Finagled

  George was just going to have to live with the agony of touching her again. She was sitting, feeling silly and useless by the fireplace, when he returned, slightly pink and smelling a bit like liquor.

  "Dinner, my dear, is about to be served," he said, with a flourish. "Would you be more comfortable if we took it down to the restaurant?" He asked this because he would be more comfortable, if they weren't alone, alone in this beautiful room furnished for the very act of consummating a marriage.

  His mind wandered then, why, really, so much of the furniture was suited for that very act.

  She looked at him coldly, "I would not. I don't think I can stand to look at anyone." she said, "Besides which, I am indecent."

  "Indecent? You look prim and proper to me." he squinted.

  "Please, button up my dress before the food is brought. I could not bear it if... well... never mind, just please, assist me... husband." She stood up and turned her back to him.

  "Oh yes, yes, I see, " he came close and fumbled with her buttons. "Not feeling... quite so nimble..." he mumbled, his breath deliciously hot on her neck.

  Without looking into his eyes, she found the strength to say cruelly, "I am also not wearing any stockings, so I could not possibly dine downstairs."

  "No stockings?" he turned pink.

  "No, none." she kept her back to him, but felt a strange warmth at this wanton admission.

  "Oh." He left a hand heavy on her shoulder. "Oh." he repeated dumbly.

  His hand squeezed her shoulder a little. He was using her for balance, and then she felt the weight lift. "Please, have a seat," he said.

  She turned around, still feeling hot in her ears, and sat across from him at the small, intimate dining table. She fumbled for something to say. Conversation to make.

  A sharp knock on the chamber door. With relief George said, "enter!" loudly, and a hotel employee wheeled their dinner in, silver platters, rich dishes, incredible smells and suddenly Ramona remembered that she had not eaten since breakfast, and then she had been too nervous to eat much. She felt positively weak. Tired from sobbing, traveling in the carriage, struggling with her gown and emotions. She was just exhausted and terribly hungry. Frayed and embarrassed. Her hands shook as she picked up her fork.

  The man who had brought their dinner made a slight bow and left, leaving a large table with wheels covered in several courses, from a delicate sorbet to a rich chocolate cake, and everything in between.

  George served her, as she sat and contemplated how romantic this could have been, being served in a hotel room by her new husband, his strong tanned fingers scooping out a fruity delight with a silver spoon onto her delicate china plate bearing the emblem of the hotel. He was careful and methodical. Giving her perfect little portions of everything.

  "If you want more of anything, let me know." he said, taking his seat. He had put bread and a little chicken on his own plate, sat back drowsily and ate with his fingers. She could see that he was exhausted, and a little drunk. She tried not to eat too ravenously, though the first bite awoke an even more terrible hunger within her. It tasted like the best meal of her life should taste, smooth where it should be, salty where appropriate, sweet, moist, perfect. She closed her eyes and tried not to moan over her food. Her breathing slow and steady. She tried to ignore everything else and focus on abating her hunger.

  George watched her. He had never seen a woman enjoy a meal like Ramona was. So often in company a lady picked at her meal delicately, moving it around on her plate more than actually ingesting. Ramona slowly and methodically cleaned her plate, each bite that entered her mouth was considered and loved before another came to take its place. She ate with her eyes closed, opening them only slightly to seek out the next spoonful. She did not look up at George. As he watched her it was as if she were completely alone, indulging as she would without witnesses.

  The bread hit George's stomach. He felt himself sobering up a little bit as it soaked up the alcohol he had imbibed on a completely empty stomach. He found his own hunger. He served the dessert course.

  Ramona was aware of him again. He took her plate, a different calmness about him, he sliced the decadent cake and placed it before her. She was starting to feel full from the slowly eaten meal, but the cake looked divine. She took small bites. It was the sort of thing her mother had never really let her eat. Angel food cake and fruit were for special occasions, chocolate cake goes right to your hips! She felt a new and perverse freedom. It was spongy and delicious as she slowly felt the fork with her teeth and pulled it out of her mouth. Something wonderful and new that she was now allowed to have.

  She doubted that the Duke of Blusterfuss would put many restrictions on her, he had implied that he would do everything to make her happy, except allow her to fulfill her conjugal duties. She was to have a lovely room, in a huge house that she would be mistress of, busyness with the servants, planning the menu everyday, in fact she would probably only see her new husband at meals, anyway. She did not imagine that he was planning to spend much time with this unsuitable wife he had been saddled with. He did not ask anything but that she treat her new position with respect and try to be happy with it.

  The only thing he had ever asked her was that she be happy.

  The very fact that that was his chief concern for her should have been enough. She could not pinpoint why it was not. She supposed, sitting across from him as she did now, that she wanted something back that had been lost. They used to talk. Parties, soirees, concerts, the opera, they conversed, shared interests, life experiences and humor. She had not really spoken to him about anything since that horrible night in the arbor.

  What had they been talking about when that damnable pin had slipped through the fabric of her cursed slipper and jabbed her in the flesh of her heel?

  Swallowing the bite of cake she tried to remember.

  So much of what they talked about had seemed like nothing at all, and yet there were not many silences that were not filled up with some companionable thought. But then, she had felt comfortable in silence with him, as well, not like now where it seemed to stretch across the table between them, a yawning chasm of discomfiture. The silence had come as easy as the words, and now it was all blocked, awkward and wincing.

  The stars. George had been talking about the stars. She had been walking close beside him and looked up between the trees that grew all around the garden. She had not seen it at the time, but it had been the most romantic moment of her life, then it had just then felt natural, comfortable, almost perfect.

  She looked up from her plate, at George, into his eyes, which were fixed upon her in a steady gaze. He looked startled by the sudden eye contact. She looked at him closely without speaking, trying to find her way across the yawning chasm of loneliness and back into a comfortable, companionable silence. She relaxed a little. She felt warm, sleepy, full of food and a glass of wine which she had hardly noticed being filled. She smiled at him, and meant it.

  "... Ramona," he said. She could not remember him saying her name before. His aristocratic accent caressed it in an unexpected way.

  "Let's be friends," she said, her drowsy voice soft, "we used to be friends..."

  "We are friends. I..." he stopped. Still leaned back in his chair, he sat upright, held his hands in his lap, "I want very much to be friends with you, Ramona. I am committed to it."

  "Oh good," she leaned back in her chair, "good..."

  "It's still early, but we have a long day ahead of us..." George stood up.

  "Yes. Oh bother." Ramona grimaced. She turned her back on George and waggled her hands in the direction of her excessive buttons.

  "Yes. Of course," George chuckled. "Someday, when you have not had to worry about your buttons in years, you will laugh about this, I hope."

  Ramona laughed then, not jovial, but slightly bitter and acrid, "I am sure I will laugh about a lot of things, someday." she said, shortly.

  The buttons undone, George held her arms for a moment, looked straigh
t down at her small frame, the top of her little blonde head. It would be much easier to give in. So much easier, but the easy route was so rarely the right one. George thought of his young nephew and charge, Andrew, and he let go of Ramona's arms.

  "Where are your night clothes?" he asked. "In the dressing room?"

  "I... think so," Ramona remembered the mess she had left there, it seemed so distant, she started for the door, but George was ahead of her. She stopped. He wouldn’t say anything, but her face burned at the thought of him seeing her crumpled underthings strewn and wrinkled all around the room. She wrung her hands a little bit, watching him stand in the doorway, his hesitation clear.

  George moved past the piles of crumpled silk and ribbons, for Ramona's carpet bag, where her night clothes and other toiletries were stored. He carried it out to her and sat it on the bed.

  "I will sleep in the dressing room, on the couch." he said, "Sweet dreams,"

  When the dressing room door closed in front of her, she said quietly, "Sweet dreams..." addressed to George, or a commentary on the ridiculousness of such a statement, she herself did not know. She slipped off her dress, laid it out flat the sofa, so she could put it on again in the early hours. Her loose knots came undone easily and she folded the corset and put it and her petticoats with the traveling dress.

  In her nightgown fastened up to the throat, the buttons blessedly in the front, she climbed up into the large bed, it was soft and well made, the sheets were a little cool, and there was no one to ask for a warming pan. She curled up fetally, shivering, and tried to will herself to sleep. She felt nervous. What if George awoke before her? Would he wake her? She blushed and felt a little warmer. The exhaustion of the day finally took over.

  George touched the beautiful satin chemise with the toe of his shoe, it shifted slightly. He stood over it for some time, with the torn and cut ribbons to the left, silk stockings like little snakes crawling towards him, to the right. He sat on the couch, and looked at them. It was hard for him not to imagine a different scenario that would have left these articles strewn about so wantonly.

  Even the scissors and cut ribbons offered a tantalizing display in his mind's eye, turning his young bride around as he fumbled with her impossible knots and finally divesting her of the device with sharp sterling blades in a delicious frustration.

  This reminded him that under the expansive, beautiful gown this morning, when she stood beside him, she had been wearing these items as well, specifically chosen and crafted to please her husband. It was their entire purpose, and they would have pleased him, but not as much as that soft and satiny skin that he just barely felt while unbuttoning Ramona's dress.

  He remembered the sweet and unexpected parting of her lips in the arbor. Looking over this room, soft golden candlelight across pools of silk and satin and lace, he felt the keen unfairness of such a bridal trousseau gone to waste, he thought of the way a young bride must feel when she is dressed in each article of clothing, meant later to be undressed just as methodically and become a new woman in the arms of an affectionate and well-meaning groom. What a disappointment he must be to Ramona. But then, perhaps she was too frightened of marital congress to feel the lack. Perhaps all she really wanted from him was friendship, and his own lusts were applying more wanton thoughts upon the poor, innocent girl.

  He grunted gruffly, loosened his cravat and lay back on the couch. He did not expect to get much sleep, but the alcohol was still affecting him and he slipped into unconsciousness easily.

  Chapter Six

  Ramona was clearly visible upon the bed. It was still dark out, and would continue dark until they were well on their way. Her soft, sleeping expression was darling, her brow, previously furrowed, was smooth and white. He went over to the bedside table and sat his candelabra there, wondering how to wake her. His fingertips soft on her cheek, his lips softer on her own, the shifting of blankets and sheets as he held her against him, even as he thought of it and tried to stop himself it was happening. She opened her drowsy little eyes as his fingers searched for ribbons and buttons. She did not look shocked, or upset, just expectant. He pushed her nightgown up to her waist. Everything was so dark he felt for her with his fingers without seeing, sharp little hip bones, smooth flat stomach, the hair between her thighs, and what was this? a book, two shoes, a hand mirror. He pulled out a variety of household items in confusion and looked down through the inky darkness. She was gone. No longer a soft supple form below him, a pile of junk. He put his hands out further, searching all of the large bed, and it was so large, so much larger than he had remembered it, inviting and, covered in lush fabrics the night before, just hours before, and it had grown so very large. Handfuls of sheet, downy pillows, ribbons, tassels, a whisk, a kitten, that mewed pitifully as he held it. "Ramona?" he said aloud, trying to see the color of the kittens eyes, "is that you?" he asked. It mewed. He did not know if it was mewing in the affirmative or negative. Had his new wife become a kitten? He furrowed his brow. What would her mother say?

  He shifted violently and fell off of the couch with a crash. A dream, of course. He laughed at himself for a moment. Of course it was just a dream. He stumbled around the room for a candlestick and matches. Once lit, he looked in his pockets for his watch. Crawling around on the floor near the couch he found it. It was 2 in the morning. Holding the pocket watch in his hands he tried to find sleep again but it resisted. He left the candle lit, watched the color of the flame and tried to hear some noise from the adjoining chamber. He felt a little trapped in this room, no windows, just the little candle and one door. He wanted to go for a walk in the moonlight. He tried for a bit longer to recapture sleep and then stood up.

  The hotel was finely kept, the door opened without a creak, and he crept across the carpet without a light, hoping not to disturb Ramona, he stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the moonlight through the large pane-glass window. He could not see Ramona in the pile of bedclothes, just a distorted lump of blankets, their dinner things still strewn about the table, her clothes laid out flat on the sofa, her carpet bag still open on the floor at the foot of the bed. He sought out a clear pathway to the hallway door. Turning and removing the key from the inside lock, he opened the latch carefully and left the room, locking the door behind him. He would try to be quick. Just a turn around the block and then back in the dressing room before Ramona awoke.

  The night was cool. Autumn was just beginning, and the air had the crisp coldness that matched the crunch of leaves underfoot. There were few people about, and all of them had the look of being on their way to somewhere, not out to enjoy the crisp air, but holding their thin jackets against themselves in the hopes of keeping it at bay. George stood for a moment with his hands in his pockets. A hansom cab passed. He saw a girl in a brightly colored dress across the street, her body language was speaking to him. He turned away, hoping to indicate disinterest, when he felt the sharp pain in his lower back, shocking and sudden, he fell forward and into an inky unconsciousness.

  Ramona awoke in the dark. She did not know the time, but it seemed more like morning than night. Had she overslept? She slipped out of bed and put her dress and underthings on hastily. Her hands were cold and it was difficult to strike a match. She wasted two before she got the wick lit on her candlestick. She peered at the small gilt clock on the mantle. 3:3o am. It was still an hour or so before they expected to set off, but surely George was awake by now. She stuffed her toiletries into her travel bag. She could not get all of her buttons done up, but with her loosened corset she managed the ones nearest the top, so that the dress gaped just across her shoulder blades, only 6 buttons or so shy of done up.

  She knocked on the dressing room door. She did not, of course, receive a reply. She cracked the door quietly. The couch was within her line of sight, empty. She opened the door the rest of the way. He was up already. Probably preparing their servants and carriage for travel.

  Ramona lit several more candles around the two rooms and picked up her crump
led wedding clothes. The gown was rent across the arms, of course, but she stuffed it into her larger trunk, not worried about damaging it as she might have been under different circumstances. The corset, chemise and stockings joined the dress and she looked over the room. George's cravat was crumpled on the couch. She went over to it for a moment, held the soft, satiny material between her fingers. She resisted bringing it up to her face. She put it on the dressing table. All of her own things in order, she went to wait for George to return, by the dying fire. She tried to fan it a little, like she had seen the servants do, but failed rather miserably. She pulled out a wrap from her carpet bag and curled her feet up underneath her. She stared at the dying embers.

  It did not take long for her to get uncomfortable and worried. She pulled her wrap close around her shoulders to hide the buttons gaping open and went to the door. She tried the handle and found it locked. The key was not in the lock. George took it with him, of course, but she felt panic rising in her throat. She did not want to make a scene by pounding on the door. George was on his way to wake her, most probably. She sat back down by the fireplace, now it seemed to be completely dead. She held her wrap closer and waited. She watched the clock. If it struck four-thirty and he had not returned... but where would he have gone? It would not strike four-thirty. She remembered a bell by the door, to call for service. She would ring that. If he did not come back, she would ring the bell. She tried to breathe slowly and not worry. Had he abandoned her here? Did he realize his mistake and leave her?