0 comments/ 95447 views/ 22 favorites New England Bride By: Katherine English 2 "Remove your pantalettes and lay back on the bed," he instructed, my horror rising. "And when you have done so, part your thighs so that I may be certain of your virtue." Had not the clergyman been waiting downstairs, I would have escaped once more to the wharf and fled, posthaste, back to my beloved New England. But there I was, and there I would stay. Shamefaced, I turned my back and lifted the hem of my hoopskirt, sliding my quivering palms over my crisp, white linen until I clasped the thin drawstring that secured my underpinnings. A tug, so minor, and yet so eventful, and I felt them loosen and fall about my ankles. Hesitantly, I looked in askance, hoping that this act would suffice, but finding to my dismay that it would not. Then, slowly turning, I lowered myself atop the surface of his massive four-poster and spread my quaking legs beneath the volumes of my petticoats. His eyes, so black and piercing, scanned my features like twin captors awaiting the spoils of war. Then slowly, and brooking no protestations, he raised the layers of my skirts to expose the pale flesh of my body. Immediately, I felt the cool air of the room assail the prickling skin above my garters, chilling those intimate parts not covered by my hose. There, he paused to admire, his palms resting intimately between my cringing limbs. My face became pink, then horridly red as humiliation overcame me. Did all prospective brides have to undergo this intimate scrutiny, I wondered? Were all maidenly claims of chastity so suspect? Then I gasped. His hand, so still at the onset, was now parting the silken bastion of my femininity, exposing my most intimate secrets to the invasion of his probing fingers. What was expected of me now, I wondered, my fear and trepidation rising. What should I… And then I felt it, a painful twinge that tested the resiliency of my delicate maidenhead, a probe of such sufficient proportions that I feared it would threaten to end my days as an innocent. I squirmed to escape his grasp, a protest forming upon my lips, but found it unnecessary. His inquisition ceased at that point, and was replaced instead by a persistent stroking of his work-roughened fingers against the tiny protrusion now hardening along the upper reaches of my moistened slit. Was this part of the inspection, I wondered, feeling a warm coil of intimate tension forming in the pit of my belly. What demon was this stranger conjuring between my thighs? His visage now took on a hungry look, his eyes smoldering and eager to consume. Slowly he ran his tongue along his lower lip and leaned closer to that which he was wont to examine. I twined my fingers in my auburn tresses and closed my eyes, horrified at his invasion and the abandonment he had elicited. My body began to betray me then, an unbidden wetness surging into his palm, accompanied by a shaking and loss of control that left me helpless and conquered. Loud, immodest whimpers fled my lips, and my writhing flesh grew hot beneath his ministrations. He leaned closer…closer yet until his breath blew warmly within my flowing sex. His lips parted. It was then that I felt his tongue, wet and hungry, doing unspeakable things as he held me fast. "Tonight," he murmured huskily, "tonight…" April 17, 1865 "Men will have their way, Caroline," my mother said on my last night in my beloved Boston. "It's their right, and must be tolerated by a good wife." I sat in silence, staring amazed as she perched herself on the edge of my sleigh bed and disclosed the burdens of womanhood to which I must succumb as my part of the marriage contract. Suddenly my father, that harbinger of paternal joy and tenderness, no longer seemed such an icon of perfection. He had a darker side, I was told, one which involved nightly fumblings and messy penetrations, visceral perversions of which I had been ignorant. My mother had suffered his nightly demands, as a good wife should, in order to secure the privileges of being the "Squire's Wife," to maintain her position in society and to offer the benefits of a gracious upbringing to my sisters and I. She was a saint, and had allowed him to use her body so that her offspring might prosper. I was indeed fortunate. But now at eighteen years of age, with the bloom of my youth rapidly wilting, spinsterhood was upon me. My older sisters had long since wed, and were subsequently facing the dark days of widowhood, a product of the terrible War Between the States that had claimed so many of our fine young men. For me there was only a life of barren loneliness to fill my dreams, to weave the fabric of my life. And so, it was with joy and anticipation that I had read the notice which had been posted on the meeting house door: WANTED: A WOMAN OF GOOD VIRTUE and unmarried circumstance to join in Holy Wedlock with Sean Alan Thomas Esq., widower and landholder in good standing, now residing in the settlement of Wellington, New Zealand. All applicants will contact his surrogate, Master John Thomas, on April 17, 1865, 12 noon, at the offices of Chester and Browne, Attorneys at Law. It was an omen! It had been fully a month since I'd last made my way along that footpath, and suddenly, on April 17th, there I was! Oh, how envied my war-widowed sisters the joys of motherhood and the pleasure of knowing that at least once in their lives they had been the beloveds of two strong, virile specimens of New England manhood. To them had come legions of suitors, droves of eligible swains from which to choose. But that was before the war. Now, only the elderly and infirmed remained, and even they preferred the ripe bloom of one not so far past her prime. For me there was nothing. I was doomed to forever raise the children of others as "nanny" or "schoolmistress," never to cradle a child in my arms and call it my own. And then the notice had appeared. Without thinking, lest my trepidations cause me to fail, I hurried on to Canterbury Street, to the place where I knew Chester and Browne maintained their offices. There my hopes were dashed upon the rocks, for in the square stood a massive gathering of women, old and young, all eager to snatch my prize from my eager arms and leave me singular and alone for the rest of my days. Quickly I scurried, pausing to look neither left nor right as I made my way into the throng. Then…thump! "I beg your pardon!" a masculine voice chimed. "But do you always run people down in the street?" I gasped, teetering precariously on one foot as I turned to find a wall -of –a-man standing in amusement by my side. "What's your hurry, Princess?" he queried with jocularity, his arm encircling my waist to keep me from landing in ignoble disarray among the cobblestones. "Surely, wherever your destination, it can wait a few more seconds." The nearness of this well-formed male caused my breath to quicken and my pulse to race in a most unmaidenly fashion. The warmth of his body and the piercing blackness of his eyes curled unsettlingly in my nether regions. He was not local, of that I was certain. His accent was not the familiar drawl of a Bostonian, or it would not have fallen so alluringly on my ear. Perhaps he was one of the many foreign sailors that so frequently populated our streets from parts unknown. And here was I, on a public thoroughfare, and in his arms! Quickly I disengaged myself and pushed him away. "Sir! I beg you to keep your hands to yourself, if you don't mind. What's more, my business this day is none of yours, if you please!" And with that I hastened across the courtyard to join Boston's lovelorn sisterhood on the stoop of Chester and Browne. The wait seemed interminable, but finally the doors opened and we were each requested to affix our names, ages, and a short narrative describing our circumstances on a piece of fine vellum for the perusal of He who would be our judge and jury. Sadly, I looked about me. My chances were slim, I knew, for the competition in this male-bereft township was overwhelming. All about me milled younger and more beauteous women, women of property and position, of assurance and refinery. How could I fare against such as those? Silently, I evaluated my assets. I was tiny of stature, a woman of almost child-like proportions in a bevy of statuesque Amazons. My figure was trim, but my bosoms immodest and requiring of restraint. My one crowning glory, a source of private pleasure, was my profuse, auburn hair which lay in burgeoning constraint beneath my demure straw bonnet. If only I could display it before this Master Thomas, perhaps it would elicit his approval. But, that was impossible. To flaunt myself so brazenly would bring shame upon my family. I would be singled out at Sunday meeting as one who required penance in order to insure her place among polite society. My one claim to glory would have to remain my secret, and mine alone. The meetinghouse steeple chimed twelve, and the doors of Chester and Brown were thrown wide. A smallish man, perhaps around 50 years of age, slightly balding and with a cane in his left hand proceeded into the throng and glanced at the sea of applicants. Left and right he turned as though searching for a particular cow to milk, until finally his eyes fell to the woman on my right. She was a smallish person, similar to myself in build, but with the beauty of an angel here on earth. Her hair, a fiery red, refused to be confined, and escaped the restriction of her delicate snood to frame a childlike innocence that would make a grown man weep. It was done then. I was no competition for this winsome waif, or for the majority of this hungry gathering if the truth be known. I had no dowry, no features that set me apart, and I had lost the advantage of youth that a marriage before the war would have given me. At eighteen, all that was left for me now was spinsterhood. The gentleman on the stoop made his way through the press of bodies at that point, and approached the beauteous child beside me. In sorry defeat, I turned and began to retreat while my dignity was still intact…and then I felt it, a hand closing about my forearm, preventing my lofty departure. "Are you the one that had the altercation on the street a few moments ago?" he asked, hesitant that he might have been sent for one such as I. "Well, speak up! Are you?" he repeated impatiently. Oh my! What had I done now? Had I shamed myself before someone important, an alderman perhaps? Would I now be publicly denounced until I had learned to hold my tongue as a woman should? Silently I nodded, my eyes downcast in hopes of saving the moment through profound contrition. It was not to be, however, for in an instant he had turned and proceeded to steer me through the crowds toward the door, a prisoner to my fate. Once inside, I was placed in a hard, straight-backed chair before the fire, alone with my fears, my lips pursed in awe at the smooth luxury that surrounded me. "Oh, "I whispered to myself. "If I'm done for, than at least I've had this moment." "Is that all you're going to say?" rose a voice from behind a Chinese screen. "You had enough to say in the courtyard a few moments ago." My heart began to pound, my senses whirling. Shaken, I turned to find the "Wall" of my previous acquaintance approaching my seat, a grin of mischief on his features. Who was this then? What had my sharpness gotten me into? "My name is John Thomas," he offered. "Am I to assume that you are a part of that mad collection of females outside who wish to answer my uncle's advertisement?" Silently, I nodded, my ashen features offering the words I could not. He paused then, and his eyes began an uncomfortable assessment of what he saw before him. If they had been fingers instead, I reflected, he would have been flogged. But, as it was, I had placed myself on the block, and the right of perusal was his. "You weren't this quiet outside," he laughed. "Perhaps that bit of paper you're clutching will speak for you then." So saying, he pried the bit of vellum from my fingertips and settled himself into a chair beside me. "Caroline Parsons, is that your name?" he read. "It says here '18 and unmarried'…how could that be?" How could he be so insensitive! Didn't he know that the young men of New England lay dead on battlefields to the south, and all that remained for the women of Boston was the barren consolation of grief? "I-I would have married years ago, had not the war broken out, Sir." I replied, finding my tongue. "As it is, my prime has passed me by, and my courtship period has fallen casualty to the same disastrous circumstance. I am as you see me, eighteen and a spinster." "And a woman who speaks her mind as well, I see," he laughed. "I like that. New Zealand is no place for wilting pansies. I'm looking for a woman who can hold her own, who can take her place as a wife and mother to a household that doesn't adhere to refined convention. Would that be you?" My eyes widened. Had I thrown in my lot with a country of heathens? Certainly the lascivious leer that adorned his countenance spoke not well for his fellow countrymen! "My tongue has been my downfall of a time, Sir. But, rest assured that I know my place and would make a biddable wife should your uncle choose to test me." "Oh, he'll test you, all right, Miss Parsons. You will be sorely tested indeed before you're through, of that you may be sure. Does that frighten you?" I paused to weigh my reply, certain that my fate lay in the balance. "There is no life for me here, Sir, at least none that I care to follow. Better to be tested and have hope, than fall to seed through indecision. If your uncle is game, then so am I." Now it was his turn to pause. Then, taking my hand he turned it palm upward and ran his thumb along its work-roughened surface. "I see that you're a woman not unused to manual labor, Miss Parsons. Your hands speak well of you." Quickly I snatched my appendage from his grasp and tucked it beneath the edge of my pinafore. "These are not times when refinement is easily preserved, Sir. We must all rise and do our part. I have been no exception." Satisfied, he settled himself once more into his seat. "You'll work hard in New Zealand as well, Miss. You should know that at the outset. If you choose to accept this contract, you'll be a working wife and expected to tend both the needs of your household…and those of your husband." At this I flushed. My knowledge of the marriage bed was limited. But surely, the few times in my life when it would be necessary to mate for the sake of offspring would not be unbearable. I had seen dogs and horses coupling of a season, but surely a man would be different. We are not beasts, I reasoned, are we? "Rest assured, Sir, I will not shirk my duties in any respect. I am willing and capable to fill your uncle's requirements in a wife. Is there anything else that holds you in reserve?" The pause was ominous now, and I felt my skin prickle in apprehension. At last he spoke, his features constrained and deliberate. "My uncle has charged me to return with a woman of untried virtue," he began. "This, according to his direction, must be verified prior to the closing of the contract." I was aghast! Had I not written that I was a maiden of virtuous demeanor? Was my word to be suspect? I knew not what this "verification" entailed, but it seemed something of consequence if the expression on John Thomas' face was any indication. "Of course," I lied, "I would not expect it otherwise. Verify it then, and let's be done with it." I rose from my resting place and reached for a quill on the desk before the fire, intent on affixing my name to yet another testament when my interviewer approached from behind. "You'll have to remove your 'small clothes' if being 'done with it' is truly your intent, young lady," he chuckled. "…for I doubt that a quill would serve my uncle's purpose in this instance." I gasped, my face mottling in shock. Certainly he was not suggesting that I dispose of my undergarments! What kind of a woman would ever show her limbs to any man? "Surely, you are not suggesting, Sir, that I…" The words stuck in my throat. Smiling, Master Thomas brought himself up to a formal stance and addressed the issue. "Of course not! It would never have entered my mind," he added weakly. "There is a local woman in the adjoining office who will provide the required certification. I myself will retreat behind the screen and turn discretely away to await her pronouncement. Will that suit you, Miss?" Still unsure, but realizing that the streets beyond were filled with women who would gladly comply and take my place, I nodded my assent. "That will suit me, Sir. Am I to assume that the contract is mine, then?" "If you pass, yes," he replied, his eyes smoldering. "Shall I bid the madam enter?" "Please do, "I replied. "Then we may conclude our business with quill in hand." Master Thomas stepped briefly into the adjoining room, and returned forthwith with a crone from the local tavern. Was this then the 'local woman' to which he had referred? Her qualification was highly suspect in my estimation. But there she was. Those who waited in the street would have stepped over my bones to be in my position, and so I nodded my approval. As promised, Master Thomas stepped behind the flimsy filigreed screen that adorned the far wall. I paused until I witnessed that his back was safely toward me, then nodded to the crone to do her job. This, it appeared was to be a curious procedure, for at once the cackling woman led me to the desk by the fire and sat me upon it. Then, pressing me backwards she laid me prone with my feet dangling before the flames. Anxiously, I glanced toward the screen. Was this abrupt New Zealander true to his word? Had he remained averted as promised? I couldn't be sure. The flickering shadows on the filigree of the screen, and the glare of the fire in my eyes were deceptive. Was that the back of his head, or his leering stare that watched in heavy silence from beyond? The crone now attacked her task in earnest, and lifting my petticoats began to remove my pantalettes in a manner most disquieting. "Just lay back, Dearie, "she whispered, her tone hushed like that of a lover. "I'll be quick about it, and as gentle as you wish me to be." As gentle as…? Why would I not want her to be gentle? For that matter, what was there to be gentle about? My underpinnings were soon gathered about my ankles, and the heat of the fire beat warm against my ankles. Was this all there was to it, I wondered? Had I passed the test? It was then she began to pile the layers of my skirts above my waist, baring my nether regions to the dull glow of the hearth. Immediately, I slapped her hands away. "What are you doing, Woman?" I protested. "Have you taken leave of your senses?" She stood back then, and fixed her bleary eyes on my shocked expression. "Don't tell me that you don't know what's to be done here, Dearie! If you want to have me testify to your purity, then I have to lay hands on the evidence! Should I stop then?" Yes, I thought. Stop. Oh please, stop at once. But instead I said, "Get on with it then. Lets have it finished and be done with it." And laying back on the desk I waited for the crone to direct me in the procedure, hoping once more that young Master Thomas had kept to his word. Immediately, my skirts were again been bundled about my waist, and the woman was spreading my thighs with her course hands. A cough from behind the screen…and I jumped. Was he watching? "Lay still!" my examiner insisted. "I can't feel a thing with you bobbing about so." Trembling with shame I lay back once more, and again the foul woman wedged her paws between my legs. Her fingers, so curious, now parted that which none other than my own hand had ever encountered, and then only for the purpose of cleanliness. Closer she leaned, her face all but buried beneath the mound of my skirts. 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 additionals, 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. New England Bride For the remainder of our time aboard the Unicorn, my escort limited our companionship to lighter topics, and always above decks. Finally, on July 26th we spotted the beautiful harbor of Wellington and saw that a celebration was at hand. It seemed that Parliament, after much ado, had finally settled itself within the township of Wellington, fact that was eliciting a great deal of local exuberance. As we dropped anchor in the harbor and lowered the longboats, I was amazed at the lush grandeur of my surroundings. High cliffs heralded the green hills beyond, and a salty breeze filled the air with a crisp, wintry clarity that had been sorely missed on my long stays below decks. The city, which rightly this settlement of 5000 souls must be called, was a place filled with the laughter of revelers and the tinkling voices of children at play. Immediately, my fears became waylaid, and I began to envision myself among them, a happy expatriate on the shores of a new land. For John, however, this was apparently not the case, for try as I might I was unable make eye contact with him on the brief row to shore. It was as though he was attempting to distance himself from me, if not by physical fact, then by insinuation. Our approach had been much heralded, It would seem, for as I climbed awkwardly from the dory I found myself surrounded by an eager throng who quickly began loading my trunks aboard a rugged looking cart for the trip southward to Waiariki. I would have preferred, instead, to remain for a night in the city, listening to the merrymakers commune in the streets while I attempted to regain my land legs, but it had apparently been planned otherwise. My husband, it seemed, had expressed concern for my well-being in such an abandoned atmosphere, and had sent his servants to escort me directly to him. When all had been loaded, John hopped silently aboard the cart, while I was guided to a carriage upon which a gentleman in black sat awaiting my arrival. "Reverend Collinswood, Miss," he said, offering his hand to aid in my placement. "I'm to officiate at your wedding this evening, if you don't mind." "So soon?" I blurted out. "But, I've only just arrived, Sir. Surely there is time for me to settle myself and rest a bit before my nuptials!" "Rest? Settle yourself? Surely, my good woman, you're not suggesting that you live in an unwed state under Mister Thomas' roof until then! Why…it would be unheard of…a scandal! Think of your reputation!" Shocked, I took my place by his side and the carriage began to make its way along the crowded streets. Soon the revelers fell far behind, and the green hills of the north island closed in about us. It was hard for me to think of July as the middle of winter, but the crisp air testified to the truth of it, and I found myself drawing my woolen mantle about me as we made our way into the countryside. Here and there the bright song of a sea bird cut the silence and I strained to see what sort of creature had thus welcomed me. But, on we went, never stopping to pause until my bladder begged for relief and the evening slowly crept across the land. The sun was just making a fiery bow in the west as we crested the last hill and made our final approach toward the estate of Sean Thomas Esq. It was a lovely place, built of strong timbers and native stone, sprawling in all directions but very much at ease in its surroundings. Quickly, we drew abreast of the ornately carved staircase and were immediately met by a small gathering of what I could only surmise were the Maori of whom I had heard so much. These, then, must be servants of the manor, I thought, for they seemed not at all fierce or warlike. In fact, a young woman, barely more than a child, hurried forward to welcome me and assist me in climbing from my stiff and unyielding perch to the ground below. She was dressed in a squarish bandeau of sorts, a delicately decorated bodice that left her arms bare and topped a long skirt of some sort of woven fiber. Her golden skin was marked with an intricate tattoo about her lips and chin, and her eyes spoke of warmth and intelligence. I, for one, was relieved to see her, for I had been suffering under the apprehension that I would be the only female to reside within these walls. It was with great pleasure that I found this comely child in residence, a friend in the making. The gathering lost no time in hurrying me into the interior of my new home, and then beyond into the drawing room of my fiancé. It was in that place that I was brought up short. There, standing before the fire, stood Sean Thomas. He was a large man, strong of body with an unkempt moustache that all but covered his upper lip. His hands were massive, hard and calloused with the proof of his labors, and his unruly thatch of hair made him look for all the world like a wild man fresh from the wilderness. He towered above me by a measure of perhaps a foot or more, causing me to tip my head to reach his eyes. It was there that true dread began to set in, and I felt the urge to turn and run. Had John described him as crude? In this I feared an underestimation, for the lecherous leer that crossed his features left little to calm my trepidation. Instead, I felt the piercing hunger of his eyes fairly stripping me of my garments and devouring what they found beneath. Shaken, I cringed and held my ground. "So, you're her?" he questioned bluntly. "Name?" "C-Caroline," I stammered, "Caroline Parsons, Sir. And you are…" "Sean Thomas, of course, Woman. Who did you think!" He looked then to John, and nodded his head. "You've done well, John." He leered appreciatively. "She'll make a fine bed warmer on these chilly nights," he laughed. "So, my girl, shall we do the deed?" I opened my mouth to protest. I needed a moment to refresh myself from the long journey, a reprieve to acclimate my senses for was to come, but he would have none of it. Instead, he clasped my fragile hand in his own and began to drag me to the curved staircase that led to the second floor, and what I assumed were the bedrooms. "Wait!" I whimpered. "Isn't there a ceremony to be observed…first?" I blushed, praying for more time. "I mean, we must keep up conventions, mustn't we?" He stopped then and gave me a look that left no illusions as to his estimation of my intelligence. "Of course, you twit! What do you take me for? But I'll not sign my name to a marriage contract unless I've examined the merchandise firsthand, Girl. Chastity on paper and chastity between those legs of yours may be two different things," he laughed, amused at his own turn of phrase. "Come along, Woman, and let's get down to the facts." And with that he fairly dragged me up the stairs and down the carpeted hallway into a massive bedroom that dominated the east wing. There, closing the door behind him, he turned to command me. "Remove your pantalettes and lay back on the bed," he instructed, my horror rising. "And when you have done so, part your thighs so that I may be assured of your virtue." Had not the clergyman been waiting downstairs, I would have escaped once more to the wharf and fled back to my beloved New England posthaste. But there I was, and there I would stay. Shamefaced, I turned my back and lifted the hem of my hoopskirt, sliding my quivering palms over my crisp, white linen until I clasped the thin drawstring that secured my underpinnings. A tug, so minor, and yet so eventful, and I felt them loosen and fall about my ankles. Hesitantly, I looked in askance, hoping that this act would suffice, but finding to my dismay that it would not. Then, slowly turning, I climbed atop the surface of his massive four poster and spread my quaking limbs beneath the volumes of my petticoats. His eyes, so black and piercing, scanned my features like twin captors awaiting the spoils of war. Then slowly, and brooking no protestations, he raised the layers of my skirts to expose the pale flesh of my body. Immediately, I felt the chill air of the room assail the bared flesh above my garters, chilling those intimate parts not covered by my hose. There, he paused to admire, his palms resting intimately between my cringing limbs. My face became pink, then horridly red as humiliation overcame me. Did all prospective brides have to undergo this intimate scrutiny, I wondered? Were all maidenly claims of chastity so suspect? Then I gasped. His hand, so still at the onset, was now parting the silken bastion of my femininity, exposing my most intimate secrets to the invasion of his probing fingers. What was expected of me now, I wondered, my fear and trepidation rising. What should I… And then I felt it, a painful twinge that tested the resiliency of my delicate flesh, a probe of such sufficient proportions that I feared it would threaten to end my days as an innocent. I squirmed to escape his grasp, a protest forming upon my lips, but found it unnecessary. His inquisition ceased at that point, and was replaced instead by a persistent stroking of his work-roughened fingers against the tiny protrusion now hardening along the upper reaches of my moistened slit. Was this part of the inspection, I wondered, feeling a warm coil of intimate tension forming in the pit of my belly. What demon was this stranger conjuring between my thighs? His eyes now appeared to burn like the embers of a long-banked fire, smoldering and ready to erupt. Slowly he ran his tongue along his lower lip and leaned closer to that which he was wont to examine. I twined my fingers in my auburn tresses and closed my eyes, horrified at his invasion and the abandonment he had elicited. My body began to betray me then, an unbidden wetness surging into his palm, accompanied by a shaking and loss of control that left me helpless and conquered. Loud, immodest whimpers fled my lips, and my writhing flesh grew hot beneath his ministrations. He leaned closer…closer yet until his breath blew warmly within my flowing sex. Eagerly, his lips parted. It was then I felt his tongue, wet and hungry, doing unspeakable things as he held me fast. "Tonight," he murmured huskily, "tonight… Chapter Three The flush that had overtaken my cheeks remained throughout the ceremony. What must this gathering be thinking, I wondered? Were they privy to what had transpired upstairs… to my abject humiliation? Did they know what was to come next? If so, then they were far ahead of my dim understanding. Surely my husband would not care to sire a child this very night, mere moments after meeting me! The awkwardly degrading penetrations that my Mother had described could wait until another day, could they not? Apparently, my fiancé had other plans, however, for as soon as we regained our place in the drawing room, he signaled for the minister to begin the ceremony. I was aghast! Was no one to protest my treatment? Was there no one to champion my plight? John, it would seem, was not to be the one to intercede, for he had placed himself beside the large front window and gazed out at the night as if he wished it to be over quickly. The minister, likewise, hurried on with his charge, and was soon intoning the scripture that would join me to the burly lecher at my side. The young woman who had greeted me stood in the doorway, her eyes downcast in discomfort. I was alone. There would be no reprieve. Quickly, the minister completed his ritual, and all were summoned into the dining room to feast on roast mutton, Maori bread and a form of local sweet potato called" kumara." My husband, apparently ravenous, tore a massive hunk of meat from a small haunch and devoured it lustily. Then, downing it with a pint of ale, he motioned for me to hurry with my meal as the night was growing late. All about me, knowing eyes shifted from my husband to myself, as though envisioning what the night was to bring. My stomach coiled in apprehension and my appetite fled to the four winds. Finally my husband stood, and belching resoundingly, bid all a goodnight and captured my hand for the trip back up the stairs to his bedchamber. Impatiently, he tugged, overcoming my reluctance with sheer brute force until I once more found myself outside his rooms, timorously awaiting his connubial dictates. Without hesitation he propelled me through the portal and smiled, his lips curling into a hungry grimace, and locked the door behind him. Then, crossing toward the blazing fireplace, he settled himself into a heavy leather-bound chair. "You have the face of an angel," he murmured huskily, "and the body of a whore. I intend to use both…come here." My pulse began to race. What misfortune had I gotten myself into? Was it too late to turn and… "Come here!" he repeated, his tone testifying to his intent. "You're my wife, and by God you'll obey me!" My knees began to tremble, my step faltering. How I called up the strength to do as I was bid was nothing short of a miracle. But, suddenly the distance between us closed, and I found myself standing by his side. His eyes seemed to look straight through me, tearing away at my chemise and bloomers until I felt stripped before him. Then, closing his ham-like fist about my arm, he dragged me between his outstretched thighs and began to paw at the pristine lace of my bodice. "Take it off," he demanded. "Here, in front of the fire. And be quick about it." My fingers trembled, but I hurriedly found myself releasing the hooks that so confined my bosoms. My husband stared impatiently as I fumbled, the front of his breeches becoming distorted with something I could only cringe to think about. At last I had removed my outer garment, my whalebone corset, and was down to my chemise, that final, brief veil between my unbridled breasts and the leer of my tormentor. "Hurry up, Woman. Take it off!" he growled, his hand stroking the burden between his thighs. Tearfully, I slipped the thin cotton covering over my head, and dropped it to the floor atop my bodice, then crossed my arms over my nakedness. He wasted no time, my husband, and reaching out he grasped my elbow and pulled me to him, a prisoner caught between his steely thighs. Then, bending me backwards over his knee he imprisoned my wrists above my head with his left hand while his right had its way. Painfully he groped, mashing my tender flesh, pulling and pinching my nipples until they stood upright in scarlet distress. A groan of satisfaction passed his lips, as though his prior estimation had now been vindicated, and then his calloused fingers began to slide downward across to my body to bury themselves beneath the band of my traveling skirt. A yank, and another, and the delicate fabric lay in rags between my feet. Then another, and another yet, until my undergarments followed and finally I lay bare before his eyes. "No," I whimpered. "Please. I'm an innocent…don't…" "You're a wife," he interrupted threateningly. "I expect you to act like one. Now close your lips about THIS and I'll hear no more from you." So saying, pressed me to the floor, positioning me on my knees at his feet. Then rising, he unbuttoned his breeches and released that which had so distressed the front of his clothing. I stared in horror as he exposed himself to me, for I had never seen an unclothed man before in my life! Was this, then, what I was to tolerate for the rest of my married existence? As though he had read my mind, he laughed. "Get used to it, Woman. You'll be well met before this night is done. Now part those tiny, pink lips and give it a kiss." As his trousers slipped downward around his ankles, I felt his fingers grasp the carefully pinned remnants of my coiffure. The tendrils of my tresses immediately fell loose about his fist, and he used them to secure my position for his wanton purposes. I tried to struggle…to pull away, but he would have none of it. A smart smack on my left cheek soon led me to believe that only my absolute submission would be tolerated. And so, tightly closing my eyes, I leaned forward to press upon his thick, hairy member the required homage. It had looked purple and angry, this thing I was to confront so intimately. I looked once more into my husband's eyes, seeking the reprieve I needed so desperately, but found only the hard features of a man of determination. His hand urged me forward, pressing insistently against the back of my head until his turgid flesh nudged the thin membrane of my lips. My husband groaned in satisfaction and pressed closer, his fingers tightening in my hair. His purple-clad member, now hard and distended to startling proportions, began to dig between my lips, to batter at my teeth like a tinker pounding at the gate. "Open them up, Woman, and take it inside!" he demanded gruffly. "Suck it like a sweet, for it's to be your nightly candy from this day on." Tears began to flow in earnest now. How could I? A sweet? My mother had said nothing about this! Had my father loaded this abuse upon her martyred body night after night as well? Hesitantly, I parted my teeth, and at once found him plunging deep into my mouth. I began to gag, to pull away, but he held me fast, a prisoner restrained by the auburn strands of my own curls. He began to rut at that moment, like a cur impaling a bitch, forcing his swelling member deep into my throat. Bestial sounds emanated from his lips, forming a discordant chorus with my own whimpers. Then a curious thing happened. Tiny droplets of thin, sweet cream began to trickle against my tongue, dribbling down my throat and seeping from the corners of my mouth. Was this, then, a "mating"…his seed? Was I now with child? Suddenly, he stopped, and tearing his organ from my lips he dragged me to his bed. There, once more he laid me on my back, and forced my hands above my head. "Don't move," he ordered, removing the last vestiges of his clothing. "…or your pain this night will be two-fold. I can assure you of that!" If his last comment was intended to show me his compassion, it did not, for his eyes told another tale. Black they were now, ebony and filled with lust. Whatever thoughts were on his mind, mercy was not among them. And so, panting in anticipation he spread my thighs as before and positioned himself between them. "One last taste of this untried morsel," he whispered, "…and then it is no more." His lips were brutal this time, demanding as they attempted to suck the very life from me. His tongue found a crevice, ever so slight, and curled deep inside my body. My pulse began to race, a thin, unmaidenly line of perspiration forming on my upper lip. I was on fire, with no idea how to quench the flames. Finally, his first course complete, my husband raised himself upon his knees between my legs and clasped my ankles, one in each steely fist. Then, still in his grasp, he lifted my legs and pressed them upwards until I felt I would become unhinged. My nether lips gaped wide, my moist, pink immodesty exposed to his gaze. I felt a shiver overcome me as he briefly released my left ankle and steadied his member in his right hand. This, he placed at the oozing gate of my maidenhood, the site of my earlier humiliation. My hands, still raised above my head, now grasped the brass headboard in trembling anticipation. Was this…was this…? And then pain, quick and sharp overcame me, penetrating like a spearhead deep into my body. I screamed, once and again, crying out as I felt his massive intrusion tear the last barrier of my virginity from me. Then, still embedded, he glanced in satisfaction at the pink-tinged froth that coated the root of his manhood. It was as though the sight had driven him mad. Lunged, he did, now without pause, harder and harder with each thrust of his hips. The tiny orifice that he assailed became battered and torn, and yet he continued. Once more I felt the heat rise within me, a strange coiling in the very pit of my belly. Had he planted his seed, I wondered? Was this fiery turmoil the sign of a child forming already in my womb?