Keeping Katerina (The Victorians Book 1)

by Simone Beaudelaire

  “I hope you're right,” Adrian said in a voice that spoke clearly of his doubt.

  A hint of worry flared. “So do I, darling. So do I.”

  Chapter 10

  Katerina was enjoying a simple but tasty breakfast of hot buttered toast and tea, accompanied by the unrivaled pleasure of looking at her husband across the little table. Dark stubble spread across his cheeks, making him look rakish. Bed-messy hair added to the illusion. He pored over a newspaper in search of rental advertisements. They'd had a breakfast tray sent, wanting to linger a while in the apartment and savor their closeness rather than joining the throng in the dining room.

  She took a sip of the dark unsweetened brew and sighed.

  The sound brought his head up. “Are you well, love?”

  She gifted him with a shy smile. “Yes. I feel wonderful. I don't know that I've ever slept so peacefully.”

  He grinned, and there a hint of masculine possessiveness slipped into it, though his words, when he spoke, sounded ordinary. “That's good to hear. So, are you up for seeing a few properties today? This setup was cramped when it was just me.”

  Katerina rolled her shoulders experimentally. “I think so.”

  “You seem to be moving more freely today,” he commented.

  “Yes. The bath helped immeasurably, and you also… relaxed me.” Her cheeks burned, but not as much as she had expected. Hussy, she chided herself, but even in her own mind, it was a jest. She felt amazing.

  He smirked and winked at her. “Any time, love.”

  She colored prettily.

  And then, breakfast finished, she dressed while he shaved. Soon the newlyweds were ready to search out a place to make their home together. Arm in arm they viewed a set of expensive furnished rooms at a hotel, a massive empty house that needed extensive renovations, and a tiny row house only one room wide but several stories tall. None of them impressed Katerina, and only one property remained on their list. They passed a little grocery store, a butcher, and a bakery in a line, just right for meeting daily needs. Convenient location.

  As they stepped down from the carriage in the last location, Katerina ran through the options in her mind. I suppose the narrow one is best, though walking directly into a kitchen is bizarre and terrible for entertaining. I wonder who designed such a thing. The cold wind had died down to a shivery breeze and a pale sun seemed to be trying to warm her, though it would be several months before any discernable heat would appear. They stepped from the hansom and Christopher withdrew the key he'd received from the agent. Katerina crossed her fingers as she took in their last option. The neighborhood consisted of a single continuous string of identical two-story structures, all red brick with white plaster columns supporting white balconies. The windows had been shaped into sharp peaks for added interest.

  “This place is charming!” Katerina exclaimed, resting her hand on the iron pole of a gas streetlamp outside the front door.

  “It is,” Christopher agreed, “and the location is quite good. Close to my parents, far from the Thames and the factory.”

  “Doesn't that mean you'll be longer getting to work?” Katerina wondered. “The weather is still quite cold.”

  He shrugged. “Once I find my gloves, I'll be fine. Living far from the factory is a blessing, unless you fancy darkening your hair in a shower of ash.”

  “Your gloves are under the bed,” Katerina replied, smirking at his sudden, thunderstruck stare. “I noticed them this morning when I was trying to find my other boot, and I see what you mean about the ash. Very well. Shall we go in?”

  Inside, the lower level consisted of a series of rooms arranged along a central hallway with creamy plaster on the walls and polished wood on the floors. First, a small parlor waited to greet guests. Katerina could imagine a comfortable, stylish sofa, a few armchairs and a little table with a vase for flowers. The size precluded fitting in any musical instruments. Even a diminutive harpsichord would have no place once the furniture arrived. Across from the parlor, a room with built-in shelves seemed to be a study. She smiled to imagine Christopher sitting behind a heavy, masculine desk, a glass of sherry nearby, bent over a pile of paperwork. Behind the parlor, a long dining room dominated the rest of the house, large enough to invite the entire poetry group to dinner, should an alternate location become required. At the back, opening to the outdoors, the kitchen retained a pleasing aroma of previous meals, like a ghostly yet friendly hug.

  “Do you cook much?” Christopher asked.

  Katerina shook her head. “A few things, but not many. Father has a great deal of money. Though he has trouble keeping servants because of his temperament, he does always seem to manage to replace them.”

  Christopher's gaze turned inward as he leaned against a cold and dormant cast-iron stove and Katerina could almost see the gears turning in his head. Probably refiguring the budget. “I think we can afford a cook-maid,” he said at last, confirming her surmises. “And of course, my man. Can you get by with that?”

  She nodded. “Certainly. Especially if I have mostly clothing that does not require help to put on.”

  “Which I'm sure you would prefer,” Christopher commented.

  He's right, she realized. I always hated Marietta seeing my back and making judgmental comments. Even if I found a maid who kept her own counsel, I would still wonder what she was thinking. “Would it bother you to have me dressing like a governess?” Katerina asked.

  Christopher turned, his eyes intense as he looked her up and down. At last, he shook his head. “Of course not. I know you won't be happy if you're uncomfortable, and in my circles, there are plenty of women who prefer simple, modest clothing. You wouldn't be alone in that.”

  Katerina smiled, but inside her sense of disbelief grew. This is too good to be true. How can I trust it? Shoving the nervous voice away, she considered the kitchen. “So far this place seems quite good,” she said, changing the subject.

  Christopher accepted her dodge with a wry twisting of lips and escorted her from the room. Across the hall from the kitchen, tucked behind the dining room, a small box of a room seemed to serve no purpose. Shrugging, Christopher led her to the staircase at the very back of the building and up steep stairs with a pretty, if slightly threadbare black and red rose runner.

  Upstairs were two small bedrooms and one large one. In the attic, two even smaller bedrooms would suit the yet-to-be hired cook-maid and Christopher's man of all work. They returned downstairs to the main floor and stood in the hallway. Christopher turned a slow circle. “I think this one will do,” he told her.

  “I agree,” she replied, enjoying the coziness of the house. Very little draft seeped in, and even without a fire, the inside felt warm.

  “Unfortunately, it's not furnished,” her husband continued.

  “We'll work on that,” she replied. “What comes with you from your rooms?”

  “Everything, but one can hardly furnish a home with a sofa, two chairs, a table and a bed,” he said.

  Katerina heard something of a whine in his voice. Seems my husband does not enjoy shopping. Perhaps I should take the burden from him. How exciting to pick out furniture for my own home. “True, but it's enough to get started, and we can work on the rest later.” She trailed her fingertips down his arm and grasped his hand.

  “There's only one thing I don't like about this house,” he added.

  “What's that?”

  “Come on.” He led her to the little room near the kitchen. “What a waste,” he said, waving at the plain plaster walls.

  “Oh, but it's perfect!” she exclaimed.

  He gave her a confused look. “It is? What is this room to you, love?”

  “It's a music room! What a pity you don't have a pianoforte.” It would sit right there, between the two windows, with red velvet draperies and a painting above. She whirled around imagining the rest of the space. Two armchairs to match the draperies, some small tables, and a bookshelf filled with songbooks and sheet music floor to ceili
ng.

  “A music room?” Understanding dawned on Christopher's face. “Of course. You do need one, don't you? Don't fret for a moment, love. I know just how to acquire a pianoforte for you. I won't let your music get away from you. But first, let's secure this place before someone snaps it up.”

  “Yes, let's.” Katerina bubbled with excitement over her new home. My home. Mine and Christopher's. In this house, they would begin forging their marriage, and hopefully, the shadows of her childhood would begin to fall away. It was such a lovely house, and she adored it.

  The signing of papers and paying of deposits only took a short time. Soon, Christopher escorted his wife down Bond Street, where the shops crowded closely one upon the other. At their first stop, he bought her a warm winter wrap. Snuggling gratefully inside the folds of amethyst fabric, she took her husband's arm and he led her to an auspicious-looking shop called Channing & Company. Of course, Katerina had heard of them. Not only did they make well-known instruments, they also published sheet music. All serious musicians knew the Channing name.

  Inside, the room smelled of wood and wax; the comforting aroma of pianos. A salesman who appeared to be about forty, with dignified silver wings in his dark hair approached the couple. “Hello, sir, madam. How can I help you?”

  Katerina looked at the serious man and began to feel anxious. What do I know about buying a piano? Nothing. Anxiety twisted her insides.

  Christopher stroked her hand gently and then he addressed the salesman. “I've just married a very accomplished pianist, and I thought there could be no better wedding gift than a pianoforte of her own.”

  “Ah, well we have some lovely models over here,” the man replied, slipping seamlessly into his pitch. He led them to a corner of the showroom where ornate instruments stood gaudily about, drawing the eye. Katerina walked slowly towards one. Its curved legs struck her as quite pretty, and its open lid invited passers-by to examine its intricate strings.

  “May I?” She indicated the bench.

  The salesman looked askance. “What do you mean, my dear?”

  “I want to play this piano and see how it sounds.” Does he really expect me to buy it without playing it, based on its looks alone? How odd. Again, anxiety made her belly swoop. Perhaps I'm not supposed to play it? Is it wrong to ask? Why don't I know these things?

  “Very well.” He pulled out the bench, cutting off her nervous internal monologue and she sat. Well if it was wrong to ask, it's too late to worry about it now. Katerina warmed up her fingers by playing a few rapid scales and then she shook her head.

  “What's wrong with it, love?” Christopher asked her.

  “It's out of tune,” she said softly, “and the tone isn't very good.”

  The salesman gawked at her but touching the white ivory keys had shattered her nervousness and made it possible for her to take command of herself. She rose and moved to another instrument. This one was ridiculously ornate but had such a poor tone even Christopher winced to hear it. She tried another and another to no avail.

  “I'm sorry, sir,” she told the employee. “These pianos just don't sound very good. Do you have anything less… fancy, but more playable?”

  He shook himself, blinking his staring eyes and closing his gaping mouth with a snap. “Yes, of course. I apologize. Usually, when young ladies come in here, they are more interested in the looks of the thing.”

  “I am not most young ladies then,” she said dryly. The sound of poorly made pianos had offended her sensibilities.

  “I suppose not. Here, come with me. I'll show you our professional model instruments, ones used by orchestras and theaters. They aren't showy, but the sound should suit you much better.”

  He led them to a different part of the building, where plain, unadorned black instruments gleamed in the faint January sunshine. Katerina walked among them, running her fingers over the polished surfaces. She eventually stopped at one, seemingly at random, and seating herself dreamily on the bench. Fingers tingling, she touched the ivory keys. And then, without warning, the crashing opening chords of the Sonata Pathetique rattled the windowpanes. The last time she had played this piece, half fainting and desperately wounded, she had demonstrated exceptional power and skill. Today the music in her soul poured out through the keys. Somehow instrument and musician aligned perfectly.

  Deep within herself, Katerina did not hear her husband arrange to purchase the piano from the salesman and deliver it to the home they had rented. Submerged in a symbiotic connection with the flawless instrument, she lost herself completely and became living music. When the piece ended she felt like weeping. Get ahold of yourself, girl, she told herself fiercely. It's only a piano. Crying over it is too much. She took several slow deep breaths.

  “This is the one, isn't it, love?” Christopher asked, laying a hand on her shoulder.

  “Yes,” she replied, the word catching in her throat.

  “All right. It will be at our house by tomorrow.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, darling.”

  He gifted her with a tender smile. “You are very welcome.”

  “And you, sir,” she told the salesman earnestly.

  “No, my dear, thank you,” he replied. “I never grow tired of hearing a pianoforte played well.”

  She smiled and let her husband lead her from the showroom, back down the street under vast rows of multicolored awnings. They walked past the massive display windows of a toy shop, from which dolls and teddy bears regarded the street with black button eyes. A greengrocer teased the frozen inhabitants with a pyramid of oranges imported from Spain. A bookseller displayed the latest collection of poetry against a backdrop of rather dusty black velvet. At last, they arrived at a garment shop.

  “Now then, my dear, I believe you said you were lacking in clothing?” Christopher said, indicating the display window with a wave of his hand.

  “Yes, terribly, but we've spent enough.”

  He smiled indulgently. “Love, my father owns a cotton mill,” he reminded her. “I'm his second in command. We're hardly lacking in funds. I've been saving for years.”

  “Why?” she asked. Saving money? What a novel concept.

  “Common trait of the middle class,” he replied. “I don't believe in wasting all my money on dissipated living. I knew I would want a wife someday, and a family, so I set money aside each year in preparation, which means that now I can afford a few new things for you. Besides, our company supplies this woman with fabric, and in exchange, she gives us a discount. As I recall you need chemises as well as dresses for various occasions. Do you ride?”

  She shook her head. “No.” The thought of the large animals made her shudder. I prefer my own two feet.

  He seemed not to notice. “All right. You won't need a habit then. Ah, here's the modiste.” He turned towards a dark-haired woman with a sharp nose. “Madame Olivier, my wife is in need of a complete wardrobe. Please outfit her with everything. Love, do you mind if I step out? Women's clothing shops suffocate me. I'll be back and collect you soon.”

  Katerina swallowed hard, her face growing hot, but she bravely consented. “Very well, Christopher.”

  He turned to leave, but said over his shoulder, “Remember, no corsets. You don't need them, and I like you to be able to breathe.” He swept out, leaving his bride blushing in the stuffily close environment of the shop, in the care of a stranger who quickly had her stripped down to her borrowed undergarments, tutting over her lack of womanly endowments. Katerina kept silent but dared to admit to herself that her husband had found no cause to complain.

  “Oh, mon Dieu!” the woman exclaimed from behind her.

  Katerina sighed. “Oui, ils sont terribles, n'est-ce pas? Mais il n'y a rien à faire. S'il vous plait, madame, aidez-moi avec des vêtements.”

  “Yes, you're right.” Mme Olivier switched to English. “I apologize. I was… startled. Of course, we can get on with clothing. It's fortunate that… they don't come up any higher, or it would be hard to find you any
thing fashionable to wear. But was he serious? No corset?”

  “Yes,” Katerina replied, shuddering at the memory of painful injuries compressed by whalebone. “And no need to be too fashionable. I prefer to look modest.”

  Mme Olivier rolled her eyes at the thought of modesty, but made no comment, turning instead to the topic of undergarments. “How will you support your bosom?” she demanded.

  Katerina glanced down at the small swell in the front of her borrowed chemise. “It needs very little. Perhaps some stays will suffice?”

  Mme Olivier circled around her and regarded the slender figure. “Yes. That will do nicely. A little extra padding in the skirt will create the illusion of a more generous curve.”

  And make me look like a stuffed goose, I wager. “Very well.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Christopher returned for his wife. He had arranged to have their meager possessions moved to their new home and had informed Mackenzie of the change of address. Mrs. Bristol was employed by the hotel and would be staying at her current position, so he had posted an advertisement for a cook-maid, which was scheduled to run the next day. Soon, they would need to shop for more furniture, but today he had long since grown tired, and he was sure Katerina felt worse. By the time he settled the bill at the shop, their bed should be in their home and ready for a couple of newlyweds to retire in.

  He entered the shop and found his wife standing on a stool while Mme Olivier adjusted the hem of a dress. The rich burgundy with black piping suited her dusky coloring, and the sleeves, rather than being heavily puffed to the wrist, were fitted to her slender arms. Lovely. Undergarments, nightgowns, and more dresses in sedate plaids and brown prints lay everywhere, ready to be purchased. A glorious gleaming white party dress draped across the arm of an assistant, ready to be fitted to Katerina's delicate figure.

  “She looks good in white,” he commented idly from the doorway of the room.

  “With her lovely coloring, she certainly does,” the modiste replied.