Free Red Jacket by Pamela; Mordecai Page A

he’d have to marry, so it might as well be now. He set some conditions. Travelled, educated, and urbane, what he expected of a wife was more than childbearing, child minding, and running his home. She must be lively, articulate, educated, and, he insisted, uncut. Life in the twentieth century was hard enough. Sex should pleasure both parties. They’d chosen, and he’d consented to their choice, so a dowry was agreed upon, the festivities were arranged, and the marriage proceeded: an exchange of vows before the Bishop of Benke and three days of feasting, stick fighting, juggling, gymnastics, singing, music, and dancing. To top it all, a brilliant Italian fireworks display on the evening of the third day. Everyone said there had been nothing like it before; the patriarchs had been more than pleased.
    The party concluded, both of them having waved goodbye to their families, he closed the door to their suite and turned to his bride. He didn’t know her well. They’d met two weeks before and had spent time together since then, but little of it alone. Still, the more he spent time with her, the more she seemed her own natural, confident self. Now he was taking her in as she relaxed, head back, eyes closed, the white of her gown contrasting with the copper of her face and throat, the henna of her hair, so it quite startled him when she erupted into fits of laughter, no girlish giggles, but skirmishes of robust sound. Nerves, he’d told himself, determinedly indulgent, trying for a tender smile, trusting she would regard it so, for his sisters often called him cruelly inscrutable.
    The clamour ceased as abruptly as it had begun. She sat straight up in the armchair where she’d been lounging, set her feet demurely one next to the other on the floor, put a finger to her lips, and inclined her head, as if in deep contemplation. He thought she might be hungry and reluctant to say so.
    â€œTu as faim?”
    She shook her head, voluptuous gold earrings doing a rhumba at her ears. Charming, clever, classy, she’d been educated by nuns in Benke and sent to Switzerland for finishing. When she was in the middle of doing a degree in African History at London University, her father fell ill and she came home to be with him. When he recovered, she’d wanted to resume, but at just that time his father approached hers. Somehow they convinced her he was a prospect she shouldn’t let slip.
    For something to do he went to the large picture window and pulled back the curtains. It was cool at night, so he opened the louvres beside the window only enough to let in some air. The sun had set some time before. There was no clear view of the dunes, but smouldering against the red sky a sinuous horizon shrugged in their outlines.
    â€œMon mari,” the lushly puckered mouth spoke so softly he had to turn to hear, “Je suis à ton service.” At his service? That was sweet, if curious, especially after the hoots of laughter. Not that he minded a wife disposed to do as he wished, though she didn’t strike him as the submissive type. Unhooking the gold embroidered fastening of his kiloli, he slipped it off. He was sinking onto the bed, when she leapt up, tearing off her evening jacket, gown, and slip to reveal a flimsy one-piece undergarment secured by tiny buttons down the front. These she undid, swift fluting fingers playing descending scales. Then she plopped onto the bed beside him, stark naked. He gaped.
    â€œJimmy, cesse de me regarder comme ça ! Stop staring and let’s get on with it. My family have gone, I’m far from home, none of this is what I planned, and I’m scared to death of being bored. I’m counting on sex hugely.”
    â€œMon Dieu! She’s mad!” Panic alighted like a mischievous monkey on his head. That would explain the odd routine of cackling, submissiveness, and then the wild, unseemly disrobing.
    She yawned and stretched. He smelled her end-of-day