Patri Friedman
4/95
Rosalie was a noblewoman, albeit a young one, and with that simple statement came a vast load of baggage, a load which constantly weighed upon her mind. Being young, that mind was a limber and flexible one, so it withstood the strain admirably, but she could not help but be affected by it. She had grown up among a loving family, but this did not make her life any more interesting. There were of course the simple pleasures: whiling away the long days weaving, singing, or turning the brittle pages of a precious book. Still, she had always yearned for more. Like most of her peers, she had a few small rebellions that satisfied the need for excitement, for illicit pleasures, for something out of the ordinary, that is a part of every child's nature. She bribed a stableboy to teach her how to ride, and spent thrilling afternoons galloping around the countryside perched precariously on a large chestnut stallion. She stole a brief, confused, inept kiss from a visiting noble her own age, who soon thereafter was married by his family to a five year old cousin. In general, however, her life was dull.
At sixteen she was married off to a fifty-three year old Baron of somewhere south a ways for political reasons. Her youthful naivete summoned up a host of romantic fantasies for their relationship, but they turned out to be little more than that, as the Baron was not particularly interested in her as anything other than the cementing of an alliance. The man was was well past his physical prime, and while Rosalie ended up being well supported financially, she was mostly left to her own devices for ways to pass the time. Despite being her husband, the marriage was never consummated and her only feelings towards him were mild affection. The Baron was often called away on political business, and on one fateful such occasion, when he was going to be gone for several months, he sent Rosalie to live with his cousin, a wealthy dowager Duchess with a large estate in the countryside, so that Rosalie would not be without company of her rank for too long.
One afternoon a few weeks after she arrived, the clatter of horses in the courtyard of the mansion brought her to the window. Outside she saw a dozen horses carrying servants, retainers, and guards, as well as a gorgeous stagecoach, obviously the property of a member of the nobility. Rosalie went downstairs, and stopped one of a group of servants about some business. They informed her that the visitors were the Duchess' sister and her husband, here for a stay in the countryside. Rosalie thanked them, and returned to her room, deciding to wait until she had been formally introduced to the visitors. Frankly, she didn't expect them to be particularly interesting, as they were likely to be the Duchess' age, and probably gossipy old bores just like her.
At dinner, she discovered to her surprise exactly how wrong she was. The Duchess' sister, due to a combination of age, rank, and family resemblance, was easy to identify, but Rosalie at first mistook the man next to her as a son. She was astonished when they were introduced as Lord Guillame Godwin & Lady Elizabeth Godwin. Covering her surprise, she smiled politely, and mumbled the appropriate formalities. As she looked up, her eyes met those of Lord Guillame, and he shot her a wry grin, communicating in a single mobile facial expression an exquisite combination of understanding and sympathy. She blushed, and smiled again. He certainly was a charming man.
As they ate, she kept up the meaningless chatter that was expected of her, a skill that all nobility learn quickly, but inside, her thoughts kept returning to the disarming Lord Guillame. Men became married to older spouses far less often than the reverse, but it was not unheard of. It usually presented less frustration for the male gender, as their indiscretions were far more easily forgiven than those of women. She wondered about those indiscretions, and then blushed at her thoughts. Guillame noticed and aimed a questioning glance her way, and she turned an even deeper shade of scarlet. Fortunately the Duchess and Lady Elizabeth were discussing a new tapestry on the walls, and their gazes were turned elsewhere, but she was still mortified by Lord Guillame.
Rosalie could not help but be attracted to him. He had a certain charming air which drew the lonely Rosalie, who had been without the company of a man who was both of her age and class for the several years of her dull marriage. After dinner, as she sat in the Duchess' beautiful and well kept gardens, enjoying the sunset and cool evening breeze, she saw Lord Guillame wandering around the shrubbery and called to him. He waved, and the two soon became engaged in conversation. The topic slowly and inevitably, one tentative advance at a time, approached the respective marital situations of the two aristocrats.
As they talked, Rosalie felt closer and closer to Guillame (he had insisted on her dropping the "Lord"), while being increasingly more ashamed of it. He was an honorable man, and was unhappy with his marriage because he felt obligated to remain faithful. It had of course been an arranged marriage, and he did not love his wife, who held the financial and political reins of the partnership, and he could do little about it. Despite being male, he was in a position that Rosalie could identify with.
They parted as friends that evening, and the meetings between the two continued. Day by day the bond grew stronger between them. What might seem strange to some was that the bond was purely emotional in nature. No physical contact occurred between the two, as it would be a breach of the sanctity of their marriages, but this did not prevent them from sinking, inch by inch, into the quagmiric agony of unfullfillable love. Neither commented on the situation, as they knew how dangerously close they were skirting the abyss of infidelity, and neither wanted to commit the indiscretion that would send them plunging into its immeasurable depths. Each tried to be honourable, restraining themselves physically, but they could not prevent themselves from falling in love with each other.
After several weeks of this, Rosalie was knitting in her room one evening when she heard a knock on the door. She answered it, and was surprised to see a servant with a large tray of food. The servant hurried inside, closed the door, and began to lay out two places. Seeing Rosalie's look of confusion, the maid handed her a note, written in Guillame's lovable scrawl. It read:
"My beloved Rosalie: I know that I should not be placing anything in writing, but my love for you is so great that I am willing to take any risk in order that we might deepen our relationship. This food is a gift of passion, a symbol of my emotion, for as food sustains the body, love nourishes the soul. Yet we all inhabit this mortal realm, and even the most transcendent of passions cannot bring true fulfillment without some physical connection. Therefore I offer to you this meal, for it contains the soul and spirit of my love. I am offering myself, fully and completely. As you consume these sacraments, you will be accomplishing what we both know is impossible to do directly. If you are willing, open your the curtains on your courtyard window and I will come up and sup with you. I have made excuses to the Duchess for the both of us."
Your True Love,
Guillame"
Rosalie clutched the letter to her breast, and stared longingly at the food before her. Shaking with emotion, she haltingly asked the servant to leave. As she stood, she was beset by a bewildering barrage of feelings. Would it be dishonourable to accept the offer? Did her marital bond prevent her from such a symbolic gesture? One of Love's many abilities is that of rationalizing with an unmatchably silver tongue, and the forces of her reason were marshalled too slowly to put up much of a defense. She decided that this plan enabled her to be true to her honour as well as her heart. After breathing a mixed sigh of fear and anticipation, she walked to the aforementioned window and swept open the curtains. She returned to the place set, and seated herself for a minute which seemed to take an eternity.
This eternity was not a mere proverbial one, but a subjectively epochal period during which she was possessed by the smells wafting from the laid out meal. Each individual smell brought an emotion, and an eerily vivid scene. The spice-tinged boldness of the steak brought heat and desire to the most intimate depths of her character, and she saw herself in bed with Guillame, their sweaty bodies intertwined in what she knew could never occur. The pastoral pleasantness of the baby potatoes, slowly simmered in a sauce of garlic and butter, brought an image of her nursing their child as he beamed with fatherly pride. The freshly baked rolls, still warm from their recent transition from moldable dough into a definite shape, brought visions of the two stealing kisses in the garden, another impossible event. The clarity of these visions was amazing, it was as if the scents themselves had been imbued with some special quality.
A knock at the door brought an end to the compelling parade of scenes and rescued Rosalie from her emotional turmoil. As she opened the door and saw Guillame, it took every last inch of her self-restraint to not make physical contact. The visions initiated by the food began to flash by repeatedly, growingly dizzyingly faster each time. Her senses were overwhelmed. Guillame caught her as she began to fall, and gently carried her into the room. She recovered quickly, and mumbled an apology, taking her seat at the small table. Guillame sat across from her, and their eyes met and locked, not to part company for the remainder of the meal.
As Guillame reached for the knife to slice a muffin, Rosalie saw herself alone with him in a dark bedroom as he lightly kissed her shoulders. As the blade of the knife bit into the muffin, he nipped lightly on her neck. A small shudder passed through her body, and as he spread butter over the inside surface of the muffin, she felt the kisses grow more daring. He handed her the muffin, and she accepted it. Their gazes were still fastened together, and it seemed as though an untold wealth of emotions was pouring from each to the other. As she took the first bite of the muffin, feeling its buttered smoothness slide down her throat, she saw herself returning Guillame's advances. Each piece of the muffin brought her kisses closer to his forbidden lips, and the swallow of wine which washed down the final portion conjured up the sweetness of his mouth as their lips finally interlocked.
He transferred a potato to his plate, and she felt his hands at her dress, unlacing the front. As he took the first bite, she felt his hands move downward and begin to caress her. She became flushed and red, and yet still their eyes remained locked. Images flickered between them, as her gaze communicated the depths of her vision to her true love. As he consumed the next few mouthfuls, his hands grew even more daring. When he dipped the potato's white rounded end into the garlic and butter sauce, she felt him raining kisses on her breasts, and her body began to shake. As he finished, she recovered control of herself.
Next he came to the steak, centerpiece of the meal. As he sliced a piece for her, she saw herself moved down his body and as he passed it to her, he disrobed. With shaking fingers, she rolled up the thin piece of red, spiced meat, and took a bite of the end. He stiffened momentarily, and then relaxed. The steak was tender and delicious, and its smell brought a burning heat that she had never before allowed herself to feel. She slowly, bite by bite, consumed the entire slice, and now it was Guillame's turn to shudder.
After consuming the delicious body of the meal, they moved onto dessert, the final culmination. Guillame had before him a slice of pie, topped with fresh-churned cream.. He lifted his piece slowly, and brought it towards his mouth. Rosalie let out a shudder of anticipation, taken by her vision to the point that she saw but it and the eyes of her love. Guillame finally placed the piece in his mouth, and as his teeth violated the barrier of the crust and penetrated into the soft center the couple gasped simultaneously. He swallowed, and then bit again, and again, each time both emitting a small sound and eliciting one from his beloved. He chewed around the cream, and, when he had consumed the rest of the pie, passed the plate to her shaking sweaty fingers. She lifted the piece of cream with her spoon, and, as her body shook, placed it slowly into her mouth, and swallowed it. Their bodies arched, and the pitiable portion of air caught between the eyelash-curtained round windows to their souls became momentarily so hot that the decorative parsley on the plate which had held the steak wilted. The pair stayed taut for a few moments longer, then collapsed, gasping for air. Reality slowly returned, and each became re-aware of their physical location. Rosalie was flushed, red, and sweaty, and attempted to gain control of her scattered wits. After a minute or two Guillame looked at the table in front of them, then at Rosalie, and murmured tentatively:
"Did you enjoy it?"
Rosalie paused, still dazed by the depth of the emotional experience which she had just undergone, and replied:
"I ... I'm not sure. Of course I enjoyed it, b-but. I. I don't understand what happened."
"We had a meal. I'm deeply sorry, but the time for my excuse to the Duchess is past, I am forced to leave you. I'll try to arrange breakfast tomorrow."
"I ... I suppose."
Guillame smiled reassuringly, and reached over to tenderly ruffled Rosalie's hair. At the moment of contact, a charge seemed to pass out of his hand and into her, and they both stiffened and looked at each other. By palpable effort of will, Guillame slowly forced his aching body to move, haltingly, away from her. As they lost physical contact, it became easier for him to force his limbs to obey his control. He walked away, but, as he reached the door, he turned, and a look passed between them. It was the kind that but a privileged few ever receive, filled to the brim with as much love as the sea holds water, dripping with more caring than there are stars in the sky, hotter than a thousand suns with the force of his passion. Rosalie was transfixed by it, and she stood still for a single timeless instant, basking in its glory, returning it in full force, before it overwhelmed her and she was forced to turn away. Guillame finally looked away and quietly closed the door.
The next morning Rosalie awoke early, caught between eager anticipation and trembling fear of what breakfast might bring. Looking out her window to the courtyard, she saw a messenger leading a horse, gesticulating wildly and talking to what appeared to be Guillame. Even from her window she could sense the rage, anger, and deep sadness he was radiating in all directions. After a minute, Guillame sent a servant inside, and paced back and forth in the courtyard. He cast a glance towards her window and saw her standing there. He stopped dead in his tracks, and she could see some colossal tragedy writ large upon his face. After what seemed a brief second, his wife came out, and after Guillame wrenched his gaze from Rosalie's window, he talked animatedly to Lady Elizabeth. The conversation being quickly resolved, he mounted the messenger's horse, and, unable to even look a goodbye to Rosalie under his wife's gaze, galloped off. At breakfast, she was informed by the Lady Elizabeth that their had been a death in her husband's family, and he was needed immediately. Elizabeth seemed to take some secret joy at the news, but Rosalie had no idea what the cause of this might be. She managed not to break into tears during the course of the meal, although with every bite she felt Guillame's hands on her in what seemed a tragic parody of the meal they had shared the night before.
Rosalie cried for days, spending as much time she could afford to be alone wallowing in sadness and self-pity. She managed to conceal it from the Lady Elizabeth for the few days before she left on whatever matter Guillame had been called away for, and from the Duchess for the rest of her stay.
[Please turn to the next page]
(A small portion of a letter from Lady Rosalie to Lord Guillame,
sent about three months after he was forced to leave the country
estate)
... I'm sorry for all the evasiveness and vagueness my love, but I am at my wit's end. What I have been trying to say all along, but finding it difficult to phrase right, and makes no sense at all, is that I'm pregnant I don't understand how, as I've never slept with anyone, but its true. I snuck into the village and paid a midwife to check me. I am carrying what must somehow be our child ...
Last Modified: September 8th, 1998
Patri Friedman / patri@izzy.com