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Victorian Gothic Ch. 01

By: AudreyHepburn



London, 1855

A stunned crowd gathered outside the courthouse. It was the biggest news, the greatest scandal that had ever struck London town, perhaps ever. Inside the imposing edifice, which nearly resembled a red-brick jail, a woman was standing trial for having murdered her husband in order to live with her lover, another woman, who had just become a widow. Both women attempted to flee the country after the murder but they were discovered by the police. One of the women, the one who was a widow, had escaped somehow, mysteriously and a search was under way to find her. Anger, horror and hatred for these ungodly women, who had given into lust and carnal abandon with one another, ran high and filled the blood of men. Decent Christian women were visibly appalled and the smallest of children had no idea what was making everyone so angry. The whole of London was enthralled with the horror story.

It was no horror story of course, for Rose Belvedere-Ashton assured the court that it was a love story. She showed no sign of fear and proudly, defiantly and without shame stood before judges and jury. She wore black, for it was the fashion of the time, a long gown with a buttoned-up collar but one that was tight-fitting and revealed her most beautiful physique; strong and voluptuous. Her eyes were green and sharp, her face round and she had a high forehead and very stern looking Anglo face. Her hair was long, Indian-like and dark. Her breasts were heaving with passion and her voice was already exhausted from the exertion of having to speak at the top of her lungs.

"My sin is love," she said, " and love is not contained. It is free. I loved a woman far better than my husband and if he were alive to hear me, he would know the reason. He knew how cruelly he treated me, how he took pleasure in brutalizing me and insulting me. He considered all women to be weak, insignificant creatures no better than cockroaches. He was going to kill me at any rate, tired as he was of my liberal spirit, tired as he was of hearing me speak my mind. He would not suffer to see me with a lover and it made no difference whether it be male or female. When he discovered I was in love with a woman, he could not withhold his rage."

The people at the trial were speechless but attentive. To Rose, they were all ignorant provincials, despite the fact they were London dwellers, though she knew many of them to be born from the country and elsewhere outside of London. She continued her story:

"I will not go into detail about how I disposed of him. That is to say, not now. In order for you to understand what drove me to such violence, you must first learn of my past and of my relationship with my husband and my lover. I am here to confess and to tell all. Please, before you judge me and sentence me to death, before Queen Victoria herself is involved in the sordid affair, I plead with you to do the Christian thing and hear my tale."

Rose had tears in her eyes and she paused a moment, looking back, traveling to the past through her mind and the emotions were heavy.

"I am a little girl again," she said, "it is 1837. My father is brutally attacking my mother. Oh, it must have been for some silly, stupid reason marking him only as stupid. She probably offended him in some small way but not having done something right. My mother worked hard all her life to care for me, a single child and to maintain a good household. She might have angered him and hurt his ego. Perhaps she was drawing attention from other men and despite her faithfulness, he imagined she was laying with a lover. Whatever the reason was he was beating her to a bloody pulp. He is nearly killing her but he leaves her a shaken and tired thing on the floor of the parlor. He then looks at me, with the same intensity. It is more ungodly, good sirs, that this man beat my mother half to death and then me, for no reason other than to be cruel, than what I did to my husband in order to save myself and be free of him. I do not recall how I escaped from him. I ran away from home at an early age, perhaps seven. I went to a Church and told the minister everything. He acted quickly and wisely, though he did not tell the authorities of my father's evil doings. I was given over to the care of one Abbott family from Southampton. A poor family to be sure. They lived in a small home by the seaport and my foster father and mother were good to me. I went to school. But tragedy struck again. My foster mother died in childbirth and my foster father fell into a depressive state. He quit his occupation as fisherman and butcher and took me to London where he studied medicine, something which he had secretly been doing. I was now in my teens and assisting him. He quickly grew popular and visited homes where families had sick ones in need of healing and medication. I would follow him along these trips, though he objected."

She paused. The memories were flooding over her like a giant wave. She was as if in a trance. She could see the wharf, the small canneries, the houses, the beds, the ill, the medical instruments, the vials, the needles, the doctor's bag, her foster father. He had been a tall, lanky man with a dour face and yet he was a good and loving man. She recalled how she had always admired him and wanted to be a lot like him. She went on:

"It was not suitable for a woman to be a doctor. It was unheard of. I wanted to be a doctor, and saw no reason why I could not perform the same tasks having acquired knowledge and experience from observation and from helping him in his trips. But my father would not accept me as a fellow doctor. He then took me to a most dull and lackluster finishing school. The ladies there were generous and good, but shallow and materialistic. My peers, all females, were equally as superficial and lovers of wealth and status. The purpose of finishing school is to develop charms and social graces so as to catch a husband, like a fisherman with a net. I caught a husband, most reluctantly, for he pursued me. He was an amorous suitor and truth be told, I succumbed to the new feelings of passion. Furthermore, he promised me a life of stability and adventure. He made a fortune in trading with America and he lived in a fine mansion in London. He romanced me as well as all the princes in fairy stories. I consented to be his bride after a ball in which we danced the provocative waltz. The man was a prince but inside he was a beast. His name was Lionel Ashton. This is when my true story begins. I will speak now of my first years of marriage." 

Victorian Gothic Ch. 02



* If you haven't read the first chapter, Rose broke her marriage vows by having an affair with another woman who had become a widow. Rose admits she murdered her husband and went to trial and she tells the jury and court room audience her story.

*

Rose Belvedere Ashton did not want to look back, for it felt as if she was physically moving back in time to re-live the past few years which had been a combination of pain, anguish, torment and at the same time friendship, happiness, love and passion. She did not wish to travel back in time through her memory, to tell this court room filled with judgemental and self-righteous fools all the sordid details of her affair with another woman. But she had no choice and she proceeded.

"The first year of my marriage went by rather swiftly. There was nothing that happened within that year to foreshadow the coming storm. Sir Lionel Ashton was a perfect gentleman and at that time, a good husband. He treated me as if I was a princess, a woman who stirred his most tender feelings, who admired not only my beauty but my mind and at times listened to my thoughts and opinions. There was nothing in his character or conduct that remotely suggested he would become a monster."

As Lionel approached her, in slow, steady steps, the moonlight cast a dim, somewhat sad sort of lighting over the candle-lit chamber. It was a master bedroom, furnished with red divan, rosewood chairs, a vanity mirror, drawers, armoirs and closets. There was a balcony and large window. It was in Lionel's home in London, where he conducted business, the said business being trading with America in commodities, namely precious metals such as iron, silver and gold. He also invested in oil. His contacts in America were becoming numerous. When he married Rose, he was already very affluent, holding the title of Sir, the lord of a manor in London with many servants and a seat in Parliament. 

But Rose saw past these things. She had believed that Lionel was her prince, a man who would change her life forever, for the better. He had whisked her away from a dull middle-class life, charmed her with his aristocratic demeanor, his chivalry, his protective embrace. Here in this room, sprawled on the bed in the nude, she awaited the sensation of his flesh against hers, longed for his kisses and the feel of his hardened manhood inside her. She had been a virgin before her wedding night and Lionel had, of course, deflowered her. Because she had never known the intimacy of lovemaking and what she experienced the first time had been so refreshingly new and good, she again waited for his passionate caresses and the dominant way he claimed her body. She ached for the penetration of his cock inside her, desired to be ravished. Her imagination was growing stronger and her sexual whims were growing as well. These feelings, so strongly sexual, she did not speak of to her husband. What woman did? She kept her wishes silent and feared that, should she in any way admit to having them, her husband would label her a wanton, and would compare her libido to his own. So she was only hoping that her husband would somehow know, through intuition, that she wanted to be taken in creative new ways. 

How to tell him that she wanted him to bind her to the bed in sensual ropes and feel him mounting her and penetrate her with his penis. How to tell him that she wanted to tie him up to the bed and to ride his erect penis as it slipped inside her and bounce over him? How to tell him that she wanted him to take her through the anus? How to tell him that she wanted to feel as if she would die of pure erotic pleasures never known before? Rose had been reading a certain type of novel in secret. It began with an interest in women's novels; that is to say novels written by women. In England, a pen with which to write a novel could now be held by both sexes. Not many women took a deep-seated interest in this profession. For that matter, not many women took any interest in anything other than finding a husband, raising a family, cooking, sewing, washing and all other domestic affairs. If the woman was of a higher station, she supervised the maintenance of the house, saw to it that her children were tutored or cared for by governesses and aspired to the status of salon hostess or in the least of a drawing room women's circle, in which, over tea and luncheon, she organized charity balls, soirees and other events for the season, in hopes that brilliant people could attend - the greatest actors of the time, dancers, singers, political figures. Rose did not wish to be one of these women, but she was aware that some women understood women better than others and could only express themselves not through superficial things like hostess work but through writing, a field dominated by mostly men.

Therefore, Rose enjoyed reading the works of Emily Bronte and Charlotte Bronte, at the time the only women whose books one could read and not feel any sort of embarrasment. But there were other books, written by some women but also men, whose content was highly erotic and extreme. These "secret" books everyone knew of but never spoked of openly. These books were pornographic and meant to arouse the reader sexually, even if his mind was not filled with much of a story or emotion. These books, many in French, Rose had been reading in secret. To even procure these books was dangerous. She was a lady of a more aristocratic mold now, since her husband fit in with high society in London. Rose would disguise herself as a man, which she found surprisingly easy to do. She was a tall woman with a build that, from afar, somewhat resembled that of a man's body. She would hide her long hair in a bun and then wear a man's hat. To cover her breasts she would wear a large trench coat. She would not say much to the book peddler in the small store by the dark street. She didn't have to. Many of the men, and prostitutes, who frequented these places had only to pick out a book and hand the peddler the money. Sometimes, a mist would rise in the streets of London, and many thought it was the perfect way to conceal themselves as they ventured out in search of this type of release, or other types.

There she was, night after night, the same bed, the same man. Lionel did nothing new in his lovemaking. He was as if uninspired or ignorant concerning sexual pleasures. He would mount her, he would spread her legs, keep her from moving and repeatedly penetrate her until she orgasmed and he reached his own climax. But the fact of the matter was that Rose had only achieved an orgasm the first time when he had deflowered her. In every other episode of their lovemaking, she had pretended to orgasm and she deceived him night after night, making him believe that she enjoyed his lovemaking.

But she did not. He was so dull. She might as well pick up one of those books which aroused her and orgasm from reading those stories while he did his business on top of her. With the passing of time, she became restless, vexed and somewhat unhappy. Lionel was nothing like the bold and adventurous lovers in those books. Perhaps he was still a prince, but she discovered an unspoken truth, a matter which surely all women could not deny but could not mention: every woman wanted a rogue for a lover, not a prince. If only Lionel could be bad, deviant, but never truly evil, just tinged with a little bit of vice and danger. But there was no such luck.

Before the first year of their marriage had passed, Lionel noticed that his wife was unhappy. He did not know what was troubling her. His understanding of women was that they simply wanted a man who can offer a lifetime of financial stability and could provide them with children. Yes, he was certain she was in a state of depression over her lack of children. He was unsure if he was responsible for that, or she. Perhaps she was barren. Perhaps he was unable to give her children. They had never discussed having children and he felt it was too soon. He barely knew her as a matter of fact, and his beautiful and quiet wife was a mystery and he was too busy with his lucrative career to even try to unlock these mysteries. 

Seated on the large table, one end to another, in a distance, as the servants served them their luncheon, he said to her:

"My pet, how would you like to travel with me to America and to Canada? I have new contacts there for business and while I had originally planned to travel there myself, I've decided to bring you with me."

Lionel had to project his voice in order for her to hear at the other end of the table. Rose had become accustomed to this, and she found it interesting how this huge table in the dining room was much like their marriage - a huge new and expensive thing that required them to be at a distance that was growing ever greater. "What did he say, Amelia?" she asked a maid who served her a plate, whispering into her ear.

"He said something about accompanying him to America and Canada, I believe miss, nothing else," Amelia replied.

"Yes, I'd love to!" cried Rose in sudden ecstasy.

The remainder of the day she spent in preparing herself for a trip abroad, the first time she'd ever travel anywhere outside of the British Empire..

* * * * New York City had been a Wonderland. She had become Alice and mingled with interesting, beguiling characters in the city. She had tea with Americans whom she found absolutely fascinating. They tread her, the men included, like one of their own, and though she was sad she'd never see them again and that this was only a meeting with curious Americans who wanted to talk to an English lady, she had enjoyed every minute of it. These were mostly friends of her husband's business contacts, some being the contacts themselves. For weeks, they attended concerts, picnics, balls and the theater. American plays were filled with so much human emotion and she had loved how they even included humor, something which British writers lacked, or so she had come to know. Americans were free to express their opinions and spoke their minds, even the women. The city was alive and never slept. She marveled at the many buildings, the harbor, the traffic of ships and coaches in the street, the variety of types of people. Black people, Irish people, Italians, Jews and Gypsies. The foods were better than the meals she ate in London. She wished she'd only stayed in the city longer.

As for indulging in her secret and guilty pleasure, Rose had discovered that in New York City, the number of bookstores were bigger and the types of novels were even greater. There were more authors and much more women authors. There was one writer whose books she had come to really admire and love. Her name was Elizabeth. Because she wrote both romance novels and erotic novels, she used only that name, perhaps to be discreet and keep from being exposed. Surprisingly, the writer was not American. She hailed from Canada, from Prince Edward Island. The name was like a beautiful, enchanting music which caressed her ears and which filled her heart with images of a rustic island with quiet roads, buggy rides, wagon rides, small schoolhouses filled with adorable children, lovely inns and hotels, sedate and charming hamlets and towns, woods and meadows and a sense of beauty and belonging.

She was surprised to hear that this Elizabeth was a schoolmarm and that she was married to a man with some influence over the financial world. She was childless and had come from rustic poverty. This Elizabeth was a lot like herself, thought Rose and she became determined to meet her....

"And meet her I did," said Rose to the crowd in the court room, still holding on to her every word, quiet, reflective, " I had come to believe that Elizabeth, who wrote such beautiful, such provocative yet touching books of passion and adventure, was a woman who could free me, to free me of a state of unhappiness in my marriage. If only my husband could meet her and read her books, he'd appreciate her and also come to understand that I wanted him to change. If only, too, he was more like the American men I had met in New York. I believe, ladies and gentlemen, that my husband had no love for any one but himself and his money. These Americans provided him with money. It was the surprise of my life to discover that my husband's business connection in Canada was with one Edward Alcott, whose wife was named Elizabeth and who was a schoolmarm in Prince Edward Island. I had no doubt that this was she, the writer whose books I adored, and I would be able to meet her after all. Good folk, Elizabeth would become my lover, my soulmate, my friend, my salvation, my source of inspiration and happiness, my anchor, my true love. I would have married her and not my husband. Do not take offense to the sincerity of my words. Love should know no gender, no class, no conditions. I will tell you know about my affair with Elizabeth and how we first met and how she came to return with me and my husband to London."