Keeping Katerina (The Victorians)

by Simone Beaudelaire

  "Do you think," she asked Christopher softly, looking intently at the softly gleaming black of the wood, "That anyone would mind if I played the piano for a while?" She indicated the instrument.

  "Let me find out." He addressed the room, "My guest Miss Valentino has offered to alleviate your boredom with a turn on the pianoforte. Anyone interested?"

  "Oh God, another debutante hammering on the piano." The drunk groused, "My dear, have a care. If you play badly we’ll be delighted to eviscerate you in effigy."

  "If I play badly," she said softly, "I would deserve no less."

  Her comment made everyone gawk.

  "Try it." The young man called Cary urged, and several other guests nodded. Katerina attempted to stand, but the pressure of the corset against the wounds on her back was too painful.

  "Help me," she whispered to Christopher. He shot her a concerned glance but rose and extended a hand, lifting her to her feet. Tonight she had left off gloves, and her bare, icy fingers met his, creating a shock of awareness which left her momentarily even more breathless. Then she inhaled as deeply as she could inside her tight laces and made her slow way to the piano, sitting on the bench.

  "Do you need any sheet music my dear?" the hostess asked.

  "Not at the moment," she replied, "I have a few favorites memorized. Does everyone enjoy Beethoven?"

  No one objected. Katerina took another breath, intended to be deep but impeded by her corset, blew on her fingers to warm them, looked a long moment at the keys as though communicating silently with them, and at last positioned her hands on the keyboard. She closed her eyes and began a series of minor arpeggios with her left hand while the right began to form the mournful chords of the famous "Moonlight Sonata."

  Though Christopher had suspected she was rather good, based on her shy personality and her willingness to admit she was a skilled player, he had not expected her to be… superb. Though her eyes were closed, she hit every note exactly right, varying the volume to create tension, drama, occasionally drawing out the tempo.

  Piano can be a rather emotionless instrument, but Katerina knew just how to touch the keys and make them weep. Conversations died around the room as the guests turned to stare at the slender dark-haired woman. The grief of the first movement gave way to the sprightliness of the second, and the bouncing chords couldn’t help but make the guests smile.

  As the movement drew to a close, everyone present who knew anything about music began to worry. The first and second movements were rather… manageable for a player of moderate skill. The last was not. It was both mournful and dreadfully fast. It was inevitable that a dilettante such as most young women were would hit several desperate wrong notes and the little concert would end in disaster. The hostess almost interrupted the performance at the end of the second movement to spare her young guest being torn apart by the less polite members of the group.

  But she hesitated a moment too long. The second movement ended and Katerina, without pause, launched into a rapid fire delivery of notes, every one perfect. She was even comfortable enough to, as she had done in the first movement, alter the volume and tempo to create more drama. Amusement gave way to astonishment. Everyone had heard the Moonlight Sonata played badly, and some had done it themselves. Few had heard it played well outside of a concert hall. At last, with a desperately fast scale that climbed the entire keyboard, the piece found its conclusion, and the little musician let her fingers fall from the keys. The room was completely silent for a long moment. She didn’t turn.

  No one realized, but she was breathing very slowly, spots floating in front of her eyes. She shouldn’t have come. This was a mistake.

  Thunderous applause distracted her from her misery.

  "Bravo," the drunk howled, "amazing."

  "Play another," the pouting girl urged.

  "Miss Valentino," Cary called, "do you know the Sonata Pathetique?"

  Playing another would be a good idea. Perhaps she could finally tune out her burning back.

  "I do," she said, "May I?"

  "Oh yes," several voices from around the room urged. She nodded. Giving the room several seconds to fall silent, she drew inside herself. This piece was very challenging, and she had learned it more recently. It would require a different level of concentration.

  She placed her fingers above the keys and brought them down hard, so the opening chords crashed like thunder, making several guests jump, unseen by the artist. The dramatic chords gave way to a rapid run of notes, and then back to chords. Alternating between the two formed the theme of the piece, and for emphasis, she crashed the chords loudly, but touched the scales with gentle fingers.

  By the end of the second piece, she had completely won over the crowd, and they called for more. Katerina switched from Beethoven to Chopin, and then other composers. By concentrating entirely on her playing, she was able to hold off the faint which was threatening. While it was not unusual for young ladies to pass out when laced tightly, the loosening of her corset would reveal a great deal more than a less than perfect figure. She would do most anything to prevent the pitying looks that were sure to come should people discover how badly she was being abused.

  At last it was supper time. The hungry guests glanced longingly at the lovely girl seated at the piano, but eventually drifted off in search of sustenance. Unable to rise from the bench, and in excruciating pain, Katerina waited another moment, hoping for the spasm of agony to pass. A warm hand closed on her bare arm, just above the elbow.

  "What’s wrong, love, and don’t say it’s nothing. I can see you’re hurting."

  "I’m fine."

  "No you’re not. Can you get up?"

  She shook her head.

  Christopher slid his fingers down her arm to her hand, taking it gently. She tried to use him as leverage, but it wasn’t enough. Her back had stiffened and resisted movement. He sighed and placed both his hands on her waist, lifting her to a standing position. She walked awkwardly out from behind the bench, and swayed. He gripped her waist again, preventing her from falling. Standing face to face, she looked up into gray eyes filled with concern.

  "What happened?" his voice was tender.

  "Please, I don’t want to talk about it."

  "Did he beat you?"

  Oh Lord, he knew. She looked away.

  "It’s not your fault, you know."

  "I know."

  "Why?"

  "He heard a rumor. He often has friends over, though he rarely goes out himself. They tell him things."

  "A rumor about what?"

  "That I was seen with a man."

  "Me?" Guilt stabbed him at the thought.

  "Unless it was a lie, there is no other possibility."

  "How badly are you injured?"

  She shook her head. "It’s bad."

  Christopher’s jaw clenched. "Is this why you didn’t come walking with mother and me?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you want to leave?"

  "And go where? Back home? No thank you. He’s been drinking all day. If I can stay away until he’s passed out, I might just make it through the evening unscathed. But if he finds me when he’s drunk…" she swallowed. "I’m afraid."

  "Afraid of what?"

  "I’m not sure I can survive much more." A tear escaped, rolling down her cheek.

  The despair on her face showed she was neither exaggerating, nor trying to be dramatic.

  "Oh, little love. I’m sorry. This is my fault, isn’t it?"

  "No, not at all. There’s always something, Christopher. If it weren’t you, he would find another excuse. This… flirtation means the world to me. You can’t imagine how lovely it is to be able to leave the house and have something to look forward to. At home... it’s always the same."

  "Flirtation? No, love. This is not a flirtation." His voice was dark with passion and intensity, and it showed in his eyes and expression.

  "What then?"

  "It’s a courtship, of course."

  Her eyes wide
ned.

  "Did you really think my intentions towards you were anything other than honorable?"

  "I didn’t think you had intentions at all."

  "I do."

  Much was said in those simple words, and Katerina understood it all. A courtship was intended to lead to a marriage. Marriage meant the authority of her father over her would end. She could trust her future to the care of a different, hopefully less brutal man. But she knew herself, how desperately damaged she was. How could she be a proper wife? Oh God, a mother? She shook her head.

  "Don’t court me Christopher. I’m no good for you."

  "Let me decide what’s good for me."

  "I’m broken."

  "I’ll fix you."

  "You can’t."

  "I will. If you want to be fixed, it can be done."

  He lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her gently. It was delicious, just like before, and wanton pleasure streaked through her as his lips pressed hers.

  "I want you, Katerina," he said, releasing her mouth. "I want to court you. I like the attraction between us. Don’t you like it?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "Do you like being with me?"

  "Of course. You’re…quite wonderful."

  "I would never suggest this under ordinary circumstances, but let me court you in secret. If I can’t do this the right way, let me do the wrong thing the best I can. Spend time with me when no one is looking. Get to know me. I think there’s a future here."

  "To what end? We can never become engaged."

  "I know. When we’re ready we’ll simply have to elope."

  When. Not if.

  "He’ll be furious." She shuddered in terror, and then winced.

  "And as my wife, he can keep his fury to himself because he would no longer have authority over you."

  "How can I in good conscience allow you to do this? You want me to be your… sweetheart, maybe even your wife someday, and I just want to be rescued."

  "Rescuing the damsel and marrying her is a fine English tradition, love. What comes after is up to you. Do you want to spend the rest of your life destroyed by the terror of your youth?"

  "Of course not."

  "Then take the opportunity. We could do well together, you and I."

  She looked into his eyes. He was so sincere, so open, and she was a morass of dark and fearful impulses, little more than an animal, running and hiding. How could she ever open up to him?

  "I don’t think I’m able to trust."

  "Of course not. Not yet. That takes time. Give yourself the time. Eventually you’ll see I won’t harm you."

  "You’re taking a huge risk."

  "I know. I’m willing."

  "How can I say no?"

  "Don’t."

  As persuasion, he kissed her again.

  There had been not one kind touch in her life since her mother’s death a decade ago. Christopher’s mouth on hers released a torrent of pleasure. It represented every embrace she had missed because her father loved alcohol and control more than he loved her. Unable to resist him, she lifted her aching arms and slid them around his neck, pulling him closer. His hands left her hips and encircled her waist, squeezing her.

  Katerina screamed in agony as his arms pressed the bruised flesh of her lower back. She felt a deep scab split open and a trickle of blood ran down her left buttock.

  His grip eased instantly.

  "Oh God, what? What happened?"

  "It hurts." Her words were stark. A moment later she began to cry.

  Christopher’s gut clenched. He had spent the last week struggling not to think about this. He didn’t want to be swayed, didn’t want to believe it could be this severe, but her raw sobs destroyed his self-delusion. It really was an emergency. And he had to understand.

  "Just how badly are you injured?"

  She couldn’t answer. She was shaking too hard.

  Carefully he lifted her, one arm under her knees, the other behind her shoulders, and carried her out of the parlor. He had been in this home many times and was aware of a little retiring room off down the hall. He brought her there, glad to find the key inside the lock. After ensuring their privacy, he laid her gently, face down, on a black velvet chaise in the corner.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I have to know, love."

  "Please, Christopher. I don’t want you to see."

  "I’m sure you don’t." But that didn’t stop him. He opened the fastenings of her dress. As always, when threatened, she froze, unresisting, trying to become invisible. It didn’t work. It never did. She longed to protest, but the ability had long since been beaten out of her, and so she submitted in humiliated silence.

  He opened the back of her dress, pulling it down around her waist, turning to her laces. "Love, why on earth did you wear this thing if you’re hurting?"

  "Vanity." Her voice caught, "I wanted to be pretty for you."

  "You are pretty. Don’t hurt yourself on my account again. Promise me?"

  She didn’t respond. At last the garment was loosened completely and he gently removed it. As her compressed rib cage expanded, the spots swimming in Katerina’s vision dissipated. She became suddenly aware of just how compromising their position was. She was mostly naked from the waist up in the presence of a man she had met a mere two weeks ago. If anyone found them… the wedding would become inevitable. She didn’t realize that for Christopher, it already was.

  Through the thin fabric of her linen chemise, he could already see something alarming. The skin of her back was uneven. The garment lay in ridges and furrows as though on newly ploughed earth. Gently, he slid the fabric down… or tried to. It stuck to her in several places. His fingers began to tremble as he revealed her body.

  Christopher had always adored a woman’s back, from the broadest point at the shoulders, narrowing to the waist, flaring at the buttocks, a long line of smooth unblemished skin, perfect for kissing. Katerina’s back was like nothing he had seen before. She was marked from her shoulder blades down, as low as he could see with her dress and chemise around her waist, with thick crossing scars. Some were clearly very old, others newer, and, horror of horrors, some were fresh. There were recent wounds, deep terrible marks of a beating bordering on torture, cut open, scabbed. One low on her back where he had embraced her was bleeding. Interspersed among the whip marks were deeper bruises, long straight lines, livid purple, fading to yellow.

  "Oh my God." He said, nauseous with disgust and rage, "What did this?"

  "He started with a horse whip, but it broke."

  "And then?"

  "A walking stick."

  One deeply bruised injury wrapped around her side. He gently rolled her, following the line past her ribs, between which the undernourished flesh sank deeply, onto her belly. She was all black and blue there, the wounds so thickly overlaid that individual impact marks could not be distinguished. Bad as her back was, the blows to her belly were far more dangerous. She could have been killed.

  "How on earth could you play?"

  "It was distracting. It helped."

  "This can’t go on."

  "What can be done?"

  "Can you try to trust me, love? I can make it all stop, for good."

  "It’s too soon."

  "I know. How often… does this happen?"

  "Often."

  "Weekly?"

  "Yes."

  "You were right to worry you might not survive another beating. This," he touched her belly gently, "could easily have resulted in fatal internal injuries. I won’t have your death on my conscience."

  "You didn’t hit me."

  "But I know what’s happening. If I don’t take action, I’m just as responsible. Marry me, Katerina. Let me take you away from all this. Please?"

  "Is this a valid basis for marriage?"

  "I have to do something. As for the marriage, once you’re safe, we can work on making it what we want it to be. Please, love. Let me help you."

  He knelt beside her on
the floor. He longed to embrace her, but could find no place to put his hands that would not cause her agony, so he cupped her face instead. She winced. Removing his hand, he found it thickly smeared with cosmetics.

  "What are you covering up?"

  "Don’t ask questions, Christopher."

  "Fine. I can guess. But there is one thing I have to know."

  "What is it?"

  "In order to be able to protect you, our marriage has to be… consummated. The easiest way to demonstrate that is…"

  "A bloody sheet?"

  "Yes. Is it… possible? Has his abuse ever gone in that direction?" He hated even asking the question.

  "I’m not sure what you mean. I’ve always wondered where the blood came from."

  "Likely he didn’t then. Good. I’ll explain the rest later. We need to go."

  "Go where?"

  "First of all, I need to collect Cary. He’s a vicar. His uncle is a bishop. If we can get him to agree, we can get the license tonight, have the wedding first thing in the morning. It can all be over by tomorrow afternoon."

  "All right."

  "Yes?"

  "Yes. I don’t want to die, Christopher."

  He kissed her tenderly. "You won’t. Not now. You’ve found a champion."

  She smiled a little. Such a pretty smile. At last he noticed that in examining her injuries, he had also revealed her breasts. How lovely they were, small but sweetly rounded, with dusky brown nipples. He felt a jolt of desire, mixing into his tender protectiveness. The consummation would be very nice. But not yet. First they had to get married.

  Carefully he eased her chemise up over her body. There was no way he was putting that damned corset back on her. He gently settled her dress over her body, and was startled to note that it fit without the body shaping undergarment. Vanity really was a terrible thing.

  "All right, in order to get Cary and his uncle on our side, we need to show them how bad things are. I doubt you’re going to want them to see your bare back. If you wash your face, is what’s underneath… convincing?"

  "Probably."

  "All right. I’ll be right back. You wash up." He kissed her once, briefly, and was gone. It took her several tries, but she managed to hoist herself upright and make her way to the mirror. On a little wooden commode below was an ewer of cool water, creamy white and painted with little pink roses, and she washed the heavy powder away from her battered face. A glance in the mirror was all she spared herself. She looked terrible. Christopher was going to be furious when he saw.