It was an exceedingly dull party. All the rich people of New Orleans were dragging around Old Man Caprian’s garden, celebrating the wedding of his youngest to the youngest of some other wealthy, boring person; drinking expensive wine and whiskey and trying to forget themselves. I was circling the outside of the main body of people, doing my damndest not to fit in, and feeling the bodice of my dress getting tighter and tighter and tighter, until I simply couldn’t take it anymore. I dropped my glass on a waiter’s tray and hurried into the house.

There were crowds there, too, in the main hall and the formal front parlor. Feeling pressed in, I kept moving on, seeking an empty room. Finally, in desperation, I asked a servant where I could go for a moment of privacy.

“Oh, upstairs, Ma’am. Feel free to use anyone of the guest rooms. Top of the stairs, turn right. Left is the family’s quarters.”

Thanking the kind gentleman, I began climbing the dramatically sweeping staircase. Seeing the opulence of the front hall made me miss my much smaller, more intimate cottage outside Tupelo. As if a twenty room mansion could be called a cottage. Still, considering where I’d grown up and, worse still, what I’d married, 20 rooms was tiny. I’d had the estate sale from heaven when Johnny died—two dining room sets (formal and informal), eight bedroom suites, God only knows how many couches, divans, loveseats, floral gewgaws and trash from ten generations of DuLaine’s all went. I took the money from the sale and invested in three things: my beautiful and luxurious Rolls, a truly divine manicure and an excellent wine cellar. Well, and stocks and bonds. Not that I’d needed that part; as far as I was concerned the previous three were by far the most important of the bunch.

I was halfway up the stairs when I began to sense I was being followed. I casually looked down as if watching the treads and glanced sideways into one of the grand mirrors that lined the hallway. Ahhh, I thought to myself. The elder Pendergast boy. What was his name again? Oh, yes. Aloysius.

Well, “boy” wasn’t the term. At the time, I do believe, he had just finished up with secondary school and was preparing to leave for Harvard. A nasty tendency towards the Yankee in that family, what with the crazy one who murdered her family in New York and whatnot. But this one was not of the usual Pendergast stripe. Oh, yes, he was eccentric—it’s the money that does that, not the genetics. And he was as handsome as his father with his mother’s pale, pale coloring. But still, not crazy like most of them, certainly not like his brother...a polite boy, all things considered.

He was being very casual about it, but there was no doubt in my mind he was following me, and quite closely. I wondered if he knew I knew he was following me. I, after all, had been one of the most popular debutantes in my day and was quite used to leaving that trail of breadcrumbs. I was also used to being stalked by the more determined sort when I hadn’t left the trail, so I knew what it was to be hunted. Aloysius had never seemed hasty or sloppy to me, always a cautious fellow, so I couldn’t imagine he’d let me spot him so early in the game.

And then he caught my eye in the mirror. Ah, yes. He wanted me to see him. I smiled slightly and released his gaze. Wonder what he wants...

At the top of the stairs, I turned down the right hall, and as I passed the ornate newel post I could see young Pendergast begin climbing the stairs behind me. He was still looking at my face, but I refused his glance and passed down the hall and out of sight. I was testing his determination, you see. A weaker man would turn, go back. I wanted to see how badly he wanted whatever he wanted. And I am not stupid, never have been. I had a very good notion of what particular goal Mr. Pendergast had in mind. Oh, my, yes, I did. I had a reputation among the young bucks of New Orleans society, and even though I wasn’t really all that much older than they were, I tended to get followed around by most of them, eventually. Could be tiring, really, but since I had few other options in terms of keeping a place in that society, I took on the role with as much grace as possible. After all, someone had to do it. I considered it my version of public service, service directed more at the young women who would eventually marry these young men. The better they were taught, the better they could teach.

I chose, at random, a room three doors down. The walls were a lurid red satin, melting like candle wax down to rich, dark hardwood floors. The ceiling had a large medallion of fruit and leaves surrounding the chandelier, and the curtains were a deep crimson and gold stripe. It looked vaguely like a Victorian bordello—of the nicer sort, of course. Most Victorian bordellos probably couldn’t have afforded the Louis XVI canopy beds, complete with silk-swagged curtains and damask pillows. I closed the door softly and took myself to a chair facing the door at an oblique angle to await my suitor. I kicked off my shoes and dragged the matching foot-stool over; after all, I might as well be comfortable while I waited.

I had only been seated long enough to rest my head against the back of the chair and close my eyes before I felt, more than heard, the door open. He made no sound crossing the threshold, but I could feel him enter and close the door behind. I sighed deeply as I waited for him to make some sound. Eventually, I raised my eyebrows in invitation.

“Madam DuLaine?” The voice was soft, gentle, and aristocratically accented. I could taste the honeysuckle from where I was sitting. “May I have a word?”

“Unless I miss my guess, Mr. Pendergast, you want far more than a word with me.” Two could play the obscure game, and I was very tired. I still had either a long drive to Tupelo or a long night at my Mamma’s ahead of me. Neither prospect pleased.

A short silence ensued. “Ma’am,...” he began.

“Rose.” I said, gently waving my fingers in negation. “Calling me ma’am isn’t winning you points.”

“Rose,” my voice floated on that honey sweet voice, “I...that is...this really is terribly awkward. Would you mind at least looking at me?”

My eyes opened in surprise—most of the young men of my, ahem, acquaintance preferred not to look me in the eye. For one to request it was refreshingly different.

He was much closer than I’d thought, barely more than a foot beyond my reach. He was tall, with that rather underfed look of a man who’s just growing into himself and liable to keep going. But not unpleasantly thin, oh no, just slender and hungry-looking. His face, so like his father’s, was unblemished; the skin smooth and evenly pale, except for a faint flush of pink across his cheeks that was the only sign of his youth. He could have been 16 or 40, there were neither wrinkles nor spots, and his eyes were certainly far too wise for his age. He was wearing a dark charcoal gray suit with a red tie, and he had one hand in his pocket and the other was hanging at his side in a very casual manner. He looked altogether too composed for a boy come to ask a woman to be his lover. I wondered vaguely if I was to be his first.

“Rose,” he said, bowing slightly at the waist is if we were at a ball and had just been formally introduced for the first time. “Rose, I have a proposition to make.”

I gave a silent exhalation of what could have been amusement. “I’m sure you do.” Tests, tests and more tests. I shoved the foot-stool towards him gently in invitation. He glanced down and then gracefully folded his long frame onto the brocade as if it were a fine throne. I pulled my feet back to the edge to give him room, and to my surprise he wrapped a cool hand around my right ankle and rested it upon his lap. The left foot soon followed, and I was hard pressed to keep from twitching right out of my seat when he began to firmly massage my feet. I’d never gotten such a massage from anyone before or since. His long, delicate artist’s fingers seemed to know precisely where to push to release all the tension and soreness my $400 heels were designed to create.

I was melting into my seat again in a matter of seconds, when his hands began to slide up the back of my calves. My knee flexed instinctively, but he wrapped his hands around my leg and gently pulled it back. I forced myself to relax again and he continued his massage, kneading and cajoling the tension away with his magician’s touch.

“Rose,” he began again,”I don’t think you need me to tell you what I’ve come for. Despite my age, I’m not a child.” He gave a soft laugh under his breath. “In fact, I don’t believe I ever was. And you know, I’m sure, what sort of reputation my family has.” He paused to concentrate on a particularly stubborn knot of muscle. At it released, he went on. “Between my brother and my great aunt, I’m not exactly the boy every man wants his daughter to date.” His thumb slid along my shin, raising tingles up and down my spine. “And I’m not particularly interested in the local gentry’s daughters.”

He looked up, silver eyes catching mine, so intent in gaze I finally understood why people avoided him. That sort of focus is unnerving in the best of people, and in an untried young man of a rather delicate family... Well. I could see his point.

“I do understand.” I whispered hoarsely. His intent stare had made my throat dry up. He couldn’t be more than 19, but his eyes were so, so old, so much older than any other person’s eyes I’d ever looked into. I began to wonder what he’d seen with those eyes, what he’d been forced to deal with, to make him so.

He tilted his fair head and smiled slightly. “I believe you do, Rose.” He gave my foot a final, gentle squeeze before gently laying it across his thigh. “One could almost say we have a similar problem.”

I opened my mouth to deny that the gentry were hiding their daughters from me, when I realized what he meant. I had long passed an age when the games our society played interested me, and my reputation had also branded me an outsider from an approved relationship. Not that I truly cared, but there is something melancholy to the knowledge that you no longer quite fit with the people who used to slip comfortably up against you like spoons in a drawer. I could consider my own status with relative ease; I had Tupelo, after all. Young Aloysius Pendergast, well, he had no one.

I leaned forward and brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead. I allowed my fingers to trail along the side of his face gently, running along his jawbone and lightly caressing his lips with my thumb. He gently pressed a kiss to my thumb as it passed, and I smiled at him.

“Do you know,” I said in almost my own voice. “You look just like your father in his youth.” I smiled, faintly. “He was quite the catch, when I was younger.”

A faint tinge of pink touched the top ridges of his ears and made his cheeks glow brighter, and he rolled his eyes. I laughed at this gesture—the first, it seemed to me, natural to the teenager before me.

“Would you like to know my name?” He asked, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

“I already do, Aloysius.” I rolled it across my tongue like a caramel, and as his blush spread farther across his face, I drawled as casually as possible, “Well, what did we expect from a man named Linnaeus?” I rolled my eyes at him, and he relaxed. I pulled my feet from his lap and stood, holding out my hand to him. “Come, Aloysius, let’s get more comfortable.” He looked up at me for only a second, and I got the feeling my invitation was being weighed, before he placed one slim hand in mine. He rose to his feet and followed my lead to the over-stuffed and rather over-done bed. We stopped a foot away, and I rested his hand against my thigh. He stepped a half step closer to me, so I could feel his body pressed up against mine; gently resting more than eagerly pressing, actually, as if he wanted more but was afraid to ask. I shifted my weight back against him, trapping his hand between us, leaning against him.

“This is rather cliched,” I said, “but I think it will do.” I bent down, sliding along his legs, to pull the step from under the bed coverings. I climbed into the monstrosity with as much grace as I could muster, assisted by Aloysius. Seated, I looked at my young lover, who seemed excited, but still rather dazed that his plan was coming to fruition. He held up his hand in a gesture telling me to wait, and then circled around to the far side of the bed. For a second, I thought he was going to climb in on that side, but then I realized he was releasing the curtains that hung around the bed.

“What are you doing?” I asked idly, stroking the bedspread. It was really a very fine cloth, not nearly as tawdry as it had looked from across the room.

“Closing the draperies,” he said as he yanked the panels across the foot of the bed together. “Setting the scene properly.”

I smiled. He was taking more effort than most of my lovers, youth or men. “But then it will be dark. Don’t you want to see my face?” I teased gently.

He stopped at my knees, and gave me a grave gaze. “I see quite well in the dark. But it won’t be.” He leaned across my legs and turned the knob on a lamp I hadn’t noticed set into the headboard. A soft pool of light spilled across the pillows. A sudden, boyish smile blossomed across his face. “See? All the light we need in our little private bower.”

As he strode quickly across the room to turn the lock on the door, I swung my legs up onto the bed and moved to the middle. Aloysius was back and on the edge of the mattress, pulling the remaining two panels closed in a trice. He was right; it was much cozier with the drapes pulled. It was as if he’d shut the entire world out; all the little Southern Misses and Sirs and Ma’ams, with their manners and airs and hypocrisy. For a while, it would be just him and me, tucked up together. Well, well, well. I thought as I gently undid his tie. A closet romantic. Who knew the Pendergasts had it in them to toss one up?

“You do know how this goes, in theory, right?” I asked, carefully folding his tie and gently tucking it into his inner suit pocket. I could feel his heart beating against the back of my hand through the silky fabric of his shirt. “I don’t need to explain anything, do I?”

He shook his head without dropping his gaze from mine. Without even a blush, he said, “No. I’ve done research.”

I raised my eyebrows. “How much?”

Without hesitation, he started to reel off a list of names; the only ones which I caught were The Memoirs of Casanova, The Kama Sutra, and several works of the Marquis DeSade. That last author made him blush and hasten to reassure, “But I only read his books for comparison, and to see if there was anything in them I could use.” His long fingers picked nervously at the bedspread. “I wouldn’t actually hurt you or anything.”

I smiled. “Not unless I ask you to.”

For some reason, that seemed to reassure him more than anything, and for the first time he actually leaned into me for a kiss. His lips were initially hesitant, light and gently questing. I returned the kiss, and he became bolder, pressing his lips eagerly against mine. I was keeping my eyes slightly open, so I could watch his face, and could see he was doing the same. This made me laugh slightly, and he joined me—a surprisingly deep sound, coming from his chest. Our chins bumped lightly together, and I was surprised by a sudden fondness which sprang up within me for the young man.

I touched his lower lip with my tongue, and he took my invitation rapidly—opening his own mouth and beginning to caress my tongue with his. We kissed for a while, my hands twined in his hair, holding his mouth to mine. Contrary to what most men seem to believe, kissing is a fine, fine art; an art in which I quite intended to leave Mr. Pendergast with a solid foundation. I was pleased by how well he seemed to be progressing through the levels of learning, and began to hope that I might get something enjoyable out of the evening as well.

I became aware of his hands molding the curves of my hips, sliding along my back to the skin above the top of my dress. Tentative fingers began to draw the zipper down along my spine as we reclined together into the mound of pillows. His hands were cool as they slipped under the fabric to caress my skin.

I pulled the bodice of the dress down myself, finally breaking contact with his mouth and pulling back so he could gaze at me. His silver grey eyes darkened to pewter and he sat up to help me remove his jacket. I began unbuttoning his shirt as he lightly raised his hand, brushing it tentatively over the tips of my bare breasts, causing the skin to contract. He looked up again, caught my eyes and pulled me to him in a fierce, hungry kiss. As I pulled the cufflinks from his cuffs, I heard his shoes hit the floor.

He bore me back down onto the pillows, kissing me with such passion I felt quite cherished for a moment. I was so intent on the pleasure of the kiss, I barely noticed as the rest of our clothes vanished. Next thing I knew we were lying, skin against skin, facing one another on our sides atop the duvet. I gently slid my leg over his, pulling our bodies closer together, and guided his hand along my thigh.

He really didn’t need encouragement; one arm was trapped under my neck and the hand curved along my shoulder, but the other avidly stroked my skin as if trying to create a mental map of every curve and dip. Down the back of my knee, up to the small of my back, around to caress and mold my breasts. His touch was gentle, but sure, and soft enough to raise gooseflesh everywhere it passed. I moaned slightly in encouragement, and he made his touch lighter still; fingertips only, grazing my skin almost idly.

I had twined my arms around his neck during the kiss, but now I began my own exploration of his body. Though very young, muscles like steel flexed under the soft skin of his arms and back, and I could tell he would be wiry and incredibly strong. Running my hand over his chest and across his breastbone, I could feel a slight sprinkling of exceptionally soft hair across his chest. I arched my back, lazily rubbing myself against him.

At this point, I could feel his body reacting to mine eagerly, and he was pressing me as if seeking completion. I brought my fingertips to his lips, gently interposing them between us. He pulled the tip of my index finger into his mouth and gently nipped it. His eyes opened half way, as if he were drugged.

“At this point, Aloysius,” I whispered softly, “You need to be the gentleman and make sure the lady in question is, in fact, ready for you.” I ran my hand down his arm, a slight thrill running through me from the feel of his skin, and delicately placed his hand at the apex of my thighs. I nuzzled his lips gently as I whispered hoarsely, “You do know how to figure that out, don’t you?”

He proceeded to show me that, yes, indeed he did know how to test a woman. And to get her ready, by any means necessary. His gentle fingers delicately probed and stroked along my flesh, inflaming the nerves and sending waves of delicious sensation shooting along my body. It felt as if all my hair was standing on end, the current was so electric. My head fell back against his arm and I sighed my pleasure.

Aloysius began to drop light kisses along my throat, down to the collarbone, kissing at one place, licking anther gently, still elsewhere nipping lightly. I do not know what the books were that he read in his research, but they should be required for every young man as he reached that certain age. He even found, after much experimentation, that spot right behind my earlobe that is so pleasantly sensitive.

He rolled me over onto my back, pulling my head and hair forward with a rather gallant sweep of his arm from behind the neck and over the top of my head. I landed underneath his body, hair splayed around my face on the pillow, gazing up at his angelic features. His hands were still playing their devil’s tune against my flesh, and my hips lifted against his in silent invitation.

He licked his lips and said in a low voice, “Guide me, Rose.” His fingers slid into me, spreading me open slightly, so I knew he really didn’t need my help, but it was my great and good pleasure to reach down between us and gently guide him. He was hot in my hand, the skin even softer, if possible, than the skin elsewhere on his body. I panted slightly from need and sheer want, as he slid himself inside me, stretching and molding my inner planes to his body.

I set the rhythm of our loving, gently teaching him the steps to the dance. He took direction well, matching me, pushing against me and bringing us both to a fever pitch of excitement. I pulled him as close, keeping as much skin as in contact as possible. I wanted to hold him to me, to give him the tenderness and physical affection I could sense he never got from anyone else, but wasn’t quite sure how. I settled for the embrace, kissing him gently on his lips, across his brow, along the bones of his jaw. His fingers wound into my hair, grasping tightly as he moved against me, closer and closer to that moment of supreme satisfaction.

His hips began jerking against mine, no longer moving smoothly, and I could tell he was almost there. I whispered encouragement into his ear, sliding my hands down his back to curve around his buttocks, squeezing and pulling him more tightly against me. I didn’t want to take my own pleasure, not this time; I needed to keep my wits about me as much as possible to guide him. It was getting harder and harder to remind myself of this as his desperate thrusts were stoking the fire deep within me. I pressed my head back into the pillow in an effort to pull myself away, and ended up bringing my body into deeper contact with his.

He threw his head back, his eyes widening as his orgasm overtook him. As I felt him spasm within me I fell over that precipice as well, surprising a small scream out of me. Automatically, I threw a hand over my mouth to stifle the keening moan that escaped my throat on the heels of the scream—as when the cork comes out of a bottle of champagne, I couldn’t contain my excitement any longer. He collapsed onto me, spent, as I lay there panting and slowly coming back to myself.

Aloysius’ hand closed around my wrist, pulling my hand away from my lips. Raising his head slowly, he looked into my eyes, and said, “Don’t.” He shook his head slightly, and continued, “Don’t ever stifle that.” He smiled sleepily. “I wanted to know.”

Gently disentangling ourselves, he curled up on his side and pulled me against him, spoon fashion. His warm arms curved around me, holding me, his face buried against my hair. We dozed there for a while, occasionally stroking each other softly. It was warm and snug in the curtained bed, and neither of us wanted to leave.

Eventually we had to. After all, neither of us owned the house. I helped him dress, tying his tie neatly and brushing his hair into place. He zipped my dress up, which was really only fair, as he’d unzipped it in the first place. I pressed one last kiss to his lips as we stood there, trying to avoid saying good-bye.

I stood back to look him up and down. “Well. That was the first time I didn’t feel quite so secondary to needs.” I smiled at his solemn face. “I think you taught me as much as I might have taught you.”

He just stood there, staring at me in that steady, considering way. Suddenly, he stepped back gracefully and swept both of my hands together to press onto then the most ardent kiss they’d ever felt. “Ms. Rose, I will be leaving for Harvard next month.” He stopped, looking for the first time rather lost. “If I...I mean, if the opportunity came up...” Finally, he brought his eyes back up, and I saw how lost he was in that moment. “May I see you again?” He blushed, but his eyes didn’t waver.

I tilted my head, considering him carefully. I could see why he might think he wouldn’t find any female companionship at school—he’d been educated in England, after all, didn’t they have mostly sexually segregated schools? My memory was hazy. But, after all...

I stepped up to him, pressed two light, fast kisses against his lips. I rested my forehead against his, closing my eyes. Rapidly, I whispered ten digits to him twice.

Then I stepped back and smiled up at him. “Just be sure to call a couple days before you arrive. I wouldn’t want your visit to be interrupted by other...guests.”

He smiled again, the truly sweet curve of his lips blossoming across his face like sunrise. He nodded, brought my right hand up to his lips one last time, then walked me to the door as gracefully and politely as any young gentleman at his first ball. Before he held the door open before me, he put his head out into the hall, looking carefully both ways. He ushered me out the door and allowed me to glide gracefully down the stairs before descending himself. All through the long drive to Tupelo (because after that, I couldn’t bear to stay at Mamma’s, listening to her natter on about how I wasn’t so old I couldn’t marry again, and why didn’t I move back home,) I thought about the solemn young man and how he’d taken control of our encounter almost from the beginning. I was quite sure I would miss him greatly. He did have his ways about him.

So imagine my surprise in mid-September when I received a call from Massachusetts, right before Fall Break. And almost every other school break, until he found his fiancee. I like to think I contributed to her look of glowing happiness throughout their short marriage. Her memorial service was like a stake through my heart as I watched the young man who’d smiled so shyly turn slowly to stone.

Ah, well. I’ve had a call recently, from New Orleans. I do wonder what it would take to change stone back to human flesh and dearly hope I still posses it...

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