Lizzie, My Love

by Sara Bennett - Lizzie, My Love

  Jason watched her go from the study window, a look of smug satisfaction curving his features. She was struggling, but they were weak struggles, and soon he would pull her in. He thought he had played her very nicely last night, and he had been content to stay quiet today and let her weaken herself with her own arguments. But she would give in in the end. She had no choice.

  Lizzie, knowing nothing of his gaze or his thoughts, strode away briskly, enjoying the fresh breeze, the chill sting on her cheeks making her feel intensely alive.

  She had put aside all thoughts of Jason today, and thought instead of her son. She smiled, pausing in crossing the road to bring his face to mind. He was already far too handsome for his own good, so like Zek...

  The streets were busy, and Lizzie avoided a large woman with a child in each hand. She smiled at a man who tipped his hat at her with a warm smile. She felt pretty today. Pretty and accomplished and needed. Had Jason given that feeling to her, with his propositions of last night? Or was it just that she was getting over Zek, at last?

  Zek. No, she would never get over Zek. Even the thought of him now, in this bustling street, brought tears stinging to her eyes. She stopped, resting against the wall of a bank, and blinked.

  And blinked again, wondering for a horrified moment if she had conjured up his image like some magician, some Merlin. For there he stood, by the curb, his back to her, talking to a woman in a green elisse. At least, from the back, it looked very like him. Broad shoulders, trim hips, dark hair curling at his collar. She trembled, resting heavily against the cold stones, telling herself she must, she must be mistaken.

  And then he turned, and she knew she wasn’t.

  It was Zek. Zek, a little thinner perhaps, and a little paler, but it was Zek all the same. And as she stared in wonder and disbelief his eyes fixed on her. They widened, as though he thought he had seen a spirit, and then he was striding forward, making for her as though they were alone in the world, and not in the middle of a thronging crowd. And the look on his face made her afraid.

  The blood rushed under her skin, and at the same time the strength poured back into her body. She turned and began to run, her basket jolting against her side. Her feet gained speed, and she hoisted up the bulk of her skirts, brushing by pedestrians without care or thought apart from escape.

  Zek! He had come to destroy himself, and her. She must not let him catch her, she must not! If he did, if he took her back... Lord, it did not bear thinking about. Her bonnet slid back, and her hair fell untidily down her back, long and curling and uncontrollable.

  “Lizzie!” he called, but his voice was faint, and daring a glance over her shoulder, she saw him back at the last corner. He was stuck behind a couple of men moving a large sideboard across the footpath from a parked dray to the doorway of a shop. Even as she looked, she saw him thrust one of them aside and hurry on. Lizzie, in desperation, turned up a narrow side-street and into the dark, open door of a little shop. A dim, musty interior, row upon row of bottles and potions. She stood panting, her head spinning. It was an apothecary’s shop. The smell of spices and exotic medicines was overpowering; she could hear the proprietor discussing the benefits of one of his mixtures to a large lady with a tartan shawl about her massive shoulders.

  Lizzie darted a swift, frightened glance over her own shoulder to the doorway, and slid behind a row of shelving, gripping her hands so tightly the blood came under the bite of her nails.

  She stood there for some minutes pretending a fascination for the bottles’ contents she could never otherwise have felt. The large lady left satisfied, a packet tucked under her arm, and the proprietor, a little man with clothing that smelt of camphor, came to hover about Lizzie, pointing out various products and extolling their virtues.

  Zek did not appear. The square of light that was the doorway remained empty. When she could pretend interest no longer, Lizzie smiled at the man, and stepped cautiously out into the street.

  The narrow thoroughfare was deserted of anyone remotely resembling Zek. One end of the lane was blocked off by a wrought-iron gate that looked far too high to clamber over and far too narrow for her to squeeze through. Lizzie sighed, and turned back towards the street she had so lately left. She walked slowly and carefully towards the corner, blinking in the glare after the dark little shop. Her bonnet was still resting down her back, and she made some repairs to it and her hair, while she tried to whip up enough courage to step out into the passing crowd. It was so easy, she thought. She would tag on to a group and soon be far away, out of reach, safe. Lizzie took a breath and stepped out into the street.

  He was standing some three yards from her, and saw her at once. Somehow she had known that he would be. She had known, all the time she was planning her escape, that there would be no chance of it. So when he began to walk towards her she did not even try to run away, but stood like one facing a firing squad.

  He seemed taller than she remembered, and she looked up into the dark, bleak eyes as though it were yesterday she had seen them last.

  After a moment he said in a voice as bleak as his eyes, “Am I to assume you do not wish even to speak with me, Lizzie?”

  From somewhere her voice replied, “You can assume what you will.”

  “Lizzie—”

  “We have nothing to say, Zek. Nothing.” Her voice cracked with the strain of keeping it steady and cool.

  “Lizzie, did you mean what you said in that letter you left me in Bathurst?”

  Lizzie remembered the harsh black writing on the sterile white paper. “Of course,” she said, and lifted her chin at him proudly, while inside her heart was tearing in two and her teeth were clenched to stop the sobs.

  His eyes slid over her face, her untidy hair, her new gown. “You look beautiful,” he said then, and smiled.

  It was a parody of his old smiles, and made her sad. Was life not good to him then? Was Angelica not as loving as he wished?

  “You’re too kind.”

  His lashes swept down to hide his eyes, and he said, “May I ask where you are staying?”

  “I’m working. As a housekeeper.”

  He smiled again, something of humor in his eyes and mouth. She was eaten up with love for him. Every line of his face, every muscle, every inch of him. She wanted to put her arms about him and hold him to her and never let him go. And she knew, sickeningly, that she could not, could never do so. He belonged to someone else and always had. She had been his wife briefly, for her, the best part of her life. But that was over.

  “How is the farm?” she managed.

  “Well enough, in material terms,” he said.

  “How is... is everyone?’

  “Everyone is well. And you, Lizzie? Are you well?”

  “Perfectly.”

  They were like strangers. She watched his dark brows come down, his darker eyes subjecting her to a piercing, thorough search of her face and figure.

  “You do look blooming,” he said at last, and there was a wealth of suspicion in his voice.

  “Why shouldn’t I be? I’m happy,” she said.

  “Obviously,” he said, with distaste, and looked away as though dismissing her.

  After a moment she found the strength to say, “I must get on. I’m glad I saw you again, Zek. I hope you’re happy.”

  “Lizzie...”

  “I really must go. I’m sorry, Zek.”

  “Do you want a divorce, Lizzie?”

  She was shocked. She turned, her still-puritan brain reeling. A divorce! Of all things abhorrent to Cook. Divorce! No one of any breeding, any proper standards divorced. Hadn’t Jason said himself last night that he would never expect her to divorce Zek? And yet, was it not an obvious ending to their marriage? Had she really imagined Zek would be content to leave things as they were? If he loved Angelica and wanted to marry her, then he must divorce Lizzie. She licked her lips, her voice a squeak of horror and despair:

  “Oh I... Zek, I can’t. It’s so... so final.”

  What had Cook
said? “Loose women and Americans divorce their husbands. Ladies do not.”

  A flicker showed in his dark eyes. “Can you not, Lizzie?” A smile. “I thought to be final was what you wanted?”

  “But... it’s degrading, Zek. There would be a scandal.”

  “You have a choice then, Lizzie. You will divorce me, or return to live with me as a proper wife. I will not allow half-measures.”

  She licked her lips again, like a trapped animal. She had been in charge of the situation only seconds ago, and now somehow he had taken over.

  “Couldn’t we just go on as we have?” she whispered, her face growing alarmingly pale.

  Jason would never let her stay if there was a scandal. She would be thrown out, with little Zek. Everything would be ruined and... Oh Lord, how could she go home with him after all that had happened?

  Zek was shaking his head slowly and finally. “Divorce it must be, Lizzie. We shall have to go through the courts. God knows how long it will take, but it must be done. I suppose I must be the one to make the sacrifice, and find proof of my adultery? I shall have to rake up some harlot from the Rocks to plead with me. Or would you prefer to... but no perhaps not,” as her eyes flashed fire.

  “Then I shall set about it at once. The newspapers, I suppose, will have a field day. They love a nice meaty scandal.”

  Lizzie knew that only too well. She remembered one case just lately, splashed in heavy print across front pages, the prose flowery, insidious, cruel. Language she herself had read guiltily but avidly, disbelievingly, and yet... yes, half-convinced all the while it must be partly true. ‘No smoke without fire’, as the old saying went.

  Zek had taken her arm firmly in his. “Give me your direction,” he said quietly, “and I will drive back with you. We have much to discuss, Lizzie.”

  She had walked several paces before she remembered she must not let him worm his way into her life again. For his own sake. And yet, was the divorce not for his own sake? Hesitantly, she allowed him to lead her on in the direction of some cabs.

  “I will give you your divorce,” she said in a brittle, cold voice. “There is no need to come back with me. I will write to you.”

  “Oh, but there is. And the fact that you so obviously don’t want me to see where you live is very intriguing.”

  “There is no point to it, Zek!” she cried in desperation.

  His hand merely tightened, and he said cruelly, “Stop sniveling and tell me where we’re going.”

  Confused, torn apart with longing and pain, Lizzie told him the address. She knew by the satisfied smile on his mouth that he had no idea whose it was. He was merely pleased at his own success. Why was he pleased? A divorce would be as unpleasant and painful for him and Angelica as it would be for her and little Zek.

  “I read... I read in the paper,” she managed. “About Mr. Bailey. I was sorry.”

  His eyes turned to her in the shadowy interior of the cab, distant and unreadable. “So was I, Lizzie.”

  Her mouth opened, and closed. She could not ask about that woman; she could not! It was asking too much of her.

  “How did you get here, Lizzie?” he said quietly. “You were gone when I got back that evening. How did you leave Bathurst?”

  “I took a place on a wagon going to... to Sydney Town.”

  “You must have been desperate.”

  There seemed no answer to that, so she didn’t attempt one, but turned to look out of the window. After a moment the cab came to a stop and she hurried to step down out of it on to the road. As she did so a carriage came past at speed, so close to her she felt the breeze of it on her cheek, and stumbled, falling back against Zek as he too descended. He caught her, his arms going about her hard.

  For a moment she was pressed close to his chest, feeling his heart beat, the warmth of his body through his clothing. There was great strength in his arms, she had forgotten how much. She felt ill with longing, and pushed angrily away in case he should feel it.

  His face was as pale as hers, and he seemed to be laboring under some great burden, so that he spun away to pay the driver almost clumsily. When he turned back again he was calm, and cold.

  “Well, lead the way,” he said like a whiplash, and she went stumbling ahead.

  “There is something I should tell you, before you go in,” she said, stumbling over her words as she did her steps.

  “Such as what?” he retorted bitterly. “If you want to tell me you hate my guts, I already know it.”

  “Zek, no!”

  “And if you want to tell me you’re shacked up with some other man, I think I know that too, and I intend to break his back.”

  He meant it. She saw the rage glittering in his eyes, and wondered why. He had tricked her, and now he meant to do violence to Jason. It made no sense!

  “Please, it’s not like that. I work for him. I would never...” But hadn’t she been about to become Jason’s mistress? And all for gratitude and fear?

  But it was too late. Jason must have seen them arrive, and was in the hall. Zek’s eyes widened in disbelief, and then disgust. He looked at Lizzie as though she were dirt, his mouth curling.

  “So, that’s the way it is,” he said gratingly. “Very pretty.”

  “Zek,” she whispered, and then, turning imploringly to Jason, “He won’t listen to me, Jason. Please, tell him I am only your housekeeper.”

  But Jason had waited too long for this moment to do anything of the sort. He looked at her, and then at Zek, and he smiled. He saw in the other man’s face more than Lizzie could see, in her own grief and pain. He saw the agony of a love lost, and the biting jealousy of his woman living with another man, and knew with a sting of malignant pleasure that he could vanquish and destroy Zek Gray forever.

  “Why deny it,” he said softly, and watched Lizzie’s mouth fall open in disbelief.

  Zek started forward, fists clenching, but Jason stepped back saying quickly, “Why not lose gracefully, man! Admit you’ve lost. Lizzie is mine and stays mine. Did you hear me? For once in your life admit your fatal charm has failed!”

  The bitter hatred in his voice was so clear, Lizzie turned to him in amazement, remembering suddenly that other time, when he had let her see the newspaper. It was as if she were seeing him for the first time as he really was.

  It was doubtful if Zek even heard him. He had started forward again, fists clenching, and grabbed Jason by his immaculate shirt front, lifting him a little from the floor despite his superior height, and his dark face was a mask of rage.

  Lizzie flung herself at him, pulling at his arms. “Don’t! Zek, he’s lying. Please, it’s not true!’”

  Thank God, thank God, she thought, that it wasn’t true. One more day, and she might never have been able to say that to him again.

  “Lying is he!” Zek flung Jason from him.

  The other man struck against a table, knocking it and its valuable cargo to the floor. He struggled to his feet, trying to straighten his clothing. A servant came running from the kitchens, but Jason waved him angrily away, his face flushed with anger, triumph and exertion.

  Zek turned on Lizzie, his black eyes aglitter as they had been that night in their bedroom after she had flirted with Leigh. Lizzie watched him come, holding out her hands futilely.

  “Zek, please...”

  “Zek, please,” he whispered, vicious in his parody. “What do you think I’ve been feeling all this time? Knowing you’d left me because you couldn’t stand the sight of me? Knowing you hated my guts, and you were willing to brave God knew what to get away from me. But I let you go, because I thought that was what you wanted. I let you tear me apart with worry and fear and... yes, and grief. Because I thought that was what you wanted. And when finally I could stand it no longer and came after you, I find you in a little love nest, blooming. Bloody blooming with health!”

  “You sound as if you’re sorry I’m not dead!” she shouted.

  He stopped then, and she knew she had made a bad mistake. After a
moment he said, in a dead, quiet voice: “It was a trick. All a trick. You were never ill. It was all a trick by you and your sister. I knew there was something wrong. I knew it! I called on her and she said you were in Sydney Town. She wouldn’t tell me where, but I found the boarding-house where you stayed, before your luggage was collected. In God’s name, Lizzie, why did you trick me?”

  Lizzie felt the tears in her eyes, and whispered, “She didn’t mean to hurt anyone, and I was ill. Zek, I was ill...”

  “A trick,” he said, seemingly not hearing her soft words. “You are just like all the rest. All the Angelicas of this world. I had thought you different, but you’re just the same.”

  Lizzie stared at him in amazement. He had spoken as though he hated Angelica. And that was impossible. Wasn’t it? It turned everything topsy turvy. She didn’t understand.

  “But you love Angelica!” she cried. “That was why...”

  Her voice halted him and he turned to look at her narrowly. “Love her? She’s the biggest bitch out. You know that. I never loved her. I love... loved you. Lizzie, I loved you.”

  It was said so quietly, she couldn’t question its truth. Her legs were like jelly. She sat down abruptly on the hall chair, staring up at him with huge dark eyes in a deathly white face. From behind them Jason said:

  “Get out of here, Zek! You’re not wanted. Lizzie belongs to me.”

  They ignored him. He no longer existed for either of them.

  Zek said, in a voice quiet and drained, and yet so sincere she could no longer doubt him, “I’d known a lot of women. I’d thought myself in love more than once. I was a fool to think that, because when I did fall in love it hit me like a stone. I didn’t know what to do about it, Lizzie. I didn’t know whether to sweep her off her feet or play it safe, what to say... She was so different from all the rest, you see. Perhaps that was why I loved her. She had no poise, no simperings, no coy giggles. I’m talking about you, Lizzie. I think,” he went on softly, thoughtfully, as though speaking of something so long past it was now only a sweet memory, “I think I must have loved you from the moment I kissed you, thinking you were Jane. Only you weren’t, and from that moment on you kept showing me how different you were. God knows, you weren’t my type at all; or so I thought in my conceit. But I fell like a ton of bricks for Lizzie Banister dressed in sackcloth, who let me feel the sharp edge of her tongue at every conceivable opportunity. And who nearly died, and who I determined then not to leave alone again—I would have come back even if your sister hadn’t invited me. And on whom I squandered my money and wore out my heart, when she suddenly became ill as I’d been warned she would, and who I tried so desperately to make jealous on every occasion, and who never seemed to care less.”