by Thea Devine
Yes. So that couldn't be a bad thing.
One hurdle down.
Convincing him to marry her—well, she'd think about how to accomplish that when the moment was at hand.
First she had to get past the real obstacle, convincing Zabel and Wroth that she was properly chastised and could be allowed out—properly chaperoned and in their company, of course.
That wouldn't be easy. That would take a week perhaps under lock and key, and a show of repentance and humility that she wasn't sure she had in her.
But she would do it. It was the only way. Convince them, those two fatuous, know-it-all, sadistic sons of bitches, that she was properly disciplined and that Zabel's unconscionable punishment had worked.
And the rest she would figure out later.
"Awful thing, Venable's death." One didn't have to say anything more to any stranger on the street to evoke a ten-minute discussion, tirade or argument.
Time was flying. It had been two days since the memorial service. Since then, he'd read the speeches and read the coroner's report, which had corne to no conclusion as to the cause of death, and the only anomaly noted was the strange bloody little cut on Venable's chest that looked like a check.
As in—off the list?
Whose list?
Or was that the death mark they talked about in whispers.
He was groping in the dark, and he wasn't yet ready to go back to the Bullhead. There had to be something in the public record with which he could work.
It was as if everyone knew, and nobody would tell.
He had to dig something up, even with those amorphous clues.
The Sacred Seven. The number seven. Seven precepts. The death mark. The death of a political fascist who was that close to becoming canonized.
How could Kyger take him down?
The virgin at the Bullhead. Could she have been—?
No. She was too innocent, too real, too scared.
Yes. Really? Because if he really wanted to push the thing to the extreme—when he rearranged the letters of the word scared, they spelled sacred . ..
Holy shit.
Nothing was exempt from consideration. The raspberry virgin could have been part of the whole, sent to him to distract him from discovering what was there to be found.
No—it was too far-fetched to believe that they kept a cache of virgins to offer to anyone who seemed unduly curious about who patronized the Bullhead.
There is nothing too far beyond to be considered.
He read in the newspaper that morning that a committee had been organized to raise money to turn Tony Venable's flat in Park Lane into a museum. Visitation was available from noon to three, three days a week, entree with the requested, not required, offering of a pound note.
The very thing. Kyger was in Park Lane—Seven Park Lane, more sevens—on the dot of twelve, only to find a line of visitors already snaking down the street from the building's entrance.
This was getting worse and worse, but there was no point not to wait.
The crowd was hushed, reverent. There was a brochure passed around detailing the plans of the Venable Museum Committee, which—with the proceeds from the admission fee—intended to buy the building, relocate the two other tenants, and turn the entire three floors into a shrine to Tony Venable's life and work.
He felt the danger lurking in those plans, subtle and shadowy. He saw everything in a flash: if they owned the building, there could be no questions about anything that went on there; and so it could become a place for Venable's followers to meet, to plan, to conceive doctrine, and perhaps print and distribute propaganda; and it would become the temple where they kept the flame of Venable's ideology alive.
And no one could stop them.
He had to stop them,
The crowd shuffled along, whispering about Venable's death, about Venable's life. Venable's promises. Venable's lies. Watching intently as each visitor exited, each face suffused with exaltation.
Kyger stepped into the building an hour later with some trepidation.
It was hushed, dark, cool, elegant, all dark wood and soft suf-
fused gaslight, and a thick carpet winding up the second-floor flat that had been Tony Venable's.
He wondered what he'd expected to see. It was an apartment like any other. Two bedrooms, a bathroom and kitchen, a sitting room, the library room where he'd died, and a parlor were all elegantly outfitted as befitting Tony Venable's status: all rich, thick, dark—satins, brocades, Persian carpets, walnut furniture, soft, diffused light.
In the library, there was a secretary desk by a window where you could imagine Venable sitting, thinking about his last speech, his last meeting where he listened to those he wanted so badly to represent, thinking about how to help them, what to do about their needs, their burdens, their pain.
A whisper: "Look ... the notebook on the desk—what do you think he wrote in there .. . ?"
A subtle movement to look. Just the date, written in a close, tight, masculine hand. The date was a month ago. A month.
"He's been gone a month?" Another whisper.
"I don't believe it."
Another voice, rising in religious fervor: "He's here in this room, I feel it. This is where he died. He hasn't left us-—he's here, he's here..."
"Madam—" The decent coming discreetly into the room, taking the woman's arm, leading her out the door into the hallway. "Madam ..." A whisper, whatever said to the woman lost in the hush beyond the door.
This was where Tony Venable had been attacked and died. They looked for blood. They looked for some sign of death, some sign he'd survived. The mood was reverent, hushed, sacred as they tiptoed through the room. It was as if he had stepped out, had gone to Parliament, or out to dinner, as if he'd return at the moment.
"She's right. I feel his presence so strongly ..." Another whisper, sibilant, ghostly, unidentifiable, and they all could imagine him sitting at the desk in that plush upholstered chair, his back to the door, thinking of them, their good, their welfare, and his assassin moving into the room silent as air, wielding his silent weapon, taking Venable's not-so-silent life.
Sobs behind him as the realization hit the crowd that this was the place of death, a memorial to contrition.
There was no sign anywhere of blood or death.
They moved as slowly as if they were marching to a dirge, through the library, and into the sitting room where there was another desk, where they could imagine Tony Venable working hard, thinking about them and how to help them, and into the parlor with its ornate walnut fireplace surround, lavish plaster-work, comfortable sofas and chairs. On the table behind the sofa, a pile of papers, Parliament concerns, right there, right where everyone could see how hard Tony Venable was always working for them.
The carpet, soft and thick under their feet. Into the first bedroom, with its curved and molded walnut bed frame that dominated the room,
"Tony Venable slept here ..." Awe in the voice of the speaker as if she could see the imprint of his body on the bedcover. A dresser, an armoire, a dressing room, faintly redolent of his scent. Papers piled neatly on a small slant-topped desk. Another place, less ornate. Brocade curtains. A view to the front of the building.
The second bedroom was at the rear, as neat and meticulous as the rest of the flat, and the bathroom and kitchen situated side by side next to that.
"I heard he had someone to do for him," someone whispered. "How fortunate can you be—to work for Tony Venable, to ease the everyday cares of his life so he could concentrate on the important things—like helping us."
They peered into the kitchen, where there was a sink, a nickel-plated stove shiny with assiduous care, a large white porcelain icebox, a bank of cabinets covering one wall, and a well-scrubbed worktable.
Someone wanted to look into the cabinets to see what Tony Venable ate. Someone else discouraged her.
Back into the parlor, where now they noticed there was also a small dining
area in one corner with a small round pedestal table and two upholstered chairs. There were more papers piled on this table as well.
This time, not even Kyger could resist peeking at what was on
the top page. It was blank with the exception of a check mark in the upper right-hand corner.
Something checked off... on a blank page? Strange.
The decent ushered them out. The line outside had grown longer, crowding up the stairwell now, to make room on the street.
Expectant faces looking at him, at the others emerging, seeking to find what, on his face and in his eyes? That seeing Venable's home and touching the objects that he'd lived with was some kind of transforming experience?
Oh, he was transformed all right, and more determined than ever to bring Tony Venable— , Wait-Down the respectful line of visitors waiting to go into Venable's home he saw her. No, he saw them. The two men and his recalcitrant virgin. The same two men he'd seen with her at the memorial service, one of them older, the other not much younger, now he could see their faces.
This time she was wedged tightly between them, she was dressed in a deep mink brown suit, collared up to her chin, the sleeves pulled well down over her wrists, and she looked stoic, unhappy and resigned, her gaze focused downward—or perhaps away from the two men.
He slowed his step because there was no way he could approach her, and it once again looked to him as if they were prodding her along. The men were too close to her, too encroaching, and her demeanor was too stiff.
What the hell was going on? He stared at her, willing her to lift her head, to see him, to know him.
She would know him.
Did she feel the intensity of his gaze?
She looked up suddenly as she felt the pull of his presence. She saw him instantly and turned her eyes away, looking quickly to her left and then to her right almost as if she were assuring herself the men, the guards, he thought of them, weren't watching what she was doing, that they were solely intent on moving with the crowd, and, as they pushed her forward, she shot him a quick anguished look and mouthed the words, Help me.
------------------
It hadn't even taken a day.
"They are opening Tony Venable's flat to the public," Zabel announced conversationally at breakfast the next day. "Wroth feels it is necessary to pay our respects. It's the right thing to do. So, as loath as I am to have you leave this hotel room, we must accede to his wishes. However, there will be some safeguards. You will be chained to Wroth, for one thing, so you will choose your clothing accordingly so that it will be your little secret. And
Wroth's."
Angilee swallowed bile. "As you wish, Father."
"Oh my, aren't we compliant today. Very good, even if it is an act. You do comprehend what is expected of you, and that's the first step toward your becoming the kind of wife Wroth expects. The other little problem, well—we will take care of that as well."
What??? How did you mend damaged merchandise? Oh, she just couldn't even summon the energy to think about it. It was enough to know she would be bound to Wroth for the duration of their visit to the putative shrine to Tony Venable.
"I don't like being chained up," Angilee said stonily.
"Well, I rather like it. And Wroth was in transports over the thought of it, so—we'll just keep you constrained for the moment. After all, it's very few weeks before you'll be married. You need to learn to be obedient and submissive in any event. You've had your head your whole life. Wroth is absolutely correct about that: I've spoiled you beyond anything proper and ruined you forever. No man wants to take on a willful bride with a mind and opinions all her own. I should have applied discipline long before this. We are exceedingly fortunate that a man of Wroth's stature and influence is willing to marry you despite those negatives."
"And you're saying we'd never have found another willing groom?" Angilee asked coyly, swallowing the venom in her voice. "Anywhere, in the whole of England? Ever?"
"Well, look at how it went in New York. Not a nibble. Every door slamrned in our face. I had thought it was due to our lineage. Now I see it could equally have had to do with your highhanded ways. It was the best decision I ever made to come to England, and lo and behold, we found Wroth. So all has worked
out exactly as I would have wished, and the only stumbling stones—your defilement and your intractable nature—are both remedial with time and a little coaching. So rest easy, my dear. I'm not going to be a hard taskmaster. I leave that to your husband-to-be. We will make the visit today, and we'll see how that goes as to how much latitude a deeply suspicious father can allow."
This was how it went: Zabel specified exactly what she should wear, and when Wroth arrived, her wrist was chained to his on a shorter length of links, and he had whole control of her movements by virtue of his arm tucked against hers.
She had to walk at their pace, with them crowding her on either side. She had to bear the feeling of Wroth's body squeezed tightly against hers. Allow him to maneuver her and press against her, listen to him slaver over the increasing list of ways he had thought up to constrain her.
In the hansom cab: "What do you think about a thrall collar for my lovely? With rings all around it so I can chain her in any position that strikes my fancy, or lead her wherever I may wish. I've been ruminating about that all night. What do you think, my dear?"
Angilee swallowed her fury. "Whatever would make you happy," she murmured, pushing the words out through her dry throat.
"Oh my, here's a change of attitude—so quickly? No, I think not."
"Nor I," Zabel said, "but Angilee is pragmatic, if nothing else. She will come to heel because she knows this is the best course, that the marriage is the best thing for her, and she will become as obedient as any man could wish in a very short time."
"I will hold you to that, Zabel, because I am anxious to claim rny beautiful, submissive bride."
"And so you shall, won't he, Angilee?"
She licked her dry lips. "I will endeavor to become all that Wroth could wish," she said finally.
"Very good," Zabel said. "You see?"
"Ummm," Wroth murmured. "I still think you are too lenient with her. But that will change. It wants only that she comes to me willingly when the time arrives."
"She will. Won't she?" Zabel nudged her, hard.
"I only hope I can meet the high standard you've set for your wife," Angilee muttered viciously, nearly choking on the ironic words.
Pig. Bastard. Sadist.,. DIE ... !
Wroth turned to her and suddenly cupped her breast. She couldn't help it, she flinched.
He nodded, satisfied. "Yes, I like that fear, that cowering innocence in a woman. One has to test these things now and again. My wife must be the purest of the pure, and come to me lily white and begging me to impose my will on hers.
"I don't believe I have actually spelled out what my expectations are, so perhaps this is as good a time as any, on the heels of your properly disciplining Angilee for her insubordination.
"There will be no such thing in my house. I expect my dictates and desires to be followed to the letter. My wife—is me, totally immersed in me and my wants, needs, dreams, wishes. She will come to know, even before I do, what I want and how she can provide it. I will train her, of course—a woman isn't born knowing what a man's needs are—and I will teach her the level of obedience I demand by virtue of gentle, loving, corrective discipline when she veers from my course. And in return, I will provide for her everything she could possibly want, from clothes to jewels, a level of luxury, attention and love that is beyond anything she can imagine.
"That is what I expect from Angilee and what she can expect
from me."
"It sounds like everything a woman could want," Zabel said,
"Angilee?"
"I cannot wait until the day I put myself in your hands," Angilee ground out, her voice thin and reedy.
Wroth smiled, not a particularly pleasant sight
. "She learns."
"She is very intelligent."
"A man doesn't want intelligence, Zabel. He wants obedience."
"Oh, I absolutely agree with you there," Zabel said hastily.
"Then we are all in agreement," Wroth said complacently. "Just in time, for now we are here."
"Here," however, was rather daunting—fifty, perhaps more,
people already lined up, waiting patiently to be admitted to the holy sanctuary of Tony Venable's flat.
It did not deter Wroth. He was perfectly willing to take his place in line, and he propelled Angilee right by his side.
And then it was a most deadly wait. Quiet. Strange. Reverent. Angilee felt faint. There was no way out of this. She was doomed, and Wroth would be the agent of her demise. Her father had sold her, for what recompense she couldn't begin to imagine. And all that was left for her was a life of servitude to Wroth's demands.
She couldn't play this out. She couldn't—he was too powerful and too dangerous. She couldn't change her personality that drastically that he would believe she had come willingly to submission and obedience, and she had nothing with which to fight him otherwise. He'd bury her, with every legality on his side, and walk away with every ha'penny of the money Zabel promised him in the bargain.
She looked down at Wroth's arm intertwined with hers. It was like iron, like the chains with which he would soon shackle her.
The line moved forward. She looked up to see where Wroth was guiding her, and she saw him.
She was hallucinating because she wanted a way out of this so badly. It couldn't be him. She slanted a glance quickly each way— Zabel and Wroth were too engrossed watching the crowd, thank heaven—but she was almost past him, almost. It might be too late.
But she could try. Even imprisoned as she was and being propelled forward so forcefully, she could ... just.. . try—
She raised her chin defiantly, shot the Bullhead man a quick look, and mouthed the words, Help me.
But it was too late—she had already moved past him, and the one chance she had to get his attention was gone.
