“I adore your automaton,” I say. “You are skilled.”
“I’m happy you appreciate my work, but it is nothing compared to your Equine or the Canine.”
As we cross the threshold, the vanity catches my attention. There is a letter on it. My throat tightens, for the envelope is familiar. “Oh dear,” I whisper.
“What is it?” Hephaestus touches my shoulder.
Noting that this envelope bears no postmark, I tear it open and read.
I AM STILL WATCHING. I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE. I KNOW HOW TO RUIN YOU.
Chills race down my spine. Fitzwellington is not aboard the Eastern Star. He was in my home. A sense of violation overcomes me. Darmond Fitzwellington entered my sanctuary.
“Ursula!” I call urgently. “Ursula!”
The girl arrives, hair disheveled, clad in her thin shift, horrified at the sight of a strange man in the middle of the foyer. “Yes, miss!”
“Did you put this letter on the vanity?” I brandish the envelope.
“No, miss. You didn’t get any mail at all today.”
“Who has been inside this house?” I ask, my heart pounding.
“No one, miss.” She looks at me as though I am mad.
“Where were the dogs?”
“Outside, guarding the house. Just like you told me to, miss. They would’ve barked if someone had come near. They always do.” She clasps her shift close to her body.
An intruder has violated the sanctity of my residence. Who? Only Fitzwellington could have done this. But how? Is he not aboard the Eastern Star? Did he only pretend to board the vessel in order to continue to trouble me? Perhaps he hired a master thief to break in and leave this threat. He is toying with me, the same way I toy with my prey.
“Thank you, Ursula.” I gaze at the paper and its bold letters, which are slanted this time. They were not so before. “You may go.”
She scampers off in her bare feet, her long hair swinging behind her.
“I’m glad you are here, Hephaestus.” For the first time in my life, I feel as though I need a man’s protection.
“What is it, Camilla?” He pulls me close, and I sink into his warmth. “Pray tell.”
Should I? I must tell someone or I will fall into the waiting arms of insanity. “I have a dark past. Someone has found out how dangerous I am and is sending me threatening letters.”
“There is darkness in all of us, but I cannot imagine a woman as sweet as you being a danger to anyone.”
“Hephaestus, you know so little about me.” If I wish it, I can even be a danger to you.
“Share your troubles.”
“You will not like what you see.” What if he turns away? I could not bear it. At the same time, my definition of love requires complete honesty, so I must share all my secrets with him if we are to have a future together. I must bare my soul, not only my body.
“Love overcomes all obstacles,” he insists.
I hope so. “Come upstairs, and I will show you my cabinet.” I take his hand, exposing myself even further by leading him up the winding staircase. No one has ever entered my inner sanctum before tonight.
As I open my pendant, Hephaestus looks with interest at the keys. I offer him the first one, allowing him to unlock the door that leads to the heart of me. We walk down the corridor in silence, and when we reach my bedchamber I offer him the second key. He turns it in the lock and opens the door. The room is in shadows. The cabinet stands in its lonely corner. Hephaestus shuts the door behind us, and I turn on the gas lamps before leading him to the glass case. His eyes widen at the sight of men and women engaged in various sexual acts.
“These are respected citizens,” he says, uncomprehending, and lists some of their names. “When you said you harbored thoughts of revenge…”
“I planned my revenge meticulously and carefully. I am a sexual blackmailer, a highly successful one as you can tell by my riches. Samson was my first victim.”
After keeping these secrets so long, I find I am anxious to unburden myself to Hephaestus. Can I trust him to keep my secrets to himself? I must. It is the only way to leave the past behind. I place the smallest key in Hephaestus’ palm. As he swings open the cabinet door, I take a deep breath and remove a Panoptograph from the top shelf of the cabinet.
“Samson,” I say in a voice the temperature of a glacier-fed lake.
Here he is, my former betrothed, on his knees before Delphine, whose long skirts are hiked over her hips. His handsome face is still wet with her honey, and he gazes at her adoringly.
“Tell me everything,” says Hephaestus.
So I do.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Samson stands before the window, gazing possessively at the vast acreage that is his. The sun shines on his straw-colored hair, and he is wearing his smoking jacket and gray trousers.
My voice trembles. “Sit down, Samson.”
“Is it about the wedding again, love?” He whirls around and smiles. Usually, the boyish dimples in his cheeks melt my heart, but not today. “Don’t worry—”
“I told you to sit.”
“Now that you’ve returned from the Dark Continent, your Panoptographs are in demand, and last week’s exhibit went fabulously well, so I thought—”
“Listen to me!” The trembling spreads to my limbs, and I take several steps toward him.
Samson has always been the authoritative one, the one in control of my destiny. He did not encourage me to go on my second trip to the Dark Continent for my personal benefit. Instead, he did so because my reputation as England’s fearless female Panoptographer increased the value of his company’s shares. The population may have learned of the marvels of the Panoptoscope through Samson, who was its inventor, but my pictures prompted continued fascination and astonishing sales. Everyone wanted to own a Panoptoscope.
He sits on a corner of his desk, legs apart in a most ungentlemanly fashion. I remove a folded kerchief from my handbag and open it before him. “Tell me what this is.”
He stares at it a second too long. He clears his throat. “It’s a hair.”
“I found it in your bedchamber when I was hanging the Panoptograph of the rhinoceros on the wall.” Although we are not yet married, the date is fast approaching, and I have already begun to move items into Samson’s home. Our home. “It’s an unusual color, don’t you think?”
He shrugs. “I suppose I shall have to tell the servants to do better work when tidying up.”
“This hair is bright red.” I hold it up to the light. “Only harlots dye their hair this color. What was it doing on your pillow?” In the room we are to share, where he will make love to me on our wedding night.
“Sometimes my business associates bring their wives when they come here for negotiations. Mrs. Bixby has a stunning head of natural red hair, but I don’t know what that portly woman might have been doing in my bedchamber!” He utters a low chuckle.
“Mrs. Bixby has fine natural-red locks, but this hair is not hers. The root is black.”
Samson glances out the window. “Considering how much entertaining I do in this house—much of it to promote your career—I don’t think a hair means anything, no matter what color it is. If you have other matters of importance to discuss, please do so.” Shaking his head, he pulls out his pocket watch. “Otherwise, I am late for an appointment.”
“You are a fornicator.” My voice breaks, for I love this man with all my heart.
“Do not make false accusations.” The blue of his eyes flickers, and his features harden.
“You are also a liar.” I toss the handkerchief on his desk.
“Camilla, do not make accusations that jeopardize our future happiness. You are the love of my life.” He laughs and touches my cheek. Normally, his jovial attitude would soften me. “Do not let groundless suspicions cloud your love. You and I are a perfect match.”
Anger rises in me like a terrible beast. “Suspicions are not enough, you say? Proof is required?”
He rubs his palm
s nervously on his trousers. “You know I am faithful—”
“Here is proof.” I struggle to pull a bulky envelope from my bag and throw it at him.
Samson catches it and stares at me with incredulity in his eyes.
“Open it!” I shout. “You know what it contains!”
Slowly, he tears open the envelope. Panoptographs rain down on the desk, each one documenting his hunger for the fiery redhead who graces the London stage.
“I spared no effort in obtaining these images. I tinkered with my Panoptoscope for days and days before I found a way to increase the magnification of the lens. I dressed as a gardener, climbed the tree next to your bedroom window and sat for hours taking pictures while she—performed—for her audience of one!”
The Panoptographs show them lying together, Samson suckling her breasts, Delphine worshipping his erect member. My heart hardens at the sight of the pictures scattered on the desk and floor. My vision blurs, but I refuse to cry. Samson will not see tears run down my face, no matter how much I ache inside.
“You are a beautiful prize, Camilla, cultivated, intelligent, the product of a fine education, and best of all, you help me showcase my invention. Your sharp mind has even found ways to improve my device. Our lives are intertwined.” He speaks softly, as if trying to placate me. “However, a man has needs. Surely you did not expect to marry a man without experience. I am almost ten years your senior, after all.”
“I was to meet those needs.” I clasp my hands together and hold them to my breast.
“You will, for you will bear my children.” He reaches out, but I take a step back. “You are a pure, naïve virgin. Sometimes a man needs a woman who is skilled in the art of lovemaking.”
“I witnessed Delphine’s skill!I am more than a means to produce children, and I am more than a means for you to become wealthy beyond your dreams!” Why did I not see these things before?
“Camilla, do you have any idea how many married men have mistresses?” he insists. “Your knowledge of my affair need not change anything between us.”
What a ludicrous assertion. “Are you mad? Our engagement is over!”
For the first time, alarm crosses his face, followed by a storm cloud of anger. “Do not be foolish! What will everyone say when they learn the most celebrated couple in all of London is breaking off their engagement? It will be scandalous.”
My throat tightens. “We cannot marry.”
“Camilla, it is unfortunate that you discovered my liaison with Delphine, but as I said, this behavior is not unusual for a man. Forget about Delphine, and let our lives return to the way they were.” He swipes at the pictures, scattering them on the floor.
“I will not have you after you have been with another!” The breath hitches in my throat. “I love you, Samson, and this is how you return my affections, by betraying me!”
“Calm yourself. We are not yet married, so my conduct hardly counts as betrayal! I am truly sorry that I hurt you, but a man is free to act as he wishes. As a woman, it is your duty to accept this.”
His words cut like knives. My resolve not to cry is broken and tears stream down my cheeks. “Did you never love me?”
“I do, Camilla.”
He lies so convincingly. Or is his definition of love worlds away from mine? “You see me as a profitable business partnership.” Why did I not see it sooner? Few marriages are based on true love, after all. “I will make a public announcement terminating our engagement.”
His eyes widen, and his mouth sets in a harsh line. “Your father will not allow it. Neither will I. The marriage will proceed.”
“Never.” I pull at the diamond ring on my finger.
“If you remove my ring,” he threatens, “I will spark a rumor that our broken engagement was the result of your immoral behavior, not mine.”
My fingers freeze over the diamond. “If you do so, no other man will ever propose to me. No respectable exhibitor will showcase my Panoptographs. You will ruin me.”
“Then marry me. You will have an ideal life, a dream wedding, a career as a celebrated Panoptographer and a brilliant husband by your side. You can have everything.”
“Except true love.” Marriage must be a union of two loving hearts, and I refuse to allow my heart to be held hostage.
What can I do? I stare at the scattering of Panoptographs. “If you do not release me from this engagement with my honor intact, I will take these—and I have a full cellulose reel as well—and reveal them to the public. Perhaps many men are unfaithful, but society will not overlook a public scandal. Your reputation will be forever sullied.”
He pauses, glaring at me. He did not think me so calculating. Neither did I.
“Be reasonable,” he says. “We can be part of the nouveau riche, be invited to exclusive balls, rub shoulders with aristocrats.”
“Without love, all this means nothing.”
Samson raises his voice, and his tone becomes desperate. “If you are revolted by the idea of a physical relationship, we need not have one. I can continue seeing Delphine while you enjoy—”
“No!” He would continue to humiliate me by carrying on with an actress who has the morals of a prostitute? Suddenly, it is not enough to be released from my engagement. I must hurt him as much as he has hurt me. How can I separate him from his lover and punish him for his infidelity? “You will tell everyone you are going to America to start a branch of the company there. You are never to return to England.”
He bursts into derisive laughter. “You are sending me into exile?”
“Yes. Write a letter confirming your journey. In addition, you will sign control of the London-based company over to me. You have two days to consider what I am offering you. I could have been everything to you, Samson, if only you had let me.” The diamond is still on my finger. I spin around and leave the room, my love for him scattered in shards at my feet.
After spending two inconsolable days in my parents’ home, where I schemed about revenge, tormented myself over Delphine, fantasized about reconciliation and shed enough tears to make the banks of the Thames overflow, I receive a sealed envelope bearing Samson’s signature. Inside are two messages.
I am leaving for America aboard the next airship to establish a branch of my Panoptoscope company in New York. I feel this is an opportune moment to consider international expansion. Although some might disagree with me, I gave this idea due consideration and have come to the conclusion that it is a sound business decision. In the interim, Camilla Covington will be responsible for overseeing the company’s growth in England. She is aware of the company’s workings and will make all financial decisions in my absence.
The letter is exactly what I hoped for. I read the second message.
I behaved abominably the other day and realize I am unworthy of your love. You are entitled to banish me from your life. Distance will help you heal, and perhaps in time you will desire me again.
You often spoke of taking Panoptographs of the Harington Hawk, but there are so few left in England you were never able to locate a nest. I have found one deep in the marshlands off Dartmoor Pond. Please join me and bring your Panoptoscope. The International Wildlife Society will surely be interested in purchasing your pictures for their next issue.
Let us part amicably, and then I will be on my way. My selfish actions have caused me to lose what is dearest to me, the delicate flower that is my Camilla. Let the nesting site be my final gift to you, my love, for I never meant to break your heart.
Samson
For a moment, his eloquent prose ensnares my heart, but then reason takes over, and I remember Delphine writhing on the bed with Samson on top of her. What could I have done to prevent Samson from reaching out to that harlot?
By blaming myself, am I not falling into society’s well-laid trap? Women are always held responsible for men’s mistakes. My self-recrimination must stop.
I want to see Samson one last time before he boards the airship, so I take my equipment and ride Be
auty to the edge of the bog. Harington Hawks were instrumental during the Scottish skirmishes a decade ago. They carried coded messages between strategic military posts, and they were trained to hunt Scotland’s homing pigeons, destroying the cryptograms bound to their legs. In retaliation, the Scots set out to kill as many hawks as possible, virtually exterminating them.
I find Samson, his hair blowing in the warm wind, tall trees casting shadows over his face. For a moment, when he smiles at me, the pain vanishes and I forget my heartache. I remember the day he proposed at the Royal Gardens when the camellias were in full bloom, and their pink and white and purple blossoms surrounded us. The memory is brief and tinged with regret.
He had picked a blood-red flower with unusual scalloped petals and gotten down on his knees in front of me. “The camellia is a symbol of an undying union between lovers. This particular variety is called Camilla’s Everlasting Love. I offer it to you because I love you, Camilla.” He gave me the bloom and I inhaled its sweet scent. “Will you marry me?” From his pocket he produced a diamond ring, placing it upon my trembling finger as I whispered, “Yes, yes, yes.”
I should never have accepted his proposal, but the past cannot be altered.
“Welcome, Camilla,” he says sweetly. “I’m happy you came.”
“I came for the hawks.” My equipment is slung over my shoulder. “Lead me to them.”
We follow a treacherous path deeper into the bog, which is alive with the croak of bullfrogs and the insistent whine of bush crickets. Many times Samson reaches for my hand to help me across a stretch of water, but I refuse to take it. The spongy ground springs underfoot, and as much as I can, I follow in Samson’s steps. Water soaks my boots and the hem of my cloak, but my riding breeches remain dry. In this area, the trees are sparse, and tall marsh grasses dissimulate dangerous quagmires.
A tuft of grass threatens to give way, and I balance precariously on one foot. Samson watches, but instead of extending a hand, his eyes grow cold.
CamillasConsequences Page 13
