Sapphic Voices Romance

Apart

This chaptered Story is incomplete as it is a Work In Progress. The Authoress requests the reader's feedback.

Chapter 1

Will that bloody thing ever shut up? I wondered frantically. I can’t stand to be here for one more instant! My silent cursing soaked up only a fraction of the time I had been condemned to spend in the dubious company of King’s Cross Secondary headteacher Elinor Lang, whose figure was stationed placidly behind her own desk.

The classroom door, I had left open at her request upon my initial entrance. She had calmly entreated me to sit while she finished reading something, and I had done so without protest, but not without a nervous consternation. She was neither kindly in demeanour toward me, nor was she overtly agitated. Still, I had said nothing and took my place patiently at my own desk directly opposite of hers.

Out of obstinate censure, the clock resounded its invariably pervasive tick-tock, tick-tock.

“Miss?” I began, displaying a countenance of poorly feigned innocence. I made a start to rise from my pupitre, but it was a vain effort. Her marble orbs, blue as ever, the rims of her black, square-rimmed frames caught me before I could fully stand. Her voice, cool and crisp, trapped me like some sort of spider’s quarry. Armed confidently, and with the spread of her full red lips, she spoke up sharply, startling me back into my seat.

“Not another word, Vianne Winters, or I shall retain you further and without any regard to temporal decency.” Came the spider’s blistering reproach, and then she returned her focus to the document on her bureau in silence.

No more friendly banter would be heard from the witty lips of Miss Lang and at this realisation, I felt a tear well up within me. I fought to remain composed, as composed as she was. Naturally, lacking her unsinkable strength of manner, I failed. Swallowing hard at knowing I was now sunken battleship, I shrank back into the darkness. I fixed my own eyes on the paper as well, knowing full well its origins and consequences. The moments continued to pass as I sat helplessly, heart pounding, silently scolding myself. If you had even an ounce of courage, you would stand right up and leave rather than be remanded to the onslaught of chastisement which is about to befall you—coward! Coward!—The sudden scraping of Miss Lang’s chair along the floor during her slow, speechless departure from the desk quelled my internalised self-recriminations. I watched her with a tightly churning stomach. I only wished for her to speak, say something, shout even. Anything.

It was beginning to be too much for me to bear, just sitting there, waiting with a mounting sense of desperation to hear whatever it was she was going to say to me, as she stepped about the classroom almost leisurely. Although she faced me, she did not make eye contact with me as she had done before. She had discontinued her unhurried advances. She raised a hand to remove her glasses, her thin, nimble fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, indicated to me that perhaps my indiscretion was the chief cause of her duress. I felt a pang of remorse stirring deep inside. If only I could take it back. Then everything would surely be all right between us once more. Then, just as I felt as though my heart could not take the suspense any longer, she returned the frames neatly to their place and spoke. Again, her voice was firmly accented, but this time, laced with a new breed of tenderness.

“I’m not quite sure what it is I am supposed to say in a situation like this,” she began, hesitation mounting, but continued nonetheless, “Because all the training in the world can never truly prepare one for the realities of this profession.” I gulped, nodding in silent assent. Internally, my thoughts were racing. I had not expected such an opening from her, but I knew she wasn’t finished. “I can’t think of where to begin except with apology.” Stunned, I made a poor, but sincere attempt to dissuade her from feeling guilty.

“Miss, you don’t have to do that…” I trailed off, not sure of where I was going with the subject.

“Vianne,” she sat in the chair beside me, “your letter has placed me in an incredibly uncomfortable position. You do understand that, don’t you?” I nodded once more. “I should like to think that we can face this with an air of civility and propriety.” Her countenance was stoic. Mine was quaking. Her eyes penetrated my heart and I was keenly aware of my embarrassing behaviour.

“Yes, Miss,” I hammered out, struggling to achieve Miss Lang’s level of composure, “but…” there was no need to continue. She had read my expressions and understood what I was trying to say.

“I don’t know, Vianne. I have been teaching for fifteen years and never, not once, have encountered someone like you, until now. There simply is no precedent for this.” She placed her hands over mine, eyes searching her mind for the strength to handle the situation with every ounce of delicacy it deserved. “You are quite different from any of my students, it’s true, but what you have told me on paper…I feel as though I should be dismissing this, except that I know that if I do, I would be hurting you.”

“I am apart.” I said, my breath ragged and I forced the tears back. I will not cry, I told myself, a surge of heat sweeping over my body at the reception of her supple skin against my own. I was absolutely vulnerable now to acts of absolute indecency, but I didn’t care. Still, I found myself lifting my hand away from hers to clear off the tears that had begun to ensue. I looked away, fixing my eyes on the late blue sky through the windows.

“Yes, you certainly are,” came her yielding reply, “but you are not alone.” She, too, had dropped her gaze toward the desk. She closed her eyes, a tear slipping freely from each.

“What?” I reverted my focus back to her, puzzled by her sudden display of emotion. I wondered what she meant in saying that I was not alone. Did she mean I was not alone in feeling isolated, or did she mean that I was note alone in tendering romantic affections toward members of her same sex? Was she crying because she, too, was attracted to women, same as me? I only hoped so.

“I...I don’t know quite how to say this…”

“Please try…” I begged, yearning to reach out and run my fingers along her cheek, to provide some solace for her.

“I never said anything to anyone because I feared dismissal from the school. There are some attractions that can be misconstrued as dangerous and unwholesome. I have lived with the knowledge that I am also apart from others in that, like you, I have found myself longing for the companionship of women, and only women.” She inhaled raggedly, biting her bottom lip so as not to burst into tears. My own heart leapt with a newfound confidence. I smiled to myself, but could not keep from smiling outwardly as well. She noticed this, and enquired. I replied with a falsehood, merely diverting her to the more pressing topic at hand.

“I will keep your secret.” I said boldly. “If we must be apart, at the very least, we shall be apart in good company.” I brought my hand up as a gesture and she met it with her own, interlocking them. There was now a deep, keen feeling of attraction between us in this moment, felt by both of us but neither could we speak our passion. The moment passed in stillness before I became consciously aware of the fact that the classroom door had been left ajar and now lingering there was the puckish figure of Delores Staunton, with an expression of staunch astonishment playing across her round visage. Instantly, Miss Lang broke her hand from mine and righted herself by standing and approaching the still confounded governor, greeting her jovially and behaving as though there was nothing amiss.

“Good afternoon, Governor, is there anything I can do for you?” she enquired, skirting politely around the awkwardness of the whole circumstance. The taller woman, her features submitting to every air of professional consideration, seemingly chose not to bring up whatever concerns she had about what she had just witnessed. Instead, her response was to smile and outwardly dismiss it altogether, if only outwardly.

“Oh, no, it’s not really all that important. I was passing by and saw your lights had not been put out and your open door, and I thought I should like to pay you a visit before leaving for the evening.” Her voice was reminiscent of a strangulated dove, I mused quietly to myself, beautiful but tragically disingenuous. Though we had done nothing overtly wrong, I suspected that the governor would more or less address Miss Lang at a more suitable time (without my presence) to admonish her for her inappropriate behaviour toward a pupil. Personally, I didn’t see any harm done and it was partially because I was about to graduate from King’s Cross-with the highest honours possible-and had proven myself to be a mature individual, wise beyond my years. Miss Lang often attributed me to being an ‘old soul.’ I truly was apart from my peers, in that as well as certain other inclinations. I stood from my desk and inched my way cautiously toward the door.

“That’s very kind of you, Governor.” Miss Lang entreated.

“I do hope that everything is well with you.” The Governor stated in a glassy tone, although I knew she was referring to me.

“Yes, of course. I was just reviewing my lesson for tomorrow and, since she is truthful and forthright, I sought the judgement of Miss Vianne here, who is one of my best students.” She beamed, glancing back to receive the sight of me stepping forward to provide a phrase of affirmation.

“Yes, it’s a sensory exercise, Governor.”

“Is it?” Staunton parroted, her eyes alight with a quiet sense of knowing.

“Indeed, but it is much more than that, you see, because it is also an exercise in trust. I believe that it is the hallmark of good teaching that we, as educators, trust both our students and ourselves. As you well know, Mrs. Staunton.”

“To be sure, Miss Lang, to be sure.” She smiled, but it was false. “Well, I should away. It is nearly half past six and the husband will be waiting on me. Good evening to you, and to you, Miss Winters.” She nodded and turned on her heel, sashaying lightly in her departure. I felt my stomach tighten even more at hearing my surname. How does she know who I am? As soon as she was gone, I expected my headteacher to spin right about and scold me for embarrassing her, but she did the exact opposite. She went to the door and looked after the governor for a moment or two before saying anything to me at all. I took this opportunity to follow Staunton’s suit.

“Well, Miss, I really should be going as well, my mother will be expecting me home presently. Dinner, you know.” I started for the door and had crossed the threshold before she stopped me, her hand grasped about my own firmly. I turned back to face her, still standing in the doorway, and my heart jumped at the prospect of our lips meeting in like fashion, but she made no such advance. She only fixed her eyes on mine and whispered.

“Take care.”

There hung a strange silence between us. I was not sure what to say at first, because I had expected something else to happen, but knowing that this woman’s integrity as an educator might be called into question after what had happened earlier, I simply smiled and promised I would, indeed, take great care, then turned back and made my way home to Maman for dinner, as promised.

Chapter 2

It was just the two of us. Papa had left a long time ago, probably for the best, as we were never close. He was so old in spirit, so set in his ways, that it was impossible to feel that we had much in common at all. I was young, Maman was young at heart. She had grown up in the historical town of Chartres, south of Paris. From an early age, I was taught my mother’s language and grew into adolescence loving it dearly. We were women of letters and longing to live as openly as possible. Perhaps my father found that such behaviour was to no end but folly. He showed little or no sign of being contrite in his demeanour and speech toward us until Maman had had enough of hearing how she was never going to amount to anything as a maternal figure. I was not an only child, but often felt like one. My sister, at twenty years old, lived only for herself and could see no one else. She did not know how to express a loving attitude toward anyone, myself especially.

Our parents often remarked that we were staunched opposites, like the North and South Poles. I always believed that unlike the cold, frigid and unfeeling North, I was definitely the South Pole, warm and tender, filled with exotic ambition to do good and right in the world, for the betterment of my fellows. She left home to pursue a strange life with a young man no one could seem to understand. Their attraction seemed purely physical, but they swore there was more to be seen. My father remained steadfast in apathy regarding his elder daughter’s actions.

When it came to me, he was insufferably obstinate, often under appreciating my intelligence and talents. I always felt inferior to him whenever we would attempt conversations. I found myself often retreating to my room to escape his pontificating lectures. After all, I certainly could not know much of anything, being so young and inexperienced, but Maman always defended her fervent belief that one can only become experienced through experience itself. Yes, our family had many poles, to say the least. I like to believe that my mother joined me in the balmy, amorous South.

But for some reason, dinner than night was quiet. I could think of nothing to say and Maman knew something was not all right with me. She called me on my unwillingness to open up to her. “Qu’est-ce que il y a, ma belle?” She asked, her French as beautiful and fresh as ever. What’s the matter? Oh, Maman, si tu savais…if only you knew. If only you could understand.

“Nothing…” I muttered mildly, scooping up my fork and emptying its contents into my mouth, savouring the morsel intently. We were always close and while I wished more than anything that I could tell her about my feelings for Elinor Lang, something held my tongue from freely expressing the words. I didn’t quite understand my fear because I had already confessed myself to be attracted to members of my sex and, although Maman was a somewhat religious woman, she had promised to always be understanding of my ways if I would promise never to exclude her from my life after I had gone out into the world to make my choices about what profession I should undertake. Teaching had always been of particular interest to me. That’s it! My inner voice cried. Start there. Maman had been staring intently at me. She saw right through me.

“Dis-moi, ma chere…dis-moi. Are you in love?”

Astonished, I nearly choked on my potatoes. “How--?”

“I am your mother…next to God himself, I know you better than anyone.” She smiled brightly, knowingly. “So, I shall repeat the question. Are you in love?”

I nodded. Maman sighed nostalgically.

“Eighteen is a good age to be in love”

“I never imagine what a good age to be in love would be…age never seemed to matter to me.” I replied, picking up the glass of water and sipping at it.

“Ah.” Her cerulean eyes flickered intensely. She knows who it is, I told myself. She knows. But Maman only returned to her meal, mixing her potatoes steadily and taking each bite leisurely. Was that all? Or perhaps she simply knew that I would have no choice but to come to words on my own and explain the situation to her.


“It’s impossible, though.” I said, almost to myself.

“And why is that?” she queried, retiring her fork and selecting her glass of wine instead, swallowing deftly while she awaited my response in patience. I knew what she was doing. She was reeling me out of my shell. She wanted to hear me admit to loving this Elinor openly, for my benefit, not hers.

“Because it is.” I was not going to fall into this spider’s web. I had already led myself to it, but I was not about to allow myself to be trapped by her swift trickery, for I knew her as well as she knew me. I admire her for her powerful intuition, but this was not a fact that I was ready to face in the open air. I was simply going to drive it away, as far away from my heart and mind as possible. I did not want her to encourage any romantic pursuit of Elinor. Rather, I wanted her to tell me how wrong I was to feel that way about a teacher, how indecent and immoral I was to ever think she would ever reciprocate my affections.

“Then you are stupid and cannot be my daughter.” She stated matter-of-factly. “My daughter does not run away from what she fears.”

I scoffed. “I think you have consumed too much wine, Maman. Have you forgotten the actions of your offspring so quickly? Do you not recall how Caesonia abandoned her family?”

“No, I have not forgotten your sister’s poor behaviour, but you must remember why she left.”

“Why then?” I asked, my tone rising sharply. “Why then have all the people who were given to my life by God gone away from them? Were they so tormented by us that they would leave their family?” I threw down my utensils and left the table in haste. Maman quickly followed suit and spoke up to catch me on the stairs before I could disappear into my room.

“She did what she did for love!” she cried. “Elle s’est tombée amoreuse and instead of running away from her feelings, she embraced them. She left to begin a new life with him.” I had begun to cry and I felt my body crumble to the landing. She rushed up the stairs and took me into her arms, rocking back and forth gently.

“When I look into her eyes,” I stammered through tears, “I know I am better for having known her, for having loved her…through her, I see my entire world. I was so apart before…” My words became muffled and incoherent. Maman ran her fingers through my hair to soothe me. She planted a kiss on my forehead, leaving her head to rest upon mine.

“Je sais…je sais, ma fille.” She cooed. “Ça va…tout va être bien.”

“How? How do you always know everything will be alright?” I puzzled, looking up at her.

“Because, my love, you are stronger than you think, and if you love her as I know you do, you must take this chance and tell her so, or you will regret it for the rest of your life. And women of Chartres, especially les femmes de la maison du Montauban regret nothing.” She beamed, speaking in a dramatic, narrative way. I snuggled closer to her, positioning my head upon her chest so that I could listen to her heartbeat. It pulsed rhythmically, steadily, calming my thoughts. I began to drift off to sleep.

“Maman,” I whispered, “I love you.”

“Je t’aime aussi.”

My mother’s words of wisdom had served more than a purpose of solace. She had reminded me of a quality, which had been instilled in me since birth: trust. More than anything, she had taught me to trust my instincts, but of late I had failed to do just that. I decided to come to my sense and listen to what it was my soul had been telling me these past few years. I was an adult now and it was time for me to take the first steps boldly toward my future. If all went as planned, I hoped to take them with Elinor hand-in-hand at my side.

Chapter 3

There I stood, Commencement Day, opposite the door. I inhaled gently. My heart was beating wildly, but I did not notice. My eyes were fastened to the door handle, along with my hand, which tugged gently. When it did not give freely, I dropped my hand. I glanced upward to the windows to see whether the lights were on or not. They were. She could just be out and about the place, I rationalised. It was Commencement Day and she was one of the teachers joining the senior class in the ceremonial procession. While some part of me, deep within my mind, compelled me to act, another urged me to do nothing and instead go on with the rest of the day and not pursue the matter further. Before I could make my choice, it was made for me.


The door opened, revealing the dark-haired, blue-eyed Elinor Lang. For a woman in her late thirties she was quite a view to behold. Her figure was fit and fair. Her hair, pinned back in a crimped, waved style, was dark and soft looking. I could not help myself but to smile broadly at seeing her so dressed up. She wore a pair of white fleur-de-lys in her ears and a broach upon which was embossed also a fleur-de-lys. She invited me inside the classroom.

"In your honour," she said, noticing that I had been staring at her earrings.

"That's kind." I said, still smiling. I took in her dress, which was comprised of a bloused top portion, a deep black hue. The sleeves were black also, but sheer, and wrapped about her feminine wrists tightly, the material blousing around them in the same Gibson fashion as my outfit. A thick, lacy fabric banded its way about her upper waist, below the bust line. The skirt portion was decorated by a floral pattern of Lillies, black and white, which ran down to her ankles, taking my focus along the way straight to her feet, which boasted a pair of elegant black heels.

"Well? How now, what news with you?" She asked in a dramatic Shakespearean voice, her lacy English accent thickening.

In my own, I replied cheerfully that I should like to have been able to offer my best wishes to her before the ceremonies began because I knew how occupying they would be, and I should not like to offend her by not paying a visit in person to say good-bye. I expressed that it was my intention to avoid being as wholly rude as possible on my last day in Secondary. We exchanged the usual pleasantries, but somehow, the atmosphere between us was changed. It felt balanced, as though we were now equals, for to my surprise, her next words were atypically casual.

“Do you know, as this is your last day, I realise that starting the next, I will no longer hold any authority over you. I will no longer be your teacher.” She paused briefly but continued. “I should think it appropriate for you to call me by my first name. We are both adults here, aren’t we?”

“Of course, but…Elinor?” Hearing myself use her name in such a way induced an alien feeling in me. It was strange. “Give me some time one that one.”

She laughed and said alright. She looked me up and down, apparently impressed with my choice of attire as well. Now beside me, she noted that we stood at near equal height, taller than average, though no taller than the shortest of men. I was clad in black slacks and a charming white Edwardian blouse. It was almost like some pleasantly bastardised facsimile of a Gibson girl outfit, save for the fact that I wore slacks and not a skirt or dress. A girl of eighteen, I appeared to be closer to thirty.

A wave of nervous anticipation swept over me as I felt her looking over my body as well, occasionally pausing to linger upon some area or other. She softly grazed my left cheek as she went to touch the earrings. There, dangled lightly from my ears, was also a pair of black fleurs-de-lys. Commenting on our like choice of earrings, I found it increasingly difficult to simply stand there. My skin was alight now with a hot yearning to be touched, but I did not act on the compulsion.

If you have enjoyed Katharyn R. King's "Apart", then please be certain to e-mail her at  king.kr[at]live.com  and thank her for posting this Story.

Click here for a list of all of Katharyn R. King's  Stories and Poetry at  Sapphic Voices Authoresses.