One fine Yorkshire afternoon, the 'eligible' Mr William Postlethwaite and I took a gentle walk across the moor towards the notorious Merripath House. The views were as exceptional as ever and the landscape's bleak, rolling hills inspired my imagination far more than the character of my escort. I had considered him a fine enough gentleman on first acquaintance, yet on subsequent occasions, he came across as a miserable fellow with an altogether cold personality.
Not that I chanced upon William Postlethwaite's tiresome company very often, but when I did, he would engage me with awful monologues centered almost entirely upon himself. I thought him a braggart who would not flatter, nor listen and least of all dance. Even a simple contredanse seemed beyond him, for which he proffered the ridiculous reason of my diminutive stature - so I danced with my darling Hazel because I love her and she too is little, but our littleness never spoiled our fun, nor other people's and only Postlethwaite's countenance soured.
Hence my agreement to tolerate further episodes of such horrible company only transpired following a forthright discussion with my dear father, who thought I should accept an unsolicited offer from Postlethwaite to escort me as and when.
"But, father," I said, "the man has neither charm nor grace."
"Is that so, Steffanie?" He said.
"Yes, father. I dislike him, I could never... "
"Ay up, lass, I'll not have you lay with anyone you're not smitten with."
"Thank you, father."
"But make a pretence, lass, for your own sake."
Dear, dear father, he knew perfectly well I had no real interest in young gentlemen, least of all the cold, calculating Mr Postlethwaite, for whom prudence would require me to feign at least some enthusiasm for marriage, only to be rid of him at the earliest opportunity. Father's kind words confirmed his tolerance of my true nature would continue, regardless of the heartfelt concerns he held for my future. I could never thank him enough for his thoughtful counsel, he deserved nothing less than my absolute respect.
"Yes, father," I said, "thank you, father. For my own sake then - and Hazel's?"
"By 'eck," he said, "will you two ever set your hearts on marriage?"
"Only to each other, father."
"Be off with you," he said, "and be sure to look your best for Postlethwaite."
Father smiled and sighed, a response that reflected the paradox of our time, one that saw remarkable progress walking hand in hand with oppression. England had walloped the French at Trafalgar, yet feared revolution at home, a potential shift of power our ruling aristocracy determined to prevent, no matter how great the cost to liberty and justice.
As young women, Hazel and I had no power, but we were free enough to cast off our corsets in favour of the unrestrained fashions inspired by the Romantics. We delighted in more natural expressions of ourselves, we truly believed that something as simple as delicate, flowing dresses might light the path to equality for women - it did, the path led to her bed.
What could possibly be more fairly balanced than two petite girls celebrating the beauty of their nakedness together? The law did not demand anything of us in Hazel's bed, no heartless husbands could rule over us, we knew only free love, a secret love that grew ever more passionate. Until one day -
"Do try to show a little more discretion, girls," said Hazel's father. "Your fondness for one another has become quite vociferous recently."
"Yes, father," said Hazel. "Sorry, father."
We two girls blushed so profoundly, we felt as if our faces were on fire, but the kindhearted man said nothing more on the subject, except to my own father. We could only imagine the course of such a conversation, we certainly feared its outcome. Fortunately, and hopefully like most egalitarians would have done, the two men chose to quietly support our sapphic relationship on a point of principle - the autonomy of love.
Our fathers' muted stance would trouble neither church nor state, after all, we were only young women, what harm could we do when our future prospects were so inevitably destined to be dependent upon marriage? We simply did not count, but to more than whisper our love would invite ridicule to challenge us, an action that might undermine our reputations and ruin us forever. Postlethwaite posed such a threat, and so the pretence of my interest in marriage began, I reluctantly took the warm Yorkshire air with the venomous creature after accepting his first (and last) invitation to do so.
I looked my astonishing best for the occasion, my soft muslin dress captured the spirit of Romanticism perfectly, freely styled to cascade to the floor, and neatly pleated to cup my bosom with delicate wisps of sensual fabric. A wonderful dress that felt delightful to wear, its ivory colour complemented my complexion and extolled the beauty of my pale white breasts - especially my breasts, where all eyes would invariably rest when beholding such a classical display of ripe femininity.
I had done my father proud, my wild bob of blonde hair showed a girl with spirit, while my dress proved me womanly enough to satisfy a demanding marriage. Except Mr Postlethwaite seemed anything but proud when I presented myself to him, he extended only the most perfunctory of greetings and looked shocked by my uninhibited portrayal of loveliness. I felt confident I had the better of him already, until he countered with a caustic remark upon the weather and the necessity to at least cover myself with the shade of a parasol.
A dainty parasol lay close to hand, rather too dainty in Postlethwaite's opinion, another criticism levelled by a man who held no sympathies whatsoever for my ethereal values, yet he could only bluster or ridicule in argument against them. I felt bullied before our walk had barely begun, it would certainly seem an especially long one and nothing like walking with my dearest Hazel, but then, she and I enjoyed a very different relationship to the one Postlethwaite had in mind.
"It is clear to me, Steffanie," he said, "that you need to be taken in hand."
"If it pleases you to say so, sir."
"Indeed it does, Steffanie, you will thank me for it, I promise you."
Oh my Lord, his words filled me with dread. For what harm had I done, except be an imp of a girl in a beautiful dress? Yet he would prefer to censor my appearance and have my spirit crushed. He knew nothing of love, he sought merely to own a woman as his wife and use her to procreate not cherish, to make an heir and a spare as they say.
A fear of William Postlethwaite began to take hold of me, the man was stubborn, a coward who spoke of Trafalgar as if he had bravely faced Napoleon's fleet there.