Innocence and Carnality

by J. Alan Veerkamp

Chapter 22

  IT HAD been seven days since Rother shipped his edicts to the Chief Magistrate and his solicitor. Only myself, Blythe, and Rother knew of his demands. I couldn’t imagine Alexandra taking the news lightly, so I kept my lips tight on the subject. One more item to add to my growing catalog of secrets.

  Waiting for the post became a test of nerves each day. Until he’d received confirmation of his plan, Rother haunted the house with a distracted agitation. And the longer it took, the more dramatic the effect.

  At first I doubted Rother saw the gravity of the situation. Much like my knowledge of intimacy, my familiarity with the criminal element sat steeped in ignorance. Mr. Avaston had no issue ordering his men to attack me to make their point. Of what else was he capable? Rother’s legal attack might not win the game from such a person. Would Mr. Avaston accept the loss? My biggest fear was Rother would provoke the man into something more drastic. The thought kept me awake at night.

  The authorities couldn’t help. Mr. Avaston’s men were all dead, leaving no proof of his direct involvement, and we couldn’t seek their aid without risking an investigation into Blythe’s background. Even with Rother’s influence on certain officials, a criminal court couldn’t be trusted. We were on our own without something more damning.

  There wasn’t much time to ponder it all. Three days later the decorators arrived to freshen the salon. The appointment had been made weeks in advance, and now the house was in a separate state of controlled anarchy.

  It was all about timing, wasn’t it? Much like the music box’s internal gears. Every little piece, no matter how minute, had to spin in perfect sync or no sound could be produced.

  I spent my time trying to manufacture some variation of normal as I puttered about. Of course, this was laughable given how I lived in a whorehouse and my husband was defending himself against a possible takeover by a deranged mobster.

  One last attempt to repair the music box finally bore fruit. I almost missed it. Half its innards were splayed out on the floor when I discovered a single minuscule gear with bent sprockets. Proof of how delicate a device it was. How relieving to know I was up to the task after all.

  However, now that I knew the trouble, my work stalled until I could venture into the city again to replace the part. And I wasn’t sure I was prepared to leave the confines of Delaga House. Merely thinking of stepping out the front door reminded me of four men lying dead in an alley and how I almost became one of them. The city held a new set of dangers I’d never envisioned. How ironic that I, who once couldn’t wait to flee Delaga House, now found sanctuary within its four walls.

  Putting my tools aside, I stepped away from the music box autopsy littering the bedroom floor. I needed to find another project to occupy myself. Until it was safe to go out, this would stay where it was.

  Thankfully, the washroom was attached to the suite so I wouldn’t be seen in such a state. While I cleaned the oils from my hands, I made a point to face my reflection. A man couldn’t call himself strong if he avoided his reality. Shadows under my eyes aged me. Not surprising, given how little I’d slept. Fitful nights were a combination of reliving David’s attack and my husband’s growing irritability since it occurred. The purple stain on my jaw had begun to diminish and the mark on my neck from David’s blade was less prominent.

  The brand was still there, a raised, angry weal showing off Rother’s initials. Staying focused on the wound required fortitude. I wanted to glance away and not accept its presence. I fixed on the ugly thing and held it in my sight on purpose, galvanizing my resolve to follow through with my course of action. Especially since I’d decided to expand my plan. Would Rother be pleased he’d once again managed to inspire me? Unlikely.

  Drying my hands, I matched my stare to the tired young man in the mirror. “Stay strong. It won’t be forever. I promise.”

  Back in the room, I checked the time. My tea break was almost upon me, and it would be rude to allow it to go to waste. Since my mugging, Dahvra had begun making a tea service for me on the screened porch each afternoon at the same precise hour. It was one of the few civil pleasures I could indulge that didn’t raise eyebrows. I sorted my attire, making myself presentable, and headed down the main stairs to the salon.

  It was utter chaos.

  With all the furniture removed and walls stripped bare, the entire room echoed. The lush curtains were gone, allowing in an amount of light I’d only associated with the vicarage. A sacred glow in a house of ill repute? I thought not. Craftsmen toiled, preparing the surfaces with fresh plaster and smoothing walls for the rolls of decorative paper piled in the corner. Dirty canvas lined the floor to protect it from paint and other elements of the trade.

  And in the middle of it all stood my husband.

  “Where’s my furniture?” Rother crowded the tall man carrying an overloaded journal tight to his chest. The poor man was the decorator overseeing the project. Dressed in a weathered vest with his sleeves rolled to the elbow, he stood a few inches over Rother, but as usual my husband’s presence overpowered him.

  He leaned back to create some distance as he adjusted his spectacles. “As I told you when we started, they are sitting in the warehouse waiting to be delivered. It makes no sense to bring them now when we are still finishing the walls.”

  “I want this job done right and on time. I can’t open Delaga House with the salon in this condition.”

  “And we’re working hard to make sure we stay on schedule, Lord Delaga. Which we are.”

  “I’ve already had to correct at least five mistakes so far.” Something caught Rother’s eye and he strode off to one of the workers, startling him with a slap to the shoulder. “You’re not planning on leaving that spot of paint on my walls, are you?”

  The decorator followed and inserted himself between his employee and Rother. “Perhaps if you’d supervise less and allow us to work—”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “My apologies, sir, but your scrutiny has been a bit… overwhelming. It makes my workers nervous and more likely to do less than their best.”

  I had to give the decorator credit. Somehow he managed a passable civility, but three days of Rother’s interference would test anyone’s patience.

  “I’m wondering if you brought me your best artisans in the first place.”

  And the civility began to crumble as the decorator made a deliberate point to look down at my husband. “I assure you, my men are without reproach. Each one has no less than fifteen years at his particular skill and studied under a master for ten more before that. I can account for every error being due to customer interference.”

  “Excuse me?” One of the Delaga House girls walked through the salon, her minimal attire catching the notice of another worker. Rother spun and pointed at the hapless man. “You! Don’t look at her! I’m the client now, not you! When you’re paying me for her time, then you can look all you want. Until then, get your lazy ass back to work!”

  The decorator positioned himself again between the men. A lock of his dusky hair escaped its immaculate style and fell into his face. “My men don’t need to be told how to handle a brush or scrape old paint off the walls. Every time you shout at one of them in this giant hall, you startle everyone inside. That’s how the wall was gouged yesterday.”

  All work halted as every person watched the growing spectacle. No one dared move a brush or breathe too loud or risk being dragged into the scene.

  Rother glowered at the decorator. “I would advise you to watch your tone.”

  “Or what? You’ll tell everyone my dark and dirty secrets?” Smoothing the errant hair out of his face, he stepped into the center of the salon. He raised his hand and voice at the same time. “Attention, everyone! When I use the services of Delaga House, I make appointments with the goddess Alexandra and allow her to abuse me as she sees fit. It’s a cathartic experience not for the faint-hearted.”

  Not one person reacted to the confession. We all stood s
till as silent witnesses. He lowered his hand and tugged his vest down. I was awestruck by his confidence.

  “There. That takes care of that. Your threats don’t scare me, because I’m not ashamed of my vices. I choose where and when I’ll be submissive to anyone. Now would you kindly give me and my men some space so we can do the magnificent job you hired us for?” The decorator stepped back to Rother and crowded his space, facing off against my seething husband. “Or would you prefer we gather ourselves and leave your salon in this condition?”

  I didn’t dare breathe. The possibility of the salon walls being painted with the decorator’s blood was a little too real and not a humorous thought.

  Rother spoke through gritted teeth. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Thank you, Lord Rother. You won’t regret it.” The decorator stepped back and offered a thankful nod. He turned and stepped closer to his workers and gestured them into action. “All right, gentlemen. Let’s make this place beautiful.”

  It was a slow reaction, but everyone resumed their tasks like a mechanical toy winding down in reverse. The decorator continued overseeing the details and checking notations in his book, paying no more attention to Rother, who stood in the center of the hall. I was stunned Rother had allowed the open challenge, but his love of Delaga House outweighed his need to dominate. The house was his priority in all things.

  Rother was by no means happy. His gaze flitted about. Looking. Judging. Hopefully I could cross the hall without gaining his attention. I worked my way around the periphery of the room, trying to make myself small and uninteresting. One of the girls wasn’t so lucky as he noticed her coming down the stairs.

  “Maria, make sure you wash the bedroom linens today.”

  Maria stared down at the pile of wadded bedsheets spilling out of her arms and then at Rother with a mix of annoyance and confusion. Could he not see the bundle she was carrying?

  “Yes, sir.” Maria curtsied and continued on her way. She had been at Delaga House long enough to know when to placate the owner.

  I cringed at Rother’s behavior. I’d seen it before. When my grandmama lay dying back in the Valencus house a number of years ago, my father had railed at the useless apothecarian, demanding he make her well. With the arrogance of his class, he’d assured my father he was doing all in his power, but Grandmama was old and frail, and there was little to be done.

  Forceful and domineering, my father had little experience with disappointment. As a wealthy man in a noble house, he was used to the world capitulating to his every request. The apothecarian had told him life cannot be commanded. The insensitive comment had earned him a bloody nose. One of the few moments I’d applauded my father. It hadn’t lasted.

  Unable to force Grandmama into good health, he’d exerted his dominance on the rest of us. It had been small at first. Do this. Do that. Petty criticisms over my mother’s appearance. Which was ridiculous because she never set foot out of her chambers without being the epitome of decorum. It just wasn’t done.

  As Grandmama’s condition worsened, he’d pushed harder. It had been difficult to escape his scathing criticism for the most minor infraction. Not sitting up perfectly straight. A lock of hair out of place. Laughing too loud while playing with the horses in the paddock. His temperament became less predictable and we all—including Finn, his oldest and favorite son—were treading carefully in his presence. If he couldn’t control what was happening to his mother, he would attempt to control all other aspects around him to compensate, yet poorly and with fanaticism.

  And now my husband acted the same. One more way my father and husband proved their similarities and reinforced my distaste of them both.

  My attempt to cross the room unnoticed failed as I stumbled on a lump in the protective floor canvas.

  Rother whirled on me. “And you. Where is my music box?”

  The storm simmering under his visage gained in strength, and I had no shelter.

  “It’s upstairs.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Not yet. You said you weren’t in a hurry.” I tried to stay polite and play my expected role, but every muscle in my body seized tight as he advanced on me.

  “That piece is the center of my salon during business hours. How long do you think clients will enjoy listening in on each other for lack of other entertainment?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Of course you don’t. Why am I not surprised?”

  I cringed. It was all I could do to not stutter my reply. “I’ll need to go to the clockworkist to finish the repair—”

  “I just bet Blythe can’t wait to run off with you into the city.”

  “I’m sorry. What?” I went cold and my breath stilled.

  Rother closed in, toying with his prey. “Oh, he loves his boys, but he’d better learn to keep his hands off mine.”

  “When were his hands on me?”

  Grabbing my collar, he wrenched it aside to see the brand. I shivered as he admired his handiwork. “He’s never shown any kind of insubordination until recently. Now I notice he’s ready to defend you at any turn. Remember, his life is mine too. Just like yours.”

  I wanted to tell him why Blythe’s allegiance changed. How his loyal bouncer detested his employer’s abusive conduct toward his husband. How if he had any reason to worry about his husband’s fidelity, he should search out his own overbearing insecurities. I wanted to tell him to go interview a new employee. I wanted to tell him how everyone’s shift in demeanor toward me was all his fault.

  But only soft, pitiful pleading came out. “Rother, please.”

  “And why the fuck do you need to go into the city?”

  “There’s a part broken.” His manner should have set off my defenses and bolstered my need to protest, but I found myself drowning. This submission was no pretense.

  “And why am I just hearing about this?”

  “I only found it a few minutes ago. And you’ve been preoccupied… with everyone down here.”

  A new quiet had fallen, and every soul focused on us, center stage. Swiveling my head, I found unease etched on every face, telling the story. This was more than a distrustful client obsessing over his project. It was his visible need to conquer me in some brutal fashion. Knowing an awful thing was possible and being an unwilling spectator to it was not the same. We were only steps away from the madness that left his mark burned into my skin. I could feel it in his grip and the malevolent glint in his eyes. The only fortunate part this time was if he snapped, there would be witnesses, although it did nothing to anchor my rising alarm as it caromed off the unfinished walls.

  As I gambled, Rother’s gaze followed my own and found all the judgment staring back at him. He’d been so caught up in his stalking, he’d forgotten we weren’t alone. Further proof of his instability. Under the group scrutiny, Rother caught himself and released me. He smoothed my collar and tamped down his irritation until he portrayed a semblance of normal.

  “Make sure to keep me apprised of your progress.”

  “Of course.”

  With a casual pace, Rother left me standing in the middle of the salon, as if nothing unusual had occurred.

  I hadn’t realized how hard I trembled until the decorator placed a hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  I shrugged away from his touch. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m fine.”

  “You don’t have to take that—”

  “My tea is getting cold. You should get back to work.”

  I turned away with an awkward gait. The decorator had been in the house for three days, and I’d yet to learn his name. Old selfish habits of the aristocracy. Yet he still felt sorry for me. I couldn’t bear the pity in his eyes. It made mine water.

  My response to Rother confused me. It had since we’d arrived home after the attack in the alley. I found myself flinching at my husband’s anger when deep down all I felt was resentment. I knew Rother wouldn’t cross the line in front of everyone—he couldn’t afford a p
ossibly mutiny—but I’d been twitchy for days. Loud noises brought about a sense of what I could only describe as panic. And Rother’s voice had the right pitch to qualify. At least I’d managed not to overreact during these mood swings and ruin my fragile truce with Rother. Such as it was.

  Walking through the screened porch’s entrance brought me into a different world. Delaga House didn’t exist beyond its threshold, and I could gather myself. My tea service waited for me, a welcome sight. I sat down and went through the ritual of preparing my drink, making sure each step followed my training. Far too much time had been spent on the lessons, so I might entertain guests with an impeccable flair. I found it ludicrous at the time, but now it helped ground me.

  Dahvra’s choices were flawless. Slow sips and delicate flavors soothed me. I could only judge my calm by how steady I could hold my cup. By the ripples in the drink’s surface, I had a way to go.

  Staring out into the garden, I found a pile of lumber next to a new, unfinished construction in one of the small clearings. It was mostly a foundation with a few mounted posts giving up nothing to its purpose. A series of woodworking tools including a pedal-driven table saw sat nearby. It was the first time I’d seen anything of the sort here at Delaga House.

  Blythe appeared from the shed at the far side of the property with a pencil behind his ear and a measuring rule in his hand. He pulled out a length of ribbon, made marks on a piece of wood, and placed it on the table saw. With one foot he pumped the pedal powering the blade as he cut the board to the desired length, hunched over his efforts. But I found myself more fascinated by the movement of his backside in his worn work trousers.

  The fabric clung to the powerful curves of his rear, flexing with each movement. The wide legs barely contained his thighs. What if the seams burst, leaving them in tatters as he worked? I knew what lay beneath the garment, and the memory shook away the remnants of the scene in the salon.

  Salon? What salon?

  Sweat darkened his undershirt, causing it to wrap tight to every cord and swell of his torso. Coarse hair matted his exposed forearms as he held the lumber in place with a force that made me jealous.