The Seven Deadly Sins
1. Sloth (Laura)
The weather is unseasonably warm for May, but it's the most beautiful day for a picnic. Walter is drawing by the river, trying to catch the precise way the shadows from the willow tree fall across the rippling water. Marian is sitting on the grass, reading. And I am lying here, curled across her warm lap, watching them both. They say that I am the beautiful one, and that Marian is plain. I have never understood that, and I doubt I ever shall. But then, no- one else sees her as I do, except maybe Walter. Her dark hair gleams in the sun, curling about her shoulders. She has never cared for propriety, but she pinned my hair up this morning herself, insisting that I would be too hot otherwise. Her hands played with my hair for far longer than was necessary, but Walter was polite enough not to ask what kept us. I think her kisses still stain my cheek like the strawberry juice I licked off her fingers over our al fresco meal, although no-one but me can see them.
I look up at Marian and she smiles absently at me, stroking my hair as though I were a cat. I purr, deep in my throat and although she laughs, her eyes flash a warning at me. Not in front of Walter. I don't think he would care what Marian and I do. He is different from the few other men I have met, gentler somehow. Part of me wishes he would stay here at Limmeridge forever, and that things would never change. But part of me wants...more. I cannot say it. It was two nights ago that thoughts of him crept into my mind as Marian and I were lying in bed together. The image of him made my skin grow hot, and I arched towards Marian's hand more ardently than ever before. My poor darling Marian looked so pleased and I hated myself for letting my mind drift towards him when she was touching me. I tried to hide my tears and cry quietly, but she made me tell her.
When I finished, she laughed in that low, husky rasp that sends shivers up my spine. She thinks about him too! She said that we were of the same flesh, so of course hers aches for him when mine does. He has become part of us now, part of our secret, part of what we do. Perhaps it is shameful to wish he were there with us sometimes, kissing me, kissing Marian...I think they would look beautiful together. Marian is exquisite when she lets me pleasure her, and for the longest time she wouldn't. She laughed and said I should save my wandering hands for my husband. When I lifted my mouth to hers, I fancied I could taste the gall that must have risen inside her for saying that. She said she could take care of herself, and I pestered her to show me. I forget that sometimes even the boisterous Marian Halcombe can be shy. She averted her eyes as her hands moved across her belly and her fingers played through the thatch of dark hair that fascinates me. I watched as she was overwhelmed by sensation, and her eyes drifted shut. She bit her lip so hard that she drew blood. She rocked her hips against her hand, and I could smell her soft musk stronger than I ever had before. I could almost taste it, I wanted to taste it, the same way she traces her tongue across folds of my sensitive hot skin and further up to the spot that makes me gasp her name and shiver. She looked half in agony, half in ecstasy when she spoke:
"Laura...Laura!" Hearing her gasp my name made me feel a low trembling in my...Marian calls it my 'quim', and she says that any other term is either vulgar or nauseatingly feminine. So 'quim' will do, though I blush to even think it. I should feel sick with jealousy at the thought of her speaking Walter's name like that, but all I can think of is watching them as he runs his hands across her skin, trailing one hand across my breasts as he kisses us in turn. He completes us. Before he came, I thought we needed nothing more, but watching them in the late afternoon sunlight as she teases him, as she looks on approvingly when he pays me compliments, glowing as if he had paid one to her...
We spend the day doing nothing, but when I fall asleep in Marian's arms at night, our sweat-soaked skin sticking together, I feel unaccountably weary and immeasurably satisfied.
2. Lust (Marian)
He finds you in the library, absorbed in your book. He asks you if he can sketch you, he has an hour or so free. You agree, provided you can carry on reading your German philosphy and that he doesn't mind you shifting and fidgeting in your seat. You move to the window so that he can take advantage of the light, and that's how you let your drawing master seduce you.
Somehow you are standing in the library, clad only in your flimsy white shift, with the rays of afternoon sun slanting through the windows. A servant could walk in at any minute. Laura, although you know she is upstairs, sleeping off one of her migraines.
He nuzzles your neck, nipping at the skin and kissing it better, lathing it with his warm wet tongue.Your back presses against the bookshelves and then arches up as Walter's mouth travels lower. He sucks your nipple into his mouth, his tongue teasing the fabric of your shift roughly against it. You moan, you want to rend your clothes from your skin, and worse. You want his hands to rip your clothes of and leave you naked and just take you, so that you don't think of Laura, you only think of yourself and the insistant throbbing that grows stronger with every touch.
You feel desired. It is heady, intoxicating. His light cologne tickles your nostrils. He murmurs that you smell so good and you blush fiercely because you know what he means. His mouth trails down your body until he is kneeling before you, licking his way up your inner thigh and slipping his fingers across, around and in. His artists fingers are long and slim, he wants you but he fumbles shyly. You guide his hand to show him and he moans.
"Is this what you like, Marian? Is this what you..." "Yes", you sigh. This is what you do. In bed, alone. With Laura, your hands slippery and wet and touching yoursleves, each other, as you talk about him. You want to tell him all these things, but all you can do is gasp, "Walter..." You say his name again and again, like a benediction. To remind yourself that these are Walter's hands touching you, not yours or Laura's.
Your thoughts are shocking, even to you. You should not want the man your sister loves. But you shouldn't want your sister either, and you still curl up in her bed every night and cover her in kisses until she falls asleep. You are wanton, a fallen woman, a tramp, unnatural. Maybe it's true, what you used to say when you were little. Maybe you do want to be a man, and that's why you want to possess Laura like that, with your fingers and your teeth and your tongue. But if you were a man, you couldn't have Walter (why does that thought make you shudder? taking him the way you want him to take you?)
He looks up when the sketch is finished and hands the book to you. "I think I captured your smile, Marian. What were you thinking about?"
You feel a strange sort of guilt about imagining yourself with the man who is your sister's beloved. The kind of guilt that comes from not feeling guilty at all.
He is Laura's. But then, so are you.
3. Wrath (Glyde)
I can feel her silent rage from across the drawing room. Although her eyes are fixed on Laura, her thoughts are on me. Her lips are pinched, her eyes glassy with tears that she is too proud to cry and her hands twist in her lap as though she were breaking my neck in her mind. She hates me, and I know why.
As her husband, Laura will love me more than she loves her mannish, bluestocking half-sister, made a bastard by the advantagous marriage that produced Laura and her inheritance. Their country idyll in this nunnery they call a home will soon be over and Laura will spend her nights with in my bed, and not her sisters. I will admit to a little surprise when Fosco told me that Marian creeps to Laura's room every night, but I had always suspected that there was something a little unorthodox about that odd creature and her devotion to my fiancee. She was educated in France for God's sake, what could you expect? Still, whatever they do together is no concern of mine. Two lonely sisters with no-one else to talk to now that their effete puppy of a drawing-master has gotten bored of their company and gone back to London. It hardly counts, at any rate, and even if Marian is rather plain who would begrudge two sisters for the price of one?
But her anger irritates like an itch under my skin. Laura is mine and Marian must learn that, even if it means taking her into my home and making her watch as I do to her sister what she can never do. She will see Laura when I wish it, and only then. She will be a guest in my house, all her pride and cleverness fading away into bitterness, or I will set her up as Fosco's mistress and see what becomes of her moral highground then. And Fosco will possess Marian and he will break her, just because he can. I might even make Laura watch.
4. Pride (Laura)
I have a ritual. Before I was married, Marian would laugh at me for it, and say she couldn't blame me for staring so long at myself. Before I was married I never cared enough to look.I look in the mirror, and I have changed. I can see my ribs, bones jutting out from underneath my bruised skin. I hate the sight of myself now, I hate the sight of anything he has touched. I can only look in the mirror if I pretend I am looking at Anne, that it is her body I am caressing tenderly, making the pain go away for a few moments, to replaced with little shocks of pleasure. I bite my lip and keep my eyes open, watching her face as the misery falls away. All I want to do is make her happy again, and this is the only way I know how. Even with the ugly marks on her skin, she is still beautiful. He cannot take that away.
I look in the mirror, and I see Anne's face. I think I do remember her, when we first met. Two little blonde children, following my mother around like puppies. Anne was my shadow, my secret sister. Marian was away at school in France and all I had of her was a lock of her hair and the letters and trinkets she sent back across the Channel. I was so lonely. And then Anne came along, the little girl who looked so much like me and made Mama so sad. I didn't understand it then, but I think I do now.
This is wrong. She is not Marian. She isn't me. She isn't my husband and I have no right to want to touch her this way. But she is my sister. I want to protect her, the way Marian protects me, and it kills me that I cannot. How can I save her if I cannot save myself?
He loved her. No, that isn't right. He told me he fucked her.
He said that was what all men did, married or not. He said that was why we looked so alike, and laughed. I pretended not to understand. I sat on our bed on the wedding night and waited for him. Marian had told me what would happen, she said that men were not as gentle as she and I, that I should lie back patiently and try to enjoy it. That if he ever harmed me, she would kill him with her bare hands. But he didn't, not then. He has not even touched me, excpet in anger. He told me, quite plainly, that he married me for my money and that he would get his pleasures elsewhere. That I should get mine from Marian, did he think no-one knew how unnatural we were? He asked why anyone would want a little thing like me, someone he would crush if he ever tried to lie with me. He smiled at that thought, as though it pleased him. He laughed at the thought of anyone but my abnormal sister desiring me in that way.
But he wanted her.
Sir Percival enters, not bothering to knock. I didn't lock the door. I have no keys. He merely smiles, and locks the door behind him, leaning against the doorframe. He tells me to carry on, and starts talking about Marian, asking questions about what we do together. He says that I am his property, and that no-one but him is permitted to touch me. He goes into great detail about exactly what he will do if she attempts to hold me again. He makes me continue touching myself, and catches my eye in the glass. He sees my hand moving, sees how thin I have become and the marks he has left. But he does not see Anne staring back at him.
5. Avarice (Glyde)
We're the same under the skin. Hartwright might pretend to himself that he wants Laura's love, not her money, but Percival Glyde is nobody's fool. He has them both eating out of the palm of his hand. Does he even want them? Damn artists, they're all the same. None of then would have the faintest idea what to do with a real woman, no wonder he chooses someone so scrawny she could be a boy. Marian's no better. She's been living off the Fairlie fortune for years, no questions asked. Little sister dotes on her, Limmeridge couldn't function without her. Even Hartwright had a soft spot for her. Clever Marian. We have more in common than she will ever admit to herself. Except that she wants Laura, and I don't. It shouldn't surprise me, Marian is practically a man as it is. Disparaging other women, as if that would disguise her interest in them, striding through Limmeridge House as if she were the lord of the manor and not some upstart with no claim on the Fairlie fortune and only her half-sister keeping her there. Her half-sister. I always thought there was something odd about them. Still, if I have to endure Marian mooning over my wife for the rest of our (mercifully short) married life, I'd better get something out of it.
All things considered, Marian has the better figure. Laura's too thin, she'll waste away. But Marian...Not the prettiest of women, but her figure is good. I've seen Walter admiring it, too. The way her waist curves, the way her hand lingers on the nape of Laura's neck, always always touching...They'd be a sight to see. I'm sure it can be arranged. Marian will be a challenge, as ever, but I'm sure I can twist Laura's arm into their both cooperating.
It was Italy, it was hot, I was restless. I left Laura at the party and went off in full view of all the guests with two whores. One was fragile, pale and blonde, the other dark and buxom. When I met her eyes, Laura paled and then flushed and then fainted dead away. She sat on the bed on our wedding night, eyes wide, pretending she wasn't trembling and scared out of her mind. When I touched her, she cringed. I asked her if Marian had ever told her what to expect. She nodded. I asked her if Marian had ever shown her, and she went as white as her wedding dress.
Whatever she expected, it wasn't what happened. I'm not risking her getting pregnant, not risking a challenge to my fortune. But that doesn't mean I can't have my fun with her. She'll never tell Marian what it is I do to her. For the first time, they'll have secrets. For the first time, Laura will have knowledge that Marian, for all her freakish lusting, can never comprehend. Not at the moment, anyway. But with both sisters under my roof, who's to say that I can't have my fun while this charade we call a marriage lasts?
6. Gluttony (Marian)
You feel as though you're being devoured. He uses his mouth in ways you blush to imagine, lips trailing across your breast, teeth biting sharply at the inside of your thigh, his tongue easing inside you, and bringing his mouth up to yours so that you can taste yourself. What he does to you is shocking, but you still spread your legs and beg for more. His mouth is greedy, his teeth litter your body with purple marks and every instinct bar one is telling you that you should not be enjoying this.
Fosco is heavy, his hands are hot and they cover your body with trails of his perspiration. His fingers are thick but surprisingly delicate and when they push into you, you shiver. You long for more at the same time as you hate him for keeping you on the edge, of reminding you that he has the power to drive you out of your mind with pleasure or with frustration. He twists two fingers inside of you and you whimper, pushing yourself down on them until he is buried to the knuckle, as deep as he will go. He pulls out of you abruptly and traces a wet finger across your lips to silence your protests. Patience.
He licks your wetness off his fingers and the movement reminds you of and blue eyes sparkling with mischief, of blonde hair falling across your body as she kisses you. He reminds you of Laura, and you remember to hate him. You still don't move.
You ache. Your thighs are sticky, your breasts are tender and you do not know where your sister is.
This is your penance. He will eat you up, he will swallow you alive and you will deserve it.
7. Envy (Marian)
The walls are thin, so thin that you can hear Laura breathing and Walter snoring in his sleep. When Laura's nightmares come, the whimpering wakes you and within moments you're at their bedside. You both hold Laura between you, and croon softly in her ear, cradling her in your arms. Of course you hate seeing your beloved sister in pain, but these nights are some of the tenderest moments between the three of you. They feel like a family, your sister and brother beside you. And when you cry, when Laura has fallen asleep on your breast or on Walter's shoulder, he comforts you too. His mouth is warm when it presses a kiss against your forehead, and his arms are gentle and strong around you. These are the nights that you wants nothing more out of life but to be loved by the people beside you.
Tonight, Laura's moaning has taken on a different tone, sharper and oddly familiar. Your hand is on the door, pushing it open as you hear Walter's low muffled groan and you freeze at the sight in the room lit by a few flickering candles..
Laura's long blonde hair is tumbling around her bare shoulders and her eyes are closed. A blissful smile lights up her face, making her look like a saint. But a saint would never allow Walter to do...that. You are not a saint, and you have imagined him doing just that to you. You have imagined Laura doing it too. Sisterly kisses. Sisterly embraces from both of them. That's all. But what they have is the love between man and wife, and for the first time you feel excluded. You stand there and watch, unable to do anything else because Laura is beautiful and Walter is gentle and you know she enjoys it because...
You did it because it was your duty as a sister to prepare her for the world. You told yourself that it was better she learn from your hands and mouth than Sir Percival's. The thought of his hands on her flesh made your skin crawl, made you want to vomit. So you kissed her, and looked at her in the candlelight and pretended that you were the only one who would ever see her like this. Cheeks flushed, her mussed, rosy nipples hardening against the thin fabric of her nightgown. You lifted it over her head, gently, and ran your fingers across the soft naked skin of your sister. You told yourself that pleasuring her gave you no warm feelings in return, nothing you had to resist sating later on, when all you wanted was your hand (her hand) pressed between your thighs. You stare at Walter, buried in her lap, his dark pressed against her blonde curls, at Laura's beatific features and ecstatic gasp, and know you were lying.