Christabel

by Karin Kallmaker

  “Great Mother.” Then her fingers were touching the soft whiteness that was offered and their next kiss sealed their intertwined futures. “We will be together always, you and I. We will soul dance in each other’s dreams.”

  No part of her held back, no joy was denied. The sweet taste of kisses, the feel of passion on her chin, the touch of those breasts to her own—

  Dina snapped back to her apartment with a stifled cry. Her body ached with longing for the love she had just felt, a kind of bonding and emotion she thought was just the imagination of poets and romantics.

  She sat there a while longer before rising to scuff the salt from its circle pattern and to drop the root into a glass of warm water. She set the glass on the windowsill and lowered the shades. She returned the dreamcatcher to its usual place in the bedroom.

  When she turned on the lights, she blinked through a brief bout of vertigo and surveyed the mess. “What the hell am I doing?”

  Rage abruptly spiraled through her, and she swept the cornmeal from the table to the floor and crushed it beneath her feet. This was all a lie—there was no magic woman with red hair. It was just wishful thinking, the result of having absolutely no social life and her overall exhaustion from work.

  “Forget it, mom, nice try as usual,” she grumbled to the picture. She pulled on her robe and got out the vacuum and sucked up the stupid cornmeal. “I have my own life to lead, and maybe you don’t approve of how much money I make even though I give away twenty percent, or the clothes I wear, but it’s my life.” She stormed off the bed, only to spend another hour ranting at her mother for things her mother had never said or even implied, but that she had taken on faith because mothers were mothers. Her last thought, before slipping into sleep, was that she liked her hair up in a braid, thank you.

  In the morning she wound her hair into a braid so tight it brought tears to her eyes. She pushed all thoughts of what she had felt the night before out of her mind and went to clean up the rest of the mess.

  But she could not bring herself to throw the root away.

  Chapter 9

  “Close your eyes and listen to the tree in the wind.”

  Christabel did as Rahdonee asked, but she was far more interested in kisses than the wind or trees. “What am I supposed to hear?”

  “The tree in the wind.”

  “Donee, I don’t know what—” Cool fingers across her lips silenced her, but made it that much more difficult to hear anything except her heart thundering like horses against her ears.

  “Listen. It’s a song.”

  “I hear the leaves moving, the branches creaking. Like always.”

  “Not like always. Are the leaves moving fast or slow? Are the branches swaying or shaking?”

  Christabel listened, more interested than before. She was all at once aware of the warm moist earth underneath her, the heavy scent of maple sap, and the sun that was no longer making her squint. “There’s a storm coming,” she announced.

  “Very good. Keep your eyes closed.”

  She heard the buzz of a dragonfly, then a flustering beat of wings. A rustle—oh, that sound she knew. That sound she loved. Her mouth went dry, and her body ached with want.

  “You have to get home before it rains, so we don’t have all afternoon as usual,” Rahdonee whispered. Her lips grazed Christabel’s jaw.

  They had spent several afternoons together since midsummer’s night, snug in a stand of bushes and low trees. Christabel knew that Rahdonee had shed her clothes and she waited, hungering, for the feel of Rahdonee’s body against hers. She began to fumble with the laces of her gown, but Rahdonee stopped her.

  “We don’t have time to get you all laced up again.” Rahdonee’s fingers slipped under her chemise. “So much clothing in the way, and it’s so warm out.”

  “You’re making me into a fire,” Christabel whispered.

  “Keep your eyes closed.”

  At last, fingers against skin. Rahdonee surged into her, and Christabel filled her hands with the heavy coils of Rahdonee’s hair. Keeping her eyes closed was difficult, but it made her more aware of the quickened rush of Rahdonee’s breathing. She knew when Rahdonee bent her head, and she scrabbled at her skirt and petticoat, pulling them up. Delicious pleasures, more personal and intense than anything she’d ever expected. Rahdonee found parts of Christabel’s body that sang for joy at being touched, stroked, and suckled. Every time they lay together, it was as if a door to great mysteries opened and each time she remained on Rahdonee’s side of the door longer.

  There was a moment of stillness as she caught her breath. The wind had dropped. Even the birds were quiet. It reminded her of the night she had crept out to sleep under the tree—it was as if the woods were holding their breath, too.

  “Quickly,” she whispered, opening her eyes. “I can’t wait for you.”

  Rahdonee was flushed, her mouth damp. Christabel pushed Rahdonee down into the sweet-smelling grasses and kissed the slightly parted lips with tenderness, and then less of that and more of wanting. She wished there was enough time to undo her hair; she loved to stroke Rahdonee’s body with it. Tomorrow, she thought, and she busied her mouth with what was needful—tasting Rahdonee’s shoulders and breasts, spicy with the fresh herbs she always rubbed on her skin after bathing.

  Her hand was reaching lower, to tease Rahdonee, when they both stiffened. Hoofbeats.

  “One horse,” Rahdonee breathed. She quietly slipped her thin deerskin dress over her head and tied her hair back with the short string of beads Christabel had given her.

  The horse had stopped, but the rider didn’t dismount. Probably waiting under the tree to see if it would rain. Then wind rose again, and the Sacred Tree, as Christabel had learned to think of it, snapped its branches as if it were playing a game with the Wind God. Rahdonee stealthily slipped out of their nest, and Christabel arranged her own clothes and followed, feeling very frustrated.

  They skirted the trail for a while, and then the rising wail of the approaching storm made Rahdonee insist that Christabel set off for home. They parted ways after shared blackberries and more kisses. The combination was better than blackberry cordial.

  She had been walking for about fifteen minutes when it started to rain, but the drops were warm and not too sharp, so she accepted the wetting as only a minor inconvenience. Ma might be upset, but would probably only make her do some extra chores. Their house was a happier place since Pa had thrown Reverend Gorony out on his ear. The memory could still make her smile. They read Bible on Sundays at home, or went to the service in Lord Berkeley’s chapel, where the preacher was a lot nicer.

  When she heard the hoofbeats, she shivered and knew, without a doubt, who the rider was. She had been thinking of him, and her thoughts had spat him into reality, like he’d always said about the devil. It had been that way a lot lately. She would think of him, only to find him behind her, watching. She didn’t look back, but she could feel the hard anger of his approach.

  He reined in as he drew aside her.

  “A bad afternoon for a walk.”

  “The rain is not unpleasant,” Christabel said mildly. She did not want to look at him.

  “Still, not the best day to go so far, if you have no reason for doing so.”

  He knows. She told herself he could not know. He didn’t know about Rahdonee any more than he knew about her escapade last winter. All he knew was that she was the daughter of a man who had humiliated him. That’s all he could know. He could not see her thoughts. That was just— He just wanted people to think he could see into their souls. He couldn’t.

  She repeated it to herself so fervently that when he spoke again she jumped.

  “Your father would not forgive me for letting you get soaked. Not after your illness this past winter.”

  “Quite the contrary. He knows that walking makes me stronger. I’ll not catch even a cold from this.”

  “I cannot return to town and say that I passed you and did nothing. Come up behind.” H
e leaned down, hand extended.

  She put up her hand to wave him off, but he seized it. Before she knew it she was in his lap, across the saddle.

  He held her there too long. She realized suddenly why she was always nervous in his presence. Not because he was a man of God, but because he was a man. Rahdonee looked at her with love and want; he just had want. He was as big a sinner as any man.

  “Hold still,” he ordered.

  “I’ll not stay like this,” she said tersely.

  “Little Christabel, I begin to think you don’t trust me.”

  She was off balance and nothing short of shoving him back and slipping out his grasp, probably taking a bad fall in the process, was going to get her out of his arms.

  He clicked to the horse, and they set off at a slow canter.

  “Let me down,” she said furiously.

  “This is a just a Christian act of charity.” He shifted her weight with arms that felt like iron bars around her. She was pressed against him, her chest against his. Her loathing grew with every stride. “You’re growing up. You should be planning your wedding, not wandering alone in the woods.”

  “I’m not getting married,” she stuttered.

  “Aren’t you?” His laugh rumbled through his chest, and she held her head away.

  They were approaching the outskirts of the Bouwerie when he shifted her again, this time one arm moving upward so her body was fully circled and his hand hard on her ribs directly below her breast. His fingertips pressed upwards slightly, and he repeated in a whisper, “Yes, you’re growing up.”

  She kicked the air, and his amusement was humiliating. “Very well. I offered to take you all the way home, but you know best.” He let her slip from his grasp to the ground and rode off as if nothing had transpired.

  She stood there for several minutes, feeling sick and unclean. Then she trudged toward home, vowing never to share another word, glance, or even a sidewalk with that swine. He was no man of God. He was no gentleman.

  She wondered if she should tell Pa and decided against it. He had enough worry with the rumors of French agents gathering information as a prelude to invasion.

  As usual when she passed the mill she remembered the night she had met Rahdonee. It already seemed so long ago; she had grown up so much since then. Walking back into the settlement after time in Rahdonee’s world was becoming a kind of shock. The ditches in the streets stank of waste. The heat of summer lay heavy on the caked earth and dank buildings. After the delicious air of the woods, Christabel marveled that any of Rahdonee’s people could stand to breathe the air of the town. Though that evil preacher called them unclean, Rahdonee never stank the way most of the men of town did, even with fancy colognes soaking their hair and clothes.

  She was almost at their gate when she realized that something was wrong. A number of horses were tied up in front, and several carriages. Goody Albright was just leaving. When she saw Christabel her gaze was actually kind.

  “Child, did Reverend Gorony find you? He offered to look. Your mother needs you, dear. Go in to her, quickly.”

  Puzzled, Christabel hurried inside, forgetting about her soaked clothes the moment she saw her mother’s white, tear-streaked face.

  She went to her and gasped at the ferocity with which her mother hugged her. She’d never seen Ma like this, never seen her cry in front of other people.

  “What is it? Ma, tell me. What’s happened?”

  When it was obvious her mother couldn’t answer, she looked at the sea of faces and focused on Mr. Dennison. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

  “There was—they were moving the cannon at the wharf to the top of the hillock. A team of six, with eight men guiding. The horses went mad of a sudden. They said it was like nothing they ever saw before—”

  “Where’s Pa?” Christabel shivered with dread. “Tell me.”

  “The horses wheeled for downhill and drug four of the men with them. The only way they could get free was to get cut loose from the horses. Your Pa managed to get on the wagon and use his sword to cut the reins, they were tangled, and before he could jump clean the wagon went over.” Mr. Dennison swallowed hard, red eyed. “The horses had to be put down.”

  “Where is my father?”

  “Chrissy, child, the wagon rolled over. He was in it.”

  “No.”

  “The cannon—”

  “No!” Her mother was sobbing harder.

  “Lord Berkeley will take care of your Ma, you know he will.” Mr. Dennison was trying to be helpful, but Christabel wanted to scratch his eyes out.

  “Thank you all for your concern,” she said woodenly. “I’d like to be alone with my mother.”

  “Oh no, Chrissy dear,” Goodwife Livingston said gently. “We want to help.”

  “You can help by leaving us some time to ourselves.”

  “But Chrissy—”

  “Please!”

  “All right, dear.”

  Christabel heard the rustle of skirts and scraping of chairs and after a few moments she was alone with her grieving mother.

  She wanted to give herself over to the grief, too. But she could not take it in. Pa could not be gone. Out of her numbness another emotion took root—fear. Goody Albright had asked Reverend Gorony to find her, and he had. But he hadn’t said a word about Pa. He’d even said he was giving her a ride because Pa would want it. He’d behaved improperly, all the while knowing he would get away with it because Pa would not be there to protect her.

  She put out a hand, trying to ward off a future she could feel closing in on her.

  I bit back a yelp as the hairdresser brushed my ear with the curling iron.

  “Sorry, love.”

  “Hazards of the job.” Other models would have had a fit, but Andy was kind to me. Besides, it was a hazard of the job.

  In the mirror I could see Liza Brightly undergoing similar treatment. The part of me that cared enough about things like revenge—which was not all that big since I lacked the time that vindictiveness wasted—hoped Liza got both ears burned.

  Liza met my gaze in the mirror. It was almost like looking into Leonard’s eyes. Cruel and mocking, she encouraged her selfish behavior in the other models. Because I never stuck up for myself, she encouraged the other models to pick at me as well.

  Let them pick, I thought. None of them had been, or likely ever would be, on the cover of Vogue, Vanity Fair, Allure or Marie Claire. Leonard thought Elle was going to be next. Glamour was doing a feature article about “the new voluptuousness” but no cover shot, yet, so he still owed me two covers. Glamour’s article was more about Leonard’s reengineering of what he was calling the wardrobe of a “real” woman.

  Leonard’s augmentation of his successful men’s business and after-dinner couture to include women’s social and corporate fashion had been pronounced a risky business by the British fashion press. But they rated it a good chance at success, even though he was making the disastrous decision to headquarter his women’s fashion industry in the States.

  I always knew when he entered a room, but I didn’t look his way, not with a hot curling iron still near my ears.

  “Leo, darling!” Liza blew him kisses.

  Hard on his heels was Priscilla Stone, whose style column was wildly influential. “But why the United States, Leo? Won’t London miss you?”

  “I felt right at home in New York, and the building I’ve acquired is an exceptional location that I find very inspiring.” He went from model to model assessing make-up and hair as he spoke.

  “It’s so daring, launching a brand new line of design for women as well as relocating your enterprise.” Stone arched one bleached eyebrow. “I find it hard to believe it was bricks and mortar that inspired those decisions.”

  He paused behind me, his mocking gaze telling me that he had no intention of explaining himself to anyone. “Menswear will still be in Britain. But you’ve seen through my ruse, Priscilla. Christabel made me want to design for her, and why design for j
ust one woman?”

  There was more to his decision than just the logical use of an expensive bauble and I considered that his first answer to Stone might have been the truthful one. He had never talked about moving to New York until he’d returned from a trip, very excited about that building being available. It made no difference to me, I told myself. I didn’t really care where I lived since I anticipated not living that much longer anyway. New York was fine because it wasn’t the hellholes of Los Angeles. And because Dina lived here. It had been so hard not to send her a note at least, something, anything, but I knew that if I did I’d be doing what Leo wanted. I hadn’t seen her since our arrival in the city yesterday, but I wanted to. I wouldn’t turn down a date. I just wasn’t that strong. I hoped she didn’t suffer for my selfishness.

  “You all look stunning,” he announced as he crossed the room toward Liza. “The crowd is starting to filter in, and the charity people are rubbing their happy little hands together.” He stroked Liza’s cheek as he appraised me narrowly in her mirror. “Andy, a little more fullness around her temples.”

  Andy grunted and complied.

  Stone was relentless. “I’m sure it’s going to be stunning. And you are just too, too daring. Doing your first show in the U.S. as a charity event. A little bird told me that you’re not even going to take orders tonight.”

  “We’re really here to raise money for the children of New York, but I’ll be making appointments with buyers, if they ask.”

  Stone drew Leonard relentlessly toward the door, but she paused in the midst of a flirtatious anecdote to exude warmth at me. “And Christabel! You are going to be the sensation of the night. What does it feel like to have every red-blooded American male at your feet?”

  How could I answer a question like that? I certainly couldn’t say the truth, which was that I didn’t care. I fought back a blush as Andy leaned over me. “Don’t move your head again,” he snapped.

  So I smiled with what I hoped passed for satisfaction. Stone was already distracted by the start of music in the banquet hall and she left, dragging a willing Leonard behind her.