A Taste of Blood Wine

by Freda Warrington

  Only as the waves faded there was a moment of discord when she felt his mouth pressing like a circle of darkness on her neck… as if the fulfilment of physical desire unleashed a more sinister passion in him.

  It happened too quickly for her to react. She anticipated pain and she arched to meet it, not caring… but the pain never came. Instead he turned his face away with a groan. His hair lay silky across her throat but his arms were rigid as if he were struggling to push himself away from her.

  Then she felt him relax, and when he turned towards her again there was an unreadable distress in his eyes. "I will not," he whispered. "God help me, I never shall."

  She had hardly enough breath left to speak. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing, liebling." His face was tranquil again, his eyes amber veils over his soul. He smiled at her and stroked her cheek. "I hope you aren't sorry."

  With the ecstatic light still trickling over her like sweat, she said, "No. I could never be sorry."

  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  No Spoken Word

  When Madeleine woke, she knew that she had died. The oak posts of her bed had turned to stone. So had the canopy and the curtains, their folds not soft but rigidly sculpted, ingrained with the dirt of ages. The walls of a crypt rose cold and shadowy around her. The chest of drawers was an altar, stained with light the colour of blood. She was a stone effigy lying on a tomb, and she would be here forever with the shadows and the spiders.

  But there was something moving at the foot of the tomb. Two lifesize puppets with painted wooden heads, swivelling their jagged black and white faces towards her and away again as they chattered. They moved in jerks, their wooden jaws snapping open and shut. Their speech sounded like flies buzzing. As in a dream Madeleine watched them without fear, only with a kind of bewildered paralysis.

  One of the heads turned to her, and she understood what it said. "Are you awake, dear? How are you?"

  The puppets were coming towards her, but as they moved, they changed. Their outlines seemed to soften and she realised that were her father and her aunt. She cried out, "I'm sorry!"

  "Whatever for?" Her father leaned down towards her, his features clearly human and familiar. Pale grey eyes, creamy moustache, scent of pipe tobacco.

  "For dying. I didn't mean to."

  He looked sideways at Elizabeth. Their faces turned shiny and grotesque again. "Dying, you say? Nonsense."

  "I shall be dead forever. You mustn't come to visit me." It all seemed clear as she spoke. I've lived my life in a cloud of light, I never thought of the future… never dreamed I wasn't infallible. Immortal. Now the delusion had been whipped aside like a painted screen to reveal the ugliness of reality. Why have they come to visit my tomb? Is it right for the living to mock the dead, to caper about like marionettes, flaunting their life?

  "Oh, Maddy, I was only flirting. Quite frankly, I thought it would do you good to realise you can't always have everything you want."

  "I love him. No one else does."

  Clasping her hand, Elizabeth said, "My dear, I didn't realise how strongly you felt. I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. I'd forgotten how painful love can be when you're young. I know this is very hard for you to accept, but don't you think, if he felt the same, he would have said something by now?"

  "He does love me. I know he does."

  Elizabeth went quiet. Madeleine thought, Who am I really talking to, Aunt Lizzie or the marionette? I don't know what's real. Then her aunt said, "Well, for the sake of your poor heart, I hope you're right. But don't you think it's rather strange, the way he chose to vanish into the garden with Charlotte last night?"

  Madeleine had no memory of that, only of going out on to the terrace… the tall figure she had thought was Karl, until she saw the blue eyes and the hard white face… then the aching dizziness… then Karl and Charlotte bending over me! Fear went through her, but she pushed it away. "That's impossible."

  "I think it's quite incredible. In the unlikely event that Karl has taken a romantic interest in Charlotte, I thought she was too terrified of men to let him anywhere near her. Yet the fact is, they were together, and looking so sheepish about it, I can't believe they were only discussing science." Aunt Elizabeth's mouth was a grim line. "Of course, I've always suspected that Charlotte's 'shyness' is just an excuse to be selfish. There's a streak of contrariness in that young lady that's almost wicked."

  Madeleine couldn't listen. "No, Karl couldn't like Charlotte. She has Henry."

  "Indeed she has. And if she does have some idea of chasing Karl as well, I'll knock that out of her right away. Don't worry, darling."

  Madeleine nodded, but her aunt's voice seemed distant, echoing off the crypt walls. Everything was decaying around them; time was crumbling the stone itself to dust. She had to breathe very deep and blink hard to hold the world in place. "I must see Karl," she said.

  "Later. You're not well enough to see anyone just yet."

  "Then I shall get well as fast as I can," Madeleine said resolutely.

  ***

  "I could never be sorry," Charlotte had said, yet by the following morning, remorse was already threading icy tendrils through her.

  As she sat at breakfast, she felt as if her iniquity was branded on her forehead. Surely it must be blindingly obvious what had happened between her and Karl—yet everyone carried on as if they had noticed nothing. There was no sign of Karl. David and Anne sat talking business with Elizabeth. The house guests drifted in and out of the breakfast room, reading newspapers, discussing the weather or sport. Madeleine made an appearance, looking pale but smiling bravely. She did not speak to Charlotte. Her friends, making jokes about one too many White Ladies, took her away to be cosseted in one of the drawing rooms.

  Nobody mentioned the events of the previous night; life had already returned to normal. But not for Charlotte.

  She had left Karl in the early hours, not wanting to risk discovery when the maid came in with the tea, but alone in her room she had gone into a state of shock. Gods, what have I done?

  And where was Karl? She knew he never ate breakfast anyway, but he usually made an appearance to be sociable. She was possessed by an unreasoning terror that she would never see him again.

  What had seemed so enchanted the previous night seemed heinous in the light of day. It was as if a cold wall of glass had come down between them, the very instant she left him. If he walked in now, what on earth would they say to each other? However off-handedly they tried to behave, Elizabeth was too sharp not to see the signs.

  Yet the memory of that other-world remained clear and shining, colouring everything. How could she regret it? It had changed her forever. In a dream she wandered out of the breakfast room and along the corridor; unconsciously looking for Karl, frightened of finding him, terrified that she would not.

  She stopped to look through the letters on the upper hall table and Anne came up to her, dressed in riding kit. "Charli, I've hardly had a chance to speak to you since last night. You look almost as pale as the invalid. Are you all right?"

  "Yes, but I—I'm rather worried about Maddy."

  "Oh, if she's out of bed already, she'll be fine. I thought I ought to warn you about this morning's subject of gossip before you hear it anywhere else. They're all speculating about you and Karl."

  Charlotte's eyes widened. "What about me and Karl?"

  "Oh, come on! Disappearing into the depths of the garden."

  "Oh, that." She leaned on the table, uttering a short sigh of relief.

  "Isn't that enough? What else have you been up to?" Anne said teasingly. Her eyes were bright, unaware of the darkness that haunted Charlotte. "I know you hate it, but don't take any notice; gossip is people's lifeblood, and no one escapes it all the time. It was like that for David and me before we got engaged." Charlotte sifted through the letters, spread them in a fan on the polished surface. "All the same, I wish they wouldn't. I shan't dare show my face today."

  "Nonsense. The good news
is that your folks have decided not to say anything to you about it."

  Charlotte bit her lip. "I knew they were talking about me behind my back. I hate that."

  "I know. I don't like it either. That's why I'm telling you. It's too much for the Prof and David to believe the worst, so they've decided to give you the benefit of the doubt. You're still a little white lamb in their eyes." Anne looked steadily at her, concerned. "But you can tell me the truth, Charli. Is there anything going on between you and Karl?"

  Charlotte didn't know what to say, even to her best friend. She felt a sudden urge to confess everything, but the words would not come. She could not bear the experience to be confined and lessened by someone else's judgement… not even Anne's. "There might be," she whispered.

  "Oh dear," Anne said softly. "Would you like to talk about it?"

  "I can't. I'm sorry. I need to collect my thoughts."

  "Nothing like being on horseback for clearing the mind. I'll wait for you to change, if you like."

  The idea of escaping into the fresh air was very tempting—but what if Karl reappeared and she missed him? "I'd like too—but really, I'm too tired. I think I'll stay in this morning."

  "No stamina! See you later, then." Anne began to walk away, then turned back. "You ought to think very carefully about Henry, you know. This could turn into an awful mess."

  It already is, thought Charlotte. Heaven and hell.

  She was beginning to think she had imagined everything, that Karl had vanished like a ghost with the dawn. But as she passed the library, she glanced in and saw him sitting on the brown leather couch. Although there was a book open on his knee, he was gazing out at the garden.

  Her head was spinning. She almost walked straight past, but it was too late, he had turned and was looking at her. The graceful way he stood up as she walked to the couch was enough to reawaken a melting sensation that went from her throat through her abdomen to the soles of her feet. Everything about him was more poignant now for being so sweetly familiar.

  "Where have you been?" she said.

  "I had to go out for a while." He lifted her hand and turned it over to kiss the inside of her wrist. "I'm being so unfair to you, liebchen."

  His words seemed ominous. "How?"

  "Sit down." They sat easily together, resting against each other, no awkwardness between them at all. Charlotte relaxed. They belonged together; that was the way it had felt from the beginning, if she had only realised it. "Last night… I know it was wrong, but you must not feel guilty, Charlotte. The blame was all mine."

  "No it wasn't!" She was surprised at how indignant she felt. "Do you think I have no will of my own?"

  His eyebrows lifted and he almost smiled. His eyes remained serious. "Your will is stronger than you know, but that's not what I mean. I don't believe you could give yourself to someone unless you trusted them completely, could you?"

  "No. But I do trust you completely."

  Karl sighed. "Ah. I know that, you see. I have knowingly betrayed your trust. That's why I say the blame is mine."

  The seed of dread began to grow heavier. "What on earth do you mean?"

  "That I can make no promises to you. I would if I could, but it's impossible."

  All at once her foreboding became a fearful coldness. She'd had no thoughts of the future and the idea of marrying Karl had not even entered her head. Now he said "impossible," disturbing visions began to settle, one by one, like crows within her. She tried to chase them away but in flurries of blackness they returned. Did I hope… ? "I wouldn't presume to ask or expect any such thing," she said faintly.

  "But you have every right to do so. This is a society in which marriage and virtue mean everything. They mean nothing to me, but it's you who has to live in this world, Charlotte, not I. You are the one who will suffer. I knew this, but I am selfish and I let it happen anyway."

  She hung onto his hand, searching for rationality in this, feeling everything streaming away from her. "If you'd pretended you wanted to marry me in order to seduce me, that would be different. But you never promised anything."

  "And I cannot," he said gently. "I am in no position to marry anyone, beloved. I should have told you before. I should have told you instead."

  She did not want to ask, but she couldn't stop herself. She was falling again, this time into painful confusion.

  "Do you have a wife in Vienna?" Her voice sounded dry, distant. "There's someone else, isn't there?"

  "No," he said, eyelids lowered. "I am not married, there is no one else."

  "Why, then? Have you taken a religious vow?" He actually laughed at that, very softly. "No, nothing like that. I'm not going to lie to you. You've a right to know the reason, but I can't tell you. I know it's unfair, but I cannot."

  "Very well, I won't ask. I'm sure it's a good one."

  "It could hardly be worse," he murmured.

  "I don't know what you want me to think of you, Karl! Were you a spy in the War, or something? If you're trying to tell me you're what David would call a 'cad', that you only pretended to care for me—I'm sorry, I just don't believe it." She spoke with dignity, but she felt tears aching behind her eyes. He was right; they had committed a sin that could only be rectified by marriage. Never had she felt so spiritually remote from her family, yet so morally bound to them.

  Imagining her father's devastation, if he ever found out, she went snail-cold.

  Karl stroked her hair, quiet for a few moments. Then he said, "The only way to stop this happening was to avoid it in the first place. Now I don't know what we are going to do. You must not doubt the strength of my feelings for you… "

  "God, no," she said, voice catching in her throat. "I don't doubt that. You would only hurt me if you left me. You are not going to leave, are you?"

  There was sorrow in his eyes. "I should," he said. "But I can't—even though I can see no way for this to end except in pain."

  "I don't care! The feeling's worth the pain, whatever it is." Anyone might have walked in or seen them from the terrace, but he drew her to him, kissed her, held her tight with his head bowed against her hair.

  "What are we going to do?" said Charlotte. She felt as if she had grown up very suddenly, broken through a barrier of fear and naïveté and found herself no longer an observer of life but right in the centre of the passion. "I'll have to break my engagement."

  "Not for my sake."

  She looked at him, shocked. "You don't think I could still marry Henry after this, do you?"

  "You must do whatever you feel is right, but don't misunderstand me. Whether you are married or not is irrelevant to what I feel for you."

  The words flew out before she could cage them. "You mean you can't marry me, but you would be quite happy to commit adultery?"

  "Only if you consented, beloved."

  "I don't think you have any morals at all!"

  "Not a single one. I thought that must be clear by now." She tried to feel offended, but couldn't. His eyes were swallowing her into the mesmeric darkness again. His long delicate hand against her cheek, he said, "Look into your heart, Charlotte. We sit here arguing about right and wrong, when all the time we both know that the conventions of society have nothing to do with us. Haven't we always known it?"

  ***

  That night, it was Karl who went to her room, and again the night after.

  During the day they behaved as if nothing had happened—Charlotte with difficulty, Karl with invisible ease—but after midnight she would sit waiting for him, watching the ever-swaying shadows of the garden from the darkness of her room.

  And when they were together, there was only the voluptuous tide of their obsession with each other. No concept of sin, because there could be none in the exquisite tenderness they shared. No thought of the future; that remained unspoken behind Karl's eyes. Charlotte dared not ask who he really was and what was going to happen to them. She feared that if she did, the spell would break and he would vanish. They hardly spoke at all; there seemed t
o be nothing left that needed expression in words.

  Is this what it's like to be in love? she thought, alone in library on the third morning, staring out at the rain. This loss of control, this madness? Now I know why I was so frightened of it! The affectionate partnership of Anne and David seemed a world away from the fever of her relationship with Karl. It couldn't be healthy, this bewitchment…

  An addiction, yes. An opium-poppy lushness, heavy as laudanum, purple as night… and at the centre of the darkness, the burst of joy, the blazing ring of crystal. It must be wrong. Why else must it be kept secret?

  She thought of Karl's words, "How do I look to you? Fascinating, not quite human, perhaps? Can you explain why you feel drawn to me?" She didn't understand, but it wasn't human, the way he could seem as still as frozen starlight, as fluid as shadow. A changeling beauty. A dew-silvered web on which she threw herself, willingly, again and again. The blood-crimson stamen piercing the tightly folded rose…

  Still her turmoil was jewelled with exquisite moments. Snatched secret meetings in the wild places of the garden, on the rare occasions they could escape the house without arousing suspicion. The wicked pleasure of pretending nothing was happening in front of the others; Karl's cool angelic mask, his gracious indifference to Elizabeth's flirting or Maddy's attention-seeking; the speaking looks he gave Charlotte; the secrets they shared. Knowing her family would never believe or dream that their shy. lamb had tasted such forbidden pleasures; imagining their outrage if they found out. Karl, naked in the darkness, as passionate, beautiful and amoral as Lucifer himself.

  "You must have had many lovers," she'd whispered to him, one night in her bed.

  "Not many," he answered with a sad smile, "and not for a very long time."

  She laughed. "It can't be that long. You can't be more than five or six years older than me at most."

  "Nevertheless," he sighed, "it seems an immeasurably long time ago."