by Nancy Morse
“That was Papa’s pupil,” she answered. “I am to coach him in his lessons in Papa’s place. Although I’d rather be committed to Bedlam,” she added with uncharacteristic defiance that made her aunt look at her.
Vivienne withdrew her hands from the long, narrow muff of marten and tossed it onto the entry table. “I do not like him” she said as she undid the clasp at the neck of her cloak. “Not one bit.”
Her cheeks were rosy, whether from the chilly night air or from the rendezvous from which she had just returned, it was hard to tell, but Pru was in no position to judge her aunt’s nocturnal activities, not with the shameful secret she herself was harboring. “Yes,” she said, “he is a very disagreeable man.”
“It’s more than that. There is something, I don’t know, different about him. The way he looked at me just now sent shivers down my spine. I won’t have him in my house.”
“Your house?”
“I only meant—”
“With all due respect aunt, there can be only one mistress of this house, and I am perfectly capable of filling that role.” Though she tried to sound authoritative, Pru’s heart beat wildly. Where had she summoned the courage to confront her aunt on this issue? Perhaps Vivienne’s tryst had not gone as planned tonight, but that was no reason for her to assume that she was anything more than a guest in this house. Pru had all she could stand of impertinence for one night. “Besides,” she added, “it is Papa’s wish that he come here for his lessons.”
The look in Vivienne’s eyes turned dark. “Nonsense,” she said in a chilling tone. “I will talk to your father about this.” She moved toward the stairs.
Pru’s voice rose behind her. “Don’t disturb him.”
Vivienne paused on the first step and turned to her niece, her eyes widening at what sounded distinctly like a command.
“He’s sleeping,” Pru said in answer to the fury forming in her aunt’s eyes.
“Very well,” Vivienne stiffly replied. “It can wait until morning.”
“If Nicolae’s presence displeases you so much, perhaps you should arrange not to be here when he calls. I’m sure you have plans for your evenings, anyway.”
Vivienne cast a slow measured look over her niece. “Why Prudence, it seems you have developed some gumption. Be careful, my dear, that you do not overuse it. Men do not like women with whom they are forced to compete on any level.”
“Yes, aunt, I’ll keep that in mind.”
Vivienne tossed her head and the menace that had vibrated in her voice only moments before was gone. “Prudence, my dear,” she crooned, her voice now conciliatory, motherly, “you are so young and inexperienced. When you have been initiated into the ways of men, then perhaps you will be able to discern which ones are sincere and which ones are not. And that one most certainly is not. I say this only to protect you.” She glanced away and clutched at her heart. “You cannot know the evil men can do, nor the wretched existence they can force upon you.”
Her aunt made no secret that she preferred the virility of young lovers. Had one of them scorned her? Teased her about her age in spite of her beauty? When viewed by the half light of a fire or candle’s glow her skin had the rosy blush of youth, her eyes the gleam of innocence. At other times, however, like just now on the staircase, or under the harsher light of day, she looked older than her years. Perhaps that was why she ventured out only at night to meet her lovers, when the rare starlight that peeked through the London fog and the radiance of oil lamps masked her true age.
Pru watched her aunt ascend the stairs and felt suddenly sorry for her. It could not be easy being a woman alone in a world dominated by men. Now that she had called off her betrothal to Edmund, it seemed that this was to be her plight, as well.
She heaved a sigh and went back into the music room. For many long minutes she stood there contemplating her father’s violoncello. Compared to the decorative one in Hanover Square this one was plainly made with a spruce top and maple for the back, sides and neck. There were scratches along the narrow C-bouts of its body and a slight chip in the bridge hole just below the middle. Decades of playing and the weather had taken their toll on the instrument, and were it not for the purfing which prevented cracks from forming, all the dropping and bumping it had suffered over the years might have rendered it useless. All in all, it was not a handsome instrument. Nevertheless, the sounds that emerged from it were the closest thing she’d ever heard to the human voice. The sweet whisperings of love. The gaiety of laughter. The mournfulness of despair. The bellows of rage. The screams of outrage. The moans of longing. It was the voice that dwelled inside the instrument, coming to life at the hands of a master musician like Papa…or Nicolae.
Having grown up with this instrument, Pru looked upon it endearingly as a member of the family. And yet, for as long as she could remember she had never felt the connection to it that she felt right now. She and the instrument were alike, from the plain, unassuming countenance they shared to the depth of emotions that swirled within. Unlike the instrument, however, she had always kept her sentiments to herself, locked up so tight inside that she herself had failed to recognize them. Until that night in Hanover Square, when she had listened to the most powerful emotion coming from an instrument and had realized that those emotions dwelled also within her. As she had listened from the shadows to Nicolae playing the violoncello, something had taken place inside of her, a transformation so subtle at first she’d been scarcely aware of it, until tonight when she looked into her aunt’s furious gaze and had not backed down, surprising even herself.
No external influence could cleave through the heart quite like music, but not just any music. She’d been listening to Papa’s music all her life and had never felt so emboldened. It was Nicolae’s music that had done this to her, just as it was his savage passion that had initiated her into the ways of men, as her aunt had so stylishly phrased it. Yes, he was arrogant and filled with his own self-importance, and in the brief time she had known him, she had found him to be cunning and cruel, and yet…
There was also an elegance about him, a sharp intelligence and a quick wit. He could not play as beautifully as he did had he not possessed a sensitivity that was rare in the common man. And never had she seen a man more beautiful than he, not in the traditional sense, but in a way that went beyond classic beauty to something that had nothing to do with his physical features. It was the way in which he had gazed out over the water that night on the bridge, with an expression of hidden melancholy that had tugged at her heart. It was the sorrow she glimpsed on his face when he thought she was not looking. The wince in his eyes as if he were remembering past hurts. The terrible secret he must be harboring that turned the corners of his mouth downward before it disappeared behind a sad smile. The sound of loneliness echoing in his voice when he spoke about going to the quay at night to watch the ships.
No, she would not allow his sensitive nature to sway her. He was, after all, still very much the rake. Although, she could not help but wonder if he was really capable of curing Papa, or if that was just one of his tricks to get her alone again. Don’t be a fool, she cautioned herself. He could not cure Papa. Oh, what a vile man he was to taunt her with the only thing she had left…hope. Come to him of her free will? Ha! That would be the day.
Drawing in a long shuddering breath, she went to the violoncello, picked it up and placed it in its case, just as Papa would have done, her heart breaking to think that he would never play this instrument again.
The next morning Pru opened the door to her father’s bedroom and went inside, balancing the breakfast tray on her palm. Her footsteps creaked on the floorboards as she carried the tray to the bedside table and set it down. The linen of her skirt made a soft whooshing sound as she went to the tall window and drew the curtains aside. A thin ray of morning light rushed into the room.
From the bed came the rustling of covers and a protracted yawn.
“Good morning,” Pru said, trying to sound cheerful.
“Pruddy, w
hat a delight it is to see your pretty face first thing upon waking.”
“Oh, Papa, I’m not pretty,” she said. She went to his side to fluff the pillow beneath his head.
He lifted himself up with great effort. “Has no one ever told you so?”
The edge of the bed sagged when she sat down on it. “Only you,” she said quietly.
His gaze caressed her face “You have your mother’s eyes.”
In a small wistful voice, she said, “And if I had more of her features I might not be facing a future as a spinster.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “Is that what has put that sad look in your eyes?” He lifted his hand to touch her face. “Some day you will meet the man who will see in you beauty beyond compare.”
Unprepared for such a prophecy, Pru shifted uneasily and smoothed a wrinkle on her skirt with her palms, muttering, “I do hope he hurries.”
“All in good time, my dear,” her father said. “You can’t hurry fate.”
“No, indeed.” She rose and went to the tray. “Gladys has fixed you a delicious breakfast.”
He waved away the bowl of oatmeal with sweet cream. “I’m not hungry.”
She reached for another plate. “Some fried kippers, then. You know how much you love them.”
He shook his head.
Holding back a tidal wave of feeling, Pru implored, “Please, Papa, you have to eat to keep up your strength. I’ve brought you a glass of beer, but if you’d prefer I can run downstairs and get you a drink of chocolate.”
“I have no appetite for food,” he said weakly. “There is but one thing that would strengthen me, if not my ravaged body, then my spirit.”
The plate of kippers nearly fell from Pru’s hand. “What is it, Papa? If it’s within my power, I’ll do it.”
He smiled kindly. “I’m afraid it’s within no one’s power to grant me this one wish.” He turned his face away, but not before she saw the tears forming in his eyes. “Did you hear it last night? The way he played? Was it not the most sublime thing you have ever heard?”
“Yes. No. I mean, please tell me what it is you wish for, Papa.”
“Oh, daughter,” he whispered, “to play my instrument again. To feel it come alive in my hands the way it did last night for our young friend. That would be my wish.” He lay there gazing off into the air, his eyes dark and meditative and his face awash in sorrow.
Pru felt suddenly close to tears herself. Her poor father had lost the two things he cherished above all others, his wife and his music. How he must be suffering. Her heart wept. She left him like that, staring into space, clinging to a worn and weary hope of something that would never be.
Beyond the window of her bedroom white wisps of clouds and a sky tinted pink and blue were visible through the haze of sea coal that blanketed the city. Morning light came sifting through the fog. The air was filled with the cries of the gulls as they winged their way toward the ever-hungry maw of the wharf to steal from the salt cod boats and filch oysters from the fishermen’s baskets before they could be hoisted up to the wheelbarrowmen. Downstairs the kitchen door below street level was opened to the everyday goods peddled by merchants who made the rounds of the Spitalfields houses. The stands and stalls that lined the crowded streets were coming alive with hawkers and peddlers selling buns and mackerel, newspapers and tinware.
Pru paced the floor of her bedroom in her bare feet, lost to herself. Back and forth. Back and forth. Poor Papa. How he must be suffering. She wondered if it pained him to look upon her, to see his beloved wife in his daughter’s eyes and to feel the crush of memories. She stopped pacing before the scrolled frame mirror that had belonged to her mother, and turned to contemplate her reflection. Her father thought her pretty, but wasn’t that what all fathers told their daughters? She had never deluded herself into thinking she was anything more than prepossessing, with a resourceful mind and a pleasing nature. But pretty? She heaved a beleaguered sigh as Edmund’s uncharitable words came back to haunt her. He had said that she was beyond the age at which most girls marry, and it was true. But it was what he had left unsaid that hurt the most. Pretty? No, not she. In fact, the only time in her life that she had ever imagined herself as even remotely beautiful was when she’d been wrapped in Nicolae’s arms, and then, it had been only an illusion, created by his lust.
She could still hear his ragged whispers at her ear, feel the warm breath against her throat, telling her she was beautiful. Lies, of course. But for that moment in time she had actually imagined it to be true, and though she longed to feel that way again, she would have given up all hope of it if only there were something she could do to help her papa.
And then the words came back to her. “If I were to tell you that I could help your father regain his health…”
Could he really do it? No, of course he could not. It was a joke, to be sure, a vindictive jest to exact revenge against her spiteful opinion of him. She had no reason to trust him. No reason at all, save the sliver of hope to which she clung, the tiniest ember that continued to smolder, like the last faint piece of coal in a cold hearth. The realization came to her on a wave of despair and a surge of ruthless anticipation. Oh God, she thought wretchedly. Is this what it has come to? Was she such a servant to the unbridled pleasure he had aroused in her that she would knowingly place herself at his disposal again? For Papa, she told herself. Yes. Papa. She would sacrifice her pride, indeed, her very life, to grant his wish. And if she were to derive some wanton pleasure from it, who was to say it was wrong to want a little bit of something for herself?
For several minutes she stared at her reflection in the mirror, trying to fathom the person who looked back at her, whose features were so familiar and yet who harbored the inner longings and selfish motives of a stranger. Where had this woman come from? A sudden clarity pierced her consciousness like a ray a rare sunshine through the perpetual fog. This woman had been here all along, hidden beneath somber grays and browns, veiled in propriety and decorum. Aunt Vivienne had called it gumption, but it was more than that. So much more.
She turned from the mirror in anguish. She knew what she had to do.
CHAPTER 8
“Prudence, how good of you to come.”
He was not at all surprised when he answered the knock at his door and found her standing there, silhouetted against the night. The hood of her cloak was drawn up over her head, the striking blue of her eyes the only color radiating from her pale face. For a fleeting instant he thought of Edmund de Vere. There was little doubt that all de Vere saw in her was the prim façade, the shy smile and timid manner. Had he ever suspected that beneath that proper veneer beat the heart of a beautiful and passionate woman? No, it was not likely, or he never would have let this little gem slip through his fingers. Perhaps it took one such as him, possessor of extraordinary senses, to recognize her true beauty. Hers was not the kind of beauty that slammed into a man with the power of a runaway coach. It was subtle, working its way insidiously into the senses. He would have sold his soul to have her, not just for his sexual amusement, but for a partner with whom he could share eternity. If she were willing, which was highly improbable, and if he possessed a soul, which he did not.
The yellow candlelight that glowed from inside the house created a luminescent halo all about him, imparting the disconcerting impression of a saintly figure. But the irreverent look in his green eyes and the sardonic little smile that danced across his lips dispelled any notion of piety. He stepped aside and made a deep, formal bow that contrasted sharply to his casual attire, and with an exaggerated sweep with his hand, bid her enter. “So, you have decided to take me up on my offer.”
“I have come to hear more about your ability to help my father regain his health,” she said tartly. “When I have heard it, then I will decide if there is to be a bargain between us.”
He went around behind her to help her off with her cloak. The hood fell back, releasing a torrent of fragrance from her hair, catching him unaware.
/> “I came by this afternoon,” she said.
“Did you now?” He purposely laid the garment over the seat of a carved and tufted wing chair, leaving only the silk upholstered settee upon which to sit.
“Your manservant said you were not to be disturbed.”
In an even tone, he said, “I was resting.”
It was not precisely a lie, but far removed from the truth. When he had awakened from his unearthly slumber at dusk and been informed that she had called, he knew she would be back tonight, and he wanted to be ready. Although he had fed as recently as only last night, a quick trip to the East End and an infusion of fresh blood and the transmutation into physical energy insured his potency and promised an unrestrained coupling. That she had come to him of her own free will would only intensify the sensual pleasure that waited.
And here she was, almost like the workings of a clock, so predictable, so timely. That she had gone out of her way to look as austere as possible, with her hair of tarnished gold done up in a braid and wearing an intolerably drab dress of gray silk, did not deceive him in the least, not when he caught the scent of the blood that pumped through her veins, as sweet as a sugary confection and peppered with anticipation. She may indeed have come here tonight for the purpose of finding a cure for her ailing father, but there was no mistaking the urgency that simmered just beneath her calm surface, infusing her face with color, her eyes with brilliance and her lovely, voluptuous body with lustful longing. No, she did not fool him one bit. She had a dual purpose in coming, not the least of which was her own simmering passion. She was as much a slave to her sensual nature as he was to his blood thirst. The only difference was that he had known for centuries what he was while she was only just discovering her true nature.
His face bore no trace of his thoughts as he gestured to the settee, and said, “Have a seat while I pour myself some wine. I haven’t forgotten what it does to you. I’ve given my manservant the night off, but I’d be happy to go to the kitchen and brew some tea for you.”