A History Mystery: Day Six / Part Two

The Personal Journals of Morgan Victoria Beauchamp

Wednesday, October 29

Dearest Papa,

Well, it seems I have to eat my words from yesterday. I spent a second day struggling with my resentment, shame and sorrow, my body positively aching from lack of sleep and a need for satisfaction. After my last class, an early evening lecture for grad students, faithful Mattias at my side, my whole world turned on its axis once more. I looked up from my brief case trying to rub the itch from my neck and there, at the very back, easily overlooked because of the shadows, stood my own modern day pirate.

The rascal. He even had the nerve to wear a long black trench coat and hat. He raised his head and our gazes met. And just like that, my body came alive, my doubts fled, and depression vaporized. He was back and all he had to do was hold out his hand and, forgiveness in my heart, I ran to him. Mattias tried to hold me back, but I shook him off and found myself in the arms of my own Jean Baptiste, his whispered murmurs of apology music in my ears.

He’d had business, unexpected and unavoidable. He doesn’t carry a cell phone and wasn’t near a phone which wouldn’t have done him any good because he didn’t have my number. I promised to tattoo it on his palm if that would help and he laughed as he kissed me. A very tiny voice in the back of my mind still whispered wanting to know what kind of business. After all, we’d mostly discussed my work, my research, my life. I couldn’t for the life of me remember if he’d ever mentioned a vocation, a career or business. Who is he, really, my little voice asked.

My libido ignored all such sinister whispers. For all I knew, the man could be a burglar or a con man, the necklace his latest hot ticket in my keeping so as to be out of the visibility of authorities. The very valuable necklace. Yes, I did have it appraised. It seems my lover thinks quite highly of me. The jeweler offered me forty thousand dollars cash on the spot. Imagine his resale on that. Sixty thousand or, more likely, eighty. I had him check the clasp and he assured me the necklace would never fall off by mistake or chance. It took a knowing hand to work the mechanism. He also assured me the settings were solid and he dated the piece back at least two hundred years. A check of the police hot sheets didn’t turn up even a hint of it. He felt confident in assuring me my benefactor was most generous.

So. My very passionate lover is back. I’m still wearing his gift, and he has assured it was a gift with no strings attached. Not a payment for services, past, present or future. A gift from his heart.

I’ve done it again. I’ve skipped over events and have trotted off far ahead of myself.
While wrapped in Jean Baptiste’s arms at the back of the lecture hall, we were interrupted by Mattias standing at my shoulder and clearing his throat. The two men sized each other up. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it live like that before, but I could very nearly smell the testosterone in the room.

Two men ready to lock horns over me. Talk about feminine satisfaction. It was almost laughable, but I had the sense they were very serious about ripping into each other. I stepped between them and made the introductions, using the name John Morgan as Jean Baptiste had asked me the other day. He found the explanations of the similarity of his name to the pirate to be awkward. Still, Mattias gave me a dubious glance. Like a stand-in brother, uncle or father, Mattias dug into Jean Baptiste with questions. What did he do for a living? Jean Baptiste answered that he dealt in antiquities. Might that explain where the necklace came from? Oh my. The very thought made my little heart beat out a rapid tattoo. His family? None. Associations? Impressive names of old families were spit out like a ticker tape. Jean Baptiste did an admirable job of holding back his temper. Indeed, at one point I thought I caught the hint of a chuckle, or was it a growl of frustration? Hard to tell. Jean Baptiste has one hell of a poker face.

At last I called an end to the grilling. I was starving and anxious to be alone with Jean Baptiste. His fingers had found the necklace under my clothing and stroked it, stroked me, stoked the banked coals of my want. I asked Mattias to take my briefcase back to my office and lock up. He had the journals already and had agreed to take them to his contacts in the morning.

I was disappointed when Jean Baptiste begged off, saying he had just a little more business this evening. Apparently I was a stop between appointments. I put on my brave face and shrugged. I had my own errands, I assured him. Groceries were high on my list as I craved red meat and the contents of my fridge held no appeal.

Caught up in day dreams, I barely remember shopping and driving, and therefore consider it a miracle I managed to pull my car into the garage an hour later. Jean Baptiste came to greet me in the garage. Too anxious to wait Jean Baptiste met me at the hood of my car, and with the warmth of the metal beneath my back, he stripped my jeans from my legs and came into me right there. I must admit making love on the hood of an economy car isn’t the stuff of MTV videos, but it didn’t matter one bit to us. As he thrust into me, I licked the hint of salt from his neck and left behind what I was sure would be a very visible love bite. I must not have chewed on him as hard as I thought for there was no visible mark when we finally made it upstairs to my bed.

Ah, what magic a man can work with the simple tools he is born with. Hands, lips, tongue… and other… parts I blush to mention to my own father. Yes, as natural as you and Mama tried to be about such things, I still don’t feel comfortable discussing it with you in intimate detail. Even with you in spirit form on the screen of my computer. I imagine, that if Jean Baptiste keeps a journal, I’m sure he does it the old fashioned way. Leather bound books of unlined pages, filled with neat script using fine ink. He has just that air of old world elegance about him. Even unclothed.

But all body parts aside, it is the heart of a man a woman feels when those parts come together. Without heart, the motions would be meaningless, just sweaty groping to diffuse a physical urge. And I felt his heart. My soul was touched and we made love. You can’t tell me men don’t feel the deeper difference. It isn’t just sex. Not with the right mate. There was a moment when I looked into his eyes and I saw everything inside him. Each emotion was bare and raw, laid out for me to see. I cupped his cheeks between my hands and let my heart show in my eyes. In just this way, we were connected far more deeply than his part A in my slot B. Soul to soul, I felt as if we each stared across all eternity and all we could see was each other. From the intensity of our union, our contact on all levels, I know it touched him deeply as well, for his entire body trembled. Mine trembled as well, and together we reached an altitude so high we both touched the very heavens.

A small eternity passed before we were able to rouse ourselves after that. Jean Baptiste collapsed on top of me, his lips soft and loving as he drowsily kissed whatever part of my head and neck he could reach in our languor. I held him, loving the weight of his body on mine. At length, afraid he was crushing me, he rolled to his back without breaking our connection, for it was still strong between us, and I rested upon him, his body my bed. I licked the spot where I could have sworn I’d bitten him and a shudder of pure delight rippled through his body and into mine. Only hunger, for real food, roused me from my comfortable spot.

Jean Baptiste swore he’d never need another morsel of food, though he did help empty the bags we’d carried up from the car. All he needed was to make love to me. A wonderful sentiment, but poor mortal that I am, I needed steak. Or at the very least, some of the rare roast beef slices I’d purchased.

Another night has passed and my lover has once again slipped from my bed, thinking me asleep. I was until I heard the snick of the door shutting. Where does my lover run off to before the sun rises? If I had any strength at all, I’d try to follow him. As daylight grows in my room, I realize I still don’t have a phone number, nor do I know where he lives. Am I a fool? Is my lover what he seems? Do I really care? As long as he isn’t married, a thief wanted for crimes I can only imagine, or a modern day rake seeking only to spend time in debauchery, I don’t much care what he does. I just want our time to continue without end. Perhaps I am a romantic who would do better to pen fiction rather than continue my crusade to make history come alive for my students. Lord knows I might have more impact on a wider audience. A debate for another day. I have only a few hours to rest before I must return to campus. Have to pay the bills somehow…