*
Robert knew Elisa was terrified. His heart ached, but there was nothing he could do to comfort her. Amelia Carrots saw everything that went on in the house. He was sure she suspected something, and expected her to pounce at any moment, demanding to know their scheme. Far back in his mind, he wondered if the canny woman was hoping Elisa had an escape plan. The entire school had seen him painting Elisa’s portrait. They had spent hours alone together, behind those very public glass walls. Now, they were acting like strangers. As the hours went by, and Mrs. Carrots ignored them both, he felt sure she was protecting herself. If she didn’t ask outright, she needn’t lie later on. She could honestly say that she knew nothing about their plan.
Wednesday morning, Robert took the boys out to play rugby. Elisa sneaked back to Nicholas House. She carried her clothes to the art studio, and packed them into boxes identical to ones containing Robert’s paintings.
Thursday morning, while Elisa gave Sarah a piano lesson, Robert went to the studio, sealed and addressed Elisa’s boxes, then marked them with a small red X. Later that day, freighters collected his paintings for shipment to the Gildstein Gallery in London. Her clothing went with them.
The night before Elisa was to leave for London, she and Robert stood at the kitchen sink, helping with the washing up. The maid-of-all-work bent over a wash tub, scouring a roasting pan. Mrs. Carrots was in the common room, surrounded by children making paper ornaments. One of the older boys read aloud. A saucepan clanged into the sink and Elisa cried out, startling everyone.
Robert forced a laugh. “Careful there, butterfingers. We don’t want to break anything.” Holding his forced smile, he turned around. Mrs. Carrots stared back. She was not smiling. When he turned back to the sink, tears were streaming down Elisa’s face. He turned the water on full, and whispered, “Pull yourself together.”
In the other room, the boy continued reading.
Elisa swallowed hard, trying desperately to control her sobs. “I’m frightened.”
Robert was seething. “So am I. Did you talk to the milkman?”
“He’ll come for me at 5:30.” Her tears kept flowing.
“Good. Just find the theatre. Michael will take care of you.” A child wailed and Robert turned to see a small boy with a bleeding finger. Before Mrs. Carrots could lead him into the kitchen, Robert whispered, “Run upstairs and stay there ‘til morning. I’ll say you were taken ill. Go!”
After everyone had gone to bed, Robert stayed in the warm drawing room. Too nervous to sit still, he triple checked the list of paintings he had sent to London, wrote an inane letter to his mother, and tried to read a book. Once the fire was out, he went into the master’s suite, cursing himself.
You’ve done some bloody stupid things in your time, but this is over the top. You’ll end up in jail, you stupid sod, and for what? So a pretty girl can have an adventure and probably end up married to the filthy bugger she’s run away from in the first place?
Shivering, he pulled off his clothes, threw on a night shirt, wrapped a robe around it, and stirred the dying coals. And what have you gotten out of it? A damn good painting, and what else? Not a sodding thing. Bloody little virgin. She’s a little witch. That’s what she is. I wish I’d never met her.
His door flew open and quietly shut. He turned and gasped. “Elly!” She was inside the room, her back against the door. Like Ophelia, her eyes were red from crying, her hair hung long, and wild. Delicate bare feet and ankles showed under a loose night dress. She was irresistible. “Oh, my darling!” He opened his arms and she flew into them.
He kissed her passionately, lowering her onto the rug. They rolled, hugging, squeezing, starving for each other’s mouths. He pushed her nightdress up to her knees and she lay back, opening her legs. Startled by her compliance, he stroked the smooth flesh inside her thighs. His fingers reached further to her soft curly red hairs and soft folds of her skin. She writhed with pleasure.
He kissed her throat, and her lips, whispering, “Oh my darling girl, do you want this?”
“Oh yes, please!” She arched her back.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!”
“Really?”
“Yes!”
Expecting to feel Robert's gentle fingers, Elisa was startled to feel his stiff organ push inside her. It was exciting. Lucy Ann's parents liked to do this so it must be all right. Robert pushed harder. Suddenly, it hurt.
Robert was thrilled until her face contorted in pain. He pulled away, gasping. “I'm sorry. But, you said you wanted it.”
“I did want it.” She sat up, breathing hard. “I thought I wanted it. I didn't know it would be like that.” A blood stain spread on her nightdress. “I thought it would feel nice, like when you to touched me in the grotto.”
“Shall I do that now? Please let me…” He reached for her but she pulled away. “I'm sorry I hurt you, darling, but always hurts the first time. The next time, it will-”
“We may never have a ‘next time.’ After tonight, we may never see each other again.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Her words felt like a knife in his heart.
“I need to wash out this blood.” In a flash, she was out the door, up the stairs and out of sight.
Frantic to go after her, he stayed where he was. If he was caught with her now, he would surely go to prison. He closed the door and sank to the floor. His heart pounded. His night shirt was soaked with sweat. Her virgin blood covered his hem and he hurried to wash it clean. When his wits cleared he checked the time. It was 2:30. The milk man was coming at 5:30. He could not her go without seeing her again.
He started to write a note, then threw it in the fire. Anything in writing could condemn him. He pulled on his trousers, wrapped himself in a blanket, and took a chair to the back door. An unbearably icy draft blew through the door jam, so he moved his chair a few feet out of the way. Determined to stay awake, he counted the ticks of the clock, sang songs, and recited poems. Finally, the verses failed. His head fell to one side. He was deep asleep.
*
Upstairs, Elisa furiously washed the blood from her nightdress. I’ll go to London and get a job, any job. I don't need a man to protect me. I’ll be my own woman. I’ll be fine.
Tears threatened, but she willed them away. They’re looking for a beautiful girl. I won’t be beautiful if I keep crying. I won’t get any beauty sleep tonight, but I can sleep on the train.
At 4:30, she was dressed, waiting for the milk man. At 5:00, clutching her small traveling bag, she crept down the stairs, through the kitchen, to the back door. She stopped short when she saw Robert asleep. He looked vulnerable, almost like a child. Tempted to wake him up, she steeled herself, quietly opened the door, and tiptoed past.
*
A rattling sound woke Robert from a deep sleep. His neck ached and he had to remind himself why he was in a chair by the back door. Suddenly recognizing the sound to be a horse and cart, he raced outside. The milk wagon looked small in the distance. It turned a corner, disappearing from view. He ran frantically, chasing after the cart. Freezing air seared his lungs. He could never catch up. She was gone. Feeling more desolate than he had ever felt in his life, he stared down the empty road, collapsed onto the cold ground, and cried.
End of Book 1
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About the Author
Christina Britton Conroy is a classically trained singer and actor who has toured the globe singing operas, operettas, and musicals, as well as being a Certified Music Therapist and Licensed Creative Arts Therapist. She has published several books, and Not From the Stars is the first in the four-book His Majesty’s Theatre series.
; Christina Britton Conroy, Not From the Stars (His Majesty's Theatre Book 1)
Not From the Stars (His Majesty's Theatre Book 1) Page 19
