“Poor sweetling, has it been hard?” he said. I smiled through a spurt of irritation, for it was unpleasant to be called “poor” now that I was, and for him to imply that it showed in my face.

“It is getting better,” I lied.

“I have missed you,” he said, kissing me on the mouth. The pressure of his body and his lips softened what had become hard and knotted but, before I was ready, he released me and went back into the hall to fetch a hamper. While he carried it in, I poured him wine with a dash of Forman’s brew, then sat by the fire so that its glow would bring my complexion to life and add sparkle to my tired eyes. From the hamper he pulled pies, cheese, fruit and wine, speaking quickly and a great deal as he laid out the picnic, perhaps to cover nerves? It was true that our love felt different without George between us.

“Thank you,” I said, although he had not bought the ring or returned the ten pounds. Perhaps he had spent it on pies.

“Are you cold?” he said, reaching for my shawl.

“Hot!” I replied. Arthur took any tincture I gave him to improve his appearance or his love-making, but I knew that he would be highly suspicious of a substance administered secretly. Who would not? And if he found out that the decoction was designed to inflame his need of me, would that not, in fact, produce the opposite response?

“Some wine?”

Arthur laughed. “You think I need courage?” I handed him the cup. “A toast to your beauty,” he said, and drained it.

That moment sticks in my mind. I worried that he would taste the infusion or note a difference in my expression, but I felt no guilt. I believed that if we married our union would be legal and blessed by God, our children would have safety and prospects, and he could know them better. I saw only benefit—was that wrong? Was it at that moment I lost my way? It is hard to ask God’s forgiveness for an act that I cannot, in my heart, perceive as wicked.

As we ate, I noticed that his cheeks grew redder. He sucked at a drumstick as if caressing my own thigh with his lips; he toyed with the breast as if his mouth were at my nipple. He licked his fingers, shiny with grease, as if they were dipped in honey; his eyes became unfocused and yet staring. He put an arm around my waist and kissed me. He tried to unpick my lacings, an impossible task with one hand, and quickly grew impatient. He stood and pulled me up with him.

“Where is your chamber?” he said into my neck. I ran my hand over his soft hair and murmured nonsense. His complexion was reddening alarmingly.