Not From the Stars (His Majesty's Theatre Book 1)

by Christina Britton Conroy

  “Charlie and I adored each other. We were as close as twins. If he had lived, he would have taken proper care of me, and made sure that I was well married. Tony lost my dowry on a horse race. He lost everything. After Charlie died, Tony inherited the estate. Visitors stopped coming. If it weren’t for Sir John, we would all be in the poorhouse.”

  She nervously bit her lip. “Mary dear, do you want to know a secret?” The maid bent low to hear Lillian’s whisper. “I don’t like Sir John Garingham. He has been generous, looking after us, all these years, agreeing to marry Elisa, even though she has no dowry, but he is not nice with women. I don’t like him.” Lillian’s eyes glazed over.

  Mary stood back. Her heart pounding.

  Upstairs in the old nursery, a maid helped Elisa dress. Lillian, swathed in violent turquoise, waltzed in and stared at her niece. “Oh, my darling. You look like an angel.” She turned a full length mirror toward Elisa, and the girl grimaced.

  Two dozen hairpins stabbed painfully, forcing her thick copper hair to remain in place. “I don’t care how it looks. It hurts.” She closed her eyes, whispering, “Dear God, please let this night be over. Tomorrow I can go back to school. Just let me live through the next few hours.”

  She had worn a variety of corsets, but this modern, one piece undergarment was a new kind of torture devise. The thinnest strips of whalebone, exquisitely stitched into a silk frame, extended into a hooped petticoat, falling like a graceful bell, slicing into her slender waist and hips. Her bruised ribs were pinched and sore.

  Over the corset, the maids threw a silk slip and finally a diaphanous Paris gown, with yards of stiff pink organdy. Elisa’s small bosoms were scratched, squeezing up against a coarse ruffle. Elisa held the bodice closed, while the maid stood at the back, pushing tiny silk buttons through loops of fine thread. With each closure the organdy cut deeper into Elisa’s shoulders.

  “This is intolerable!” Gasping for breath, she reached to pull it free.

  Lillian threw up her hands. “No, dearest. Please. You mustn’t.” Her hands flew over her mouth. “Sir John went to great trouble procuring that gown. You must pretend to be happy. Please, my angel!”

  At the mention of Sir John Garingham, Elisa stopped struggling. She clenched her jaw. “Of course, Aunt. I shall smile and pretend to be happy. I always pretend to be happy.” Her chin shook as she forced back tears.

  “Don’t cry!” Her aunt was frantic. “You’ll ruin your face.”

  “Does it matter?” Roughly wiping her eyes, Elisa winced as she bent a bruised wrist.

  Lillian hurried over with long pink gloves. “He won’t see those bruises under these.” She carefully pulled a glove over Elisa’s fingers and up her arm.

  “Why shouldn’t he see the bruises? He made them.”

  A mixture of anger and fear set Elisa’s heart racing. The night before, she had been called to dinner. When she started down the stairs, Sir John was on the landing. She turned to run back up, but he leapt after her, grabbed her arm, pushed her against the wall, and forced his mouth onto hers. She resisted and he snapped her wrist.

  She opened her mouth to scream with pain and he pushed his tongue between her teeth, his knee between her legs, and his other hand over her breast, holding her prisoner. She fought to spit out his slimy tongue, but he was too strong. She tasted his bitter, tobacco fouled saliva, gagged, then swallowed, and finally stood still.

  He released her and leaned against the banister, smiling victoriously. A servant heard the scream and ran to her aid. When he saw it was Sir John, he turned and quietly left. Elisa’s heart raced as she leaned against the wall, breathing hard, blinking back tears. She felt helpless and violated. That monster was to be her husband. She wanted to die.

  Garingham had snickered softly. “Taming you will be a delight, my little shrew.” She stared with frightened eyes, and he chuckled some more. “You will learn to obey me.”

  Elisa forced out a whisper, “My Lord, I already obey you. And you already do everything you could possibly want.”

  He laughed loud and long. “Everything I could possibly want? My, my. What a charming little innocent you are.” He leaned close enough so she could see his discolored teeth and smell the grease in his hair. “After we are married, I will teach you to do a great many new things – things beyond your wildest imaginings. And, all the while, you will bear me strong, healthy sons.” He ran his fingers around her throat.

  She closed her eyes, wondering if he was going to choke her.

  “Oh, yes. Your looks and temperament will give me just the sort of boys I want.” He squeezed her breast so hard it hurt. When she winced, he chuckled and left her alone.

  Finally allowing her tears to flow, she sunk down onto the stairs. Only then did she feel the throbbing pain in her sprained wrist.

  *

  Snapped back from the horrid memory, Elisa heard her aunt chattering. “Your wrist will be fine in a few days, dear. It is your own fault, after all. Sir John said you rejected his endearment.”

  “Endearment? Is it endearing to be left bruised and hurting every time he touches me? He handles his horse with more gentleness.” Elisa closed her eyes and clenched her jaw. “As you have always said, Aunt, ‘he is my betrothed. He has the right.’” She pleaded, “Why does he want to marry me? He doesn’t care for me at all.”

  Her aunt scolded, “It is not your business to question ‘why.’ A girl with no dowry must be grateful when any man agrees to marry her, especially a man of means.”

  The maid spoke in a frightened whisper. “He does like you, Miss. I seen the way ‘e watches y’.”

  Elisa shuddered. “He likes the way I look. He doesn’t like me.”

  Her aunt buttoned the insides of Elisa’s pink gloves. “Young ladies should be seen and not heard. You question everything. It is most unseemly. It is a pity Sir John does not enjoy music. You play and sing so sweetly.” She finished the buttons and stood back to view the completed picture. “Once you are mistress in your own home, he will treat you differently, with more respect.”

  Elisa sighed sadly. “You have just made up another pretty story, Auntie. It will be no different, or it will be worse. I shall be totally under his control, a prisoner in his house, a slave he can torture…,”

  “Stop talking nonsense!” Lillian frantically fluffed Elisa’s organdy skirt. “Sir John will want to show off his beautiful young wife. In a year or two, you will be blessed with a child. Then…,”

  “Blessed? With his child?” Elisa moved close to Lillian, whispering frantically. “He said he would teach me to do things beyond my wildest imaginings. What sort of things? Please tell me, Auntie. What did he mean?”

  “Ohhhh!” Suddenly faint, Lillian held out her arms, dramatically starting to fall. Since this was a regular occurrence, the maid calmly helped her to a chair and pulled a vial of smelling salts from her pocket. She plucked out the stopper and held the tiny glass under her mistress’s nose. Lillian inhaled, jerked her head, then stood up, fluttering her hands. “Come, child. It is time to go down.”

  Taking as deep a breath as her corset allowed, Elisa started towards the door.

  Before she reached the stairwell, Lillian caught her arm, held her close, and whispered, “Dearest girl, I didn’t mean to scold. Please believe that whatever your married life will be like, it will be far better than the life of a spinster sister, dependent on her brother’s charity.”

  Elisa wondered if this were true. Her chest heaved as she blinked back tears. She kissed her aunt’s cheek, forced a smile, gracefully lifted her skirt, and walked down the stairs like a perfect lady.

  An hour later, the dining room was bright with candle light reflecting off crystal, porcelain, and silver. Raucous laughter gushed from Sir John Garingham and his two-dozen middle-aged guests. Elisa sat in the middle of a long banquet table, toying with beautiful looking food prepared in her own kitchen by a French chef she had never met. Next to her, Sir John ate with gusto. Every few moments he
leered down her cleavage. His beautiful tail coat, the elegant lace on his shirt, his jeweled studs and cufflinks, could not hide the hollows of his aging skin.

  Through yards of hoops and organdy, Elisa felt his hand, under the table, probing the folds of her skirt. She clutched her knees together, swallowing a scream. At one end of the table, Lillian flirted with a stranger. Did her aunt still dream of getting married? She would gladly give up Sir John. Her father sat at the other end, laughing, gorging himself on venison and truffles. He would finally be rid of his vexing daughter. She had never seen him look so happy.

  Roundtree raised his glass, stood and nearly lost his balance. “Ladies and gentlemen!” Glassy-eyed, he swayed from side to side. “You all know my dear friend, Sir John Garingham.”

  Cheers of, “Hear! Hear!” came from around the table.

  “Well…,” he forced his eyes to focus. “He has waited a long time for my daughter to grow up.”

  Elisa stared at her plate, ordering herself to sit still. She only had to endure another hour at the dinner table. After that, the men would stay to smoke, and the women would retire for coffee. Later, she must sing and play, after that…

  Roundtree raised his glass. “She’s seventeen, Sir John. Another few months and she’ll be ripe for the picking.”

  Garingham leaned over her. “I think she’s ripe for the picking right now.” Grabbing Elisa’s head, he pushed his open mouth against hers.

  Elisa pushed him away with all her might.

  Roundtree yelled, “I give you the happy couple!”

  Some guests were shocked, but many stifled laughter, watching Elisa pull violently away, nearly slipping off her chair.

  The meal finished and the men rose, allowing the ladies to glide into the drawing room. Before Elisa was safely out the door, Roundtree gripped her arm, whispering, “I’ll thrash you for that.” He pushed her out, then returned to the other men.

  Elisa braced herself against the wall. She wanted to die.

  Chapter Twenty

  The next time Robert Dennison boarded the train for Heathhead School, reality hit him like a slap in the face. He would not get back to Paris for years. He was going to be an English school-master, earning a tiny wage, locked inside institutional walls with children, stodgy professors, and frustrated school-mistresses. Alone in a train carriage, he leaned back into an upholstered seat, listened to the click-clacking of the iron wheels, and nervously reviewed his plans.

  - I’ll be sending most of my wages to pay off mother’s debts, but I get room-and-board at the school. If my expenses don’t exceed shaving soap and tooth powder, I shall be all right.

  - All my pictures should have arrived from Paris. God bless my friends for sending them, and that remarkable Amelia Carrots, for seeing to them at the school. I hope they are undamaged. When they’re ready for display, I’ll ship them to London C.O.D.

  - Mother should be fine. She says she doesn’t want lodgers in her house, but it would be worse if she were alone with nothing to do. The workers are nice chaps. They don’t expect a lot of service. They’ll pay a fair rent, and wire me if there’s any trouble.

  - This short haircut looks better than I thought it would. The moustache is almost thick enough to be convincing. At least I’ll look older than the students.

  He studied the seams of his new suit. It was simply made, but a serviceable dark-gray that would hide dirt. He planned to wear his old trousers in the studio, and take off his new shirt cuffs the minute he stepped through the door. If the parents did not like their art-master in shirtsleeves and a smock, too bad. In Paris, he wore rags… or nothing at all.

  He smiled, remembering his former life. The steadiest part of his income had come from modeling nude, sometimes for schools, often in private sessions for rich women artists. Since sex was readily available to everyone, he only indulged his patrons when it pleased him. He had not had a woman since he arrived back home, nearly four months ago. English girls were a very different breed. So were their parents. When he was a boy, his pastor had preached that masturbation caused blindness. Robert laughed to himself. If this were true, his painting career would be over before it began.

  The train slowed and he groaned. Again? They seemed to stop at every crossroad.

  “Settle Station!” The conductor blew his whistle and waved his flag. “ ‘ere y’ go, Miss.” The compartment door opened, and the conductor helped a tall young girl step in. When the door was closed, she lowered the window and spoke to an older woman standing on the platform. The girl and the woman had slender builds and copper hair, so Robert assumed they were mother and daughter.

  The woman fluttered her hands. “You’re sure you’ll be all right, dearest? Traveling alone? I wanted to come with you, but your father will wake with a dreadful headache, and after last night’s party…,”

  “I’ll be fine, Auntie. It’s only a couple of hours, and the train will be full of other students. You know they always take us straight to the school. Do stay in the village, today. Father will be so cross. Perhaps, if he sleeps it off…,”

  Steam from the engine billowed past, as huge iron wheels groaned slowly, moving the massive locomotive and passenger cars behind it. The girl clutched the window to keep from falling. The woman trotted next to the train. “Take care, Elisa darling.”

  “You take care, Auntie. I’ll write soon. Please…” Her last words were lost in the scream of the steam whistle. As the train picked up speed, the girl awkwardly closed the window and sunk into the nearest seat. Robert watched from behind his newspaper. The girl looked weary and unhappy, as she leaned back and closed her eyes. A few minutes later, she jumped up, lowered the window, and gasped for air.

  Robert dropped his paper. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, thanks. I’m fine.” The last word caught in her throat as she stayed gazing at the lovely countryside. Forcing a nervous smile, she closed the window, braced herself against the rocking motion, and unbuttoned her coat. As it slid off her shoulders, Robert stood, took the coat and folded it onto an overhead rack. She stared at the floor, stammering, “Y' You are very kind to help me, sir. Thank you.” Keeping her eyes lowered, she sat back down and unpinned her hat.

  “My pleasure.” Sitting back, pretending to read his newspaper, he studied Elisa’s brilliant copper hair, framing huge green eyes, unnaturally pale lips, and flawless white skin. Dark circles ringed her eyes. She looked ill. She also looked like a renaissance angel. He had never seen more symmetrical features. He guessed she was about sixteen, but taller than most girls. His eyes slipped lower. She was practically built like a boy. Her lovely frock hung loose, and she was not wearing a corset. She was not coughing, so perhaps her illness was not serious.

  She carefully pulled off her gloves, wincing with pain as she bent a bruised wrist. Robert recognized the bruises as finger marks, and clenched his jaw. He wanted to thrash every man who battered a woman. If this was Paris, he could take her to his loft, get some food into her, peel off that lovely frock, make slow, passionate love to her, then nurse her back to health.

  Groaning with desire, he sat back and crossed his legs. What the hell was he doing back in this country? If he even touched her, he would be drawn and quartered, and she sent home to the stinking sod who had battered her.

  At the next station stop, the compartment door flew open. A stocky, dark-haired girl with eyeglasses stood triumphantly on the threshold. “Elisa!”

  “Lucy Ann!” The girls hugged, giggled and both talked at once. Robert watched from behind his paper. He was pleased to see Elisa smile. Slight color flushed her cheeks, making her even more beautiful. The girls were a curious pair. The plain one looked like a school-mistress in training.

  Elisa’s eyes were bright. “Oh, Lucy, you’re letter was astonishing. I can’t believe you’re going to be a doctor.”

  “For now, I’m just going to be in college. I have to handle the lessons and pass the exams. We’ll see about the rest, later. Dr. Theodore’s dead again
st me. He’ll make everything doubly difficult.” She took off her spectacles and rubbed a red mark on the bridge of her nose.

  Elisa scowled. “But that is not a bit fair. You already do better than the boys. He should be proud that a woman wants to make her own way, and not be dependent on a man. I’d give anything to be as clever as you are.”

  Lucy chuckled. “You’re already too clever, and too serious. Men don’t like pretty women with brains.”

  Robert raised an eyebrow. I do!

  Elisa bit her lip. “And you’ll be taking classes on the boy’s side. Aren’t you terrified?”

  Lucy Ann leaned back, carelessly squashing her dark hair, tied in a serviceable bun. “I’m nervous about the work, not the boys. I have five brothers, remember.”

  “I wish I had a brother.” Elisa’s forehead wrinkled. “I never know what to say to boys. I always make a fool of myself.” Remembering the strange man a few feet away, she lowered her voice to the softest possible whisper.

  Robert smiled to himself. If this was the college bound girl the headmaster was so dead against, she would give the boys a run for their money. Her lovely friend was no flutter-brain. Most pretty women surrounded themselves with fawning, plain women friends. In this case, the pretty girl admired the plain one. He liked her all the more for that.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The girls arrived at Nicholas House in time to dress for dinner. Elisa raced into the waiting arms of her house-mistress, Mrs. Carrots. Since the elder lady was short and Elisa quite tall, the girl had to bend down. Mrs. Carrots felt Elisa’s arms and looked at her waist. “You’re very thin, dear. Just the same as last time. This holiday, you promised me you’d eat.”

  “Please don’t be cross.” Elisa smiled, grateful for the old woman’s concern. “I’ll eat everything, now that I’m back. It was just so horrid at home.” She held out her bruised wrist.