Miserable Company

Florence only stares at her for a moment, dumbfounded by her response. She opens and closes her mouth a few times. This makes Maura laugh. "B-but it's a sin! Two women—it's against God's—"

"And defiling the sanctity of marriage is not? Miss Florence, I would see more harm if you had connected with a married man instead." Sensing the distress in Florence's heart, Maura places a comforting hand on her cheek. It is soft, and warm, and Maura finds it is comforting her as well.

Florence's heart is galloping in her chest. She hardly even knows what to say. As soon as Margaret's name fell out of her mouth she was sure she was going to be banished from Norfield, but Mrs. Daugherty is full of surprises, it seems, and now cups her cheek tenderly. And it all collapses on her at once, as she leans into that kind touch she has been deprived of for so long. How Mrs. Daugherty's entire figure glows from the fire, how her face softens, those crinkles at the corners of her eyes, the cascading flow of her dark hair, the curl of her pink lips.

She lifts her hand and places it on Mrs. Daugherty's wrist to steady herself as she closes her eyes. She cannot have these thoughts! These feelings! For anyone else in the world but heaven above, not for Mrs. Daugherty, her employer's wife! She swallows the lump in her throat and begins to pull away, to rise and busy herself with tidying things, perhaps beg for dismissal from Norfield entirely—

"Was she good to you?"

Florence's thoughts halt. She opens her eyes. They are glassy with tears. "Better than the Lord has ever been to me."

In Mrs. Daugherty's eyes, there flickers something desperate. Her whisper trembles with it. "You are good to me, Florence."

"Miss—"

"You have treated me better in a day than William has ever treated me in two years." The shake in her voice moves to her lower lip, and it quakes. A thumb strokes her cheekbone delicately. "Do you know how grateful I am?"

Florence tightens the grip she has on Mrs. Daugherty's wrist and takes a quivering breath in. She tries again, to stop this before she relives Halifax a second time. "Miss—"

But Maura is falling apart. Maura is falling apart and teartracks stripe her face as she presses her lips to Florence's. She is falling apart and she is blind. She is plunging into darkness and it feels so good, to not have to see what William does to her every day and just feel. And so she loses herself in a new place: in Florence, servant-girl, in her gentle quietness and her tender touch.

And Florence? Florence is ashamed to say any resistance is gone when Mrs. Daugherty kisses her. She can taste the salt and the anger and the bitterness in her softness. They are similar spirits, in that way. It is something they both share. It is something Florence wants to share with her.

It has been so long since she has connected with another. The desire to be with someone else awakens inside of her as she moves against Mrs. Daugherty's lips and Mrs. Daugherty moves against hers, and suddenly the feeling that she is not close enough overwhelms her. They break apart, catching their breath as it skitters across cheeks and lips. Mrs. Daugherty's forehead presses to hers, and for just an instant their frantic desperation and flailing misery pacifies as Mrs. Daugherty runs her fingers through Florence's silky hair and Florence brushes away the teardrops that roll from those precious eyes. The fire crackles and hisses. Florence takes the hand from her hair and strokes its fingers, inspecting each carefully as they quiver. She places a steadying kiss in its palm.

More tears drip onto the carpet after that. Florence looks up, worried. Mrs. Daugherty only shakes her head and twists her lips into a pained smile. "You are so good to me," she whispers over and over again between kisses, "you are so good to me."

"My Lady—"

"No." Mrs. Daugherty pulls back and holds Florence's face in both her hands, and looks at her like her life depends on it. "Maura. Just Maura. Nothing else."

Florence's mind flashes to Halifax. It's Margaret, she had said with a kind smile, just Margaret. She nods in silent understanding. Maura doesn't need to be a Miss, or a Missus, or a Lady. She doesn't need to hear the fake title of formality. She needs to feel who she really is. To be recognized and understood as her bare, true self. Maura. Just Maura. And nothing else.

Maura's kisses bear brazenness after that. Though neither of them is particularly graceful in their grief—there is the bumping of noses and the scraping of teeth—they have become the fire that eats ravenously at the wood beside them. They taste mourning between their sliding tongues, merge two very different sorrows with threaded fingers, exchange silent words of loss with desperation swirling in their eyes. Florence laments the loss of her family in Halifax, though she is certain they do not grieve for her. Maura mourns her marriage. Its corpse clings to her left ring finger uselessly.

Their clawing exploration broadens to breasts and bellies. Florence's hands slip downward, trailing fingers over the thin nightgown as they feel the fullness there. Maura's gasping and trembling urges Florence on as her small hands find their way underneath the sheer fabric. Her nails lightly drag over the skin, inching slowly upward until they reach the underside of a breast.

Florence pauses hesitantly, and looks up at Maura for confirmation. Maura's breathing stammers. Her throat bobs as she swallows. Florence does not, will not push forward until she has Maura's word.

Maura cannot will herself to speak. Her thoughts are a muddled mess, and somewhere among it all a little voice named Common Sense screeches in protest, throwing scarlet rose petals in the air, warning her with things she thought earlier, but amidst the roar of blood in her ears and the throbbing of her body, they are lost like a shout in the wind. And now her lungs play tug-of-war in her throat, and her heart stutters, and all she wants to do is press her breast closer to Florence's gentle hand.

Unable to form the words, she grabs Florence's hand from outside the nightgown, guides her palm directly over her breast, and holds it there. Her eyes darken as she takes in another heaving, shaking breath. "Please," she breathes, clutching Florence's hand tighter. "Please."

In one fluid motion, Florence moves her hands to lift the nightgown from Maura's body and pushes her backwards to the plush carpet, reclaiming her mouth with a deep kiss. In between gasps and soft moans, Maura tries desperately to return the affection, but Florence's servant dress bars her from any attempt. She whines in frustration, pulling at the fabric in vain.

Her broken pleas brush against Florence's ear as they press together close. "I need to feel..."

Wordlessly, Florence stands up and, with shaking hands, divests herself until she is down to her simple stockings and chemise. Her nerves prickle under her skin as she realizes the reality of the situation. She stands over Maura, only clad her underthings; Maura's bare chest rises and falls, heavy with desire, and she stares at her with utmost intent. The lust is blinding her—it clouds her deep brown eyes like smoke.

Perhaps that is what Maura wishes. But something in the back of Florence's mind tells her that every fire, no matter how large, eventually burns out and the smoke soon clears, whisked away by the wind, and you are forced to collapse into the ashes of the flames' destruction, to look upon the charred remains and either weep or flee.

In the silence weighted by lust and laments, the fireplace crackles.

Florence strips herself of the rest of her unmentionables, and dares not kneel back down upon Maura. The hunger in her eyes keeps her frozen in place. For a moment, a wave of shame surges in her chest, but she sees the way that Maura licks her lips and it vanishes.

"I need you," Maura whimpers. The desperate request has a violent warmth blooming in her abdomen. Her knees shake, but Maura's eyes haven't left her form and she is paralyzed.

"Florence." It's soft and broken and stressed and Maura needs this, needs Florence, and just like that she is atop her again, except there is no fabric to separate their bare skin. Simultaneously they gasp, and Maura arches into the delicious contact. Never has she felt another so wholly, never has she felt every sensation in such exactness: Florence's fingers sliding from her breast down her side and back up to her breast again, her soft lips against her neck, the thigh that is slowly making its way between her opening legs, the light brushing of their bellies...it is as if every sense has been heightened. She feels everything distinctly, and all at once.

The pulsing fire pooling downward cries out for relief. She tries to pull Florence closer to her, whispers her servant's name frantically against the shell of her ear, hoping she understands, Florence, Florence, Florence, oh how it aches, that wanting thing swelling down below!

Florence's thigh presses deliberately there, then, and Maura cannot help a cry. She can feel Florence smiling against her skin before she draws a taut nipple into her mouth—oh! Maura arches again into her, hands clawing at the carpet with a much different kind of desperation. Never before did she think she could feel anything so exquisite as her tongue swirls about it, causing bolts of pleasure to gallop straight down her chest and to her center.

Florence cannot lie. She has missed this so. Thighs, bellies, breasts, necks, cheeks...the enveloping softness of a woman calls out to her, and she answers it eagerly, drinking up Maura's gasps and moans like water, but they soon turn to wine. Her entire body is alight, tingling with excitement as Maura places kisses everywhere she can reach and begs in her ear with ragged, warm breaths.

"I need...I need—"

She slows her ministrations so Maura can find the words. Maura continues to stammer as Florence lifts her head from a breast and searches her eyes. She is hesitant to say it aloud.

But there is a wicked little streak of selfishness in Florence's gentle heart, and even though she knows exactly what Maura needs, she refuses to give it until she hears the words. Her body throbs and lust roars against her flesh, but she is patient, and she looks at Maura's distraught face expectantly.

Maura's tongue darts out to wet her lips nervously. This wanting feeling that burns and coils in the pit of her stomach knows exactly what it needs, but it hits a lump in her throat. A lady would never be caught saying such things. A small, knowing glimmer flickers in Florence's olive eyes, and yet she does nothing. It is as if she is waiting.

She jumps and bites her lower lip when a finger taps the inside of her thigh twice. A question. Maura nods. "Please."

But Florence only gives her a look that says Please, what? and she knows then that it is intentional. The little beast! But she cannot bring herself to feel any spite, really, when her body is aflame as it is now. She places her hands on Florence's sides and squeezes. A plea. And even though Florence trembles a little, she does not move forward.

Maura takes a deep breath in and closes her eyes. "I need—I need you...inside," she finally manages.

A finger brushes against her entrance, and her eyes fly open. A sinful moan slithers from her lips like a crimson serpent and reverberates in her chest. Florence surely feels this, for now she has returned to kissing all over: collarbone, shoulders, breasts, nipples. The finger slips inside, and Maura realizes just how grateful for Florence she is—for if she hadn't kissed her mouth just then, she would've cried out loudly enough for all of Northern Yorkshire to hear.

Florence keeps Maura quiet as she works at her center. She stifles the smile that wants to spread across her face, how long it has been since she has felt the inside of a woman! The smooth, velvet softness, the wetness, the divine feeling of knowing she can feel you as well—she throws herself into it all. Her finger slips out, Maura whines, and just as it slides back in again she moans against her lips, beseeching her for more.

And so she gives more. Two fingers next, and she knows better than to try and use kisses to keep Maura quiet. Her keen eye spies the telltale broadening of her ribcage, and her free hand rises to cover Maura's mouth just as she is about to scream with pleasure. The air hisses out of her nose instead, and she whimpers deliciously against her palm.

When Florence removes her hand and moves her head down to the crook of Maura's neck, she worships the skin there, ravishing it with opened-mouth kisses. Maura chokes out a moan that is a pitch higher than the last. Florence's fingers move faster, harder, deeper. Maura's hips buck erratically. She is close.

Maura's head tosses back. "Florence, please!"

Florence breathes heavily against Maura's neck, pushes her fingers all the way in, and curls them inside as her thumb finds her pearl just above and presses against it. She surges forward and grasps the side of Maura's head and covers her mouth with her own.

Maura's entire body seizes up. It is all she can do to release cracked whines as she digs her nails into Florence's skin; her eyes screw shut and lights and scarlet flowers explode behind their lids. Inside of her, Florence curls again, beckoning another wave of pleasure to come to her fingers, right on top of the first. The fire races white hot up her belly, sears across her ribcage and coils around her neck, behind her ears; it prowls down her legs all the way to her curling toes and up again—Florence!

Florence gradually brings Maura down from her high by stroking her wet entrance gently, dipping her fingers only barely into the folds, tracing them softly as she kisses Maura tenderly by the crackling fire. She thinks of herself, then, and how she too was close but never came, but she pushes it aside. There will be time for that in her own bed, by her own hand.

It takes a good moment or two for Maura to finally catch her breath. Strands of her long, dark hair are stuck together against her pale face. The fire throws shadows against her sloping cheeks and makes the sheen of sweat shine faintly. She opens her eyes and places a shaking hand against Florence's cheek. No words, just that simple gesture. Her chest still heaves, but slower now. She lets out a contented hum and relaxes her body.

"You are so good to me," Maura whispers, and places a kiss on Florence's lips. Florence does not return it, and turns away. Reality shakes her awake first. Silently, she rises and begins putting on her things.

Leaning back on her elbows, still sprawled out naked the day she was born, still caught in the fantasy, Maura watches. The smoke hasn't cleared yet, but it will—and when it does, Florence does not know what will happen. Will Maura weep, or will she flee? She sneaks a glance at her. Her heart aches. What a handsome woman! And even with the sharpness of her face, her eyes bear gentleness. Her heart aches for the good days at Halifax again as she takes in her swan-like neck, the swell of her chest, the curve of her sides, the patch of dark, curling hair where her legs meet—

She cannot have such a thing ever again. Never. She saw full well the ring on Maura's finger, glinting in the light of the fire. She knows reality well, and she scowls in its face. If she must live with this hell, Maura must too.

Florence walks over to the vanity to fix her disheveled hair. Silence hangs heavy in the air, but the bitterness and anger—that misery they both share—seeps into it. She peers at Maura through the mirror. Her eyes are somewhere far off again, distant and thinking. The smoke is gone.

Maura lays on the floor pathetically while Florence makes herself presentable again. That wonderful, blinding feeling is burnt to a crisp, and all that remains is what she can see too clearly in front of her: Florence trying to discreetly wipe her two fingers on the side of her dress, and her own glistening, naked body. Naked. She remembers herself and snatches her nightgown from the floor, slips it on without a word. It is no use. She still feels like Florence has seen every bit of her, and as she sits her hands fall in her lap and tears well up against her eyes because it hits her too fast like a slap to the face.

Her wedding band shines in the light of the fire. Maura wishes for nothing more at that moment than to take the bloody thing and toss it out the window, but that would not change anything. It would not take back what she has already done. Not only has she become her husband, she has been unfaithful with a woman—a woman! Will the Lord smite her in her bed tonight, and punish her for defiling the sanctity of marriage with such an unnatural act?

Perhaps that is why the Lord has not punished William yet. He is unfaithful to her, yes, but he does so through more natural acts, with other women. But she—she is the worst sinner. She has gone against the Lord's ways and broken the covenant once in the worst way possible—though her husband has broken it more than she.

Florence can see the gleaming tears that roll down Maura's cheeks, and she fights the urge to comfort her. She will not. Her will must be iron. Her resolve must be firm. The fire has died and she must force Maura to look at the blackened remains of what they have destroyed. There is a price. Maura must determine for herself if it was worth paying.

She does not worry about the Lord. Let the Lord bring down His hand against her, for all she cares. She left God in Halifax, and Halifax is nothing but ashes now. Let the Lord burn in that forsaken Hell, for that was where He forsook her.

Taking one look-over in the mirror, she deems herself presentable enough to step outside of Maura's chambers. Silently, she walks across the room, fighting the temptation to turn around, and places her hand on the doorknob.

"Florence." It is desperate and shaking, just like Florence found her. She takes a deep breath in and does not turn her head.

"Have a good evening, Miss. Rest well." She opens the door, slips through, and closes it before she can change her mind.

Her heart twists as Maura's sobs finally break, muffled through the door. She is grieving. Grieving the loss of her untarnished soul, previously untainted by the unnatural acts of the Devil's making. Grieving her long-dead marriage, perhaps twisting the band around her finger, yet still unwilling to remove it. Grieving her old title as victim. Even the servants knew Mr. Daugherty is unfaithful to his wife. But now she can no longer take that stance, even if no one knows of their connection tonight, because Maura will still know, deep in her sinner heart. The guilt will eat at her. She is a sinner. Just as bad a sinner as Florence is.

Florence leaves Maura on the floor, and Maura weeps. Maura runs her fingers through the ashes of everything that she has burned and weeps violently. Her hypocrisy lingers like a bitter taste on her tongue. The Lord can see her now, for the sinning soul she is. She has abandoned His image of her, she has been twisted by her own misery. She does not try to ask for forgiveness.

She can hardly forgive herself.

And each time moments from that terribly pleasurable time with Florence creep back into her thoughts, she casts them away with a cry and a hand to her brow. When did the Lord have to make sin so lovely? Why must she suffocate in the knowledge of her husband, and then turn herself worse than him? Damn it all, why did it have to feel so satisfying? Why must she succumb to the worst of sins for a sliver of happiness? Why must He torture her so?