#dwcastover

↠ More Hardy/Hannah edits

Fic available on Ao3: Meet Me on the Equinox

“Good morning, Miss Salinger.”

“Jean-François! But-- what are you doing here?”

“Whisking you away.”

Betty squealed with joy and threw her arms around his neck to kiss him.

In a letter, she’d told him about lying to Lady Wigram about the earrings, saying she’d helped Gabrielle, and he’d found it was a perfect excuse to spend the spend the day with her.

“You crafty devil. Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” he said.

“Can I get a clue?”

“You asked for companionship and adventure from me, and that is what you will have.”

The coach took them well outside the city limits. Betty stared through the window at these new landscapes unfolding before her eyes, feeling increasingly excited.

On a forest’s edge, they stopped in front of a small bungalow, the kind found all across the country, along the roads, for travelers to rest. This one was a bit more posh and cleaner. Jean-François explained it belonged to the French government, for those going into the jungle.

Above a stone fireplace, two rifles crossed under the stuffed head of a nilgai, a large specie of antelope. Betty turned her back to it.

“You will need to change clothes for our adventure today.” He handed her a canvas bag. “Gabrielle lends you these. You may choose whatever you like.”

Betty went into one of the bedrooms. Curious, she emptied the bag on the bare mattress. An assortment of skirts, shirts and hats tumbled down along with a pair of boots, all in various shades of white and brown. After some hesitation, she dared pick a toffee coloured skirt and a white button down, a bit too long so she tied it at the waist and rolled up the sleeves. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror, with her pith helmet and flat shoes, she looked like an explorer.

Jean-François too smiled when he saw her.

“Is this alright?” she asked, second-guessing herself. “Seems a bit improper.”

“I doubt we will meet other people. The important thing is that you are comfortable to walk in the forest.”

“I am.”

“Splendid.”

Jean-François shouldered a khaki canvas bag and guided her down a narrow, beaten-earth path. The skirt swished around Betty’s calves, it was shorter than her usual skirts, made for walking in tall grass and mud, she enjoyed feeling the breeze up her legs.

Their footsteps stirred the scent of moist soil and grass. Enormous spiky aloe veras and generous glossy ferns flanked the trail. They housed all manners of colourful caterpillars and iridescent-shelled critters. It was still early in the day, and mist lingered in the palms, sunlight streamed through it in soft beams. On the branches of eucalyptus and tulip trees, birds chirped to their heart’s content.

Ripe mangoes hung in grapes from a tree. Jean-François picked two and showed her how to peel it with her teeth. Juice ran down their fingers and chins, the fruit flesh was warm, sun-gorged, and sweet. It was messy and wonderful.

“We are almost there,” Jean-François said after a while.

“Where?”

“Listen.”

They stopped walking and stood in silence. Soon, the rush and gurgles of water reached her ears.

“A river?”

He smiled and took her hand, the excitement made him look years younger. The path curved to the right, and Betty saw a bridge arching over a flowing river.

Betty gasped. “Is that the bridge you told me about in your letter?”

“I wrote to you about a bridge?”

“You were drunk.”

“Ah. That letter.”

Betty bumped him with her shoulder. “It was charming in a way.”

“I saw this bridge in passing quite a while ago. I have wanted to come back since then.”

“So, you’ve been here before?”

“As I said, in passing, we were on a mission. I know the area a little bit, but I wanted to discover it with you.”

As they approached the bridge, Betty realized it was unlike any other bridge she had seen before. “It’s made out of roots!”

“Yes, the Indian rubber tree—”

“The Ficus Elastica. I read about it in a botany encyclopedia. Oh, it’s extraordinary!“ She smiled wide, pressing her hands to her cheeks as one would when looking at a puppy.

The rubber trees produced a series of secondary roots that the War-Khasis and War-Jaintias tribes pulled, twisted and tied to stretch across the river. It took years to accomplish, but these bridges lasted centuries, growing stronger over time.

“Can we walk on it?” she asked.

“I should hope so.”

Flat stones lay across the surface to facilitate the walk, moss covered them. On each side, roots of all sizes weaved together like a net, as high as Betty’s chest. She walked carefully, one hand clutching the side for support and the other gripping the back of Jean-François’ shirt. Under them, the river rushed by in great frothy gurgles.

A pair of children climbed on at the other end and ran the length of the bridge, passing swiftly under Betty and Jean-François’ arms. Feeling safer, Betty walked faster, enjoying rather than worrying. Crossing this organic bridge, in the middle of a lush forest with a lovely man felt like something out of a fairy tale. Glee bubbled up in her throat from the sheer delight of being so free, and Jean-François laughed with her.

Too soon, they reached the end, and he helped her down. He lifted by the waist and twirled her and held her until she was steady on her feet. They kissed with laughter on their lips.

They walked a while longer, a trail parallel to the river, leading downstream. They crossed path with a few locals, Betty said hello to them, but most bowed their heads and stepped out of their way.

As the day progressed, nearing noon, the air grew hotter and the animals quieter. No breeze stirred the branches. Betty pulled on her collar, drops of sweat slid down her back. She wiped her forehead on her sleeve. Jean-François touched her temple where sweat soaked the fine hairs there. He offered her some water.

"Do you want to stop? You may not be used to this kind exertion."

She huffed. “Try running after three kids all day."

“Fair enough.”

To hell with etiquette, this hat was only making her hotter and palm leaves provided shade enough. She pulled on the ribbon under the chin and fanned herself with the hat. "I must look a right mess."

"It suits you," he said. “I’m hot too. Let us find a nice spot to rest.”

They ventured away from the trail, towards the sandy bank. A month earlier, the river would have been overflowing from the rains. Some distance ahead, a cluster of rocks and boulders slowed the flow and filtered the larger debris. The water sparkled and meandered under the blue, cloudless sky. A hint of freshness rose from it, and enticed Betty.

As Jean-François spread a canvas sheet on the ground, Betty quickly removed her shoes and stepped into the river. A sigh, almost a moan, escaped her lips at the relief of cool water on her swollen feet.

“Will I have to rescue you from the river again?” Jean-François said.

Betty flustered and hurried out of the water. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have.”

“No, no, Betty, I was joking. Here.” He took off his own shoes, rolled up his trousers and joined her.

She blinked in surprise; her whole livelihood hinged on being strait-laced every hour of every day, so she still wasn’t used to someone accepting her deviations from etiquette.

The water rippled around their ankles, then, as the ripples faded out, their reflection materialized on the shimmering surface. Both of them, together, shoulder-to-shoulder, smiling. The sight of it shaped their bond into something tangible. Real, but fragile.

“You were so brave that day when you jumped to save the boy,” he said.

“Careless, more like.”

“No,” he said. “You were brave. I remember you said you would have liked to stay in the water because it was refreshing and you laughed…”

The way he smiled at the memory, shyly, head bowed and lines fanning out at the corners of his eyes, made her heart soar.

“Thank you,” she said, “for saving me that day... and every day after that it seems.”

Jean-François fervently kissed the back of both her hands.

“Shall we go for a swim?” she asked.

“Yes we shall, Betty Salinger,” he said fondly.

Betty hid behind a tree. Her heart hammered in her chest as she unbuttoned her shirt and removed her skirt. She hung them carefully over a branch. After a moment of hesitation, off came the petticoat and corset cover. Her hands shook as she released her corset and unclipped her stockings. Only her drawers and chemise remained, simple white garments with a thin trim of pink lace. With her arms and legs bare, the heat she felt could not be blamed on her layers of clothing anymore.

Hesitantly, she stepped out of her makeshift dressing room, arms covering her chest. She had not let a man see her like this in five years. Jean-François had undressed down to his pants and undershirt. She could tell he was trying not to stare at her.

“Ready?” he asked.

She took his hand ,and they ran into the water, giggling, and dipped their whole bodies in one go. Jean-François emerged, shaking the water off his curls.

“The water is gorgeous,” Betty said.

She floated on her back among the water lilies and closed her eyes against the sun. Her body swayed to every ripple in the water.

Before long, she became aware of her breasts peeking above the water, the wet linen of her chemise clinging to her skin. She kept her eyes closed, pretended she wasn’t aware of it and hoped Jean-François noticed.

A branch fell into the river, and Jean-François stood up to remove it. The white cotton of his pants couldn’t hide the effect she had on him.

“So you really do like me,” she teased.

He studied her with a strange look in his eyes.

“What is it?”

“Who are you, Betty?”

“Pardon?”

“When we first met, you were suspicious of my intentions and I presumed you had been deceived by a man before, but there is more to that story.” He swam closer to her. “And your letters, they show a certain inclination. You’re not… innocent.”

Despite the cool water, Betty’s cheeks flared up. She’d promised herself she would never tell the story, not even to her husband-- if she ever married, which was unlikely in her position.

Betty swam away, to a flat rock and hiked herself up on it. Under Jean-François’ expectant gaze, she fiddled nervously with the edge of her chemise.

“You can trust me,” he insisted.

A lump rose in her throat. She wanted to open up to him.

“The first family I worked for, the man was a doctor. There was a regiment in our town, and soldiers often came to the house for ailments. It’s how I met… him. An officer, from Poland. He said he loved me, promised we would run away together and marry. We were caught, I lost my position, and he left, heartbroken, without making good on any of his promises.”

“This is why you had to use Wigram’s obligation to you father?”

“I would never have found work again otherwise. If I were smart, I would not have come here with you.”

“You’re safe with me, Betty. I always keep my promises.”

“You’ve never promised me anything.”

“Because I don’t take it lightly. I can promise you I will not tell a soul about what happened with the Polish man.”

She held his gaze for signs of treachery-- he didn’t waver.

After a moment, he sat on another rock, facing her.

“What kind of man do you like?” he asked.

“Honest. And kind.”

“I really do like you, Betty.”

Without thinking, she glanced at his crotch, down to a more modest size.

“You said honest and kind, you didn’t say anything about size.”

She laughed.

“Was he a good lover?”

She blushed, not only because of the question, but because of the answer.

“Do you still want me?” she replied instead of answering. “Yes.”

“I ain’t a trollop.”

“I know. It’s not easy for you women.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to do it behind the theatre? Because you thought I was innocent.”

“I didn’t want to do it there because you deserve better.”

“Is a river any better?”

“You tell me.”

Betty considered their surroundings, all these different trees and flowers, insects and animals, wild yet living in harmony. Nature at its purest. And she thought, if humans were stripped from their petty civilities and prejudiced morality, maybe this attraction between her and Jean-François would also be nature at its purest.

“Would you kiss me again? Just a little,” she said.

Mercier slid off the rock, and crossed the river to her. Her breath hitched as he rose from the water. Leaning forward, he placed his hands on each side of her hips. Drops fell from his hair, down his nose, landing on his bottom lip. He slowly cocked his head to the side, her lips parted with an expectant sigh, and he pecked her Cupid’s bow.

“Not fair.”

“Payback’s fair.”

She pouted.

“You said ‘just a little’,” he pointed out.

“You know what I want.”

“You think me a mind-reader. I suspect you don’t even know yourself what you want.”

“I do… but I also know I shouldn’t want it.”

“Do you think what we’re doing is wrong?”

“Well, Lady Wigram—”

“No. What do you think?”

“I think I want more.”

She kissed that spot again, at the base his throat, licked the water up his neck and nipped his jaw. He whispered a French curse before capturing her mouth.

His nails scratched the rock and the tendons of his arms tightened as he restrained himself from touching her body. She had no such qualms and slipped her hands under his shirt, caressing up his waist, exploring his ribs.

Since meeting her, he had not been with another woman, and his flesh reacted wildly to her touch. Like striking a match, sparks of pleasure kindling the heat in his stomach. He had to stop before it consumed him. He leaned back to break the kiss, but she pushed forward, and gently caught his lower lip between her teeth. Something like a growl echoed in his chest, he slid a hand through her hair, and licked at the seam of her mouth and she let him in. They tasted each other’s moans. He bucked his hips into her knees, and she opened them to accommodate his body.

“Betty, I have to stop, before I can’t—” She interrupted his protest with an eager kiss, wrapping arms and legs around him.

She wiggled her hips.

He gave up on resisting her.

With both hands on her bum, he drew her to him. Through the fabric of her drawers, he felt the heat of her sex. He couldn’t resist pressing against her, seeking friction on his hard length. She held him tighter and moved her hips. Mercier hissed against her mouth. He devoured her neck with kisses, travelling lower, licking along her collarbone and over the swell of her breast. Spurred on by her moans, he sucked through her wet chemise until her nipple pebbled between his teeth.

Betty grounded desperately against him. Strangled noises, half moans, half sobs, escaped her throat as she clawed at his back. It wasn’t just water now soaking their underwear.

He wanted to tear their clothes away, but even for that he couldn’t stop. Her scent, her kisses, the way she whispered his name, it all intoxicated him. He’d imagined making love to her slowly, but here he was, sweat beading down his spine, as he rutted between her legs.

Betty bit his shoulder to muffle her cries. She was close. He cupped the nape of her neck to make her look at him. Her hair was wild, her pupils blown wide.

“Please.”

He pushed her legs farther apart, pressing more directly into her.

Between the folds of fabric, his thumb found her sensitive nub. He rubbed tight circles and admired the moment pleasure overwhelmed her. Her jaw dropped, her eyes fluttered shut, and he caught her last breath of release with a kiss.

“Beautiful.”

She covered her mouth with her fingertips, a passing mortification that morphed into giggles. He kissed her over her fingers, sucked lightly on the tips.

Mercier lowered himself in the water, he rested his head on her knee as he stroke himself. She ran her fingers through his hair, and he bit her inner thigh when he came.

“And I was just thinking we’re not so different from animals,” Betty said. The mirth in her voice told him she wasn’t upset by what they’d just done.

“Yes, animals.“ He nuzzled her neck, imitating a cat’s purr, and she scratched behind his ear.

They spent the next hour, lounging idly under the sun, her head on his chest, his arms around her, altering their position only to sip water or grab a snack. Now that she’d revealed the truth about her past, they spoke more freely. An intimacy of minds and bodies, sharing doubts and caresses, secrets and kisses. Every time Mercier learned something new about her, his affection grew tenfold, and with it a protective streak.

“Have you seen another Frenchman at your house? De Brem, he’s blond with a mustache?” he asked.

“I think so, a few times.”

“Has he talked to you?”

“No. Jean-François, what’s wrong?”

He told her how de Brem sent him to Dhaka under false pretenses to harass Gabrielle. “When he was at my house… he saw a letter from you to me.”

“He knows? Why didn’t you say so before?” She raised herself on one arm, alarmed.

“I’m not sure. It may be nothing, but steer clear of him.” And he added, to reassure her, “I’m taking care of it.”

He’d already sent a petition to his superiors and confronted de Brem himself about his behaviour. He couldn’t tell Betty de Brem was now in charge of the investigation on Wigram as Mercier had yet to reveal he’d been spying on her employer.

“It must make your work unpleasant,” she said.

“It already was.”

There was the boredom of this administrative tasks now that the thrill of being in a foreign country had passed, but every day he grew more uncomfortable with the European presence in India. In Dhaka, his mission had been to help a French plantation owner settle a dispute with the authorities to ensure the prosperity of his business. But his wealth came from abusing the local people; they toiled in the indigo fields, from dusk till dawn, under a relentless sun for a meager salary while he sipped brandy in his ornate living room.

“They would be better off without us,” he summed up. “You saw how they fear us and hate us. With good reasons.”

“But I thought we were doing a good thing. Helping them.”

“How?”

“Well, we-- we employ them.”

“As servants, slaves almost!”

Betty flinched at his outburst. “I didn’t think…”

Of course, she believed the propaganda the British empire fed to its citizens. Elaborate intellectual arguments to justify the exploitation: bringing them democracy and a modern lifestyle.

She hadn’t been in India long and always within the British district of Calcutta, surrounded by people who had made their fortune on the backs of Indians. She had not seen everything he had. He described the poverty and abuse he’d witnessed, but censored himself so as not to upset her too much.

Her forehead puckered and her lips set into a grim line. “That’s awful,” she said quietly.

He tugged her back to him, and gently stroke her back.

“Will you go back to France, then? If you don’t like it here,” she asked.

“Maybe. France or elsewhere. Somewhere new.”

“For adventures?”

“For adventure,” he agreed.

“Then you shall need companionship.”

“Indeed.”

They smiled at each other and kissed. There was a promise, on the tip of his tongue, but he wasn’t sure he could make it quite yet. Soon, he thought, holding Betty closer.

Mercier sipped some tea and looked out the window at the vast indigo plantation. Under the watchful eyes of soldiers, native men in white turbans, carried loads of blue flowers on their spindly backs.

Monsieur Lelievre, the owner of the plantation, entered the study, arms full of large books. A cloud of dust burst from the pages when he dropped them on the desk. “The plantation’s bookkeeping from the beginning,” he announced. He brushed his waistcoat and trousers, then sat opposite Mercier.

Not long ago, Mercier would have jumped at this chance for a real mission outside Calcutta. The negotiations between European tradesmen and local authorities often required skills of the military and diplomatic kind. But in this case, not only did he have more interesting duties in the city, Mercier suspected he’d been sent on a wild goose chase. He’d been here two weeks without making any progress.

Mercier cursed de Brem under his breath. Only a few days after landing on the shores of India, the man had taken over the investigation on Lord Wigram and had sent Mercier away from Calcutta. What if there was more to it than the old rivalry between them?

*

Gabrielle whistled as she entered her home, removing her hat and gloves. It had been a wonderful promenade, and she gave each dog a treat for their good behaviour. She’d met Miss Salinger in the park, it was her day off. To make up for her brother’s absence, Gabrielle had done her best to cheer her up, with some success. She was a bright young woman, no wonder Jean-François was so taken with her.

“It’s lovely to see you so happy, Miss Mercier,” de Brem said in French.

At the sight of the blond, mustachioed man, Gabrielle stiffened. “It seems you have gotten lost in the house Mr. de Brem. Again. Let me show you the way back to the consulate wing.”

Since Jean-François had left for Dhaka, de Brem kept coming over, at all hours of the day. Since he was her brother’s boss, she couldn’t be as rude with him as she wished.

Gabrielle walked away, but he stepped between her and the door.

“I am not lost, I assure you. I wanted to see you.” He touched her arm, and Gabrielle recoiled. “I remember a time when you welcomed my attentions.”

“That was a long time ago. Before I met Armand.”

He stepped forward, she stepped backward.

“He’s a poor pianist,” de Brem said.

Forward, backward.

She clenched her fists, remembering her brother’s boxing lessons.

“I love him,” Gabrielle stated.

“I would give you anything you desire.”

“You are married. You have children. You have no honour.”

The back of her legs hit a writing desk. Her knees buckled and de Brem smiled. His breath ghosted over her face, she turned her head away.

“Unlike your brother, you mean? And what has his honour ever done for him? I am his superior now. When I want something, I take it.”

His tongue snaked out between his thin lips as he contemplated Gabrielle’s face. Then his gaze strayed to a point behind her shoulder, and he smirked. Gabrielle pushed him away. The front door opened, and de Brem retreated so as not to get caught.

“See you soon, Miss Mercier,” he said before leaving.

Gabrielle sat down and closed her eyes to steady her beating heart.

De Brem’s self-confidence had once seduced her, but something corrupt had festered in his soul. She reflected on how people who grow up with everything shall never be satisfied.

So far, she had not told her brother about his colleague’s behaviour, but now it had gone too far. When she turned to the writing desk, Gabrielle saw what had caught de Brem’s attention earlier: a letter from Miss Salinger to Jean-François.

*

On the porch of the Wigram’s house, Betty leaned against a doric column. Her feet ached from walking all day in cheap boots, but she would enjoy her free day until its last second.

The twilight hour had a peculiar stillness to it, even birds in the palms dozed off, tired from the day’s work. A hot wind chased dry coconut shells down the street and stirred the fragrant frangipanis. Warm hues filled the sky and painted white buildings with gold. A tabby cat curled at her feet.

With each breath, her chest pushed against Jean-François’ latest letter hidden in her corset; Gabrielle had passed it on to her during their promenade. She missed him. She missed how every step out of the house thrilled her with its chance to meet him. If only she’d given him a proper kiss goodbye. What if he’d met someone else in Dhaka? Another deep breath, and the envelope crinkled in her corset. No, he was still hers.

With the delay between letters— three days, sometimes four— their correspondence lacked the back and forth, akin to a conversation, it had before. But there was more of an openness to them, more daring and risque too. He remained a gentleman, and she a well-behaved young woman, but they chose each word carefully for their double meaning or reference to The Kama Sutra. Each sentence crafted to arouse the reader’s imagination.

She grazed the letter with her fingertips, and her skin goose-pimpled with excitement. Should she read it now or wait until she was alone in her room?

Knocks on the window decided for her. Her three pupils, Victoria, Winifred and Oliver, pressed their faces against the glass and slapped it to attract their governess’ attention. Betty waved at them, and they ran to the door to greet her. They jumped in her arms, talking one over the other about their day, as if they had been separated for weeks.

Lady Wigram stood nearby, always with that haughty set to her chin. She stared at the children’s display of affection. Hurt flickered in her hazy blue eyes, but she chased it away with a flippant remark about Betty’s appearance. Betty couldn’t help that she’d been in the children’s lives longer than their step-mother so they trusted her more. Still, she felt bad for Lady Wigram who obviously wished to be closer to the children.

“Where did you get those earrings?” Lady Wigram asked with narrowed eyes.

Betty touched the delicate pendants at her ears— a gift from Jean-François to apologise for his absence on her day off. “… Miss Mercier gave them to me.”

At the mention of Gabrielle, Lady Wigram perked up. “You know Miss Mercier? Why would she give you earrings?”

After some incoherent babbling, Betty explained she’d first met Gabrielle after Oliver had fallen in the river and Jean-François helped them out. She then made up a story about helping out with Gabrielle and Armand’s upcoming wedding. “She gave me the earrings as a thank you. They’re second-hand. Said she never wears them anyway.” She held her breath as Lady Wigram appraised her for long seconds. She nodded curtly, and let Betty go.

From her bedroom window, Betty had a good view of the tree in the backyard under which she’d met Jean-François before he left town. She couldn’t help but glance at it, hoping to see him there, leaning against the trunk, neck tie loose and smoldering eyes. But he wasn’t there.

She postponed reading his letter until after the children had gone to bed. She hid it at the bottom of a drawer along with the earrings, then changed into her grey governess dress. And thus she also slipped back into her governess persona: meek and unremarkable.

On the dinner table, a servant had set a plate down for Lord Wigram but his chair was empty. It remained untouched until the end of the meal, and Lady Wigram kept glancing at the clock and at the front door. It wasn’t Betty’s place to ask about his lordship’s whereabouts, but she worried. Thankfully, Victoria asked “Where is Papa? Won’t he be hungry?”

Lady Wigram’s hazy blue eyes settled on Betty even as she answered Victoria. “Your father said he was going out to meet a friend this morning.”

Betty focused all her attention on cutting her chicken into bits so as not to meet that unprovoked icy glare. She didn’t have anything to do with his absence.

Not ten minutes later, a great guffaw announced Lord Wigram’s return. He staggered into the dining room, arm in arm with an equally inebriated man. Wigram kissed his wife, then each children’s head, and Betty’s too. Laughing, Betty ushered the children out of the room before the men became too rowdy.

Samaira, Oliver’s nanny, joined them. As the children chose a story, the nanny and the governess chatted about their day. The conversation confirmed what Betty thought: Lady Wigram had tried to play with the children so they might warm up to her, but she’d suggested activities ill-suited to their age.

“Betty, I want to go out tonight,” Samaira whispered— she meant meet up with Rakesh, her boyfriend who worked next door.

“Of course, I’ll cover for you,” Betty answered. Someday, she might need Samaira’s help to sneak out and meet Jean-François.

Betty came up with a plan that would kill two birds with one stone: ensure Lady Wigram wouldn’t catch Samaira leaving the house, and make her feel appreciated by the children. Betty had been teaching the children a nursery rhyme, she asked the Victoria to write down the lyrics while Winifred drew flowers around the sheet. They practiced singing it with a simple choreography.

When Samaira was ready to leave, Betty took the children to the drawing room. Lady Wigram was alone, his lordship already snoring off the ale.

The children were nervous as they took place in front of their stepmother. Betty offered Lady Wigram the lyrics and encouraged her to sing along. There was much laughing and off-key singing, but they did splendidly.

At Betty’s behest, they hugged and kissed their stepmother goodnight. She seemed genuinely happy, more than she had ever seen her.

“It was their idea,” Betty lied. She hoped Lady Wigram would be nicer if she didn’t feel in competition with the governess.

“That’s very kind. Tell me Betty, you really were with Gabrielle Mercier this afternoon.”

“Yes, your ladyship.”

“Do you think… She is a very fashionable young woman. The talk of the town, one might say.”

“Yes, she is.”

“And her fiancé is a talented pianist. Their wedding is bound to be a grand event.”

“I suppose it will,” Betty replied carefully, wary of this unusual amiable tone.

“And of course, my husband is a close acquaintance of Colonel Mercier.”

The mention of Jean-François unsettled Betty, she panicked, until she realized what Lady Wigram was really after: an invitation. “I believe miss Mercier said you would be invited to her wedding.”

“As it should be,” she answered with a satisfied smile.

Maybe if she secured an invitation to the wedding for the Wigram, and made the children lover her ladyship, Betty wouldn’t be the target of the lady’s insecurities anymore. At least, Lord Wigram was nice to her, but it only made matters worse with his wife. Eventually, he might decide to grant his wife’s wish and fire Betty, instead of keeping an old promise made to her late father.

Back in her modest room, Betty put these thoughts behind her; she finally had time to read Jean-François’ letter, and she wouldn’t let anything distract her from his words.

She changed into her nightdress but put the earring back on, them climbed into bed with a candle.

Dearest, I am sorry to miss your day off. I trust you made the most of it, and followed your wonderful sense of adventure. I hope the gift pleases you. If I cannot be with you, at least let something from me be in your presence. The earrings are made of oxblood coral inlaid in white gold. Perhaps not the most luxurious of gemstones, but certainly more original. I believe you are far too unique to wear the same stone as everyone else. They reminded me of you.

Betty smiled. The Kama Sutra described “the coral and the jewel” as a type of biting done by bringing together the teeth and the lips “the lip is the coral, and the teeth the jewel”. Every time Betty moved her head, the earrings brushed against her neck, evoking his mouth on her skin.

The thought of being bitten shouldn’t arouse her, but she imagined herself with Jean-François, in the throes of passion, sweaty, naked bodies, clawing fingers and head-spinning pleasure, a state so primal sharp teeth become an aphrodisiac.

Her heart ached with longing for this kind of liberation, the complete opposite of her daily life as a governess where every action and word was calculated so as not to attract attention but also set the perfect example for her pupils.

With a sigh, she sagged against her pillows. Her thighs rubbed together as she reread his first sentences, hearing them in his lightly-accented voice: “you are far too unique”.

He went on to talk about his work in Dhaka, and even if he didn’t say so, she sensed his exasperation.

*

“I think we should wait before requesting a meeting,” the owner of the indigo plantation, Mr. Lelievre, said.

Mercier narrowed his eyes at him and bit the inside of his cheeks. Not for the first time, Lelievre was postponing the execution of a solution to his problems. Lelievre was a young man and had recently inherited this domain and its history of conflict with the locals. So far, Mercier had attributed his reluctance to inexperience bordering on ineptitude. But after spending days looking through dozens of old accountancy books, he was running out of patience, and his suspicions had grown. Lelievre was purposefully stalling their work. But why?

“We will not wait before requesting a meeting,” Mercier stated. “In fact, we will go there first thing tomorrow.”

“But—”

A messenger entered the living room, “Some mail for you, sahib.”

Two letters, one from the French consulate, and one from Gabrielle which he knew concealed a message from Betty.

“First thing tomorrow morning,” Mercier repeated sternly. “Now if you will excuse me, this is a confidential matter.”

Mercier’s favourite spot on the property was an old stone bench underneath a canopy. He lit a cigarette, taking a moment to relax and clear his mind before opening Betty’s letter.

My hopes to have a whole day with you were shattered by your departure for Dhaka, but I nonetheless tried to make the most of it as you said. I ate food I had never tasted before: bhelpuri. I bought it from a street vendor thanks to a few Hurdu words Samaira taught me. I ate it directly from its newspaper cone! It was like an explosion of flavours! I tried a sort of ice cream too- kulfi. I met with your sister and we visited a park I had not seen before...

Mercier imagined himself, right alongside her, ambling hand in hand through the streets of Calcutta, savouring spicy food and sweet kisses. And when she shared her excitement about attending a play next week, for her eldest pupil’s birthday, again he pictured himself at her side, perhaps in a private box, the coral pear drops drawing his attention to her slender neck… they would miss the third act.

The sky turned to ink and the night bugs’ chant rose in the air. Mercier smoked the last of his tobacco, still lost in a world of his own, his eyes trained southward. Some 400 miles away, lay his heart.

He opened Gabrielle’s letter next.

De Brem keeps coming over to our side of the house to talk to me. I told him to stop, but he’s very insistent. I asked Armand to come over but he has concerts most nights. I really don’t like this, Jean-François, he scares me. Can you do anything about it?

Mercier clenched his fists. This mission to Dhaka was nothing more than de Brem getting rid of him to make a move on Gabrielle.

He’d wasted enough time here, he was going back to Calcutta as soon as possible.

How he wanted to give her everything she wanted. It could be weeks before they got to spend another day together. If he begged her to stay, she might. But there was too much at stakes. Betty loved her job and the children very much. Getting fired for spending the night with a man would break her heart and ruin her reputation. He would never allow that to happen.

Mercier kissed her deeply.

Betty’s knees buckled, and he caught her.

“Are you all right?”

“A bit lightheaded. Must be your kisses.”

“Let me get you some tea.”

In the kitchen, Mercier met Gabrielle. She laughed when she saw him.

“Someone had an exciting day,” she said.

“I took Betty to the root bridge.”

“To propose?”

Mercier rolled his eyes. His sister frequently teased him about marriage.

Although he wouldn’t admit it to Gabrielle, it was on his mind. But he and Betty were from different countries and different social classes. He wanted to leave India but her work was here. Would she even say yes?

Above all, the memory of his first wife held him back. Whenever he thought about remarrying, Annemarie’s face popped up in his mind and triggered a wave of guilt.

He didn’t tell his sister any of that.

“Gabrielle, I need you to invite Lord and Lady Wigram to your wedding.”

Mercier waited until Gabrielle had filled out an invitation to return to his bedroom.

He knocked on the door. “Betty, may I enter?” No answer. He knocked again. “Betty?”

He opened the door and found the room empty. He checked in the bathroom, she wasn’t there either. Then he noticed papers strewn about the floor: his files on Lord Wigram.

“Merde.”

 Betty returned to the Wigram’s house in a state of utter confusion. In Jean-François’ room, she’d found files on Lord Wigram: official transaction papers and signed agreements, but also notes. Every visit, he’d written down his questions and suspicions about Wigram’s character. And there were notes about Betty herself.

Had he been using her to spy on Lord Wigram?

Perhaps she’d been right not to trust Jean-François in the beginning.

There may be a good, rational explanation to it all, but right now Betty couldn’t think straight. Her head spun and her skin was clammy. She wanted nothing more than lie down and close her eyes.

In the entrance hall, Lady Wigram was waiting for her.

“Here she is, my husband’s mistress!” she announced with wide arm gestures.

“What?”

“Don’t you dare deny it, you little hussy. I know everything.” She staggered towards Betty, shaking a finger. “How long has it been? You thought you could take my place, didn’t you? Well, you won’t.”

Betty steadied herself against the door frame. Her vision blurred. She must be in the middle of a nightmare. Tears fell down her burning cheeks.

“You spent the day with him. I know you did. Do you think I’m stupid? Have you no shame?”

Her ladyship’s breath reeked of alcohol, and Betty turned her head away.

“I’m not… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Betty replied weakly.

She tugged on her collar, she needed air. She tried to push Lady Wigram away, but she didn’t budge. She grabbed Betty’s arms and squeezed until it hurt.

“Your ladyship, please—”

Betty fainted.

 Mercier walked the length of the room like a lion in a cage. Thirty-six hours ago, Betty had ran away from his house, and he hadn’t heard from her since then. He’d sent several messages to the statue of Ganesha and had even walked by the house at night. Twice.

He needed to explain the situation to her. But no explanation would change the fact that he should have told her the truth sooner.

He wanted to give her time to think, but it was driving him mad.

“Brother, you’re miserable,” Gabrielle said. “Just go to her.”

“I can’t talk to her while she’s working.”

“Then pay a visit to Wigram, you might at least see her.”

With a knot in his stomach, he quickly shaved and dressed, then headed out.

At Wigram’s house, the butler informed him his lordship wasn’t at home. Mercier clenched his fists and breathed through his annoyance.

“When is he expected back?”

“I don’t know, sahib. He was not home since yesterday.”

Mercier needed a reason to at least step foot inside so he might catch sight of Betty, so he asked to leave a message.

While the butler fetched a pen and paper, Mercier heard sobs coming from under the stairs. Curious, he approached and found the eldest girl, Victoria, hugging her knees. He had little experience interacting with children, but he couldn’t leave her like this.

“What’s wrong, girl?”

“Betty’s sick. I don’t want her to die like Mummy.”

Mercier’s stomach sank, and he immediately took off, running up the stairs, two at a time, toward Betty’s bedroom.

He pushed opened the door without knocking first.

Betty lay in bed, eyes closed, thin blue veins spread across her eyelids. Her hair stuck to her damp forehead. Her lips were ashen.

No! No, no, no!

Mercier fell to his knees beside the bed and clutched her hand. “Betty, please. Betty open your eyes.”

The other girl, Winnifred, came into the room with Samaira.

“She has a bad fever,” Samaira said.

“What did the doctor say?”

“The mensahib do not want the doctor.”

He touched Betty’s forehead, it was burning yet her hand was cold. She’d been like this for almost two days without proper medical care.

He slammed his fist on the bed and went into full colonel mode.

“Call a doctor, now.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Lady Wigram said, entering the room.

The woman was still in her bathrobe, her hair frizzy and her eyes glazed over from drink.

“Do you want her to die?” Mercier said, rising to his feet.

“Yes! She’s a worthless whore.” She spat on Betty. “I won’t let her take my husband away from me. He doesn’t care about her. He’s not even here.”

Her declaration confused him for a moment.

“Betty is not having an affair with your husband. She’s having an affair with me.”

Lady Wigram laughed, an ugly, bitter laugh.

“She is,” Mercier insisted.

“Then how do you explain this?” Lady Wigram pulled a piece of crumpled paper from her pocket.

He recognized it instantly. It was a letter Betty had written to him.

“I found it, and many more in my husband’s desk.”

Mercier ruffled the hair at the back of his head. What was happening? Had Betty lied to him? Doubts and questions tumbled about in his brain.

And then it clicked. Only one person knew about the letters and Wigram. A person who hated Jean-François too. De Brem. Fils de pute.

“Samaira, pack a bag for Betty,” Jean-François ordered. “I’m taking her with me.”

He picked up her frail body, bridal style, and carried her out of the room

He refused to lose another woman he loved.

 Mercier held his breath as the doctor examined Betty. Not so long ago he’d imagined her hair fanned out on his pillow, he didn’t want it in such circumstances.

Beside him, Gabrielle stroke his back.

“She’ll be fine,” she said.

“You can’t know that.”

The doctor put his stethoscope away.

“It’s Malaria,” he announced.

The diagnostic sounded like a gavel on hardwood, a condemnation, it rang in his ears. Each year, Malaria took too many souls.

A scientist had recently discovered it was transmitted by mosquitoes. Mercier cursed himself for taking Betty into the jungle.

“You need to treat the fever and give her Quinine,” the doctor instructed. “And pray.”

Praying had not saved Annemarie.

The pain he felt at the mere thought of losing Betty eradicated all his doubts: he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

Servants prepared a cold bath for Betty. Refusing to let anyone else touch her, Mercier carried her himself to the bathroom. He laid her in the water, still dressed in her nightgown.

Betty’s eyes fluttered open. Mercier’s heart leapt in his chest.

“Ma belle?” Her cupped her cheek with his wet hand.“You’re in my house. You’re safe here. I’m taking care of you.”

She smiled weakly, eyelids drooping. She didn’t seem entirely conscious.

He gently wiped her face with a damp flannel. “Here, doesn’t that feel good? Do you feel better?”

Her eyes closed, and she sagged into the bath. She had no muscle tone. Mercier got in, still dressed, and he held her so she wouldn’t sink. He cupped water into his hand and poured it over her head. He shivered in the cold water, but her body still burned. He would not let her go.

Betty opened her eyes with great effort. “You’re here,” she mumbled.

“Yes. You’ll feel better soon, I promise.”

“Don’t promise.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and kissed her forehead. “I promise,” he repeated.

Gabrielle came in with a cup. An infusion of cinchona bark. Betty winced at the bitter taste even if it was mixed with soda and sugar. She drank slowly, Mercier holding the cup for her.

Betty passed out again after the drink. Mercier pulled her out of the water, dried her and dressed her with a clean nightgown from the bag prepared by Samaira.

He sat by the bed and fought sleep, keeping watch, chin rested on his laced fingers. Another cup of infusion waited for her beside an uneaten plate of chicken rice.

All night, he stayed there with an unbearable tightness in his chest.

The doctor came back the next day. “No improvement, I’m afraid.”

There were more baths, and always a punkah wallah to keep the fans above the bed moving.

He read to her and cherished every moment she opened her eyes.

 Mercier woke up to a hand touching his hair.

“Betty?”

“She’s still sleeping,” Gabrielle whispered. “Lord Wigram is here. He wants to talk to you.”

He caressed Betty’s still warm cheek, loathing to leave her.

“I don’t have time for him.”

“I’ll be right here with her,” Gabrielle said. “I’ll send for you as soon as she cracks open an eye.”

Mercier grunted as he stood up. His back ached from sleeping on the straight wooden chair.

In the library, Lord Wigram paced the room, mumbling to himself. A ginger scruff covered his cheeks and his white button-down was stained.

“How is she?” he asked immediately upon seeing Mercier.

“She’s… I don’t know,” he answered with a lump in his throat. “I swear to God, if she dies it’s on you and your wife.”

“By jove, Mercier. You really are in love with her. She’s a sweet lass, alright, but she’s a governess, you don’t need to—”

Mercier interrupted him before he lost his temper. “Why don’t you tell me about your business with de Brem?”

Lord Wigram blanched, he sat down on the armchair and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.

“You knew him in Bombay, didn’t you?” Mercier said, referring to his lordship’s past financial troubles.

“Why must this dratted business come back to haunt me?”

“Speak, Wigram.”

“De Brem was the one behind all of it. He came to me in Bombay with a scheme to get rich… I knew it was wrong but I agreed to it. We pretended to be agents of the East India company. He would contact people in France, send them to me in Bombay, and after a few days of negotiation—” he said this miming air quotes— “I’d say the company wasn’t interested in their business and they’d return to France. All of this for a fee, of course. Look, it wasn’t that much money.”

“You deceived them.”

“De Brem was worse. There was lots he wasn’t telling me about. The French authorities caught on to our scheme. But de Brem, somehow, he escaped any blame. Knew the right people, I suppose. He’s one sleazy bootlicker. I paid for my mistakes. I’m an honest man now.”

“Why did he come to Calcutta?” Mercier asked.

“I’m not sure, probably running off from another scam gone wrong. He’s deep in debts, I think.”

“He stole Betty’s letters from me and gave them to your wife. Why?”

Wigram ran a hand down his face. “He wanted me to team up with him again. I wouldn’t help him. He threatened me. I’ve been trying to stall him. I suppose he lost patience. Tried to come between me and my wife.”

“Where have you been these last few days?”

Wigram rounded his shoulders and bowed his head. “Hiding. I love my wife, I couldn’t bear to face her.”

Mercier showed the man no sympathy. He stood up and walked away.

Wigram ran after him. “Where are you going?”

“Back to Betty. I learned everything I needed to know. I will take de Brem down when she’s out of danger.”

“Will you tell her I’m sorry?” Wigram said.

Mercier didn’t reply.

 Betty drifted in and out of consciousness. Delirious at times, she even hallucinated Jean-François taking care of her. Shivers and sweats wracked her body, and in her weakest moments, the thought of him kept her fighting.

The disease’s shroud fazed out a little each day, her surroundings became clearer.

“Betty? Do you want more tea?” Jean-François asked from his chair beside the bed.

His eyebrows were drawn in concern, he looked tired with dark circles under his eyes.

“You’re really here,” she said.

“How are you feeling?”

For the first time since she fainted, darkness didn’t threaten to pull her back under, but she was still too weak to put it into words.

She caressed Jean-François’ cheek, stubble bristled under her palm.

He called for some food and tonic water. His gaze never left her as she ate. Every time she swallowed a spoonful of soup, he smiled.

“Colour is returning to your cheeks,” he said.

He cleared the dishes away and took her hands in his. “There is something I need to talk to you about. Do you feel well enough?”

The serious look on his face made her stomach drop, she wouldn’t be able to rest without knowing what this was about. “Tell me.”

“I need to apologize. I should have told you sooner that I was investigating Lord Wigram.”

“Were you using me to spy on him?”

“I admit that thought crossed my mind when we first met. It did not last long. In fact, I think instead of seeing you to spy on him, I was spying on him to see you.”

He squeezed her hand as if to communicate his sincerity. He went on to explain how he got this assignment and de Brem’s involvement.

She didn’t doubt him. He’d proved already his feelings were genuine.

“Apology accepted,” she said.

“Thank you.” He kissed the back of her hands. “Do you want to keep working for Wigram?”

Betty hesitated. There was much to consider. A governess couldn’t have a liaison with a man, nor get married. But she had nothing beside her job. She didn’t know what Jean-François’ intentions were.

Weariness swept over her as these thoughts jostled in her mind.

“Dunno how I can keep working for someone who would’ve left me to die. But the children… and there’s you. You want to leave India.”

“I don’t want to leave without you,” Jean-François said.

“And I don’t want to stay here without you.”

“We don’t have to decide anything today. We can figure it out later. Together.”

His words sent her heart aflutter, but she had to remind herself they were only that— words.

“Yeah. Just, please, don’t ever hide something from me again. I need you to be honest with me, even if it could hurt me, I’d rather know than be mislead.”

“I promised you, you are safe with me. But in the spirit of honesty, I should tell you that I… I am in love with you.”

Betty let out a shaky laughter and pressed a palm to her heart. “I love you too. So much.”

She scooted aside to make room for him on the bed. They embraced, legs and arms entwined, looking into each other’s eyes.

“You called me something,” Betty said, “in the bath, I think.”

“Ma belle?”

“Yes. Say it again, please.”

Jean-François rubbed his nose against hers. “Ma belle. My beautiful. Meree sundar,” he added in Hindi. The words tickled her lips.

“Yours.”

And they kissed, a kiss infused with the fear of losing each other. A breath of life. Desperate, yet hopeful.

A knock at the door interrupted their moment. Jean-François left the bed, and Betty fixed her nightgown.

Samaira came in and rushed to hug Betty. The three kids followed her and jumped on the bed, giggling.

“Oh, my sweets, how lovely to see you,” Betty exclaimed.

Lady Wigram stepped into the room, sober now but sporting a good headache judging by the way she rubbed her forehead.

Betty stared daggers at her.

“I’m sure you don’t care to see me,” Lady Wigram said. “I certainly didn’t want to come. But the children asked… I did it for them… I’m so sorry, Betty.”

Betty nodded.

She may never get along with her ladyship, but perhaps the children were in good hands after all.

Her conversation with Jean-François and the subsequent visit had taken a toll on Betty’s energy. She closed her eyes and drifted off as soon as her visitors left the room.

 She slept peacefully, for hours, no hallucinations or shivers disturbed her. For the first time in four days, she woke up rested.

She noticed the scent of sickness clinging to her and, for the first time too, she had the energy to get rid of it.

In lukewarm water, she scrubbed her body and washed her hair. She felt renewed. As she rubbed rose oil onto her skin, the caress of her own hand made her tingle. She needed Jean-François.

Outside the window, night had settled. She assumed he had gone to bed, but a maid informed her he was on the roof.

In lieu of a dress, Betty simply wrapped a long piece of muslin fabric around her torso, and she let her hair fall down her back.

At the top of the stairs leading to the roof, she paused. Under the full moon, Jean-François was sitting on large cushions strewn about an ornate rug. He was looking to his side, seemingly hypnotised by the bed linen swaying on the clothesline in the balmy breeze. She admired his fine profile, the slope of his nose and sharp jawline. Her fingers hitched to rediscover them.

The sound of distant chatter and call to prayer covered the dull noise of her naked feet on the concrete. She’d reached the edge of the rug when he noticed her.

“Betty, you should not be out here. You need to rest.”

Standing before him, she gestured for him to remain seated. “I’m fine. You don’t need to worry anymore.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. But there’s something else I need you for.”

A candle flame flickered in its silver lantern, creating a pulsing lattice pattern on her makeshift dress.

Betty took a deep, steadying breath, and untucked the fabric around her chest. Slowly, it unravelled and slipped down her body. She stood completely nude in the moonlight.

Jean-François’ jaw dropped and his eyes glazed over.

She straddled his thighs. His hands hovered as if he didn’t know where to touch her first, or if he was even allowed to. Betty cupped his hand to her cheek.

“I’m safe with you,” she whispered.

And then his hands and lips were everywhere. From the crook of her elbows to her earlobes and navel, he covered her in kisses and tender caresses.

Through it all, she somehow managed to remove his shirt. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, pressing her naked chest to his. The muscles in his back shifted under her palms. She loved his bones, and the dry, woodsy scent of his skin.

They breathed in sync, rib cages expanding as their hearts thumped to the same beat.

She guided his hands to her breasts, finally feeling them, large and warm, on her skin rather than through layers of fabric. The same beautiful hands that had taken care of her through sickness.

“I love you,” she said.

Jean-François dropped his head to her shoulder with a ragged sigh. He kneaded her breasts roughly, squeezing a nipple between his fingers.

“Ma belle,” he murmured between kisses up her neck.

As he captured her mouth, his palms fell to her knees and inched higher up her legs. His touch became heavier, fingers pressing into her flesh, as he neared the apex of her thighs. All of Betty’s senses zeroed in on the strokes of his thumbs along her hip bones, and the slight bite of his fingernails into her skin.

“May I?” he asked.

In a strangled voice, she said, “yes.”

Betty opened her legs wider, and Jean-François reclined back on one hand to better watch his own fingers play over her wet folds.

His touch was too light at first, stoking the fire in the pit of her stomach. When he found what made her gasp, he pleasured her mercilessly.

“Move your hips,” he said.

And there was something so wonderfully indecent to fucking herself on his long, elegant fingers.

Betty grasped his shoulders as she met his plunging digits faster and faster until her thighs quivered and bliss shot up her spine like a firework.

Jean-François caught her in his arms and held her close, stroking her back through the last tremors.

Betty’s hand wandered down his chest and stopped, shyly, just above his waistband.

She wanted to give him the same pleasure and satisfaction he’d given her, but she’d never touched him before.

Jean-François sucked in a sharp breath as only the tip of her little finger brushed the bulge in his trousers. She hid her blushing face in the crook of his neck and cupped him fully. She loved how he surged under her palm.

When she reached to undo his buttons, he stopped her.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

“Not at all.” He kissed her forehead. “I think I want to marry you first.”

“What?”

“If you want. I am not all talk like that man you knew. Gabrielle’s wedding is this Sunday, we could do it too— unless you would prefer— or if you don’t…”

“I do. Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes!”

They exchanged a celebratory kiss that soon heated up. Betty was still astride him and felt him stir in his trousers. She wanted him even more now.

“What does it matter? I’m not a virgin.”

“I don’t know. I want to do the right thing.”

“In that case, I’ll only use my hand. I promise.” She rested her hand over his erection.

“Who knew you were such a wanton strumpet?” he joked.

“Only for you,” she replied, batting her eyelashes.

She applied a little more pressure.

“Oh, you will be the death of me and my principles.”

Giggling, she unbuttoned his trousers and teased him through the material of his pants.

“What if— I know ‘The Kama Sutra’ says only eunuchs are supposed to do such things, but... I’d like to try.”

The Auparishtaka.

Jean-François grazed his thumb along her bottom lip and her tongue darted out to catch it. His eyes darkened.

“You won’t think me depraved, will you?” she asked.

“No. Never.”

He hastily removed his trousers and pants.

Willing her blush away, she made herself look at his cock. Hard. For her. She stroked it tentatively, loving the way it throbbed in her hand.

He palmed her breasts and thrust up into her fist. She knew he was eager for her mouth, but he waited.

Heart hammering in her chest, she lowered her head to his crotch. She slithered her tongue up the underside of his cock and kissed the tip wetly.

He drew in a sharp breath through his teeth.

She had only ever done this once for another man. A desperate attempt to keep him interested in her. To make sure he would keep his promises. It had not been love, in any shape or form, she knew that now.

Jean-François gently gathered her hair away from her face. She locked eyes with him as she wrapped her luscious lips around his cock. His taste filled her mouth. So personal. So intimate. From now on, no other woman would ever know this taste. That thought thrilled her, and she took him in deeper.

Jean-François quietly guided her rhythm. Her confidence grew with each praise and French curse.

What she lacked in experience, she made up for in dedication.

She redoubled her efforts, thinking of what she’d read: “the pressing”, “the kissing”, “the rubbing”. And then “the sucking of a mango fruit.” Saliva ran down her chin, slurping noises filled her ears. His grip tightened in her hair. “The swallowing.”

His grunt of release echoed in the night, louder than the dog’s barks down in the streets. He fell on his back.

Betty wiped her mouth and scooted up to kiss him. And they laughed for no reason but the happiness flooding their chests.

She didn’t feel dirty or ashamed. She didn’t worry about getting caught. She wasn’t scared he would leave.

She was at peace.

And they fell asleep on the roof, naked bodies entwined under the stars.