darling, you're going to give me the Trembling!" I gasp.

"Me... too..." she pants, increasing the tempo as she rubs me. I feel the tightening and tension building within me, while Ruth's repeated "Mmm... mmmmm... mmmm..." suggests she is getting close too. My thumb nuzzles between her labia at the top of her pussy and I feel the hard button within her hot, wet lips. "Aahhhhh!" she cries, her hips thrusting down to grind and buck against my fist.

Ruth's fingers curl convulsively inside me as she rides her climax and that new sensation does for me, electric, trembling waves of ecstasy ricocheting through my body. Eyes clenched my back arches off the bed as a second, smaller orgasm takes me. My lover gives one long sigh and topples to her side.

I open my eyes and see her sprawled beside me, legs splayed open. Her pussy gapes wetly, deep red and glistening in the candlelight and draws me. I roll onto my side, bringing my face close to her opening. The smell of her juice is intoxicating and I lean in, bringing my mouth to her sex. I am nervous but I so want to do this; I love having my pussy licked, skilfully licked anyway, so I want to give Ruth this pleasure; god, I hope I can do a good job! I slip my tongue out and experience the feel and taste of her.

The taste is the one I had from my fingers this morning but so much fuller and more intense, which is a little disconcerting at first but only fleetingly. It is a thrill to be doing this and even more when she reaches down and pulls her pussy wider. I probe as deeply as I can and my mouth fills with her flavour. Backing off a little I run my tongue over her sex, savouring the feel of the slick, hot, folded flesh as much as the taste. I work my way up. The sensitivity of my tongue makes her clit feel larger, a stiff, rounded lump. I play my tongue over it and her pussy, gradually becoming faster and firmer.

Suddenly she grabs my head and yells and shakes and writhes. As the climax passes she pushes me away to clamp her legs together. "Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow!" she mutters, hugging herself. I reach down and retrieve the covers, pulling them over us as we start to chill as the excitement wanes.

She wriggles straighter on the bed and I wrap my arms around her. "I love you, Ruth," I whisper.

"Mmmm, love you too, Beth darling," she mumbles as we snuggle together.

I wake to the sound of the wind outside rattling the window softly as it gusts. The fire is down to a few deep orange embers and the night lights have burned out but the lantern in the window still flickers. I wonder if any lost soul has been helped by it. On impulse, I slip out of the bed into the now chilly air and pad softly over to the window to pull the curtain aside.

The pale, leering face just outside the window is terrifying and the scream that escapes me is inevitable. I take two steps back, eyes transfixed by the sight of Sir Lovell's ghastly, ghostly face. "Unfaithful bitch!" his evil, vicious voice cuts through me, freezing my heart.

The face disappears and I glance round to see Ruth stirring. "What's matter m' darlin'?" she asks drowsily.

"Sir Lovell, out... outside," is all I manage to stammer before the door reverberates under heavy blows and I scream again and back away once more, my legs having a will of their own.

"I've come for you, bitch wife," Lovell's voice screeches. "And that mealy-mouthed whore whom you love so dearly shall not stop me." I look at the door in terror as it trembles under the impacts and can barely keep standing as, with a crash, it flies open. There stands Sir Lovell, a grotesque and evil smile on his face as I glance round in panic like a cornered animal. Nearby is a pale figure, close to the range, floating and reclined as if seated; it moves slowly, a figure roused from sleep. Beyond is a darker shape, a grey-clad woman, Arabella moving to interpose herself between Lovell and Rosalind, her love.

However, Lovell is looking at me and I know he will seize me, dragging me out onto the cold dark Moor... darkness and cold: I feel it surrounding me, seeping into me and I am paralysed even as Lovell enters, my gazed transfixed by his talon of a hand reaching towards me.

"I will not be without you, you shall not betray me," his voice hisses, "I shall possess you..."

"No, evil spirit, you shall not!" Ruth has risen from our bed and stands solid and vital against the cold darkness of Lovell's spirit. A sneer twists his mouth in contempt.

"You could not stop me then, you shall not now." Despite his scorn she takes another step forward, her pentacle pendant held forward, and she begins to chant.

"Goddess of the Earth and Moon,
Spirits of the Storm and Moor,
I invoke your aid and seek a boon.
And bid you come now to my door.

"By the love and strength within my heart
And by the symbol in my hand,
Sir Lovell's shade from here depart,
No more to stalk this living land."