Soft Limits

by Brianna Hale

  He draws me against him and I hear his heart thundering against my cheek. “I’m here, petite fille. I’ve got you.” Very gently, he pulls me up and takes one reddened nipple into his mouth, then the other, his tongue soft against my sore flesh. When he takes his mouth away he gently blows cold air on each one, soothing them. His voice is a tender whisper. “Sweet baby. You were such a good girl for me.”

  I don’t say anything but I smile a tired, contented smile for him as he keeps murmuring soft words to me. There’s a bottle of cream on the nightstand and, without removing me from the circle of his arms, he reaches behind me and smooths some over the welts on my behind. They cool instantly, and my eyes drift closed and I put my thumb in my mouth.

  “I’ve got something for you, baby, but you’ll need to let me go for a moment.”

  I release him, though unwillingly, and he leans down over the side of the bed. “Close your eyes,” he says, seeing me watching him, and he’s holding something behind his back. I do, and he kisses me, his tongue slipping into my mouth, deep and caressing. “Keep your mouth open, baby,” he whispers. Something rubbery and yielding touches my tongue. My lips close automatically around it, this soft, fat thing with a hard plastic shield against my lips, and I open my eyes in surprise. It’s a pacifier, and I suck it, moving it around in my mouth.

  “Do you like it, baby?”

  My eyes drift back to half-mast and I nod, snuggling against him. I like it very much. It’s perfect for this soft, small place, and it leaves both my hands free to touch him, to hold on to him, and I breathe in the broad warmth of his chest.

  “Good girl. Mon Dieu, you should see how fucking cute you look. I’ve been picturing this all week.”

  I revel in the heavy richness of his voice, his arms holding me tight against him. We lie like that for a long time, just drifting, coming down together. It’s a private, precious thing, what Frederic and I do, and I believe something for the first time in over a year: Despite what I once felt, there really isn’t anything wrong with me. The damage that Adam did is slowly unwinding from my body, and I feel free.

  I want to tell Frederic how grateful I am, and how much he means to me, even if he doesn’t feel the same way and never will. I can be brave. It’s better than keeping secrets. My eyes open and I emerge slowly from that small, safe place. Taking out the pacifier, I say, “Frederic, I...”

  I what? What do I want to say?

  He looks at me expectantly, his face full of tenderness. “I...wish I could say your name like Frenchwomen do.” All right. I’m brave but I’m not that brave. “I make it sound so flat and English. Fred-ric. All lips and tongue, at the front of the mouth. I want to say it in that beautiful, throaty way. Fred-er-ric.” There are so many things I feel for Frederic, but I couldn’t begin to put words to them. He’s here, and he cares about me. That is enough.

  He smiles. “You say it beautifully with your lips and tongue. But my name, what’s my name? Yours is beautiful. Evie. Ee-vee. It sounds like biting your lip while making love. A gasp. And then there’s Evangeline. So caressing. Like angels and lace. But also excellent to scold with. E-van-geline. Stop that and come here at once. Get over my knee.”

  Giggling, I stretch my arms over my head and encounter the debris of our lovemaking. Something soft runs over my wrist. It’s a piece of my dress, and I draw the scrap through my fingers. Regretfully, I say, “Well, it was nice to wear it for a few minutes at least. Did you like it?”

  Frederic levels a reproachful look at me. “Baby, I may be a sadist but I’m not a monster. Did you think I would just ruin your favorite new dress and not get you another?” He leans over the edge of the bed yet again and comes back with a box. It’s stamped with the same label that was on the dress. He takes my pacifier from me so I can open it, and my fingers find silk amongst the tissue paper. I draw out the garment. It’s exactly the same as the one he just cut to ribbons, and I grin.

  “I saw it hanging in the wardrobe this week and it gave me ideas. It’s a fucking great dress. Better than the gingham, even.”

  “You think so?” I take it out, holding the soft, flimsy fabric up to the light. But I find more fabric than I was expecting. “Daddy, there are two dresses in here, identical ones.”

  He levels a smoldering look at me. “Yes. That’s in case I have those ideas again.”

  I don’t doubt that he will. Exasperated, I shake my head. “You could have ruined a cheaper dress, you know. The gingham only cost me thirty pounds.”

  “Ruin a cheap dress? Where would be the fun in that?”

  I smile and rub the silk against my cheek. “My lover the sadist. Nothing is safe around you, is it?”

  As I’m still feeling very small and clingy—and very mussed from his fierce attentions—Frederic cancels our dinner reservation and we order in. After we eat, we sit on the couch, me in an oversized nightshirt with Christine in my arms and the new pacifier in my mouth. I really quite like it. It feels comforting and indulgent as I cuddle against him. We watch a film adaptation of Jane Eyre and Frederic makes notes for himself about his character.

  Jane has just unknowingly come upon her employer in the lane when Frederic taps my pacifier. “Can you speak, baby? Should Rochester carry a riding crop in that first scene, when he falls from his horse?”

  I take it out. “Oh, god yes.” That sounded too emphatic, as I’m remembering what he just did to me with a riding crop a few hours earlier, so I add, “You know, because it would be historically and situationally accurate, and because you might need to imply that you were on a horse if you can’t actually have a horse onstage.”

  He thinks for a moment. “Good point. I think the stage manager is planning something with lights and the sound of a horse, so the crop will emphasize the moment.” Then he slants a heated look at me. “And then I could bring that one home and use it on you, too.”

  I remember how well he played Frollo for me, with the flogger and his priest’s costume. The thought of being whipped by Frederic in his Rochester costume makes my breath come a little faster. I tilt my mouth up to his and let my voice become breathy. “Only if you promise to bring the rest of the outfit home, too. I’ve been such a wayward little governess, sir.”

  He gives me a smoldering look, puts his pen down and caresses my throat, his firm fingers sending sparks of pleasure shooting through me. My mouth is open, an invitation to his.

  “Miss Eyre, have you been having filthy thoughts about your master?”

  “Yes, sir.” We watch each other, just breathing each other in, every soft inhalation and exhalation a promise. He’s very convincing when he plays the part of the priest, the home invader, Rochester, though I’m aware that any role he puts on is a veneer over who he really is—my tender sadist.

  Shaking himself slightly, as if trying to remember what we were talking about, he says, “I’ve got an initial meeting with the costume designer on Friday. Will you come with me?”

  I have to claw my way back to sensibility, too. “Think it will help me with your book?”

  “No. I want your opinion about the costumes.”

  I twist the corner of my nightgown, thinking. It’s nice that he wants me there but I don’t see what use I’ll be. “I don’t know, Frederic. The costume designer might not like me hanging around, and what can I really offer?”

  He raises his eyebrows, incredulous. “You are joking? You’re writing a thesis on Victorian literature. The outfits for the dolls you sew are all historically accurate and have incredible detail. What’s more, you know the book back to front. It would be remiss of me not to ask you. Chérie, what’s wrong?”

  He asks this because I’m staring at him, bewildered. When he puts it like that it actually does sound like I might be able to help at the meeting. I never imagined obsessing about old novels and sewing little figurines would be useful. “Nothing’s wrong, I jus
t...” I’m silent a long time, stroking a finger over the topstitching on his shirt, trying to put into words the question I have in my mind. “All the little pieces of the things I love. Do you think maybe I’ll be able to do something with them one day? Add them all up, so they’ll become something more than the sum of their parts?”

  Frederic cups my cheek his eyes very warm and soft. “Evie, I know so. You’re going to do something wonderful.”

  “Like you, you mean?”

  He grimaces and looks away, and I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing. After a long moment he says, “No, not like me. Sometimes I feel wretched about my life. That if someone took a hammer to it and broke it down into parts, each little piece, once examined, would be discovered to be worthless.”

  I stare at him, unable to comprehend where this is coming from. I’ve never heard him sound so bleak before. Is he dissatisfied with his achievements or worried about the future, perhaps? Maybe he’s concerned that I’ll put whatever he says in the book if he shares it with me. Because that’s what I’m doing, isn’t it, breaking his life down into parts and examining them. “Frederic, are you worried about something? Nothing you say to me will go any further if you don’t want it to.” When he doesn’t answer I stroke his hair back from his temple and say, “You’ve worked so hard for everything that you have. I admire that about you.”

  “Do you? Isn’t that funny, because that’s what I admire about you.”

  He’s looking into my eyes as he says this and I feel something ring bright and clear through my body, like a chord struck on a piano. I realize I’ve been wrong about our relationship. What we have isn’t ice cream for breakfast. It’s not something soft and sweet but ultimately transient that will melt away into nothing.

  It’s real.

  I love you, Frederic. The words are heavy notes on my tongue, waiting to be spoken. But I can’t say them to him, so I dampen them like a hand placed over vibrating strings. He’s not mine to love—not out loud. What can I say to him instead? You make me feel so safe. You make me feel more myself than I ever have, and that it’s okay to be what I am. But he’s a musician. He’ll hear what’s resonating behind those words as clearly as if I had spoken my love for him out loud.

  I’m in love with Frederic and I’m going to get my heart broken. I even know precisely when. How many people get a countdown timer for heartbreak?

  I put my pacifier back in and put my head down on his chest, my love a silent, unexpressed thing, though no less deep and true than if I had shouted it from the topmost tower of Paris.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Frederic

  I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep lying to Evie.

  This has become the refrain of my nights and days. Evie’s become so much more than my lover and my submissive but I don’t want to trust the truth to someone who will shrug off its importance to me. How alone I would feel if I saw in Evie’s eyes what Marion saw. Would she, though? She understands the significance of working at something you love. She would know what a heartbreak this is for me.

  It’s not just that I have to tell her, I want to tell her. That’s what’s changed. And not only that—I want her. My want is written on my soul in words of fire. I want her, and I need to tell her the truth the moment I see her again.

  Because you can’t hide the truth from the one you love, and I love Evie.

  I realized how deep we’d got as I held her in my arms and felt the bliss radiating off her in waves. She’s not just a little girl, she’s my little girl. How could I want anyone but her? She’s young, in several ways, but she’s strong. She knows what she wants and she’s powerful, possibly in more ways than she realizes. I wonder if she knows how much power she has to wound me by a mere look. But I have to be as brave as her. She laid herself bare to me, exposed her throat, willed me to do my worst when she was most vulnerable, and she never flinched. I can do the same for her. I trust her.

  I carry the words on the tip of my tongue for a week, then another. I know I will tell her and that’s made it easier not to feel guilty, but it never feels like the right time. Will Evie be angry with me that I’ve concealed the truth from her for so long? I just hope she understands. When she’s in Oxford or I’m at rehearsals, all I can think about is my voice. I’m becoming obsessed with how my throat feels, how my voice sounds in my own ears. Is my speaking voice deeper than usual? Am I struggling to hit those higher notes? Are my costars not noticing anything is wrong? I should take some time out to rest my voice, but when? Opening night is fast approaching and we’re having more rehearsals than ever.

  As the days tick past I’m sure Evie has noticed that I’m not myself. That I’m tense and quiet, and I think she puts this down to preshow nerves and is particularly sweet to me.

  Then, before I know it, opening night is upon me. I’ve done my best to rest my voice for most of the preceding three days, citing advice from Giselle to the director, though the truth is I haven’t spoken to her in weeks. Several times I’ve wondered if I can detect something off with my voice. A breathiness when speaking, a difficulty hitting high notes. I tried some scales in the bathroom before setting off for the theater and they sounded all right to my ears, but did I have to struggle to hit the top register?

  No, it’s fine, you’re being paranoid. Pull yourself together, for fuck’s sake. You’re meant to be a professional.

  Evie’s coming up to London with her family for the show and they’ve booked a hotel nearby. I wish I could see her before I go on, to kiss her for luck, to see her smile, but she’s still on the train when I go through the stage door.

  I take my time applying my stage makeup, putting off the moment when I have to start warming up my voice. My heart is thumping painfully in my chest. What the hell is wrong with me? A runner calls through the dressing-room door that people are filing into the theater as I’m putting on Rochester’s riding habit and I can’t delay it any longer. I didn’t realize I was consciously delaying it until I feel my stomach lurch.

  It’s just nerves. Last-show nerves. You want to be good in this, like you told Evie, so get a grip, old man. You’re not going to go to pieces from stage fright now.

  I take a deep breath and start on the scales. I start low like I always do, rising up and down through the notes. As the scales climb higher and higher I break out into cold sweat. I sing the A above middle C—and nothing happens. Just wheezing. My throat feels thick and strange. I try again, and the same thing happens. I try to speak, saying the first word that comes into my head. Evie. I manage “E...” but no more.

  No, no, no. This can’t be happening, not yet. I had until the end of January, that was the deal. That was the deal. Taking a deep breath I try the scales again.

  But it’s too late. My voice is gone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Evie

  Mona looks at her watch again. “The show was supposed to start ten minutes ago. Taking their sweet time, aren’t they?”

  Dad shrugs it off. “Oh, a bit of set has fallen down or a light’s not working. Things always go wrong during the previews.”

  Mum, Dad, Lisbet, Therese, Mona and I are all sitting in the front row of the Royal Circle, waiting for Jane Eyre to start. I hadn’t noticed it was getting past starting time. I was having too much fun admiring the red velvet curtain, the plasterwork ceiling and the hanging chandelier, the orchestra filing into the pit and taking out the instruments. It always amuses me how the musicians sit and talk to each other, fiddling with their instruments so casually until the conductor strides in. Then they all snap to attention, putting flutes to their lips and bows to strings as if they had been taking their warm-up seriously all along.

  But now that Mona mentions it, it’s strange that the show is late. I can’t remember any show, even an opening night, being so tardy. Oh, well. It’s only ten minutes.

 
But another ten minutes pass and the show still hasn’t started and something uneasy stirs in my belly. I check my phone but there are no texts from Frederic. This doesn’t surprise me as he’s told me he turns his phone off in the hours before a show. People text him good-luck messages and they’re too distracting when he’s trying to warm up his voice and get into character.

  I stare at the red curtain, willing it to open, for the house lights to dim. It’s nothing. Just a bit of broken equipment like Dad says. But Frederic’s been odd, these last few days, hasn’t he? As if he’s nervous. He’s never mentioned that he suffers from stage fright but maybe he does and he’s been too proud to tell me. Even so, I can’t picture him backstage right now, breathing into a paper bag and holding the whole show up.

  An announcement comes over the loudspeakers and everyone’s ears prick up. “Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the delay. We are having technical difficulties and tonight’s show will begin shortly.”

  My family sit back in their seats, reassured, but the knot in my belly hasn’t loosened. I check Twitter, wondering if someone online has any more information but there are only Tweets from other people in the audience complaining about the holdup. I try to make small talk with the others but I’m feeling colder and colder by the minute. Something’s wrong, I know it is. Frederic’s right beneath this stage and I can’t go to him. Around me, people chatter, stretch their legs and take selfies while I sit in white-knuckle silence.

  Thirty minutes pass, and then another announcement comes over the loudspeaker. “We apologize, but tonight’s performance of Jane Eyre is canceled. Please visit the box office for replacement tickets or a full refund.”

  Groans go up throughout the theater and people turn to each other, but I unlock my phone and immediately call Frederic, my hands shaking. Straight to voicemail. I call him again. Voicemail. What the hell? Forgetting about my family I stand up, push down the row of people, muttering apologies as I step on toes and handbags, and find an usher. I explain to the woman that I’m a close friend of Frederic d’Estang and can I please be taken backstage? She looks at me, politeness warring with bewilderment, and explains that it won’t be possible. Only authorized personnel are allowed backstage.