He arrived at the home where he had spent his childhood. For all their wealth, the Bennetts lived modestly, in a middle-class neighborhood in a comfortable spacious home, which was in good repair, but in no way resembled the showy mansions in Mayfair. He walked up to the front door and knocked. An elderly servant answered. He was far too old to work, but Christopher's tender-hearted mother hadn't been willing to dismiss him.
“Good evening, sir,” he said to the younger man in a quavering voice.
“Good evening, Tibbins,” Christopher replied. “Are you well?”
“As well as can be expected,” he answered. “The cold, you know? My knees dislike it.”
“I'm sorry to hear it,” Christopher said indulgently. “Is my mother in?”
“Yes. I believe she's in the parlor,” the servant said. He took a step that direction and then groaned as the tortured joint gave off a noisy pop.
“No need to show me the way,” Christopher insisted. “Have a good evening. Rest your knees.”
“Yes, sir.”
Christopher hurried to the parlor, where, sure enough, his mother had curled up on a scarlet velvet settee near the fire, reading a novel. She looked up at the sound of his approach. “Hello, my love,” she greeted him. “Out on such a cold evening?”
“Yes, Mother.” He got straight to the point. “What's wrong with Katerina?”
She raised her eyebrows when he said her first name. “So, you've moved to that level already, have you?”
“Yes,” he replied, crouching to meet Julia's eyes. “She asked me to be her friend.”
Her jaw dropped. “Did she? I'm astonished. She must like you very much. She can scarcely bring herself to talk to most men.”
“She seems to feel rather comfortable with me,” he explained.
“And you?” she pressed. It seemed this mattered a great deal, if the intensity in her blue eyes was any indication.
“I enjoy her company,” Christopher said. Then he returned tenaciously to the point. “What's wrong with her?”
“Nothing. What on earth do you mean?” She said it too fast, her voice uncertain.
“So, there is something.” He sighed. “I want to court her. I asked her if I could talk to her father. She refused.”
Though Julia's eyes widened at his admission, she replied in a calm, neutral voice. “She did? I'm not surprised.”
“What am I not understanding here? She accepted my kiss.” The words escaped before he could stop them, and heat bloomed along his cheekbones. I didn't mean to say that.
“Christopher!” Julia sat up straight on the chaise and glared at her son.
“What?” he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the door frame, a study in false nonchalance. “I kissed her. I didn't seduce her. I wouldn't do that.” I would never harm this girl.
“Of course not,” Julia agreed. She set her novel aside and stood, pacing in front of the fire, her agitation radiating farther than the heat of the dancing flames. “Listen, she's right. You mustn't talk to her father. If you do, you will cause her all kinds of problems.”
“So, he really doesn't want her to have suitors?” How can such a selfish man exist?
“He really doesn't,” Julia concurred.
“But what about her future?” Christopher demanded. “What kind of father is he anyway?”
She gave her head a little shake. “It doesn't concern him. He's a… a terrible man.” It was unlike Julia to say unkind words about anyone, and her hard tone made the comment even more intense.
Startled by his mother's vehemence, Christopher pressed for information. “How?”
She looked away. “I'm not sure it's wise to tell you, protective as you are. I wanted you to meet her, to be entranced by her.”
Christopher sighed at her stalling. “I did, and I think most likely I am. But how on earth can I move forward with this if it must be kept a secret from her father? He has authority over her.”
“Yes. Damned shame.”
Christopher gawked. He had never in his whole life heard his mother use strong language. “You have to tell me,” he insisted.
“Her father…” Julia took a deep breath and swallowed. Her anger seemed solid enough to choke her. “He beats her.”
Silence. Long silence as Christopher attempted, without success, to force the words and his image of his lady friend to integrate. Sweet, gentle and quiet… why would anyone beat her? Mother must be mistaken. Yet Julia was not prone to meddling, at least not with those unconnected with her family. There's some reason she believes it. Finally, he managed to blurt, “Badly?”
Julia bit her lip and nodded, her eyes growing shiny in the dim firelight. “Terribly. You can't imagine. The bruises I've seen… they would break your heart. And it's escalating.”
He… no. That can't be. But it would explain everything. Her terror. Her strange secretiveness. An image of Katerina floated in his mind. Wide brown eyes. Bold nose. Full, kissable mouth marred with… “She had a cut on her lip.”
Julia closed her eyes. When she opened them, tears shimmered, and she rubbed her face, scrubbing away an escaped droplet. “You see? I've never known him to hit her face.”
“She said she bit it,” he argued, trying not to accept the evidence he'd seen with his own eyes. Thought had long since deserted him and he only disagreed to try to prevent his feelings from overwhelming him.
“If she did, it was because she was in pain.”
“Oh, God.” Christopher could hardly stand to consider the sweet girl he was coming to care for being brutalized, and yet, with each moment, the evidence of his senses merged with his mother's words to paint a picture he'd never considered. Here then is the real reason Mother pressed for this invitation. Pushing up from the door, he crossed the room and laid a hand on Julia's shoulder, arresting her restless movement. “What do you want me to do, Mother? Why was I supposed to be entranced by her?”
“I want you to rescue her,” Julia said, her tone telling him that should be obvious.
“How?”
His mother's eyes bored into his. “Think, Christopher. How? Only one man's rights over a woman supersede the father's.”
Again, his mind attempted to reject her words. “Mother, I've barely met her. You can't mean… you want me to marry her?”
“Yes.” The word was simple, but firm, and the parental demand in her expression left no room for argument.
The idea of all marriage would entail flashed before him. Much of it looked appealing, but… “I'm not opposed to the idea. But not yet.”
“Every day she stays in his care, the danger increases,” Julia pointed out.
Christopher scrubbed at his forehead with the tips of his fingers. His mind buzzed pointlessly among snippets of thought and refused to settle on a single coherent idea. “Just how am I supposed to do this if I can't ask for her father's permission?”
She made a wry face at him. “You know how.”
“Elope?” What mother urges such a thing? The buzzing in his head grew into a roar, a pounding in his ears.
“Yes.”
“This is a very strange conversation,” Christopher said, and then wanted to slap himself at the inane comment. I'm babbling, but not saying anything. Pull it together, man.
“I know,” Julia concurred. “Think about it, Christopher. When women are abused, the abuser is responsible, but so is everyone who knows and does nothing. I'm her friend, but I have no legal right to separate her from her father. This was all I could do for her.”
“Marriage is a big step, Mother,” he reminded her, rubbing the middle of his forehead with one knuckle. His hammering pulse had succeeded in making his head ache. “I wanted one like you and Father have. How can I with someone I've just met?”
“I barely knew your father when we married,” Julia replied. “What we have has developed over the years. If you make the commitment, and the effort, in time the rest will come.”
Christopher shook his he
ad. “It's too soon. I… I understand the problem, but I have my own future to think about too. I'm not going to rush headlong into an elopement with her, no matter how lovely she is.”
“I hope you can live with the outcome of waiting,” she said darkly.
Christopher took leave of his mother and returned to his little apartment in a hotel across town, where he spent an unsettled night lost in painful contemplations, which eventually gave way to terrible dreams of an innocent, dark-eyed girl crying out for help. No one came to her aid, and finally, the pleas cut off and a disturbing silence fell.
Chapter 5
Katerina walked up to the door of the unfamiliar home, her heart pounding. She had deliberately lied to and deceived her father. If he ever found out… she shuddered and then winced. It was going to be difficult to act normal this evening. The pain was intense, and, silly vanity, she had tightened her laces more than usual, wanting to look pretty for Christopher.
This little flirtation is a terrible idea. She considered retreat, but where will I go? Home? The thought made her shudder, but before she could come up with an alternate idea, a gentleman of about thirty years opened the door, ushering her into an entryway lit with softly glowing candles. Trapped, unwilling to flee directly under this stranger's eye, she allowed herself to cross the threshold. To the left, a door stood open, beckoning her.
“Good evening, Miss Valentino,” the host said. “Bennett said to expect you. My name is Jack Wilder. Welcome to my home. If you would please step into the parlor.”
She nodded and approached the salon where the guests chatted while drinking sherry. They perched on armchairs and chaises and sofas around a cheerfully crackling fireplace with an attractive brick hearth, waiting for dinner. The host offered her a glass, but she refused. Between the pain and the tight lacing, she felt dizzy enough already. And then Christopher appeared seemingly out of nowhere and took her arm.
“Good evening, Miss Valentino.”
For a heartbeat she forgot her misery as his handsome face captured her awareness, driving pain and fear back and causing a welling-up of warmth and pleasure in the vicinity of her heart. “Good evening.”
“Am I still in your bad graces?” he asked sheepishly. She bit her lip, remembering the sweet kiss… kisses she'd allowed him to press on her lips. Allowed, bah. You encouraged him.
“You never were,” she replied. Her cheeks burned but she met his eyes, trying to tell him without words that his ardor had not been the source of her retreat. If only shyness were truly the problem.
“Good to hear.” He grinned and her heart turned over. “I missed walking with you.”
“Sorry. I was… unwell,” she explained, deliberately being vague.
His eyes darkened. “Unwell, my dear? I'm sorry to hear it. Are you better now?”
“Somewhat.” She changed the subject. “So what does one do at these parties? I admit to finding your description intriguing.”
“Well,” he led her to an unoccupied settee and perched her there, sitting beside her and clasping her hand. “First, we act as though this were a normal party, conversing, gossiping, drinking and all.” He suddenly seemed to notice her empty hand. “You don't have a drink.”
He seemed about to request one for her. She laid her free hand on top of his, arresting his attention, and said, “I don't feel like it tonight.”
His eyes roved over her face, considering. At last, replied, “Very well,” and then returned to the explanation. “Shortly we'll have dinner, quite a good dinner I might add. It's not until after that the dark events begin to take place.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “It's an orgy of words, my dear. Women have been known to swoon.”
Katerina rolled her eyes, although as bad as she felt, it wouldn't take much to loosen her grip on consciousness.
“Come now,” a rather tipsy gentleman shouted from a burgundy armchair in the corner, “I'm bored. Can't we start the reading before dinner for once?”
“Now, now, Mr. Reardon,” a lovely woman who appeared to be about thirty approached the gentleman and patted his arm, “It's tradition to wait.”
He continued to grouse. “But there's no new gossip this week. Nothing at all. The conversation is getting stale in here.”
“Reardon, that's your cravat, not the conversation,” a much younger man who appeared to be about Christopher's age, with sandy hair and a naughty twinkle in his bright green eyes, teased the malcontent.
The drunk colored and subsided.
“Well, he's not wrong,” another lady, this one a gorgeous blond with a petulant expression and a pouty lower lip whined. “There's nothing new to talk about.”
“Well, Miss Carlisle,” the young man called to her, “come with me and we can create a scandal.”
She giggled, “No thank you, Mr. Cary. I would really rather not.”
Now it was the young man's turn to pout.
Katerina felt dizzier than ever trying to keep up with the swirling conversations. Though only composed of seven people, to her the party felt like a crowd… a noisy one. The swish of fabric sounded unnaturally loud in her ears, as did the thuds of booted feet. She glanced around the room, hoping to fix her eyes on something to steady herself. The hostess wore a puffy brown dress with wild yellow flowers on it. Katerina blinked and turned away. The blonde's gown was a vibrant green that assaulted her eyes with its painful brightness. Even the fire seemed to stab at her. A smell of stale cigars hung in the air, which added to her nauseous dizziness. In desperation, she turned to the back of the room, behind the seating area, and the most welcome sight greeted her. A battered-looking pianoforte sat in the corner.
“Do you think,” she asked Christopher, 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 complained. “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 made the move 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 again, this time creating a shock of awareness that 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, intending it to be deep, but unable to manage it within the restrictive boning, and blew on her fingers to warm them. She 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 her eyes remained closed, she hit every note exactly right, varying the volume to create tension and 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 set the guests smiling.
* * *
As the mo
vement drew to a close, everyone presents 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. 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 even felt comfortable enough, as she had done in the first movement, to 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 lightning fast scale that climbed the entire keyboard, the piece found its conclusion, and the musician let her fingers fall from the keys. Complete silence enveloped the room, and even the fire seemed to refrain from crackling, giving the performance a well-deserved recognition.
* * *
Though she could feel the eyes on her back like a physical touch, Katerina didn't turn.
Keeping Katerina (The Victorians Book 1) Page 4
