Frail

by Susanna Ives

  “You were awarded a Victoria Cross. Surely you had to know what you were doing.”

  “I was brought up on old war stories from my uncles, when battle was a glorious, honorable endeavor. They fought with bayonets and cavalry, but they wouldn’t have stood a chance against these new rifles. Raglan made us put our men in thin formation and wait until we got close enough to shoot. I would scream at those terrified men to stay in those defenseless damn lines… I’m sorry.”

  “It is well.”

  “When my men saw their fellow soldiers, their mates, getting their heads and limbs ripped apart by bullets, they would run away. Who could blame them? And still, all the officers were screaming to get in line… get in line and keep advancing. What? To sure death? Our men could hit a Russian at over 1,500 feet. Why keep advancing? I disobeyed my orders and told my men to kneel and fire. The bullets rained on those Russian boys. We shot them down line after line. A Minié rifle mocks honor and glory.”

  The wind slapped his cheeks. He closed his eyes, his mind returning to the bitter cold of those first winter months when Raglan had led his men into Crimea with no winter coats, decent tents, or enough food.

  “Theo?” Helena’s warm hand rested on his cheek.

  “I remember the night Gordon and I were dug in at the Sandbag battery. Russians were pressing forward in the fog—thousands of them—their grapeshot whistled by our ears. The mortar shells would light up the sky like lightning flaring behind a cloud. We were down to less than a hundred men. I gave up trying to command; we just bayoneted or shot the Russians as they came over the parapet, spraying us in their blood, their bodies falling on us. Gordon had been shot and was screaming in pain as he thrust his bayonet. Other men were huddled down in the mud, petrified. My gun burned my hand. I reloaded and reloaded, shooting any swirl in the mist—I probably shot our own retreating men.”

  “Oh God, Theo.”

  The dip and rise of mountains merged with a destroyed landscape in his memories. He seized her hand and shoved his fingers between hers. Words swelled on his tongue and flowed like the putrid sludge of piss and blood at the bottom of the trenches.

  “At Redan, we kept pushing forward against the Russian guns, using the soldiers who fell before us—our comrades—as shields until our men finally retreated in fear. That’s what finally killed Lord Raglan. I attended his tent the night his heart gave up. In his last hours, he knew he was an incompetent failure—all his honor and noble blood couldn’t save him. I’m glad he went to hell knowing the truth. His arrogance, his ineptitude, killed our men. I cared more for the damned Russians than I did for our commander.”

  “But they were killing your men… your friends.”

  “It’s hard to understand. We would fight from those trenches, litter the land with shredded bodies and then call a truce to carry off the wounded. With our boots sinking into the mush of men, we would swap cigarettes with the Russians and joke in French and then an hour later, we were killing each other again. The absurdity makes no sense now, but back then we were simply trying to feel human.”

  He brushed her cheeks with his thumb. She turned her head to kiss its tip.

  “I want to tell you something,” he whispered. “Good God, I’ve never told anyone what I’m telling you.”

  “Please.”

  “When we finally marched into the Sevastopol, inside were the remains of civilians. Burned in my mind is a mother, a corpse, crouched over her dead daughter, their house rubble around them. Flies were crawling about their decaying mouths. And the Russians...” He drew her close, his eyes burning. “They left thousands of wounded behind. Abandoned. The men had lain there a week by the time we got into the city. Most of them were bloated and rotting and the few that managed to live were crying out for water.”

  “Oh, Theo,” Helena kissed his cheek, forehead, nose, and chin.

  “Please,” he said. “Please don’t.” He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to kiss her back—let her body calm all this fury inside him. But her lips found his, lingering there like a question. The power she had over him was primal. She was a thousand mercy-filled, healing Madonnas. She slowly entered his mouth, licked his tongue and the inside of his teeth. He could no longer contain his want, his need, and kissed her back, diving deep into her mouth. His rage and sorrow flowed into her and she took it away. She returned his frantic motion, her fingers combing his hair, knocking his hat off. He pulled her down, down, down onto the wiry grass and slid on top of her. His mind was black and scary, the desires of his body overpowering his thoughts.

  He wanted more. He wanted to feel her nipples under his chest as he moved in her, the rasp of her breath in his ear. Mad thoughts filled his head—she never had to know about what he did to her father if he never told her. Scotland Yard had vowed to keep his involvement a secret. He could marry her and do everything in his power to make her happy. After all, he had ruined her life. Didn’t he have a responsibility to her?

  His penis ached he was so hard. He shoved himself against her skirts as he buried his face in the darkness of her neck. Her thighs rose to meet his, rubbing against him. She let out a soft whimper and arched her back.

  “Oh, sweet God,” he groaned, pushing harder. He grabbed a handful of her dress and yanked it up. He had to be inside her, finding the source of the comfort she gave him. Never mind her father, the voices raging in his head, the maggot-eaten faces of Russian soldiers. She could make it all go away. He reached for his trouser buttons, but she grabbed his wrist.

  “We must stop,” she cried.

  She searched his eyes—they had that same empty feral shine as when he grabbed the inn owner’s son by the collar. She knew he wasn’t fully here, but caught in another world and time. She watched his features crumple as the realization fell on him. He rolled onto the grass and covered his face.

  “Oh, God,” he cried. “I’m mad. I’m mad.”

  ∞∞∞

  Helena smoothed her dress down, her fingers shaking. She was frightened, not of Theo, but of her own reaction, the indecent way she responded to him, the painful throb inside of herself. She was to the point of blacking out all reason. Still, she wanted to know the feel of Theo deep inside her.

  Now, she studied his features contorted in anxious pain. She felt terrible for him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I kissed you. I lost control of myself.” The wind blew across her, cooling her face and neck where his lips had been.

  “No. I’m the one out of control. It cannot be denied. I promise I’ll never bother you again. I promise. This is… this is why I can’t allow you to get close to me.”

  “I’m not sure I want that.” Was she falling in love just when her life was spinning topsy-turvy? She didn’t know her own mind anymore… or her body. And Theo confused her, telling her to leave, turning her away, and then kissing her and touching her in ways that were obscene, taking her to places too dangerous to contemplate.

  She watched the hardness return to his features. “I’m afraid that is how it must be.” He retrieved his leather hat and placed it on his head. He rose and then offered his hand, his mouth set in a somber line. “Let me escort you home.”

  The walk back was uncomfortable and silent. Theo kept glancing at her. She could feel that he wanted to say something to her, but didn’t. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear whatever it was.

  He paused at the gate to Emily’s fence, his hand on the latch. “I think you can understand why I can’t be the man you need. Please don’t blame yourself for what happened today.”

  She started to say she did blame herself for that and so many other things, but she didn’t want to lay any more guilt on his conscience. He had already known enough misery.

  “I’m sorry for what happened to you in the war,” she said. “I can’t imagine the horror. But, at least, I think you found some peace here.” She laid her hand on top of his. “Good afternoon, Mr. Mallory.”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Gillingham.” He amend
ed quietly, “Helena.”

  They lingered, still touching. She realized they were saying goodbye to whatever had blossomed between them.

  She slid her hand away, turned, and headed to Emily’s door, fighting back her tears.

  ∞∞∞

  “Damn me,” Theo whispered, once Helena was safely inside Emily’s home. He stalked home.

  Gordon waited in the front garden, sitting on the fountain’s edge and smoking.

  “I couldn’t tell her,” Theo spat before Gordon could ask. “Reverend Jeffries and Emily have planned a bloody dinner party at my house for her.”

  “How the—”

  “Save your preaching. I’ve made it more than abundantly clear why she should stay the hell away from me,” he said and strode to his chamber.

  He grabbed the decanter from the mantle and took a large gulp. The liquid burned his esophagus going down. He began to pace, his mind streaming with a phantasmagoria of unconnected thoughts: the raise of her collarbone as she gasped, insects crawling out of the mouth of a dead soldier, the wind rattling the windows, the worms squiggling across the war scorched earth, and the blood exploding from the head of a Russian soldier when Theo blew his face off.

  He continued drinking, trying to numb the raging, entangled memories and self-loathing. Hours later, in a drunken stupor, he collapsed onto his bed, still in his trousers and shirt. She returned to him in his dream. They lay in the grass again. The distant mountains jutted to a clear, vivid sky. “Hush now,” she whispered, holding him close. Gone was the desperate desire, as were the ugly memories. A calm peace enshrouded them. “Hush now.”

  Fourteen

  Theo picked up the letter from Officer Wilson for the next few days, reread it, and cursed to himself. The stacks of documents and papers against Helena’s father, the ones Wilson had requested in his missives, remained deep in a drawer beneath two heavy ledgers. Theo could picture the pages, all her father’s falsified financial reports and letters. He knew he should help Wilson bring justice to Mr. Gillingham’s victims, who, aside from the soldiers he knew, were just intangible names and addresses. Meanwhile, Helena of flesh and blood and fragile eyes, who unknowingly kissed and comforted her enemy, slumbered not half a mile away.

  Theo refolded Wilson’s letter, telling himself that he would send the evidence after the blasted dinner party, and shoving the missive back in a dark cubby hole.

  He knew he should call on Emily. He usually spent three nights out of the week by her hearth. But he was afraid to be near Helena. He had opened himself to her, shown her his prison, and now he was ashamed. How would he talk to her? How would he scuttle those desires to bury his sex deep inside her?

  The dinner party needed to fail. In the meantime, he used its preparations as an excuse to stay away from Emily’s and instead grabbed a hoe, heading to the new garden. His shoulder and back burned like fire as he ripped rocks and nettles from the packed earth. The hoe pounded, pierced, and broke the ground, but he couldn’t find peace in his work anymore. He glanced up at every crunch of gravel or footsteps, hoping to see her with her hair flying around the edges of her bonnet, her eyes matching the pale sky.

  “You’re thinking of her, aren’t you?” Gordon asked on Wednesday afternoon. He and Branwen were watching Theo battle a buried rock. “That’s why you are raging against God again.”

  “What does it matter if I think of her or not? She’s kept her distance from me and that’s all that matters.”

  “Have you fallen in love?”

  “I’m dealing with the matter the best I can.” He shoved the hoe, and the rock rolled way, exposing the scattering, panicked insects below.

  ∞∞∞

  Helena listened to Emily chatter on about the dinner party all week. Emily was certain that once everyone met Helena they would come to love her. Helena didn’t want to dampen her cousin’s optimism and so pretended to agree. But thinking of the coming party caused her belly to hurt, as if it were being twisted and rung like a rag. She wished she could slip away to the home of Theo’s parents without this additional torture.

  However, Emily didn’t let the dinner party sway her plans to clean the house. Helena was put to work. At first, Helena wanted to protest about being treated like a scullery servant, but working was better than sitting about, drowning in her anxious thoughts concerning the party and Theo. She wanted desperately to see him and avoid him at the same time.

  Despite Helena’s and Emily’s protests, painfully distended Betra insisted on laboring beside Helena. Betry worked slowly along, stifling her moans and rubbing her stomach when the baby kicked. Helena marveled that she could be envious of a woman in such misery. Yet, often Helena would accidently brush against Betry to feel her belly.

  Helena worked fast, fumbling along as best she could to finish dusting and scouring floors to relieve Betry. She found that even though water drenched her knees and elbows, there was a surprising liberating sensation in violently scrubbing things clean, especially when Theo didn’t call once during the entire week. He sent letters by servant boys, saying, in his adroit manner, that Mrs. Gordon had put him to work and he couldn’t escape his stringent taskmaster.

  Helena should have felt relieved, but instead, she was frustrated. For heaven’s sake, the man kissed her and felt her bare thighs. At the very least, he could call.

  But what if he did, she retorted in the argument in her head. What would she have said to him? How would she have acted? What were she and Theo to each other now?

  On Thursday, Megan returned from the village, her brow creased and lips thin. Helena was kneeling beside Emily’s chair as they tried to decipher a complex embroidery pattern. When Helena spied Megan’s worried face, she was afraid the girl had another set-to in the village, but Helena was mistaken on that count.

  “You have a letter,” Megan told Helena, almost as an accusation. She tossed the missive on the sofa cushion and waited for Helena to open it.

  Helena picked it up and studied the address. Her belly knotted. Jonathan!

  “Who is it?” Megan demanded.

  “A friend,” Helena said carefully, fingering the envelope, afraid of what she would find inside.

  “What kind of friend?” Megan asked. “You don’t have any friends.”

  “Megan!” her mother interjected.

  “Pardon me,” Helena whispered and rose. She could feel Megan’s hot eyes on her back as she quit the room.

  ∞∞∞

  In her bedchamber, Helena unfolded the letter by the window.

  My dearest Helena,

  I’ve been dashing about London like a mad man. However, my exertions have not been in vain. My darling, all is almost ready. Under the guise of investment, I have persuaded father to increase my allowance and thus engaged a discrete solicitor to draw up a fair contract, which I am sure will meet with your approval. Meanwhile, I’m busy adding the final comfortable, feminine touches to a cozy little flat by Hyde Park. I’m sorry, my darling, that I cannot consult your knowledgeable opinion on the matters of décor, but it is my urgent desire to have you settled in my leased rooms and hidden away until the scandal burns to its embers. The tension remains high here. The investigation is stalling. People are demanding information and pointing fingers.

  Fortunately, my mind rises above these worries, thinking of the intimate delights we shall finally share. I shall write again once the trifling details have been smoothed out. In the interim, please send any correspondence or wire to my solicitor at the address written on the next page.

  Affectionately yours,

  Jonathan Ainley

  She rested the letter on her bed and paced in the small space. Jonathan’s ugly words seemed to violate this honest home. She wished Officer Wilson had been right and she hadn’t heard from Jonathan again. But now she had to tell him the truth. She had chosen Theo’s respectable offer to reside at his parents’ estate, after Jonathan had laid out the money to secure a solicitor and an apartment because she had given him her wo
rd. She knew she shouldn’t feel guilty about releasing herself from this disgraceful liaison; it was hardly a breach of a marriage promise, but Jonathan was waiting for her, unsuspecting and eager.

  She folded the letter and hid it in the slats of her bed frame. She would write to him later.

  ∞∞∞

  It rained all Friday. A good omen of doom, Theo quipped to himself. Stuck inside, he was at loose ends, trying to stay out of Efa’s way. He hid in the library as the gloaming came on, resisting the urge to visit Emily. He read journals, drank brandy, and spiraled into soft thoughts of making love to Helena. Rain tapped on the windows and Branwen curled in a shell by the grate. Theo didn’t realize he had drifted off to sleep until he awoke to the muffled sound of his dog’s barking in the hall. A blanket had been placed over Theo and orange flames roared off the fresh coals in the parlor grate. The morning smells of butter, toast, and tea wafted from a plate and cup set on his side table.

  Theo gulped down the tea, wiped his mouth, and drew the blanket about his shoulders. He stepped into the corridor to see what the ruckus was about.

  “Aye, you’ll need to be turning the water into wine with that many people coming,” he heard Efa’s sing-song Welsh drifting up the stairwell.

  What?

  “Now don’t fret Mr. Mallory with this small matter.” He heard the booming voice of Reverend Jeffries. “I’ve brought some village girls to help.”

  Theo now hurried down the stairs.

  The reverend stood just inside the doorframe with his black hat clutched in his hands. When he saw Theo, he began to sway on his thick legs. Behind him, his housekeeper and a half dozen young women waited, their hair pulled back in caps. Large baskets of potatoes, carrots, and eggs rested on their hips. The women stared at Theo, their fresh faces blushing, and their lips quivering. He glanced down and realized his collar was loose and his shirt gaped open. He pulled the blanket tighter around him.