by Susanna Ives
Edward swung around, searching Lady Winslow with his earnest green eyes. “Yes,” he whispered.
Lady Winslow performed a graceful curtsey, slowly lifting her copper eyes to meet Edward’s, and a silent communication passed between them.
“Lady Winslow, may I introduce Mr. Edward Watson. He is my—”
“I would be honored if you would join us this evening, Mr. Watson, in my box if you are not otherwise engaged,” Lady Winslow said.
“I’m not.” He shook his head, looking almost dazed. “I-I just came here, because— because I didn’t know where to go.”
“Well, we have found you.” Lady Winslow smiled enigmatically.
The ladies recognized several other lost gentlemen in the salon, taking them along to the box that Lady Winslow engaged beside the stage. She insisted that Edward sit next to her. Lady Kesseley and two other gentlemen sat behind her in the coveted back seats, concealed in the shadows, leaving Henrietta the front seat which was so close to the stage she should have been in the playbill.
The curtain opened to a painted vista of Florence. This was a quite serious production about the Medici family. The actresses wore period costumes, long frumpy Renaissance gowns, causing great distress to the gentlemen in the front row, who couldn’t see even the tiniest glimpse of ankles. Halfway through the opening scene, a few frustrated male audience members threw pieces of their dismantled benches onto the stage, causing one actor to lose his performance face and throw some of the Italian set back. A fight ensued, and several men had to be carried away.
As much as Henrietta tried to pay attention to the play, thoughts of Kesseley crept into her mind. Each instance she’d disappointed him or pushed him away returned to haunt her. She didn’t remember a time Kesseley wasn’t there, lingering in the periphery of each moment of her life. So patient, so loyal. Her best friend. She was so horrid and stupid. She didn’t deserve him, she never had.
Across the stage, several loud drunken bucks and their garish lady friends stumbled into a vacant box. Behind the rowdy young men, a taller gentleman waited in the shadows with ladies on either side of him.
Henrietta heard her own sharp intake of breath as Kesseley moved to the front seat.
He wore a crisp white shirt, the tips brushing his hard jaw, his coat and breeches molded to his physique. For a moment all the audience, including the actors on the stage, stopped and admired the Adonis amongst them. He appeared bored, disdainful of the attention. He sat back in his seat, spreading his knees wide, resting his chin on his knuckles. His two beautiful companions, a redhead and a blonde, draped themselves beside him, leaning their generous bosoms on his arms. His lips curled into a slow, appreciative smile.
She felt a hard fist of jealousy clenching in her heart. She couldn’t help but wonder if he smiled the same way when those ladies were naked in his arms. His mouth on their skin. Wasting his love—that she so desperately desired—on some—
“Whores!”
Dear God! Did I say that? For one horrible moment she thought she had.
“Whores!” Lady Kesseley cried again, her pale eyes locked on Kesseley. The gentlemen sitting beside her quickly pulled her into the shadows, and the princess and Lady Winslow fell back to shield her. Henrietta rose and saw the audience’s eyes on her, as if she played the part of “whore” in the play. She looked at Kesseley, who stared back at her, his eyes narrowed under his brows.
Henrietta turned and fled into the corridor where Lady Kesseley leaned against the wall, supported by her friends. “I’ve lost my son,” Lady Kesseley whispered.
***
Henrietta held Lady Kesseley’s arm outside the theatre. A cold breeze whipped through the narrow street, blowing back Henrietta’s pelisse and biting her cheeks and ears. It took ages for the carriage to come. They could have walked home. Lady Winslow, Princess Wilhelmina and Edward were silent. No one knew what to say. All the time, Henrietta kept close to the door, hoping it would swing open and Kesseley would come outside, explain that it was all a terrible joke.
But he never came.
When the carriage rolled to a stop on Curzon Street, Lady Kesseley adamantly refused any company, insisting she wanted to be alone. As Lady Kesseley descended the carriage, Lady Winslow grabbed Henrietta’s arm.
“We shall come by in the morning,” she said. “Send a footman at any time during the night if you require help.”
***
Henrietta escorted Lady Kesseley to her chamber door, her arm weak on Henrietta’s elbow. She gave Henrietta a small kiss on her cheek. Her lips were cold and dry. “I used to resent you because you never loved my son. But now, you are like my own true daughter. Did you know I had two daughters? They died, didn’t live more than a week,” she said, her voice coming in strange waves as if spoken from a far distance.
***
Henrietta hadn’t slept in two days and even as her mind pressed on, her body shut down. She fell into bed as soon as the maid removed her stays. She didn’t even braid her hair. She would brush out the tangles in the morning, like she would all the other tangles in her life.
In her dreams, she sat on a rock with her mother before the Ouse. Heavy deep gray clouds blew over their heads, and she could see the lightning strike the flat horizon. So when the screams first pierced her dreams, she thought it was thunder. A few seconds later, however, she shot up in bed in the darkness with one thought.
Fire.
Not even bothering to reach for her banyan, she ran out into the corridor, instinctively heading for Kesseley’s chamber. It was empty. The screams continued. Henrietta rushed down the stairwell, coming to the landing where Lady Kesseley stood, still in her evening clothes, a glass figurine poised in her raised hand.
Kesseley stood below in the shadows, holding the rail, the fire from the wall sconce flickering in his dark glossy eyes. Henrietta couldn’t tell if he was drunk, but he reeked of alcohol, smoke and perfume.
“Do you think you are going to stay out all night with whores, then sleep in my house? Get out!” Lady Kesseley cried and threw the figurine. It cracked on his collarbone but he didn’t flinch.
“Oh God! Kesseley!” Henrietta ran down the stairs, cutting her foot on a shard of glass.
“Don’t hurt him! He is your son!” she cried, shielding his body with hers. He brushed her aside and continued up the stairs.
“It’s my house, Mother. You get out.” He spoke low, slowly, as if he were moving mountains with his voice. “Why don’t you batten yourself on a lover. Maybe one of them has a nice pied a terre. The perfect place for a mistress.”
“No, Kesseley!” Henrietta pleaded, still pulling his arm.
“Stay out of this, Henrietta!” he shouted.
His mother started sobbing. Her cries echoed on the stairwell, and she sank onto the floor, clinging to the rail.
“All those years I told myself everything I gave up was worth it because I had you. And this is how you treat me?”
“No, you don’t mean it,” Henrietta pleaded. “You’re just angry. Please…”
Kesseley ignored her. His mother slowly rose, her shoulders sloped.
“You’ve become him,” she said. “I wish I had never married your father.” She walked away, into the shadows.
***
Kesseley couldn’t even see, everything was black. Inside him, the locks and chains holding back old demons broke under the strain. He felt the ugly truth flood his veins—he couldn’t fight anymore, wasn’t strong enough to hold back this swift, strong current.
“So be it,” he spat.
He felt Henrietta’s hands on his chest. “No,” she cried. “Take it back!”
He couldn’t. He was his father. He turned on his heel and flew back down the stairs, his head pounding, his heart surging on. He was his father. He didn’t know where he was going, but he had to get out, he knew that much.
Henrietta chased after him, catching his arm, her bare feet sliding on the floor. He swung around. She was scared, her ey
es large and luminous. Her hair hung loose, curling around her breast, her nipples poking through her thin shift. The candlelight behind her showed the curve of her thighs and the small feminine valley between her limbs.
“You’re not your father! She didn’t mean those words. You’re not a horrid rake,” Henrietta cried.
“You are a stupid, naive girl.” He took her to him, pressing her against him until he could feel her—her breasts, her stomach, her thighs.
“I am trying to help. That’s all I’m trying to do. Maybe if you could be more understanding—”
He put his finger over her mouth and tilted her head back until her large eyes were under his. He continued to move as he spoke, forcing her to walk backward into the parlor. “I want you to tell me when in the last twenty-five years I haven’t been understanding. When I didn’t bend over backwards for you, when I didn’t do your bidding. All that time you thought you controlled me, but I protected you, Henrietta. I protected you from all this—from me.”
“This isn’t you, Kesseley. This is everything you are afraid of. You don’t—”
“I thought as a boy you could save me, that quaint house of yours, your strange parents, your dreams you spun like a silken cocoon. Tell me, how does it feel inside? Is it comfortable? Does it shield you from the ugliness surrounding this moment?”
“I’m sorry I was so blind to everything. I’m sorry I hurt you all those years. I love you.”
He sank his mouth onto hers, plunging his tongue deep inside her, taking her right into the heart of his ugliness. His fingers tangled in the chains of her mother’s pendant. He felt the necklace loosen, then bounce off his thigh.
Henrietta didn’t notice. Her lips desperately tried to slow his frantic pace. He wouldn’t let her. Instead he lightly ran his thumb over her breast to shock her.
She lowered her head onto his shoulder. “Do you want me to tell you how horrid you are? I can’t. I love you. The real you.”
She entwined her fingers over his hand, still on her breast, then she raised her mouth and gently kissed the edge of his ear.
“I love you,” she whispered again.
She drew his head down and opened his mouth with her lips. Her tongue caressed his as he had taught her that night in the corridor. A thousand years ago. She nestled her body against his. The tip of her nipple teased his palm.
“Don’t.” His voice trembled.
Despite his will, his penis rose at her touch. Her mouth released his, and she let out an uneven breath.
“If you want me to be your mistress, I will,” she whispered. “Show me everything I don’t know if that will help you, if it will ease your anger.”
He didn’t move—too angry and terrified. He wanted to hurt her as he had been hurt. He wanted to deny her so she might know the bitter pain of rejection. He wanted to wage some battle with his father, his mother on her body. He wanted…
He wanted her and that made him hate himself.
She stepped away from him, but kept her gaze on his face. Her throat contracted with her breath and she slowly drew down the sleeve of her shift, revealing her right breast. A supple, perfect creation capped with a dainty pink tip. Kesseley heard his own inhale. Dear God.
“Touch me,” she whispered.
Kesseley stumbled backward. “No.”
“I want you to.”
She reached out and took his hand and placed it over her breast, her fingers guiding his over its delicate surface.
“Dearest Kesseley,” she murmured, oblivious to her own danger. “Show me how to love you, so you don’t have to go out tonight.”
She tugged his arm, pulling him to the sofa. She lay back on the cushions and gave her body over to him.
He didn’t know if it was rage or desire that made him want to drive himself into her and find that thoughtless oblivion of moving inside her body.
He lowered his head and kissed her breast, running his tongue over its lush tip. Her body rose under his mouth, and she released a high, sweet gasp. In an easy motion, he slid off the sofa and knelt onto the floor. He pulled her legs around him. The feminine contours of her body pressed against his hardness. He could feel the warm wetness of her femininity through his breeches. Her earthy scent covered him. Years and years of unfulfilled dreams and frustration pushed him on.
He rubbed his thighs over her sex. His penis strained to be inside her.
“Do you feel me?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He moved in the rhythmic motions of love as he watched her face, a tenderness in her eyes that cut to his heart. He wanted her to yell at him, tell him to stop. He wanted to hate her.
“Is this what you always wanted?” she asked.
His skin prickled. Above him, the crystals from the chandelier waited like cold, gray daggers. Henrietta dangled off the sofa, her legs apart, her shift falling from her shoulders. No, this was not what he always wanted. He had wanted it to be beautiful for her, not this desperate act for an angry, vengeful man. He couldn’t let her do it.
He pulled away, restored her shift to her shoulder and brushed her cheek with his hand. “I’m sorry.”
Tears swelled in her eyes. “But I want you to,” she pleaded.
“Henrietta, don’t you understand? Too much has happened.”
“No.” Her voice was a scarce breath.
He shook his head and rose to leave. “It’s too late.”
“Don’t leave, Kesseley. Stay here. Please don’t go out there tonight. You’re too upset. Stay with me. You don’t have to…You don’t have to do anything.” Her words were choked with tears.
When he didn’t stop, she ran around him and hid the doorknob behind her back. “No, Kesseley. I’m afraid for you.”
“Goodbye,” he said, then gently pulled her from her station, stepped outside and shut the door.
Pain ripped through his chest and burned down his arm. He grabbed his heart and doubled over. For several seconds, he couldn’t move. Finally, he pushed himself from the steps and headed out into the night.
***
Henrietta curled in her bed and wept. Kesseley’s smell and feel was still on her skin. She prayed he was somewhere safe tonight. She blamed herself for his hurt. She had asked him to be a rake, thinking only of a fictional Lord Blackraven. She’d had no idea what being a rake truly meant and how by asking Kesseley to play the part of one, she had unwittingly opened old wounds inflicted upon him by his father. There weren’t enough I’m sorrys to make up for the damage she had caused by her ignorance. Of course, he wouldn’t let her be his mistress. She repulsed him. Yet in her feminine core, his touch had caused an acute need that throbbed, unabated, for him.
***
Kesseley didn’t come home. When a ribbon of sunlight cut through the tiny alley running between the houses, Henrietta left her chamber and went to see about Lady Kesseley.
She lay back in her pillow, her golden hair loose. Red veins spread like spider legs around her light blue irises. She stared out at the sunlight streaming through the window, showing no expression. Her lady’s maid attended her, pouring liquid from a small brown bottle into a spoon, then holding her hand under Lady Kesseley’s chin as she sipped.
Henrietta sat on the edge of the bed. Lying open across Lady Kesseley’s lap was The Critique of Pure Reason by Immanuel Kant. She’d never imagined Lady Kesseley would be interested in philosophy. She was about to ask Lady Kesseley about the book when she began to speak in a quiet whisper.
“I lived in Kent when I was girl. It was a hot summer, hotter than anyone remembered—I felt as if I were swimming through the air. I would run off in the woods by the lake and sit on the cool rocks in the afternoon. He came down the trail, his hair loose, all tangled about his face. He and a servant carried a boat over their heads. He had just moved into his uncle’s house. I don’t know where he had been before, but he didn’t look like any of us. He plopped the boat in the water and waded in. Come here, he said, lifting me up from my waist and putting
me in the boat. I remember his touch, how this jolt of something passed through me. He swam about the boat, twirling it in the water. Then he said, Do you think the world is only our perception? I laughed. Then—and I think he did this on purpose, even though he denied it—the boat fell over and I plunged in. I had that moment of panic, not being able to feel the bottom, then his arm came around me. Don’t worry, I can stand, he said.”
Henrietta waited for more of the story, but that was it.
“Who was he?” she asked.
“He was the only man I have ever loved.” Lady Kesseley waved her hand, dismissing the question waiting on Henrietta’s tongue. “I told him I couldn’t marry him. My father wanted me to marry Lord Kesseley.”
She turned her head on her pillow to look at Henrietta. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should never have let Kesseley bring you here.”
Henrietta couldn’t respond, wanting to say all she couldn’t. It was just too big and awful, and Lady Kesseley was so weak now.
“I don’t think Kesseley meant what he said last night.”
“There is so much you don’t know. So much hurt. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I had run away with him—would it have been different?—and I hate myself for thinking it…because of Tommie.”
She closed her eyes. Henrietta waited silently beside her until the medicine took effect and Lady Kesseley drifted off, her book falling to her side. Henrietta picked it up, remembering her mother and father discussing Immanuel Kant at the table. She opened the first page and found an inscription.
“If the world is my perception, then I am in love with the world, for wherever I look, I see only Eleanora. Danny Elliot.”
Danny Elliot! Good God!
Henrietta ran back to her chamber, grabbed her pelisse and bonnet, and flew down the stairs. She called out for Samuel and a footman, her body exhausted, but her will driving her on.
***
Henrietta meandered around the Serpentine like some vagrant female, following every bearded graying man who passed. How was it that Mr. Elliot popped up whenever you least expected him, but when you desperately needed him, he was nowhere to be found. She reached for her mother’s pendant. It wasn’t there. She frowned—she must have forgotten to put it on that morning. She sat on the pigeon-fouled bench waited.