There was a jangling of the bell as they walked into the bookshop. Godfrey gallantly stood back to allow Eugenia through the doorway as he took off his hat. He then followed her to greet the shopkeeper who was seated at his desk. The white-haired, portly, bespectacled Mr Johnson rose to shake Godfrey’s hand warmly and gave a slightly more muted, old-fashioned bow towards Eugenia, as was proper towards the wife of a favoured customer.
As Godfrey settled into the comfortable chair opposite Mr Johnson’s counter, he waved his pretty wife in the direction of light and popular novels, since he and the bookseller would discuss more serious publications. The shop was almost empty as it was a bright and sunny afternoon, so Godfrey looked forward to a lengthy and uninterrupted conversation.
Mr Johnson did not meet Eugenia’s eyes at Godfrey’s kind but dismissive instruction and she smiled vaguely at both men as she walked over to the shelves she had been directed to, where the few other patrons were browsing.
What Godfrey did not know was that although he might be treated favourably, Eugenia was certainly one of Mr Johnson’s more prolific clients. On many an afternoon when the shop was quiet, she would sit in the chair where Godfrey’s youthful, be-whiskered and elegantly attired figure now sat; and discuss books with the shop owner with the full mutual enjoyment of avid bibliophiles.
She and Godfrey had spent a happy Saturday morning playing in the park with their two young children, before returning to their suburban villa for lunch. Godfrey had suggested the expedition to the bookshop while the children were napping in the care of the nursemaid. His wife had obligingly agreed to accompany him, although he had apologised that she may be bored, to which she just smiled and demurred modestly, like the good wife she was.
Eugenia, while still in eyesight of her husband, pretended to scan the shelves frothy fare considered suitable for young women. Her kid-gloved hands ran over the volumes as the brim of her fashionable bonnet hid her face from Godfrey’s view and the fact she was not really browsing at all.
Although her husband was aware that she enjoyed the works of Mr Charles Dickens which he read out to her for their mutual entertainment as she sat by the fire sewing of an evening, he would have been surprised of her absorption of that prolific author’s weightier tales. Added to this was her consumption of the novels of Bell brothers (recently unmasked as the Bronte sisters,) those of Mrs Gaskell and M. Alexandre Dumas in the original French, to name but a few.
Since the men were now deep in conversation, Mr Johnson having summoned his assistant from the recesses of the property to send him out for refreshments for Godfrey, Eugenia deemed it safe to delve deeper into the shop. In Mr Johnson’s father’s time, it has just taken up one front room of the old house just off the market square in this quiet country town, but over the years, the business had expanded to take over the entire ground floor of the building.
Mr Johnson had kept the original layout, so that the shop was made up of several small rooms, which Eugenia thought quaint and charming. She knew off by heart which sections housed which subjects and her buttoned boots tapped along the wooden flooring as she moved through the passageway towards the back of the building, lined with books on either side. The base of her full, tiered skirts caressed the titles on the bottom shelves as she passed them.
The small rooms were laid out as book-filled parlours, decorated with comfortable chairs and the occasional reading desk, so that patrons could browse comfortably and be tempted to purchase unhurriedly. The front leaves of some the glass-fronted reading desks were deliberately left down and a few volumes artfully placed there to catch the eye of a casual customer.
This arrangement was not only welcoming, but discreetly practical. Any valuable or prohibited volumes were locked behind the glass doors, with Mr Johnson or his hovering assistant having the key readily available upon request. This avoided any embarrassing incidents where shoppers might be confronted for being enticed to walk off with one of Mr Johnson’s most treasured volumes without actual payment.
However, as she walked from room to room there were no consumers (tempted or otherwise) to peruse the volumes and the shop’s assistant was evidently still busy furnishing Godfrey with suitable refreshment as he made his choices under Mr Johnson’s literary directions.
Eugenia was always glad to be able to have some private time amongst books. She became lost in a world of her own as she breathed in the distinctive, musty scent of the many volumes and the men’s voices from the front of the shop faded to a distant murmur.
Her love affair with literature went far back as she could remember, but it was truly kindled by the arrival in her home of her governess, Miss Davis, whose stern appearance (which won her favour with her young charges’ parents,) belied not only a heart of gold but a burning passion for education which Eugenia eagerly absorbed.
As Eugenia grew older, however, her parents’ praise for her academic achievements grew more muted, especially in company. She found increasingly that she had only Miss Davis to confide in as her knowledge expanded.
Once presented in the drawing room, she was encouraged only to display her watercolours, the neatness of her embroidery stitching and her prowess at the pianoforte, and to keep her mouth firmly shut about her translations of the Greek and Roman poets. She learned from everyone she mixed with socially that society did not condone a young woman whose interests were frankly, well, bookish.
When the dreaded time inevitably came and Miss Davis departed for her next position, she left Eugenia not only with the precious gift of learning, but also the addresses of similarly-minded women, who Eugenia could blamelessly correspond with by post and share ideas and books with, which made her feel less alone in her zest for knowledge.
And so, Eugenia continued to hide this essential part of herself as she learned to become a young lady and prepare for marriage. It would not do to share this passion with Godfrey. In his mind, as he departed on the train to his work in business in a nearby manufacturing town each morning, she was the queen of his domestic kingdom. In this way, he fondly imagined that she spent all the hours of her day happily organising their household, the servants and devoting herself to their young children.
Not that she didn’t cherish her time with her precious babies, but her other household concerns were dealt with quickly and efficiently. This meant that she could spend at least part of the afternoon in her parlour reading avidly and corresponding her thoughts on the latest volumes with her like-minded friends.
This small, otherwise exclusively female group included Mr Johnson, who spoke with her as an equal as they frequently discussed literature, both ancient and modern. Given his discretion when they had arrived together that afternoon, the bookseller discerned this was not a topic to be broached with Godfrey; especially as the greater proportion of her generous dress allowance was discreetly spent on books.
In her own parlour at home, her bookshelves were curtained so they looked exactly like the sewing shelves which bordered the room. On the odd occasion when her husband caught an earlier train home from work, when she heard his voice greet the maid, Eugenia instinctively hid whatever tome she was reading behind a cushion.
Not that she thought her dear Godfrey would be angered by her secret life, but more bewildered and perplexed. She felt instinctively that he would feel unmanned by the hidden cleverness of his wife. Her easy supremacy in a field that he presumed was entirely masculine would be hurtful and unsettling to him. She had no wish to ruffle the smooth waters of their happy marriage with such unwelcome revelations.
She neared the farthest room of the shop and stopped by a bureau which was lit by a nearby window. She started to browse the small pile of books left out to attract customers. To one side, was a larger book, not new by its appearance and not arranged with the others, but rather hastily flung down. She glanced at the cover, which told her it contained The Illustrations of Thomas Rowlandson.
Eugenia opened the book idly, her white kid gloves easing over the cover, assuming the pictures within would be observations of people and landscapes from an earlier age. So she wasn’t surprised when her eye was met with figures from perhaps a generation or two ago, judging by the light muslin frocks of the ladies and the men’s tailcoats. But to her astonishment rather than decorous countryside scenes, there was much flesh on display, both male and female and in a state of rampant carnality.
She shut the book abruptly. She almost fled back down the dusty corridor to the safety of her husband’s side before she steadied herself. In that moment Miss Davis’ words came back to her.
“Opening a book is like opening a door in your mind,” her beloved governess would say patiently, whenever her young charge found her studies too challenging.
So, gathering herself, she opened the book again, letting her curiosity overcome her prurience. ‘Yes, the pictures are shocking,’ she thought to herself, but she was honest enough to admit that they intrigued her too.
Some of the men depicted were young and handsome and others were caricatures, old and satirical satyrs. However, all the women in the sensual revels were lovely, drawn with the sensual hand of a man who had clearly adored the female form. Eugenia felt her cheeks colour as she perused page after page of such openly expressed sexuality. She was glad her flushed face was hidden by her bonnet as she looked carefully at each clearly drawn illustration; muslin skirts raised, breeches flaps open, naked forms exposed.
She looked at the arresting figure of a beautiful, muscular man, his male member fully erect and drawn in detail explicit detail. She looked at the exposed extremity and its rosy, bulbous tip with open interest.
Godfrey had always been the perfect gentleman when it came to marital relations. She recalled her wedding night, seeing his nightshirt tented out below waist level before he blew out the lamp and how she had stifled a nervous giggle at the faintly ridiculous sight. In the five years since, their lovemaking was similarly modest; always in the dark with their nightwear drawn up just enough to allow access.
She remembered her mother’s vague advice about this mysterious act shortly before her marriage and how friends, who were wives already, had whispered world-weary hints of hours of agony. However, she had experienced no pain, just momentary discomfort and a little embarrassment. Geoffrey had seemed pleased enough and the following experiences had resulted in her beautiful children. It simply hadn’t occurred to her that there was anything more.
But looking at these pictures; the looks of lust and hunger on the faces of all the parties, the bared, eager bodies, a door opened in her mind to this new experience. This was especially resonant when she regarded the women, as they were young and comely like herself and wholeheartedly engaging in the myriad pleasurable diversions of the illustrator’s vivid inventiveness.
She felt almost dizzy with the possibilities open before her. One particular picture made her pause, entitled Lonesome Pleasures. It featured a woman on a bed, with fantasy figures around her, as she raised her dress ready to satisfy herself.
Eugenia gazed curiously at the wantonly bare breasts and the puckered nipples that had been carefully coloured in. She contemplated the expanse of smooth skin of the belly and thighs with the female parts between. The nether lips were clearly drawn as was the small, defined, pouting female organ. That un-named, un-thought of place in her own body began to pulse in response.
The woman’s eyes looked out at the viewer almost challengingly, and Eugenia surrendered to the provoking stare. Her breath grew heavy, she closed her eyes and let the inflaming images fill her imagination. The corner of the bureau caught between her legs, the sharp corner muffled by her many layers of petticoats so it did not hurt her. It just provided the necessary friction she instinctively sought.
The small space filled with the sound of her soft sighs and the rhythmical rustle of her skirts as she rocked against the edge of the desk. The sensations intensified, tension building in her body as she opened her mind to the coupling of hands and mouths and private parts mingling with abandoned fervour and need.
Then her mind went blank as her entire being was filled with a white, blinding heat that seemed to last for an eternity.
She gradually came back to herself, steadying herself against the furniture so she would not fall. As her heartbeat calmed, she stood upright and traced her fingers over the figure in the illustration, caressing the voluptuous contours leisurely.
Before she closed the book, she glanced at the inside of the front cover where the price was written in pencil. Having perused the prohibited nature of the volume, she realised that the assistant must have been about to lock it safely away before he was hastily summoned to fetch refreshments. She glanced about her; then, on tiptoe, she reached up to place the book right on top of the glass-fronted cupboard, so it was temporarily hidden from view.
As she walked back down the corridor, she was already calculating how to purchase the volume secretly. Perhaps she would drop by on Tuesday when Mrs Horton would inevitably be fussing at the counter about her latest order. If Eugenia had the correct money and two or three other books clutched in her hand, Mr Johnson would just gratefully and unquestioningly accept the payment while pacifying his perennially difficult customer.
Eugenia calmly returned to the front room and the shelf of popular novels, glancing at her husband, still in conversation with the shopkeeper. She picked up a romance, looking at it blindly, computing when she might next have some privacy at home after purchasing her book. Maybe one evening when Godfrey was out with his colleagues? As after a little too much imbibing he always gallantly slept in his dressing room.
Once the children were in bed, with the nursemaid watching over them, she could retire early. Then, in the privacy of her room, she could not only stroke the illustrations but her own naked body, her linen nightgown drawn right up to her neck, or even abandoned in a white puddle on the floor.
As her thoughts raced, Godfrey announced his imminent departure with a scrape of his chair. Mr Johnson courteously agreed to parcel up his purchases and have his assistant deliver them later. Geoffrey offered his arm to his pretty, pink-complexioned wife, and the couple walked home to join their children for a lively nursery tea.
