by T T Thomas
Chapter 33
As dinner progressed, it was clear each woman believed it was the full disaster everyone knew it would be. If they were aiming for neutral territory, they failed stunningly.
Lena looked back and forth between Sabrina and her houseguest. She understood that Sabrina found Felicity’s winsome looks and vibrant personality attractive, but she could also see something Sabrina apparently missed. Felicity tried too hard. Her contributions to the conversation revealed a desire to impress. As such, they fell short of the mark.
“I understand from Sabrina that you’ve contributed some wonderful designs to the collection,” she said, addressing Felicity.
The younger woman shrugged. “Mere concept sketches, really, as I mainly do the embroidering of the House of Bliss symbol. But I do believe the trend is leaning toward more comfortable garments.”
“In what way?”
Felicity moved her green beans around on her plate. “Corsets will be looser by design, not so restrictive, and that notion opens the possibilities for other undergarments, which is my particular specialty. I see brassieres becoming the most popular undergarment, and so I’ve drawn sketches of camisoles and slips that complement the changes. Is that right, Sabrina?”
“Well, we don’t expect corsets to fall completely out of fashion,” Sabrina clarified. “But Felicity’s quite right about the younger generations not wanting so much restriction.”
“The French seem to think corsets are on the way out,” Felicity said.
Lena laughed before speaking. “I shouldn’t wonder they do. Their women are so thin they barely need a corset.”
Sabrina smiled in agreement. Felicity gave a slight frown and another shrug. Lena smiled.
Having exhausted all variations on weather and fashion, each woman showed an unnatural interest in the contents of her plate. Cath and Walters brought something Cath called Arabian Lamb Chops to the table. Sabrina frowned. It sounded familiar, but…
It was little more than an amalgam of soupy tomato, onion and green pepper sauce served over what appeared to be conventionally grilled chops. No one had the heart to disabuse Cath of her unorthodox and decidedly queer cooking concoctions.
Sabrina partially raised her wine glass in a mock toast. “To Monsieur Voltaire, who famously said, ‘England has forty-two religions and only two sauces.’”
Ignoring or not hearing the slight, Cath served Felicity while Walters served Sabrina and Lena. “Now ordinarily, this is called Arabian Pork Chops,” Cath declared. “But I thought to exchange the pork for lamb.”
“Cheers. And thank you so much, Cath,” Felicity said.
As Felicity acknowledged her efforts, Cath continued. “I trust it won’t be too spicy for the ladies.” She heaped the sauce onto Felicity’s lamb chop. “I held back on the dried hot pepper flakes.”
“And thank God you did,” murmured Sabrina. “I believe that’s a good thing,” she said more clearly, “as Lena does not prefer overly spicy food.”
“Well, I adore it, the spicier the better,” said Felicity. She carved into the chop, slathered her forkful with the sauce and put it into her mouth.
Her facial expression was unrehearsed. Her eyes opened wide and stayed big. She fanned her half-open mouth with her right hand and reached for her water goblet so quickly she nearly knocked it over. After a generous gulp or two, she laughed. “Oh, my. Hotter than the Sahara, I do opine.”
Sabrina kept her eyes down and her water goblet close. She cut a small piece of chop, barely touched it to the sauce and put it in her mouth. Nothing. Not hot. Not spicy. Not even seasoned. Lamb was absolutely the worst meat for this sauce. The sauce was not that great on pork chops, but on lamb it tasted all wrong. Then she noticed that Walters had served her and Lena, while Cath dealt the near-death blow to Felicity, who was refilling her water goblet from the pitcher.
Sabrina glanced at Lena who was unable to hide her mirth. And then it happened.
“I understand you are Annabel’s sister,” Lena said. “I remember her well. Lovely person.”
Felicity stopped fanning long enough to enquire. “Oh, really? How nice. And how do you happen to know Bel?” She peered down at her chop and cut a small piece, scraped the sauce off it and put it into her mouth.
Sabrina eyes narrowed as she looked at Lena. Oh, don’t you dare. Not now. Not here.
“We lived in the same—”
“Boarding house,” Sabrina interrupted. “They lived in the same boarding house.”
“I see. I can’t say I’ve heard her mention your name.”
“No, well, I shouldn’t wonder,” Lena said, stabbing her green beans with her fork, “as she was closer friends with Sabrina. Of course.”
“Of course?”
“Of course because, um, well, we knew a few of the same people,” Sabrina said.
Felicity laughed. “Oh, you mean like your father? Yes, well, he did handle her divorce.”
Lena looked at Sabrina and kept a straight face. “Ah, darling, I thought you knew Bel after her divorce, not before or during. Hmm. How did I get that so wrong?” Lena shrugged and went back to her chop.
Felicity’s glance moved in a side-ways direction as she looked closely at Sabrina who seemed to be have an unfathomably attentive intrigue with her lamb chop.
“How did you meet my sister, Sabrina? I thought it was here at the house when she came to call on your father for legal assistance.”
Sabrina shifted in her chair and tossed Lena an under-the-eyelids look of murder. “Socially, somehow,” she blurted out. “And briefly. It might have been here.”
Felicity put her knife and fork down.
Sabrina looked up and gave a guilty half shrug. “I’ve long ago forgot how it all came about,” she said, waving her right hand in dismissal.
Felicity looked back and forth between Lena and Sabrina. “My sister was a teacher,” Felicity said, matter-of-factly. “So, I’m not sure…”
“Well, of course she was, dear, and an excellent one apparently.” Lena said, “How on earth do you think we all met? Teachers and their students stick together. To Shelter House,” she said, raising her wine glass and emptying it quickly.
Felicity’s half smile disappeared altogether. She turned toward Sabrina, but at the recognition and pain in her paramour’s eyes, Sabrina looked away.
Shelter House. Mrs. Tornage’s. One and the same.
Walters came in to refill the wine glasses. “I believe we’ll move to brandy in the library,” Sabrina said without a smile. “Oh, and Walters, do call a driver to have Miss Thornbrook picked up in a half hour for the return to her flat.”
Walters looked around the table with a sweeping glance that told him all he needed to know. Lena had her head down and Felicity was practically standing up, ready to leave the table. He bowed and left the room.
Then, Cath materialized with a big tureen of flan. “And what about your dessert I toiled on all day? Won’t ye be wanting any?”
Sabrina stood. “In the library with our brandies,” she said curtly. Cath backed into the kitchen.
“You two go on ahead,” Felicity said. “I’ve developed a horror of a headache. I believe I’d better retire now. Goodnight,” she said, to no one in particular.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lena said. Then in a conspiratorial voice, she leaned over to Felicity and added, “I do hope it wasn’t that awful sauce. Cath and her experiments.”
By the time Lena and Sabrina sat down in the library, Sabrina’s face was a tomato shade of red.
“I’m sorry, I thought she knew about you and Bel,” Lena said in a whisper.
“Well, she’s bloody suspicious now, is she not?” Sabrina fumed. “That is not how I planned to tell her.”
“Really? You planned to tell her? How? Oh, by the way, Felicity, I’ve had the same carnal knowledge of your sister as I’ve had of you? Like that?”
Sabrina wouldn’t look at Lena. “You’re right, of course,” she mumbled.
�
�What’s that? I’m right?”
Sabrina managed to nod in the affirmative and shake her head in negation, almost simultaneously. “It sounds so much more sordid than it was,” she said.
Lena stood. “I think I heard the driver and Walters at the front door,” she said, “but darling, believe me when I tell you, it was sordid enough from this perspective. I’ll see myself out.”
As Sabrina covered her eyes with her hand, Lena had made a hasty retreat to the parlor entrance. She bade Walters goodnight. When Sabrina looked out the window, she could see Lena being helped into the carriage.
“Feck me, feck me, feck me!” she fumed. “To holy hell.” She reached into the desk drawer for the laudanum, only to find the second bottle wasn’t there. She opened each drawer. Nothing. She picked up the old bottle and put it up to her lips. Only a few drops. Not nearly enough to blot out the reality that was now her life.
She saw her worn leather Journal at the back of the drawer and pulled it out. She read a couple lines. Disgusted, she tossed it back into the drawer. What was the use of writing anything, anyway? How long had it been since she wrote in the diary? Never mind. She couldn’t trust her own perceptions, she couldn’t believe her own heart, and now she’d deeply, perhaps irretrievably, wounded someone to whom she owed so much.
Part III
Chapter 34
Before midnight
Sabrina tossed and turned before finally taking a wool afghan out to her veranda to sit under the stars to try to get sleepy. After an hour, she decided to write in her journal. She turned the lamp on and crawled into her bed, her leather notebook in hand.
I cannot recall a time I felt as powerful as the moment I realized I had become a complete orphan. Parents gone, auntie gone, and even the memories of each person fading with each passing day.
At times, certainly, I’d see a face or a gesture in the playground of my mind. Worse, I’d hear a familiar voice calling my name. A tease, a token, a souvenir. A mere memento of the real thing. It was never faithful, trusty, dependable. Voice was the hardest for it captured an identifying essence. Voice is like a signature, a fingerprint, a photograph—it is both the person and not the person, a reasonable facsimile but an inauthentic reality. And yet, I’d hear a voice, at once disconcerting and approximate. Not quite strong enough to sway me, guide me, comfort me.
I realized that whatever power I was feeling was all mine. I was truly alone, free to build a life of my own, to withdraw or venture out, to speak or silent stay. I was free to be alone and free to…No. Not that.
I would never be free to love.
My kind of love was not free. It was not without cost, or danger. It was not without repercussions I could only imagine, but imagine I did. Therefore, love did not feel safe.
Divine dissatisfaction, blessed unrest!
Sabrina held her pen aloft. Now what? Maybe some warm milk would bring sleep. She covered her pen and closed the notebook but left both on the bed.
Once in the kitchen, she realized she had no idea where anything was located. She found a small pan to heat the milk, and then rummaged through cupboards in search of a suitable large mug. She managed to nudge something just enough to have it fall from the cupboard and onto the counter. No breakage but plenty of noise. She cocked her ear to listen. Nothing. Maybe no one heard the noise she had made. She took her heated milk upstairs and slipped back into her bed. After a few sips of the warm and soothing brew, she began writing again.
So, as suddenly as I felt powerful, thus did I begin to feel the dearth of power. My moment of power was so short-lived I began to lose it as soon as I named it.
To find my power, again, it would have to accrue to me naturally—I would have to turn cloth into fashion and oddity into charm and luck into love. But how?
I had the answer but not the formula. Over time, though, I saw that I would have to turn fear and fright and the urge to take flight into energy, into courage, into destination. I was uniquely unqualified for any of it. Naturally, I couldn’t wait to begin.
So begin I did. I wasn’t good at knowing what to do first. But I could draw. I could design clothing. I could make the clothing fashionable. It was the only thing I knew for sure I could do. I’d need others to help me with the rest.
The sounds and words of my departed beloveds held no love. I could conjure up their voices, but not their hearts. I would need actual love, not merely the memory of it. Friendship, Intimacy, Passion, Devotion, Art: That was my formula, that would be my miracle. That would be the proof of my new power. I don’t know how I knew to think it thus. Perhaps, like a garment, I knew it had to fit, and it had to suit me.
Abundant generosity. Rarity of affirmation.
Excerpt from Sabrina Blissdon’s journal, Exhibit 5 Evidence File No. 3.
The next day, Sabrina woke early, dressed and went to her studio to write a few notes for the staff. They would begin fittings in a few weeks, and she needed all her samples in a finished state and put on the mannequins for display. She left before any of the workers arrived and walked to the front of the house where a carriage and driver waited.
When she knocked on Lena’s door, she took a deep breath to steady herself. She didn’t dare use her own key. She didn’t deserve an unreservedly warm welcome, but she needed one.
Suddenly, Lena stood there in her floor-length black silk dressing gown. She looked beautiful. Her eyelids were slightly red-rimmed, from crying obviously. Her flawless skin with small, lovely smile lines on either side of her pretty lips, her blue, blue eyes and the way her shoulders sunk in visible relief and regret, caught Sabrina by surprise and left her speechless. The naked grief supporting the wounded soul astounded her.
Wordlessly, Sabrina stepped across the threshold with an inner shiver of consternation. After Lena closed the door and turned to face her visitor, Sabrina held her close for a long time, neither saying a word.
Lena took Sabrina’s hand and led her to the bedroom. Their lovemaking was soundless as their greeting, soft as a slippered footstep, sacred and solemn as a requiem Mass. Afterwards, Lena spoke first.
“I am not prepared to stop loving you,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper, “but I can’t be cast aside every time you see a pretty woman—I’m not strong enough for an endless diet of that. So, if you love me, Sabrina Blissdon, then it must be complete, and exclusive, and you must swear it to me. Or I must leave.”
Sabrina was beside her, feeling Lena’s courage, hearing the tremulous strain of speaking after having been so deeply hurt. Sabrina couldn’t find her voice, but every fiber of her being quivered with a desire to answer. Instead, she wept. For the longest time, her weeping did not subside. Lena reached for her, held her close and soothed her hair as she calmed the trembling body in her arms.
After a while, when Lena had dried Sabrina’s face with the sheet, she gave her supplicant a look of merciless perceptivity in concert with benevolent compassion. “Might I conclude that is a ‘Yes,’ Miss Blissdon?”
Sabrina, still without her voice, nodded affirmatively.
“Good,” said Lena, moving to get up. “That calls for a magnum of champagne, but as it’s barely past dawn, I believe I’ll make us strong coffee.”
“Yes, please. Strong.” Sabrina managed. Her voice was low and hoarse. “And I swear,” she added as she reached for Lena. They sealed the covenant with a kiss as loving and sensuous and pretty as any they had ever shared.
Lena left the room, and Sabrina took some deep breaths of relief before jumping out of bed and donning that day’s best behavior suit, which she had chosen with care before dawn. She pulled on her father’s newly tailored, light gray summer seersucker trousers and fastened the braces over her white cotton shirt.
She felt such huge relief she took the collar off the shirt and stuffed the salmon-colored tie in her coat pocket. She did slip into the suit jacket, but took it off again in favor of carrying it over her arm as befitting the casual nature of…oh, right—breakfast with her lover.
Sabrina smiled for the first time in twenty-four hours.
Over coffee and warm, buttered croissants with blackberry jam, Lena brought Sabrina up to date on her discoveries. “I am certain,” Lena said, “that there is a connection between everything. I found the record of your parents’ marriage—they secretly married before he left for London, and, apparently, they conceived you when—”
“So, Louis Blissdon is my father?”
“Yes, I never really doubted it. There were no social announcements, but there was a report of a civil ceremony. It might not have been what the family wanted to acknowledge publicly. And I still don’t know why George had virtually no contact with your father and only minimal interaction with Sarah.”
Sabrina blinked. “I think I was conceived out of wedlock. Not in itself all that unusual back then, or now,” Sabrina said. Smiling, she added, “I’m personally thrilled to know my parents were adventurous that way. And I know for a fact they were deeply in love. So this Markham fellow is my…what? Uncle?”
“Step-uncle I would think. He was your father’s half-brother.”
“I never met him.”
“I would say Hugh Glyver is our common denominator. He married Bel. He was college mates with George Markham. Bel sought legal help from Markham’s half-brother, your father, Louis R. Blissdon.”
Lena continued. “Now that I have discovered Markham was your father’s half-relative, I sense that nothing is what it seems.” Lena studied her hand-written research notes as they sat at the table. “And I have one other concern here, though I’m not sure if…I’m not certain it’s relevant.”
Sabrina glanced up from the pages spread across the table. She waited.
“Did you ever meet your aunt Sarah Blissdon?”
“Yes, I did—she bought my first corset, before I even began the business, but she died not long after. She was…a force of nature.” Sabrina laughed. “My father used to tell me I took after his sister, Sarah—strong-willed, outspoken and unorthodox.”
