by Emma Newman
Will declined the offer of a cigar, not wanting to reek of smoke in the carriage and give Catherine another excuse to keep him away. He accepted the port with thanks as Freddy stumbled over to a cupboard in the corner of the room. He opened it, and the front of his trousers, and began peeing into the pot within. Freddy couldn’t even do that without grunting like a warthog.
“May I compliment you on your wife, William,” Bartholomew said, port glass in one hand and cigar in the other. He was leaning back in his chair, relaxed and able to speak as if Freddy wasn’t there.
“Thank you.”
“She’s very intelligent. And not afraid to debate. Most refreshing.”
“And good to get a plain one,” Freddy said as he slammed the cupboard shut. He sat down again and tipped his glass back as far as he could to get every drop of the port.
“What do you mean?” Will asked.
“Good of the family to pair you off with a plain wife. Always better in bed, the plain ones, always so grateful.”
Will set his glass down and was on his feet but Freddy didn’t notice with his head still tipped back, looking up at the chandelier as he waved his empty glass around.
“Better than being saddled with a beauty,” he drawled. “They’re so demanding.”
“I say, sir.” Will, not getting a response from Freddy, turned to the host. “I must protest.”
“Must you? What? Why?” Freddy tipped himself upright again. Some drool was shining in his muttonchops and his eyes were unfocused. “Barty, what’s he all worked up about?”
“My apologies, William,” Bartholomew said, raising a hand slightly to assure him it was under control. “Frederick, it’s time for you to go home.”
“Really? Haven’t started playing cards yet though.”
“It’s time,” Bartholomew said firmly.
“Oh.” Freddy looked remorseful. “Have I caused offence, old chap?”
“You have indeed, sir. I demand an apology,” Will replied.
“You have it, old boy! I lose my tongue sometimes and I mean no harm, no harm at all. And your wife is a delightfully spirited filly, I’ll wager she—”
“Frederick.” Bartholomew cut him off with an imperious bark. “Get his cloak and gloves,” he said to the butler and then to Will, “Please accept my apologies too.”
Will gave a curt nod and sat back down as Freddy struggled to his feet.
“Where’s m’wife?” he slurred.
Will watched him with disgust, realising that it wasn’t just form that had elicited his protest. He’d felt genuinely affronted.
“And by questioning his calculations I saved the household over one hundred thousand of the Queen’s pounds per year.”
The ticking of the clock seemed very loud. Both Margritte and Georgiana were speechless, making that awful nervous giggle build in Cathy’s throat as the two women looked at each other. Cathy wondered if there was a social equivalent of chicken being played out silently in front of her. Who would react first? And which way should it go?
“They’re exploiting the fact we would never talk openly about this kind of thing,” she went on, trying to tip the tension over into something in her favour. “And whilst I may have committed a faux pas in being so truthful about it, I hope you see that it’s in our best interests to do so. They have a monopoly so they feel they can bully us into doing things the way they want, but it shouldn’t be that way.”
“Monopoly?” Georgiana asked.
“They’re the only service provider. They know there’s no other agency for us to go to, so we feel we have to keep them happy. It all happens subliminally in the social setting, and then, when the meeting’s over, everything’s geared up to make it difficult, and embarrassing to ask questions or make complaints, do you see?”
“I do!” Margritte said, and slapped her closed fan against her palm. “Georgiana, don’t pull that face, she’s right! We shouldn’t let pride interfere with common sense.”
“The thing about common sense,” Georgiana began in a tone that reminded Cathy of a character in an Oscar Wilde play, “is that—”
The door opened and the butler appeared. “Begging your pardon, milady, but Mr Viola has asked for his wife. I understand he’s about to leave.”
“Oh, he’s drunk and belligerent again.” Georgiana sighed as she stood up. “Really, the man is insufferable.”
She spoke only to Margritte, as if she’d forgotten Cathy was there. The hostess didn’t look surprised and gave Georgiana a sympathetic smile. Hasty goodbyes were made and she left, the sounds of her husband’s bellowing echoing down the hallway.
“Does that often happen?” Cathy asked and Margritte nodded. “Then why do people still invite him? In Aquae Sulis he’d never see the inside of another person’s dining room ever again.”
“Well,” Margritte said, sitting back down and inviting Cathy to do the same, “it’s probably because he’s disgustingly rich.”
Cathy laughed at her plain speaking and Margritte smiled. “Catherine, I believe you may be just the breath of fresh air the Londinium salons need. I would be delighted if you could come to a soirée we’re planning for a week from now. Something gentle to get people back into the mood again after all of this upheaval.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind.”
“Seeing as the Violas have left, perhaps we should rejoin our husbands and play a game of cards a little earlier than usual. I’m sure Bartholomew won’t mind—he seemed quite taken with you, and your husband is a delight.”
“A delight?” She was about to make a comment about telling him that later when she felt the strangest sensation, deep in her stomach, as if she had just been in a very fast lift and reached the top floor.
“Yes, don’t you agree?”
“Well…” It happened again and she gripped the edge of the sofa, squeezing her eyes shut against a pulse of vertigo.
“Oh, my dear, are you feeling unwell?”
“I do feel a little odd.”
“Catherine?” William was at the doorway. Bartholomew was already in the room, though she hadn’t noticed him enter. “Are you all right?”
“I’m so sorry,” she said to the hosts, “but would you mind if we—” She stopped, the vertigo making her feel like she was about to fall off the sofa, this time accompanied by a twinge in her left hand.
“I’d like to take Catherine home. Will you permit me to thank you for a most pleasant evening?” William said as he crossed the room to her side.
She took his hands gratefully as the worst of the latest wave faded. He helped her to stand and she hoped she wasn’t going to make a habit of fainting in his arms. That would just be too much.
“It was a pleasure to meet you both,” Bartholomew said. “Catherine, I do hope you feel better soon.”
After a flurry of capes and hats, Cathy found herself in the carriage once more. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I’ve never been like this…must be married life.” There was another awful lurch in her stomach. “Oh, God, do you think it was the lobster? I can’t stand being sick. Do you feel strange?”
He moved across to put his arm around her. She found it comforting and then tried to ignore it.
“I know what it is,” he said, resting a hand over hers and kissing her gently on the cheek.
“If you say it’s something to do with starting to fall in love I swear I will vomit all over you.”
He pulled a face. “Good grief, Catherine, you do say the most awful things. Does your stomach feel like it wants to move in the opposite direction to where you’re going?” When she nodded he said, “And you feel dizzy, it comes in waves and there’s…a tension, underneath it all?” She nodded again. “You’re not ill. You’re being summoned.”
“That sounds bad,” she whispered. The rocking of the carriage was making the vertigo worse. “What does it mean?”
“Lord Iris wants to see you.”
She felt a lot worse. “Y
ou’re saying he’s doing this? How can he make me feel ill?”
He brushed her wedding ring with his index finger. “I’m sorry. It must be this. You’re an Iris now.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, this just keeps getting worse! What else does this bloody ring do? Suck my soul out?”
“I don’t think it does anything else. And whilst I understand your distress, please don’t use that language.”
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I’m upset. Hang on, you know how it feels…it’s happened to you?”
“Once, just before I left on the Grand Tour. He wanted to speak to me.”
“And you felt like this until you saw him?”
“If you speak his name and say you’re on your way, it eases, for a time.”
Feeling foolish, and distinctly unsettled, she said, “Lord Iris, I’m on my way.”
The tug in her gut disappeared and her head cleared.
“Better?” he asked.
“Will he hear what I’m saying now?”
William shrugged. “He’s very powerful, but I don’t know if it works like that. I imagine he’s able to detect your desire to comply with his wishes.”
He didn’t move his hand when hers formed into a fist. “I don’t know how you can bear it. This is worse than being a Poppy. All those years I thought it was hell but even when I was locked in that damn room I had more freedom than this.” She caught the build-up to a rant and shut up. “I’m feeling better. You can let go now.”
“I don’t want to.” He smiled. “I wanted to say how impressed I was.”
“The food was very nice. Now, please, go and sit over there for goodness’ sake.”
He did so, but only after another kiss, its gentleness at odds with the fury she was trying to contain. She wanted to rant and rave and punch the seat cushions, cursing Iris and the entirety of Society, but he was so happy it felt absurd to show any of it.
“I wasn’t impressed with the food, but with you.” He slid down in the seat; it was the first time she could remember him seeming even remotely relaxed. “All that worry and you impressed them immensely, particularly Bartholomew.”
“You don’t mind that I stuck a fork in one of the guests?”
“Absolutely not. Freddy deserved it, disgusting man. If you hadn’t handled it yourself I would have had to call him out. I almost did when we were having the port.” He looked distant for a moment, his brow furrowed and cheeks pink. “He did howl though, didn’t he?” He laughed.
The rage tipped over and she burst into laughter too as she recalled Freddy’s roar. The carriage filled with the sound of the two of them laughing.
“Why do you think Lord Iris wants to see me?” she said once they’d settled down.
“I have no idea.”
“Have I done something wrong?”
“Not in my eyes. The only thing we need to do is make a go of it. I think it really could work between us, do you see? You’re clever, you’re funny, when you’re not being irritating or offensive, that is.” He said it with a smile. “I felt proud of you this evening. Bartholomew complimented you most highly. I think that’s an achievement in and of itself.”
She felt a quickening in her chest: excitement. This is what it was to get it right, then, the feeling that Elizabeth must have had countless times in her life, one that until now had been alien to her. Feeling her cheeks grow hot, Cathy couldn’t look at him as she tried to hold onto the feeling before it was destroyed by someone or something. Her gaze drifted downwards and she saw the ring, the thing they’d forced onto her, the tiny chains about her all held in that single band.
She was disgusted with herself. One taste of success, one bit of praise and she was ready to delude herself into thinking it actually meant anything other than the reinforcement of her slavery.
“What?” he asked.
“I nearly fell for it,” she said. “I nearly started to think like they do.”
He massaged his temples. “Why does it all have to be so complicated? Has it occurred to you that Londinium may just suit you in a way Aquae Sulis never could? Can’t you appreciate that what happened this evening was a triumph and let yourself feel good about it?”
“Obtaining your approval, and that of Society, is not something I ever want to aspire to, so I shouldn’t let it feel good when I get it.”
He groaned, throwing his hands into the air. “You are simply determined to be unhappy!”
“You’re determined to mould me into something I’m not. You and Iris, no doubt.” She felt a flicker of anxiety at the thought of him.
“I know you’re afraid.” He reached across, but she pulled her hands back and he withdrew. “I was, when I had to go to him.”
His unrelenting kindness irritated her. “I don’t even know how to get into Exilium.”
“Now you’ve been summoned, all you need to do is stand in front of a mirror, alone, and speak his name three times.” William’s voice was quiet and his fingers were laced tightly together.
“You’re worried too,” she said.
“Of course I am,” he snapped. “You’re my wife.”
The words were like a slap. She sank into silence, oscillating between the desire to scream and the need to weep with fear. She hated the feeling of being like a cork bobbing in the ocean, lifted up and down by them all.
“He’s very precise,” William said after a while. “He won’t accept anything less than total obedience and deference. Your manners must be impeccable.”
“All right.”
“You don’t need to pretend to be delighted about the marriage, not in the way Lord Poppy seemed to want you to be at the Oak. I think it’s irrelevant to our patron. All that matters is that you do as you’re told, regardless of how you feel about it.”
“My father would approve,” she said, wondering whether he’d had any idea of the life he’d forced her into. Not that it would have changed anything.
“And I assume you know not to eat or drink anything, and to be wary of—”
“I know how to survive in Exilium.”
“Good. You should go there as soon as we’re home. And wear that dress. You look very fine in it.”
She felt remorseful then, for throwing everything back in his face all the time. “Thank you,” she said, but he just looked out of the window. Perhaps he was right, perhaps she could make a go of it in Society, if that evening was anything to go by. She had actually started to relax in Margritte’s company and was sad to leave so suddenly. But was it even possible to make a friend in the Nether?
14
Sam scratched his neck and felt the stubble. He’d been wearing the same clothes for three days, hadn’t left the house in the last four and was watching daytime television. He grabbed the remote and killed the show. His life was never going to be enriched by a discussion about which man had fathered which baby. “You slob,” he said to himself.
He got up and stretched, doing his best to ignore the pile of unopened post he’d dumped on the chair. It had been building up for a while and yet he just couldn’t face opening it. He was supposed to call an estate agent, probably at least three, and get the house on the market but he couldn’t face that either.
He trudged up the stairs, peed and stood in front of the sink, trying to muster the energy to have a shave. He was out of routine and with no job; being clean-shaven had lost its importance.
He pulled a stray hair from the sink as he revisited over and over again in his memory the moment of being sacked. He couldn’t deny that his work had suffered and important deadlines had been missed. He hadn’t argued when his boss had accused him of being irresponsible and neglectful and letting the rest of the team down. It was all true. He just didn’t care anymore.
He’d packed up his personal belongings, said goodbye to Dave, who was too shocked to insult him, and came home. That first day he hardly moved as he tried to work out when exactly he’d stopped caring.
He wondered if Exilium had done it. After seeing a
place like that, its colours and beauty, everything else had felt dull in comparison. But his memories of the place had already faded again, like the places he’d visited as a backpacking student.
“You’re a slob and terrible husband,” he said to the grotty face in the mirror. He’d been unemployed for less than a week and already looked like he’d never earned an honest wage in his life. He still hadn’t told Leanne either.
He shaved and showered. By the time he was towelling himself off he felt a little better. He’d decided he should make the most of the time, eat better, get a little exercise. At least he didn’t have to serve out a tedious notice period. He put the toilet seat down and sat in the steam, shaking his head. Who was he trying to kid? He felt like shit.
His mobile phone rang and he reached it just in time. “Lee?”
“Hi, Sam.”
He checked his watch. Eleven thirty in the morning. “You OK? Has something happened?”
“I called your work phone.”
“Oh.”
“Dave said you’ve been sacked.”
He chucked the towel on the bed and sat on top of it. For a few seconds there was no sound except the pattering of drips on the carpet. “Yeah, about that…I was waiting till I saw you.”
Her high heels were clicking down a corridor, then there was the quiet squeak of a door opening and it sounded less echoey. “When did it happen?”
“Couple of days ago.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“Like I said, I was waiting till I saw you this weekend.”
“Are you going to move to London now?”
“I…” He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t explain that he was waiting for an Arbiter’s report on her boss, the company she worked for and the dodgy apartment they’d given her.
“Have you at least got the house on the market?”
“Well, the thing is—”
“I don’t think you want to move to London. I’m beginning to think you don’t want to be with me anymore.”
“I came to see you, didn’t I? I wanted to talk but you just kept—”
