The Blue Hour

by Donahue, Beatrice

  “Simply gorgeous, isn’t it?”

  I nod; it really is. Tendrils of delight take hold as I realise she’s taking me to her home. As we thunder up the lane towards the pure lines of the brilliant building, small flutters that I first noticed in my stomach last night, like the rain of petals, grow heavier and spread an upwards trail into my chest.

  The steps and massive front door are imposing up close. I briefly imagine climbing them alone; how I would feel, ringing the bell to this property. I’m immeasurably glad Eve is here with me. She slings me a smile over her shoulder as the key moves in the lock.

  “Here we are. My new baby. I always dreamed of a place in England, by the sea.” Her glance grows almost coy. "You're my first visitor."

  Before I can answer, she turns again, hands delicate against the wood. Then the door is flung wide, her heels echoing across the expanse of black and white tile of the entrance hall.

  “Welcome to my humble home, Rosina King.”

  Disoriented, I drift in behind her. Directly in front of us a staircase sweeps gracefully towards a mezzanine floor. My first impression of the house is one of curious juxtaposition—a kind of casual grandeur that awes and entices. Just like its owner. I hover at the threshold and stare.

  When it becomes apparent Eve has no such intention, I close the front door and follow her towards a doorway set to the far right of the staircase.

  “Come into the snug,” she calls. I obey, then stop short inside the new room as she removes her hat with a flourish and tosses it onto an armchair. Her fingers rake the angled black crop, a blissful expression on her face. Her eyes are closed. When they snap open unexpectedly and find me staring, she smiles.

  “Please, make yourself at home. Here, I’ll take your coat.”

  This room is smaller, cosier, yet exudes as much stylish opulence as the lobby. I hand over the garment without even wincing at how incongruous it seems here, my attention stolen by the paintings that litter each wall. They’re nothing I might have expected—if I’d expected anything—from the house’s modern exterior, nor its entrance hall. All hint at the romanticism of an earlier age, another time and place.

  They remind me of the style of my Briar Rose print. The soft bloom and fall of petals begins again inside.

  One by one, the pictures draw me to them. My fingers yearn to touch their textured surfaces, bending and distorting the light. I soon find, as I walk between the canvasses in increasing fascination, that the subject of each is the same. A woman, mouth heart-shaped, hair red and fluid. Her eyes blaze from each painting, although she is depicted differently in every piece—mermaid, goddess, peasant. In many she is nude, or nearly so. My heart thuds so loudly I feel my chest vibrate. Something else burns within each image, almost as fiercely as the woman’s gaze.

  Whoever painted these desired her. Quite aside from the nudity, a carnal quality lurks among the brush strokes that I can hardly articulate to myself. As heat advances across my cheeks, I curl an arm around my middle.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t paint you like that.” Her voice is low and close behind me. I start, spinning around, still clutching myself at the waist. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Her metallic gaze is attentive.

  “You... painted these?”

  “Guilty as charged, your honour.” Her lips twitch upwards, but her eyes flicker as she takes in my expression. “You don’t like them?”

  “Oh! Oh, no, it’s not that. Not at all, it’s just... I’ve never seen anything like them.”

  It’s the truth. Although the style is similar to my childhood print, that one did not feature this woman, nor her nakedness. I feel the blush begin to spread: down over my breastbone, creeping up my neck. She raises an immaculate brow.

  “Champagne.” She sounds decisive, then her inflexion alters. “Would you like to sit?”

  She waits for me to nod before her slim hand circles my wrist, guiding me to a chair by the fireplace.

  * * *

  I’ve never been drunk in the day, I ponder, watching the lazy rise of bubbles in my second glass. I like it. Around the time I drained the first, my fingers relaxed their grip on the chair enough for me to sit back more comfortably. I started to look around the room while she asked me about our village and the county, listening attentively to my answers, then talked about having commissioned the house, and how excited she is to be here. She asks vanishingly little about my home life. I am taken by the impression she wants to put me at ease, and even more strongly that she has guessed such talk would unsettle me. I breathe easier, grateful.

  We sit in opposing armchairs beside a blazing fire, surrounded not only by the paintings, but countless artefacts: masks, vases, rugs, and I am suddenly sure Eve collected each in person from their distant origins. A rusted axe on the mantel catches my eye; it looks old, and I can’t help a smile at the impertinent thought of her brandishing it like some ancient knight. Another sip of champagne. My eyes meet with hers over the rim of my glass. I feel warmer as the notion hits me: I am sitting here with this well-travelled, emancipated, vibrant woman. She is interested in me.

  I am interested in me when I’m with her. I can almost imagine a life apart from the one I try so hard to avoid living. With her, the very last thing I want to do is sleep.

  “You know.” She lights another cigarette and tucks her feet up under herself in her armchair. “In the champagne cellars in France, they take the tops off the bottles with a sword.”

  I blink and study the crystal goblet. “Doesn’t that leave shards in the wine?”

  “Not if you do it right.” A perfect smoke ring ghosts from her languid smile. “You said you’d never been to France?”

  She remembered. I blink again and suppress a laugh, both at the prospect of me going abroad and the flattering thought she would think it possible.

  “No. Charles would never go. He doesn’t trust the French. Or anyone, really,” I add. “You know, since the war.”

  Least of all me. I blame the war, but Charles has always had a silvered menace to him. Direct accusations are rare, but his message is still clear: I am constantly being judged, and constantly found to be lacking. At first I had thought if I could only act better, be better; more like him, concerned with outside appearances and social standing... now I know better. Another lesson learned. I swallow. Talk of Charles has made my stomach twist.

  “Could you not go without him?”

  This time I do laugh. The sound arrives on my lips in a kind of manic gurgle, made so by the sheer audacity of the idea. Go to another country, without Charles. He would never allow such a thing. I raise my eyes again; hers are waiting. They see the truth and draw it from me.

  “He questions me if I spend too long at the village post office.” I regret my frankness immediately. Disloyalty and inconstancy from good, dependable Rose? I clearly haven’t learned my lesson.

  “I see,” she says softly, and I am certain she does. I flush, glancing away at the fire.

  “Say, would you like to see my other paintings? My favourites are hung in my bedroom.”

  The change of subject brings a surge of relief. I smile back more confidently and find the champagne’s magic has worked its way into my head.

  “I’d absolutely love that.”

  Answering with the widest grin she’s shown me yet, she picks up the bottle and beckons me to follow.

  Eve Soames’s bedroom is like some bohemian princess’s bower. The bed is vast and white. The air is wreathed in floral notes I recognise from her perfume, and a large picture window looks out directly on the sea. Never in my wildest imaginings would I have thought anyone would actually have a room like this—well, maybe as a young girl. Before...

  Rooted, my stockinged feet sink into the deep pile of a broad cream rug. I clutch the stem of the glass and look around.

  “You sleep here?” It’s all I can think to say.

  She chuckles, probably at the patent wonder in my tone, and refills my drink.

&nb
sp; “And other things.”

  I jerk my head up to find her eyes on my face. For a moment, her features are immobile before they soften into a demure smile. She tilts her head.

  “Well, if you were to listen to the gossip I overheard in the village shop yesterday, you might think I divide my time between here and a coffin in the crypt.”

  My laugh is painfully faint.

  “It’s beautiful,” I venture after a moment. “Like a room from a dream, or a story. This whole house is like something from a storybook.” I trail off, looking past her shoulder. “You have a gramophone in your bedroom?”

  She bounds towards it. I eye her champagne and fear for the exquisite rug.

  “Isn’t it marvellous? I have three, you know. One here, one in the kitchen and one in my studio upstairs. Listen.” She lowers the stylus with a delicacy at odds with her enthusiasm, and winds the handle. “Electrically recorded. All the rage in New York—jazz.” Her voice melds with the faintly scratchy music in the air and a delighted laugh bubbles up from my chest. “Isn’t that just the cat’s meow?” She closes her eyes, a picture of rapture.

  I nod, still laughing, and hum under my breath, woven into the champagne’s golden spell. The nightstand bears several photographs, grouped together—a grainy picture of Eve and a young man, both on camels; one of the Eiffel Tower, and what looks like a family portrait. On the wall above the bed, the redhead’s eyes smoulder from three more paintings. My smile falters as a jolt of realisation courses through me.

  This girl... She knew her. Knew her skin, angles, curves. Painted her nude. I feel a momentary flash of something—jealousy, perhaps. Not because this beautiful girl has been painted by Eve, and many times over, but rather that she was known, seen by Eve.

  Still, whoever she is, or was, she is not here now.

  I am.

  I watch her uncoil from the floor by the gramophone and focus on my heart, every beat now ending in a curious, undefined ache. The petals shift and stir inside. I don’t know quite what I want to happen, but that doesn’t stop me wanting.

  Eve smiles, tracing the edge of her champagne flute with a polished fingertip.

  “‘An Englishman’s home is his castle.’ Did I say that right?” She gives a soft laugh. “I’m no Englishman, but it seems I’ve lured a King to my castle.” Her head tips in scrutiny. “Actually, I think rather a queen. Or princess.” She motions to the mirrored dressing table under the window. “Will you sit?”

  My pent muscles thrill with relief to be given a task. I cross to the dresser, pull out the matching oak stool and take a seat on its white cushion. I’m apprehensive, but despite a night with no sleep, I’ve rarely felt so awake.

  Reflections of the Tiffany lamp on her bedside table repeat to infinity in the huge triple mirror. It shows her slow drift across the room until she stands behind me, yet I still start when her hands touch the back of my head.

  A brief pause. “May I?”

  I nod, barely breathing. Her fingertips brush my scalp, the nape of my neck, behind my ears, before I comprehend that they are seeking out the pins there. She takes each one, laying them down on the oak before gently lifting my hair and arranging it over my shoulders. She teases the tresses so delicately; the intimacy makes my shallow breath catch. With a small, approving hum in her throat, she leans over me and my pulse flares.

  “Here,” she murmurs, picking up a brush from the dresser and begins to pull it through my unpinned hair with slow, deliberate strokes.

  “It’s getting far too long. Desperately needs a cut. Not at all fashionable, like yours.”

  I’m babbling, staring at the bottle of scent on the dresser and resolving to buy some. Charles doesn’t like me to wear perfume, but I would keep the irises and roses safe, somewhere he’d never find them. I strive to consign its name—L’Heure Bleue—to memory, while the feel of her hands working rhythmically through my hair makes the task impossible.

  “Don’t you dare cut it, it’s glorious.” She’s full of reproach, but her voice slides again towards dreaminess. “Pre-Raphaelite... like a Collier.”

  The brush stills. I close my eyes against the rapid swish of blood beneath my skin. When I look through my lashes, she is seated next to me on the oblong stool. Although her face is angled towards my own, she watches me in the mirror. Her breath is warm on my cheek. She’s so close.

  With considerable effort, I keep my eyes on hers in the looking-glass. The feel of scrutiny without judgement is alien and intoxicating. My chest constricts; the ache intensifies.

  “Definitely a Collier. Godiva.” Her voice is a whisper. The stannic stare holds mine. “Or maybe...”

  Her hands lift my hair, making my scalp tingle and my insides clench. She arranges it to fall forward, over my breasts. I can’t do anything but watch her as she surveys me. I flinch slightly as she takes my spectacles, but the glass is close enough for me to see us perfectly well.

  “Lilith.” She sounds satisfied, and something more. “Tell me, have you seen... oh, but of course you haven’t. The paintings you put me in mind of are considered part of the “Indecent Images” collection by these damned philistines. I’ll show you some time.”

  Her thigh is burning against my own. I want her to show me so much I can’t speak, I can’t do anything but helplessly stare. The record has ended. I don’t know when. For what seems an age, we look at each other in the glass while the impression I had the night before: truly being seen, threatens to engulf me. Beyond the window, the faint lap of the waves continues beneath the sky, turned navy blue.

  “Look at yourself, Rosina,” Eve breathes, and her voice makes me yearn to see what she does. The tumble of gold over my shoulders is longer than I remember; my eyes are still unusually bright. I hardly recognise the woman who stares back from the mirror.

  A queen, I think. Or princess.

  I turn my head to face her. I’m warmed, aroused, by her regard, and I finally exhale amid the fall of petals.

  “I think,” she says quietly, “I had better get you home.”

  I study the dark flecks of charcoal in her irises and nod uncertainly.

  In the same way I don’t know exactly what I wanted or expected, I can’t quite identify the curious mix of exhilaration and disappointment which takes hold as Eve’s Silver Ghost speeds back along the winding twilit lanes to the village. It’s already nearly dark, but it isn’t until the car slows and I see the light on in the bedroom of the house that I feel a light brush of fear. By the time I step down from the motorcar, anxiety is fizzing in my stomach.

  Eve’s voice calls me back, saying formally, “Thank you so much for visiting with me, Mrs. King. I hope to have the pleasure again, very soon.”

  I briefly close my eyes at the sound of something unspoken beneath the very proper words. I glance around, seeking any evidence of prying eyes that might explain her tone. Finding none, I walk around to her side of the car and answer her in kind.

  “I’d like that very much, Miss Soames.”

  Her smile gleams in the gathering dark. She leans forward—roses, iris, champagne—and my heart turns over. Her lips land firmly on mine for the briefest of moments as the engine roars into life. Then I am alone in the road with my crashing pulse, standing still while searing heat travels from my mouth to my chest and radiates through my veins.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I stay out in the quiet of the street until the car’s thunder fades into the dusk. Even after my heart finally steadies, my lips feel scorched. I touch my fingers to them, disbelieving, when the lamp going out in the front bedroom of the house behind makes me turn in fear and hasten up the path.

  Scant remnants of evening light show through the undrawn hall window when I let myself inside. In the gloom, there is no sound but the hallway clock, ticking, ticking, ticking. I dimly make out the time: nearing half past nine.

  Perhaps it will be all right. I silently remove my shoes and place my foot on the first stair.

  Perhaps he has drunk too muc
h brandy with his friends. The second board is loose. I miss it to avoid the creak.

  Perhaps if I listen, I’ll hear his snoring. Perhaps...

  “Why is your hair down?” His voice fills the darkness above.

  My heart seems to empty, and I stop on the fourth stair. I have totally forgotten my hair; now my hands fly up, horrified, as if I might somehow will it back into its customary twist.

  Before I can answer, another question descends.

  “Who drove you here?”

  “Ev... Miss Soames did.”

  “I will not tolerate being made a fool of, Rosina.”

  Always appearances. Such a fine, upstanding member of the community. His voice is like a membrane, stretched taut over the pressing anger I hear behind it. It makes my bones cold. Cold bones, fevered lips.

  “I would never—”

  “She’s a slut.” The interruption is crisp, and makes me wince. “I know one when I see one. I didn’t go through the Great War to let Yank sluts like her come over here and bring about the demoralisation of the country I fought for, least of all aided and abetted by my wife.”

  I stay still, vainly hoping he’ll tire of the lecture. I don’t want to climb the remaining stairs. I want to run. Turn and run out of this house, and never return. But I can’t do that, and the sudden urge for the next best alternative is nearly overwhelming: I want to be asleep.

  “Come here, Rosina.”

  My feet are heavy, bound by invisible thorn. I climb slowly, then turn warily onto the landing. A dark shape looms a few feet ahead.

  “You’ve been drinking,” he accuses as I draw near. “She’s a bad influence.”

  I advance, desperately hopeful I can skirt around him and go directly to my bedroom, but his hand shoots out and I jump in spite of myself. Fear flashes through me, real fear. He hasn’t tried to—I don’t even know what to call it, because it was never making love with him—copulate, perhaps? Anyway, he hasn’t tried to do that with me since Dr Cross informed him of my infertility. I know enough of his appetites to be certain he is taking his satisfaction elsewhere, and I am grateful. But now, with his hand circling my arm so hard I believe it will bruise, I know a moment of dread that he might seek it from me. I close my eyes in the dark and try not to show I am afraid, but I’m genuinely terrified that if he comes any closer to my face, he’ll somehow sense her kiss.