Dark Season

by Joanna Lowell

  She felt the tension in his jaw. “This isn’t what you meant,” he said. He barked a bitter laugh that turned into a cough. “Why am I telling you these things?” He shook his head slightly. “Another legend says that Rhodopis was never a queen. She was a great courtesan. She rubbed gold powder on her skin and glowed in the sun. Her eyes were like fire … ” His voice trailed off.

  She whispered, “I could listen to you for hours,” but her voice was fading. It was almost inaudible, even to her. Right then, Egypt sounded like paradise to her. Blazing sun. Burning sand. But it was more complicated than that. What he said, and what he didn’t say, revealed so much. He had seen things, maybe even done things, that troubled him. She wanted to be someone to whom he told his stories. Someone with whom he shared his troubles. This desire frightened her as much as anything.

  “You’re a good storyteller,” she said in a stronger voice.

  “No one has ever complimented my storytelling.” She thought she could detect a hint of pleasure in his ironic drawl.

  “It’s important,” she said. “Storytellers pay attention. They care about the little details. They’re awake to beauty.”

  “And ugliness.”

  “You can’t have one without the other.” She coughed too, muffling her mouth in the coat. “They exist as a dyad, together.” It was one of Papa’s favorite topics, culture as composed of oppositions—good/bad, beautiful/ugly, life/death. “Only art, poetry, music, by intensifying experience instead of merely identifying and delimiting, can rupture the binary system. Make it overflow. The beautiful and the ugly, each in excess, no longer divided. One is carried into the other and back again. A vortical motion.” She stopped, her scratchy throat closing. She’d never voiced anything like this outside of the library at Arlington Manor, where she and Papa had discussed philosophy, religion, the hermetic tradition, neo-Platonism, metaphysical poetry—everything unfashionable. These notions, these abstractions, mattered to her. She shouldn’t have attempted to explain them. She’d sounded embarrassingly earnest.

  But he didn’t jeer. He shifted her again on his lap, so she sat turned to the side, his arm supporting her back. In this position, they could see each other face-to-face. His gaze was a snare. She couldn’t look away. He was thinking about what she’d said. He was intent. Interested.

  “And this motion?” he asked. “This motion by which the dyad becomes other than what it is? Do we know it when we experience it? What is the effect?”

  Every word now caused a tickle in the back of her throat. But she forced it out.

  “Communion,” she said. Their eyes were locked. “Recognition.” She swallowed with effort. “You feel it. It’s a touch … that’s not a touch.”

  Their faces were an inch apart. His eyes traveled to her lips and back again. She could see the rays in his irises, the black tips of those blue starbursts. His eyelashes were wet, clumped.

  “Yes,” he said softly, and her heart skipped a beat. “I understand what you’re saying. It’s a force that brings you out of yourself. Music can do it. Art. A force that moves you over the dividing line that separates you from everything else. Brings you forward. Toward another thing. Another self.”

  Art. Poetry. Music. Love. The forces that overcome the tidy order man imposed on the universe, the valuations, the rules, the either/or. She was spinning. There was chaos in his eyes. Vortical motion. He understood.

  Their lips were so close. Nearly brushing. A touch that’s not a touch. That’s less and more. She could feel the air sliding between their mouths, just a sliver of air, thin as a knife blade. That’s all that kept their mouths from joining.

  The coach rolled to a stop. They were staring at each other. He had to feel it too. She couldn’t be imagining it. Not alone.

  I want this to be real. The confession was painful. Exposed too much. It wasn’t for her to want such things. But she couldn’t look away first. He, however, could. He broke the connection. He glanced toward the window then pressed her shoulder. Pushed her onto the seat. “We’re here.”

  “Where?” she asked, hating the catch in her voice. Hating the longing that throbbed in her chest. He had pushed her aside. Casually. It had cost him nothing to break that moment of contact. The cold had reached her very center. Good. Numbness was preferable.

  She looked out the window at the unprepossessing terraced houses, considering the possibilities for the first time. Had she expected he was bringing her to Trombly Place? At one in the morning? Shaking and drenched in river water? But to go anywhere else … seemed equally impossible.

  “My apartments,” he said. Ironic again. Distant. “If my lady does not object.”

  She must have looked miserable, because his tone softened.

  “Come,” he said. “We’ll get you dry and tucked into bed.”

  “Mrs. Trombly,” she began, and his look darkened.

  “I will send her word in the morning,” he said, and she leaned her head back against the seat wondering exactly what words he would send. Wondering what the morning would bring.

  He lifted her out of the coach and did not put her down. Of course. She wore no shoes. She would make her introductions to his staff in his arms. Well, what did she care, really? Would their opinions of her be better if she walked in under her own power? The coachman was opening the front door. He was thin and hunched with cold. That too should come as no surprise. She had been hacking into the poor man’s greatcoat for the entirety of the drive. She wanted to thank him, but he was preceding them into the house, rousing the servants.

  The house came alive. Gaslights flared. Voices rose in alarm then hushed to murmurs. Servants scurried here and there, linens in their arms.

  “Put me down,” she said, twisting. She saw a glimpse of a maid’s round, shocked eyes as the girl hurried past.

  “So you can fall down the stairs?” He headed down the hall. “No, Ella. I didn’t pull you out of the water for that.” He sounded matter of fact. Curt. Lord of the house. “Mrs. Potts, have a bath drawn.”

  The stout woman who bobbed along at his elbow nodded. She had to be his housekeeper. She was more advanced in years than the maid. But by the look on her face, she had encountered nothing in those years that better prepared her for the sight of her master coming through the door in the middle of the night, fully clothed and soaked to the skin, a kicking woman bundled in his arms. “Appalled” was too mild a word. Poleaxed, perhaps.

  The reek of them couldn’t have helped matters.

  “The bath is filling, my lord.” Mrs. Potts was breathless, either with the excitement or the attempt to keep his pace. “The kettles are on. The stone bottles are heating. Violet is hanging the blankets in front of the fire. What else will you be needing?”

  “A nightdress,” he grunted as he took the first stair.

  “My lord?” Mrs. Potts frowned.

  “For my guest, Mrs. Potts. Ask Violet. I’ll buy her a new one. I’ll buy her ten new ones. Just get the nightdress.”

  At the top of the stairs, Ella twisted again.

  “You can put me down now,” she said.

  “Now I’ll drop you,” he said. “With pleasure.” But he didn’t drop her. He lowered her feet slowly to the ground, and when she tottered under her own weight he steadied her without raising his eyebrow nearly as high as he was able. Showing her a small kindness. Or perhaps his brow was simply too chilled for him to achieve maximum ironic lift.

  “Don’t thank me,” he said. “I make it a point to carry damsels great distances whenever I can. It’s part of my physical regimen.” The corner of his mouth lifted in the faintest of smiles. In the gaslit hall, she could see the lavender tinge to his skin. His lips too had a purplish cast. Gin in his blood or not, he looked half-frozen. He looked exhausted.

  “Mrs. Potts will help you bathe and show you to your chamber,” he said. “So. Good night.” This commonplace had a strange ring after the urgency and intimacy of what had passed between them. Signaling a partial return to … w
hat? What were they? Acquaintances? Friends? Enemies?

  He turned abruptly. She watched him go. If she’d thought his clothing molded to his form before he fell into the river … She hadn’t imagined that a man’s hindquarters could be so muscular. A satyr’s perhaps. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Miss.” Mrs. Potts took her arm gingerly, flinching as she touched the cold, slimy silk of her sleeve. “Lord, but you’re quaking like a leaf!” She firmed her hold. “You’ve had a night of it, haven’t you?” The horror in her voice neutralized the curiosity. It was obvious she wanted to know, and at the same time didn’t want to know, what had happened. She shook her head. “And Lord Blackwood purple at the gills. Dear me, whatever … ” She trailed off, then said briskly, “Well, nothing gained by hashing it over. A hot bath is what you need. And a hot cup of tea by the fire, and warm blankets on the bed.”

  “That sounds wonderful.” Ella let the wizened little housekeeper lead her to the steaming tub. It was even more wonderful that it sounded. An hour later, Ella was sitting in an armchair pulled as close as she dared to the crackling fire, a blanket wrapped around her. She felt sick and strange, but at least she was dry and the smell of her skin no longer triggered her gag reflex. Her hair was clean. The blanket was thick and soft.

  She should never have sat in the chair, should have crawled straight into the bed, but the fire had proved too tempting. Now she didn’t know if she’d be able to get up again. She glanced at the bed. The room was small. Surprisingly small. And plain. The house itself was small and plain. Isidore Blackwood proved himself again and again a figure of mystery. He could certainly have established himself in far grander lodgings.

  She wouldn’t wonder now what motivated his decision. The frost in her bones had turned to fog. Everything was hazy. Even though the bed stood a mere two strides away, it might as well have been a mile. She was too tired to move. She was maybe even too tired to sleep. Her head kept nodding, but her eyes seemed to stay open. Or if they closed from time to time, she kept seeing the dancing flames.

  When the door opened, she was still in that state. Chin on her chest. Eyes on the fire.

  She didn’t hear him cross the room. Of course she didn’t. He moved like a cat.

  “Ella.” His voice eddied from the darkness. Ah, her eyes were closed then. With effort, she lifted her lids. He was kneeling beside her chair. He too had bathed. He’d lost that ghastly, lavender pallor. His drying hair had begun to twist into serpentine waves. The anguish etching lines in his face surprised her.

  “How do you feel?” He took her hand and brushed her knuckles against his lips. Her body tightened. She felt more awake. More alarmed. The precariousness of her position struck her. She was in his house. Without protection. There was nothing in the world to keep him from taking any liberty at all. She was at his mercy.

  He didn’t let go of her hand. He was rubbing her palm with his thumb, almost absently. Staring at her. It made her nervous. The blanket hung loose around her shoulders. Beneath, she wore only a thin nightdress. He should not have come into the room. She would send him away. She could appeal, perhaps, to his sense of honor. But he thought her a woman with no honor at all. What respect would he think her due?

  “How do you feel?” he asked again. Was that a slur in his voice?

  “Very well,” she said. “Considering.”

  “Considering,” he said. He rose onto his knees and put his elbows on the arms of the chair. He blocked the firelight. The warm glow made a nimbus around him, but his face, his form, were shadowed. “Considering you might have died? Or considering … you lived?”

  She sucked in her breath. He leaned forward. She could see the darker shadows welling beneath his cheekbones, the curve of shadow between his parted lips. He smelled of brandy.

  He was drunk. That was the explanation. He was powerfully drunk. Her alarm heightened.

  “Ella.” Such roughness with which he uttered her name! As though the syllables grated in his throat. “Tell me … ” He couldn’t finish. She was wide awake now, the pulse throbbing in the crooks of her arms. Her chest felt tight.

  “Tell you what?” she whispered.

  “The devil take you.” He sank down in front of the chair. He swayed for a moment then bowed his head. She swallowed hard as he bent farther. He laid his head down on her lap. She felt the hard bone of his cheek pressing into her flesh. He seemed almost broken.

  She hesitated then lifted her hand. After a moment, she lowered it. Slowly, so slowly. With her fingertips, she touched his black hair. She let the weight of her hand rest on his head. Moved her fingers. The strands slipped between them, thick and damp and cool.

  The sound that came from his mouth might have been a sob. She snatched her hand away. She slid off the chair, forcing him to lean back and raise his head. They were knee to knee on the thin carpet. She tried to meet his eyes, but she couldn’t find them through the shadow. She touched his cheek. It was hot and dry. Tearless.

  He crushed her fingers in his hand. The flames illuminated only the side of his face, the hard mound of his cheekbone, the plunge of his cheek, the chiseled line of his jaw.

  “Tell me.” His breath came raggedly. “Tell me … did you mean to jump? Did I drive you … ” He couldn’t finish. His grip was hurting her, grinding the bones of her hand, but she was no longer afraid. He was afraid. The realization astounded her. He was afraid of what she might say. He was waiting for her to speak, trembling like a man awaiting the executioner’s blow.

  The fog cleared. Everything came into focus.

  He had seen her on the wall above the river and thought she intended to cast herself over the edge. He had seized her to prevent her self-murder. He thought he had driven her to it.

  “No.” She shook her head violently. “No, that wasn’t it. I never … ” But “never” wasn’t right. She had imagined it, so many times. Casting herself into the river. Ending finally what nature had seen fit to ruin by stages. She had thought there might be some comfort in it. Choosing, when the time came to die, to die as Robert had died. Sharing that with him. Whenever she gazed at the water, she saw Robert, struggling, a small body buffeted by waves, disappearing. She saw herself sucked down. Joining him at last. But she knew now there was no reunion to be found in the black terror of those heavy fathoms. How could she have ever imagined it would feel peaceful? That it was, at the last, a gentle death? She had fooled herself. She’d wanted to believe that Robert had not suffered.

  “I would not have jumped.” Her voice had thickened. “I went only … to look.”

  “I saw you on the edge. I saw you falling. I could see it.” He laughed without humor. “As though I had a view from Avalon. I could see the future. And the past.”

  Dear God. The firelight licked across his face. A man put to the rack would have worn that expression.

  “You think she did it on purpose.” The whisper tore from her. “You think she jumped.”

  She did not add, “And the guilt consumes you.” She didn’t have to. She could see it in every line of his face. Egypt. England. He didn’t care where he lived. Now she understood. What did it matter? He was already living in hell.

  He staggered back from her, rose to his feet. She scrambled up too.

  “Isidore … ” She could say nothing more. What succor could she give to a soul in torment? She was no angel of absolution.

  As he stared at her, his face changed. She realized she had risen without the blanket. The white nightdress was too small. The shape of her body was visible. Shame flooded her, but she crossed her arms over her breasts and stared him down.

  His throat worked. He made as though to move toward her. Stopped.

  “Forgive me,” he said. It came out a low growl. He walked past her, leaving her standing by the fire. Hugging herself. She felt that she could crawl into the embers and still not be warmed.

  For what did he ask forgiveness? And of whom?

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Isidore arrived
in front of Clement’s house, the morning fog was thick as soup. As he climbed the steps to the front door, the skies opened. He rang the bell and stood beneath the portico. He wore hat, gloves, and a heavy Inverness coat. His chill had retreated like a beast from the fire, but it had not fled. It had hidden inside his bones, inside his bloody molars. His teeth ached, and his joints cooperated with his movements under protest.

  He listened to the rushing, pattering sound of the downpour. No melody. No harmonies. Rain made music unconnected to scales, pitches, phrasings. So did sand, whispering across the desert on the back of the wind. The unintelligible music of the world. In Egypt, the many Arabics he heard in the city bazaars and the villages washed him at first in the same kind of noise—resonant and meaningless.

  After last night, everything had changed for him, and nothing. He had risen from that stinking river with Ella in his arms. He had temporarily lost the power of speech and had poured forth into her ear the primal sounds that continued the world’s music, no words, but a guttural crooning, letting her know she was not alone. And if she wasn’t alone, then he wasn’t alone either. She was with him. He was with her. It was simple. It was profound and transformative and shook the foundations of his being. He’d knelt beside her on the shore, waiting for her to open her eyes, needing her to open her eyes. When she did, the exultation he felt was near to violence. A ferocious joy the likes of which he had never known.

  The first word she had said, before her eyes focused: Robert.

  He stamped his feet to bruise them out of numbness, to vent his rage and self-loathing. Robert, she’d said, a hoarse cry, rough with longing. He was a fool, a fool to have felt the name like a blow, and later, after he’d nearly boiled himself alive in his bath, a fool not to have locked himself in his room and waited out the hours until morning. Instead, he’d gone to her. He’d buried his face on her lap and felt as though the chambers of his heart were leaking. He’d had to ask her, needed to know if she’d meant it, to know if, when she’d climbed up on that wall overlooking the river, she had courted destruction, and she had guessed it then. His darkest suspicion. More than suspicion. It was the certainty that had hounded him across the globe.