Frederick could not help singing as he dressed that morning. It was good to be back home in England.

“I am the happiest creature in the world,” he thought. “Others may have believed themselves to be the beneficiaries of such happiness before. They are fools.” He whistled stray phrases of some half-remembered hymn as he walked down the hall. “How hollow my former joys seem to me now.” He paused before a mirror, and beamed at the picture of poetry and health that glowed back at him.

“Before, I only smiled. Now, I laugh.” He looked at his reflection and laughed. His cheeks flushed, to his great satisfaction.

Frederick felt the familiar spiritual lightness spreading out from the back of his knees. This had been happening at regular intervals ever since he and Roxanna had saved one another in the swirling river currents. He sank to his knees and began to pray.

Visions of heavenly grace intermingled in his great brain with images of Roxanna. What a garden of delights they had begun to cultivate together, between the two of them! In what a diversity of places had the seeds of their mutual salvation been sown: in the bed, in the carriage, at the window, behind the curtains, under the bed, on the floor next to the bed...he could hardly remember the particulars anymore. Roxanna’s fingers, trailing delicately through his matted locks, were like tongues of divine fire; and her tongue, wherever it landed on Frederick’s body, felt like Jesus’s fingers. Frederick’s body and prayer climaxed as one. He stood slowly and continued down the hall.

And then he entered the kitchen, and there she was, standing in front of a window with the light pouring in around her. (And could he really be sure that she was not glowing?) He spoke: “Let me kiss you with the kisses of my mouth, Roxanna: for your love is even better than getting drunk.” Roxanna fainted at once. She fell gently into Frederick’s waiting arms, and while he could not manage to lift her entirely from the ground, he dragged her lovingly back to the bedroom. She awoke, and they prayed once more. And then again. And then a third time.

It was just then that Felicity, pacing in an agitated manner down the manor’s various halls and passageways, heard thin strains of what she now knew to be Frederick and Roxanna’s post-coital hymning. Like idiots, they had taken to opening King James at random, allowing Godly inspiration to guide their melodicizing. “Of the children of God, by their generations / after their families, by the house of their fathers / according to the number of the names, from twenty years old and upward...” They continued on.

Fools! As though Felicity cared that her husband was cavorting with the housemaid. He was just like his father: a pathetic lout who preferred underfed complexions and the caresses of dishpan hands to the sexual elegance of his beautiful, aristocratic wife. No, how could she care about that? Now that Frederick had retracted his pasty withered stalk from her garden and taken it to the kitchen, she had The Stable Boy all to herself. She should be happy. “I am happy,” she said aloud, with a shaky vehemence. “Ecstatic!”

Just then, the door to Frederick’s chambers opened and her husband came tra-la-la-ing down the hall, as slender and pale as a maiden. He saw Felicity and paused, his eyes filled with a sweetness that Felicity had never seen.

“I hope you are enjoying your tryst with that nitwit of a biddy with her skirts hiked up about her waist,” said Felicity, but her venom had not the slightest effect on her husband’s serene countenance. He sighed softly, and smiled.

“You look lovely, Felicity,” Frederick said, and now it was Felicity’s turn to lose her bearings. Her heart leapt a little in her chest. Could she possibly have missed her husband’s fumbling attentions? Not physically, to be sure...Yet she had enjoyed his flattery in their days of courtship. Frederick went on:

“You are like a strong oak who has bloomed to full maturity. Your thick limbs are laden with leaves of crimson and scarlet hue! You are in the full glory of your autumn! Your pendulous breasts swing like overripe fruit!” Satisfied that he had spouted an ode of the highest poetic order, he skipped down the hall to fetch the Bible from his library.

Felicity stood rooted in place, stunned and shaking. What did he mean by full maturity? She was a tender blossom! Strong? She was as delicate as a daffodil! Granted she did not faint as easily as that virginal non-virgin, but she had her occasional spells. And thick limbs? She turned out an ankle—still slim! Pendulous breasts? She jiggled her creamy shoulders in the mirror and was rewarded by the full bounce of the still smooth baubles within her bodice. Overripe? Not even! She remained a desirable woman, Felicity decided. She went to the stables, looking for proof.

***

Later, afterwards, Felicity found that the total satisfaction of her physical needs had not silenced the gnawing whine in the back of her head. She ran her fingers nervously through The Stable Boy’s hair.

“Something troubles you,” The Stable Boy said. There was no concern in his voice. Lacking the energy for pretense, Felicity nodded meekly.

“It is the little kitchen maid,” The Stable Boy said. How all-knowing he was!

“It isn’t as though I’m surprised,” Felicity said. “The man’s father slept with every servant in the county, after all. There’s no telling how many bastard relatives Frederick has running around!”

“Oh?” said The Stable Boy.

***

The Stable Boy and Oliver P. Swindleton met that evening in one of the neighboring county’s taverns. It was crowded. Tucked into a corner, leaning at one another over tankards of ale, Ollie and The Stable Boy conversed for not more than five minutes. The Stable Boy handed Ollie an envelope and a small bag of coins. Through the patrons’ shouts, songs, yells, and roars, this writer was able to make out the following word: “Roxanna.”

Ollie rose, tipped his battered hat in the general vicinity of everyone, and walked quickly out the door. The Stable Boy remained at the table. The lamp shone hotly on his perfect face.