She apologised and he with the stink of Maria still on his fingers! For months she continued to apologise but then as with all dirty secrets someone talked. It killed all hope of tomorrow. Since then every minute of every day he asks why Maria Boucher when all he ever wanted was at home. The answer is simple, availability and Maria’s breasts. Maria had breasts the size and shape of perfect melons. Working with the woman every day the melons, and how they jiggled when she walked, became an obsession. Then one lazy wet afternoon in autumn he asked over a glass of tea if he might touch. She said she didn’t mind, availability, and no particular price to pay, what man could resist.
There was a price to pay, a miscarried son and post-partum depression. With the truth out Karoline faded before his eyes. At first it was a refusal to try for another child. ‘No, not yet!’ her eyes would start out of her head if he approached her. ‘You can’t ask it of me! I’m not ready. You must be patient and wait.’ Week after week she’d turn away. He didn’t fight her. Without the burden of guilt he might have tried harder to reconcile but being guilty he retreated. There was a brief summer when things improved. It was when her mother came to stay and brought redcurrant bushes. Karoline found peace that season in the garden. One day, the bushes heavy with fruit, she allowed him into her bed. They made love, her lips sweet with juice of the fruit. The next morning the redcurrant bushes had been stripped. She’d forgotten to cover them. There wasn’t a single berry left, birds had eaten every one.
Why he’ll never know but for some dark reason she associated that overnight reaping with the loss of Anselm and from that moment she too was dead.
One day they fought. He shouted told her to pull herself together and stop being a crazy woman or he’d have her committed. The next he knew she was in his dressing room stabbing her wrists with his razor. She was confined to Sonnenstein Asylum. ‘I fear she may never recover,’ the doctor said. ‘As with all fragile blossoms they perish if left too long in the cold.’
It is cold outside and crisp and still, ideal weather for a sleigh ride. Stefan spoke with the gardener yesterday, the sleigh to be brought to the house at two. It will be their first time out together like that and their last. He has decided. It must end today, their last Christmas. It cannot wait. His heart is failing. He must not allow his nerve to do the same.
He has suffered two major infarctions. He had thought he might get away with it but no, his heart is now badly compromised. The pain was terrible as is the dread. The last time he was at Osborne House he spoke with James Reid, asked his opinion. Sir James smiled sadly. ‘Haven’t you worked it out, my dear fellow?’ Stefan has worked it out. The last attack was here in Dresden. He fell to the floor and lay unable to rise. A strange thing happened then, he could hear Karoline, and as absurd as it sounds, he could see her! She was downstairs in the long sitting room her chair parked against the window.
It was as though he was outside in the snow looking in! He could see her so very clearly. A bag of nuts hanging from the Cypress tree was thronged with birds. She was trying to reach up to the window to touch the birds but couldn’t lift her arms; the nurse had tied her hands and feet to the chair, the cords cutting into Karoline’s skin.
Outraged Stefan had shouted. He’d roared, but not a sound had left his lips. When finally he did manage to recover and make his way downstairs the restraints were gone but Karoline’s wrists were bleeding. He fired the nurse that day and hired another but what the scene haunted him. What happens if he should die? Who comes between her then and such torturers?
Karoline has been a trial for many years but she is still his wife. That’s why today they will take a sleigh ride. She will be bundled up warm in her furs. He will take a flask and some strudel and napkins. He plans to take his cello! He will also take a syringe.
November he drew up a Last Will and Testament. Three envelopes wait to be posted, one for his lawyer, one for Mrs Peggy Carstairs of Stepney, and another for Master Matthew Dryden in Norfolk. Life is full of choices. These last years have been dark. While he was in England Julianna gave light to the day as Peggy gave warmth to the night.
This morning he received a cable telling of Julianna’s forthcoming marriage and asking him to approve her choice. Silly girl! What else can he do but approve. An old man sick unto death he’s in no position to challenge. Luke Roberts is a good man. A workhorse proud and stiff of neck he will be there when others fall away. One can only hope he is willing to bend, if not it’s likely his pride will tear them both to pieces. That she weds for love is certain, being Julianna it can’t be any other way. If she sees this marriage as security for her and her son then Matty’s bequest offers another choice.
With Matty’s bequest, plus a major share in the tea-rooms, she has all the security needs, which is providential as alignment to a man like Luke Roberts will close society’s doors. How like Julianna to choose a plain-speaking man over Daniel Masson who on the surface has more to offer, not least the chance of a title. No one can tell the heart where to run; it goes its own way.
Stefan is alone and has been since Karoline drifted away. Until they are reunited he will continue to be alone. God willing the choice he makes today will not prevent them meeting in eternity.
The sleepless watching over the sleepless Stefan sits every night by Karoline’s bed. The room is shaded, one candle burning. In Bradbury she’d stare at the same patch of wall. Here in Dresden before the tapestry was found and sedatives applied she would lie night after night staring at nothing. Such a blank gaze, the constant state of wakefulness was dreadful to behold. Not knowing what to do Stefan wrote to Julianna. In her returning letter she mentioned tapestries Karoline used to sew, he was to ‘look for a blue cherub and give his wife back her wall.’
Blue cherub? Give her back her wall? It was an odd statement but willing to try anything Stefan searched and found such a piece hidden away, indeed it was a cherub with blue wings, the last tapestry she worked many years ago when she was pregnant. The following day Karoline was in great pain ulcers on her leg in need of dressing. With no particular hope in his heart he offered the tapestry. ‘Here you are, my dear, a pretty memory to look at.’ He left it on the pillow. When he returned she was asleep, tears on her cheek and the cloth held to her breast. Now the tapestry is her wall. It offers peace if only for a short time.
Last night he went to Midnight Mass. The church was packed people standing at the back. He took his place at along with the rest. About to commit murder his soul stands on the edge of Perdition and so he comes to beg forgiveness.
At the end of the service a queue began to form the front pew first to the altar followed by the next. Stefan joined the queue. People shuffled forward in pairs the priest offering sacrament. Along with others he knelt at the rail for his pellet of bread and sip of sour wine. Seeking hope in the painted face of the Saviour he prayed as never before. The organ played the fifth movement of Brahms’ Requiem, an Angel consoling those in grief. ‘You who now suffer in sorrow shall meet again and your heart shall rejoice.’
As he was getting up a pain flashed through his chest all but cutting him in half. He staggered back. A soldier helped him to a seat. ‘You need to rest old man,’ he loosened Stefan’s collar. ‘Leave the celebrating until tomorrow.’
So much for praying! He thought Stefan was drunk.
From the church he took the carriage the long route home. He loves this stretch of countryside and since this is the last time he’ll see it he wants to make the most of it. When the police come, as they will, Stefan planning to admit what the deed and not hide behind his doctor’s badge, then if death hasn’t soon claimed him a prison cell will. Last night the road was busy with carriages decorated with holly-covered lanterns, revellers smiling and waving. The church bells were ringing and people spilling out of their houses onto the sidewalk the doors behind them flung open and lights blazing. Many were singing. He’d rolled down the window to listen but unable to bear the mom
ent rolled it up again. No happy Christmas for him! It’s too late. He wasn’t to be fooled by the Ghosts of Christmas Past and of Christmas Present. Holly berries and singing is for the young. It is for soldiers and maids. They can have it and welcome.
Two o clock and the sleigh slides into the yard, Gustave, a good and sober horse in the shafts and a carillon of golden bells attached to the reins.
The gardener would’ve carried Karoline aboard but Stefan wanted to do it.
‘I can manage. She is no weight.’ It’s true she is no weight, but whether it’s the circumstance or a leftover from last night’s lengthy drive he found her the weight of the world and he exhausted.
The maid tucked a rug about her knees. ‘I have madam’s tapestry. I washed it last night while she was sleeping.’
‘Thank you, Misha.’
The maid fusses, a good girl, Misha, if a little stupid. Concious of fulfilling obligations he has left her and the gardener a decent pension. They have done their best. It is not their fault their mistress must die.
‘Madam looks beautiful today.’
Indeed she does, so beautiful Stefan wonders if he is doing right. Wrapped in silver fox furs, mittens on her hands and a fur cap on her head, she sits high in the sleigh, Snedronningen, the Milk White Snow Queen.
Last night before leaving for church he talked to her. ‘In the past you have begged me to help you die and I have always refused. The time has come to grant your wish. This world is not particularly kind. I am not well, schatze. My heart is failing. I must help you while I can. Much longer and it will be too late.’
He then told then her of the sleigh ride. It was so quiet in room, the tick of the ormolu clock on the console table. It was mother’s clock. Mutti gave it to him as a present on their wedding day. Stefan had it in his room as a boy. A Winterhalder it has an odd tick. It used to make him laugh. ‘I hear a mouse cough when I hear this,’ he once said to Karoline. ‘Yes,’ she’d replied, ‘and hurrying home with bread and cheese for his tea.’
It’s how they used to be, imagination overflowing. It is how Anselm would have been had he lived.
‘You’ll be with Anselm again soon,’ he told her. ‘He will be there waiting.’
Stefan has seen many people die. There have been those who screaming in pain he has helped crossover. If such pain can be eased surely the Lord God would not want His children to suffer. Karoline is as precious to the Lord as is a sparrow. It says so in the bible. She will be welcomed into heaven and find Anselm waiting. If a soul must be cast into the Flames of Hell for this act of mercy then it must be Stefan.
He feels so very much alone. To take another’s life, whatever the reason, is a mortal sin. There is no one he can talk to. He can’t ask a priest to pray for him not without telling the plan. There is one he might have told, Lady Carrington. If anybody knows about suffering it is Eve. As her physician he has nursed her through more than one brush with death.
Oh to tell someone! Just to talk and to say goodbye! He resisted the urge to call her. It is his burden and too heavy to place upon another’s back.
Stefan parked the sleigh overlooking the lake. He can’t handle the horse as he used to, the reins pull on his arms and make the ache in his chest worse.
‘We shall rest here, Karoline. It is a good spot. You can see our house and the roof where the shingles are loose. I did mean to fix those.’
Now that they are here he doesn’t know what to do or why he brought the strudel and champagne. These days Karoline is fed via a nasogastric tube through her nose. It was the only way to be sure she took in nourishment. He could have removed it this morning but was afraid of hurting her.
He took her hand. It was cold and so very thin, a child’s hand.
‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘for being with me all these years. I know I haven’t been the best husband but I do love you and I would hope a part of you loves me. Be brave, my darling, and wait for me. I know I shall be joining you very soon.’
Her hand hung limp. She didn’t tighten her grip or show any acknowledgment of his words. If she does understand what’s happening here today she doesn’t show it. Maybe she thinks they’re out for a drive and will eventually return to the house and the prison that is her room.
With nothing else to do he prepared the syringe, drew up twice the lethal dose. There mustn’t be a mistake. He did think of strychnine but with that she would suffer. With morphine hopefully she’ll only find peace.
Dear Lord, he can barely breathe! He’d like to rest but it’s snowing again and Gustave sensing wrongness snorts and treads the ground. Better unhook him.
Stefan climbed down from the sleigh. It was not easy to detach the sleigh, the reins are tangled and screws holding the hooks rusty. He struggles, the pain in his arm and chest so bad he wants to vomit. Finally the horse is free. It skitters sideways and tossing its head canters away toward a knot of trees.
‘Cheerio old boy!’ Stefan panted. ‘Bye-bye, Gustave, pip-pip and all that, as the English would say. I’ll see you in Paradise.’
Stefan staggered round the side of the sleigh. He dragged the cello out of the back and set it and the stool into the ground. Gloves removed he blew on his hands trying to get them warm and then his back braced swiped at the strings playing the introductory chords.
Karoline observes all with an expression of mild interest or maybe even amusement on her face. In this light it is hard to tell. And who could blame her from thinking him ridiculous? It is ridiculous! What the hell is he doing? His hands are so cold and he so ill he can barely grasp the bow. And look at this sealskin coat, so thick it’s a hedge between him and the instrument.
It is so ridiculous he wept as he played his tears turning to ice.
‘Ah!’ The pain grabbed him, wrenched him, and tossed him sideways. He vomited the turbot they’d for lunch into the snow. Turbot, he thought, whoever in this modern age eats it, the name is off-putting if not the smell.
This isn’t going to plan. In the back of his mind it’s likely he’d seen their parting as a thing of dignity, a one act opera similar to Madama Butterfly, and he the suffering hero. It is in fact a farce, and he a foolish old man lying face down in his own vomit.
When the pain hit him again he screamed, the sound rising higher and thinner like a kettle whistling. It cut through the music that is still playing in his head, Shubert’s Die Forelle, the Trout Quintet, her favourite piece.
Oh, he thought, I am dying and I haven’t done what I came to do. She is here alone in the snow. Once again I have abandoned her.
‘Karoline,’ he whispered ‘Forgive me. I have let you down.’
She watched him die. She wanted to be with him to offer comfort but couldn’t. She has very little strength and what she does have she is harnessing for one thing and one thing only, the syringe.
It’s there. She can see it poking out of that leather bag. Karoline loves that syringe and the magic it holds. If she can get to it, if she can crawl across the seat, she’ll put an end to this horror for once and all. She knows how to do it. She has seen it enough times, watched nurses do it, the gentle hands and the coarse, the good natured and the casual. If she can get that needle there’ll be no more nurses however good and kind, no wakeful nights, no more madness and no unhappy men who sit by her bed and feed her strudel and lies.
Karoline doesn’t like apple strudel. She never has. And she doesn’t like lies.
That man there on the ground, poor fellow, face buried in the snow, he tells lies all the time. He says that one day she’ll get better. She will never get better. She doesn’t want to. What she wants is to die and the liquid in that syringe will help her to that.
Carefully and slowly she inches across the seat. A Lighthouse or a Siren luring her onto to jagged rocks who cares, the syringe is all she sees. Now she has it in her hands but finds it’s harder to use than she thought.
Jab! Jab! It�
��s hard making contact, needle to vein, all she does is rip her skin.
‘Oh no!’ She almost dropped it!
This won’t work.
Feverishly she scrapes at her clothes sorting through layers of fur and silk, trying to pull her skirt up and her drawers down, but the maid, Misha, who likes things to be correct has pinned Karoline’s drawers to the bodice.
Nothing for it but to stab through cloth, and quickly before a passerby sees the abandoned sleigh, and the body, and raises the alarm.
‘Help me,’ she whispers. ‘Dear God, please help me!
Tendons quivering she pulled back her arm, paused, took a deep breath and then brought her fist stabbing down into her thigh.
She bore down with such force the needle pierced through the cloth into muscle. The nerves reacted. He leg jerked and she was thrown backward over the sleigh and onto the ground. She didn’t let go. She hung on, both hands clamped about the syringe and the glass was intact.
Panting she depressed the plunger.
It’s done! It is in, every last drop.
Exhausted, eyes closed and heart thrashing she lay still. Peace will come, she knows it will. Already she feels the slow burn beneath her skin.
Patience! Wait! Freedom will come and with it the Blue Angel.
Now she is sure of what is to happen and is no longer afraid the man on the ground barely a hand’s clasp away is of concern.
Oh look at poor Stefan! Body twisted and head turned away life has been hard for him. Such a burden, and so little solace along the way, he must’ve been the loneliest man on earth. A wife in an asylum, it’s not easy living with that, especially for a professional man. Madness carries a stigma. People ask questions, why is she there, poor woman? Was it something he did? Is it true she tries to kill herself? And he a doctor too!
He had few friends. There were those along the way who offered comfort. There was a fat house-frau he saw now and then who wore cheap face powder and lived in a hovel and didn’t always wash. They fucked occasionally. Yes fuck! Leaning against a wall half clothed, you can’t call what they did love. It was more about scratching an itch, mutual consolation, sex and rice pudding enjoyed by the fire, and then he is cast out in the cold again.
Fragile Blossoms Page 41
