The Fair Tea Maker

"Surely everyone is aware of the divine pleasures which attend a wintry fireside; candles at four o'clock, warm hearthrugs, tea, a fair tea-maker, shutters closed, curtains flowing in ample draperies to the floor, whilst the wind and rain are raging audibly without."

This is the writing of Thomas de Quincey in his 'Confessions of an Opium Eater.' Words which speak to us of comfort and security in a cold, dark winter. Summer may be hot and languid with its delights but the pleasures of an open hearth, a hearty fire, a comfortable room and tea poured by a 'fair tea-maker' are equally, if not more, attractive.

The author imagines a painter to save himself the trouble of too much verbal description, "Paint me, then, a room seventeen feet by twelve, and not more than seven and a half feet high." He imagines it a library. "Make it populous with books, and, furthermore, paint me a good fire, and furniture plain and modest, befitting the unpretending cottage of a scholar. And near the fire paint me a tea-table, and (as it is clear that no creature can come to see one on such a stormy night) place only two cups and saucers on the tea-tray."

He explains that no one else can come through the winter's night to his white cottage; a cottage he sets it in a valley eighteen miles from any town; a valley two miles long and three quarters of a mile in width surrounded by mountains some three to four thousand feet high. He is cut off from other human contact apart from his sole companion. He subtly develops her features as he focuses, very English like on his tea which he sees as a refined stimulant and the favourite beverage of the intellectual, "I usually drink tea from eight o'clock at night to four o'clock in the morning. And as it is very unpleasant to make tea or to pour it out for oneself, paint me a lovely young woman sitting at the table. Paint her arms like Aurora's and her smiles like Hebe's."

The picture is enticing. A man, an intellectual no doubt, cut off from the world with just a fair companion. Perhaps because of his time, de Quincey does not develop the possibilities but we are left with the enticing image of his fair companion, a lovely young woman, who sits with him at the tea table, a table plain and modest, perhaps such as Gustav Stickley might have wrought of plain sawn oak, and pours his tea. Is her hair long but neatly held, is her dress white or blue - it is surely long - are her fingers slender and her smile sweet?

Does the picture become, perhaps, a little more enticing as we focus on the image? Do we need the long dress - white or blue - does her hair need to be neatly held? It is the warmth and intimacy of the cottage and the fireside which speaks and the lovely young woman. Imagine it is yourself, comfortably seated there by the fire. Not in the casual so-called comfortable clothes of our age but the formal suiting of an older time, neck-tie or cravat, it matters not, but you are well attired in this unpretending cottage; you are seated by the fireside; outside it may well be snow, or black frost, or wind so strong that, "you may lean your back against it like a post." A Canadian winter or a Russian but bring to your ear just a little sound outside of cold wind to make the inside, and a fire warmed inside at that, a place of security, comfort and pleasure.

Do we then dispense with the young woman's clothing, the fireside is, after all, warm enough for that, do we not think this lack will add to our feelings of comfort and pleasure? Do we ask her to dispense with her clothing; will the observation of the careful disrobing in the warm glow of the fire add to our repose?

How then shall we visualise her? The author writes too sparsely. Is her hair fair or dark? Is it titian maybe? Is she tall, are her eyes blue? Is her bosom full, her hips wide and what of her intimate parts? Do we need more detail of those - careful words of a descriptive nature? What do we need to know to finish this picture of winter comfort? Does it need some speculation as to the cause of the happy scene? Let us think then.

Dr. Angorus Mutluyorsun shook the snow from his long riding cloak. It had been hard going across the pass. Not easy at the best of times but with the coming of winter verging on the treacherous but he had promised himself the pleasure of winter at Nareemburg accompanied by a particular and lovely young woman and he was not one to break his promises: certainly least of all those to himself. Hard going for a man driving a carriage. He should, of course, have brought servants. Their lack would result in the bother of seeing to the horses through the long winter but his desire had been clear and uncluttered. A winter at Nareemburg completely alone with Silene.

Silene, just the name brought numerous emotions to the surface of his mind. Lust of course, how could it not be so? But other tenderer emotions striving for dominance. It had been a bitter blow when she had married ________, a bitter blow after his own long suit. It had been icy daggers to him to imagine them together in the flower strewn wedding bed on that first night of their so unwelcome nuptials; it had pierced him to the heart to even think of that man untying the bows that had held her so pretty dress together and worst of all the deflowering of his so fair Silene by the unworthy _______. He had cried in anguish at the thought of her alone in bed with that man, the man who had bested him in the search for her hand. Could he not see in every waking moment her white limbs opening to receive that man, her lips seeking his, her hand seeking... the imagery too awful to contemplate but yet there in his mind. And to think of that man's lance taking a tilt at her maidenhead; the stabbing push and the eventual piercing - the pain and then the pleasure which he and not _______ should have been the perpetrator. The pain was his, a dagger through his heart.

Even on that black night, the darkest blackest night for him, a plan had begun to form. A stratagem slowly refined and polished over the hot, slow days of the summertime, a time when he had to endure observing Silene and her new husband walking in the shade, her parasol held high as her lovely tinkling laughter came to him at his window.

It had, in the event, all been so easy, a little trick and Silene had been in his carriage. A small, alleged restorative offered for her to drink but containing a draught of an opiate from the renowned chemist, Herr Gut____, a clatter through the narrow streets and out into the clear countryside and the long road to Nareemburg. Was he a fool to have despatched that message? So unnecessary. Would it not have been better if Silene had seemingly disappeared into thin air. But he had not wanted the putative husband merely to worry, to suffer the anguish of not knowing what had happened to his dear, dear young wife. No, it was far better that he should know the truth. How he would rail when he read the note and discover the intention but not know the place. _________ knew nothing of Nareemburg, did not know of the unpretending cottage, could search all through the cruel winter but would not find Silene and by then it would be too late - far too late. The deed would be done; more than done; done many, many times.

Inside his fur coat, carefully wrapped in silk was the phial; prepared so carefully by Herr Gut_______; Essencia, no less, but with a tincture of something more. Silene would be pliable: Silene would wish to be pliable; it would not be freely given but given it would be! Already the draught was at work. He had paused outside the town, on the long empty road as the horses had stamped and snorted and between Silene's pretty lips he had poured just a little of the laced Essencia. In her sleep she had drunk the sweetness. The conflict between loyalty and desire, between duty and passion, between love and lust would have begun.

The excitement of the ride, the icy road, the climbs and the passes, the several near mishaps and then the straight road across the valley floor with the snow swirling. At last the cottage in view in a sea of white. Silene had known none of this, had slept the sleep of the young and good, all wrapped in furs within the coach. The deep snow had been difficult on the lonely road, almost too deep to pass. He had left it late, very late. Such a terrible risk that he might have lost dear Silene, buried with him within the coach in drifts of snow. Frozen together until the spring thaw. But a prize so great, winter alone with Silene and that cursed ______ unable to reach Silene, even if her accursed could discover their whereabouts - which he could not!

Around the cottage a maelstrom of snow had swirled as he had lifted Silene gently from the coach and laid her within on the brass bed. Beautiful things, both Silene and the linen sheets upon the bed. It was the only bed in the cottage. That was in keeping with what he intended. She would not sleep alone.

He had stood looking down at Silene, at her fair features at rest in sleep, before tending, as a man must, to the welfare of the horses. The rubbing down and settling in the stables. A good feed at the end of a hard day. Beasts content to find themselves dry and warm together inside a familiar stable. Horses are herd animals - they like to be with other horses. He had lit a fire in his library.

" Dr. Mutluyorsun!" Her voice sleepy and soft. "Where, why?"

Let us move closer, let us hear his thoughts, the thoughts of the scholar obsessed with a woman. He has brought her to his lonely and, now, snowbound cottage. He has ensured all is well for the comfort of two persons. The logs are piled high, there is food and fine wine and a comfortable bed.

It was easy. Silene so trusting; so readily accepting my explanation with equanimity; that we had been unable to reach her husband, the way blocked, though we had tried another way, and another without success and had sought shelter, driven further and further from the town by the so dark clouds and approaching snow until reaching my scholarly retreat from the world; the weather terrible; she had clearly been fatigued, had slept and had missed the terrors of the journey; a blessing; was she recovered?

So sweet, so innocent and trusting; so beautiful; so desirable, her bosom rising and falling with her breath.

"Drink this; it is a restorative, dear Silene. Essencia no less. I am so sorry we are trapped here."

A terrible lie. I was quite overcome with delight at how we found ourselves.

She drank. A little more colour to her cheeks. A little further down the journey I had chosen for her. Her mind a little less her own, a little more pliable.

"Where are we, dear Dr. Mutluyorsun?"

The joy in the word 'dear.' But I knew she regarded me with affection: it was, I knew, something of a sisterly affection rather than an amorous desire. It had not been what I had wanted.

A hand offered and Silene rose from the bed.

"It is only an unpretentious cottage, small but comfortable. Not at all the grand house but the only way open lead to here. The snow was terrible. It would not have been wise to have stayed on the road."

Silene clapped her hands at the sight of my small library and stood by the fire looking around. Its heat permeating the room and adding dancing light to the candles I had already placed there.

It was comfortable, warm and intimate, a pleasant place to be, with the sound of the wind outside and the cold snow swirling around the walls. It had the necessaries for comfort and the heat of the fire. "Tea?" I ventured.

"May I?"

A man is not averse to having his tea brought by a woman, most especially one as young and pretty as Silene. I settled back in my chair, picking up the book I had left beside it when last at my cottage. Beyond the room Silene would be finding just how small the cottage was and that there was merely the one bed. How would she take that discovery? I hardly read a page. It seemed to me the calming effect of the draught coupled with her equanimity would not produce either anxiety or even anger. She would be unsuspecting how carefully I had planned her abduction. Planned it from this very chair and fireside.

The faintest rattle of tea things and there was Silene still in her long blue dress. It could not be anything else. There were no clothes for a woman in the white cottage and, given the manner of her departure, she had brought no luggage. It was all as I wished.

So pleasant to sit by my fire with this lovely young woman, seated at the tea table, a table plain and modest, pouring the fragrant amber liquid into two delicate cups and saucers set on the tea-tray. They were blue, her dress was blue, there was harmony.

"I looked out but did not venture beyond the door. It is very cold and the snow is deepening."

I acknowledged her statement. "It will not stop. It will pile against the east wall and I shall need to dig a path to the stables. You must not go out into the snow but must stay safe and warm. I have plentiful wood, all cut and dry. You shall not be cold."

Silene's fair hair was still tied securely. I would have it free and cascading before many days had passed. Her eyes were sparkling and liquid. I did not think it was from crying, rather from the effects of the Essencia and the potion it contained.

"Perhaps in a few days..."

"Weeks. The winter is upon us."

"But, Dr Muluyorsun, there is only one bed!"

She had appreciated we were trapped for the winter. The one bed was most certainly by design. "It is most unfortunate," I said, "it is a very small cottage. Perhaps I should..." I made the suggestion, that I should, sleep in the stable with the horses... I let my words drift off. I knew what she would say.

"I would not hear of it, dear Dr. Mutluyorsun, we must make the best of things."

My fair tea maker poured again, I relished the fragrance and the sight of Silene.

It was not that night, nor the next that I so much as touched Silene. Of course there was desire, I might well call it lust for that is what it was, but I had the whole winter before me. Rescue would not come. How could it? __________ knew nothing of Nareemburg. And the potion within the Tokai would take a little time to have its effect. Already it had soothed her but it would do rather more as the days passed affecting both her mind and her body.

It might be wondered how we slept in that one bed together without touching. How I, a man, was able to restrain my natural inclinations and not lie atop the unclothed woman. How could she be other than unclothed? She had no night attire, indeed no other attire but her blue dress. I certainly had provided nothing else!

I placed a bolster down the middle of the bed, pulled up the heavy covers and wished Silene a good night. She looked so fair, so desirable standing the other side of that bed as I blew out the single candle. As its wick reddened and then darkened I heard the rustle of a blue dress falling from her to the floor. I too disrobed and knew, as I stood for a moment in the darkness, there, the other side of the bed, stood Silene as naked as I.

Would she know, would she realise in the black night, how hard my staff was as I stood there? It was not yet the time for the culmination of my so careful planning, not the time at all, but it was a further step down the path. To be naked with Silene in the very same room even if we were not to touch, not yet to copulate, was more than a joy to me.

I heard movement, the sounds of bedclothes being drawn back and of a person getting into the bed. On my side I did the same and lay there with my pego pushing at the sheets. How I wanted to roll over that bolster but it was not yet the time. I would not take my pleasure in any forceful way: I would be invited.

The comfort of the small cottage was exceptional. Small indeed but with all the necessities, the provision for two persons more than adequate. And there was tea at four.

On the third day Silene expressed a desire to see the horses. I remonstrated at the coldness of the yard twixt cottage and stables, how the snow had fallen knee deep or more but she would have none of it. Wrapped in furs she followed me out into the icy air. The snow was falling and landing on her hair but she paid it no mind. Her thought was for the horses and their wellbeing. The pleasure on her face at the practical comfort of the stabling. The stone walls keeping the cold wind from the animals, the plentiful hay and the obvious contentment of the beasts. They stood in their stalls big and strong, their coats well brushed - I had not neglected my duties. It was a happy sight, the beasts content in their own company. The warm smell of the animals not unpleasant, certainly not to a horseman like myself or, indeed Silene. I had seen her ride.

As happens with the brute animals: and, it has to be said, to men, the penis of the male horse extended as it stood there. Massive of course with testes to match. The movement was not missed by Silene and whilst she made no mention I could see, by her frequent glances at the engorged member, she was not unaffected by it and its so obvious association with the procreative act of man and woman.

Steadily I fed Silene the potion. How could she not accept my offer of Essencia? How could she know what its sweet ambrosia also contained - the potion! Its result was clear as she stood with the horses, it was clear in the way she moved when safely back in the warmth of the cottage, the very movement of her limbs revealing discomposure. I could tell by the flush to her cheeks just what an effect it was having and, on the third night in the bed, I knew she was succumbing. Perhaps it was simply she was missing _________ though the thought was daggers to me, but I believed it something more. Something very much the outcome of a steady consumption of the potion.

Each of the three nights I had lain beside dear Silene with my pego extended. Each night I had thought of release by hand - yes, self-pollution - but had resisted despite the knowledge of the increasing store of the mucilage so needing to be released. Seemingly on the fourth night dear Silene was beyond such qualms. I felt just the slightest movement in the bed but knew. Knew what her fingers were doing. And could she hide her gasps and sighs? Not at the conclusion! Even so, I resisted.

She was subdued in the morning when she came from the bedchamber. As always I had risen before her and had gone from the cottage to tend to the horses. Each morning I had awoken to the sight of Silene sleeping on her pillow. Sometimes with her bare shoulder above the sheets, her hair cascading across the pillow. She did not see me leave the bedchamber. Silene did not see me rise with pego extended from desire and morning need.

That morning she seemed distracted. There was colour in her face but also a seeming remoteness as if her mind was not engaged with the present.

"I am unwell," she finally said, sometime after our midday repast.

I stood, rising from my accustomed chair in the library, registering my concern.

"Dear Silene, I am so sorry. Is there anything..." I paused, her face was flushed and it was clear she wished to say something.

"It is the green sickness."

I expressed concern. I suggested I understood.

"It is something I have had before but since my marriage to _______..."

I tried not to show my abhorrence at the thought, indeed the very idea ________ had been able to alleviate and cure the sickness for a time.

"I thought it was over but these last few days..." she said, "it has come on worse than ever before. Last night..." She did not go on.

I waited patiently and then made my suggestion.

I proposed to Silene a bath, filled with sweet herbs. Lavender, fennel, rosemary and yarrow. I would prepare it in front of the fire and leave her alone with it. It would sooth her skin, perhaps sooth her, it was difficult to find appropriate words, her feminine feelings. She was grateful, said how much she thought it would relieve her symptoms of - and she was more specific - the female hysteria.