Lost love Historical romance

by Adele B.

  As often happens with lovers, the two hours allotted for the lesson passed much too quickly, and they had to withdraw unwillingly from their sweet embrace. Hand in hand they rose and headed for the door.

  “Till next Monday” Livia said in Romanian. These were the only Romanian words she had uttered in the past two hours, and seeing his surprised gaze, she repeated them in German.

  “Till next Monday” he repeated, as he was seeing her out.

  The same young soldier who had shown her in accompanied her towards the carriage where Hans was waiting, blowing in his hands and stomping his feet, trying to warm himself.

  The cold was bitter and she hurried inside the coach. The whole town seemed paralyzed by the cold, the few people who had dared to get out in such a weather were hurrying home, all bundled up in thick warm clothing. Hans was telling the horses to hurry, as thick clouds could be seen covering the livid sky.

  Livia reached home and was thrilled to see it was empty, the other women running errands in town. A large flower bunch was waiting for her in her room. Amongst the lilies, threateningly, laid a hand-written note.

  Livia took it with trembling hands and opened it; angered by what her husband had written, she tore it into a million pieces.

  “For my wonderful wife, with unbound love”

  It was the first time he had told her he loved her, and this was very painful for her. He wasn’t just giving her jewels and flowers; now he was using sweet words to try and reach her heart.

  # # #

  It was early morning and very cold. Livia was loitering in bed, waiting for the fire, just started by Lina, to gather force and warm up the room. Livia hated the cold, everything seemed ugly in it, both inside the house and out. The room seemed to lose its beauty, it appeared to shiver, even the furniture and rugs seemed to suffer and feel the cold which reigned everywhere now.

  The streets were empty, the snow had melted the previous day and left just a fine icy sheet in its stead. The bitter cold had chased everyone inside their houses, and long pales of smoke rose from every chimney.

  She jumped surprised out of bed when she heard intense, loud noise, unusual for the small side street she lived in. She wrapped a warm shawl around herself and hurried to the window. She was surprised to see the street filled with soldiers, Edward at the forefront, smiling and giving her a military salute. She answered with a smile of her own and a hand wave.

  And from that day, whenever he did not have lessons with Livia, Edward would pass in front of her house each morning, just to salute her. Every morning Livia would impatiently wait behind the curtains. Her face, framed by the windows, seemed a precious painting. The windowsill was like a costly frame and she seemed an ethereal and unmoving painting, always waiting. The same frame but a different Livia each day, with a different hairstyle and different, carefully chosen clothes.

  Love was making them grow careless. The inhabitants of the street, especially the women, easily understood why the soldiers would pass that way every day, as they had never done this before.

  # # #

  It was a horrible afternoon. The cold had given place to a frozen sleet, then turned into rain, melting the last traces of snow. Fog lay heavily on the pavement which was turning to black after being covered by white pristine snow for weeks. The fireplace with its merrily crackling flames was trying to enliven the room.

  Livia retreated from the window, took her embroidery and headed for Agatha’s apartment. Some winter days were just so sad, that the company of other people was really a blessing.

  Agatha welcomed her, taking her hands in her thin bony ones and smiling pleasantly. She steered her towards the soft armchair and offered warm tea. Livia thanked her with a smile, she liked to be pampered by a sincere person, now that she had started to care about this little old woman so suddenly incorporated into her life.

  They both started the needlework, as if racing against each other. Agatha’s old, bony and stained hands were unbeatable, they moved rhythmically up-down while the scarf grew longer and longer. Livia gave up, she was working slowly, careful not to miss anything, listening to the sleet tapping against the window.

  Agatha was working fast, her eyes seemingly riveted to the needles, but she was observing Livia from the corners of her eyes. She had noticed lately a change on the young woman’s face and in her countenance, in the different hairstyles. The old woman had had four husbands. Two of them she had loved, two of them not at all. Even now, after so many years, she could still decipher the signs of love, hate and indifference. Livia was in love, there was no doubt about it, and the old woman thought she knew who the man was. From her window she had noticed the strange path of the garrison’s soldiers. Never before had the regiment, on their way to the training grounds outside the city, passed through their street, She had also noticed the smile that young officer was directing towards Livia’s window. She had a feeling her young friend was going to have more trouble than she could handle, very soon.

  So she began; “You know, a few years back a happy young couple had moved into one of these houses. I could see them every evening as they took a walk, holding hands, smiling under fragrant lime trees or under falling snow. He never took his eyes off her, she shyly held his hand. This young couple had made me fall for them, when in my solitude I observed them from my window. One day I noticed her midrif had begun to swell, a clear sign of a pregnancy. He was surrounding her with care whenever they sat on the bench outside their house. She gave birth to a daughter, and they started their walks again, this time in three. Then his behaviour changed. I could see him becoming more and more careful towards the little girl, surrounding her with affection, smiling, playing with her, eating her with his eyes. The young woman, who had not managed to regain the graceful shape she had had before the birth, with widened hips and swollen belly, uncomfortably sat and watched him play with the girl, expecting a smile which did not come. But to no avail. He only had eyes for the child.

  My heart sank, I understood he didn’t love her anymore; and finally she understood it too. Her face became darker, her eyes hardened, her mouth clenched in a forced smile. She craved a caress from her husband, but no caress was forthcoming. Her husband did not, or pretended not to understand his young wife’s sufferings. Then one evening, as people were returning from church, I saw them running and stopping in front of the young family’s house, forming a curious circle. I opened the window, for I am deaf and hadn’t heard anything; but I had understood she couldn’t take his indifference anymore. She had thrown herself from the roof, her little daughter tightly grasped in her arms. I closed the window and drew the blinds, and did not look towards their house again for a whole year.

  Love has many traps, the soul can fly on exalted blissful wings or it can break in a moment, prey to the most abject desperation. Love is like mountain climbing, suitable only for the brave; both lovers and alpinists are subjected to the same risk – of falling from the most dizzying heights. A lover can fall from the peaks of happiness in the deepest depths of despair; a mountain climber can roll in the deepest chasm in just a second. It’s all a matter of life and death, my dear” Agatha finished. She hoped Livia would be cautious; she had known Petros for so many years and she understood he would never accept to be left for another man.

  Livia smiled, trying to hide her inner turmoil. She had not understood just what the old lady was trying to say. She had perhaps wished to tell her love was not eternal; that one day Edward might cease to love her, and it would be better to stay with Petros, taking advantage of all the comforts he was abundantly offering her. The message was meant for her, the old lady had sniffed something, surely she was trying to warn her. But whatever Agatha might have seen, she certainly did not know all the truth; she had no idea Livia was really feeling like a mountain climber, ready to throw herself into the abyss if need be. Because this life she had was no life at all; each night she feared Petros might decide to break down the door and claim his rights as a husband. And she could
not be soiled by his hands. She still trembled in disgust whenever she recalled his burly arms wrapped around her as he held her on the horse, abducting her from the meadow. The thought of feeling his steak and wine-reeking breath nauseated her. She would rather not think about anything he might intend to submit her body to.

  She hoped Fate would find a way for her to escape this dilemma, for she certainly could not do it all by herself.

  # # #

  Corinne was growing impatient. Her impulsive love had made her forget all about civilisation, honour and discretion. She started assaulting Edward with all kinds of gifts, inviting him at balls, appearing unexpectedly in front of the barracks when he was leading his troop out to the instruction fields. She saluted him expansively, with a love-struck air; but every time she had to deal with his cold, icy condescendence.

  She was becoming angrier each day. Edward seemed totally oblivious to her charms; so she needed to put an end to his idyll with Livia as soon as possible, and by any means necessary. Livia was a married woman and she should be forced to act in accordance with her status. They were both making a mistake, but she would open their eyes. In the end, Edward would be forced to admit that she, Corinne, was the right choice for him; young, rich, with no obligations.

  She had sent her spies both to Livia’s house and to the barracks, to observe and note everything. She furiously listened to stories about the morning parade of troops under Livia’s windows, about how she would wait patiently and wave to Edward as he passed by.

  Corinne craved all these attentions for herself, she envied Livia as she had never envied any other woman in her life, and for the first time in her life she was ready to act in a horrible way. She was not sure how to separate the lovers, but she would soon think about the perfect plan.

  # # #

  After a troubled night filled with contradictory thoughts, not sure whether she should expose the young peoples’ idyll, Corinne appeared in Petros’ store early in the morning. She could see him through the window, ordering the vendors around, displacing and moving circular bales of heavy brocade - and she hesitated for a moment. Then, deciding what she would have to do, she pushed the door handle, entering the coloured room. She walked slowly, thoughtfully, pretending to study the shelves filled with all kinds of fabrics. White silk for sumptuous bridal dresses, light and colourful materials for warm summer days, black veils for desperate widows.

  Petros approached hurriedly, as he always did whenever he spotted a well-dressed prospective customer. Corinne’s clothes were of the best quality, as were her hat and shoes. She was obviously a rich client, and he always catered to such persons himself.

  During the years he had acquired the strange habit of studying each customer as soon as they went through the door. Just by looking at the woman he could guess what fabric she would need. For thin women with small breasts he had fluffy, abundant materials, ideal for ruffled blouses. Hefty women with large breasts were best complimented by heavy velvets, to be turned into large caftans and long skirts. He had just the right fabric and colour for every woman; blonde or dark, red or chestnut-haired; he was never wrong. He made bodies seem thinner, presented delicate necks to their best advantage, hid prominent bellies, made shins look longer, and straightened shoulders. He was a magician of colours, and women adored him. He always brought with him his best seamstresses, so that they could hear his plans and ensure the fabrics would be turned into exactly the right kind of garment. Petros loved women, and he loved to transform and change them according to his wishes. Even the ugliest female would benefit from his tricks, becoming his faithful customer forever.

  As he was walking towards the young woman who was pensively studying the rolls of cloth, he made a quick battle plan. He would offer a precious, chocolate-brown fabric, and propose no tricks, as her body was almost perfect.

  Hearing his footsteps the young lady turned around, and he greeted her with a smile, for he recognized her now; he had seen her in town and on various occasions.

  “Good day, Mr Petros” said Corinne, flustered, suddenly remembering why she had entered the fabric shop.

  “I came to tell you I fell in love with a young officer, recently arrived in our city” she went on, more and more unsettled. She could still stop, she could choose not to say the rest. She could still leave the shop at a run; she would perhaps be considered crazy, but better crazy than a traitor. But no; she stood riveted to the floor, while he was gazing surprisedly at her.

  “Miss, I don’t understand” he said, embarrassed, It was the first time a customer addressed herself to him in such a way.

  “So you want to get married and you came to buy silk for a dress” he enunciated after a moment’s deliberation.

  Corinne smiled sadly. If only Edward had accepted to marry her, she would have bought the costliest Paris dress, and would of a certainty not have chosen a provincial town and a provincial dressmaker.

  “No” she hesitatingly said. “The problem is that every morning this young man passes by your house and affectionately greets your wife. I wouldn’t be here were I not absolutely certain that he is in love with her, and I have reason to believe she loves him too”

  On hearing these words Petros turned beet-red, his hands closed into fists and his eyes filled with so much hatred and anger that Corinne suddenly felt frightened. She had totally lost any self-assuredness she might have kept; she hadn’t expected such a powerful reaction. Scared, she left for her house, with the clear feeling that something horrible and irreparable was about to happen. In panic, she packed a few bags and left for Paris on the same day. She did not wish to set eyes on Edward, not even by accident. Sibiu was such a small town!

  Petros understood, lightning-clear, the happiness on his wife’s face, her sudden interest in the ball. He remembered how she had danced with Edward, her pretended indifference, her sudden interest in clothes, the outrageous sums she had spent. He understood all. Even the made-up reason Edward had thought of, in order to be able to see Livia in the barracks, in his own home. And, irony of ironies, he, Petros, was the one sending her to him - to teach him Romanian, so to speak. They had made a fool of him, they had cunningly tricked him, who knows what else they might have planned!

  He clenched his fists until he could feel the nails drive into the flesh; until a plan took shape in his mind. He would punish the small-time peasant who had refused his love, his home, his fortune – trading them all for an Austrian good-for-nothing. And to think he had lived like a hermit all these months, waiting, giving her time, attending to her as if she was royalty, begging for her love!

  He would punish them both as soon as possible. All he needed was a day, to understand whether Corinne had told the truth.

  # # #

  He left the shop in the care of the vendors and he sneaked on the sidewalk. Hidden behind a house across the street, he could see the troop pass in front of the pink house, as it had never done before the new officer’s arrival. He saw Livia in the window, smiling happily, with a smile she had never shown him- and this only added to his anger. Her sweet hand wave from the window awakened in him a hatred he had never felt before.

  The next morning he pretended to leave for work. But after the carriage turned the corner, he alighted from it and returned home, entering through the back door and heading for the rounded corner room, which offered a view both towards the street and towards Livia’s window. He trod fearlessly, the house was still in darkness, the servants weren’t yet up and nor was Livia.

  He started his vigil patiently, praying God to make the soldiers choose another route. He could feel his blood boil with anger, his head heavy with the same obsessive thoughts; Livia, Edward, the ball, Livia, Edward, the ball.

  At precisely nine o’clock the sound of hooves made him jump to his feet. From behind the curtains he could see Edward saluting the window, and Livia blissfully smiling. The thought that the whole street was beholding this ceremony every day, the idea that all the neighbours were savouring the adventure
and laughing at his predicament drove him wild. Like a ghost he entered Livia’s room, running towards her with uplifted fists.

  Livia saw him approach, his eyes bulging with fury, his lips speckled with flecks of whitish foam which had always disgusted her so much. She looked at him and understood that this was to be her end. The first blow hit her near the eye, strong and searingly painful - but tearing her soul even more than her flesh. She looked at him with all the hatred she could muster, all the hatred she had kept hidden for so many months. She was waiting for the other blows, she knew they would come because he seemed out of his mind with fury. The hate and challenge in her eyes had made him lose the last shred of self-control. She stoically endured his blows, without lowering her gaze. She knew he would kill her, his eyes were those of an assassin, bulging and unforgiving. And she would let herself be killed, rather than have to endure a whole life with him. She knew now he would never agree to set her free; he was the hunter and she had had the misfortune to become his prey.

  Innumerable fists were drumming upon her body, in her ribs, her belly. Slowly she could feel herself grow dizzy, with a strange buzzing in her ears, as if a swarm of bees was attacking her. She felt she was going, going..

  She tried to ask God’s forgiveness, while hearing, as in a dream, the window break into a thousand pieces. She had been brutally thrown against the glass, she could feel her elbow burning, a warm liquid seeping down her arm, the frightened cries of the women. She could still feel her knees fall on the soft rug and her hand spasming, clutching at its ends, in search of balance; then there was nothing else.

  The troop was about to leave the street when desperate cries resounded from Livia’s house. Curious women had filled the windows, while in the middle of the street Lina was desperately crying for help. Edward rose in the stirrups and using his riding crop forced the horse to turn and head fast towards Livia’s house. He had understood Livia was in danger; unfortunately, what he had most feared was about to happen.