Keeping Katerina (The Victorians Book 1)

by Simone Beaudelaire

  The quality of her voice changed, sharpening. “Don't pity me, Christopher. Please don't.”

  He shook his head. “No. I admire you. You're so strong, so brave.”

  “You make me brave,” she replied.

  “You chose courage, so you could come away with me and be my wife,” he told her, tracing one scar across her back from side to side. “I'm honored.”

  “You chose me to rescue out of the sea of battered women,” she replied. “I'm the one who's blessed.”

  “Did you know the French word for wounded is blessée?” he asked, his voice too nonchalant.

  “Yes. I've always found that ironic.”

  “It fits.” His tone wavered.

  “Yes, I suppose it does,” she conceded, wondering what he was up to.

  “Come here, love.” He led her over to a little table and urged her forward, so her hands rested on the wood. She gasped and went utterly still. Christopher had no way of knowing how deeply ingrained this posture was for her, how many times she had been bent over a hard surface in preparation for a brutal beating. Nearly every mark on her body had been received in such a position. The only way to keep the onslaught from turning even more violent was to submit in silence to each blow. The instant her hands touched the table, Italy faded, Christopher faded, and Katerina was back in her father's home, trembling as she waited for the whip to fall.

  Having no idea, Christopher slid his arms around her waist and laid his mouth on one deep thick line, tracing it gently. The delicate touch to her flesh, arousing despite the muting effect of the scars, confused her.

  What is this?

  His hands slid up her torso and cupped her breasts while he kissed her, one scar after the other. Her breasts tingled with familiar pleasure, and her breath caught, held, before releasing in a gasp. He plucked the tender peaks as his lips slid lower down her back, raining kiss after kiss on her ruined flesh. Her body relaxed and moistened, but her mind remained confused, trapped between the past and the present, the fear of pain and the pleasure of his caresses.

  He worked her nipples as he kissed his way down to her bottom and knelt behind her. Gently he widened her stance, so he could taste her, licking her succulent folds. She sucked air through her teeth in an audible hiss. The touch of his lips and tongue on her intimate places tightened down her belly. Pleasurable tension coiled in her deepest recesses, awaiting the touch that would release it. He slid his hands down her sides. One he braced on her hip. Long blunt fingers slid deep into her, tickling the secret places only he knew how to touch, and she exploded. The beauty of the orgasm broke through her terror and awakened her on a new level. At last Katerina was fully alive and on fire with pleasure that wrung ragged cries from her throat.

  He rose behind her, covering her body with his so he could press in deep. The fear is gone, she realized. She could relax with a man behind her. She bent forward, letting him thrust and pull back, enjoying being taken.

  “Say it, Katerina,” he growled as he filled her.

  “Oh, Christopher,” she moaned.

  “Tell me,” he urged.

  “I love you. Oh God, I love you, I love you. Oh yes.” Her head fell forward as her pleasure peaked again. He came with her in a rush, groaning as he pressed deep and released.

  He slid free and scooped her into his arms, carrying her to the bed and joining her so he could pull her close. He kissed her lips gently. “Did you mean it, Kat?” he asked, suddenly sounding vulnerable.

  “Yes. Did you?” She twined her arms around his neck.

  “Of course.” His lips touched her forehead.

  “Good. Then all is as it should be.”

  “It is.” He traced her lower lip with the tip of his thumb before leaning close and kissing her mouth again. “Good night, sweet girl.”

  “Good night, my darling.”

  * * *

  In the morning, Christopher woke early. His lovely wife lay sound asleep on her side in his arms, her back to him. He looked at the ravaging scars in the light of dawn. Horrible. They did not interfere with his love for his wife, not one iota, though he still hated how much she had suffered. But she had risen. She's my phoenix, my firebird, forged in hell and yet capable of carrying me to heaven. Suddenly shy of his intense feelings, he slipped from the bed and dressed. Scrawling her a brief, affectionate note, he headed out for a walk.

  A hint of warmth in the winter air carried a sense of coming spring. He walked through the olive grove and further out, into the morning mist, over the tree-studded hill separating the Bianchi family property from the unclaimed land beyond. The sun broke the horizon, coloring the landscape gold and scarlet, sparkling on the waters of the Arno. Christopher felt a dawning hope. Oh, he had hoped before, hoped against hope. But now he dared to believe. Maybe she really will be all right. Not just survive but thrive, be happy, be the kind of wife I always dreamed of having. She's so strong. He loved her with a fierce passion. And she loved him. She had said it, and sung it, and meant it. He believed her.

  A little gust of wind cut through Christopher's coat and made him shiver.

  “Blast.” The breeze carried with it a nearby voice, as well as a crumpled paper covered in messy handwriting and scratched-out errors. Christopher picked it up. Nearby another sheet tumbled past, and then another. He began collecting them, following the trail of papers back to the source. On the other end, he found a gentleman, a bit older than himself, with a full and bushy chestnut beard, but no mustache at all. The man was frantically scooping up scattered sheets as he went. Silently Christopher bent to help, and eventually returned a large pile to the stranger.

  “Is that all of them?” the bearded man asked in perfect, unaccented English.

  “I believe so, sir,” Christopher replied.

  “Excellent. Thank you for your help.” He gathered the papers into a folio and set it down, holding it shut against the wind with a rock. Then he extended his hand.

  “You're welcome.” They shook. “I'm Christopher Bennett, by the way.”

  “Welcome to Florence. Are you relocating?” the stranger asked.

  “No, I'm here on my honeymoon. My wife's family owns the estate nearby,” Christopher explained.

  “The Bianchis?” at Christopher's nod, the man commented, “They're good folk.”

  “They are,” he agreed. “And your name, sir?”

  “Oh, my name is Robert Browning.” The man grinned, seeming to realize he'd forgotten his manners.

  Christopher's jaw dropped. He closed it with a snap. “The poet Robert Browning?”

  “You've heard of me?” The man's eyes widened in shock.

  “Yes,” Christopher replied fervently. “I've read your poems. My goodness, I had no idea you lived here.”

  “Well,” Browning said in a gruff voice, “my wife's father isn't keen on me. We thought it best to live far away.”

  Christopher grinned. “I can relate to that. Well, it's an honor to meet you.”

  “Thank you. Most people know my wife better.”

  And how awkward that must be, to be less well known in your own field than your wife. “I'm sure. But my friends and I, we discovered your poems. You really made us think.”

  “Good. That was the goal.”

  More needed to be said, but how? “In fact…” he considered. “You know, my father owns a cotton mill.”

  Browning crooked one eyebrow.

  “It's a progressive mill. We've always tried to be aware of our workers' needs. From time to time we hear we've made a difference for someone. It always helps.”

  Browning looked lost. “And why are you telling me this, Mr. Bennett?”

  “Because if I help someone, I like to know,” Christopher explained. “Reminds me of the reasons we do what we do. So, I wanted you to know that… you made a difference.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I was aware of violence against women before I read `Porphyria's Lover', but I never really thought much about it. Perhaps i
t was Providence, but the day after I read it, I met a young woman in a dangerous situation. I couldn't bear the thought of her ending up like poor Porphyria, so I married her. I would never have given her a second thought, and certainly not done what I did, except the murder in that poem was so fresh on my mind. You made me aware. That poem saved her life.”

  Browning smiled. “Ah, well, thank you for telling me. And your marriage?”

  Christopher beamed. “It's very good. We're happy.”

  Browning nodded. “I'm glad for you then, and to know I helped. She's like a grain of sand though.”

  Sadly true. There are too many innocent victims. “I know. But until the laws are changed we can only do what we can do. I can't save them all, but I saved this one. That matters. And your role in it matters. Thank you, Mr. Browning, for having the courage to write what you did.”

  The man's mouth turned down. “Everyone hates it.”

  “Guilt,” Christopher suggested.

  “Perhaps.”

  “And perhaps the time is still not right. But I know this will continue to make a difference. I intend to keep sharing it, to keep speaking out. Do you intend to keep writing?” Oh please, don't let him give up. His work is so important.

  “I do.”

  Christopher grinned. “Good luck to you then.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bennett.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Browning.”

  The men shook hands and then Christopher hurried home. His bride was waiting for him, and suddenly he wanted to see her.

  * * *

  Inside the Bianchi manor, Katerina sat in the breakfast room, sipping a cup of coffee and wincing at its strength. She became aware of a movement behind her, but for once, did not jump in nervous anxiety. She simply turned to see. How refreshing. Her pleasure faded to a scowl at the sight of Aimée St. Jean.

  “What do you want?” she asked the other woman coldly. Before Aimée could even open her mouth, Katerina continued. “You may have the damned piano. You may have Grandfather. But you will stay away from my husband, is that clear? He's mine, and he doesn't want you anyway. Leave him alone.”

  “Yes, of course I will. You're right. And I never wanted him either. As you said, he's too young for me.” Her chastened tone made Katerina even more suspicious.

  “Then what were you doing?” Katerina demanded, eyes narrowed. She spat the words like little flames from a bonfire.

  “Trying to unnerve you,” Aimée replied, looking appropriately stung.

  “Why?”

  “Petty jealousy. I was jealous of your talent and of your grandfather's attention. It was mean-spirited, and I apologize.” Aimée sounded disarmingly sincere.

  “Why?” Katerina demanded again, giving no quarter.

  “Because I'm woman enough to admit when I'm wrong,” Aimée replied. “I should never have treated you this way.”

  “You needn't be jealous of my talent,” Katerina commented, giving the tiniest inch of leeway. “Yours is greater.”

  “No. My experience is greater. But I think you have more natural musical ability.”

  Katerina rolled her eyes. “Is it still a competition, Madame?”

  Aimée ventured a timid smile. “No. It's not.”

  Katerina continued, gesturing with one hand. “I mean, you're a talented artist. So am I. Why can we not commiserate, since we share so many things in common?”

  “I don't know. I've been feeling very… off lately, you see…” she leaned over and whispered in her ear. Katerina's mouth fell open. “It's no excuse,” Aimée continued, “but I was so worried he was losing interest in me because of you.”

  Katerina shook her head. “There's no comparison. You're the woman he loves. I'm his granddaughter. There's no competition there either.”

  “You're right,” Aimée conceded, “but I'm not thinking clearly these days.”

  Katerina pursed her lips. “I can see that. Well, I suppose you two had better get married. How odd to think your child will have a niece from the first moment of life, a niece twenty years his senior.”

  “That is amusing,” Aimée chuckled. “So, Mrs. Bennett, can we start over, please? I mean you're going to be my step-granddaughter.”

  “Am I?” Katerina raised one eyebrow.

  “Oh yes,” Aimée replied, her head bobbing so her golden hair bounced. “We worked it out last night.”

  “Very good. When?”

  “Soon,” the woman explained. “Probably before you leave. Will you come?”

  Katerina pressed her advantage. “On one condition.”

  “What's that?” Aimée asked, a hint of suspicion in her face.

  “Let me play at the wedding,” Katerina replied.

  The two women regarded each other, each taking the measure of the other's will. Aimée tilted her chin at last in concession. “Of course. Will you also sing?”

  Katerina smiled, knowing she'd won. “If you like.”

  “Do you know the Schubert `Ave Maria'?”

  “I do.”

  “Please?”

  “Of course.”

  The women grinned at each other and moments later Christopher arrived.

  Unconcerned with Aimée's presence, he scooped his wife into his arms for a long and coffee flavored kiss.

  “I love you,” he told her softly.

  “How sweet you are Christopher. I love you too.” She gazed up at her husband, letting her adoration show in her eyes.

  “Good. It's beautiful outside. Would you like to go for a little walk?”

  “That would be most pleasant,” she concurred.

  “Let's go then. Madame St. Jean.” He bowed, and they left her.

  Chapter 19

  The rest of the visit became exceedingly enjoyable. Aimée and Alessandro married quietly, much to the consternation of his son, who was five years older than his father's bride. As promised, Katerina played and sang at the ceremony. Everyone agreed it was lovely.

  Apart from that, Katerina and her husband spent time exploring the ancient city of Florence; playing tourists and gawking at the buildings. Christopher had the pleasure of introducing his wife to the Brownings. Robert showed effusive pleasure at meeting the charming young woman whose life had been spared in part due to his writing, and Katerina found a kindred spirit in his shy but passionate wife Elizabeth. Much symmetry existed between the couples, as the poets had also been forced to marry in secret. They and the Bennetts found each other to be pleasant company. The Brownings escorted their new friends to the Galleria dell'Accademia, where they admired rich paintings and sculptures by many artists including Fra Lippo Lippi. Robert showed them the famous altarpiece the monk had created, with its gloriously-colored image of the angel and the Virgin Mary and declared his intention to write a poem about it.

  Another day, Christopher and Katerina walked along the Ponte Vecchio Bridge, which oddly was lined with little shops, and gazed at the picturesque Arno River flowing beneath. They admired the Botticini frescoes and attended mass at the Santo Spirito Basilica, a pale, cross-shaped medieval church lined inside with rows of delicate columns. At last, they visited the main Cathedral in the city, Santa Maria del Fiore with its famous Gothic-era red and white dome, gloriously painted on the inside.

  But they did not merely wander day after day. Sometimes they remained at the Bianchi residence where they devoured the delicious meals provided by Alessandro's cook, and Katerina's slenderness began to develop into a lovely hourglass shape typical of young Tuscan women. And of course, they enjoyed their holiday in the traditional way, by pleasing each other frequently in bed. Perhaps a little too much. By the end of the trip, Christopher was beginning to feel concerned. Katerina was growing increasingly tired during the day, and often had to lie down in the afternoon. Well, it was no surprise; after all, he kept her up late many nights, but she was starting to look a little fragile. He hoped she wasn't coming down with an illness. But she was still as eager as ever, and it was hard to say no to his pretty bride. If he wer
e honest, he would have to admit he never did. Secure in each other's love, their marriage grew happier and stronger every day.

  But vacations don't last forever, and in the middle of March, Alessandro drove them back to Livorno, foregoing the train in favor of a few more hours spent together. He promised to visit them in England in the fall, after the grape harvest, and before the olives ripened. His and Aimée's baby was due in July, and Katerina was looking forward to seeing the little one. It amused her to no end that her grandfather had not only bedded such a young woman but had actually succeeded in getting her with child. That their love had succeeded against all odds made her own marriage seem even stronger by comparison. Alessandro and Aimée faced a difficult future, to be sure. But all relationships have their problems, and as Katerina explained to her husband, “They're happy together. It's enough.”

  Too soon the travelers arrived at the docks. Alessandro shook Christopher's hand and hugged and kissed Katerina before the newlyweds boarded the ship for their return to England. They would arrive sometime around the first of April, again depending on weather conditions.

  The return trip seemed to be a repeat of their previous voyage, with Katerina being terribly seasick. If anything, it was worse this time. Her poor stomach could hardly hold food, and every dip of every wave caused a corresponding dip in her belly. She suppressed this as best she could, not wanting to alarm her husband, but she still retched often and miserably.

  As they sailed past Gibraltar into the Atlantic, the captain issued an invitation for all first-class passengers to join him for a special dinner and socializing hour. Glad of a chance to be distracted from Katerina's discomfort, the Bennetts readily agreed.

  The ship's dining room had a white-painted ceiling and golden wood on the walls and supporting pillars. Rows of small round tables were set with white cloths and golden wood chairs with cream upholstery patterned in elongated emerald octagons. After dinner, Katerina clung to her husband's arm for balance as they mingled and chatted, accompanied by a string trio which Katerina proclaimed very good.

  As the young couple talked idly to a doctor from New York who was touring Europe in hopes of learning new techniques, Katerina suddenly became aware that she felt… strange. Not nauseous, but dizzy. She tried to ignore it, to focus her attention on the conversation, but it grew worse, more insistent, and black spots began floating in her field of vision.