forbidden fruit
Just like every Sunday morning, Marlene rose early and dressed for church, admonishing Mary to accompany her. Just like every Sunday morning, Mary kindly rejected her invitation from the comfort of her bed.
“Mary, please, it’s important,” Marlene begged half-heartedly, rifling through Mary’s dresses to find something to wear (she far preferred blouses and trousers, but those could only be worn inside the safety of Longbourn).
Mary yawned, pointing to a simple pale-yellow number. “Pick that one, Lennie, it’ll look nice. And does not the Holy Spirit reside everywhere? Is He not here in the room right now? I don’t see why I should be forced into that stuffy chapel and be made to listen to some old windbag drone on about things he doesn’t understand. I won’t be talked down to.”
Marlene held the dress to her body, flattening the fabric to her skin. “You think? Is the colour okay on me? And that’s not what church is about, and you know it. Doesn’t it weigh heavy on your conscience?”
“Yes, love, don’t argue. If there’s someone you wish to impress, that’ll do. You’ll look like a prim Irish rose.”
Marlene wrinkled her nose. “It’s not about that either! And ‘Irish rose’ isn’t even a phrase.”
“You invented it, darling! And you didn’t deny wanting to impress someone, it’s fine if that’s your secondary motive.”
“Flattery is not going to work. And it’s not any sort of motive, I don’t know who you could be talking about.”
Mary made a little noise of disbelief, but didn’t press it. “Okay, Lennie, whatever you say. Have fun to-day.”
Marlene tugged a comb through her hair, a bit too aggressively in her frustration. “Ouch. It’s not supposed to be fun, Mary!”
Mary nodded, smirking. “Ah, so you admit it. It’s not fun.”
“Is fun all that matters to you? What about your eternal soul?”
Mary threw her head back and laughed. “Don’t you worry about my eternal soul, little sister. I’ll be quite alright.” She waved her fingers at Marlene in goodbye, and that was that.
Marlene donned her bonnet and made her way down to the chapel, alongside most of the town. The congregation filed into the pews in the same quiet, dreary way they always did; shuffling towards the same seats they’d lain unspoken claim to decades ago. The Lupins were not particularly avid church-goers, leaving Marlene no choice but to settle herself in a neglected pew in the back corner of the chapel, rubbish view of the altar be damned. It was there she found herself this particular morning, craning her neck around the hideously frilly hat worn by the woman in front of her to watch the preacher fiddle with a stack of parchment and consult his Bible in preparation for the sermon.
Marlene didn’t enjoy going to church; Mary was right about that much. It made her feel sick to her stomach most weeks, nauseous with guilt or wracked with fear from the sermon, but she dutifully returned every Sunday without fail, as she’d done all her life. The truth was, Marlene’s father had been a priest before the illness, and he’d instilled two lessons in her before he passed. One was to never miss church; the other to always be grateful for what you’d been given and never question the path of the Lord. Marlene couldn’t help disobeying the second, so it was all she could do to follow the first.
Marlene’s father was not a very nice man, at least from what she could remember. He didn’t smile much. He locked himself away in his study each night after supper, and she was not allowed inside. She rarely saw him speak to her mother, unless it was to criticise her cooking or to tell her off for letting ‘the girl’ play outside for too long and track mud through the house. It was always ‘the girl’ and never ‘Marlene.’ Marlene used to wish sometimes that he wasn’t her real father at all, that her mother had made her all on her own like in the stories she used to tell while combing Marlene’s hair. She always said she’d met a sorceress one day while walking down to the well, who promised her a beautiful baby girl in exchange for three magical items: a scrap of golden thread, a jar of strawberry jam, and a hand-sewn pincushion. When her mother brought the gifts to the sorceress, she’d disappeared in a puff of smoke and her mother could hear a baby’s cries from the bottom of the well. When she reeled in the bucket, there little Marlene was, crying for her mother. That’s why Marlene was so special, she said. Because she was made of magic and forgotten, beloved things instead of flesh and bone.
As lovely a story as it was, Marlene knew it wasn’t true. She was the spitting image of her father; not the sad, tired man she saw in her home, the one she barely recognised, but the man behind the lectern during church, the man whose eyes blazed with passion when he spoke the Lord’s word and rejoiced in His teachings. That was when Marlene liked him best. She sat there each week, mouth falling open slightly, in awe of his transformation. That was what she longed for, to be brought to life, to be molded into something entirely new. As long as she’d been alive, Marlene had been a very lonely child.
She liked to play piano when her father was out of the house (music was positively forbidden when he was in); she liked to climb trees and watch birds soar through the sky; she liked to write stories on the blank pages in the backs of books and pretend it was her words that’d been published. All of these things she did alone. The McKinnons’ home was at the top of a hill, and no other children lived around for miles. Marlene’s mother taught her to read and write and do arithmetic, and it was decided that she had no need for school. Marlene was ten when they’d gotten sick. One week, the doctor had said. One week of fever and chills, and they’ll be right back on their feet again. In two, they were dead. The town took up a collection for her, the priest’s daughter no one could remember the name of. They all agreed Father McKinnon was a pillar of the community, and they’d all seen that little girl swinging her feet and watching him preach in awe countless times. It was the least they could do for a man of God. The doctor said he knew someone who knew someone, and somehow Marlene found herself in England knocking on the Lupins’ door.
Marlene never told any of them that, at least not the details. She couldn’t have even if she wanted to. She remembered those days with the hazy distance of a half-forgotten storybook, and what would be the purpose of dredging up characters from a melancholic past when she had Mary and Remus and Lily, who were all the light and happiness in the world? Marlene wouldn’t think of it.
Still, she went to church every Sunday. It was the least she could do, she thought. The smallest sacrifice in pursuit of eternal peace. Attend church; be grateful; don’t question the Lord. As far as commandments went, those weren’t so bad.
“May I?”
Marlene’s head snapped up at the voice, a posh, melodical accent she’d recognize anywhere. “Miss Meadowes,” she breathed, and there she was, fresh as a daisy and smiling warmly at her. It took a moment for the words to register, but Marlene wasted no time in scooting down the row to make room for her when they did. She wore a pretty, floral frock; the sort of thing Marlene thought would give the appearance of a frumpy old woman if she wore it herself, but of course everything sat graceful and stylish on Miss Meadowes, who always seemed to look like she’d been plucked straight out of some fashion exposition on the streets of Paris. Marlene felt she was going half-mad just at the sight of her, at the marvellous way the fabric hugged her body and slid over her skin when she went to neatly cross one leg over the other.
“Gosh, you sound so formal,” she commented pleasantly, not seeming to notice the pink flush in Marlene’s cheeks or her wandering eyes (or choosing to ignore them). “Dorcas is fine, everybody calls me Dorcas. Everybody I like, anyway.” She playfully nudged Marlene’s shoe with her own. “And may I call you—”
“Marlene? Yes, please,” Marlene responded too quickly, panicked and embarrassed and hot all over, but Dorcas only seemed endeared by her enthusiasm.
“Alright, Marlene,” Dorcas said, smiling. In that moment, Marlene’s frenzied thoughts could only eke one thing out with coherency: there could be no sound more glorious than her name in that voice, nor sight more divine than it formed on those lips. “I must confess, I’m quite grateful to see you here. I wouldn’t dare wake Sirius or James before noon on a Sunday, but I’m terrified of committing some Meryton social faux pas on my own — I’m sure on your arm they’ll be forced to indulge me.”
As troublesome as it was, Marlene could not stop the grin from splitting her face. A companion for church and time spent beside the most beautiful woman in England; it seemed too good to be true. “Don’t be silly, I’m sure we’ve never had someone so elegant in all of Hertfordshire,” she replied honestly, still grinning. “It’s our manners that are lacking.”
Dorcas laughed radiantly, placing a casual hand on Marlene’s knee for just a moment. “Oh, you’re too kind. Here I was, thinking that—”
“Your rings!” Marlene blurted out suddenly, cheeks heating up further. She found herself plunging ahead; there was no turning back now. “Oh, sorry. I just meant— Your rings. I noticed them the other night but I never thought to ask — Would any of them happen to be engagement? I mean—”
Dorcas seemed surprised, then pleased. “No, I’m quite unattached. Do you like them? I made most of them myself.”
Marlene’s eyes widened. “You made them? How?”
Dorcas beamed at her, extending her hand so that Marlene could get a closer look. Marlene grasped her hand gratefully, her palm smooth and refreshingly cool from the chill of the chapel. The rings themselves were magnificent, truly; composed mainly from ornate teaspoon stems and other such bits of sophisticated scrap-metal. “It’s simple enough silver-working,” Dorcas explained, tilting her head closer to Marlene’s to inspect the rings as well. She curled her fingers into Marlene’s own, stroking her thumb against the skin. She smelled like jasmine, Marlene thought — How could anyone focus around her, how could Mr. Potter ever get anything done when she was right there and she smelled so good?
Marlene’s heart was pounding out of control, the wild tempo of nerves always thrumming through her body swelling to crescendo. The best she could reply was no more than a whisper. “Oh really?”
“I could show you sometime, if you’d like,” Dorcas murmured into her ear, breath warm against her skin. Dorcas studied her carefully, teasing smile forming just on the edges of her lips. She reached up to push a few strands of hair away from Marlene’s face, fingers brushing tantalisingly across her cheek. “Would you like that, Marlene?”
Marlene inhaled sharply, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “Yes,” she breathed out. “Yes.”
Dorcas straightened up then, smiling politely again like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Good, I hoped so. I’d like that too. Maybe when—”
She was interrupted by the loud church bell chime signifying 11 o’clock and the start of the service. Marlene and Dorcas turned their attention to the proceedings somewhat reluctantly. The first few minutes passed in a blur for Marlene; she was distantly aware of the priest’s introduction, the singing of hymns, and the opening prayer, but none of that seemed quite as important or real as the woman sitting next to her.
Soon, the young preacher — Marlene thought his name might’ve been Lancaster or Lockhart or something like that — assumed his stand, smiling broadly at the congregation in a manner Marlene was not entirely sure was genuine.
“Welcome back, good people of Meryton. I hope this past week has been a time of great peace for each of you, and that our Lord of endless mercy has seen fit to bless your families with good health. To-day we return to one of the very first and most important passages in all of scripture. It is a very timely sermon, if I do say so myself — there has been a rise in licentiousness all over England of late. Thus, I give you from the Book of Genesis: the Garden of Eden and the tragic succumbence to temptation.”
Marlene felt an unhappy twist in her gut. She’d always hated this story, the way it was so often used as a weapon. She’d naively cited it once during an argument with Mary — likely after another rejected invitation to church — as the explanation as to why she felt all good Christians were morally obligated to have the same ‘constant fanatical obsession with repentance’ (Mary’s words) as she did, but Mary had only frowned and walloped her affectionately on the head. “It isn’t wrong to want things, you silly girl,” she had said. “You sound like a bloody Puritan. Have some fun while you’re alive, won’t you?”
Marlene had dismissed her then, writing her words off as nothing more than the charming arrogance of youth. She knew what she had been taught, and one couldn’t cast aside one’s morals in the pursuit of ‘fun,’ after all. Although… She snuck a glance at Dorcas, who was firmly absorbed in the sermon, admiring the thin, delicate plaits that framed her face so prettily; the elegant swoop of her nose; the intelligent depth of her eyes; the soft look of her lips; the simple radiance of her skin.
Mary had oft accused Marlene of blind, sycophantic obedience: to the Church, to their parents, to whomever judged her resolve weak and sought to order her around (frequently Mary herself). Mary considered this phenomenon ‘an enduring remnant of Marlene’s hyper-disciplined childhood and over-practised self-preservation instinct’ — Marlene, for her part, had rejected this diagnosis as utter bosh. Now she began to wonder.
It was true that Marlene had always been afraid of wanting things. It was true that most Christians were. She had shut her heart to Godless desires long ago, just like the Scripture commanded, and it had given her some measure of relief to do so. But she had been foolish to think she could drown them out forever. She studied Dorcas’s silhouette and felt absolutely helpless.
“In the beginning, there was nothing. When the Lord God wished to create life, He drew a man from the earth, whom He created in His own likeness. This man He called Adam; and the garden He created as his home was called Eden. From the ground He grew every tree that was pleasing to the eye and bore fruit delicious to eat. The Lord God also grew a tree in the centre of the garden that Adam was forbidden to eat from; this was the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.”
Marlene’s palms grew suddenly slick with sweat; she wiped them again and again on her skirt, to no avail.
“When the Lord God saw that Adam was lonely, He set about creating a second, lesser being; a creature borne from Adam’s rib and made to serve him. This was the woman called Eve, his wife.” Dorcas made a little noise of irritation in the back of her throat, but of course the preacher paid no heed to her annoyance and continued right along.
“The man and woman were naked, and for this they were not ashamed.” The preacher, Lockhart, paused here to clear his throat. “This last bit is period relevant, naturally — We’ve civilised ourselves here in England and now see the evident error in this translation. As I was saying,” he continued, “‘Now the serpent, the trickiest of the Lord’s creations, decided to prey on the woman’s ignorance and greed. It said to Eve, ‘God knows that when you eat of this tree, your eyes will be opened and you will become like God yourself, knowing Good and Evil.’”
Here Lockhart interjected some of his own interpretation: “Eve’s grave mistake was her willingness to give in to temptation. She saw the tree and ate its delicious fruit; she also gave some to her husband, who went along with her sin. The serpent got his way, for the woman — like each of us — was weak of resolution.”
Dorcas shifted next to her, crossed her other leg over, and Marlene could resist no longer; she caught Dorcas’s hand and slid their fingers together, squeezing for it was the only way she felt tethered to her body. Dorcas cast her a concerned look, noting her discomfort for the first time, and squeezed her hand back. She was careful to keep this connection hidden in their skirts and out of the view of the rest of the assembly, but it felt good anyway. Marlene’s face was hot with shame and clammy with dread but it was so much better to clutch Dorcas’s hand than be stranded here all by herself like usual, to feel the brush of another’s jumping pulse and know that she was not alone.
“Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; they were fearful and hid from the Lord. ‘Who told you you were naked?’ He asked them. ‘Have you tasted of the fruit I commanded you not to?’ And the two had no sufficient answer. From that day onward, they were banished from the garden forever, as are we, their descendents. Until we release ourselves from sin, from greed, from temptation, we can never again walk with God. It is the duty of each and every one of us—”
Marlene was having one of her troubles again. Ever since she was little, she’d been plagued with them; waves of paralysing terror erupting from nowhere, tossing her around like a ragdoll, threatening to pull her under. She had to be free of this place; she was choking, she was sinking. “I need to get out of here.” The words punched out of her chest in an abrupt, harsh whisper; Dorcas asked no questions, merely took her elbow with gentle care and guided her out of the chapel as discreetly as she could manage. Marlene was breathing hard by the time they reached the outdoors, but the feel of the subdued late-summer sun on her skin had a soothing effect almost immediately. Marlene sucked in air like she really had been drowning, but she could already feel her racing heartbeat beginning to slow.
“Marlene, are you quite alright?” Dorcas was asking, words cutting through the rushing blood in Marlene’s ears. “Do you feel ill? Is it what I said earlier? I understand if you—”
“I think I fancy a swim, don’t you?” Marlene cut her off suddenly, flexing her tingling fingertips and waiting for the feeling of control over her own body to return. The worst of it was over now; out of the stale atmosphere of the church, she almost felt like she could breathe again.
Dorcas blinked at her, slightly taken aback. “Sure,” she answered slowly. “Why not?” She still looked a little concerned, regarding Marlene as if she was liable to have another attack at any moment. “Where?”
Marlene breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth. She unclenched her hand and gently took Dorcas’s in her own. She suddenly felt like laughing.
“Why, the Garden of Eden, of course,” she answered, cryptically. Dorcas let herself be pulled.
—
Marlene led her down to the little river behind the abandoned saw mill, the one she'd spent many happy days splashing around in when she first arrived in England. (She hadn’t known how to swim; Lily had spent hours upon hours patiently teaching her.) It was the most secluded place she knew of in Meryton; it was where she always went when she wanted a quiet moment to think. The current of the river was tranquil and meandering, by no means any sort of proper disguise for an illicit rendezvous, but something about the quiet stream felt secret anyway.
“It’s beautiful,” Dorcas commented quietly, bending down to skim her fingers over the water. The surface rippled under her touch, reflected pools of light swirling in new shimmering patterns on the rocky sand lining the bottom of the river.
Marlene undid her shoes and tucked her rolled-up socks neatly inside of them. She slowly unfastened the back of her dress and slipped out of it, folding it carefully on top of a nearby boulder. She tugged the ribbon from her hair and added that to the pile as well; the boulder became a shrine of sorts, one dedicated to the girl Marlene had been before.
“O Lord, make me pure,” she thought. Prayed, really. “But just not yet.”
She soon went to sit beside Dorcas, jerking up the fabric of her undergarment dress so she could dangle her feet in the cool water. Marlene’s leg was flush with Dorcas’s, the soft press of thigh as open an invitation as any.
Dorcas’s eyes raked over her. “Hm,” she said, the edges of her lips tugging up. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”
Marlene grinned. “Yes, well. I contain multitudes.”
Then she leaned over and kissed her, hand reaching up to cup her cheek of its own accord. Dorcas hummed appreciatively at the contact, shifting to draw her in closer, and Marlene felt a dam burst in her chest, because talking to Dorcas felt good and touching her was even better and kissing her like was something out of the depraved sorts of fantasies Marlene had left behind at seventeen. Dorcas’s fingers slipped into Marlene’s hair and it was hard not to gasp at the pleasure of it; she tugged lightly on the back of Marlene’s neck and then she was tumbling forward on top of her, Dorcas’s own back hitting the muddy grass of the riverbank. Marlene wanted badly to laugh — it was ridiculous, after all, her sudden, delirious desire to undress this woman she hardly knew — but then her bare leg was sliding between Dorcas’s and she felt utterly sublime and nothing was quite so funny after that. “The—” Dorcas broke away desperately, breathing hard and yanking wildly at the mess of straps and laces that held her dress together, “Here, help me with the—” Marlene fumbled with the back of her corset, loosening it as carefully as she could with her shaking hands, but Dorcas shook her head with aggravated impatience. “Just bloody tear it off me, McKinnon, please. I need to—” It was then that the straps finally came loose and the dress was pulled over her head. They didn’t talk much after that.
It was almost unbelievable how uncomplicated it was. It should’ve felt dirty or wrong, Marlene knew that. She had thought it would’ve been like giving a piece of herself over to the darkness, to the evil she’d always thought lurked inside of her. But it wasn’t like anything Marlene could have predicted, anything she’d known before. It was pure, unthinking ecstasy. Her body knew exactly what it wanted, and for once in her life, she didn’t deny it. What could possibly be dirty about the silky-smooth feeling of Dorcas’s skin against hers? What could be wrong with all the blissful little noises she made as she pulled Marlene in closer like she just couldn’t help herself? How could something evil taste so impossibly sweet?
Later, after they’d washed in the river and dressed, still lounging in the grass, Marlene broached the subject. They’d been laying in contented silence until then, Dorcas absentmindedly twirling the stem of a dandelion between her fingers, Marlene’s head tucked against her chest. “So,” Marlene said. She gazed up at her face. “You’re a bit of a crisis of faith for me.”
Dorcas huffed out a quiet laugh at this, scattering some of the dandelion seeds to the gentle breeze. “Oh really?” she replied in a light, drowsy tone. “Lucky me.”
Marlene nudged her foot with her own, smiling a little. “I’m serious.”
Dorcas blew the rest of the dandelion away. “I know,” she said. “But I wouldn’t worry about it. I think He has more important things to worry about than passing judgement down on lovely girls like yourself just trying to have a bit of fun, don’t you?”
Marlene liked that answer. She wasn’t sure she agreed entirely, but what was the rush to figure it all out? The sun was shining and her body felt pleasantly worn-out and there was a beautiful girl beside her. Things were as good as they’d ever been.