We walked as quickly as was dignified to the end of the avenue, which spilled us out into a small grassy park. It was really just a bit of green space behind the market buildings, filled with carts that currently weren't being used to unload goods, and a tree and a lump of grassy dirt.
Mr. Cooper was sitting underneath the tree, eating an apple and staring at something I couldn't make out at first. He looked up before Margaret and I could bypass him, and jumped to his feet.
"Miss Franklin!" he said, and I realized the thing in his hand was one of those un-covered poke bonnets that I'd seen in the milliner's window. He was holding it carefully by the basket of gathered white fabric at the back, eyes narrowed at the straw brim as if it had personally offended him. There was a single sash of light blue ribbon across the point where straw and fabric met, dangling down so the clipped ends curled.
"Mr. Cooper," I said. "I'm not entirely certain that those ribbons are your colour."
"No, no," he said fumbling with the bonnet, looking at it, then me, then back down at it. He tucked it, shame faced, behind his back, then blushed furiously and held it back out. "It is yours, though."
"My... what now?"
"Your colour, Miss Franklin," Margaret said, but with none of the lightness her teasing usually came with. She sounded tight and annoyed. "The blue is the same shade as your calico dress."
Mr. Cooper startled at Margaret, as if just realizing she was standing there beside me. He straightened his arm and brought the bonnet up to eye level. Offering it to me.
"Uh, I suppose it is," I admitted. "What...?"
And then, of course, I understood. Duh.
He flushed again and said, "Miss Franklin, I, uh, I couldn't help but notice you, um, perusing the wares at the hatmaker's, and, well, I thought it would be, um, an accurate token of my affection if I were to, uh, provide you with a bonnet. Besides, ladies ought to have bonnets. It's the... the done thing."
I winced, more out of embarrassment for his stuttering confession than out of discomfort over the fact that the boy that I bought flour from every other night seemed to think that our evening walks were leading somewhere they were not.
Idiot, I scolded myself. I didn't know what to do.
Of course that's what he would think about our strolls; I was a woman interacting regularly with a man, both of us single and unchaperoned. Where I came from, Harry could meet Sally with no orgasms required, but this was 1806 and Mr. Cooper probably had every right to think that I was actively attempting to, as the phrase in Margaret's books went, 'attach him'.
Margaret.
Beside me, she was utterly still, save for the way that her hand was pinching into the crook of my elbow.
No, no, no, abort, I thought frantically. I deliberately did not reach for the hat. "Thank you, Mr. Cooper," I said. "But I fear I cannot accept your gift."
He opened his mouth to argue, I saw it flash in his eyes. Instead he checked his face for lingering apple juice, tucked the offending bonnet behind his own back, like my hands were behind mine, and said, "May I escort you somewhere then, Miss Franklin? Where were you bound for?"
"Home," I said, exchanging a look with Margaret.
He smiled sadly. "Then let me escort you both there." He cut another look at Margaret, probably hoping he could replace her on my arm as we strolled and convince me to change my mind.
"Mr. Cooper," I said, hesitating. Shit fuck, what now? This is ridiculous. I thought miserably. I hadn't resented being in this era so much as right in this moment, because I couldn't just tell him I had a girlfriend and be done with it.
"Please," he said, and it was so sad sounding that I felt wretched.
"Very well. Too kind of you, Mr. Cooper," Margaret said, making the decision for both of us. She stepped aside and Mr. Cooper took her place and I hated everything about that, both literally and symbolically. I took his elbow and tried not to brush my fingers along the bonnet behind us both.
The walk back to the Goodenough house was slow and silent.
When we reached the garden gate, he offered the bonnet again. "I have no use for it besides as a gift for you," he said intensely. "No sisters, no mother. Please. Take it. As a friend."
"It... it's an extravagant gift, even for a friend." I said, trying to catch Margaret's eye. But she was busy staring at her gloves, pretending to pick at a loose thread.. "Mr. Cooper, I don't think I can."
He looked crestfallen. "Please, Miss Franklin. It's the least I could do."
"I," I croaked.
"Please?"
"All right," I said softly, plucking it from his hands. "Thank you, Mr. Cooper."
"It's my pleasure, Miss Franklin," he said. He started to lean towards me, jesus for a kiss, I realized, and jerked back, out of range. He wrinkled his nose, looked away, and dropped a resentful little head bob.
"Good afternoon, Miss Franklin," he said, and turned away and was halfway down the road before I could curtsey or say anything in return. When I looked up, Margaret was already opening the door, Miss Brown helping her off with her own bonnet and light coat. I followed her in, and Miss Brown said nothing about the skeletal bonnet dangling from my good hand by its ribbons like a dead cat. Margaret's coat and bonnet hung from a peg beside the front door, and Margaret was disappearing into the parlor, with nary a word to me.
This was not the kind to "let's go home" I was hoping for.
I hesitated, then called myself a coward. I had started this. I had to deal with it. I undid my jacket buttons and gloves as I walked, knowing the parlor would be warmer than the rest of the house. Margaret preferred it that way. I knocked once, then entered. Margaret was standing beside the desk.
"Margaret?" I said, softly. "I'm about to go into the kitchen; do you want anything?" She was silent for long enough that I thought perhaps she hadn't heard me. "Margaret?" I asked again.
"I find that I do not... I do not like your Mr. Cooper," Margaret replied, staring out the window and winding the helpless drapes in her fingers.
"Yeah. Look, sorry about that, I thought he was just a guy I hung out with, but it turns out he was girlfriend-zoning me this whole time."
"You offered him no discouragement, Jessie," she hissed.
"And how am I supposed to do that in an era where - hold on." I went and closed the parlor door, locking both that and the door to the kitchen to be sure. "Right. Okay. So here's the thing, Margaret, I don't know how to avoid this, okay. We're both single women in a time that tells us, and everyone around us, that we are assets to be snapped up, objects to own, and as far as I can tell there is literally no way to signify that it should stop, that we're not available!"
"And what would you have?" Margaret said, miserably, shoulders hunched.
"Margaret Goodenough," I said, voice shaking, hands shaking, birds fluttering behind my ribs,goosebumps marching up my spine, mouth dry, Christ, I'm going to say it. I'm really going to say it. "Margaret, look at me."
She turned, slowly, her own face blanched, spots of flush high on her cheeks, her eyes glassy and wet. "Jessica..."
Might as well go the whole nine yards, I thought, and got down on one fucking knee. Because why not? Margaret gasped, and I was too far away to take her hands in mine, but I looked up at her seriously.
"If I could," I said softly, words a choked croak in my throat, palms sweating. "If we were in a time when I could, I would ask you."
Say it, I thought. Go on and say what I know you want to say. Do it, Margaret. Have some balls. Make me admit it.
"Ask me anyway," Margaret said, and then covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers, as if startled the words had tumbled out of her.
I stretched out my good hand and she stepped close, close enough that the hem of her dress covered my toes, and took it. Cradled it against her stomach, thumbs moving restlessly on my palm.
"Marry me," I whispered. "Margaret Goodenough, spend the rest of your life with me. Please. I love you."
"I love you," she blurted, hiccuping the words. "But I believe I have already agreed to spend the rest of my life with you."
"Yeah, little cottage, big library, bosom companions for life according to the history books, I remember," I said with a grin and suddenly the room was shimmering, dancing, and I realized it was because I was looking up at Margaret through tears. I squeezed my eyes shut for a second and let them roll down my cheeks, because, god, I'd just proposed marriage and Margaret - my clever, witty, lovely Margaret - had reminded me that we'd already sort of agreed to it anyway.
"I love you," I said again.
"Then kiss me," Margaret said, tugging me up.
"But--"
"The doors are locked," Margaret said with that wry smirk that made me first fall for her. "My mother and sister are out a-visiting, and I have sent Miss Brown and Mr. Edwards away for the afternoon."
"Well, aren't you a clever thing," I said, pressing close, circling her waist with my arms. I reached across her desk to tug the curtains all-the-way closed. "Planning ahead like that. So thoughtful."
Margaret leaned close , tilted her head, and I pulled back, just enough for her to open her eyes again and make a little frustrated noise.
"Tease," she accused.
"Hey, I just proposed," I pointed out. "I'm pretty much a sure thing."
"Jessica," Margaret growled, and the sound made my knees nearly turn to jelly. "Kiss me."
Well, how was I supposed to argue and flirt when she gave me orders like that?
Between us, hairpins scattered to the rugs, falling in a shower as we both dug in and held on. This wasn't those sweet lazy kisses swapped on spring mornings; or the swift, cautious pecks we traded when we passed in the hallways; or even the charming early kisses where Margaret followed my lead and learned by example. This was heat, and wet, and open. It was gloriously, wonderfully, filthy.
"Shall we have a wedding night?" Margaret asked when we'd paused for breath, looking up at me through the lace of her golden lashes. I staggered back a step like she'd hit me directly in the sternum.
"Um, yeah!" I said, stupidly, all the blood rushing out of my brain to set other parts of me tingling. "Bedroom?"
"Here," Margaret said. "Only I have the key for this parlor."
"Swell," I said, grinning like a buffoon.
Margaret chuckled at me and, with one hand firmly on my left breast, pushed me back, back, back, until my calves hit the sofa. I sat obligingly, which put me coincidentally at just the right height to skim my hands up Margaret's thighs over her dress, get a beautiful handful of her gorgeous bum, and press a kiss to her stomach.
"Jessie," she breathed, petting my head and shoulders. I opened my thighs, rucked my skirts up so she could get nice and close. "I want... But I do not know what it is that I want."
"I'll teach you," I said, "Help me with my gloves. Then I'll show you. C'mon."
Margaret had lots of practice with the fiddly little buttons by now, and the gloves ended up on her desk. Next came our house slippers, and though I wanted to go for the laces at the back of her dress, Margaret demurred in case we were interrupted.
"Lay back," I said softly, navigating her into the corner of the sofa, head up on the arm so she could watch. I crooked one of her legs up against the back, pressed myself between her thighs, my face into her breast, kissing, licking, nipping. Margaret made that delightful little frustrated sound again and tugged at me until I lifted my face to hers. Her kisses were hungry, demanding, and her body under mine surged and withdrew like a wave, up and down, pelvis and spine rolling, uncertain what it was exactly she was striving for but trusting her instincts and my knowledge to guide her there.
She was quite literally putting herself in my hands and it was humbling.
"Margaret, ah, Margaret," I gasped, nosing at her chest until I could get my teeth and tongue on her nipples. She arched and shook. "I want to -but before - have you ever - ah! - um, there is literally no way to say this without sounding like a bad porno, Jesus... explored yourself?"
Margaret laughed and bit the shell of my ear, before laving it with her tongue and finally whispering into it: "I know what a cunt is and I know what to do with mine. I'm no spring maid."
"Oh good," I said with a shiver and a smirk. "So you have no issue whatsoever with me doing this?" I slid my hand from ankle to knee, slow and delicious, then knee to hip, keeping her eyes locked on mine with my gaze so I would see it, the look on her face, when I first brushed the pad of my thumb on my good hand across her clit.
Thank fuck for the Regency lack of undies.
Margaret jerked, her eyelids fluttering and the corners of her lips curling up in smug, possessive satisfaction. "Only should you stop," she said breathily, daring me on.
I shimmied backward on the sofa, dropped a kiss on the side of her knee, and ran my thumb up from the very bottom of her folds, pressing just hard enough to feel them part and slick, to the top, ending with another little circle of her clit. "And this?" I asked, biting the plump thigh under my tongue softly.
Margaret's head dropped back and she made a breathy little "unnngh" sound. Deciding that humping her leg was maybe not the best way to get myself off during our first time together, I flipped my own skirts up as high as I could with my rubbish hand, so Margaret could watch what I was doing to myself - what she made me do. I had to twist awkwardly so my hips were tilted up and my face was down, but eh, worth it.
"How about this?" I asked, stroking her folds again, letting my humid breath blow over her skin.
"Lord almighty, Jessie, your quim is all wet," Margaret moaned. "Don't... please, do not stop."
"Yours too," I said. Then I purposely leaned close and blew a light stream of cool air against her entrance.
Margaret bucked and nearly bashed me in the chin with her pelvis, her thighs slamming closed. I got one hand up in time, but she kneed me in the neck with the leg she'd had braced on the floor.
"Jessie! I'm sorry!" she said, trying to sit up, but I only laughed, shrugged it off, and pushed her back down, trailing licking kisses around her hip bones and thighs, working my way in.
"I've had worse. It can get dangerous down here," I teased.
"Dan--dangerous?" Margaret asked, and then nearly jacknifed right off the sofa with a shout when I just dove in and ran my tongue up the same path my thumb had taken earlier. Luckily, I was prepared for it this time. I had one arm braced across her hips now, my own thighs splayed to pin her legs in place by the ankle, my good hand working industriously between my own legs, in as full view as I could get all scrunched up like a frog. "Good Lord!"
"Should I stop?" I asked, switching to kiss her outer labia, nibble at the skin, brush my nose through her moist bush.
"Jane Jessica Franklin--" Margaret growled and I laughed and pressed an open-mouthed kiss right on the lips in front of me, rubbing the tip of my nose on her clit, flicking my tongue inside just a bit, and her threat turned into a high trailing squeak.
I pressed my forehead against her pelvis, panting and delighted - god, I had missed this taste, thought I might have to spend the rest of my life without it - and ground down against my own gnarled palm for some fizzy, fantastic friction.
"Can I put my fingers in?" I asked her as Margaret shimmied up a bit, eyes wide as she watched. Obligingly, I twisted my hips to the side again, got one side under me, and hooked my stockinged leg up on the back of the sofa so everything was on display. Ignoring the strain on my neck, I kissed her cunt again, and that yanked her attention back to her own body. She grasped her breasts between her hands when I said, "Play with your nipples, go on. Can I finger you?"
"Whatever you like," Margaret panted. "Whatever you want. But please, don't stop. Ah, my love, don't stop-"
The 'L' word is what tipped me straight over the edge. Pressing my tongue hard against her clit, my own pussy spasmed and tingled, my orgasm ripping through me swift and hard, my thighs quaking and my voice a high, strained whine.
Jesus Christ! I thought, jaw aching as I resisted the urge to bite down, mark her, make it clear who Margaret and this pretty little pussy of hers belonged to. It's been too damn long since I - aah!
My orgasm surged up again as Margaret reached across my body to slip one of her fingers inside me alongside my own. She twisted her finger about, feeling my walls, relishing, I think, the little moans her touch pulled out of my chest.
"You're so warm," Margaret asked, a delicious, delightful pink flush spread all down her neck, over her breasts and her cheeks. I snarled against her skin, twisted around quick enough that her arm was trapped under me as I used both my hands to spread her thighs wide and bury my face between them.
I returned the favor, slipping one finger in, pressing down on the floor of her pelvis gently as I licked around her clit, rocking it back and forth gently. My limbs were still shaking from my own orgasm even as I slipped in a second finger, turned over my hand, crooked my fingers and, yes, yes, there.
Margaret buried her hands in my hair hard enough to scratch my scalp. I didn't care, just kept rubbing, licking, kissing, letting her ride my face to her completion, to her satisfaction.
When we were both finally done, out of breath and gasping and damp, my chin wet and her fingers in her mouth, curious about the taste of me, we collapsed on the poor abused sofa. We settled in a messy tangle of loosened curls and sweaty, wrinkled fabric and slouching stockings, and immediately started giggling. I don't know what was so funny. Nothing was funny. It was ... relief is what it was. Yeah, relief and joy and an afterglow that bubbled like crisp golden champagne.
I crawled up Margaret's body, flopped onto her bare breasts, kissed the nearest swell of the mound, and snuggled into my lovely creamy freckled pillows. I wrapped my arms around her waist, pleased with myself and the whole world in generally.
"We should go wash, my dear," Margaret said at length, fingers petting my hair back off my sweaty neck.
"My dear," I echoed. I moved slowly, braced myself over her, kissed her clavicle, her jaw, her mouth, her forehead. "My Margaret. My wife."
I sat back, lifted her left hand, and kissed her bare ring finger. Margaret sat up, and kissed mine.
"My wife," she murmured. "I wish..." Melancholy seeped into her expression, but I tucked my fingers under her chin, kissed her again, soft and sweet and slow.
"Doesn't matter," I said. "We both agreed. That's good enough. One day we'll get some rings, wear them on the other finger. How's that?"
"I will buy them with the sale of my first book," Margaret said, determination wiping out the sadness. "Now, up, Miss Franklin. We must change and air out the room before everyone returns. We both look a fright."
"We look well-fucked," I corrected with my best attempt at a sultry grin. "Which we are."
Margaret laughed and swatted my shoulder. "Up! Up!"
"Way to kill the romance," I groused, but did as I was told. I hated that we had to live in the closet for the rest of our lives, but at least those lives would be spent together.
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