The Observations of a Curious Governess by Viveka Portman

Author:Viveka Portman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin Enterprises, Australia Pty Ltd
Published: 2014-11-21T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6

Friday 9th July 1813

Over the past few weeks, there has been a significant arousal of my own inner turmoil, which has left little time for me to write my reflections.

Not two weeks after his departure, Mr Reeves returned to Stanton. He claimed his reasons were of commerce with Lord Stanton and the tenants. However I was given to suspect, and rather hoped, that his reasons were of a more affectionate nature, a desire to return to me.

I can only state that I was terribly eager to see him again. Those days in which he resided in London were blighted to me. The colour was stripped from flowers, and the summer air tasted sour without him to share it with. Does it seem ridiculous? Perhaps it does. Yet I could not change how I felt. I had long harboured affection for him, as I’m sure the observant reader shall have noticed, but my innocent adoration had changed into something much more visceral.

In my naivete, I had thought that experiencing intimate relations with a gentleman may sate the curiosity that had grown in my time at Stanton – and indeed my curiosity has been sated. Alas, with that satiation, a violent need has replaced the curiosity. It seems to me that once awakened, my body now craves to re-enact the pleasures and memories I had shared that day in the woodland glade.

I should be ashamed. Oft at night, once my charges are abed, and my belly filled with a sumptuous supper, I will lay in the dark, remembering how Mr Reeves’ hands had felt against me, the plunging of his staff into my untried opening. Upon these thoughts my naughty fingers will inevitably seek that place, to touch, tease and titillate until my body shudders with passionate memories. It is only after this I find slumber. Night after night, I repeat this routine, and though I am embarrassed by the intensity and frequency of my self-abuse, I have not attempted to repress it.

It was a little more than a week after Mr Reeves’ departure that my father sent my copy of Hester Chapone’s Letters to Stanton. My initial pleasure at finding my favourite volume returned to me was quickly discarded as I searched most ardently to find a passage within that should temper my raging desires. Yet the quotes I found seemed scathing and accusatory rather than helpful. This surprised me. I had thought Mrs Chapone a most open-minded and learned woman, but passages such as:

“There cannot be innocence, in any degree of indulgence to unlawful passion,”

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