DISCOVERIES

He leant at the open window and savoured the fresh early morning air: after days of heat there had been a storm during the night and the rain had made everything smell clean and new. He could hear, near the house somewhere, someone whistling, and it suddenly made him think of Céline: after the first night with her he had been woken by the sound of someone whistling in the street below her apartment.

Marguerite, of course, did not know about Céline, nor could he ever tell her; but memories of those heady weeks in the Provence heat had stayed with him and, although he sometimes felt some guilt about the affair, he offered a silent prayer of thanks that fate had taken him to Aix, and into the arms of Céline…

It suddenly seemed so long ago: he had been, what, eighteen? "Sink me", he mused, "more than ten years ago, who'd have thought it?" He had been introduced to her by a mutual acquaintance at a soirée; something in his reserve had piqued Céline's self-possession and he had risen to the challenge he saw in her eyes. Pretty, vivacious, still young though twice-widowed by older men, and independent of means and spirit, she eventually took the handsome, rich young Englishman to her bed; they both emerged from the affair unscathed, though he was lighter in the pocket by some margin and altogether worldlier, also having lost much of his previous shyness; whilst his generosity had been such, and so delicately manifested, that it was not until some time afterwards, when she took the necklace to the jeweller and he explained to her the exquisite quality of the diamonds, that she discovered she need never fear poverty.

That summer had given him a confidence which stood him in good stead on the travels which followed and now, with Marguerite, he better understood one of the many things he had discovered with Céline: that an unhurried approach to intimacy, often more enjoyable in any case, would benefit them both. He knew men – some discreet, others not – who had mistresses, and although he believed that may have been partly because they had not married for love, as he had, but for wealth, position, or convenience, and affection had been short-lived or even absent, he also suspected that some had been impatient or unkind with their new wives, who had become cold towards them as a result.

He had been determined that Marguerite would never have cause to reproach him for hurrying her, and although she was still often surprised at how quickly he was ready for her, he had never been importunate, but would adjust his pace to hers; whilst she seemed, as much as he did, to want to recover the time lost during their estrangement and to spend as much time alone with him now as she could. Although of course he wanted an heir, he hoped a child would not come too soon, or be followed very regularly by many more: he did not want, yet, to relinquish the freedom with her which he now enjoyed so much.

They were still learning each other's moods and weaknesses, each other's bodies and what gave pleasure. He had discovered that she loved him to undress her, and she had discovered that although it was exciting when he was urgent, it was even better when he did it slowly. He would kneel at her feet – so tall that she had only to bend her head a little to kiss him – and would carefully unfasten all the hooks, buttons and laces, his hands trembling slightly, his face always serious, sometimes a little tense; he would peel away the layers of her gown and underskirts as she stood, and when he had reached her stays and petticoat he would put his hands on her hips and gently turn her away from him to unpin her hair and let it down, exulting in the red-gold curls as they tumbled around her shoulders, before unlacing the bodice and chemise and pushing them away; then he would turn her again to face him, when she would see his eyes widen and the blue become deeper and darker; then, finally, intently, deliberately, he would unfasten the petticoat and let it too fall to her feet. Then, quite naked, her bright hair accentuating the porcelain skin, she would stand amongst the froth of her linen and lace, "like a painting I saw in Italy: Venus rising from the waves", he said once, and sometimes he would take her hands, and minutes would pass whilst he gazed at her, drinking his fill of her beauty before he embraced her.

They had discovered, together, that she could often be impatient: sometimes when he had driven them home from an evening which they had spent apart, almost the instant they were alone she would begin, with an urgency which surprised and delighted him, pushing off his coat, untying his cravat, and pulling his shirt loose as they kissed; she loved to slip her hands beneath it and would put her palms on his chest, revelling in the warmth of his skin and the strength she felt there; for his part, he loved to feel her hands gliding around his shoulders, down his back; and when she ran her fingers down his stomach he would gasp, which always made her laugh quietly; then she would see the seriousness in his face and she would kiss him gently, then, as he returned the kiss, more passionately, until they were lost in one another.

He was musing on these things when he heard her stir in the bed behind him, and he turned towards her. Not sure if she was awake, he stood unmoving for a moment, looking at her as she lay, still sleeping peacefully after all; it had been hot during the first part of the night until the rain had come, and they had pushed the bedcovers off, but he saw that at some point afterwards she must have risen and found his shirt and put it on: as she lay on her side he could see the broad yoke and one of the long sleeves, much too large for her slender frame. He smiled at the thought: his sophisticated Parisienne wife, although she possessed many elegant, costly nightgowns, preferred to wear her husband's shirt. She was, as he had discovered frequently since their reunion, full of surprises, and he loved her all the more for it.

THE END.