“That is Catherine Ann Thompson. She was the eldest daughter of my great-great grandfather William Conrad Thompson,” Ms. Thompson said proudly.
“She’s beautiful,” I told her.
“Yes, she was. I found that painting in the attic after my father died and I couldn’t let it sit in the darkness anymore. It’s too beautiful to hide.”
“Why would anyone want to hide it?” Logan asked.
“My family was ashamed. She broke a betrothal, secretly marrying a man outside her social class. It was quite the scandal,” she remarked as she quietly fixed herself a cup of coffee and settled herself on the sofa adjacent from us.
“Catherine, as you mentioned, was beautiful. She had many suitors and her pending betrothal was the talk of the Commonwealth. Our family was very wealthy, owning the majority of the tobacco fields in the area, and my Grandfather knew an alignment with the right family could create a powerful business merger,” she sighed, taking a sip of her coffee and continued, “Love wasn’t a factor in marriage for wealthy families back then. It was all about power and wealth, and William knew his daughter’s beauty and his good name could get him more of both. She was soon engaged to Edward Norton, the son of a cotton gin tycoon.”
I couldn’t imagine having my fate set without my consent. How times had changed. I looked over at Logan, suddenly grateful that I was able to choose my life. I couldn’t imagine the terror of standing in a bedroom on my wedding night with a stranger, expected to give myself to someone just because I was a good match on paper. The wedding night I shared with Ethan, though sometimes painful to remember now that he was gone, was magical, full of love and commitment. It was as every wedding night should be.
“What my great-great grandfather hadn’t realized,” Ms. Thompson continued, “is when he was out creating business deals and mergers, Catherine was falling in love with someone her father had never heard of. No one knows for sure how they met, some say she lost her chaperone while in town, others say it was while she was out in the fields picking wildflowers while he was painting. The point is, they met. His name was Jakob, a son of an immigrant from Germany. No one knows how long they secretly saw each other, but we do know he was the one who painted her.”
Yes, I could see it now. That emotion I saw shining in eyes, and tugging at her full red lips. Love. She loved the man who had captured her image on the canvas.
“What happened to them?” I asked, knowing it couldn’t possibly have ended well if she ended up being the shame of the family.
“When her father came home and announced she was to be married, she panicked. Unwilling to marry a man she didn’t love, she and Jakob ran away. When she returned, she was married and carrying Jakob’s child. Her father disowned her, kicking her and her new husband to the curb. By this time, the civil war was in full swing, and Jakob did his duty and enlisted. He didn’t want to leave his new wife, pregnant and alone, so he left her in the care of his parents. As he left, he swore he would return to her before the baby was born.”
“He never made it back?” I whispered, grabbing Logan’s hand in fear my guess was correct.
“No, he did. He was injured near the beginning of his service, but quickly recovered. But during his recuperation, the Confederate military discovered his talent for painting and found another use for him. He was sent all over the South painting war scenes to boost morale and enlistment. Because of his new freedom, he was able to come back to Virginia for the birth of his child. Catherine’s labor was difficult, as many were back then. Jakob lost them both that night. He carried her lifeless body back to the plantation that night, and banged on the door until someone answered. William came to the door, furious to be woken at such a late hour, until he saw Jakob holding his daughter's body. ‘What have you done?’ he said, “What have you done?’ he screamed. Jakob, a broken man, was barely unable to speak, tears running down his face. He placed her on the front porch, kissed her one last time and asked her father to please take care of her...and he disappeared. He never returned to the Army. A deserter. But many years later, this portrait appeared on the front porch. We assume it came to us after his death but no one ever took the time to find out for sure.”
“So tragic. What did her father do?” Logan asked her quietly.
“Despite her father’s shame, he did bury her in the family plot. Her grave is marked with a simple stone that reads “Catherine”. Ever since I put that painting up, sometimes I swear I can hear her walking through the halls, calling for Jakob, wondering where her long lost love is. The floor boards will creak, or the curtains will flutter. Maybe I’m just a superstitious old woman,” she smiled, taking another sip of her coffee. “But I always wonder if she remained here waiting for him.”
I took one last look at the painting, hoping she and Jakob were somewhere else, together and at peace.
Ms. Thompson led us up to our rooms. Logan and I had said a quick goodnight in the hall and went our separate ways, both deciding a quick goodbye was best. Our impromptu host for the evening had loaned me something to sleep in. I couldn’t think of anything better than a long, hot shower, aside from sliding into bed with the man who currently resided in the room next to me.
As my dress slide to the floor, I let my thoughts drift back to those brief moments this evening when Logan had my body pressed against the parlor wall. That could have been one of the singular hottest moments of my life. He had been so enraged, turned on and out of control. It was a titillating combination.
I stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade down my body, remembering the feel of Logan’s hands as they touched my sensitive skin. It had been so long since I felt anything so intimate. Unlike Leah, who had an entire drawer of toys that she individually named, I wasn’t nearly as adventurous. It had been years since I felt the release of an orgasm. When Ethan died, that desire died, too. It took a defunct ballet barre, a trip to the ER and a very special man to stir it awake again. I knew it wouldn’t be the same with just anyone, and having Logan touch me today left me aching.
My hand wandered down my body, becoming bolder with every touch and caress of my skin. Moving down my hips and slowing working back up, I grasped my aching br**sts, pinching the sensitive ni**les and rubbing the tips. Need blossomed in my belly, making my movements bolder. Would it feel this way if Logan touched me here? Needing more, my hand descended to the juncture of my thighs, spreading the tender folds with my fingers. My heart was racing, and my breath became ragged in anticipation. Knowing Logan was in the next room, mere inches away, drove me further, my fingers slipping into my tight, wet core. My knees suddenly weakened from the contact, and I braced myself against the shower wall with my other hand. My fingers brushed my clit, oh God, it felt glorious.