All this means that I was not the least bit concerned about “saving myself for the marriage bed.” If I ever did find a partner for my life, he would not expect such a thing.

So, while my first lover did not remotely qualify as life-partner material, he was my ticket to exploring all the fun parts of relationships—from intimate conversations to intimacy itself. After all, if he had a reputation as a rake, he had experience.

Experience, as I swiftly learned, does not equal expertise. I wanted a gradual introduction to the world of physical intimacy, complete with all the grace notes I had read in those books I was not supposed to find. Instead, I got . . .

I flinch. Four years have passed since I ended the relationship, and I still do not know how to put words to what I got. The memory is pure emotion, and that emotion is not disappointment. It is grief and fear and anger with myself for not ending the entanglement sooner.

Looking back, I realize he took advantage of my naiveté. At the time, I blamed myself. I had not been clear about what I wanted. I had not set limits. I had not explained. Yet even if that were true—and I do recall being quite clear in my expectations—he still took advantage. Our first time, I thought he was only pushing up my skirts to touch me. After all, that is what he said. “I want to touch you.” Instead . . .

There were no “grace notes.” It was animal rutting, and I am endlessly shamed to admit I did not end the relationship forthwith. I told myself he’d been overcome by passion, as he claimed. I told myself it would get better. I told myself any mistake was mine, and this was ultimately what I wanted, so why was I complaining?

It did not get better. He had no interest in making it better. Why would he? He got what he wanted.

I have had two lovers since. Both were single-night affairs. One was an older man who promised me “delights” and delivered little better than my first lover. The other was a young man who’d been most enamored of me, and with whom I finally saw the door to true pleasure open . . . only to have him slam it shut by declaring there would be no more of that until I agreed to marry him.

I do not know whether Nicolas was extending a discreet invitation to intimacy. He seemed to be discussing sexual matters as easily as he might discuss the weather. Or as easily as men might discuss it amongst themselves.

No, I had caught the currents of flirtation there. It was not a frank and analytical discussion, but it was still only risqué flirtation, of the sort the French are famous for. I still wish I had pursued it.

9

The moon is not full. I suspect if it were, Nicolas would not be making this nighttime journey. It’s another overcast night, with a quarter moon, and we are in the skiff again, headed north toward Whitby. No lantern lights our way, but Nicolas navigates with expert skill.