by H C Turk
All static and breathless I stared, wondering how frightened to be or how mad I had become before blinking and awakening further to determine the true nature of those eyes; for they were neither huge nor savage, being part of Eric’s head.
Dark it may have been, but no lady should have risen without first concealing her nightclothes with a robe, without further concealing her ribs formerly hidden by a mammary.
As I neared, those eyes turned lingual.
“I have come for the witch,” they uttered.
But a sinners’ second I required for reply.
“Sir Eyes, as I have been adjudicated innocent of such an identity through godly interpretation of English law, I suggest you seek demons elsewhere. Perhaps a cemetery rather than a manor house.”
With the bridge of a nose now visible above the window sill, the eyes’ owner replied, “Perhaps, in that fascinating lives are settled there, but none so enticing as the pale person within.”
“Who is not so enticing as before, if you’ve heard enough stories to deem me a witch,” I said. The strangest look then threatened those sill eyes, but my speaking continued. “In this chamber has settled but one boring lass with too many words and not enough breasts. So, if you’ve the temerity, enter as you would an open grave, to join a corpse.” And I stepped away from the window.
More than before, Eric’s face suggested Edward’s, the entire lot of Denton males with pale hair and mild sinning features. This Eric who entered was larger than the last, but did his growth also measure maturity? But man or boy, that countenance was a combination: the same timidity seen in our early meetings, but now accompanied by too much adult concern. Enter he did, but with that demeanor, what next could he accomplish? And did my body not gain his glimpse as he passed? I attacked not his vision, however, but his gloom.
“Sir, what best I recall of you is that no other person in this city could I speak with fully. The Rathel’s speech is business phraseology limited by her heart, which in itself is curtailed business. If you’ve the opposite problem and your heart is overly filled with feeling as though a chamber pot in need of emptying, I would have you bury it in your own garden. If here you’ve come for friendly discourse, then welcome. But if you would purge yourself of passion, do it on that breast of mine that’s gone.”
Eric smiled, more from surprise than humor. Perhaps that comic correlation with madness he as well had learned.
“Tender is your mind, Miss Alba. If I am welcome from friendliness in this manner, may England’s army assist your enemies.”
“If you have concluded dismissing my etiquette, then turn up the lamp so I might have something to view in my sleepwalking. Fear not the neighbors, sir, I’ve nothing to hide. At least, less than before.”
Eric did not near me as he stepped to the table lamp to touch a metal handle I would not, producing a light bright enough to prove my impressions of him. A man, yes, there the timidity, there the concern. Handsome or not I could not discern, for this was a sinners’ fashion too subtle for me. But this older Eric seemed uninterested in vision despite his formerly gigantic eyes; for after increasing the lamp’s output, he remained turned away from his hostess. He found no greater interest in speaking, it seemed, for his next words came in a jumble.
“Oh, Miss Alba, I had heard, and thought I could….” Then the boy was weeping, the man so needing to control this response that nothing followed but choking. And from me, displeasure.
“Sir, you will end this sorrow or leave my presence with a leap through that window.”
“But miss,” he cried, literally cried, his back to my breast, “so pitiful you are that—”
And my anger interrupted.
“If you must weep before me like a sickened elder, I shall thrust you through that window myself. Miss Elsie with her weak emotions was never so inconsiderate, not even upon viewing my gory chest.”
“I am sorry, miss, but I, it is that…,” but no end could he find to his speaking. Therefore, I aided him.
“I will not have such weakness in a friend. The blackguards in Lucansbludge jail were stronger than you in having brass enough to acknowledge their desire, despite the demonology presumed of me.”
This person of indeterminate maturity then turned to me as impassioned as before, though perhaps less saddened. Precisely at my chest he looked without staring, as though having seen it forever. Surely, what he saw through that thin fabric could not surpass his imagination.
“I will bear all your unkindness, Alba, if it will aid you. I only mean to aid. With my words, my heart…,” and near to weeping he came again. But his sorrow brought me a type of disappointment that I could not bear.
“Never have I wept over me, sir, so I cannot accept tears from you. If you are so bold as to stare at my chest, then learn to accept the view.”
“I leave, then,” he whispered sadly, and did so, hands on his face either to preclude his seeing my bosom or revealing his tears. To the window, out, and gone. Then close the thing I did, no dreaming.
The bleeding lamp I had to leave bright, not being enough of a sinner to handle fire, though enough of a woman to reject a man’s tears.
• • •
“Cor, girl, you were known before for your life in the wilds, but everyone in London knows you now. People have been coming to hear your story and one from them newsing papers, but away we’ve chased them. But, forgive me if you must, I’ve told the tale meself to only friends; for our mistress did explain to all her servants so we would not be surprised by gossip. And since all she told us be true, should we not be telling these truths so as not to agree with outside lies?”
“Philosophy could be your profession, Delilah, instead of dumping chamber pots. But, no, I’ve no need to forgive you for your tales. All of London loves opera.”
The later morning found my bedchamber infringed upon by another servant, Miss Elsie tearing through my doorway as though to proclaim the house’s burning and my necessary exit.
“Alba, Alba, the young man is coming now to be official!”
“I beg your pardon, miss, you mean some official youth approaches? The amateur children therefore remain away?”
“No, no, Alba, and you’d best be serious now, for young Eric is here to be speaking with the mistress.”
“Eric? Eric? Is that not the neighbor’s dog?”
“Alba, I’m saying the boy is here to ask for your hand—I’m knowing it, girl.”
“Praise God he won’t be asking for a breast, since I no longer have a spare.”
Having battled me poorly with my selected weapon of syntax and syllable, Elsie won the war by applying superior strategy: she took my ear and began pulling it downstairs. To retain the attachment of this bodily part, follow it I did.
At the stair’s base, Elsie moved her hold to my elbow—but the wrong one, that near the tender scab, the wince I emitted most genuine. With a flash of remorse, Elsie released me to step around to the opposite side and grasp that elbow even more firmly, dragging me along with all the tenderness of an African slave driver in search of exotic animals to encage.
“And thank you, miss, for your thoughtful gentility to a wounded lass,” I told her.
Approaching the drawing room, Elsie took me aside, fussing with my collar enough to collapse the lace, shaking her head as she spat on her fingers and attempted to batten down my hair.
“You look the dog,” she declared, and pushed me inside.
Within sat two persons so pleased in their faces as to irritate me. As I entered, Eric popped up from his chair as though a spring had come loose and thrust him forth like a catapult. He had no tears, no view of my chest. Yet in his joy, he seemed too much the child.
“Ah, by the happy faces seen, I must presume an exceptional enemy has succumbed,” spake I.
Ha-ha the two did laugh, Eric with true humor, Rathel attempting to remain the superior by not encouraging my comedy nor discouraging me, her instrument. Away from them both I sat, speaking to Eric.
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br /> “Sir, you come to notify me of the funeral schedule—schedule, schedule—or be there another trial first?”
Ha-ha from the pair, and Eric began, officially.
“Lady Amanda must forgive me, and you as well, Miss Alba, for I remain uncertain as to the proper procedures in these social affairs.”
“Well, sir, the process is simple,” I replied. “After you mention who has expired, we pray for his soul, then have a spot of tea.”
Only smiles now, no more of the flipping ha-ha, because Eric was ripe for his speaking, and Rathel was prepared to hear.
“No, miss, I am pleased to say that none known me has died, except for Eric as a boy.”
I could have spoken more, for words have never been my limit, but I did not want to enter this challenge that only Rathel could win.
“Lady Amanda,” Eric stiffly continued, “as I previously avowed in voice and document, your daughter Alba I have come to seek in marriage, and no other lady could I or shall I ever desire.”
Rathel clapped her hands, radiating additional joy (though no ha-ha); and was not some impassioned inhaling heard from beyond the room?
“Oh, Eric, my lad, my future son,” the mistress crooned, and stood in a flurry to grasp the boy’s shoulders and kiss his forehead. “No greater joy could I have than for you and my Alba to wed.”
“All that remains, I believe,” Eric added, attempting to look or not look toward me, “is for your daughter to respond.”
Rathel sat again, now in a winged chair near Eric. I could not see her face, could not argue with the view.
“Alba?” the invisible woman sweetly pronounced, “can you reply to the lad and his grand offer?”
“Presently, perhaps, if I’m able,” I answered, and said no more. I was deliberating, not Eric’s offer, but my life. The Rathel’s having me revealed and executed was no fear of mine. My thoughts were of choosing between my established life and beginning again in a new household. What social situation could English marriage involve besides that man smell filling the premises? Would not a home with Eric be preferable to one controlled by Rathel? Besides momentum, what in Satan’s world could keep me here?
A tremendous idea then swelled within me, revealed to all as a brilliant smile. Rising, I stepped directly to Rathel, looking closely to her eyes as I gave my reply.
“Why, yes, yes I shall marry this person—if only my dear mother provides me a desired wedding gift.”
Knowing herself formidably attacked, Amanda returned my gaze, searching from chin to brow for my weapon.
“Why, dear Alba, whatever in the world could I refuse you if your happiness be at stake?”
“Mistress, I smell fear from you as though I might request your liver. But you own something more valuable to me that would inspire my acceptance of this gent’s most generous, semi-permanent offer.”
Surviving well despite my torture, the stiff lady replied, “What then is so dear that you would marry to possess?”
“Why, dear mother, I will marry this superlative gent if you allow me to take Miss Elsie as my servant.”
And here was proof of eavesdropping, for throughout the house was heard a poorly stifled gasp.
“Why…why, of course, dear Alba,” Rathel replied uncertainly. “Miss Elsie shall go live with you, if only your new husband agrees.”
Both wenches then turned to Eric, who could scarcely wait to spit his answer out.
“Since no finer companion and servant could there be for Alba than Miss Elsie, I myself most definitely agree.”
“It is done, then!” Rathel cried, and stood too spryly for one so reserved. “Alba and Eric Denton shall be wed!”
Eric then stood to applaud, as though at a blooming opera. And outside this chamber, what other sinner was part of our audience?
When Rathel and Eric settled thereafter to mere relieved smiling and wringing hands, I whispered to the unoccupied doorway.
“Tea now, please.”
“Yes, miss,” came the quiet reply, and refreshments were brought by my (my) servant.
Chapter 29
Comfort In Our Marriage
The Rathel achieved such an attitude of success that I thought she would choke on her gloating. Though equally impressed, Elsie was less assured of her own satisfaction. Basically she was overjoyed at my having acquired an English lady’s ultimate goal: an English gent. But as well she was distressed at having to leave her home of years to begin anew—for therein she might be given more responsibility than her meager bones could handle. On and on would Elsie fret till I threatened to beat her, for certainly Eric would establish this practice in our new home if this be our only servant’s attitude.
Our new home. Of course, this witch had concern as well, but aligned with Rathel’s revenge, not Elsie’s household management. The social aspects of marriage were problems I would easily overcome. My concern was in revealing myself to Eric without inspiring Rathel to kill me.
British custom provided an interval for my revelation: the courting of the damsel. Good Miss Elsie explained the purpose thereof: for the conjugal couple to become acquainted with each other, and for London society to view them as a proper pair.
Chaperone Elsie’s attitude changed distinctly as her duty progressed. First she became as delighted as a child attending an animal faire whose exotic creatures were man and beast, er, wife. Nothing but pleasure had she to be traveling with these dear youths and their heartfelt emotions, and so on. Upon Eric’s arrival that first day of courting, however, Miss Elsie changed, becoming firm and proper. Once in the carriage, she insisted that Eric and I not sit so near each other—even inserting her parasol between us. And when the conversation lit upon Randolph, the miss across our way condemned us for not speaking of serious things, such as the wedding party and dowry and flipping so on. I was thus inspired toward discussing grave family affairs.
“Eric, I must ask whether your parents both continue to hate me.”
“Yes, both,” he answered.
With this speaking, Elsie reddened and began chastising me as to the proper discourse in such a social clime. But who was she to chastise a better?
“Master Eric, should we not implement preventative thrashing of the more rowdy servants on the Sabbath to inspire them toward quiescence through the week?”
“No, Miss Alba, in that we can set the dog to biting their legs.”
Eric and I changed this first day’s courting into a contest wherein we lanced hapless Elsie with our tongues. Soon becoming vanquished, Elsie ignored our syllabic feet dancing about her sensibilities, defeating Eric and I by removing our target. Thereafter, the future husband and I entertained each other as we had in the past, with oblique references to dogs and monkeys, but no talk of households.
Returning to our temporary lodging in the Rathel’s townhouse, Elsie and I had only to bid the Eric person a pleasant good afternoon before supping like normal sinners. But as Eric grasped my hand for a buss, finding no terror in my icy fingers, he emitted a low odor, a stench never again to be ignored by the rape witch.
“And it’s a good day we wish you,” I told him curtly, snatching my hand from Eric, who attempted to linger on my knuckles. Away from him I whirled, stepping past Elsie with too quick a gait to be less than rude, and the servant came chasing after.
Eric made to save face by calling out for us both to be well. And though Elsie was distressed at my peevish attitude, I made no mention of my change in demeanor, change in smelling.
• • •
That night, my sleeping was delayed, for the future wife was waiting. The lamp I had Elsie leave burning, for company was expected. Thus, I was not surprised to see undreamed of eyes propped with their brows upon my window sill.
“Come have I for the cruel and vain Alba,” they said.
“The wrong window has then lured you, sir, for this plane contains only the cruel one, a vain Alba being beyond my acquaintance.”
Eric entered to stand in my chamber and brush at
his waistcoat with both palms, perhaps removing building crumbs.
“And a great humorist I am to so brand you, miss, for I have seen paintings near as beautiful as you with more vanity, and they be dead. But not inert is this Alba, not with her considered thoughtlessness.”
“Is considering this thoughtlessness your purpose here?”
“The humorist quits me, miss, for you state my very intent. I have come with the idea of speaking, but at this hour and alone in order to arrive at some content beyond comedy.”
“The fine humor produced between us, then, is so insubstantial as to be mere childish amusement?”
“The intellectual satisfaction from these passages is worthy of fine and fond adults, and to lose this would be to lose our personalities.”
“My, sir, it seems this school you’ve returned from offered a course in speaking like ladies of the wilds—or is that wild ladies of London?”
“You were the one to teach me such speaking. As well, Miss Tutor, you must teach me of wild ladies, of the one specific who becomes socially wild when her future husband contacts her cuticles.”
After a snicker of restrained amusement, I asked, “Might we walk in this English night without fear of attack by a social brew, the criminal dregs to settle against our persons and leave a stain on our lives?”
“Away to the streets, then,” he replied, “to wager our entities against the London fog and the vertical creatures it cannot conceal.”
“I am first, then, to preclude your cruel searching up my dress to gain a vision most criminal, since not yet are we wed. And no hand in aid, sir, if this be your intent in luring me to climbing, for well have you learned the wildness that creeps across me along with your fingers.”
Over the sill I moved, facing the wall to climb a path unnatural for London. Once on the ground, I looked up to see confidence in Eric’s descent, thinking that he might fit in the wilderness. As he stepped beside me, he brushed away further building crumbs that were imaginary, for I had none despite equivalent climbing. But I was not so apprehensive as he.
With a nod, I led Eric to the privet niche and then the street’s center, bright smears about from rare lamps behind windows, our feet making a meager crush as though compressing crisp snow. And where was the air? Only tiny drops of water were in this atmosphere, one to chill a sinner and enthrall a witch.