Authors: Lucy di Legge
Charlotte was on her third cup of tea and was beginning to wonder when she should excuse herself for her long walk to Harriet’s place when Paul interrupted her thoughts. “Say, Charlie, I saw Collins over at your workstation today.”
“That’s right,” she said, although she knew they shouldn’t be talking about work in public.
“It’s not often that he comes out from his office, eh?” Paul laughed.
“No, I suppose not. I can’t say I’ve had much face-to-face contact with him.”
“But it seems he likes you well enough. Maybe pretty well indeed.” Paul was still smiling, the residual of his laughter, but something serious shone in his eyes.
“I really don’t know,” Charlotte replied. “I think he’s happy with my work.”
“Hmm,” Paul replied noncommittally. He picked up the teapot and felt its weight. “I’ll get us more hot water.”
“I need to get going, actually,” Charlotte said.
“Me too,” said Joanna.
After leaving the café, Charlotte was relieved to see that Joanna headed off in the opposite direction after a simple goodbye. She had been concerned that she would have to give Joanna a reason for why she didn’t want to walk together.
Charlotte arrived at 37 Slaidburn Street with ten minutes to spare. She studied the handsome three-story building and realized that Harriet and Thomas probably owned the whole place. Distracted by that thought when she couldn’t even afford new clothes, Charlotte realized she had been standing there for a solid minute or two without having knocked or rung the bell. She opted for the bell.
The door swung open heavily, revealing Harriet in a fitted tweed skirt and a crisp white blouse that made her black hair seem impossibly darker, high-heeled shoes, and a thin silver necklace lying against her skin. “Come in. I see you received my message.”
Charlotte took a few steps in and examined the interior, Harriet closing the door behind her. The furnishings were probably antiques, and looked to be from at least a hundred years ago. Charlotte was too polite to ask if the Persian rugs were new replicas, family heirlooms, or something in between. In the foyer, early morning light cast its beams through a cabinet’s glass doors, highlighting the fragile-looking vases and figurines on its shelves. Charlotte guessed that the windows had an automatic tinting system that would kick in when the sunlight grew too intense.
Charlotte turned her attention back to the woman who stood there calmly. “I didn’t expect to hear from you,” she admitted. “And your message didn’t exactly reveal much.”
“It said when and where. What more did it need to say?” Harriet tilted her head slightly.
“Perhaps some indication of what you wanted,” Charlotte suggested.
“Ah. Next time I’ll be more… explicit,” replied Harriet, her lip twitching into a smile. “Regardless, you’re here now. Let me make you a drink. Coffee or tea?”
“Tea, please,” Charlotte replied, even though she didn’t really need a fourth cup of tea.
Harriet indicated that Charlotte should wait in the sitting room while she slipped off to the adjacent kitchen. With the background sounds of running water and the stove’s gas flame being ignited, Charlotte allowed her gaze to wander around the sitting room. She was keenly curious about Harriet. The sitting room was decorated much like the foyer with hardwood floors and intricate area rugs. Two matching mahogany-colored sofas were positioned perpendicular to each other around a wooden coffee table. Fresh daffodils, an expensive indulgence, were set in an iridescent blue glass vase on the table.
Moments before Harriet reappeared, Charlotte had spotted something special: two dozen or so real, printed, and bound books atop a tall cabinet. She had just stepped over to examine the titles when Harriet’s voice sounded behind her.
“There’s something about the feel of paper between your fingers that makes the reading experience that much more intimate,” Harriet said, setting the tea tray on the table.
“I wouldn’t know,” Charlotte said, walking back to the sofas and taking a seat, but not before noting the names of a few of the books.
“Your family didn’t own any books?” Harriet asked, sitting next to her and pouring two cups of tea.
“Only a few. A Bible,” she admitted. “For the sake of preservation, we didn’t handle them.” She took one of the teacups from Harriet and held it cradled. “Your books – Nathaniel Hawthorne, Edith Wharton – aren’t you concerned about being seen with them?”
“Why would I be concerned?” Harriet asked, sipping her tea despite how hot it still was.
“They’re American authors. At least, you have a few American books,” Charlotte said, knowing full well that Harriet was aware of this fact. “Someone might doubt your loyalties. Why risk it?”
“Well, aren’t you a literary expert? No one even reads those stories anymore, as famous as they once were. Or are you just partial to American authors?” Harriet seemed to relax into the sofa.
Charlotte asked, “Would that surprise you?”
“No,” Harriet replied. She regarded Charlotte with a serious look, and Charlotte knew that Harriet knew. When Harriet spoke again, she said, “Thomas is out of town.”
“Yes, I remember. In Hull, right?”
“So you
were
listening the other night at the Red Door,” Harriet confirmed.
“I always listen when you speak, no matter who else is in the room. Or haven’t you realized?” she asked.
“Have other people realized?” Harriet asked, holding her gaze. Before Charlotte could answer, Harriet added, “Have they figured out that you’re an American?”
Charlotte’s hands stilled. She hadn’t realized she was turning her cup in circles in her hands. “Why did you want me to come here?”
“I want to get to know you better, Charlie. You’re interesting. Different from other people,” Harriet replied, apparently unperturbed that Charlotte didn’t answer her question. “And I knew you wanted to see me sometime. Isn’t that what you said?”
Harriet smiled as she asked the question. She looked at ease and perfectly poised. Charlotte was once again distracted by the low cut of Harriet’s blouse, by her graceful gestures and delicate-looking hands.
“And yet you’ve hardly even looked my way the last few times we’ve been around each other.” Charlotte’s words hung in the air for a long moment. “The fact that Thomas is out of town – the timing is just a coincidence?” she asked, setting down her cup.
“Of course not,” Harriet admitted. “He can be such a bore. Why would I want him here when I want to talk with you?”
“I honestly don’t know.” Charlotte wondered how she might still catch Harriet off guard. “Would you give me the nickel tour?” she asked, choosing her words with purpose.
“Yes, how rude of me,” Harriet replied.
Charlotte followed Harriet to the kitchen and a small dining room. Harriet played the part of a hostess perfectly well, pointing out one or two details in each room as if either one of them truly thought Charlotte would be interested in architectural features of the home. At the top of the stairs, standing in the hallway, Harriet paused and gestured to an open doorway.
“This is the master bedroom,” Harriet said.
A large four-poster bed dominated the bedroom. Charlotte said, “You have a beautiful home, Harriet.”
Harriet smiled. “I like the way you say my name. I like how it sounds with your accent. You know, your accent grows more prominent when you’re nervous.” Charlotte visibly tensed and Harriet added, “Relax, Charlie. I’m not a border agent.”
“I’m here legally,” Charlotte said.
“I don’t care whether you are or not,” Harriet replied, resting her hand lightly on Charlotte’s forearm.
“I’m a British citizen.” Her brows knitted, she looked away, frustrated.
Harriet stepped closer and spoke in her ear. “I like you just the way you are.”
Her heart racing, Charlotte said, “Why do I have the feeling you’ve been toying with me?”
She pulled back to look Charlotte in the eye, her nose mere inches from the other woman’s, replying, “I haven’t any idea what you mean.”
“The comments about being Euroskeptic. The pointed looks at me when America was mentioned. The books downstairs – did you put them out just for me?” Charlotte asked, a sharp tone to her voice.
Harriet turned her head to the side as she gave a brief laugh, and replied, “No, Charlie, I didn’t put the books out just for you.”
Charlotte blushed angrily and said, “This is why I think you’re toying with me. You think this is funny.”
Harriet’s smiling laughter faded into a more serious expression. Her voice was quiet when she replied slowly, “I’m not toying with you.” She again leaned in and whispered in Charlotte’s other ear this time, asking, “Do you think I haven’t seen the way you look at me?”
Charlotte wanted to hold onto her feelings of anger and indignation, but when she looked back at Harriet, a different intense feeling arose in her. Her heart pounded in her chest, her lips parted, as Harriet’s hand moved from her arm to her hip. Harriet gave the typical small smile that Charlotte was beginning to associate with her, as she said, “Yes. That’s the very look.”
Charlotte was too impatient to wait any longer. She pressed Harriet against the wall with her body as their mouths met. They kissed hungrily, hands exploring each other’s bodies without hesitation or shyness, a new need quickly consuming them. All the while, Charlotte felt as though Harriet were still in control, had her feelings in check to a better degree than Charlotte did.
Charlotte followed Harriet into the bedroom and fumbled to get out of her clothes. Meanwhile Harriet unzipped her skirt in one smooth motion, letting it pool at her feet before stepping out of it. She slowly undressed herself, unbuttoning her blouse while watching Charlotte, and Charlotte realized that Harriet was enjoying making her wait. Charlotte went to her, guiding her to the bed while kissing her and exploring her body with her hands. She barely looked at her surroundings as they landed on the oversized bed. Charlotte was acutely aware that she was intruding into someone else’s space, but for the moment she only cared about the woman who lay under her and who was guiding and commanding her as though it had all been preplanned.
With her hand between Harriet’s legs, Charlotte kissed her pale skin, savoring the soft warmth against her lips. She trailed kisses up Harriet’s belly, between her breasts, and up the side of her neck, kissing on either side of the silver chain. Their eyes locked as they could both feel Harriet nearing climax.
Charlotte felt as though she were seeing the real Harriet for the first time, exposed in more than one way, her usual teasing smile and carefully controlled expression replaced by honest need. In those moments, Charlotte admitted to herself that she was feeling something deeper than lust.
After they were both thoroughly satiated, Harriet rose from the bed and pulled on a silky robe. Charlotte hadn’t previously noticed the robe, but its presence added to the feeling that Harriet had planned the morning to go exactly as it had. Charlotte began to gather her clothes to get dressed.
“If you’d like to take a shower, you’re welcome to use mine,” Harriet said.
Feeling emboldened from their lovemaking, Charlotte responded, “Join me.”
Harriet smiled, amused, but said, “Not today.”
“Does that mean you will another day?” Charlotte asked, smiling back.
“If you’re lucky,” Harriet replied, crossing the short distance between them to pull her into a long and tender kiss. “The shower’s through there,” Harriet finally said, gesturing to the small bathroom off the bedroom.
Charlotte gave in and retreated to the bathroom alone. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had two showers in one day. She relished in finding that the shower had steaming hot water, but she felt that she shouldn’t linger. The feeling of being in someone else’s house, the knowledge that she had just slept with someone else’s wife, was quickly putting her into a sober mood. Her shower didn’t last more than ten minutes, but she emerged to find that the house was empty. Somehow she wasn’t surprised. She quickly dressed and then let herself out.
Chapter Thirteen
For the next several days, the hours at work seemed to fly by. Charlotte found that her energy and motivation were renewed, and she tackled her project with an increased intensity. In her downtime, she felt herself happily relaxing, humming as she walked, savoring her private mental replays of the moments she had spent with Harriet. She knew there was something about the situation, about Harriet, that she couldn’t quite figure out. She had the distinct feeling that Harriet was trying very hard to keep some secret part of herself closed off, but Charlotte clung to the fleeting moment of when Harriet’s guard had come down. It gave her hope that Harriet would let her guard down again.
“Collins can’t stop raving about the good work you’re doing,” Joanna said at lunch, sitting on the bench under the flickering lights.
Charlotte gave a short laugh. “Not true. He isn’t allowed to talk about the work we do.”
“Well, he doesn’t talk about the details, of course, but he said you’re an innovative thinker, that your solutions show a kind of creativity that surprises even him,” Joanna said with a hint of some emotion that Charlotte couldn’t quite place. Was it admiration or jealousy?
Charlotte took a drink of soup from her company-issued thermos. “That’s nice of you to tell me,” she said.
Joanna shrugged. “What are friends for? I’m glad to see you’re finding a good fit in our lab. Maybe I’m being selfish, but I hope you’ll stick around,” Joanna said, smiling.
Charlotte felt a twinge of guilt at having suspected Joanna was jealous. She decided to change the subject and repent by confiding in her friend. “You may have been right about Harriet, by the way.”
“What do you mean?” Joanna asked.
“It’s just, I mean, you’re right that I like her,” Charlotte admitted. She felt Joanna tense and she began to second-guess her decision to confide in her. She added quickly, “But it’s nothing. There are lots of interesting, attractive women out there.” What was it that Maggie used to say? That’s right,
Throw out the shovel. You’re just digging yourself a deeper hole.
Charlotte could still hear Maggie’s voice telling her that, teasing her, but the situation felt more serious now. On top of that, her heart began to ache at the thought of Maggie. She pushed the thought of her dead wife from her mind.