“I know,” she replied automatically.
“But do you believe it?” he asked.
She met his eyes with a haunting vulnerability, letting him see the pain that welled up from the depths of her soul. “God willing, someday.”
She looked so sweet and pretty there in his arms, just where he wanted her to be, and he lavished on her a kiss that left her breathless and panting. “Is that any better?”
“Oh yes, lovely.” She snuggled against him. His body reacted instantly, but he pressed on with the conversation. There will be time for that later.
“Now then, sweet wife, I have a question for you. My father recommended we take a wedding trip, and I think it's an excellent idea. Where would you like to go?”
She blinked. “I have no idea. I've never traveled.”
“Well Nice is lovely this time of year, warm, you know,” he suggested. “But there's also Italy. Do you have any family you might want to visit? Where are your parents from?”
“Florence,” she replied. “I've always wanted to see it.”
“Shall we go there then?” he asked, glad she'd expressed an opinion.
“Would you like to?”
No, love, this is for you. “I would like to take you somewhere you want to go and see you excited and happy.”
“That's easy, darling,” she replied, stroking her hand down his cheek. “You only have to take me to bed.”
He grinned. “And Florence?”
“If you would like it, I would.”
Good girl. That's what I wanted to hear. “Shall we find out if your family is interested in a visit?”
“How? Wouldn't a message take almost as long as a voyage?” she asked.
“Yes, a letter would, but what about a telegram?” he reminded her.
“Ah, I forgot about that. Yes, let's.”
“I'll go to the telegraph office tomorrow,” he replied. “And now, you mentioned another little trip that would make you happy. Is there time before dinner?”
She glanced at the clock she had placed on the mantle. “It's 5:30. Katie says dinner is at seven. That ought to be plenty of time.”
“Just barely enough. Let's go, love.”
And he took her hand and led her to the bedroom for a brief voyage to Heaven.
Chapter 12
The following Monday, Christopher caused a stir by arriving at work on time. His father looked him over, taking in the clean and well-pressed suit, the recently trimmed hair, and the warm coat, not to mention the lips stung with many kisses, and grinned. Christopher was quickly becoming every inch a married man. It suited him. As they made their rounds through the factory, the younger man looked relaxed and easy, another sure sign of domestic contentment.
The noisy task complete, they retired to the relative quiet of the office with Colonel Turner to discuss the week's business.
“I must say, Christopher,” the Colonel began, “well spotted last week. I had Mrs. Turner talk to Miss Jones. She said it was like pulling teeth but eventually she got the story out of her. The young lady's been courted by a man with a jealous streak. At first, she found it charming… until he turned violent. She didn't know what to do, and was embarrassed to go to her family, since they'd always told her he was no good.”
“So, what happened?” Christopher asked.
“Mrs. Turner and I took her to her father and explained the situation. I believe he had a talk with the young man, and her father's a butcher, so you can imagine how that went. At any rate, the courtship is done, and the young man is gone. Miss Jones seemed sad but relieved. I hope in time she will find someone better.”
“What good news,” Christopher replied, glad one sad situation could be easily resolved. “Was her father angry with her?”
“Disappointed, but not truly angry. No man wants to see his child hurt,” Turner said.
What a shame that isn't true, Christopher thought. What must go wrong in a man's mind to blur the line between love and violence? It took Christopher a moment to realize Colonel Turner had gone on talking about how quickly their new dye sample seemed to fade, and he refocused his attention in time to make a note not to sign for further service from that company. Business meeting concluded, Colonel Turner returned to the work floor while Christopher applied himself to ordering a new vermillion dye. It's running a bit low. I must find a new source. Red is such a difficult color to keep brilliant.
“Well, son, how are the travel plans going?” Adrian asked, interrupting Christopher's musings.
“Quite well.” Christopher finished filling out an order form and set it aside to dry. “It's taking longer than I expected, but we should be ready to leave a week from Friday.”
He glanced at his father and found him grinning. “That's very good. Did you settle on Italy or France?”
“Italy.” Christopher dipped his pen and signed another document from his stack. Oh good, the turn wheel for the broken loom should arrive in a week. “Katerina's mother's family still lives there. We made contact with her grandfather, and he would like us to stay with him.”
“How nice. Let's hope he's better than…” Adrian trailed off.
“Than her father?” Christopher shook his head. “Yes. I doubt he could be worse, and if it doesn't work out, Florence is a sizable city and we can certainly find a hotel, but I thought it best to start out this way, at least.”
“No doubt you're right,” Adrian agreed, dipping his own pen and signing a paper from his own pile. “Did you know, since trains have taken off so nicely, they're developing steamships? Imagine how much faster ships could go if they did not depend on wind.”
“Yes, imagine. Do you think it will happen in our lifetime?” Christopher asked, the machine-mad boy in him leaping onto the topic with glee.
“It might.”
The gentlemen worked in silence for the rest of the morning. After a brief break for lunch, a tall young man with the shock of auburn hair burst breathlessly into the office.
“Father, Chris, you have to come home right away,” Devin exclaimed, gesticulating with arms that seemed too long for even his oversized frame. I can't believe he still has growing to do. My little brother is a bloody giant already. But the idle thought barely registered under the panic in Devin's voice.
“Why, what's happened?” Adrian asked, alarmed.
“It's old Tibbins. He's had a heart seizure. He's not expected to live. Come on. Hurry. I have the carriage outside.”
Christopher and Adrian glanced at each other before grabbing their coats and hats and running for the door.
* * *
Long after midnight, Christopher finally arrived at his townhouse. The little structure brooded, dark and silent, its windows barely illuminated by banked fireplaces. It seemed to stare like the sightless eyes of the dead. He gulped as he entered the front door, but whether with trepidation or the remnants of emotion, he wasn't sure. The silence inside reminded him of a tomb, breathless and menacing, its inhabitants still. Katerina was inclined to be a morning person, and Mackenzie and Katie both started work early, so of course, everyone had long since gone to bed. He climbed the stairs and entered the bedroom to find a lamp still lit, a low fire on the grate. The dim light did not prevent him from moving quietly through the room to the commode, where a bowl of cool water awaited. I'm glad it's not hot. His face burned and his eyes stung. Dipping a cloth into the refreshing liquid, he washed, the water making soft lapping and splashing noises. Then he extinguished the lamp, moved over to the bed and undressed wearily. He glanced at his wife. She lay curled on her side sleeping, but not peacefully, muttering softly and twitching.
Beautiful girl, he thought, the sight of her soothing him. It's so nice to come home and find my wife waiting for me. Not bothering with nightclothes, he slid into the bed in his undergarments and snuggled against her back.
She started awake with a screech, jerking away and nearly falling from the bed. He took hold of her arm to steady her and sighed. I really do not need to
deal with her nervous reactions right now.
“Kat,” he said in his gentlest, most soothing voice.
“Christopher?”
“Yes, love. Just me.” He cuddled up against her back again. This time she allowed it but remained rigid in his embrace.
“Where have you been?” she demanded, an odd note in her voice.
“I had an emergency,” he replied.
“I needed you here. Why weren't you here?” She sounded… upset… no, more than upset, frantic.
“What's wrong?” He stroked her arm with long, soothing movements.
“He came here.” Her voice wavered.
“Who, your father?” Christopher's stomach knotted at the thought.
“Yes. He beat on the door and tried to force his way in. He said he was taking me home.” A fine trembling began in Katerina's limbs.
“Oh my God. What happened?” Terrifying images crowded his exhausted mind.
“I had Mr. Mackenzie bar the door and refuse him admittance. And then Katie slipped out the back and went to get the police.”
“Did they turn him away?” he asked.
“Not at first. I had to show them the marriage license,” she replied between teary gasps.
“Ah, and that worked?”
“Eventually.” Christopher sagged with relief, but Katerina remained tense.
“Did he hurt you?” Christopher leaned over, murmuring into Katerina's ear.
“No. He never even got through the door,” she replied.
“So, then all is well?” he asked, wanting to be certain.
“No!” she replied sharply. “I needed you. Where were you?”
He looked at her in the dim light of the fire. She handled the situation herself, so bravely. She's safe. Why is she so upset? He didn't understand it but reached for her anyway. She pulled back, turning over so she was facing away from him.
“Now really, Kat,” he said, his voice stern, “don't you think you're overreacting a little? Everything is fine. You didn't need me.”
She didn't reply.
“Kat…”
His dismissive answer had hurt her. Her shoulders were shaking, and he realized she was crying softly, trying to conceal it.
“Kat.” He pulled her back against his body and held her tight, not giving her the opportunity to squirm away.
“Where were you?” she choked.
“There was an emergency,” he said again.
“Couldn't you have sent a note?” she demanded petulantly.
“I suppose I could have. I didn't think of it.” And that had been inconsiderate. He remembered her telling him she liked to know where everyone was, that the knowledge made her feel safer. He had been gone, she didn't know where, for a very long time, with no word. And then her father frightened her. No wonder she's upset, he realized. No longer irritated, Christopher explained, “I'm sorry, Kat. Do you remember Old Tibbins, who worked for my parents?”
“Yes.” She sounded puzzled, and no wonder.
“He passed away this evening. I went to tell him goodbye.” His voice caught, and he swallowed down an unmanly noise.
* * *
Katerina remained silent for a long moment, gathering her composure. “Was he very important to you then?” she asked.
“Yes,” he agreed, intensity twisting his features. “I have no grandparents, love. Mother is an orphan, and Father's parents died before I was born, but Tibbins has been part of the household since I was a baby. He's like a member of the family, like the grandfather I never had. When he wasn't on duty he was playing with my brother Devin and me. The old gentleman could campaign with toy soldiers for hours, build castles out of playing cards, and decimate the Spanish Armada in the garden pond. He was wonderful.” Christopher's voice wavered. “And now he's gone.”
Katerina thought about this. Until today she had never stopped to consider the feelings of others, there had been no opportunity, but things were different now. If I'm going to be a woman and not a rabbit, I have to let my own needs go from time to time and tend others, most especially this man. She had needed him today, but apparently, he had needed her more. Someone actually needs me. How novel. She had never considered that her existence might matter to someone else. But whose arms would soothe Christopher's grief if hers did not? Squashing down her irritation, she rolled in his embrace and slid her arms around his neck, kissing him softly.
“I'm sorry, darling,” she said. “That must be terrible. I remember when my mother passed away. It hurt like hell.” It was a strong word, but of course, she wasn't wrong. Her mother's death had been the start of her descent into hell.
She pulled him closer, pressing his face against her, to the pillowy spot where her shoulder met her chest. Her fingers ran into his hair, stroking gently. She was doing something right, something selfless, and it felt good.
* * *
The naked girl restrained from a hook in the ceiling whimpered under the lash and then moaned in pleasure, the sound muffled by the lush red velvet curtains which hung on every wall. Giovanni drew back his arm and whipped her again. It's so much more difficult here, less satisfying. He had to control his strokes, not just give vent to his rage. And the fact that she was enjoying it reduced his pleasure tremendously.
What a disgusting whore. For him, this had never been sexual, he argued vigorously in his mind, but with his daughter gone, there was no other choice. Of course, she had turned out to be no better. Only the other day he had looked in the parlor window of the townhouse his daughter shared with her bastard husband, only to see the couple embracing indiscreetly. Vile. He brought the whip down again, harder, and the girl squeaked in protest as her skin broke and a thin line of blood trickled down.
“Sir, that's too much!” she objected.
“Silence, slut.”
“No. You know the rules. Soften your strokes or I'll call the manager.”
“Merda,” Giovanni muttered under his breath. This is hopeless. He had so wished to have Katerina back in his clutches today, but that damned burly footman had barred the door, and then the police had come. Now volcanic rage ripped at him and this tepid partial release would not suffice. Somehow, he would get her back, and then she would pay like she had never paid before.
* * *
The funeral took place that weekend at the same little church where Christopher and Katerina had married, a humble place for a humble man. It might have seemed odd for such a wealthy family to attend, but the Bennetts didn't care. They had all adored Old Tibbins, and that meant more than appearances.
Lawrence Tibbins had been more than a servant. He had also been a devoted husband and father. Though his wife, who had worked as cook for the family, was many years gone, his four children were present… three handsome middle-aged daughters with husbands and nearly grown children in tow, and a son with a wife, four grown children of his own, and a grandchild. All were happy, well-adjusted people. With no wealth, no social standing, no influence, Tibbins had still managed to improve London with his family. Everyone present at the service swelled with pride for the legacy of the old man.
Christopher, sitting beside his wife, clutched her fingers as he tried to maintain his composure. He said a silent prayer of thanks that he had been blessed to know such a worthy gentleman. Katerina stroked the side of his thumb soothingly.
When the funeral service ended, the assembled guests proceeded to the cemetery for the burial. An icy February wind pierced their coats and stung their flesh as the old gentleman was laid to rest. The cemetery was nearly at capacity. The sheltered corner under a spreading tree with naked branches was cluttered with mismatched gray gravestones. Some, like that of the late Emily Tibbins, which stood beside the freshly dug hole, were rather new and still stood straight. Others, like that of Tibbins' father and grandfather, were much older and tilted at odd angles, cracked and crumbling, covered in moss and lichens. The new grave yawned like a ravenous mouth in the hard-packed ground.
Just to the other side of
Emily's stone was a small monument in the shape of an angel, her hand over her face, weeping. The inscription indicated a child, the Tibbins' fifth. Their young son Benjamin had only lived two years before succumbing to measles. The family had saved up for years to buy that statue in his honor. Now, at last, Old Tibbins would be joining him.
Christopher clutched his wife's hand and tried not to think about another grave in a much more prosperous cemetery, where his sister Andrea lay. He'd only had her six years, but he'd never forgotten. While child mortality was terrifyingly common, the shared grief did not lessen its sting.
They stood near the back and a young man approached. Randall Tibbins, one of the servant's grandsons, was just Christopher's age. The two had known each other since they were children.
“Good of you to come, Mr. Bennett,” he said.
“Please, Randall, let's not be formal now,” Christopher replied.
Randall smiled sadly. “Very well. And is this your wife? I heard you were married.”
“Yes,” Christopher agreed, patting Katerina's arm.
“Pleased to meet you, ma'am,” the young clerk said graciously.
“Likewise,” she replied softly. “It must be gratifying to have had such a well-loved grandfather.” She indicated the small crowd squeezing among the headstones.
“It is. Thank you. We'll miss him, but he lived a good long life,” Randall said, and then rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.
“Yes,” Christopher replied, “and I can picture him now, can't you, in heaven? I imagine he's delighted with his new knees. The old ones gave him trouble for years.”
“That they did,” Randall replied, grinning at the humor, though his eyes remained sad.
As comfort, it fell rather short, but these are the things people say at funerals to remind themselves that death is not the end. We grieve, not so much for those that are gone, but for ourselves and our own loss. The mourners tossed their flowers into the grave, hugged each other with no attention to wealth or social status, and went home.
Keeping Katerina (The Victorians Book 1) Page 14
