Ida trudges through the frost covered meadow, the folds of her silk dress bunched in her white knuckled hands. Her breath escapes her in short puffs, the air sharp in her lungs, awakening her as the first light of dawn stretches over the hills. She breathes out with every step, each footfall a deliberate action, and tries not to think about the incriminating evidence of her footsteps in the snow tracing her every move.
The difficult slog through the snow reminds her of her husband, who she has not seen in over a fortnight.
“I’ll see you soon, my love,” he had told her with a kiss, before riding off to town to the physician’s clinic which he managed. She knows he has been facing a torrent of sick patients for weeks as winter slowly creeps its way into unsuspecting homes. She adores him for his commitment to their community, even more so after the recent death of his older sister, Victoria, which affected him and his younger sister Estelle greatly.
Victoria had been one of her closest confidants and dearest friends. From one arm hangs a bonnet where she holds a bouquet of flowers to bestow upon her grave, an arrangement of black dahlias that she knows will wither within hours in this frigid weather. Her children, who often accompany her to Victoria’s grave, are fast asleep in their grandparents’ beds. Hardly anybody is awake at this hour.
A sharp breeze hits her, seeping not just her skin but into the depths of her marrows, and she wraps her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Although the sun is rising, there are heavy clouds that hang low, and she can hardly see the collision of colors forming in the sky. The sun rays are weak, attempting to reach out to her, but she does not feel any shred of warmth.
Shivering, she tightens her grasp on the stiff skirts of her dress and powers through. The field is desolate, the trees around her just mere skeletons of what they used to be. Through it all, a single thought carries her onward.
A memory blossoms in the back of her mind, painful and raw, and her thoughts linger on the reminders of the warm breath on her neck, of soft hair in her fingers, of old familiar hands skimming along her stomach like a bubbling creek in spring time. She thinks of soft kisses, of a touch that feels like the crack of a lightning strike during a rainstorm.
She cares for her husband, yes, much in the way one would care for a good friend or an old relative one hasn’t seen in a few months. She had laid with her husband several times, and they had wonderful, well-behaved children together, but lying with him was like sleeping, a calming end to the day punctuated with yawns and tired stretches.
Lying with her lover was like the spark of a forest fire, an uncontrolled flame that she feared may engulf her entire soul if she was not careful. It was the kind of magnetism that she could not withstand even if she wanted to, even if she tried.
And lord knows she tried.
“Forgive me,” she whispers, another puff of breath accompanying her words as she mutters a prayer to the skies.
What would her mother and father think if they knew she had betrayed the trust of the one man they had managed to pair her with, years after she was deemed too old to marry?
She turns to the black dahlias hanging out of her bonnet. They are a sharp contrast to the blanket of white that surrounds her, and she can see that frost is already creeping along its edges, leaving it with a haunting glisten.
These had been Victoria’s favorite flowers. Ida had seen her husband’s family tease her for such unconventional taste, for her dislike of bright colors and odd propensity towards dark hues and gloom, but Ida felt that there was much about Victoria that was unconventional.
When she looks over at the distance she’s crossed, she can see the lanterns glowing from outside her family manor, casting long shadows in the snow. Withered stems of ivy crawl across the manor’s edges and along the balconies.
Her mind flashes back to last summer, sitting up there with her lover, her dress hitched up to her knees, their legs dangling off the edge of the balcony just to feel the warm breeze on their skin. She remembers the stifled laughter in between shoo-ing the children away when they got too close, the Venetian glass chalices brimming with scarlet wine, subtle touches that sent blazes of light through her body. She thinks back to last Christmas at a party hosted by her mother, of fingers grazing nonchalantly as they hung up garland and mistletoe on the stairs. The recollection of those rushed public touches, a secret hiding in plain sight, is somehow more painful than the memories of the intimacy behind closed doors.
The moon is a silver crescent above her, still visible in the early dawn by the time she reaches the first headstone just beyond the cemetery’s arched gates. Victoria is buried under a weeping willow which bursts to life with pink cherry blossoms during spring, a color she surely would be displeased with were she alive. Now, the branches of the willow drag downward, coated with enough frost to give it an ethereal glow. Ida pauses to watch it, struck by its beauty, and notices the lone figure standing just below the white branches, head bowed in respect at Victoria’s headstone.
Her breath catches. Blood rises to her cheeks, the cold flush deepening.
She drops the fabric of her dress, allowing it to drag along as she makes her way to the headstone. With a solemn silence, she sets the dahlias onto the grave and steps back.
“They were always her favorite.”
“She would adore the dead branches swaying above her, would she not?” Ida responds, glancing over. Her heart lifts when she receives a smile in return, giving her the courage to speak again. “Estelle,” she whispers, allowing her hand to slide into hers. Estelle accepts it with a squeeze. Her dark hair is curled around her face, covered by her bonnet, and her cheeks are as flushed as her lips. Her dress is made up of lilac silks, concealed by the many layers of her shawls.
“Ida,” Estelle whispers back. “Oh, I miss her so.”
They turn to each other, and Ida cannot help it any longer. She puts her arm around Estelle, bringing her close. The girl’s skin is cold, but she emanates a familiar warmth that heats her up from the inside out.
“Excuse my impropriety,” Ida says as she pulls away. Estelle stops her with a small smile, then glances in the direction of their manors.
“You know I have never expected that of you,” Estelle says softly.
When their lips touch it is soft and warm, and it makes the trek through the field worth every cold sting of snow. Ida caresses Estelle’s face gently, feeling the chill of her cheeks. She feels as if the two of them are twin flames dancing through a derelict land, protected from the judgment of prying eyes.
“My husband is not yet back,” Ida says, resting her forehead against Estelle’s. “Come. Let us take care of you at our property.” Estelle hesitates. Her head turns in the direction of her manor, her lips parting as she begins to speak. “Oh Estelle, please come,” Ida insists before she can refuse. “I have been so lonely. You can play with my children, and we will drink my husband’s wine after supper.”
Estelle smiles. “My love, how can I ever say no to you?” She strokes a hand down Ida’s hair. “I shall come see you this evening.”
She seals the promise with another kiss.
They stand in solemn silence, hand in hand as they pay their respects to Victoria’s grave.
Ida smiles as she makes her way back to the manor, her mind flashing through the memory of her lover’s hair, the precise brown of her eyes, the pretty shape of her lips. It is only when she is near the gateway that she realizes her husband’s horse has returned to the stable, and he stands at the doorway in wait.
Ida’s smile fades.
He sees her, his hand rising in greeting, and a wide grin crosses his face.
