Page 43 of My Darling Girls

And so she had her concoction, and now she is here.

Jo looks at the murky water. Her belly spasms. She inhales, closes her eyes. She’ll do it. She must see her. Just one more time, as she used to be—beautiful and brave and alive. At the thought, an agony of the loss that’s as old as the world burns through Jo, cuts into her soul, and threatens to pull her into its bottomless depth. A place she forbids herself to enter.

A sudden gust of wind tells Jo it’s time. She jumps.

The early-morning sun shines over the tops of the trees, lifting the dew from the grass and reflecting off the river. The birds chirp cheerfully above Jo’s head.

“I suspect, you and I,” Miss Lambert says softly. Her index finger trails between Jo’s breasts, sending Jo into a free fall. Just as the day before and the week before and the month before that, they’re lying naked on the blanket by the river. A couple of books are neatly put aside, the reading lesson cut short. “We have more similarities than differences. I just had to pry you open.” Her finger circles Jo’s nipple. “To see what was hiding behind all those walls you’ve built.” She leans closer, her eyes locked on Jo, and the heat that was slowly building up in Jo’s veins is about to break loose and consume her. “Does your father suspect anything?”

The question plunges Jo into the frigid water. “Why do you ask?”

Miss Lambert flops on her back, her nakedness on full display, and stares at the sky. Jo stares too. At Miss Lambert’s lean body, and her small breasts, and a patch of dark hair between her legs. A heavy, liquid desire builds in Jo’s belly.

“We’ve been meeting almost every day. Doesn’t he wonder where you go in the mornings?”

“He’s usually sleeping off his ale.” Perhaps she needs to be more careful with her father—smile less, keep her gaze down, polish their furniture harder, spend more time in the shed and away from the mill. “And by the time he wakes, I’m back, and the breakfast’s ready. Why do you ask?”

“I ran into him the other day. At the shop. I think the shopkeeper and your father were talking about me because they stopped as soon as I walked in.” She looks at Jo with a grin. “I don’t care what people think about me. But it was your father, and I wondered.”

It must be nice not to care what others think of you. There’s freedom in that. To say and do what one wishes, gossip and expectations be damned. Jo admires that ability in Miss Lambert. Envies this freedom she’s certain she’ll never have.

“They could’ve been discussing the business. The mill.”

“Perhaps,” Miss Lambert says with a sigh. “Perhaps it’s just that.”

They lie in silence for a while, breathing in the same air, listening to the birds and sharing the same space. Jo steals a quick glance at Miss Lambert and takes in her beautiful face, an expression that hovers between serenity and contemplation. This is what happiness feels and looks like: a warm breeze, the rushing river, and a woman who loves Jo without condition or expectation.

And Jo loves her the same way.

Jo closes her eyes and sinks into a place where she’s finally content. She counts every single one of her blessings. Whether she’s rushing down the familiar path to the river to see Miss Lambert or putting fried eggs in front of her father, who’s still half dazed from the drink he had the night before, or attending to the daily chores with a smile because she remembers what happened by the river merely an hour ago, she counts and recounts her blessings. Every morning, when she wakes, she’s acutely aware of her own thoughts, her own body. The longing that never seems to subside. And all of her thoughts, as well as Jo herself, belong to Miss Lambert.

“There’s nothing to worry about.” Jo breaks the silence. “Life’s good.”

“Life’s good? Really?” Miss Lambert turns her head sharply in Jo’s direction and sits up. “Enough of this horseshit.” She leans over Jo’s face and pushes her hair to the side. Her face seems otherworldly in the shadows of the trees when Miss Lambert touches the yellowing bruise on Jo’s lower jaw. “You should do something about this.”

Jo winces. Not at the touch, but at Miss Lambert’s determination to ruin their perfect morning. “What do you suggest I do?”

“Don’t hide your bruises, your scars. Let the townsfolk see what he does to his own daughter.” She gently presses her lips to Jo’s jaw, to the bruise. “Consider hitting him back,” she whispers into Jo’s neck.

Jo laughs and meets the gaze of those amber eyes. “You cannot be serious.” There’s no anger nor pity registered on Miss Lambert’s face. If anything, Miss Lambert looks amused.

“Oh, I’m bloody serious. Why are men allowed to hit us, and we are not? Why are they allowed to have their own thoughts and express them out loud without shame, and we are supposed to keep our mouths shut?” She arches an eyebrow at Jo. “Why are you hiding your bruises?”

Jo sighs. Lately, Miss Lambert has been acting more like a mentor and less like a lover: always pushing Jo to explore the boundaries of society, to defy the norms, as if by doing so Miss Lambert is hoping to make Jo smarter, bring her up to some defiant and challenging level of thinking. Jo doesn’t resist it, but she doesn’t like it much either. Probably because she is afraid of what might happen if she becomes someone like Miss Lambert. Someone free thinking and free speaking and free loving. She has never met a woman like Miss Lambert before. Someone so bold and opinionated. Someone so terrifying. Jo doesn’t want to challenge her father. Or show her scars and bruises to the townsfolk. All Jo wants, all she needs, is to be with Miss Lambert in carnal ways that definitely are going to land Jo in hell.

“A year ago, I went to the reverend. And I told him about Daddy. You know what he said?”

“Let me guess. Pray harder, my dear. Pray for his salvation.” Miss Lambert lowers her voice, mimicking the reverend. She’s really good at impersonations.

“He told me to be patient with my father because he’s a weak man who cannot overcome his nature, and I should be more forgiving.” The clouds cover the sun, and the morning light darkens. The wind picks up, turns sharper, and Jo shivers. “And that was that.”

“God, I hate this town,” Miss Lambert says between her teeth. “Its small-mindedness. Its bigotry. Everyone here wears their piety like a flashy coat. They’re all sinners. Just the other day I found our reverend in a shed behind the church. With his own maid, rolling in a haystack.”

“He squeezed my breasts once after the Sunday service.” Jo remembers her shock and shame and the reverend’s sour breath on her face. “I should’ve screamed or slapped him . . .” Her voice trails off. “You probably would’ve done just that.”

Jo’s not someone who’s used to defending herself. Jo believes her life is what most people like her get to experience—a lot of chores, a mind-numbing Sunday service, and a drunk father with angry fists. After all, she has a roof over her head and a bed at night. There’s always food on their table. So what if her father is a drunkard? She manages, doesn’t she? When she told Miss Lambert that, the teacher got really angry. “You’re hiding behind the lies you created. How long can you live like this?” Jo didn’t argue, even though she didn’t agree. Because lying to yourself, pretending all is well, is a matter of survival.

“Maybe,” Miss Lambert drawls. “What I’m certain about is that we need to get out of here. Go to a big city.”