Painted Trust_Edith and the Forensic Surgeon

by Elsa Holland

His floor of the house was dimly lit, with a shaft of light coming from the rooms that turned out to be his. A parlor had been converted into a study. Shelves lined all the walls right up to the ceiling. A bottle of spirits sat open on a silver tray with a half glass sat on the table next to the chair. A door to the far right, most likely leading to his bedroom.

  Edith resisted at the door and he let her hand go. He walked over to the small silver tray and poured the amber liquid into a second glass, then topped up his own.

  “Come. Close the door and sit by the fire.”

  The heat rolling out of the room toward her was glorious.

  She should turn right around and return to her room. She wasn’t happy with him about the goddess. But the need to be with someone after the run-in with her Collector was stronger than her vexation with Vaughn. She needed to bask in his warmth, in his strength, even if only for a few short hours.

  Vaughn stood there with a glass in each hand, offering succor if only she were to reach out and take it. But that succor would come at a cost if he knew what she was, knew their world, and she were tracked down again. Dark circles sat under his eyes, the expression on his face strained. He’d worried, of course he had—he was a good man. No doubt he had thought she had stayed out all this time because of him.

  “Come on, Apple. You made it this far. I know you have the gumption to see it through.” He took a sip from his glass. Even now he worried that he’d say something to scare her off. She was a lucky woman who would have this man as her own one day.

  Some of the tension left her, and she stepped inside and closed the door. “We should have simply come back into the house. I knew the tea house was a mistake.”

  He let out his breath slowly, deliberately, and motioned to the small sofa. “Come on, sit down. Have a drink to warm up.”

  Her skirts swished in the silence as she walked to the sofa by the fire and sat down. He handed her the glass.

  “Take a good sip.”

  The warmth of the liquid blossomed through her insides.

  Edith cleared her throat. “I didn’t stay out this afternoon because of what happened—you can choose to spend your time as you please. I had things to do which took longer than I expected.”

  He frowned. “Finish the glass.”

  She did, and he took it, placing the empty glass by his own.

  “Are you feeling warmer?”

  She nodded.

  That seemed to satisfy him. He sat down next to her.

  He didn’t say anything just closed his eyes and let his head fall back.

  They sat there in silence and slowly her shoulders dropped down and she sank deeper into the cushions.

  He picked up her hand and ran his fingers over hers, soft and rhythmical. Turned it over and stroked her palm and wrists, so gentle, so light. The same hands that dueled death eased her soul through their careful touch.

  Like some medicinal opiate, those touches made her want to release her burdens, air her past. Her fear of the present and her hopes for the future. But that wasn’t possible, would never be possible, despite the soft promise those strokes gave. Yet he’d need some sensible answer and errands and visiting friends would not satisfy him.

  “Why didn’t you wait for me in the tea shop? Just sit down and look at a menu until I came in?”

  Tension wriggled through her belly. Thinking back, her indignation was somewhat out of proportion to the situation. She blushed at her foolishness.

  “I changed my mind about tea.” Her free hand waived vaguely in front of her. Oh God, now she sounded like a simpleton.

  “Hmmmm. And you couldn’t simply tell me, so we could walk back together?”

  Tell him. Tell him what? How she had felt at seeing his former fiancée? She didn’t even want to remember how that made her feel, let alone tell him. Nor had she the right to house such jealous feelings, considering she would soon be leaving him.

  His fingers continued to move slowly over her palm as he waited.

  Edith looked away from him into the fire. Her chest was tight, and pressure built up behind her eyes. She wanted desperately to tell him—tell him everything—to trust someone enough to not have to deal with it all alone. But that was not the way of things for her, nor for any of her Sisters. They once had each other but now they were apart, all gone in different directions and all alone.

  Edith went to stand up, eyes burning with unshed tears.

  Vaughn’s hand gently pushed her back into the seat.

  “Why did I have to wait until three am to know you were safe? Don’t tell me you had errands to run. You can be evasive, but I did not have you pegged as a liar.”

  He had no idea. She was a lie tied up in secrets, bound in horror. But he needed to hear something and staying as close to the truth as possible was the best course of action if she was to placate him.

  “I . . .” There was no way to move forward without appearing foolish. “Is she your real type?” Damn, that was too foolish. “I mean, we are as different as night and day . . .” Edith went to wriggle away but Vaughn slipped an arm around her and drew her close.

  “You,” he murmured into her hair, “I want you, Edith. You can trust me on that. I am not a man who dallies with his staff, I should think you would know that about me.”

  He turned her face and lifted her chin. Waited till she looked up into those steel grey eyes and then dipped down and kissed her softly. Full of promise. Gentle, as if she might break. Carefully, as if she would scurry away. And she had, hadn’t she?

  “You were engaged.” It came out breathless, horribly vulnerable.

  “I was.”

  “How long did you know her before you asked?” She went red.

  “Much, much longer than three days,” he said, and the corners of his eyes creased.

  “She is very beautiful.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you get married?”

  “Lies, secrets and trickery.” Her heart pounded at that.

  “What did she lie about?” It was his turn to squirm.

  “She had another man.” It pained him to say it and so it should for a man like him. “Would you lie to me, Apple? Tell me anything I don’t want to hear but tell me the truth. Where were you tonight?”

  Her lies burned beneath her skin. His forefinger brushed her cheek.

  “Everyone has secrets.” Her voice was protective, perhaps a touch defensive.

  “Secrets I can deal with. Like what’s under these clothes and why you don’t want me to see you naked. That’s the kind of secret I can deal with. Returning late at night and lying makes a man suffer in ways I am not willing to do for a woman again.”

  Her face was very warm now. She moved her attention to the soft hair that showed at the top of his shirt.

  “Do you understand me, Apple?”

  She did. “I didn’t go to see a man.”

  “So where have you been?”

  “Please don’t ask me for the answers. Can’t we simply enjoy each other? I want to experience passion, to find out what it’s like to be with a man I care about. I need the rest of my life to stay private.” Her free hand touched the skin she had just been looking at. He moved ever so slightly into her touch.

  “A man you care about?”

  Edith nodded and looked back up to his face. His look was darker, much darker, and the space between them tense with their ever-present need for each other.

  “I’m a very private person.” A soft whisper as she ran her finger up his neck.

  “Mmmm.” He stood and drew her into his bedroom. “So I am beginning to learn.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Vaughn walked her toward his bed. It dominated the room with its gothic dark wood, four posts and thick black canopy.

  “This is where you sleep?” She looked over to him in surprise.

  He nodded, then watched as she took in his space. Having her in his room gave him a possessive feeling. She belonged here. He wanted to see her walk around naked, he
r ink hair trailing down her slender, pale back in his broody space.

  “I imagined you having something more modern.”

  “Parisian navy brocade with matching blue rugs?” Henrietta had wanted to redecorate the room in that way.

  “Maybe. Although,” she looked around, “this does rather suit you; the moody, broody butcher.”

  A wash of pleasure at her words, at her not wanting to change it. He liked this room, liked the ‘moody, broody feel’, as she put it.

  Vaughn tugged her toward to the bed. “Take your slippers off and anything else that is permissible in your ‘rules’, and let’s lie down. I am exhausted.” He ran a finger under her eyes. “You are, too.”

  Now that he knew she cared for him the odds of his winning her had increased hundredfold. And she’d given him the key to lure her—passion. But that would have to wait for later, when he was rested.

  “Are we going to sleep?” She sounded hopeful, yet her eyes stroked his body.

  “Come on, Apple.” Vaughn sat on the bed and patted the place next to him. “I think we could both do with some sleep.”

  She removed only her slippers, despite his raised eyebrows. “Here, let me at least rid you of these.” He reached up and pulled the pins out of her hair, then threaded his fingers through its satin lengths. Once on the bed he drew up the satin comforter, slipped her into the crook of his arm then leaned down and kissed her. Gently, without demand. He was exhausted.

  She was cradled in the crook of his arm when he woke. Layers of wool and buttons, but her hair was loose and wild. The soft sheen of sweat on her forehead, under her eyes and nose made him shake his head.

  “What?” She asked sleepily.

  “You’re hot.”

  That little crease came between her brows. He ran a finger over to smooth it.

  “You never told me why you came home so late.”

  She huffed and flopped back on her pillow, leaving the space she’d occupied on his chest to go cold.

  “I asked you not to ask.”

  “I keep thinking you must have seen a man. Nothing else makes sense.” He hated that he’d admitted it but if he wanted her to reveal her vulnerabilities he should be prepared to show a few of his own; was that not the key to a good relationship?

  She rolled back to her place on his chest. The corners of his mouth tugged up a fraction and he wrapped an arm around her.

  “I . . . I thought I was being followed.” He felt her body tense and her heart race against his skin as she leaned on him. She was telling him the truth and it worried her.

  “Who’d be following you?” Please, do not say a suitor.

  She went to roll off him, but he held her there.

  “You can tell me.”

  She shook her head.

  “Where did you go?”

  “I went to an inn, hired a room and, when I thought everyone would be asleep, I snuck out.”

  “That’s clever.” But the elaborate strategy also showed a very real fear.

  “Mr Price said you’re working on The Little Princess case? Do you know her name? I could help . . .”

  He should have suspected she would be curious. Vaughn shifted the arm wrapped around her and placed his palm over her mouth. “Ask me about gruesome murders later. Come and have your morning tea in the anatomy lab and I’ll tell you what I can.” He was loath to let this time together go so fast.

  She kissed his hand, a soft press of lips on his palm. He could imagine this was what it would be like if they married. He’d never had this kind of moment with Henrietta; by now she would have been talking about the furnishings that were still below standard or out of fashion in the house, or the new bauble she’d seen in a shop window. In hindsight, every intimacy they’d shared was followed by a price. The woman in his arms had asked for nothing, had refused the financial comfort of marriage to him, and yet had not refused the man he was.

  Her finger ran over his chest. He wanted to feel her skin, to see it, to see who she really was under all of that worsted fabric.

  “When did you get this done?”

  She traced the small tattoo over his heart. It was of a scalpel, bone saw and needle. All three were wrapped together with a suture tie, which came out of the eye of the needle.

  “When I was a student.” When I thought I would save the world.

  “Was it a lucid choice?”

  He laughed in surprise. “Was I drunk? No. I designed it and paid good money for it.” She hadn’t asked if it hurt. The women who had seen it were all about the pain. “It’s a badge of my bravery.”

  A sad smile crossed her face. A melancholy that was hard to understand.

  “Don’t worry, Apple, it didn’t hurt that much.” He felt stronger somehow, reassuring her, a youth flexing with bravado to the girl of his dreams.

  “I know.” Well, that put an end to his bravado, he grinned to himself.

  “You do, do you? Well, how do you think it went, Miss Appleby?”

  That sad smile pulled wider and showed her white teeth as she rolled onto her stomach to look down at him. “Let’s see. Did you take anything—alcohol, laudanum?”

  His eyebrows raised “No. I went au naturel.”

  She trailed the tip of her finger over his breast, around his nipple and over his tattoo. “The pectoral muscle is more sensitive than the back or the arm but less sensitive than, say, under the arm or between the thighs, so the pain would be on the lower end of the scale for this kind of work. There is very little shading so again the intensity of pain is greatly diminished.”

  “Greatly?”

  She pinched him. “Yes, greatly.”

  “Go on.”

  “At first, the needle feels like sharp, annoying pricks. After what feels like a long time, all your attention, all your world starts to focus on those rhythmic punctures. But in reality, only a minute or two has gone by and hardly any of the design has been outlined. The pressure builds to a point where it is an act of will not to pull yourself away, scream out in anger and agitation at the needle, at the person doing it to you. The muscle begins to burn. You wait for the wipe of the cloth which takes the excess ink and blood away and offers a brief respite from the intensity. You focus on your breathing, deep and low. The pain starts to dull and it’s only as the needle hits new flesh that it spikes hard and sharp again. By the time it stops, you have a natural high, a buzzing hum in your blood. You didn’t realize it but the pain, the vulnerability of the body, has spoken to your mortality, to the fact that you are a prisoner in a vessel which can deliver suffering, and the only escape from that vessel is death.”

  “Good God, sweetheart it wasn’t like that. The pain, yes—it is uncanny how well you described it—but the experience was nothing so morbid.”

  He remembered his elation as he had walked out of the shop. It was heady, intoxicating, and he’d put it down to the daring of getting the tattoo.

  She looked at him, the strange melancholy settling around her again and started to get up. “Edith. Stay.

  CHAPTER 48

  The newest member of the village played with the golden lock of hair he kept in his pocket as the carriage came to a stop and the door opened.

  “You can take off the hood now, sir,” the driver said.

  Well, three carriage rides and two train rides were a useless ploy at camouflaging the Curator’s location. All he needed was the angle of the sun, to identify a few birds, plantings and housing styles and he would be able to assess where he was within a comfortable ten to fifteen mile radius. And that was all entirely unnecessary if he heard a few people talking.

  He pulled off the hood and took a moment to adjust to the light. They were not in the city, he’d heard the sounds of urban life fall away some time ago. Yet a city was not so far away— they stood parked in a well-planted lane with tall hedgerows on one side and large, established trees on the other. He stepped out of the carriage, his girl in the large, ornate box in his arms.

  They’d arrived at a
well-groomed cottage, the garden planted in traditional style and promising abundant blooms in spring. The house was bordered by a moss-covered stone wall that would act as a seat for finches or sparrows in the spring, and stepping stones embraced by pennyroyal and clover led to the front door.

  He was guided past the main cottage and shown through to workshops out the back, three large outbuildings with thatched roofs to match the main cottage.

  The outbuilding he entered had been renovated, and he imagined the other two had as well. The floors were of thick black slate, the walls lined and painted. There were benches with closed storage underneath, keeping the room free of clutter. It was an open palette to start every project fresh, each piece a treasure; an excellent sales tool. He walked over to a large arched window that looked over the back of the property. Poplars, birch and oaks had been artfully placed some time earlier in the century, and the land sloped down to what looked like a creek.

  “What shall I call you?”

  He’d thought about this, what would he call himself. His real name had long become redundant, a skin he would never fit back into. The other names he’d used as he built his craft, as he played his games of chameleon, were meaningless. The name had come to him as he’d stood there over his first conquered Painted Sister, his body glistening metallic and golden in the lamp light. He was coming to fruition, unfurling.

  A slice of excitement cut across his abdomen. “Mr Goldbloom.” He turned, his body making all the subtle shifts it needed to slide into this new skin, and faced the Curator. “You may call me Goldbloom.”

  The Curator showed little expression, taking him in without appearing to assess or judge, and nodded. “Very well, Mr Goldbloom. Have you brought the item?”

  Goldboom placed the carved and inlaid box on one of the long work tables and opened the lid. He’d cleaned off the salt before bringing her, then washed and patted her dry before lining her with fresh unbleached cotton, to stop any sticking and to soak up any dampness which may still leach out. He’d then wrapped the outer with white densely-embroidered linen.

  His hands held her with reverence and care as he removed her from the cloths to lay her on the table. Even untreated, she was beautiful. The designs were done by Fredriko who specialized in the old master Botticelli’s style, perfect for her skin tone. She was a landscape of the arabesque, of desert and oasis landscapes, harem girls, rolling dunes, date palms and nubile beauty. She’d traveled to Algiers to experience the culture, had wanted to capture the essence of the art she would carry. A young orientalist Artist was chosen to draw the drafts that Fredriko drew on to make the final design.