III
Summer
My own narrative, autobiographical and a great deal more honest than it might seem, resumes at a point of urgency. My companion and I fled down the corridor of the hotel in which we had, less than three hours previously, deemed ourselves safe. Our fates had changed when Clara Oswald, in her capricious ways, had taken it upon herself to remove from the foyer the artefact, an instrument of alchemy with the appearance of an ordinary key, which had been so sought after by those men who were now our pursuers.
Clara, whose ability for retention far exceeded my own, identified the door to our room and slid another contraption, the ‘room key’ which bore no appearance to the conventional keys with which I was acquainted, into the box on the front of the door. The door opened immediately, and conscious of our pursuers’ proximity, we both entered our room at the earliest available opportunity.
As absorbed in her scheme as ever, Clara hurried over to the window and waited for her intended scene to play out. She did not even indicate surprise when this happened, only smiled from a corner of her mouth, and turned back to me. I, admittedly, was a little lost for words, and thus glad of her taking it upon herself to initiate conversation, though I understood only few of the words she spoke.
“That’s that dealt with. If that key had made it to the Pyramids, it would have awoken Sutekh, the most dangerous God of the Egyptian pantheon. So, y’know, good that we nipped that one in the bud.” As she spoke, she tossed the key playfully through the air. “Better keep that safe,” she concluded, and rested the key upon the window-ledge.
“How can we be sure of our success?” said I, being of a more anxious disposition than my companion. “Our pursuers may have been diverted for the present moment, but I would not agree with confidence that they have left us for good. Would it not be wise to contact the authorities?”
“Nah,” re-joined Clara, and I found myself again marvelling at her subversive – or some might say profane – command of language. “They only have a ten-minute window on this planet anyway. By the time they’ve followed what they think is a trace of the artefact – but’s actually secretly a flashing beacon attached to an oblivious hover-bike – they’ll be forcefully transported back to their mothership, and will have to wait another fifteen hours to recharge. We’ll be fine, Jane.”
I am compelled to relate a tale of origins, but it is a struggle to recount, in linear fashion, the events of the last week. Clara arrived on my doorstep in her "TARDIS"; she claimed that her intention was ‘to meet the most famous romantic novelist ever’, and naively I assumed that she wished me to join her on this escapade. It was only subsequently, as we sailed away in her impossible vehicle, that she expressed the preposterous truth that I, Jane Austen, was myself the aforementioned novelist. It struck me that, were I one of my own creations, I would on this news have fainted without hesitation.
The abode in which Clara and I had settled, albeit temporarily, was – so I was told – the very Ritz Hotel, now situated in the year of our Lord 2672, a world so far out of my reach that I am scarcely able to comprehend its relation to my own, but which seems for Clara to be a home, or at least a second home.
I often find myself reflecting upon my friendship with Clara Oswald, and indeed speculating on the course which led her to become the woman I am today acquainted with. I have observed, for instance, that Clara is an addict of adventure and excitement. I am reminded of my characters, Sophia and Laura, in my juvenile work Love and Friendship. They, too, fill the emptiness of their lives with transient ecstasies and jaunts, revelling in the danger (and to some extent, the impropriety) of their adventures. And I find myself filling my own role in our unintentional parallel to the fictional duo; Sophia and Laura emulate Clara and I; we have developed a bond, in our short space of time together, which I might describe as ‘unbreakable’; we have vowed to always stay true to this bond, and to share with each other our innermost truths, as true friends delight in doing.
Clara, at last satisfied that her business was settled, retired to the chairs over by our two beds, which were positioned around a glass structure. Before seating herself, Clara approached this structure and held her hand over it; as if commanding it with sheer thought, she was able, with this motion, to set the area behind the glass alight. I leapt back, frightened that I found myself not only in the company of a witch, but also an arsonist.
“It’s okay,” said Clara. “It’s just a touch-screen fireplace. It’s touch-sensitive, so it recognises my hand.”
“You talk of recognition,” replied I. “Is this ‘fireplace’ a living, thinking creature, like you or I?”
“No, of course not! It’s… well, yes, I suppose you could say it’s thinking, in that it’s able to process, but it’s not sentient, if that’s what you mean. It’s not… aware. It’s what we call a computer. They won’t be invented for a long time from your point of view, but the Doctor said the earliest algorithms which inspire the creation of the computer aren’t as far of as you’d think.”
Clara rested back in the armchair, her eyes fixed on my countenance. I felt as though I were being taken apart from a distance, just as a carpenter may take apart one of his works, unsatisfied with the arrangement of its constituent parts. What part of me, I wondered, dissatisfied my companion?
“Sorry,” said Clara, in answer to my thoughts. “I shouldn’t stare. It’s just that you’re… Jane Austen. The Jane Austen.” She laughed, as though she were the one in a state of disbelief.
“Your favourite romantic novelist?”
“Ah, now, I never said that. I said the most famous. You’re other people’s favourite.”
“You like not my works?”
“I never said that either. You’re better than E.L. James for starters. You just... you’re perfect. Perfect, at doing what it is you set out to do. I can’t argue that. It’s just that what you set out to do isn’t all that, well, exciting. I mean, look at the likes of Shelley, or Eliot, or the Brontes, female writers from around the same time as you who challenge the beliefs of the time. You don’t really challenge them, you just kind of embody them.”
“How so?”
“I guess I just find your women too submissive, your men too overpowering, your prose too, well, prosaic, your worldview too… dull. Sorry, I know it’s not what you want to hear, but what can I say? Teaching you to my A Level students for two years has killed any passion I ever had, and spending all this time with the Doctor is chipping away at my tact.”
“My intentions were far from conformity; I can assure you. You think, Clara, that I seek to continue the work of the romantic novelists before me, those who believe that love occurs during the first encounter, that men and women are set in their ways and defined by their distinctive qualities, that chivalry is the fundamental principle to love and that finances are trivial? I despise these so-called morals, just as I despise romantic literature by large, just as I despise the damned Spectator. But, Clara, I come not from your enlightened, unprejudiced times: what choice have I but to conform to the tradition which I have been thrust into, at least superficially, so that my work is read at all?”
“Wait. So you’re saying there is a deeper message?”
“I tend towards the burlesque, if that is what your question implies. I attempt to intimate these conventional romances so far that I am able to parody them, to expose them as the falsehoods and idealisms which they are. Unfortunately, I must do so anonymously, not out of fear or persecution but because whatever my intentions, the product does not match the vision. With all possible vanity, Clara, I am the most unlearned and uninformed female who ever dared to be an authoress, so much so that no one would ever expect me to be one. I will never be able to join strong manly, spirited sketches, full of variety and glow; you do not have to shield me from this fact. We are friends, remember, and do not turn to dishonesty in the fear that we will cause distress.”
“No!” said Clara, with unexpected ferocity. “No, Jane, I won’t let you put yourself down like that! First off, ‘men’ as a whole have nothing over you except a better education, and that’s the fault of the system, not you. Second, I expressed a criticism and you beautifully countered it. I can already see what all those other fans see in you, Jane…”
“Fans?” asked I.
“Oh, don’t worry. What I mean is, I can see why you’re beloved. I wasn’t looking deep enough. I’m sorry.”
“Please, do not apologise, Clara.” As I spoke these works, I looked down at myself, taking in for the first time in a while my own appearance; slighter and more elegant than I had remembered, though secretly thankful that I did not have to stare back at the reflection of my full cheeks, and knowing for sure that my beauty did not even come close to rivalling that of Clara Oswald’s.
Clara made no further comment, and I found myself in the unusual place of instigating conversation myself.
“I would thank you for bringing me to this future, Clara, for I am so much delighted by it that I discover within myself a love for the future, a love which, I think, balances my aversion to the past.”
“You hate the past?”
“I hate history, yes. History tells me nothing that does not vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars and pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all. It seems hard to read history as it is recorded without bursting into a fit of hysterics; even this future you have shown me is a more believable account of reality.”
“That was beautifully put, Jane. You should write that one down.”
“You flatter me, Clara.”
“I do indeed.”
“Forgive my impertinence, Clara.” I hesitated. “Is the Doctor your relative, or your lover? I ask because though the evidence before me suggests that he is the latter, your relationship resembles neither that of two persons in the stages of courting (for it is much too intimate), nor that of a married couple (for it is too unrestricted). After all, he knows not of your actions; you said yourself, he is unaware that you have even taken me on this journey with you.”
Clara laughed. “The Doctor? Oh, Jane, he’s neither lover nor relative, though everyone seems to think he’s either my boyfriend or my dad, and at some point he’s considered himself to be both. The Doctor’s my… friend. You could even say he’s my raison d'etre, but not in the way that a husband is. It’s complicated.”
“And yet it sounds simple to me. Did you ever… with…?”
“I had a boyfriend, yes. My own Mr Darcy, and just as difficult sometimes. His name was Danny. He died.” Clara stared so intensely at the fire that I could not help but wonder whether ‘Danny’ had been consumed by flames himself.
“I am sorry to hear that, Clara, and not half as sorry that I intruded on your personal affairs with such insensitivity.”
“Jane, get over it. It’s the twenty-seventh century.” She laughed at this, and I wondered that humour itself had evolved across the passage of time. “What about you?” she continued. “You were pretty hot on marriage, right?” Clara, evidently, was trying to keep her language ambiguous so as not to endanger the ‘web of time’ as she called it by accidentally spurring me towards a different path than that which God intended for me. I am sure that she would have otherwise informed me of my future romantic endeavours.
“I believe that marriage is a sacrament most advantageous for a lady of my time, yes,” clarified I. “It is the only way in which a woman is able to secure any kind of independence, ironically. Single women, unfortunately, have a dreadful propensity for being poor.”
“Would you marry?”
“Why, surely no woman on God’s Earth would object to a process which enhances her social status and allows her an identity which will be accepted by others?”
“Yes, but would you marry?”
“I would not reject the prospect of a brighter future.”
“Jane! Would… you… marry?”
I made no answer, for in truth I had none.
“Okay then, Jane. Another question for you. We’re in the future – the far future – and discussions are a lot more… open. There’s nothing you can say to shock me, and I mean nothing. So: think of your perfect man.” She pushed her chair closer to my own and lowered her voice. “Think of your perfect man, and tell me what you’d do to him.” She lowered her eyes, as if embarrassed; and frankly, though it is not my place to judge the customs of those from strange and unfamiliar cultures, I confess to reasoning that embarrassment was the only suitable successor to such a brazen claim. Yet she continued, her eyes fixed on the ground. “Or if that’s not what you’re into then… tell me what you’d let him do to you.”
I was silent, but my companion persisted.
“Come on, Jane. Immerse yourself in this culture, in its way of thinking. We’re friends, remember. We share everything. So go on, tell me.”
“I would first share a dance with him, or some other means of striking a balance between intimacy and detachment, in order to judge his character,” my explanation began, contrary to what my conscience instructed of me; complete silence. “I would, if I was so allowed, kiss him. Then at the appropriate time we would… engage in such activities as men and women do, in their own privacy.”
“And what would those activities be like?”
“Why, I would be submissive to his will; I would not stand for aggression as many of those women of my time do, nor would I shrink away or repress at times when I felt it right to do otherwise; but yes, I suppose in the context of those activities, I would allow him to do to me as he pleased, provided it pleased me too. And what say you, Clara? What would you have done?”
“Oh, nothing. But as for what I’d do…”
I sat forward, attentively.
“Close your eyes, and I’ll tell you.”
“Clara…”
“It would only embarrass me if I saw you looking at me, Jane. Please?”
In respect of her wishes – and only for this reason – I did as she wished, and closed my eyes. In the spaces between her words, I could also hear her movements.
“I would sit in front of the fire with him,” said Clara; and though her voice was a whisper I could hear it with absolute clarity, for I knew that she had moved forward, and that her face was in fact inches from mine. I could feel her breath gently rushing over my skin. “I would talk to him, for a while. And then when he was ready, I’d get up.” I heard her footsteps now, her voice moving with them until it sounded from the space behind my chair. “I’d take off his clothes…”
As she spoke, I sensed her hands undoing my dress as it loosened over my shoulders. Every rational aspect of my being, coupled with every lesson I had ever been taught, was entreating of me to stand up and teach Clara Oswald a lesson on proper conduct. But my heart – that defiant, irrational, so often wicked instructor – commanded me otherwise.
“I’d place my hands on his chest…”
I felt the soft touch of her hands, her delicate fingers, waiting patiently, playfully, over the space just above my chest. Against my better nature, I permitted them further movement, leaning backwards into my armchair and letting out a contented sigh. Her hands moved down as she herself leant over me, hands now alternately running through my hair, lips pressing against my neck, skin against skin, kissing and kissing, down and down.
It was now without shame, without hesitation and most definitely without the intervention of conscience that I, fast adjusting to a place so different to the mundane and the familiar, turned around on my chair and reached out for her own attire, a loose shirt, and began to unbutton it. I felt something change within me as I reached out and ran my own hand along her bare skin; for even in my most unspeakable, stifled dreams, I had never imagined such a scenario in which my urges were reciprocated. Knowing that I had reached a juncture from which there would be no possibility of turning back, I unfastened her undergarment - some reduced form of corset, it seemed - flinging it across the room like a child might dispose of some unwanted toy.
I stood up now, and we were face to face; it occurred to me that we resembled in each other in both height and stature, our bodies being in such equal proportion. It was a fine thing, to find joy in our symmetry, where the people of my time relished only in the contrast and conflict of man and woman. I realised now that I had no objection to what they considered wicked and sinful, only to those very considerations. Just as Clara Oswald fancied herself a leader, a subversive, a revolutionary, I fancied myself belonging to her, being led by her, changed in synchrony with her instructions. I moved initially to rest my hands upon her breasts, but held back. Instead I held them on her hips, an action which she reflected, and we stood still, as ballroom dancers might wait in preparation.
I was contented. So much of my life had been spent in contemplation, misery, even sheer devastation, that I had lost sight of the unattainable dream which had once given me joy and allowed me to escape. How had I ever thought that a woman would find fulfilment merely in submitting to the will of men and hoping for the best? Why could not a woman rise above these structures altogether and reach up for something greater?
As we clasped each other, I felt another rush, and realised in ecstasy that my own experience of adulthood and reality was not being corrupted, but rather was only just beginning to form itself. Far from the harsh and bracing stench of men, Clara's smooth and bronzed skin smelled sweet, like an exotic flower of this exotic summer.
“We slept in a single bed,” said Clara, “naked, and on our frail bodies the sweat cooled and renewed itself. I reached out my arms and you, hands on my breasts, kissed me. Evening of amber.”
“Your words are strange and distract me,” complained I, not wishing to be separated from the moment. “Would we perhaps do better in silence?”
Clara sighed wearily. “One day, one day, someone will appreciate a bit of Carol Ann Duffy. Oh well.” She separated herself from my side temporarily, and walked up to the bed. From an oddly detached angle, I found myself admiring her thighs, exposed in the light of the fire.
“Jane Austen,” said she, turning back to me, “my favourite romantic novelist ever. What are we going to do with you?
Part IV >
Clara, whose ability for retention far exceeded my own, identified the door to our room and slid another contraption, the ‘room key’ which bore no appearance to the conventional keys with which I was acquainted, into the box on the front of the door. The door opened immediately, and conscious of our pursuers’ proximity, we both entered our room at the earliest available opportunity.
As absorbed in her scheme as ever, Clara hurried over to the window and waited for her intended scene to play out. She did not even indicate surprise when this happened, only smiled from a corner of her mouth, and turned back to me. I, admittedly, was a little lost for words, and thus glad of her taking it upon herself to initiate conversation, though I understood only few of the words she spoke.
“That’s that dealt with. If that key had made it to the Pyramids, it would have awoken Sutekh, the most dangerous God of the Egyptian pantheon. So, y’know, good that we nipped that one in the bud.” As she spoke, she tossed the key playfully through the air. “Better keep that safe,” she concluded, and rested the key upon the window-ledge.
“How can we be sure of our success?” said I, being of a more anxious disposition than my companion. “Our pursuers may have been diverted for the present moment, but I would not agree with confidence that they have left us for good. Would it not be wise to contact the authorities?”
“Nah,” re-joined Clara, and I found myself again marvelling at her subversive – or some might say profane – command of language. “They only have a ten-minute window on this planet anyway. By the time they’ve followed what they think is a trace of the artefact – but’s actually secretly a flashing beacon attached to an oblivious hover-bike – they’ll be forcefully transported back to their mothership, and will have to wait another fifteen hours to recharge. We’ll be fine, Jane.”
I am compelled to relate a tale of origins, but it is a struggle to recount, in linear fashion, the events of the last week. Clara arrived on my doorstep in her "TARDIS"; she claimed that her intention was ‘to meet the most famous romantic novelist ever’, and naively I assumed that she wished me to join her on this escapade. It was only subsequently, as we sailed away in her impossible vehicle, that she expressed the preposterous truth that I, Jane Austen, was myself the aforementioned novelist. It struck me that, were I one of my own creations, I would on this news have fainted without hesitation.
The abode in which Clara and I had settled, albeit temporarily, was – so I was told – the very Ritz Hotel, now situated in the year of our Lord 2672, a world so far out of my reach that I am scarcely able to comprehend its relation to my own, but which seems for Clara to be a home, or at least a second home.
I often find myself reflecting upon my friendship with Clara Oswald, and indeed speculating on the course which led her to become the woman I am today acquainted with. I have observed, for instance, that Clara is an addict of adventure and excitement. I am reminded of my characters, Sophia and Laura, in my juvenile work Love and Friendship. They, too, fill the emptiness of their lives with transient ecstasies and jaunts, revelling in the danger (and to some extent, the impropriety) of their adventures. And I find myself filling my own role in our unintentional parallel to the fictional duo; Sophia and Laura emulate Clara and I; we have developed a bond, in our short space of time together, which I might describe as ‘unbreakable’; we have vowed to always stay true to this bond, and to share with each other our innermost truths, as true friends delight in doing.
Clara, at last satisfied that her business was settled, retired to the chairs over by our two beds, which were positioned around a glass structure. Before seating herself, Clara approached this structure and held her hand over it; as if commanding it with sheer thought, she was able, with this motion, to set the area behind the glass alight. I leapt back, frightened that I found myself not only in the company of a witch, but also an arsonist.
“It’s okay,” said Clara. “It’s just a touch-screen fireplace. It’s touch-sensitive, so it recognises my hand.”
“You talk of recognition,” replied I. “Is this ‘fireplace’ a living, thinking creature, like you or I?”
“No, of course not! It’s… well, yes, I suppose you could say it’s thinking, in that it’s able to process, but it’s not sentient, if that’s what you mean. It’s not… aware. It’s what we call a computer. They won’t be invented for a long time from your point of view, but the Doctor said the earliest algorithms which inspire the creation of the computer aren’t as far of as you’d think.”
Clara rested back in the armchair, her eyes fixed on my countenance. I felt as though I were being taken apart from a distance, just as a carpenter may take apart one of his works, unsatisfied with the arrangement of its constituent parts. What part of me, I wondered, dissatisfied my companion?
“Sorry,” said Clara, in answer to my thoughts. “I shouldn’t stare. It’s just that you’re… Jane Austen. The Jane Austen.” She laughed, as though she were the one in a state of disbelief.
“Your favourite romantic novelist?”
“Ah, now, I never said that. I said the most famous. You’re other people’s favourite.”
“You like not my works?”
“I never said that either. You’re better than E.L. James for starters. You just... you’re perfect. Perfect, at doing what it is you set out to do. I can’t argue that. It’s just that what you set out to do isn’t all that, well, exciting. I mean, look at the likes of Shelley, or Eliot, or the Brontes, female writers from around the same time as you who challenge the beliefs of the time. You don’t really challenge them, you just kind of embody them.”
“How so?”
“I guess I just find your women too submissive, your men too overpowering, your prose too, well, prosaic, your worldview too… dull. Sorry, I know it’s not what you want to hear, but what can I say? Teaching you to my A Level students for two years has killed any passion I ever had, and spending all this time with the Doctor is chipping away at my tact.”
“My intentions were far from conformity; I can assure you. You think, Clara, that I seek to continue the work of the romantic novelists before me, those who believe that love occurs during the first encounter, that men and women are set in their ways and defined by their distinctive qualities, that chivalry is the fundamental principle to love and that finances are trivial? I despise these so-called morals, just as I despise romantic literature by large, just as I despise the damned Spectator. But, Clara, I come not from your enlightened, unprejudiced times: what choice have I but to conform to the tradition which I have been thrust into, at least superficially, so that my work is read at all?”
“Wait. So you’re saying there is a deeper message?”
“I tend towards the burlesque, if that is what your question implies. I attempt to intimate these conventional romances so far that I am able to parody them, to expose them as the falsehoods and idealisms which they are. Unfortunately, I must do so anonymously, not out of fear or persecution but because whatever my intentions, the product does not match the vision. With all possible vanity, Clara, I am the most unlearned and uninformed female who ever dared to be an authoress, so much so that no one would ever expect me to be one. I will never be able to join strong manly, spirited sketches, full of variety and glow; you do not have to shield me from this fact. We are friends, remember, and do not turn to dishonesty in the fear that we will cause distress.”
“No!” said Clara, with unexpected ferocity. “No, Jane, I won’t let you put yourself down like that! First off, ‘men’ as a whole have nothing over you except a better education, and that’s the fault of the system, not you. Second, I expressed a criticism and you beautifully countered it. I can already see what all those other fans see in you, Jane…”
“Fans?” asked I.
“Oh, don’t worry. What I mean is, I can see why you’re beloved. I wasn’t looking deep enough. I’m sorry.”
“Please, do not apologise, Clara.” As I spoke these works, I looked down at myself, taking in for the first time in a while my own appearance; slighter and more elegant than I had remembered, though secretly thankful that I did not have to stare back at the reflection of my full cheeks, and knowing for sure that my beauty did not even come close to rivalling that of Clara Oswald’s.
Clara made no further comment, and I found myself in the unusual place of instigating conversation myself.
“I would thank you for bringing me to this future, Clara, for I am so much delighted by it that I discover within myself a love for the future, a love which, I think, balances my aversion to the past.”
“You hate the past?”
“I hate history, yes. History tells me nothing that does not vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars and pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all. It seems hard to read history as it is recorded without bursting into a fit of hysterics; even this future you have shown me is a more believable account of reality.”
“That was beautifully put, Jane. You should write that one down.”
“You flatter me, Clara.”
“I do indeed.”
“Forgive my impertinence, Clara.” I hesitated. “Is the Doctor your relative, or your lover? I ask because though the evidence before me suggests that he is the latter, your relationship resembles neither that of two persons in the stages of courting (for it is much too intimate), nor that of a married couple (for it is too unrestricted). After all, he knows not of your actions; you said yourself, he is unaware that you have even taken me on this journey with you.”
Clara laughed. “The Doctor? Oh, Jane, he’s neither lover nor relative, though everyone seems to think he’s either my boyfriend or my dad, and at some point he’s considered himself to be both. The Doctor’s my… friend. You could even say he’s my raison d'etre, but not in the way that a husband is. It’s complicated.”
“And yet it sounds simple to me. Did you ever… with…?”
“I had a boyfriend, yes. My own Mr Darcy, and just as difficult sometimes. His name was Danny. He died.” Clara stared so intensely at the fire that I could not help but wonder whether ‘Danny’ had been consumed by flames himself.
“I am sorry to hear that, Clara, and not half as sorry that I intruded on your personal affairs with such insensitivity.”
“Jane, get over it. It’s the twenty-seventh century.” She laughed at this, and I wondered that humour itself had evolved across the passage of time. “What about you?” she continued. “You were pretty hot on marriage, right?” Clara, evidently, was trying to keep her language ambiguous so as not to endanger the ‘web of time’ as she called it by accidentally spurring me towards a different path than that which God intended for me. I am sure that she would have otherwise informed me of my future romantic endeavours.
“I believe that marriage is a sacrament most advantageous for a lady of my time, yes,” clarified I. “It is the only way in which a woman is able to secure any kind of independence, ironically. Single women, unfortunately, have a dreadful propensity for being poor.”
“Would you marry?”
“Why, surely no woman on God’s Earth would object to a process which enhances her social status and allows her an identity which will be accepted by others?”
“Yes, but would you marry?”
“I would not reject the prospect of a brighter future.”
“Jane! Would… you… marry?”
I made no answer, for in truth I had none.
“Okay then, Jane. Another question for you. We’re in the future – the far future – and discussions are a lot more… open. There’s nothing you can say to shock me, and I mean nothing. So: think of your perfect man.” She pushed her chair closer to my own and lowered her voice. “Think of your perfect man, and tell me what you’d do to him.” She lowered her eyes, as if embarrassed; and frankly, though it is not my place to judge the customs of those from strange and unfamiliar cultures, I confess to reasoning that embarrassment was the only suitable successor to such a brazen claim. Yet she continued, her eyes fixed on the ground. “Or if that’s not what you’re into then… tell me what you’d let him do to you.”
I was silent, but my companion persisted.
“Come on, Jane. Immerse yourself in this culture, in its way of thinking. We’re friends, remember. We share everything. So go on, tell me.”
“I would first share a dance with him, or some other means of striking a balance between intimacy and detachment, in order to judge his character,” my explanation began, contrary to what my conscience instructed of me; complete silence. “I would, if I was so allowed, kiss him. Then at the appropriate time we would… engage in such activities as men and women do, in their own privacy.”
“And what would those activities be like?”
“Why, I would be submissive to his will; I would not stand for aggression as many of those women of my time do, nor would I shrink away or repress at times when I felt it right to do otherwise; but yes, I suppose in the context of those activities, I would allow him to do to me as he pleased, provided it pleased me too. And what say you, Clara? What would you have done?”
“Oh, nothing. But as for what I’d do…”
I sat forward, attentively.
“Close your eyes, and I’ll tell you.”
“Clara…”
“It would only embarrass me if I saw you looking at me, Jane. Please?”
In respect of her wishes – and only for this reason – I did as she wished, and closed my eyes. In the spaces between her words, I could also hear her movements.
“I would sit in front of the fire with him,” said Clara; and though her voice was a whisper I could hear it with absolute clarity, for I knew that she had moved forward, and that her face was in fact inches from mine. I could feel her breath gently rushing over my skin. “I would talk to him, for a while. And then when he was ready, I’d get up.” I heard her footsteps now, her voice moving with them until it sounded from the space behind my chair. “I’d take off his clothes…”
As she spoke, I sensed her hands undoing my dress as it loosened over my shoulders. Every rational aspect of my being, coupled with every lesson I had ever been taught, was entreating of me to stand up and teach Clara Oswald a lesson on proper conduct. But my heart – that defiant, irrational, so often wicked instructor – commanded me otherwise.
“I’d place my hands on his chest…”
I felt the soft touch of her hands, her delicate fingers, waiting patiently, playfully, over the space just above my chest. Against my better nature, I permitted them further movement, leaning backwards into my armchair and letting out a contented sigh. Her hands moved down as she herself leant over me, hands now alternately running through my hair, lips pressing against my neck, skin against skin, kissing and kissing, down and down.
It was now without shame, without hesitation and most definitely without the intervention of conscience that I, fast adjusting to a place so different to the mundane and the familiar, turned around on my chair and reached out for her own attire, a loose shirt, and began to unbutton it. I felt something change within me as I reached out and ran my own hand along her bare skin; for even in my most unspeakable, stifled dreams, I had never imagined such a scenario in which my urges were reciprocated. Knowing that I had reached a juncture from which there would be no possibility of turning back, I unfastened her undergarment - some reduced form of corset, it seemed - flinging it across the room like a child might dispose of some unwanted toy.
I stood up now, and we were face to face; it occurred to me that we resembled in each other in both height and stature, our bodies being in such equal proportion. It was a fine thing, to find joy in our symmetry, where the people of my time relished only in the contrast and conflict of man and woman. I realised now that I had no objection to what they considered wicked and sinful, only to those very considerations. Just as Clara Oswald fancied herself a leader, a subversive, a revolutionary, I fancied myself belonging to her, being led by her, changed in synchrony with her instructions. I moved initially to rest my hands upon her breasts, but held back. Instead I held them on her hips, an action which she reflected, and we stood still, as ballroom dancers might wait in preparation.
I was contented. So much of my life had been spent in contemplation, misery, even sheer devastation, that I had lost sight of the unattainable dream which had once given me joy and allowed me to escape. How had I ever thought that a woman would find fulfilment merely in submitting to the will of men and hoping for the best? Why could not a woman rise above these structures altogether and reach up for something greater?
As we clasped each other, I felt another rush, and realised in ecstasy that my own experience of adulthood and reality was not being corrupted, but rather was only just beginning to form itself. Far from the harsh and bracing stench of men, Clara's smooth and bronzed skin smelled sweet, like an exotic flower of this exotic summer.
“We slept in a single bed,” said Clara, “naked, and on our frail bodies the sweat cooled and renewed itself. I reached out my arms and you, hands on my breasts, kissed me. Evening of amber.”
“Your words are strange and distract me,” complained I, not wishing to be separated from the moment. “Would we perhaps do better in silence?”
Clara sighed wearily. “One day, one day, someone will appreciate a bit of Carol Ann Duffy. Oh well.” She separated herself from my side temporarily, and walked up to the bed. From an oddly detached angle, I found myself admiring her thighs, exposed in the light of the fire.
“Jane Austen,” said she, turning back to me, “my favourite romantic novelist ever. What are we going to do with you?
Part IV >