by Davyne DeSye
Erik laughed, and Christine felt thankful that this expression of delight, at least, was caused by her instead of for her, and bore no traces of being forced.
“I do not win every time,” he answered, taking her arm to resume their walk.
“No, you don’t,” she answered. “You only win when you are not allowing me to win.”
“I never deliberately lose,” he said, with a tone of outrage at her scandalous suggestion. He lifted his chin as though injured by an unfair accusation. She smiled and tilted her head against his shoulder, hoping like a vain child that in this he told the truth, and yet doubting the statement nonetheless.
They walked the rest of the path to the manor in silence, Erik apparently lost in his own thoughts, and Christine hoping that a game of chess would give her time to think on their situation, and to find a way to break the unhappy rhythm in which they were locked.
I wonder if Erik’s mind is engaged in solving the same dilemma.
***
Christine was no closer to a resolution when, during dinner, Erik took up the effort toward distraction he had avoided since their ride that morning, and their game of chess. He had won, of course.
“What would you think about having a party?” he asked. Before Christine could answer, he continued, excitement and enthusiasm bubbling through his words. “We could have all of our friends over – Mattis could bring his wife, she would be delighted – and perhaps hire entertainment… fireworks… that sort of thing? Hmm?”
Frustration bloomed in her again, and the words were out of her mouth before she knew what she was saying. “I want to move back to London.” Even as she said the words, she could not believe she was uttering them. She had hated London while she lived there – hated the weather, the crowds, the city… even hated her relationship with her first husband, Raoul. The only pleasant memories that she had of the city were those that centered around Erik prior to Raoul’s demise (and even those memories were colored with moments of fear and uncertainty), and then their final year spent together there, married under the guise of Lord and Lady Bastion. Thankfully, the manor in which they then lived was outside the horrid city.
The silence between them grew as her words echoed in her ears.
“You hated London,” Erik answered, echoing her thoughts. His surprise was evidenced in the sudden furrows that creased his forehead. His mouth drew down into a thin bow of confusion and disappointment.
“Yes,” she answered, and then said the only words that would explain her statement, the reasoning which they both understood as the motive behind her statement. “I miss Petter. I worry about him. Perhaps if we were there…”
“Petter is a man now, Christine,” he interrupted. “He does not need, nor will he likely appreciate, being coddled.” The sharpness with which Erik spoke startled Christine – she had become so accustomed of late to his gentle tones and obsequiousness. Rather than irritating her, she decided that she preferred his current tone – at least it was honest.
Finally, some of the rubbish between us is being cleared!
Sudden tears pricked her eyes at the recognition of the barrier between them, and the knowledge that her behavior was the reason for the building of that barrier.
“I know, Erik. He is a man in the eyes of the world. But in my eyes, he is a child who cannot know how to move through the world as a man, let alone the dangers it holds.” Her tears spilled over, tears that were for Erik, for her, but she knew he would see them only as more weeping for the loss of Petter. She wiped at her cheeks, her eyes, as Erik stared at her, frustration and disappointment tainting his features.
She lifted the linen napkin from her lap and dabbed at her eyes, determined to gain a better control over herself before she continued. “I… I know you are worried about me. I know how hard you’ve worked to help me. I wish I could control or even understand my melancholy. I was trying to think of a way of… of alleviating it, of helping. Perhaps if we were nearer Petter…” Her voice began to tremble and more tears escaped to trip down her cheeks. “I love you, Erik, I love you! I don’t wish to push you away. I couldn’t bear to lose you, too!” She almost shouted this last into her napkin as she covered her face.
Erik dropped on his knees at her side, his arms around her, the velvet returned to his voice as he soothed her and told her again and again that he loved her. He lifted her from her chair at the dining table and carried her to the next room, to a couch, where he held her like a child until her sobbing came under control. He crooned a melody, and rocked her until she quieted. He pressed a handkerchief into her hand and waited while she dabbed at her face. He put a hand under her chin and she let him draw her face up toward his.
“You will never lose me, wife,” he said, answering her last heartbroken cry as though she had uttered it only moments ago. “Never.”
Another tear escaped Christine’s eye, but she dabbed at her eyes and blinked in an effort to clear them.
“I have had a thought – something that may… heal wounds and perhaps even bring joy.” The small smile that moved his lips seemed a sad one. Christine could not bring herself to smile in return as she recognized his admission of the wounds she had inflicted in him, the barriers that had risen between them. She clenched her lips in determination that she would hear him out without weeping again.
“Why do we not visit Petter in London?” he asked. His subtle emphasis of the word “visit” stabbed at her, but even so, she nodded again, her excitement rising at the thought of seeing her son again, and being able to see with her own eyes how he fared. “And then, we can continue our travels.” Erik paused, gauging her reaction to this last statement. When she looked her confusion at him, he continued. “When first we… were together,” he smiled at the reference to the affair they carried on prior to her first husband’s death, and Christine flushed with the memories of that passionate time, “we talked often of traveling. You made me promise to take you to the places I have seen in my wanderings. Why do we not make London our first stop, and then see the world?” Instead of seeing the false gaiety that had so often painted his features of late, she saw only pleading – a bare hope that this might help Christine where his other efforts had failed, that she would accept his suggestion.
Christine bent her lips into a sad smile, and placed her hand against his cheek. She nodded and tried to raise the liveliness of her smile for his sake. She thought of all the hopes Erik must have with this suggestion: that she would be distracted from her melancholy by the new and exciting sights and sounds; that they would have time together, alone, to tear down whatever barriers were growing between them… it was a good plan. Her excitement grew as she considered the adventures to come, the exotic people and places she would see. But the part of the plan that excited her most, that caused her to sit forward and throw her arms around her husband, was the fact that she would be seeing their son again. And soon.
“I love you, Erik,” she murmured. “Thank you.”
“I love you, Christine,” he answered, and clutched her closer.
She heard the miracle of his forgiveness in the words.
CHAPTER 4
SET BACKS
Despite his exhaustion, Petter walked through the evening toward Evans’ offices. He had spent the evening at leisure, enjoying a meal with an acquaintance, planning to retire early. But on leaving the pub, his feet had turned him toward the offices again. He was drawn to complete his latest carving – his own work, his own design, and one he could not labor over during his working hours. He hoped – knew! – this latest carving would provide yet another proof of his excellence and his qualifications to call himself a master stonemason. He hoped to be able to photograph the completed carving before returning to his rented rooms for the night. The Brownie camera he always carried thumped against his chest as he walked, keeping time to his slow steps.
Petter thought through the small triumph of the day as he walked. He had spent the day in the Elite Gardens section of the Bush Exhibitio
n building site with Evans, at first appreciating the cloudless day, and later, as the sun wilted him and drained his energy, wishing for the usual London weather to smother the sky. Evans had flattered his “good eye,” and at the end of the day, had introduced him to a banker with connections to the kind of investors who had interest in and money for building. The banker had promised introductions, and Petter hoped to receive the commission that would allow him to stop working as a journeyman in another stonemason’s shop. Hope fluttered in his stomach as he recalled the conversation with the banker, and the man’s surprised but respectful comments.
Petter stumbled in weariness as he approached the shop, and muttering chastisements at himself, decided to turn around and go home. He was too fatigued to get much good work done tonight in any case. He stood for a moment, enduring the battle between the energy of his mind and the exhaustion of his body, then turned to begin the walk back to his flat.
Tomorrow will be soon enough. The piece is nearly finished.
He threw a glance over his shoulder for a last look at the shop as he started away, and stopped again.
In the light of the streetlamp, a figure approached the door to the shop, and then a lamp was lighted within. His curiosity changed the balance of the battle within himself, and he strode with new purpose to investigate.
He entered the shop expecting to find Evans, perhaps laboring to complete office work, but the light did not come from Evans’ office. Instead, the light came from the near drafting table – Phoebe’s table – and Phoebe stood over the table, eyes already roving over half finished plans as she worked to remove her overcoat. Petter strode toward her.
“Phoebe?” he asked, his voice loud in the darkened shop.
The girl emitted a loud shriek and startled in a most unladylike fashion, almost upsetting the stool near which she stood.
“Who is it!” Her usually quiet voice was harsh and laced with anger. Her fists clenched at her sides as she leaned forward and tried to peer into the darkness.
“It is I, Petter,” he answered, still striding toward her. “What can you possibly…?”
“Petter! You just gave me the fright of my life!” There was still the anger, but some of the harshness had left her voice. Her hands came to her chest and pressed there as if to control her fluttering heart. Sharp breaths burst from her lips, and Petter could see the lifting and falling of her ample breast beneath her hands.
“I’m terribly sorry, Phoebe. I didn’t mean to startle you.” His steps brought him into the light and he stopped at the side of the table, hand reaching toward her before dropping to his side again.
Phoebe gazed at him for a moment longer, before puffing a small embarrassed laugh in his direction and dropping her hands to her sides.
“Petter,” she breathed. “Good Heavens.” A smile grew on her lips, and he returned it, careful not to allow it to develop into the laugh he could feel building. He did not wish to give insult by laughing at her after startling her.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” she asked, her eyes holding his as she spoke. Her eyes were even more magnificent in the low lantern light, and again he concluded that they were the best feature of the plain girl.
“I came to see about the light, about who might be working here at this time of night,” he answered.
“You were just passing by?” she asked, sounding incredulous, with a lift of one eyebrow and a look that suggested she had caught him in a fabrication.
“No, actually. I originally planned to come in and work, and then decided – when practically on the doorstep – to leave well enough alone and get some much needed sleep. Then, I saw the light.”
“Ah,” she said, satisfied with his answer. As if only now remembering his question, she said, “I had a sudden inspiration for an improvement to my plans, and could not let it wait until morning.” She gestured toward the plans spread on the drafting table. His eyes followed her gesture, but before he could take in what he was seeing, she gripped the near corner and doubled the drawing over on itself. “I’d rather you didn’t see it until it is finished,” she said.
Petter flushed with the feeling that he had been caught spying or eavesdropping, and took a step backward with a small bow of his head.
Phoebe took a quick step toward him, and said, “What work were you planning? Something for Father? You are faster and more skillful than any of his other men. You can’t possibly feel you must work at this hour.”
“No.” A smile returned to his face. “Something of my own. It’s in the back.”
“Shall we?” she asked, eyes again on his. She lifted the lantern with one hand, and offered her other arm to him. “Unless, of course, you’d rather I didn’t see it until it is finished…” A smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she offered him the excuse she had used regarding her own work.
“It’s nearly finished now. I wouldn’t mind,” he answered, and began leading her toward the back of the shop.
“There,” he said, and pointed, falling back a step, allowing her to approach his piece alone, proud of his work, and hoping for – waiting for – her exclamation of praise.
“Oh, Petter!” she said with an appreciative gasp, as the light from her lantern fell on the large and intricately carved stone bracket. She lifted the lantern higher in her hand, the better to see the top of the man-tall stone. Petter looked with renewed pride at his work in the unsteady light, the carven leaves appearing to dance with the movement of the lantern. The modillion he had carved was ornate in the extreme, and did not even have the linear rectangular bottom of the usual corona bracket – the long sides of the rectangle flared outward with flat-bottomed fern leaves curling away from either side like feathers. The fragile protuberances would make the modillion more difficult to maneuver and hang, but he thought them beautiful in the extreme.
He brought his hands together in delight as she turned to him. Appreciative wonder glowed from her features before she turned back to walk further around the stone. He took a step toward her.
Then, “Oh, no, Petter!” – and this time her exclamation was laced with horror.
Petter rushed to her side, unable to imagine what could have elicited her second anguished exclamation.
He gasped. The modillion was broken in two along the center grain. The break had not been visible from where he had been standing. The plugs used to feather and tare the great stone still remained in the top of the piece, difficult to see at first due to the intricacy of the acanthus leaves and palmettes carved there. Petter could not form a coherent thought or movement as he stared at the deliberate vandalism of his work, unable to move his mind past the incomprehension of the act. He stood staring, for an immeasurable length of time before he was startled from his stupor by something touching his arm. He jerked his head toward the touch in desperate need to look away from ruined piece. Phoebe was next to him, gazing at him, her dark eyes laced with pity.
“Petter, oh Petter,” she said. “Who would have…?” Her eyes followed his own as they were drawn back to the wreckage.
Petter knew who would have done the incomprehensible – any one of a number of the jealous journeymen who glared their hatred of him as he worked among them. The skill of his work, and the speed with which he could accomplish it only added to the enmity in which his fellow workers steeped each time Evans praised him.
Anger choked his throat like a swallowed fist, and battled against his desire to cry out in pain. He took several panted breaths in an effort to clear the obstruction in his throat, as Phoebe stepped away from him and again approached the broken piece. Her fingers ran over the curled leaves he had so labored to make complex and fragile in their beauty. He blinked back tears as her fingers ran over the still beautiful portion of the spoilage. He watched her fingers, transfixed; horrified by her ability to touch what to him seemed a corpse. When she turned to him again, there were tears in her eyes.
“Petter, it was beautiful.” Her voice broke as she spoke and her tears over
flowed to her cheek. In a moment of grotesque clarity, he watched as Phoebe’s tongue moved to the corner of her mouth and caught at a tear. The image remained clear in his mind even after she brought her handkerchief to her face to gather the remaining wetness. For a brief instant, Petter tasted her tear on his own tongue, tart and reflecting the bitterness of the moment. Still unable to speak, and in a sudden need not to see what lay before him – the destruction of weeks of work – he closed his eyes and turned his back to Phoebe and the broken stone silhouetting her.
Phoebe’s shoes tapped on the concrete as she walked toward him, and he inhaled her warm, pleasant scent – like that of a fresh meadow – as she moved past him. The lantern she held turned the blackness behind his closed eyelids to red as she moved to stand in front of him. She said nothing. He was thankful for the time she granted for his grief, but was also ashamed that he needed it.
Exhaling through pursed lips, Petter forced himself to let go of his disappointment and accept.
They will not beat me. Nothing will stop me. And forcing his thoughts forward and away from this hideous moment, What can I recover from the wreckage?
He breathed again. Calmer, feeling more himself, he opened his eyes to the disconcerting gaze of Phoebe’s pain-laced eyes on his.
“I am quite myself again. I apologize.”
“Apologize?” she asked, incredulity twisting her features.
“If I worried you,” he explained.
“You didn’t worry me,” she answered. “This senseless… this terrible…” she stammered, unable to find the right words. “This worries me!” she finished, one hand flung to the ruin behind him. “I don’t understand why…” Again words seemed to fail her and she stopped speaking, looking away from his work and into his eyes again, something like pleading in her eyes. She took a step closer and raised the lantern, brow now crinkled with curiosity. “Your eyes…,” she said. Petter knew what she saw: the strange reflectiveness that also shone in his father’s eyes in low lamplight. He looked away.
