Although I have written about the healing taking place on my body, I suppose I was too forward in thinking that the bruises would vanish without my ever having to acknowledge that they existed. Last night proved otherwise.
Since this is the first time I have maintained a diary, I must include mention of the night I received some of these marks—the night of my wedding to Sir Ridley Wilkerson.
It was an unpleasant introduction into the details of the marriage bed. And that is the best I can say about it.
As an untried woman, I had hoped for some gentleness, some consideration of my innocent state. But his Lordship thought otherwise and had me remove my clothing in front of him while he watched. As if I were some kind of slave, he would poke, pinch, stroke and slap those portions of my body he found to be of interest.
I cannot remember if he ever looked me in the eyes, but I steeled myself to accept his unwelcome touches..
I had to turn around, suffer the indignity of him prodding my behind, stretching the cheeks apart to the point of pain. When I gasped, he laughed. It was, unfortunately, the sound he had awaited.
I learned in the next hours that my new husband only became aroused when he inflicted pain. I was forced to bend over the bed while he lashed my nakedness with his riding crop. I sobbed, of course, because it hurt, but I managed to muffle my sounds in the linens.
After he had administered sufficient punishment, he made me turn over, spread my legs and accept his intrusion. It was unimaginably painful and this time I cried out when he forced that male part of himself into me. The sound made him smile and thrust himself quite violently, as his hands grabbed and squeezed my breasts until I wanted to scream in agony.
Those bruises, still visible after all these weeks, play a pivotal role in what happened this evening.
I shall not go on talking about that man’s treatment of me. My marriage was a terrible mistake and my husband a brute. I know this now, and may God forgive me for being thankful the man is dead. He will never hurt me again, physically, and I refuse to allow these memories linger unspoken, lest they continue to damage me in other ways.
I had hoped, in my naiveté, to keep such things to myself and let time eventually heal both body and spirit. But I underestimated the damage that had been done to my person.
The night before his death, my husband decided I should be lashed beneath my breasts. He tied my hands to the bedposts and proceeded to do just that, with his riding crop. When I refused to cry out, being so angry that I could hold my tongue for a little while, he put down the crop and picked up his cane. The atrocities he committed around my ribs defy description. In truth, I believed my bones to be broken, it was so painful.
Fortunately, either because he wasn’t strong enough, or I was in better health than he realised, I only bruised. Those particular bruises proved to be my undoing last night.
An accidental misstep, a hard-backed chair, and I hit the remaining tender spot, which made me cry out. And indeed took my breath from me for a few moments as the flash of exquisite pain emptied my lungs. I had managed, up to that moment, to be careful and not expose the sore areas to any kind of abuse. I am healing; most of the bruises are faded down to mere shadows.
But when in a roomful of attentive gentlemen, with all the candles lit, any kind of physical display indicating pain is noticed immediately.
Thus it was last evening and before I could get my breath back, Giles was behind me, undoing my gown and revealing my sad marital legacy.
The outrage from all of them was palpable. And I should not have been surprised, but I was. The horror they felt on my behalf was comforting, and may—I believe—turn out to be what I needed to completely heal and mark an end to this painful period of my life.
Showing off my back was embarrassing, but I managed to keep my bosom covered with the bodice of my gown, held in place by my hands.
I had no idea the fabric was low enough to reveal those other marks…the ones from Wilkerson’s bony and vicious fingers.
It was as if a dam had broken. They came to me, touched me as if I was a fragile piece of Italian glass. Their affection and distress both warmed and shattered me, and I had a difficult time hiding the tears their attentions brought so close to the surface.
As we parted for the night, each embraced me in their own way; there were kisses, on the hands, on my fingers, a touch of my face and a hand raised to caress a cheek prickly with beard stubble.
It was a night of surprises, painful memories and outpourings of sweet attentions. As I prepared for bed, I felt more at ease with myself than ever before.
Then…and yes, dear Diary, there is more…came a big surprise.
I did not sleep alone.
Goodness, I never thought to write those words, since my late husband refused to sleep in the same bed with me. Something for which, I might add, I shall be eternally grateful.
But back to last night. I was almost asleep when I felt a presence and turned to find Jeremy—yes, Jeremy—slipping out of his robe and into my bed.
He held me. Put his arms around me, turned me away from him so that our bodies would fit…spooning he called it…and that is how I fell asleep.
His warmth, his care of me, stemmed from some incident in his past, he told me. Since that time he has never been able to countenance any kind of violence against a woman, and what he saw on my body persuaded him that he should be with me that night, offering his body as protection and comfort.
I liked it. No, that is too mild a way of expressing my emotions. I loved it. I loved his heat, the scent of his skin, the firm flesh that pressed against my spine and the strong thighs that rode up and supported my legs. I loved the feeling of being safe, protected by his arms.
I even loved the sensation of his maleness, hard and thick, nestled against parts of me I had thought would never see use again. To my surprise, I found myself responding to his presence, relaxing, loosening, and yes I wished I had been naked too. I would like to know how it is to be skin-to-skin with a man. And especially one so well built, handsome and possessed of a fine arousal.
