Undoing One's Enemy

by Camille Oster

  “Is that so?” he questioned. “And what exactly were your intentions?”

  “No intentions, just curiosity,” she said and looked him straight in the eyes as those full lips that had done such wonderful things to her contorted into a grin that could almost be a sneer. He didn’t believe her. What did it matter, she told herself, if he believed that she was trying to ingratiate herself with him? It might actually serve her better than if she told him the truth, that she was using him to gain experience.

  “Curiosity can be a dangerous thing,” he warned.

  “Or it leads you to learn.” That might not have been the best thing to say, she realized, “about yourself.”

  “And what is it you learn about yourself in another’s…” he cut himself off before he said what he clearly intended to, “garden.”

  “I love visiting others’ gardens,” Edna said, “it is so interesting to see their vision.”

  “Exactly,” Amelia said, “to see their vision.”

  He picked up his claret and sat back in the chair, still watching her.

  “And what does my garden say about me?” he asked. Amelia couldn’t help blush, this was not a conversation she wanted to have. If fact, she wasn’t sure how they got into such a confronting and personal discussion in the first place.

  “I think you will find that your garden is entirely Edna’s vision,” Amelia said. “She had planned it out meticulously for as long as I can remember.” She knew her answer was a complete avoidance, but she didn’t care. This was not a conversation she wanted to continue, and he didn’t have the right to know what she thought of him, or saw in him.

  He narrowed his eyes slightly, telling her that he thought she was a coward. He was toying with her. She wondered if the nature of their relationship had changed. He had tormented her about her situation from the start, but now his surveying of her character was much more personal. Maybe spending the night with him had created a bond, which allowed him to see more of her.

  “The world is a large and cruel place,” he said, “particularly for someone cosseted and protected. Believe me I know. People will use you and discard you without a second thought. You should not be so keen to rush into it.”

  One minute he was cruel, then he gave her advice, advice that was based on his experience, which suggested that his had not had always had pleasant ones. She hadn’t really considered what he had gone through, or where he’d been before he darkened her door.

  “It seems to have kept you in good stead,” she said. “You seem to have fared well. From all accounts, you have been very successful.”

  “But none of it came easily, and there is often a very steep price for the unwary. Success requires a certain propensity for calculation, brutality even.”

  “Then you are well bestowed. You are perfectly suited for such an environment.”

  “No, I became suited to survive, and to prosper, but you are not. You will either fade into obscurity, or be meat for the vultures.”

  “Perhaps I don’t see the world in such a bitter light, but then I doubt that my objectives will be the same as yours.”

  “Really?” he snorted. “Capability of clawing ones way back is not everyone’s aptitude, but don’t deny that you wouldn’t take it if the opportunity presented itself.”

  “I’m not sure,” she said honestly. “I am assessing the things I want in life. My situation, as you are well aware, has required that I reassess myself and the things I want. I’m not sure anymore that a great society match is what I want.”

  “I don’t believe you. Everyone wants to better their position. It is the foundation upon which the world is built. It is what drives all actions.”

  “What about love?” she challenged.

  He laughed. “You are still a child,” he said dismissively. “You have hopes that some knight is going to come save you?”

  “No!” she defended herself. “But perhaps there exists someone out there who wants the things I want.”

  “Take my word for it, there isn’t, unless you count every silly girl led around by her governess.”

  “You can mock me if you like—it’s a worthy goal.”

  “It is a ridiculous goal. You are less capable of dealing with the real world than I thought.”

  “What is this queer discussion?” Edna said. “I am not following. Perhaps I am tired.”

  “Are you feeling well, Aunt?” Amelia queried.

  “I should retire,” Edna said, “but you two enjoy the evening. Perhaps a walk would be nice.”

  “It is dark out, Aunt,” Amelia said and the older woman looked up.

  “So it is. I will go now.”

  Amelia rose to assist her aunt. It provided a good excuse to retire from the conversation that had gone in unexpected and uncomfortable directions. It had also been very revealing as to Lord Eldridge’s character and the previous challenges that he’d faced. He also clearly thought her ridiculous. She had not intended to reveal her ambitions to him, it had just happened, he had practically goaded her into revealing her intentions, which would likely give him good fodder for future torment.

  Chapter 9

  Richard sat in the gaming room at Lord Sefferton’s participating in a hand. He could hold his own even though he didn’t fully enjoy the game. As much as he disliked gaming, he hated being at the mercy of the matrons and the ambitious girls in the ballroom outside. It was a matter of a lesser evil.

  He cursed as he looked at the window and the heavy water drops that shone like crystal on the dark glass. It was starting to look like heavy rain too. He’d ridden here tonight as he and the girl had events on the same night and he—being duty bound to see to the females—had let her take the carriage. Duty was never rewarded, and now he would have an uncomfortable ride home.

  He had learnt of her event that evening from Granson, who had been missioned with the task of enquiring about the carriage on her behalf. He didn’t know anything more about the event she was attending, but he was certain it would not be strictly respectable considering the circles she travelled in these days.

  The silly girl who sought love. She would have that notion beaten out of her quick smart. The men she likely associated with were not interested in love; they sought the delectable pleasures between her thighs—pleasures he was unfortunately familiar with—memories clung to his mind like parasites feeding off his whatever peace he garnered there.

  She gave of herself so freely, and he knew there would be many takers for such generosity until she ran out and became an embittered woman. Whores always became bitter in the end, even the ones who start out with absurd notions of love. Love did not exist. He had never seen it. He had seen deluded people and people professing it to get what they wanted, but it was a means to an end, just like everything else. She would learn this, and it would be a hard lesson for her.

  He was astonished that such innocence existed. Well, not strictly innocent anymore, he thought with an involuntary tightening of his nether region. Her body could only be described as delicious. He could see her naked and welcoming when he closed his eyes and it heated him to think that he was the only man she’d been with. He had claimed her virtue—not that he deserved it. He wasn’t entirely sure why she had done it—curiosity, she’d said.

  It also enraged him to think that she was out this evening, somewhere where men would be eyeing her form, trying their best to persuade her to give them what she had given him. It drove his blood to sizzle, but he knew he had no right. Someone would succeed in making her their mistress, probably through false professions of love.

  She was living in his house, she should be his mistress. They had already taken a significant step in that direction. He knew he’d sworn that he would never touch her again, but he also knew that he was softening on that promise. He cursed his own weakness.

  He also knew that he would never deceive with false professions of love. He might be brutal and he might go for the kill when the situation arose, but he was never underhan
ded. If people deceived themselves, that was their problem; their greed typically led them astray, just as Mr. Hessworth’s greed had been his own undoing.

  He needed to rid himself of these thoughts, they were affecting his playing and he was making stupid mistakes. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford the loss, but he despised loss on principle, particularly if they occurred because he wasn’t paying attention.

  Amelia arrived at the house where the soiree was being held. She hadn’t realize that the address had been south of the Thames. She had passed through here on her way to the country countless times, but she had never stopped here, or known anyone that lived here. She’d stopped in Nelson square and the address for the residence she was looking for indicated the house right in front of her. It wasn’t a complete house, there were different residences on each floor and she had to climb the stairs up to the top floor where a scruffy door signified her destination.

  She had a moment of questioning, wonder what manner of evening Celeste had gotten her into.

  “Amelia,” Celeste said from within the room as the door swung her opened to let her in, “come in. I hope you don’t mind me calling you Amelia. I know we haven’t officially known each other long, but I’d like to think there is a friendship between us.”

  “Of course,” Amelia said. The floor boards were bare and dusty. It looked like it was overdue for a proper scrub. There were the tools for an artist along one side of the room. This must be a painter’s home.

  “I know it’s humble,” Celeste said, “but they’re artists, they live inside their heads.”

  “Who lives here?” Amelia queried.

  “His name is Roan Smith, he is a wonderful artist; has a commission from Lady Althernaut. Let me introduce you.” Celeste moved them further into the flat to where a long uneven table stood. It was actually three tables put together, making for a long, narrow table filled with people.

  “Everyone, this is my friend Amelia,” Celeste said. “And here is darling Roan.”

  A man reached out his hand to her, “Welcome Amelia, to our humble abode.” He had a small child on his lap.

  “Thank you for inviting me,” she replied.

  “That is my wife there,” he said presenting a woman further down the table who was heavily with child. The woman gave a wave and a smile, before returning to the conversation she had with her neighbor.

  “They haven’t seen each other for a while,” Roan said, “they have a lot of gossip to dissect. Do you want a drink?”

  Amelia nodded; this was going to be a strange night. “Tom, get the girl a drink,” he shouted to a man who must be in another room.

  Tom emerged with three glasses. “A wine, I suspect,” he said, “there is ale if you prefer.”

  “Wine is fine,” Amelia confirmed. Ale was something she had never had. Maybe she would try it one day, but she suspected she’d enough to confront her senses with. “Take a seat,” he suggested.

  Celeste pulled her toward the other side of the table, where there were two spare seats. The chair was unstable, but Amelia managed. Nothing in the house matched, each of the chairs were different, and of differing quality. It didn’t seem to matter; they were having what must have been an amusing time, because they all talked and laughed, and drank the wine, which was surprisingly good.

  “Do you have any artistic talents?” a man next to her asked.

  “No, nothing I would describe strictly as a talent,” she responded. “Yourself?”

  “I am a composer with the Hampstead Philharmonic,” he said.

  “How wonderful,” she said, truly impressed. The man was obviously proud of his position.

  “It keeps me in my daily bread.”

  “It must be exhilarating hearing your work come to life. I have been to a few concerts; they are such exciting evenings, but it must be unbelievable hearing your own work.”

  “It is very rewarding. You should come along to my next concert; it is taking place next week.”

  “I would love to.”

  “I need a refill,” he said and got up with a smile.

  Amelia turned to Celeste, “That is alright, isn’t it, going to the Philharmonic with him.”

  “You’re in perfectly safe hands with that one, his intentions are strictly platonic,” Celeste smiled.

  “Is he married?”

  “No,” Celeste laughed, “marital state is not an indicator of good behavior. As for Alan, you are not his type, by a long stretch.”

  Amelia didn’t really understand, but she was happy that he was a safe escort for a night of music, and this time she knew who had written the music. She would even get to ask what had been on his mind for certain movements. She had always wondered that when she heard music, particularly the kind that got into her spine and gave her whole body goose bumps.

  “I think I would like that,” Amelia said more to herself as Celeste had fallen into conversation with a man with long hair and incredibly old looking pantaloons. Amelia guessed that he might be wearing a costume. Celeste seemed to like him a great deal, because neither of them seemed to notice anything outside the space between them.

  “Henry!” someone called and Amelia turned her head to see what was happening. She remembered an artist by the name of Henry from Celeste’s evening and he hoped it was the same man. He gave her funny feelings even though she felt completely inadequate when he regarded her last time, like he thought she was a silly girl with nothing in her head—that was how she felt around him. She didn’t want to be a silly girl, and she had read every one of Lord Eldridge’s newspapers that he’d left at home in the mornings in order to expand her mind. She wanted to have intelligent and provoking conversations like Celeste did.

  All signs of intelligence had been systematically discouraged throughout her life, leaving her feeling self-conscious and tongue tied now that the polite banter was inadequate. Her eyes followed Henry as he accepted a glass of ale from Tom and chatted with Roan. Henry leaned back against the wall and crossed his legs. Amelia could see the contours of his thighs through the ill-fitting dark green pants he wore. They were not as defined as Lord Eldridge’s, but they were still fascinating to her. Her eyes travelled up his legs; one of his hands rested with his thumb in his waist band. His hands had actual paint on them tonight. He looked completely relaxed. He obviously cared nothing about how he presented himself and Amelia was impressed by his confidence, like he unapologetically required the world to take him exactly as he was.

  Another man gave him a tobacco pouch, which he utilized to fill a small pipe. Watching him go about his business made her feel warm and self-conscious. There was no doubt that something about this man fascinated her. His eyes sparkled with mirth in his sharp features as he listened to the conversation of one of the other men. His unruly hair was tied back this time in a ribbon that did an extremely bad job containing it, or more likely suffered from the uncaring way it had been applied.

  She looked away; someone would notice her fascination with him, so she turned her attention back to the composer who was discussing a trip he had made to Austria in the autumn. He seemed to like travel and it struck her that she could very well travel if she wanted to, there was nothing holding her back directly. Well, there was a certain amount of funds required. She could perhaps manage a small trip, staying at lesser inns or their equivalent. She could go to Paris! Travel had not been something her father felt was necessary or useful for a female’s education.

  “Have you travelled a great deal?” she asked Alan when the conversation lulled.

  “A bit. I went to Greece when I left university.”

  “Greece!” Amelia exclaimed. “Was it wonderful? What was it like?” Technically Greece wasn’t exotic. She had often heard tales of faraway places from officers defending the empire’s reaches and interests. Sometimes younger men had told of their tales from their Grand Tours. Amelia had always listened intently to their tales of architecture and art. Mostly though, the tales were about bad food and their bor
ne illnesses, or outlandish pricing which seemed reserved for the tourists.

  Alan went onto describe his visit in captivating detail. He did seem to notice some odd things, which Amelia guessed was the artist in him making observations that non artistic people didn’t notice. Apparently the water of the Aegean was a remarkable color blue, not like what is seen around England.

  Amelia could image herself on a sunny, warm island surrounded by bright blue sea. She had never lacked for such dreams; there just hadn’t been any realistic possibilities of achieving them.

  “Will you ever go back?” Amelia wondered.

  “I hope so. It’s the most marvellous place.”

  “It sounds like it,” Amelia said with a wistful smile.

  “Worth the effort if you ever get the chance.”

  The world just seemed to get bigger and more exciting for her every day. She hadn’t even thought of the possibility of travel. Maybe she could stow away on a ship, she thought as she indulged in a silly and childish fantasy.

  “Amelia should do it,” she heard Celeste say beside her.

  “What?” Amelia queried, wondering in what context she was being discussed.

  “Henry needs a model for a landscape,” Celeste said. “How would you like to be immortalized in a painting? Henry has been commissioned to paint a landscape of Neat House Banks, and he needs a young woman to look pretty. Nothing untoward, is it Henry? Have you met Amelia?”

  “I believe we met,” he said. Amelia hadn’t even noticed him taking a place at their end of the table. She also blushed that he remembered her; she hadn’t expected him to, and now she was being asked if she would be in one of his paintings.

  “Umm,” she started, not knowing what to say. Actually she was just tongue-tied because his eyes were on her. She wondered what was going through his mind—what went through a painter’s mind, did he see her differently from everyone else?