Elizabeth 09: Legacy

The following morning, I did two things before hunkering down for more work on my thesis. First I e-mailed the Cambridge alumni office to see about contact information for Agnes Wright, having made an educated guess about her graduation year from Ms. Marlston's journal entry. Second, I went to the barbershop in the high street for the most expensive coif I'd ever shelled out for. Based on Ruth's encouraging feedback about her friend and her interest in me, I wanted to look good for Darla! Though I'd been spending too much money lately already, I threw caution to the wind and also bought a designer shirt for that evening.

That money proved well-spent, as Darla was looking absolutely gorgeous when I met her in the lobby of the Old Town Café. Her slinky black dress was a great match for my new shirt, and it looked as though she'd had her hair done for the occasion as well. Best of all, she looked delighted at my appearance. "Ben!" she said, jumping up from the old-fashioned looking sofa by the maitre d's desk. "You're looking fabulous tonight!"

"That makes two of us!" I quipped. "I've been looking forward to this." I kissed her cheek and took her arm in mine, and we headed for the dining room.

"You're sweet," she said. "I'll have you know, you made a wonderful impression on Ruth. She's my rock, you know, we've been through a lot together."

"I gathered as much." Then our conversation was interrupted briefly as the hostess marked Darla's name off in her book and led us to our booth in a quiet corner of the dining room. Along the way, I got a good look at the surroundings: old style, clearly restored to the look of a bygone era. All at once I put two and two together. "Say, Darla, Ruth gave me a book of some stories Agnes Marlston wrote about her days here with her friends, and there's a café they used to frequent-"

"This is it!" Darla said with a triumphant smile as she settled herself across the table from me. "That's why I decided to bring you here, Ben, I was sure you'd want to see it. It's one of the first places in the street that were restored when the big renovation project picked up, and since she made it famous in her columns, they did it up to look like it did back then." She pointed to photos on the far wall. "You can see over there how it changed in the meantime, how it got to be really seedy like most of the street, and it was even closed down for a while - most of the block was - but they did a great job of restoring it. They even have live jazz on weekends, just like back then."

"Have you read that book Ruth gave me, then?" I asked. I had brought it along in my satchel, planning to lend it to her if she was interested.

"No," she said, "But I talked to Ruth last night, and she said I just had to bring you here because you were going to have read all about the place."

"She was right," I said, gazing around in amazement. "I feel like I visited this place a dozen times last night. Oh, speaking of which..." I drew out the manuscript. "Would you like to read it as well?"

"You haven't finished it already, have you?!"

"No, but I'm happy to share it. I've got other work to do first, and I loved what I've read so far, so it's just as well I've got that to look forward to later and it's not sitting in my room tempting me away from my studies."

"Well, thank you," Darla said, and she took the book from me and perused it briefly. "Now tell me, did you learn what you wanted to about this Elizabeth lady?"

"Some," I said. "Lots of mentions of her in Ms. Marlston's archives. It's a start. I did get in touch with a granddaughter of hers, named after Agnes Marlston as it happens, so I'm hoping she might be able to tell me just who Elizabeth really was and what became of her."

"Wow, Ben, you e-mailed a stranger asking about her grandmother and she wrote back?"

"Remember, we're distantly related. Third cousins once removed, I guess. Besides, my great grandmother's name opens doors. This Agnes lives in London and she said she'd love to share some memories of her grandmother. I'd already been thinking of taking the train over there for a weekend to see the real painting at the Shoenfeld, so I can do this on the same trip."

"The Shoenfeld," Darla said. "You know, I've always wanted to go there but never wanted to suggest it to any of my girlfriends. Would you mind terribly if I came along?"

"I was afraid you'd never ask," I grinned.

"The feeling is mutual, that's why I asked you!" she retorted, and we shared a laugh. "Just tell me, Ben, what is it about you and Elizabeth? She's been dead for years, presumably, and all you know about her is this painting. Why the sudden obsession?"

I'd been wondering about that myself, and that day I'd hit upon the answer. "My great grandmother was my hero, and I get the impression she was Westfordshire City's hero, too, and it seems like Elizabeth made her who she was. Agnes Marlston, too. So it seems only fair that someone knows something about the woman who inspired these two other women to become heroes in the first place, doesn't it?"

"Well said," Darla agreed. "And that painting is amazing too, isn't it?"

I couldn't disagree with that, but it seemed to be sending the conversation in an inappropriate direction. So I turned our attention to deciding what to order, and to getting to know Darla better. Both worked out quite well for the next couple of hours as we ate and drank and chatted and laughed. It went well enough that I'd forgotten the saucy turn the conversation had almost taken by the time we walked out into the humid summer night, and I had no qualms about asking if I could walk her home.

"You certainly can," she said. "I live three blocks off the high street, this way." She pointed up the street, and led me around the corner and up the hill. On the last block before we got to her building, she slipped her hand in mine. "So when is this trip happening?" she asked.

"Next Monday, maybe?" I suggested. It was Thursday and I would need the weekend to catch up on my work, and Agnes Wright had said she wasn't available over the weekend anyway. "It'll give us something to look forward to about Monday for once, won't it?"

"More than one thing, I'd say, Ben," Darla said as she drew to a stop outside what I gathered was her building. She slipped her arms around me and said, "Thanks so much for dinner and for loaning me the book. I can't wait to read this stuff!"

"You're very welcome," I said, and returned her embrace. "The trip should be a lot of fun."

Darla drew back from me, though she was still smiling. "Ben, is there a reason why you're not pursuing me more here?"

I couldn't help chuckling. "Because I respect you?" I offered. "It's only been two dates, or really one and a half, I guess."

"You're sweet," she said. "As long as it's only that."

"What else would it be?"

"Lack of interest, I guess," she said. "I mean, we get along great, and there's all this sex stuff about your ancestors and Elizabeth, but you're always so circumspect about it all. Most men would only want to talk about that, and you avoid it!"

"Just seemed like the appropriate thing to do," I said, "And it still does, really. But for what it's worth, you knocked my socks off in that swimsuit on the first day."

Darla looked at the ground and giggled. "That's more like it, Ben!" she said. "And thank you for not saying that right away. Just...I like you, okay? A lot."

"Same here," I said. "I can't wait for the trip. So in London, shall I book one room or two?"

"What do you think?" And she fairly threw herself at me for a kiss that had me barely seeing straight on the walk back to my room.

We e-mailed each other a few times over the weekend and there were tentative plans for lunch one day, but things got in the way and I didn't see her again until the appointed hour on Monday. I was in the train station lobby admiring ancient photographs of the building and trains when she arrived with a playful tap on my left shoulder while standing at my right. "Let me guess, you're imagining your great grandmother in the pictures?" she asked.

"She quite possibly is in one of them," I said.

"I know," Darla said. "I read the stories, and there are a couple of scenes here, aren't there?"

"You read them all?" I asked as we headed for the gate. "No wonder you were busy all weekend!"

"They went on forever all right, but it was worth it! So many beautiful scenes, and the sex was..." She dissolved into laughter. "Well, it was intense."

"I know," I said. "I did read some of those." Sensing the coast was clear to do so, I admitted, "And I had the same reaction to them that it sounds like you had."

"I'm quite sure that's the point," Darla said. "Lots more of that to talk about when we've got some privacy, right?"

"Absolutely."

The conversation on the train was somewhat less racy, but just chatting with her had me revved up throughout the ride. We got into Marylebone in time for a late lunch, dropped off our luggage at the hotel, and then it was off to the Shoenfeld.

I wasn't sure just what to expect in an erotic art museum, but the Shoenfeld certainly lived up to that label! The walls were lined with paintings of exaggerated buttocks and vulvas swathed in flowers and too many couples wrapped up in one another to count, some beautiful, some distasteful, some both I suppose. "Never really been my thing, I've got to admit," I said to Darla as we strolled through the hall.

"I like it a bit," she replied. "But I could use a lot more spice than this, honestly." Once again I was surprised at her. Rather than try to say anything in response, I took her hand and was rewarded with an affectionate squeeze.

In a far corner of the second floor, next to a cartoonish painting of a woman in fishnets hugging a penis-shaped tree, we found Elizabeth Reclining. "Here it is," I said, gazing up at the beautiful painting I had all but memorized by then.

"I do see their point about how maybe it's not really an erotic painting," Darla said. "I mean, it's a nude, but compared to some of these other ones..."

"It's not really just a nude, you know," came a voice over our shoulders, and I turned to see a young woman dressed in a coat of the museum's trademark pink and black. "The exaggerated pubic area is a statement on female sexuality run amok, or perhaps of sexual frustration in an era when women weren't free to embrace their sexuality fully. It's slowly taking over her body because she can't address it the way she really wants to."

"How do we know that, though?" I asked. "Did Edward Morton ever say so?"

"He doesn't seem to have said anything about it," our new friend went on. "But the consensus is he was making a statement of some sort by making her so hairy, and that's the most widely accepted interpretation of what that statement was."

"Has anyone considered the possibility that the real Elizabeth really did look like that, though?" Darla asked.

"Not that I know of," the woman said. "I mean, look at her. How could that be real?!"

"How could that be real?!" I mimicked several minutes later when Darla and I were safely outside. "Good God, how sad is it that even in a porn museum they're that narrow minded?"

"Very," Darla agreed. "But it's not worth getting worked up over, is it?"

"I kind of think it is!" I said. "I mean, now that we know this was a real person who really looked like that..."

"And we know she was bullied for it, too," Darla continued.

"I hadn't read that part yet," I said.

"Oh, she was," Darla said. "It sounds like the defining experience of her life. That's how she became such an inspiration to other women, because she had to learn to believe in herself first against all odds."

"Doesn't the world deserve to know that? Or at least the people who come see that painting?"

Darla thought about it for a moment as we walked. "Yes," she said at last. "Yeah, they really do. I wonder is there any chance of getting those stories published?"

And from that moment on, I vowed to do what I could to make that happen. If they needed permission from a descendant of Irene Wright, they had it - from me.

Darla had my permission, too, once we got back to the hotel room. But like the new and uncertain lovers we were, nothing much happened beyond some shy grins as we settled our suitcases at the foot of the bed. "Fancy a shower after the long ride?" I suggested.

"Great idea," she said. I very nearly worked up the courage to ask if she wanted to shower together, but before I could, she said, "Mind if I go first?"

"Course not," I said, and I sat back on the couch and clicked on the television to wait.

"Thanks!" she said. "I don't know just what it is, but I've been feeling kind of grungy in these clothes for a while now." She was standing around the corner and out of my sight, just inside the room door, and I was wonderfully aware of her undressing. I even heard the jangle of her belt buckle as her jeans hit the floor. But I managed to resist the temptation to look around the corner. Though I had the distinct impression she wanted me to do so, I focused instead on the Friends rerun I'd stumbled upon. After what I assumed was the last of her clothes hitting the floor, there were a few seconds of delicious silence, and then I heard the bathroom door creak and saw the reflection of the light coming on.

With the show utterly unable to hold my attention, I got up and retrieved the manuscript from where Darla had left it. I opened it randomly and skimmed until the next racy scene. Appropriately, perhaps, it took place on a train. How I wished Darla and I had had a private compartment on today's trip! But nevertheless I was able to live vicariously while I waited for Darla to finish her shower.

I was so engrossed in the tale that I didn't notice when she did finish, only when she stepped out into the room dressed in a towel. "Lost in the past again, are we?" she asked.

"And how!" I replied, looking up only for a split second to acknowledge her.

"Not for long, I think!" Darla said. Then I heard a plop on the floor, and looked up to see she had dropped her towel.

"Darla!" I hastily set the manuscript on the bedside table and leapt up, drinking in the view of her body. "You're - beautiful!"

"Thank you!" she said. "But are you only going to look, my dear?" She lay back on the bed, spreading her legs and still grinning up at me.

"No way!" I climbed onto the bed again, and she opened her arms - but I had other ideas.

Darla wasn't Elizabeth, but she was natural and beautiful and I wrapped my arms around her legs and dove in with my tongue. Drawn into her bush as if to a magnet, I lost no time in treating her clit to a luxurious lick. "Ohooooo!" she squealed, grinding her hips up at me, as I probed about with my lips and tongue. "Good thing I didn't shave this week, huh!"

I answered yes indeed, but it came out only as a hum, which delighted her even more.

"Ooooooh! Do that again!"

I did, with equally wonderful results, then went back to teasing her clit and lips with my tongue. When that alone didn't appear to quite get her off, I let go of her leg with my right arm and eased one finger into her very wet pussy.

In no time, she was screeching with joy and squeezing my head between her thighs. "Thank youuuu," she exhaled as I finally drew my finger out and sat up. "Now get your clothes off already!"

I laughed a bit and eagerly pulled my shirt off, then stood up and made fast work of my pants and boxers, which were christened with my precum by then. Climbing back onto the bed, I barely had the time to wipe my face with my shirt before she pulled me fiercely up against her and her mouth on mine again. I felt her unseen hand grab my cock and drive me urgently inside her. "Unh, that's so good," she grunted.

And boy, was it! As I pushed in and out with abandon, her responses were absolute music to my ears. I hadn't had sex in a couple of years, what with one thing and another. Darla didn't need to know that. But I suspected she might well have guessed it from the adoring way I looked at her face as she got lost in the throes of two or three more orgasms before I came with a yelp as well.

"Thanks, I needed that in the worst way!" she said once we'd caught our breath, still clutching me warm and wet inside her. "All those red hot stories in the book, and you've been playing so hard to get!"

"I have not!" I said. "I just...didn't want to come on too hard when we'd just met, is all."

"Really sweet of you, Ben, I mean that," she said. "But there's a point when you ought to come on hard." Squeezing me tightly within as my hardness subsided, she said, "But I've got to admit you came through on that in the end!"

We enjoyed an afternoon nap, with the television buzzing away utterly forgotten.

I'd set a date with Agnes Wright at a coffee shop at six, and as if on cue I woke up just past five. Darla mumbled a mild protest as I extricated myself from her embrace to stumble to the shower. But she was dressed and ready to go by the time I got out. "Now my turn to admire you," she joked as I tossed my towel on the desk chair and strolled nude to my suitcase.

"I hope you enjoy it as much as I did," I said.

"And how! Now, what are you planning on telling this Ms. Wright?"

"The truth. That her grandmother was a remarkable woman and I just want to learn a little more about who she was."

"You're not going to ask about the stories?"

"We'll see if the conversation takes that turn," I said.

It was one of those uniquely London late afternoons, warm yet damp and abuzz with pedestrians of every imaginable appearance, as we made our way to the meeting. I had little doubt the coffee shop would be crowded and I was concerned about my ability to recognize a woman I had only maybe seen in a childhood photo from decades before, but there was nothing to be done about that. In any event, when we entered the shop and a tall, middle-aged woman with dark curly hair looked up at me and tapped at a shoebox on the table before her, I had little doubt we'd made contact.

"Ms. Wright?" I asked, stepping up to her table with Darla just behind me.

"Yes!" She stood up and shook my hand and Darla's in turn. "But call me Agnes, please. I can't tell you how thrilled I was to hear from a relative of Auntie Irene's! She was such an amazing woman, and I didn't really appreciate how amazing until after she was gone!"

"I've got to apologize here, 'Auntie Irene'...was she your aunt?" I'd been trying to untangle a lot of that myself of late.

"She was my grandfather's cousin, so no. But I always called her that. We only saw her every couple of years when I was a girl, but the stories we heard about all she was doing for Westfordshire City and for the children there when they needed it most...Well, Ben, she was my hero. Simple as that."

"Did you go to Yarmouth?" I asked her.

"I wanted to, but it was absolutely verboten in our family. My grandmother had a bad experience there, I guess, but no one seemed to know just why. The secret died with her, I suppose." At this I chanced a sidelong glance at Darla, who shook her head almost imperceptibly, as if to say no, the secret didn't die with Elizabeth. I had quite a good idea of just what that secret was, too, but I was hardly going to discuss that with her granddaughter!

Instead, I said, "I understand, and as a matter of fact, it was because of your grandmother that I wanted to meet you. I've been doing some research on Agnes Marlston for my PhD-"

"I'm named after her, you know," Agnes said.

"I do know, yes," I replied. "In any event, your grandmother comes up quite a lot in her papers, and she seems to have been Agnes Marlston's greatest inspiration. So I'm hoping to learn a bit more about her."