CamillasConsequences

by Helena Harker

  “Broken-hearted,” the husband answers, patting her gloved hand. “Her fiancé’s dirigible went down. Some women never recover from heartbreak. She hides on her estate most of the time.”

  “My aunt bought one of her Panoptographs of a lioness and her cubs.” She squeezes his hand in return, as if she truly loves him. “I miss her work.”

  The woman’s words tug at my heart, as do my memories of the Dark Continent. I liked being admired for my talent and courage. During my final exhibition, while hanging on to Samson’s arm, I related my harrowing tales to all who would listen.

  The lights dim, the red, velvet curtains open and the whir of the Panoptoscope machine fills the theater. The film begins, and after an initial moment of shocked silence, the audience utters a series of gasps and muted cries. Darmond Fitzwellington is bound to a chair. He wears neither a shirt nor trousers. About his waist, he sports a can-can skirt, and two women prance around him in stockings, high heels and nothing else. Coarse, dark hair covers his chest and legs, and he laughs at their antics, calling, “Show me your cock alleys, you harlots!”

  Fitzwellington does not know I have this footage. When I attempted to blackmail him, I showed him different pictures, where he engaged in coitus with these two performers. Does he actually believe bankers and politicians will still invite him to dinner after he has been seen wearing the frilly, pink apparel of a can-can girl? He is mistaken.

  When Fitzwellington reserved a hotel room in Marseilles and invited the girls to meet him, I simply reserved the room next door, cut a hole through the wall behind a painting, and began to film. Considering the conditions, the results were far better than expected.

  For several seconds, no one moves from their seats. Then women cry out in disgust, husbands utter a rallying cry in support of their wives, and young men laugh and point at Fitzwellington’s attire.

  “It’s Darmond Fitzwellington!” a man’s voice rings out, thick with outrage. “He’s shipping me silk from India for my shop. I’ll never deal with him again!”

  Exactly the reaction I hoped for. Women rise from their seats, pushing their husbands along in front of them. On the screen, the redheaded can-can girl lifts Fitzwellington’s skirt, exposing his member. It is proudly erect, and the woman reaches down and grasps it with her hand. The other woman joins her, kneeling before him and rubbing his bollocks.

  The film cuts abruptly—the young man operating the Panoptoscope display machine suddenly came to his senses—but the exodus continues. There was far more titillating footage to come, but sufficient damage has been done, so I am satisfied. I rise from my seat and stalk off in mock indignation.

  “What of his poor wife?” a woman murmurs to her husband, clinging to his arm as they hurry out.

  My goal was to expose him, but I did not think of the consequences for her. When I exposed Neville Mountbatten by placing Panoptographs in the wedding invitations, I saved his fiancée from a bad marriage. But this evening, what have I done to an innocent wife and her children? Although her husband’s dalliances have been exposed, many individuals will hold her responsible for the seed of his betrayal. Did I go too far? Should I have employed other means? Seldom does a man refuse to consent to my blackmail, particularly after he has been properly disciplined. He should not have sent the dragon after me.

  Suddenly, the aetherical communicator comes alive in my pocket, the keys whirring frantically as they spell out a message. I open the lid and read the words on the unfurling scroll. All’s well, miss. I am crafting my first piece of jewelry.

  Devlin will be a successful jewel-maker, of that I am certain. Before returning to Bleak Hills, I decide to stop by Larkspur Lane, since it is only a short walk away. Hands in my pockets, whistling nonchalantly, I take advantage of my inconspicuous attire and peer into the window of Hephaestus’ shop. He and Devlin are working under lamplight, examining small pieces of iron jewelry. They seem to be a good match, and I am pleased I thought of pairing them together. My heart warms as I look forward to the opera tomorrow evening. I walk a short distance away, open the communicator and write a brief message on the parchment with my stylus, asking Hephaestus which box he has reserved for us.

  * * * * *

  As I stand outside the Royal Opera House, the mere thought of being with Hephaestus again sets me aflame. I am the last to enter the building, and I quietly mount the stairs to his box, covered from neck to toe in my black cape, which dissimulates the daring Paris fashions beneath. Never have I worn such revealing clothing, although I purchased this dress after Samson passed away, when I still believed another man might develop an interest in me. I eagerly anticipate Hephaestus’ reaction. Ursula straightened my hair and swept the sides into plaits that she twisted into a spiral chignon, the latest Parisian style. Holding my skirts, I climb the long flight of stairs. I have not been to the opera in years, and tingles of nostalgia run through me. Opera used to fill me with tumultuous emotions, from sorrow to joy to anger and love. Discordant music rises through the air as the orchestra practices before the performance. I enter Hephaestus’ private box.

  A box seats six or twelve, but this one seats only Hephaestus, unrecognizable in a top hat and coattails. He is clean-shaven, and his neatly combed hair falls in waves to his shoulders. Hephaestus has been transformed into a well-bred gentleman, dressed in the latest fashion, not the rough, bare-chested metallurgist I encountered at Flames of Paradise.

  “You are dashing!” It is only after speaking out that I realize I did not first wish him good evening. How impolite of me, but I find him irresistible and wish to run my fingers through his dark hair.

  He stands, bows and gestures to the chair next to his. Heat flushes my cheeks as I sweep my cloak off my shoulders. As expected, Hephaestus’ eyes widen and his lips part. I am certain he wishes to ravish me, for my burgundy velour skirts, which are long at the back, become shorter at the front, fully exposing my ankle-high boots and a length of leg. Hephaestus’ gaze travels to my black underbust corset and the burgundy velour fabric that covers my breasts.

  “Good evening, Camilla. The goddess Aphrodite herself must be jealous of your beauty.” His black eyes continue to rove over my figure, resting for several seconds on my exposed cleavage, rising to the long-sleeved black bolero that buttons at my throat. The jacket clings to my figure like a second skin.

  He removes his hat and takes my cloak. The lights dim and the first strains of music from Don Giovanni ring sweetly from the stage. The darkness provides us with privacy. I am about to sit on the proffered chair when Hephaestus takes me by the waist and sweeps me into his lap.

  “Isn’t this more comfortable, Camilla?” He pulls me close.

  My shoulder rests against his chest. Our lips are inches apart, and my heart smolders. “Infinitely more.” I am barely able to catch my breath. “But quite improper, I’m afraid.”

  “Improper?” He kisses my cheek and traces the complex spirals in my hair.

  “What if someone sees us?” Can the opera-goers in the other boxes catch sight of me in this scandalous position?

  “Our box is very private, I assure you. We are sitting far back from the edge of the balcony.”

  It is quite dark, and the audience is focused on the opera unfolding on the stage. My earlier thought returns to me—propriety and respectability be damned. “I have always lived by strict rules. It is difficult to shed beliefs I have held for so many years.”

  “Our society is far too concerned with rules.” He runs his hand down my arm, pressing me tighter against his chest. “Rules are restrictive and prevent us from becoming who we really are.”

  There is truth to his statement, I must admit. “For a man, that is easy to say. As a woman, it is different. If someone were to see me at this very moment, my reputation would be tarnished.”

  “And that is the last thing Camilla Covington wants.”

  “Every woman wishes to conserve a pristine reputation. Without it, she has no value,” I explain. “You will not face
similar consequences for pulling me into your lap. The fault will lie with me for allowing you to do so.”

  He nods thoughtfully. “No one should prevent a woman from experiencing the pleasures a man is permitted to experience.”

  Several days ago, I would have said both sexes must control their carnal impulses. Not anymore. I take a long, slow breath. My bosom heaves, and Hephaestus boldly places a hand on my breast. I stop breathing and his fingers send fire into my flesh.

  “You are beginning to alter my perceptions,” I say haltingly. “However, I believe one rule must remain for both men and women.”

  “Which one?” Sliding his hands up my arms, my shoulders and my neck, he undoes the buttons on my bolero. He reaches behind my underbust corset and unhooks the eyelets that hold it together. I look at the actors on the stage below us, at the dark boxes to our left and right. Since I cannot see into any of them, I can only assume—and hope—that no one can see Hephaestus disrobing me in public. What if someone is spying on us with opera glasses? I am acutely aware of how far those glasses can see. My corset falls to the floor, and all that separates me from Hephaestus is the velour fabric that covers my breasts.

  “What is this rule that supersedes all others?” he asks, his breath warm against my neck.

  “Love creates an unbreakable bond between two individuals. It is sacrosanct. When two lovers stand in a church and exchange wedding vows, they must obey those vows until death do them part. There should be no room for betrayal or deceit.” This belief will never change.

  “I take it you have been betrayed.”

  “Yes,” I say fiercely.

  “By Samson?”

  “Yes.” The word comes out as a hiss. “I will not allow it to happen again.”

  “What took place between the two of you is a mystery that has led to much speculation and gossip. You did not say much about him in our previous conversation, but I assume your self-imposed seclusion is the result of Samson’s betrayal.”

  “You are correct.” I have never shared the incident with anyone.

  Hephaestus cups my breasts through the velour. I bite my lower lip to stifle a cry. His large hands cover my entire chest. He lowers the delicate fabric to my waist. My arms fold protectively over my bosom, but Hephaestus takes my wrists and holds them prisoner in my lap.

  “You are stunning.”

  Holding both my wrists in his palm, he uses his free hand to cup one of my breasts. He lowers his head and begins to suckle. Oh I have seen couples engage in this behavior before, but never have I experienced it, and the delicate flicks of his tongue are heavenly.

  “Turn,” he says.

  Turn? I am dizzy with sensation. Turn how? He repositions me on his lap so that I am facing the stage. Despite the sheltering dark, my arms fold over my chest.

  “No one will see,” he whispers in my ear. “Do not be frightened.”

  Nevertheless, being so exposed fills me with trepidation. It also fills me with passion, for Hephaestus heats my soul. His hands cover my breasts, squeezing them gently, and then slip down to my waist. He unhooks the burgundy top, and it flutters to the floor. He slides both hands down my ruffled skirt, along my inner thighs to my knees. He reverses course, fingers sliding upward, creeping closer and closer to my mound. A tingling sensation comes alive between my legs.

  “Remove your skirt,” he says.

  I am not normally one to follow commands, but Hephaestus’ voice excites me and he smells of a heady, rich musk instead of the soot of the forge. My breath comes in short pants. I stand while Hephaestus pulls down my skirt and I step out of it. The skirt joins the undercorset on the floor. I sit on his lap again, and his fingers resume their movement toward my mound. I am almost nude, clothed only in stockings, garters and the short, silk undergarments that are all the rage in France. But his fingers soon make me forget about our public location. Through the silk fabric, they play with my pearl the way a violinist plays his horsehair bow, knowing precisely how to strike each note. His dexterity makes me gasp, and I arch my back, resting my head against his shoulder.

  “So to you, love is rigid, inflexible.” He kisses my cheek.

  “It must be in order for a relationship to be everlasting. Love must be strong and pure. Like iron.” I clutch my pendant, which is still at my neck.

  “Iron is malleable, it takes the shape we desire.” He nuzzles my neck. “I have already shared this with you. Love must be the same.”

  “When a man breaks a vow, he must be punished.”

  “What of love that is filled with compassion and pardon? No one is perfect. We all make mistakes and need to be forgiven for our errant ways.”

  “No,” I say, not yet ready to give up on my ideals. They have kept me afloat in a world that tried to drown me.

  His hand slides into my undergarment, parts my nether lips and stops at the opening of my cunny, which is slick with my juices. His finger finds my maidenhead, and I tense.

  “You are a virgin, my sweet,” he growls in satisfaction.

  “I plan to remain so until marriage.” But my resolve is weakening. If he were to lay me down on the floor and ask for my virginity, I might give it to him.

  “May I ask you one last question, Camilla?”

  “Anything.” For I can share so much with this man.

  “When Samson betrayed you, what did you do?”

  “I planned my revenge.”

  He pauses, as though my response is unexpected. “I regret that he made you bitter and uncompromising, and I hope to be the salve that heals your wounds.

  “You must leave Samson behind and move forward. His memory is keeping you back. My feelings for you are deepening, and I wish to court you the way a proper gentleman should. But in order to do so, you must relinquish the past.”

  Indeed. Am I ready to do so? Since I cannot bring myself to consider it, I change the subject. “And you, Hephaestus, there is so little I know about you.” A barrage of questions falls from my lips. “Where did you grow up? Although you told me about your father, what of the rest of your family? Where did you study your trade?”

  “Sweet Camilla,” he says, “my life has been fraught with difficulties and loss. I do not wish to reflect upon it.”

  “Please share with me.” From this position, I cannot see his countenance, but I can hear his sorrow.

  He rests his head against my shoulder, and I twine my fingers in his hair.

  “If I must reflect upon my life in order to move forward, should you not also reflect upon yours? Unburden yourself, Hephaestus. I will listen.”

  “I cannot open my heart to you just yet.” His breath is warm against my skin. “When I am ready, I will tell you all.”

  Hephaestus holds me close, exploring my body. Every touch is a spark. Every kiss is a flame. His lips are hot, and the opera fades into the background. I lose myself in him, in his passionate touches, in his warmth, in his arms. If only this could go on forever, if only I could believe without reservation that he cares for me.

  Shortly before the end of the last act, Hephaestus takes my skirt and helps me into it. He fastens the velour over my breasts, closes the eyelets on my undercorset and holds the black bolero. No one will know what transpired here. It will be our secret. The opera ends, and the crowd bursts into thunderous applause.

  “Go now,” he says, handing me my cloak, “and no one will see you leave.” He tips my chin and kisses me passionately.

  It is difficult to pull away. “Until next time.”

  Hephaestus smiles, and his black eyes brighten. “So you will agree to see me again?”

  “Certainly.” To experience more of this delirium, I will.

  “What if I suggest a more public venue? Would you accept?”

  “How public?” Our earlier negotiation limited us to private encounters.

  He pauses, as if gauging my potential reaction. “The Autumn Serenade.”

  My heart skips a beat. If I consent, it signals the beginning of an actual courtsh
ip. I lick my lips and rearrange the cloak around my shoulders. Am I ready for a possible commitment? For so long I have fantasized about a relationship, and now that I have one before me, ripe for the picking, I find myself oddly hesitant. Memories of Samson and the fear of betrayal cloud my judgment.

  “I accept your invitation.” Despite my reservations, it is more than time to be seen in public on the arm of a handsome man.

  Hephaestus kisses my cheek. “Then one week from today, you shall be dancing in my arms.”

  I exit the box, descend the stairs and find myself face-to-face with Lady Aldridge.

  “Camilla!” she says eagerly, breaking free from three other women. “We have been out for an evening of entertainment without our husbands.”

  “No husbands!” giggles a petite raven-haired woman, leading me to believe that hers keeps a tight rein on her.

  Lady Aldridge introduces her companions, all of them of high social standing, wearing stunning gowns that gleam and glitter in the light of the foyer’s chandelier. “I would like you all to meet my new friend, Camilla Covington.”

  She used the word friend to refer to me. I am stunned. Gone is the coldness Virginia showed me at the tea house. How long has it been since I have enjoyed the company of women? Too long. They chat about the sweetness of the soprano’s voice, and I chime in, although I barely remember the singing at all. Nevertheless, it is delightful to be included in their conversation.

  Virginia takes me aside and speaks in a low voice. “My husband and I have come to an agreement.”

  “You mean with the leverage given to you by the Panoptographs?”

  “Yes, to a degree, but we sat down and had a long discussion about our future. Or lack of it. I have forgiven him for his transgressions.”

  “How can you?” After all he has done, how can she forgive?

  “He has violated my trust and broken our marriage vows. As a charitable, Christian soul, I have decided to pardon his actions. There is no room in my heart for rancor and revenge. It will stop me from living my life. I must have peace of mind, both for my sake and for the sake of my daughters.” She seems content with her decision.