Isabelle snatched her hand away. “Did I hurt you?”
He shook his head. “Not exactly.” She frowned, and he quickly added, “My pleasure at your touch is constrained by my fear of your disgust.”
Whenever he was especially insecure, Jonathan’s manner of speaking grew stilted, almost comically so. Remembering this, Isabelle smiled, and considered the emotion hidden beneath his words. Knowing what he now knew, it seemed impossible that Jonathan could feel pleasure at her touch.
She remembered how he touched her the night before, the nearly maddening anticipation when he slipped the robe off her. Imitating Jonathan’s slow caress, Isabelle slid her hands beneath his shirt, over his shoulders, then down his arms, peeling back his sleeves. When she reached his wrists, he finished the job, tugging the cuffs over his hands. The shirt fell to the floor.
“I am sorry you have to see this,” he said, and without further warning, turned his back to her.
Isabelle instinctively squeezed her eyes shut, then regretted her cowardice. She forced herself to look and immediately shoved her hand against her mouth to keep from crying out.
The damage was far worse than she could ever have imagined. A mass of uneven lumps covered the length of Jonathan’s back, concealing the spine and ribs beneath despite his thinness. His scars were more colorful than she expected, by turns a waxen yellow, pink shading to red, purple, even black. Tentatively, she touched one of the reddish streaks with her finger, tracing its path along his shoulder blade.
“You may touch my scars, if you can bear it,” Jonathan said, unaware that she had already done so.
Realizing he had no sensation of her touch, Isabelle slipped her arm around his waist, pressing against the surprisingly firm muscles just beneath his rib cage. She leaned against his back to let him feel her weight, knowing he could feel little else. Then, resting her free hand against his mutilated flesh, she closed her eyes and began to explore his scars with her fingertips.
Like those of someone blind and deaf from birth, all her senses focused into a single, finely honed sense of touch, while beneath her fingertips, the dead scar tissue on Jonathan’s back felt nothing at all. She tried to imagine the excruciating pain that must have accompanied the death of his body’s feeling. And worse, the death of his finer emotions, the same ones that had died in her so long ago: self worth, trust, hope—love.
The injustice of it all, the lost possibilities, the tragedy overwhelmed her. She wrapped both arms around Jonathan and began to sob, desperately hugging him to her while she mourned their mutual loss, the years of fear and shame and unbearable loneliness.
He twisted in her arms, somehow managing to bring them face to face despite her fierce hold, and drew her into an equally fierce embrace that threatened to squeeze the breath from her lungs. Isabelle laid her cheek against his bare chest and clung to him as if her life depended on it. Her tears wet his skin. His smooth, perfect skin. Unblemished, the way it was meant to be.
They sank to their knees while Jonathan murmured comforting sounds to her in French, his own voice choked with emotion. They stayed this way, holding on to one another, until she had no more tears left to cry.
As soon as she found her voice, Isabelle began to apologize. “I’m sorry, Jonathan, sorry I can’t be the woman you deserve.”
He leaned back to look at her, drawing in a slow, hitching breath before he could speak. “What do you mean?”
His words held a sharp edge that sounded uncomfortably like anger. Isabelle was so accustomed to his mask, she found herself studying the blank surface as if she could discover there a clue to his mood.
“What do you mean?” he asked again, and she was forced to explain.
“I’m sorry I can’t be pure for you. I’m sorry—”
He cut her off with a swift blasphemy. “For God’s sake, Isabelle.”
They were both stunned into momentary silence by his vehemence, though when he spoke again, he sounded no less angry. “If I had wanted a nun, I would have gone to a damned convent.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t find the words. She looked into Jonathan’s eyes, hoping he could read in her own everything she was at a loss to say.
“I want you,” he whispered. “I want to be with you. But I will never touch you unless you wish it. I will never ask of you more than you are able to give. “
“You are the only man I have ever wanted to touch me.”
Isabelle rested her hand against his cheek, hating the heavy linen that kept him from feeling her fingers against his skin. She brought both hands to his face and slowly scrolled the mask over his chin.
Jonathan jerked away reflexively.
“Let me touch you,” Isabelle pleaded.
Fear replaced the tenderness in his eyes, welling up in them like a slowly building scream. His breathing grew labored, his chest heaving as though he had just run a great distance in fear for his life. Isabelle recognized the signs. She knew the force of shame, the absolute, paralyzing terror of exposure, and tried to reassure Jonathan. “I won’t ask more of you than you’re able to give.”
She resumed lifting his mask, taking it slowly, a little at a time, giving him the opportunity to call a halt should he find his unveiling too painful to bear. She had lifted the mask past his mouth, before he circled his fingers around her wrist. She stopped, grateful for even this small concession on his part.
Isabelle studied his chin, his lower jaw, his lips. Nothing there surprised her, especially now that she had seen the scars on his back. She had touched his face before, beneath the mask. Afterward, she had spent hours lying awake at night, recreating the picture in her mind’s eye from the memory in her fingertips.
Isabelle lifted a forefinger to trace the outline of his lips on one side, the perfect side, the one capable of feeling. She leaned in, amazed at her own boldness, and rested her mouth against his.
Jonathan lifted his hand to cradle her head, holding her there. When she wrapped her arms around his neck, he parted his lips. She thought he meant to speak. But for his hand against her head, she might have leaned away.
And then.
Isabelle gasped, a quick, startled intake of breath that remained trapped in her throat when his tongue met hers. Kisses were meant for lips, but this, this was something else altogether, confusing and frighteningly intimate. This was . . .
Their mouths melted together, and she lost herself in the sensation, no longer confused, no longer trying to understand, no longer thinking at all. It was like falling, falling down a dark, deep well, endlessly falling. His hand curved around her throat, his thumb stroking her neck, finding the pulse there. Together they were one pulse, one heartbeat.
And then she was sinking down with him, they were lying on the floor, lost in their kiss, his legs tangled in her skirt. Something inside her broke free, a need she had kept locked away so tightly she hadn’t known it existed, and she wanted him. She wanted him.
Eventually, reluctantly, they parted. While they lay on the floor, gasping for breath, their eyes met, and they both laughed, the subdued laughter of two people who have come upon an unexpected discovery too good to be quite believed. Jonathan began stroking her hair, her breasts, the curve of her hips. She reached for him and let her hands wander over his body, slipping the fingers of one hand beneath his mask and twining them in the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Je meurs de ton amour, je meurs mais je t’aime.” Jonathan began quoting the poem, whispering against her lips.
“And though I die, here on my bed of thorns and roses, I would live again, and love again . . . ”
“You know the meaning?”
Isabelle couldn’t help being pleased at the equal notes of surprise and chagrin in Jonathan’s voice.
“Yes.” She grinned, at the same time gently tugging a lock of his hair. “I had the poem translated.”
“Ah.” Jonathan fell silent.
Isabelle worried that she had displeased or embarrassed him. But th
en he gently brushed a strand of hair off her cheek and spoke in the low, rough voice that always coiled its way deep inside her.
“Then you must know the many intimacies I have longed to share with you.”
Despite the intimacies they had already shared, Isabelle felt herself blush. Jonathan noticed—she was beginning to think nothing escaped his dark, searching gaze—and he rested his palm against her cheek.
“Only if you’re ready,” he said.
“When.” Isabelle studied his eyes and saw the question forming there. She saw the fear, too, and knew he wouldn’t ask, so she repeated herself. “When I’m ready.”
Beneath his cool palm, Isabelle felt her skin flush even hotter as she remembered the words of the poem, words that described acts which caused even Monique to blush. “I shall be, I know, if you are patient with me.”
After a long pause, Jonathan said, “I am as patient as you need me to be.” He disentangled his legs from her skirt and stood to his feet, pulling her up with him. “It is late, and I won’t allow you to spend the night on my floor.”
She looked at him quizzically, wondering if he meant for her to leave.
“Come lie with me,” he said, guiding her toward the bedroom. “I want to sleep with you by my side, nothing more.”
When they entered the room, Isabelle’s heart started to race at the sight of Jonathan’s bed. She felt the unreasoning panic rise inside her, the wild instinct that screamed danger at the memory of another man and his bestial appetite, his crushing weight bearing down on her, the searing pain between her legs, how he nearly cleaved her in half, grunting and pounding away at her.
Isabelle clutched Jonathan’s arm. “I trust you,” she said, saying it to convince herself, not him. Then she looked up at him, at his eyes behind the mask, and saw the gentleness there and knew it was true.
She allowed him to coax her onto the bed, where she lay down willingly. When he closed the door and turned down the light, she no longer felt any fear. The bed sagged beneath his weight, then something fell to the floor with a muffled sound. After a pause, it happened a second time. At first the sound frightened her, then Isabelle realized her own foolishness. There was nothing sinister about Jonathan’s actions. He was simply removing his boots.
Before she could sit up to remove her own shoes, Jonathan’s hand circled her ankle, while with his other, he undid the clasp, caressing the sole of her foot as he pulled the shoe away. The sensuality of this simple act had her holding her breath in anticipation when he turned his attention to her other foot. He hesitated when the second shoe was halfway off, as if he knew the effect he was having. When he finished removing her shoe, repeating the caress, Isabelle sighed with pleasure.
He stretched out beside her, not touching her, but so close she could feel the heat from his body. She lay there, staring into the darkness, strangely agitated. Jonathan had not drawn the curtains, and the moon shed a soft light, enough to reveal his silhouette. It did not seem right to her that he was still wearing the mask.
She reached for him, pulling him onto his side so she could find the ties and undo them. At first, he didn’t understand her intention, but when she began working the knot loose, he put a hand up to stop her.
“No.”
“Let me,” she said. “Don’t worry, I can’t see you in the dark.”
“And in the morning? Will you wake me with your screams when you find a hideous creature lying beside you?”
“Please don’t say such things.”
He remained stubbornly silent beside her.
“Do you have so little faith in me?”
He let go of her hand. “It isn’t that.”
“Then what?”
“I would spare you the sight.”
“And if I don’t wish to be spared?”
He didn’t answer.
“Your mask keeps you from me.” She thought a moment, then changed her mind. “No, not your mask, your shame.”
There was a long silence. Then Jonathan sighed, and with a note of weary resignation, agreed. “Yes,” he said simply, “I know.”
“I can be patient, too.” Isabelle rolled onto her side to face him. “One day I hope we shall both find a way to set aside our shame.”
When she snuggled against him, he responded by draping his arm over her. It was a protective gesture, as if he wanted to shelter her with his body.
“I feel safe with you.” Her eyes were closing, heavy now with sleep. “I think I always have.”
Chapter Forty five
Garrick removed his hat when he entered Simonne’s rose garden. He always did so, even when, as now, he was alone. Some might call it superstition, this reverential act of an irreligious man, but Simonne’s presence permeated the space; the atmosphere was as spiritually charged as that of a cathedral. A profound sense of peace touched everything here, every blade of grass, every leaf, every petal.
Even the thorns.
Garrick stood at the entrance, taking in the bleak display before him. In a few weeks the roses would come into their glory, blooming in a continual parade of color until the first hard frost. Now, however, the pale greening of a few tentative buds and leaves emphasized the sad truth that underlay the beauty yet to come: every fragile blossom that opened its face to the sun was held aloft on cruel, armored limbs quick to wound a careless touch.
During those first months after the fire, there were times when he and Simonne had to escape the misery. Though unable to steal away for more than a few minutes, they would retreat to this peaceful sanctuary and try to comfort one another. Simonne often quoted the same lines of verse to him, taking his hand while she translated from the French:
Come lie with me, my love, on this bed of thorns
And while we sleep in one another’s arms
Our dreams shall rise above the pain
Carried on the sweet perfume of roses.
Garrick closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He could almost smell the fragrance Simonne wore, the rosewater she used to rinse her hair. When he opened his eyes again, he surveyed his surroundings expectantly, as though she might suddenly appear.
But it was a silly conceit.
This garden held too many memories. They haunted him, taking on a strength and substance that robbed his present life of its vitality. He needed to stop living in the past, or risk fading away like a dying phantasm, a man doomed to spend his remaining days a mere ghost of himself.
Garrick crossed the garden, leaning heavily on his walking stick. Now that he was alone, the unpleasantness of the last half hour struck him with a force that left him as weak on his feet as a doddering old man. When he reached the bench, he dropped his hat on the ground, then lowered himself onto the seat with the aid of his stick. Once seated, he let the stick fall beside his hat, hardly caring where it landed. The breath went out of him as a harsh sigh heavy with discouragement.
Must his every happiness be bought with a hundredweight of sorrow? He and Jonathan had disagreed in the past, but they had never argued bitterly. Never.
Until today.
When Jonathan learned of his plans, their exchange quickly grew heated. Words were spoken that he knew they would both come to regret. You don’t want a wife, Jonathan said. You want the child you never had.
Garrick squeezed his eyes shut, absorbing anew the pain of Jonathan’s accusation. The boy couldn’t know how much those words hurt.
Garrick pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and pressed the clasp to open it. Framed inside the gold casing, Simonne’s portrait looked back at him. A familiar pain tugged at the weak sutures that stitched together what remained of his broken heart.
“Ah, ma chère, I am sick to the death of secrets.” Garrick stared at the portrait until beads of sweat dampened his forehead from the effort to hold back his tears.
And then he laughed. Were she able to speak to him from beyond the grave, he knew without a doubt that Simonne would be the one person to approve this, his last attempt at happines
s. He snapped his watch shut, then tucked it in his pocket, letting his fingers linger a moment on the lump it made over his heart.
There were too many constraints. A lifetime of them.
Garrick slumped forward, bent beneath the weight of his troubles. He propped his elbows on his knees and, holding his head in his hands, studied the ground between his feet.
The map of his life seemed so clear now, with the benefit of hindsight, the crossroads clearly marked. Regrets assailed him concerning every turn. The directions he took, the paths he chose had finally brought him here, to this time, to this place.
And there was no turning back.
Love may have drawn him forward, but guilt had hounded him, nipping at his heels, goading him along like a steer forced down a cattle chute.
He had enjoyed the pleasures of Europe, living the hedonist’s life while his country waged a bloody war with itself. That would have been guilt enough, but on his return he inherited a sizable fortune, one his father had indiscriminately amassed by profiting from the misery of North and South alike.
Yet these were not his greatest sins.
His greatest sin had been loving another man’s wife, while being too much a coward to claim the fruit of his love, never demanding from Cornelius what was rightfully his. Instead he hovered outside the orbit of Simonne’s miserable marriage, abandoning all prospects for his own marriage. Abandoning all hope of a family.
He attempted to atone for his misdeeds, casting aside a promising career in research, choosing rather to become a general practitioner, offering his services gratis whenever he could. And he had kept his promise to Simonne, had devoted himself to Jonathan, had kept their secret.
Nothing he did assuaged his conscience. His career was a mistake, his life a lie.
He did not want to end his days a bitter old man, regretting all the opportunities he had never taken—hating himself for his cowardice, for being afraid to grasp life with both hands, for denying that which he should have openly declared.
A Bed of Thorns and Roses Page 39