Keeping Katerina (The Victorians)

by Simone Beaudelaire

  Katerina looked away, granting them privacy. Christopher’s thumb traced the side of her hand. It would have been more proper to hold his arm, but the allure of his strong fingers laced through hers was more than she could resist.

  "Christopher," a young man with light brown hair and lines around his mouth and eyes that didn’t fit his lack of years, approached, "Where on earth have you been? Mrs. Wilder says you disappeared from the party last time with Cary and Miss Valentino, never to be seen again. I’ve been to your rooms and you moved out without a word."

  "Sorry, Collin," Christopher replied, "I was caught up in a situation which required immediate attention."

  "Well it must have been quite a situation for you to move and not let your best friend know where you’d gone. The most ridiculous rumors are circulating everywhere."

  Christopher changed the subject. "I believe you’ve met Katerina before?"

  "Yes. Miss Valentino." He nodded to her politely, but distractedly.

  "Good to see you again, Lord Galway."

  He started violently at the sound of her soft voice. "She speaks. Good heavens, will the sky fall next?"

  "I think it’s already fallen," Katerina replied, a hint of a smile on her lips.

  "What rumors?" Christopher asked insouciantly.

  "They say you’ve gone and married her, all on a whim."

  "Humph. For once they’ve gotten right, eh, love?"

  "It would appear so."

  Collin gawped at the two of them. "You’re married?"

  "Yes."

  Katerina nodded.

  "Why?" It was not a flattering question, and Katerina’s cheeks colored.

  Christopher gave his wife a long look. He intended to spread the story that they were struck by an irresistible attraction. It was the truth, if not exactly the complete story, but Collin had been his best friend since childhood, and he hated deceiving him. Katerina looked back at her husband, feeling his conflict, wanting to ease this moment for him.

  "I was in a… difficult situation. He came to my rescue. He’s very much a hero." For emphasis, she wrapped her arm around his and rested her cheek on his shoulder in a warm embrace.

  Collin looked at her, disbelieving.

  "No, not that kind of situation," Christopher reassured his friend.

  "What?" Katerina asked.

  "Love, when a woman needs rescuing from a ‘difficult situation’, she’s often implying she’s with child by someone irresponsible."

  "Oh. No, nothing like that, Lord Galway. My father, he was…" she looked at Christopher.

  "You don’t mind if I tell him?"

  "He’s your friend. He needs to know the truth." Her dark eyes met Collin’s. "My Lord, I would prefer this not become public knowledge, please."

  Collin nodded.

  "He was beating her. You can’t imagine how badly. I couldn’t leave her in that kind of danger." He gave her an intense look, the kind of look Collin had never seen on his friend’s face before. The abuse might have spurred the hasty marriage, but Christopher WANTED to be with this woman, and now that her shyness had abated somewhat, Collin could see why. Her loveliness and vulnerability were very appealing. But still.

  He shook his head, "Married. Humph. Well I suppose someone had to be first to take the plunge. Better you than me."

  Christopher dodged the comment. "So how did the meeting go?"

  "It went nowhere. No one will give me credit because they know I will never be able to repay it. It’s terrible."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Damned if I know, begging your pardon, Mrs. Bennett. I mean, I’m going to economize every way I can, and work as hard as I can, and hope to stave off disaster for a few more years. After tonight, I’m giving up my London lodgings, heading home. There’s nothing more to be done here. I’ll take stock of what I have left. Perhaps parts from the worst of the tenant houses can be used to improve the ones that still have some life left in them, and then, if we can plant in the spring… I don’t know. The land needs to rest for several years, but then no one will earn anything. It’s an impossible mess."

  "I’m sorry, Collin," Christopher told his friend, "Is there anything I can do?"

  "Not unless you have about thirty thousand pounds you don’t need and won’t ask to have returned."

  It was a staggering sum, and Christopher, though he was quite well-to-do, had nothing like that at his disposal. No one really did.

  Katerina put her hand on Collin’s arm. He looked at her.

  "I’m so terribly sorry, Lord Galway. May I… say a prayer for you?"

  "You may. I think the Lord is the only one who can help me now."

  "Then I shall do that."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Bennett."

  "Well, good evening, friends," Mrs. Wilder approached, ending the personal conversation.

  "Good evening, Mrs. Wilder," Christopher greeted their hostess.

  "Mr. Bennett, you are in disgrace tonight."

  "Why is that?"

  "You and Mr. Cary both left last time without a word, so early, and you took your poems with you. We had to improvise on the spot, and found nothing of any great interest."

  "I apologize. I had an emergency."

  "Yes, I know."

  "You do?"

  "Well, certain clues were left abandoned in my retiring room. They told a very interesting story. Would you like them back?"

  Katerina blanched. In the sudden crisis, they had abandoned not only her wrap, but also, horrors, her corset. Finding an undergarment left behind was certain to cause gossip.

  "Don’t fret, dear. Fortunately, I found it first and hid it away. You may have it back if you would like, but there’s quite a quantity of blood there."

  "I’m sure there is. I… we didn’t…"

  "I know what you did and did not do in my retiring room dear. Scandalous behavior does not generally cause bleeding in the middle of one’s back."

  "Right."

  "And Mr. Bennett is a gentleman."

  "Yes. He is. I’m the most fortunate of women."

  "Are you truly married then?"

  "Yes."

  Mrs. Wilder nodded. "Do you honestly want that thing back? If not, I can dispose of it."

  "I would be very grateful if you would."

  "And your shawl?"

  "Now that I would not mind having again. There’s a great deal of winter left."

  "Indeed. Now then, Mrs. Bennett, do you think you might be prevailed upon to play for these gatherings from time to time?"

  "Certainly, if everyone wishes it."

  "Excellent. I think we may have begun a new tradition. We can meet in celebration of the arts, not just poetry."

  Katerina smiled shyly. "I shall have to begin researching and rehearsing new pieces, so I have something fresh to contribute as well."

  "Friends," Mrs. Wilder addressed the room in a carrying voice, and all conversations ceased, "I have news. Our own Christopher Bennett has wisely not allowed his lovely pianist to escape, but made her a permanent member of the group. From now on, our very own Mrs. Bennett, and any other musician who has the skill, can aid with the before-dinner entertainment."

  The words Mrs. Bennett caused a shocked murmur to ripple through the group. Katerina, uncomfortable with all the stunned stares, clung to her husband’s arm. He patted her fingers gently as she tried to make herself relax and smile.

  "Excellent." The gentleman who had been so tipsy the last time, tonight was sober, sitting on the sofa with a lovely brown-haired woman of about thirty years. "My dear, you can’t imagine the glorious concert we had last week. Well done, Bennett."

  "Thank you, Reardon."

  But tonight there was no time for playing. As Christopher had warned his wife, he was often late, and this time they had missed the pre-dinner festivities entirely. The group retired to the dining room. This was not a party of the sort given by the upper echelons of society, with menus printed in French and a goal of showing everyone how extrava
gant one was. The only lord present was Collin, and he was certainly no snob. This was a group of friends who gathered to enjoy poetry and food together, and the soup, fish, meat, and dessert were all carefully and skillfully prepared without being cosseted. They ate, and enjoyed, and enough lovely wine was served that everyone was glowing with good cheer, but no one was intoxicated. And at last the meal ended and the guests returned to the salon for the main event.

  Katerina, knowing the Browning poems would be featured, had read each one several times, hoping the emotional impact would fade and she could appreciate the words without being moved to tears.

  Christopher lifted the folio and opened to the less controversial of the two poems, ‘My Last Duchess.’ It was much more subtle than the other, and he read it very well, his voice rigidly controlled, but occasionally tinged with rage as he attempted to portray the mad Duke of Ferrara. Katerina shivered. She hoped never to know what it was to receive such cold anger from her precious husband. She sat in silence as the impassioned conversation began. He resumed his seat beside her and, in the space between their legs, took her hand in his.

  She looked at him silently, ignoring the discourse, focused solely on Christopher. Tomorrow they would leave for their wedding tour. The preparations for foreign travel had taken quite a bit of time, and many telegrams had been sent and received, but in the end, it was all decided. They would leave by train for Southampton first thing in the morning, and then board a ship for Livorno. From there another train would take them to Florence, where her grandfather would send a carriage to retrieve them. He had absolutely insisted they stay with him on his estate in the countryside, and not in a hotel in town.

  She was terribly excited, of course. Her life had been so small, so restricted, and she was so fearful that, had she been alone, she would have hidden forever. Now she would have a chance to travel, to see more of the world than her little corner of London. She would never have done it without Christopher. He made her bigger than she was, braver. He was a creature she had never expected to find… a good man.

  She really did not want to listen to the other poem. It was too visceral, too graphic, and no number of re-readings had softened the blow in her mind, so when Collin started to recite, she turned her attention to the hand she was holding. Christopher might have been a business owner, but that hadn’t stopped him from working with his hands. He had operated every machine in the factory to test its safety, had hauled cotton and bolts of fabric, had examined the looms and the dyeing vats. He had the strength of a laborer, the mind of an engineer, and the body of a god. He was glorious. How could he be for her, for timid Katerina? It made no sense. A reward this great must surely be for some colossal act of good, but she had done nothing, not one thing in her life to help others. She had been too isolated for that, had lived in self-centered terror.

  She thought back over the weeks of their marriage. It had only been a short time, but already she was learning him. She knew what he liked to eat for breakfast, and which newspaper he preferred to read, and that he would rather drink coffee than tea. And she knew his touch. Ah, it was lovely, in his arms, in his bed. As he had promised, the more they came together the better it felt. He offered affection with the sex, and she took it greedily, never having realized a touch could heal and please and not merely harm and frighten.

  She stroked his fingers, feeling calluses from both work and writing, scars from the wild things children did, like the time he had chased a bird and actually caught it. The beak mark would remain in his palm for life. Those were good scars, the marks of living a full and interesting life.

  She too was permanently marred, but not with the marks of living. She bore the scars of the half-life of slaves and criminals. Fiercely, she reminded herself that an unsmooth back was hardly the most horrible disfigurement a woman could endure. Vanity served no purpose and she should let it go. No one knew how badly she was disfigured except her husband, and if there were a silver lining, it was that the sight of those wounds had spurred him to marry her. Would she really trade her husband for smooth skin? No, she would not. Marriage was better, so much better. Every day was subtly better than the one before. Already she was crying less, laughing more, not because she was trying to force herself, but because it was just what felt right to do so. A sweet little smile broke over her face. She was getting closer to understanding safe, and happy, and those were very good things. She liked them. And tonight she would ask her husband to make her feel them again. She knew he would be agreeable. Her body tingled at the thought.

  The poem was long, but not the longest they had ever read, about a page in length, and the discussion broke out almost instantly.

  "What a dreadful thing."

  "Is this a poem or a women’s liberation propaganda piece?"

  "Are you sure Robert wrote that and not his wife? It sounds like a woman’s writing."

  "Not really. No woman would write something so inelegant."

  "I think it’s horrible. I don’t want to think about things like that."

  Katerina, against her will, found her voice speaking into the din, softly, but audibly.

  "How convenient to be able not to think about it. Those who endure it do not have that option. The Duchess of Ferrara is fictional, and so is Porphyria, but real women and children are treated with violence in our city every day. Mr. Browning wants us to be aware, so we can help, be good Samaritans, not cross the road like the Pharisees."

  The room fell utterly silent at her unexpected comment.

  "But, Mrs. Bennett, how can we help? The law says a man has a right to discipline his wife." This was Reardon, but his tone was gentle, not mocking.

  Mrs. Wilder answered, "And is a woman a child in need of disciplining? I think most wives are adults and can make their own choices about their behavior, and if a husband has a complaint, he should try saying it. Being able to converse with your spouse is sensible, but so many men refuse, just as the Duke of Ferrara did."

  "And even if most husbands treat their wives gently, and most fathers discipline their children appropriately, not having a caveat in the law to deal with abuse and bullying leads to situations like these, where power-hungry men can torture their dependents, even kill them." Katerina said as she squeezed her husband’s hand, thankful he was trustworthy. He squeezed back and then slid his arm behind her.

  "Well, I still think the poem is ugly." The girl who had been so prone to pouting last week said sulkily.

  "Miss Carlisle," Cary told the girl, "given what he is trying to do, a pretty poem would make little sense."

  "I suppose," the golden haired girl sighed, "and I promise to give a tithe of my pin money this week to help… someone. Now, can we please read something prettier?"

  "If you want something pretty, Miss Carlisle," Cary replied, his voice warm with attraction, his eyes urging her to notice him, "I have just the thing." He crossed to the bookshelf and scooped up a little volume.

  "’The Lady of Shalott’, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson."

  From the first elegant lines, Miss Carlisle sighed with pleasure and listened raptly. Katerina listened too. The sad sweet beauty of the words washed over her, making her smile. Tennyson certainly was a more skilled writer. However, if he was trying to improve the world with this poem, it was difficult to see how. Well no matter, different works had different purposes, and pure enjoyment was hardly wrong. So she gave herself over to it, loving the skillful manipulation of words, the sound of James Cary’s well-modulated voice as he attempted to woo the young lady, the shivery pleasure of her husband’s hand on her, stroking.

  A poem as lovely as that one was more inclined to provoke silence than conversation, and at its conclusion the guests began to drift away, drenched in images of sun and woven tapestries and lovely ladies singing. Katerina glanced up in time to see Cary escorting Miss Carlisle out the door, but not to leave. It appeared another young lady would be kissed on the balcony this evening. She smiled. With luck Cary could turn her pout to a smile.<
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  "Ready to go, love?"

  "Oh yes, let’s." Katerina’s smile grew wider. She would also be kissed this evening, and so much more.

  They located their hostess.

  "Thank you for the lovely evening, Mrs. Wilder."

  "Thank you for coming Mrs. Bennett. Your apt comments were greatly appreciated."

  "Mrs. Wilder, we will not be attending for several weeks," Christopher informed her, "We’ll be taking a trip to Italy, starting in the morning."

  "Well I hope you both enjoy yourselves. Some Italian sunshine in February sounds lovely."

  "It does. I’m looking forward to it," Katerina said softly.

  And so they took their leave, heading home. Apparently Katerina was not the only one who had been moved by the last poem. No sooner did the carriage door close behind them, than Christopher was pulling her close so she was straddling his lap, planting wet sweet kisses on her mouth, one after the other.

  "Goodness, darling," she said as his lips trailed the delicate arch of her throat, "is everything all right?"

  "Oh yes," he pulled back and looked at her with glowing eyes, "I’m so very impressed you commented back there, actually spoke up in front of everyone. You’re doing so much better than I expected, little love. Your courage is… very arousing."

  "Well I’m glad you find it so. I wasn’t trying to be brave you know. It just bothers me how people try to ignore things they don’t like because the thoughts are unpleasant, while people are suffering and even dying around them. Bravo to Mr. Browning for making them look, and think."

  "That’s how I feel too, although before I read the poem, I must confess, such things didn’t occupy my mind as much as they do now." He told her more clearly what he meant by kissing her again. "Sweet love," he mumbled against her soft lips, "I’m so very glad I married you."