No one realized, but she was breathing slowly, spots floating in front of her eyes. I shouldn't have come. This was a mistake.
After an eternity that probably lasted five seconds, thunderous applause distracted her from her misery.
“Bravo,” the drunk howled, “amazing.”
“Play another,” the pouting girl urged.
“Miss Valentino,” Cary called, “do you know the Sonata Pathetique?”
Playing another is a good idea. Perhaps she could finally tune out her burning back.
“I do,” she said. “May I?”
“Oh yes,” several voices from around the room urged. She nodded. Giving the group several seconds to fall silent, she drew inside herself. This piece had proved challenging to her, and she had learned it more recently. It would require a different level of concentration.
She positioned her fingers above the keys and brought them down hard, so the opening chords crashed like thunder, making several guests jump. The dramatic chords gave way to a rapid run of notes, and then back to chords. Alternating between the two formed the theme of the piece, and for emphasis, she crashed the chords loudly but touched the scales with gentle fingers.
By the end of the second piece, Katerina had completely won over the crowd, and they called for more. She switched from Beethoven to Chopin, and then other composers. By concentrating entirely on her playing, she was able to hold off the impending faint. While it was not unusual for young ladies to pass out when laced tightly, the loosening of her corset would reveal a great deal more than a less than perfect waistline. She would do most anything to prevent the pitying looks that were sure to come should people discover how badly she was being abused.
At last supper time arrived. The hungry guests glanced longingly at the lovely girl seated at the piano but eventually drifted off in search of sustenance. Unable to rise from the bench, and in excruciating pain, Katerina waited another moment, hoping for the spasm of agony to pass. A warm hand closed on her bare arm, just above the elbow.
“What's wrong, love?” Christopher asked. “And don't say it's nothing. I can see you're hurting.”
“I'm fine,” she replied, but the choked sound of her voice gave away the lie.
“No, you're not,” he replied. “Can you get up?”
She shook her head.
Christopher slid his fingers down her arm to her hand, taking hold of it gently. She tried to use him as leverage, but it wasn't enough. Her back had stiffened and resisted movement. He sighed and placed both his hands on her waist, lifting her to a standing position. She walked awkwardly out from behind the bench and swayed. He gripped her waist again, preventing her from falling. Standing face to face, she looked up into gray eyes filled with concern.
“What happened?” he asked, his expression tender.
“Please, I don't want to talk about it,” she begged.
“Did he beat you?” he insisted, his voice dark.
Oh, Lord, he knows. She looked away. Tears stung the corners of her eyes and one escaped. Still supporting her with one arm around her waist, he used his free hand to brush away the drop “Why?”
She had to think for several seconds before she could understand his question. “He heard a rumor. He often has friends over, though he rarely goes out himself. They tell him things.”
“A rumor about what?” Christopher asked.
Tonight, he won't be satisfied with partial answers, it seems. “That I was seen with a man.”
“Me?” Guilt twisted Christopher's face.
“Unless it was a lie, there is no other possibility,” she replied with brutal honesty.
She watched his throat bob as he swallowed. “How badly are you injured?”
She shook her head. “It's bad.”
Christopher's jaw clenched. “Is this why you didn't come walking with mother and me?”
“Yes.” And it's almost as painful now as it was then.
“Do you want to leave?”
That's what a normal person would want, isn't it? To go home and rest? But that was the last thing Katerina wanted. “And go where? Back home? No thank you. He's been drinking all day. If I can stay away until he's passed out, I might just make it through the evening unscathed. But if he finds me when he's drunk…” she swallowed. “I'm afraid.” She choked again.
“Afraid of what?” Christopher asked, and the worry on his face touched a place so deep inside her wounded heart, she feared her own reaction to it.
The honest truth, one she'd never before voiced aloud, spilled from her lips. “I'm not sure I can survive much more.” Another tear escaped, rolling down her cheek.
Christopher drew a breath as unsteady as her shaking legs. “Oh, little love. I'm sorry. This is my fault, isn't it?”
Despite her own distress, she tried to comfort him. “No, not at all. There's always something, Christopher. If it weren't you, he would find another excuse. This… flirtation means the world to me. You can't imagine how lovely it is to be able to leave the house and have something to look forward to. At home… it's always the same.”
“Flirtation? No, love. This is not a flirtation.” His voice was dark with passion and intensity, and it showed in his eyes and expression.
“What then?” she asked, not comprehending his meaning.
“It's a courtship, of course.”
Her eyes widened.
“Did you really think my intentions towards you were anything other than honorable?” he asked, sounding slightly hurt.
“I didn't think you had intentions at all,” she replied honestly.
“I do.”
Much was said in those simple words, and Katerina understood it at last. A courtship was intended to lead to a marriage. Marriage meant the authority of her father over her would end. She could trust her future to the care of a different, hopefully less brutal, man. But she knew herself, how desperately damaged she was. How could I be a proper wife? Oh, Lord, a mother someday? She shook her head. “Don't court me, Christopher. I'm no good for you.”
“Let me decide what's good for me,” he replied.
“I'm broken,” she reminded him.
“I'll fix you,” he said.
“You can't.”
“I will. If you want to be fixed, it can be done.” He lowered his mouth, kissing her gently. The touch raised delicious, tingling warmth, just like before. Wanton pleasure streaked through her as his lips compressed hers. His power to arouse passion in her despite her anguish astonished her.
“I want you, Katerina,” he said, releasing her mouth. “I want to court you. I like the attraction between us. Don't you like it?”
I haven't liked anything so much in years. Maybe ever. “Yes, of course.”
“Do you like being with me?” How could such a handsome man be so vulnerable, and to her reaction no less?
“How could I not? You're…quite wonderful.”
He seemed for a moment to be at war with himself. Then he said, “I would never suggest this under ordinary circumstances, but let me court you in secret. If I can't do this the right way, let me do the wrong thing the best I can. Spend time with me without telling him. Get to know me. I think there's a future here.”
A future with Christopher? Is that even possible? How long until he tires of this game, until his protective instincts give way to annoyance? “To what end? We can never become engaged.”
“I know. When we're ready we'll simply have to elope.”
When. Not if.
“He'll be furious.” She shivered in terror and then winced.
“And as you'd be my wife, he would have to keep his fury to himself because he would no longer have authority over you,” Christopher pointed out.
Katerina considered the possibility. The image of life as Christopher's wife washed over her. No fear. No beatings. Just a good man who cared for her. It was too pretty a picture to be real. And of course, she would bring her damaged, cowardly self to the equation. This is impossible.
; Her voice when she spoke sounded harsh. “How can I in good conscience allow you to do this? You want me to be your… sweetheart, maybe even your wife someday, and I just want to be rescued.”
He grinned, not the unreserved smile he normally gave her, but one with a hint of humor despite the darkness of the situation. “Rescuing the damsel and marrying her is a fine English tradition, love. What comes after is up to you. Do you want to spend the rest of your life destroyed by the terror of your youth?”
“Of course not.”
“Then take the opportunity. We could do well together, you and I.”
She looked into his eyes. He's so sincere, so open, and I'm a morass of dark and fearful impulses, little more than an animal, running and hiding. How could I ever be a true wife to him? “I don't think I'm able to trust.”
One hand lifted to cup her cheek. “Of course not. Not yet. That takes time. Give yourself the time. Eventually, you'll see I won't harm you.”
“You're taking a huge risk,” she reminded him, leaning into his touch.
“I know. I'm willing.”
You make all things seem possible. “How can I say no?”
“Don't.”
As persuasion, he kissed her again.
There had been not one kind touch in her life since her mother's death a decade ago. Christopher's mouth on hers released a torrent of pleasure. It represented every embrace she had missed because her father loved alcohol and control more than he loved her. Unable to resist him, she lifted her aching arms and slid them around his neck, pulling him closer. His hands left her hip and face to encircle her waist, squeezing her.
Katerina screamed in agony as his arms pressed the bruised flesh of her lower back. She felt a deep scab split open and a trickle of blood ran down her left buttock.
His grip eased instantly. “Oh God, what? What happened?”
“It hurts,” she sobbed. The pain of her offended bruises, her own mortification and the dizziness of tight laces conspired to shatter her calm and tears escaped down her cheeks.
Christopher's jaw clenched. “Just how badly are you injured?”
She couldn't answer. She was shaking too hard.
Carefully he lifted her, one arm under her knees, the other behind her shoulders, and carried her out of the parlor. He brought her to a retiring room down the hall. After ensuring their privacy with a deft turn of the key in the lock, he laid her gently, face down, on a black velvet chaise in the corner.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, her voice far from steady.
“I have to know, love,” he replied.
“Please, Christopher,” she begged. “I don't want you to see.”
“I'm sure you don't.” But that didn't stop him. He opened the fastenings of her dress. As always, when threatened, she froze unresisting, trying to become invisible. It didn't work. It never did. She longed to protest, but the ability had long since been beaten out of her, and so she submitted in humiliated silence.
He opened the back of her dress, pulling it down around her waist, turning to her laces. “Love, why on earth did you wear this thing if you're hurting?” he asked.
“Vanity.” Her voice caught again. “I wanted to be pretty for you.”
“You are pretty,” he reassured her tenderly. “Don't hurt yourself on my account again. Promise me?”
She didn't respond. After several minutes of fumbling the garment fell loose, allowing him to remove it. As her compressed rib cage expanded, the spots swimming in Katerina's vision dissipated. She became suddenly aware of just how compromising their position had become. Mostly naked from the waist up in the presence of a man she had met a mere two weeks ago. If anyone found them… the wedding would become inevitable.
She didn't realize that for Christopher, it already was.
* * *
Through the thin fabric of her linen chemise, he could already see something alarming. The skin of her back was uneven. The garment lay in ridges and furrows as though on newly ploughed earth. Gently, he slid the fabric down… or tried to. It stuck to her in several places. His fingers began to tremble as he revealed her body.
Christopher had always adored a woman's back; from the broadest point at the shoulders, narrowing to the waist, flaring at the buttocks, a long line of smooth unblemished skin, perfect for kissing. Katerina's back resembled nothing he had seen before. She was marked from her shoulder blades down, as low as he could see with her dress and chemise tangled around her waist, with thick crossing scars. Some were clearly very old, others newer, and, horror of horrors, some were fresh. Deep, terrible marks, cut open and scabbed, revealed a beating bordering on torture. One low on her back where he had embraced her seeped blood along her spine. Interspersed among the whip marks, deeper bruises resembled long straight lines, some livid purple, others fading to yellow.
“Oh my God,” he said, nauseous with disgust and rage, “What did this?”
“He started with a horsewhip, but it broke.”
“And then?” he asked, not sure he really wanted to know the answer.
“A walking stick.”
Christopher squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to come to terms with what he had learned. Then he opened them and resumed his scrutiny of her wounds.
One deeply bruised injury wrapped around her side. He gently rolled her, following the line past her ribs, between which the undernourished flesh sank deeply, and onto her belly. There the black and blue so thickly overlaid that individual impact marks could not be distinguished. Bad as her back looked, the blows to her belly concerned him far more. She could have been killed.
“How on earth could you play?” he asked, appalled.
“It was distracting. It helped,” she replied in a soft, flat tone.
“This can't go on,” he insisted.
“Nothing can be done to stop it!”
Such despair. Why has no one tried to help her before now? Resolve hardened in Christopher. He would in no way permit this travesty to continue. “Can you try to trust me, love? I can make it all stop, for good.”
“It's too soon,” she choked out.
At least she understood what I'm implying. “I know. How often… does this happen?” Even as he pronounced the words, he yearned to slap himself at their stupidity. As though the heavy scarring doesn't answer the question for you.
“Often,” she admitted. Her breath sucked into her lungs, drawing her flesh even more deeply between her ribs.
“Weekly?” he pressed.
“Yes.”
Viciously forcing down his own feelings, Christopher strived to remain practical, to address the problem and ignore his rage. “You were right to worry you might not survive another beating. This,” he touched her belly gently, “could easily have resulted in fatal internal injuries. I won't have your death on my conscience.”
“You didn't hit me,” she pointed out, her eyes pleading for he knew not what.
“But I know what's happening,” he replied. His impartiality split and reduced him to begging. “If I don't take action, I'm just as responsible. Marry me, Katerina. Let me take you away from all this. Please?”
She bit her lower lip and winced as her teeth hit the sore spot he'd noticed the other day. “Is this a valid basis for marriage?”
“I have to do something,” he insisted, gesturing with his hand. She flinched away from the movement. Dear Lord, what a mess. What can the right answer possibly be? Forming the question produced the answer. No matter how rash. No matter the outcome, I cannot let her die. I will not let him kill her. “As for the marriage, once you're safe, we can work on making it what we want it to be. Please, love, let me help you.”
He knelt beside her on the floor. He longed to embrace her but could find no place to put his hands that would not cause her agony, so he cupped her face instead. She hissed. Removing his hand, he found it thickly smeared with cosmetics. “What are you covering up?”
“Don't ask questions, Christopher,” she begged.
&
nbsp; He swallowed. “Fine. I can guess. But there is one thing I have to know.”
“What is it?” She lowered her eyelids halfway, as though trying to block out the sight of his banked rage.
“In order to be able to protect you, our marriage has to be… consummated.” His cheeks burned, but he forced himself to continue. “The easiest way to demonstrate that is…”
“A bloody sheet?” she interrupted.
“Yes. Is it… possible? Has his abuse ever gone in that direction?” He hated even asking the question but knew such things did happen. Please, Lord, not that at least.
“I'm not sure what you mean.” She blinked, clearly struggling to focus. “I've always wondered where the blood came from.”
A hint of tension left his shoulders. “Likely he didn't then. Good. I'll explain the rest later. We should go.”
“Go where?” she asked weakly.
“First of all, I need to collect Cary,” he explained. “His uncle is a bishop. If we can get him to agree, we can get the license tonight, have the wedding first thing in the morning. It can all be over by tomorrow afternoon.”
“All right,” she said.
“Yes?” He blinked in surprise. She's not going to resist the suggestion? Really? Can it be that easy?
“Yes. I don't want to die, Christopher.”
He kissed her tenderly. “You won't. Not now. You've found a champion.”
She smiled wanly. Such a pretty smile. At last, he noticed that in examining her injuries, he had also revealed her breasts. How lovely they were, small but sweetly rounded, with dusky brown nipples. He felt a jolt of desire mixing into his tender protectiveness. The consummation will be very nice. But not yet. First, they had to get married.
Carefully he eased her chemise up over her body. There is no way I'm putting that damned corset back on her. He gently settled her dress into place, startled to note that it fit without the body shaping undergarment. Vanity really is a terrible thing.
Her modesty restored, he continued, voicing his plan aloud as he made it. “In order to get Cary and his uncle on our side, we need to show them how bad things are. I doubt you're going to want them to see your bare back. If you wash your face, is what's underneath… convincing?”
Keeping Katerina (The Victorians Book 1) Page 5
