Keeping Katerina (The Victorians Book 1)

by Simone Beaudelaire

  “Well done. I see you haven't let her economize too much.” He waved at the pile of garments.

  The proprietress gave his wife a telling glance before turning to him with a smirk. “No, I know you are a man of excellent taste and want your wife to look her best.”

  “I do.”

  “I think this is excessive,” Katerina said softly from her perch.

  I knew she'd think that. “Hardly, love. I would say it's just enough.”

  She pondered this in silence for a moment, and then said simply, “Thank you.” The words were accompanied by an intense look which promised more tangible thanks later.

  “You are very welcome,” he replied, risking the wrath of the modiste to lift his wife's hand to his lips before stepping back, letting the women finish their work.

  Mme Oliver unlaced the wine-colored dress and pulled from Katerina's body, leaving her in a chemise and a set of short, waist-length stays, which supported her breasts without constricting her breathing. The assistant slipped the white gown over her head and quickly fitted for alterations. Finally finished, Katerina wriggled into a ready-made dress in a cream flowered print with a full skirt and heavy pleats in the bodice, which created the illusion of a full bosom above a tiny waist. The waist was natural, he knew. The bosom had been formed from a clever excess of fabric, but so skillfully done that the ruse could not readily be detected.

  Christopher paid for the dresses and led his wife out to a waiting hansom, which took them to their new home. As he had hoped, the bed had been placed in the largest bedroom, and the young couple retired for an afternoon nap which involved very little sleeping but proved wonderfully relaxing nonetheless.

  Chapter 11

  Monday morning, Christopher headed to the cotton mill to meet with his father and Colonel Turner and some of the other employees. As he exited the hansom, he glanced at the tenements through a mist so heavy it was nearly rain. What a shame people have to live like this. London had always been full of the poor and downtrodden, but in the three-quarters of a century since the Industrial Revolution had begun, massive numbers of people had swarmed into the city to work in factories. Most were poorly paid and ended up living in places just like this. The failure of the potato crop in Ireland, which had begun a few years before, had only increased the crowding. Those squalid little apartments sometimes held multiple families in their filthy depths. Disgusting. He hurried inside.

  No matter the season, it was always swelteringly hot and humid inside a cotton mill, the heat and moisture necessary to keep the strands supple. For the moment, however, the heat provided a welcome respite from the cold of the morning. Christopher met his father and the colonel at the door and they made their customary rounds, first donning masks Christopher had invented to keep cotton fibers from being inhaled, which was terrible for the lungs. The workers were also required to wear them.

  They toured the factory, as they did weekly, and admired the hard work of the men and women, all teens and older, who were taking bales of raw cotton imported from America and feeding them into machines that would card, spin, dye, and weave. Eventually, beautiful fabric would emerge and be distributed to shops in London, across England, and abroad. There were several businesses who would work only with fabric from the Bennett Mill, not only because they were of excellent quality, but also because of the father and son's dedication to fair treatment for their workers. They produced less product, and it cost more, but the dividends in human happiness were worth more to both men than money, and the Bennetts certainly were far from destitute.

  The noise in the factory threatened to split their eardrums, and most of the employees had, with the owners' enthusiastic permission, taken a little bit of the raw cotton and stuffed it in their ears to preserve their hearing.

  There was no point in talking; nothing could be heard over the racket of the machinery, so they looked on in silence as employees communicated with hand gestures. A new worker Christopher hadn't met before caught his eye. She was sitting at a weaving loom, a shuttle flying fast under her skilled manipulations. Something strange about her hand warranted a second look, and he felt ill upon noticing the ring finger on her right hand had been reduced to a raw, red stump. She seemed to sense his presence and looked up. Seeing he was young and handsome, winked at him above the mask. She's a comely little wench, but I find her completely lacking in appeal. Then his eyes narrowed. She had a bruise around one eye.

  Shaking his head, he followed his father and the manager to the office, which was equipped with simple plain desks for father and son. The walls had been outfitted with the best sound-proofing that could be had in 1848; they were stuffed with newspaper. Doesn't help too much, Christopher thought, not for the first time, as his ears adjusted to the clanking and hissing of the factory.

  “Well,” Adrian asked as the men removed their masks, “how is everything since our last visit, Turner?”

  “Excellent,” the bluff former soldier replied, smoothing out his silvered blond hair where the mask had rumpled it. “As you can see, we have a new girl, Miss Jones. She's quite accomplished on the loom.”

  “What happened to her?” Christopher asked, his voice dark.

  Colonel Turner shot a look Christopher's direction. “What, her finger? She lost it at her previous employment. Machine accident.”

  He shook his head. “I've seen that before. Who's beating her?”

  “What?” The Colonel appeared thunderstruck.

  “She has a black eye.”

  Turner lowered his eyebrows. “You know, I'm not sure. I'll see if I can get Mrs. Turner to talk to her and find out.”

  “That would be good.” Christopher thought of his own sweet wife. After their lovely weekend together, it had been wrenching to leave her, she still seemed so frightened and uncertain. But she had assured him that wives stayed home, and she had cook-maids to interview, and her lovely new pianoforte to keep her company, and perhaps, later, she would go visit his mother. He had finally left, and despite long good-bye kisses perfectly suited to newlyweds, he had almost been on time. I suppose that means she's good for me too.

  The gentlemen settled into their desks upstairs while Colonel Turner returned to the floor. As usual, a mountain of paperwork awaited the father and son, and they settled into reading and signing. Christopher was in charge of dyeing and engineering; repairing and configuring the machines. Adrian ran everything else.

  “So, son,” Adrian asked, signing a document with a flourish and setting it aside to dry, “how is your marriage so far?”

  “Quite good,” Christopher replied. “We've settled into a little house and Katerina is interviewing cook-maids today. I bought her a pianoforte.”

  “Does she play?” His father queried, meeting his son's eyes across the room.

  Christopher responded with a brief, enthusiastic nod. “Yes. She's incredibly talented. I'll ask her to play for you some time. You'll be astonished.” Remembering his wife's skilled performance led to memories of the night he'd rescued her… and then to another distressing thought.

  Adrian noticed immediately. “What are you not telling me? You look… upset.”

  Christopher shook his head. “It's nothing.”

  “Come on, son,” Adrian urged. “Let it out. Who else are you going to talk to? You've undertaken a massive and risky venture with this woman.”

  “Actually, she's doing better than I expected,” he argued.

  “Excellent. But?” Adrian waved his hand, urging his son to the point.

  Christopher gave up prevaricating. “But she has a little… mannerism I dislike.”

  “And that is?”

  “She flinches. A lot. Any time someone makes a sudden move near her, she shies away, covering her head.” He made a face.

  Adrian arched his eyebrow. “Does it surprise you?”

  Christopher sighed. “No, not really. I just wish… she didn't do it to me, that she trusted me not to hit her. I suppose it's too soon.”

  “Does
she shy away from every touch?” Adrian asked.

  “Not at all, she's quite… affectionate.” His cheeks warmed at the pleasant memories those words stirred. “Just easily spooked.”

  “Well then, she's not really reacting to you. It's the movement,” Adrian reassured his son.

  “Right. Of course.” Christopher thought. “Do you think she'll ever stop doing that?”

  “Perhaps,” Adrian allowed cautiously, “but even if she doesn't, is it really so bad?”

  “Yes.” Christopher made a face. Do you really think I want a wife who recoils from every movement?

  “It doesn't mean she mistrusts you,” his father pointed out. “She can't help it.”

  Christopher looked out the window. The cold weather barely allowed for a dreary drizzle. A few degrees colder and ice would pelt the city. The bone-chilling droplets obscured the unlovely view of the tenement across the street. He debated whether to say more. I shouldn't… she'd be embarrassed, but we're married. Everyone knows what that means. And I need to know how to handle this. At last, he blurted, “I was making love to her at the time. All I wanted was to caress her face.”

  * * *

  “Sorry.” Adrian grimaced. How unpleasant that must have been at such an intimate moment. “You know, son, in all marriages, there are things each spouse dislikes about the other. That's simply the nature of close relationships. You're not required to like everything about her in order to have a happy union. And I'm sure I don't have to tell you there will be things about you she does not prefer as well.”

  Christopher nodded.

  “Listen,” Adrian continued, “you're putting a great deal of pressure on yourself. Any marriage would have created this same period of adjustment. Let yourself dislike things about her. They don't imply you dislike her. And then remind yourself what is good about her. She's affectionate, she plays the pianoforte well, and she is quite lovely. Aren't all those things much better than a little nervous gesture she can't control?”

  “Of course.” Christopher looked affronted at the very suggestion.

  “And more will come, good and bad,” Adrian reminded his son. “That's real life. That's your marriage becoming real. Does it help any to think of those things?”

  “Some. I just wish she hadn't been so terribly hurt.” Every line of Christopher's face spoke of distress.

  “You know,” Adrian said thoughtfully, “she may not be the only one with some grieving to do.”

  The unexpected comment seemed to jar Christopher from his own contemplations. “What do you mean, Father?”

  “Just this,” Adrian replied. “You care about her. You've married her, and she belongs to you. That means her suffering affects you. She's not the only one who lost things she wanted. Weren't you cheated of a normal courtship, of the opportunity to take your time with her and let the relationship develop more naturally?”

  “Yes.” The bleakness in his son's voice rivaled the view through the office window.

  “And doesn't it bother you?” Adrian insisted.

  “Yes.” Christopher ceased staring at the rain and focused on his desk.

  “And you have had to look at this woman, your wife, and see painful injuries on her body and face, and know someone harmed her and you were powerless to prevent it.” I hate saying it, but he can't pretend it isn't an important aspect of their relationship.

  “I know. I hate that!” Christopher exclaimed, audibly grinding his molars.

  “Let yourself hate it. You should.”

  “My poor Katerina.” Christopher's voice broke. He looked out the window again for a long moment. Then, eyes red, he turned back to his paperwork, ending the conversation.

  Adrian regarded his son. This is not going to be a rescue forever. Christopher had progressed well down the road towards loving his wife, and as a deeply loving husband himself, his father recognized all the signs. If his love meant anything to Katerina, someday, Lord willing, they would have the kind of vital marriage they both claimed to want.

  Father and son worked in silence for a long period of time, Adrian letting Christopher regain his composure, and then he spoke again. “You know, it might not be a bad idea for you two to take a little… trip together. A sort of wedding tour. You jumped back into everyday life three days after your marriage.”

  Christopher pondered the suggestion. “You know, you're right. But who will take care of… all of this,” he indicated his desk, “if I went away?”

  “Let your brother do it,” Adrian suggested. “He needs a taste of the family business. I know how you run things, and I can guide him.”

  “Interesting thought,” Christopher replied, smirking. Adrian also smiled at the thought of his youngest child, a towering, flame-haired yet bookish adolescent, working in the family business he hated.

  Then Christopher spoke again. “Where should I take her? The south of France might be nice this time of year, and we both speak the language rather well.”

  He's going to have to learn to include her opinion, not just make decisions for her. “Ask her where she wants to go. She might prefer Italy.”

  “Ah, good point.” Christopher turned to face his father. “So, you would really be in favor of me taking an extended holiday on short notice?”

  “I really would,” Adrian assured him. “This is your family, son. Your marriage is for life. It's important.”

  “Well all right then, Father. Thank you very much.” His grin told Adrian how much Christopher liked the idea of spending time alone with his wife.

  Adrian smiled also. He had been married a long time himself, but he could still remember the potent blend of desire and tenderness that accompanied the beginning of a marriage. Honestly, nothing much changed over the decades except those sizzling feelings deepened and strengthened. With luck, Christopher and Katerina's marriage would do the same.

  * * *

  That afternoon, Katerina successfully found an efficient young woman named Katie Lawrence to do the cooking and cleaning of her home. While it was traditional to call such a woman by her last name, she and Katerina were the same age, and she liked the girl's confident manner and open, country-bred kindness. At Katie's wink, Katerina decided they would be more friends than anything else and decided they should call each other by their first names when no one was around. Secure in the knowledge that meals would be forthcoming, she practiced until her fingers were sore. Finally, she sent a brief letter to her mother-in-law. Feeling accomplished for completing all her tasks, she indulged herself with a cup of strong black tea and the collection of poetry Christopher had left in a folio on the bedside.

  So far, she greatly enjoyed being married. Her husband charmed and pleased her tremendously both in bed and out. Positive feelings about herself rounded out a surprisingly happy sensation. The bishop had made her think she would grieve and be miserable for a while and then begin to heal, but in fact, the two processes seemed to be simultaneous. She still had those old feelings of fear and depression that had been her constant state for the last ten years of her life, since her mother's death, but they were now interspersed with moments of radiant joy. While she allowed herself her unhappiness, knowing it had to be felt to be healed, she was far from miserable most of the time. How can I be when I have Christopher to hold and kiss and talk to me?

  She took a sip of her tea and opened to the first poem, her eyebrows drawing together at the title, `Porphyria's Lover'. This must be one of the conversation pieces he had mentioned before the poetry party turned into a crisis. She wondered how lascivious it would be. Well, I'm a married woman, am I not? I have experience in the ways of passion. If this poem proves a little scandalous, I can handle it.

  So, she read. It was not what she had expected, and the blunt description of the violent murder struck her in a weak place. She hated being such a watering pot, but there was no help for it. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she turned to the next poem. `My Last Duchess'. Though subtler, she found the reference to the murder readily eno
ugh. How close she had come to being the subject of a story just like these. Except in her case, her lover had saved her, not harmed her. She closed the folio, so her tears would not stain the paper, and set it aside. Her tea forgotten, she buried her face in her arm on the table and gave vent to her emotions again, and that was where Christopher found her when he returned from work a few minutes later.

  * * *

  He didn't say a word. Approaching from behind, he wrapped his arms around her, intending to comfort her. It was a terrible mistake. She started violently, pulling away with a cry of terror and curling into a ball, protecting her head and belly from a perceived attack.

  Cursing himself, he laid his hand on her shoulder. “Kat,” he said softly, “I'm sorry I startled you.”

  “Christopher?” Recognizing the voice, her rigid body began to relax, and she straightened, turning to see his concerned expression. She launched herself into his arms. “I'm sorry,” she murmured, her face hidden against his shoulder.

  This is my fault. What's wrong with me? “Think nothing of it, love. Anyone would have been surprised to be grabbed from behind while focused on something else. I'm sorry I startled you.” He slid his hand under her chin and raised her face. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes.” He regarded her in silence, waiting for the rest, for the reason behind the tear stains on her cheeks. At last, she added, “I read your poems.”

  “What, the Browning?” He squeezed her tighter.

  She nodded.

  Oh dear. I should have put those away. They're the last thing she needs to be reading. “Oh, Lord. Terrible, aren't they?”

  “They're real,” she replied, and now that her fright had passed, the determination in her voice made him reconsider. Might it be good for her to read them? They do show the evil of situations just like hers. “They had to be terrible or they wouldn't be convincing. Isn't it interesting how both men blamed the women for their attacks on them?”

  “Yes. But neither woman was at fault,” Christopher pointed out, pulling back and looking down into her face. With his thumb, he wiped a tear from her cheek. “They didn't even know there was a problem. And it wasn't your fault either.”