"My servo brought you breakfast, did it not? I trust it was to your taste."
Her tone was mocking, a little strained. "I have never been overfond of raw beef, sir. Neither is neat whisky my idea of a suitable breakfast drink. At least in my other prison I received the food I requested."
"Request, then. I'm sorry, Mrs. Amelia Underwood. I was sure I had it right. Perhaps in your region of the world at that time the customs were dissimilar… Still, you must tell me —"
"If I am to be a prisoner here, sir," she said firmly, "I shall require for breakfast two slices of lightly toasted bread, unsalted butter, Chetwynd's Cheshire Marmalade, café au lait and, occasionally, two medium boiled eggs."
He made a gesture with his red ring. "It is done. Programmed."
Her voice continued:
"For luncheon — well, that will vary. But, since the climate is constantly far too warm, salads of various varieties shall form the basis of the meals. No tomatoes. They are bad for the complexion. I will specify the varieties later. On Sundays — roast beef, mutton, pork or veal. Venison from time to time, in season (though it's inclined to heat the blood, I know) and game when suitable. Mutton cutlets. Stewed ox-cheek and so forth. I'll make you a list. And Yorkshire pudding with the beef, and horseradish sauce, of course, et cetera. Mint sauce with the mutton. Apple sauce with the pork. Peppercorns or sage and onion with the veal, perhaps, though I have certain preferences regarding veal which I will also list. For dinner…"
"Mrs. Amelia Underwood!" cried Jherek Carnelian in confusion. "You shall have every food you wish, any dish which delights you. You shall eat turkeys and turtles, heads, hearts and haunches, gravies and gateaux, fish, fowl and beast shall be created and shall die for the pleasure of your palate! I swear to you that you shall never breakfast off beef and whisky again. And now, Mrs. Underwood, may I please come in?"
There was a note of surprise in her voice. "You are the gaoler, sir. You may do as you please, I am sure!"
The music of Charles St. Ives (Three New Places in England) grew louder and Jherek stepped backward and then plunged through the silk, catching his foot in a trailing fragment of the stuff and hopping forward without much style, noticing that she was covering her ears and crying:
"Awful! Awful!"
"You are not pleased with the music? It is of your time."
"It is cacophony."
"Ah, well." He snapped his fingers and the music died. He turned and reformed the silk in its frame. Then, with a sweeping bow which rivalled one of Lord Jagged's, he presented himself in all his whiteness to her.
She was dressed in her usual costume, although her hat lay on the neatly made twelve foot long ottoman. She stood framed against a tank of sparkling champagne, her hands folded together under her breasts, her lips pursed. She really was the most beautiful human being apart from himself that Jherek had ever seen. He could have imagined and created nothing better. Little strands of chestnut hair fell over her face. Her grey-green eyes were bright and steady. Her shoulders were straight, her back stiff, her little booted feet together.
"Well, sir?" she said. Her voice was sharp, even cold. "I see you have abducted me. If you have my body, I guarantee that you shall not have my soul!"
He hardly heard her as he drank in her beauty. He offered her the bunch of chocolates. She did not accept them. "Drugs," she said, "shall not willingly pass my lips."
"Chocolates," he explained. He indicated the blue ribbon bound around their stalks. "See? Blue ribbon."
"Chocolates." She peered at them more closely. For a moment she seemed almost amused, but then her face resumed its set, stern expression. She would not take them. At last he was forced to make the chocolates drift over to the ottoman and settle beside her hat. They went well together. He disseminated the suitcase so that the contents tumbled to the floral floor.
"And what is this?"
"Clothes," he said, "for you to wear. Aren't they pretty?"
She looked down at the profusion of colours, the variety of materials. They scintillated. Their beauty was undeniable and all the colours suited her. Her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. And then she spurned the clothes with her buttoned boot. "These are not suitable clothes for a well-bred lady," she said. "You may take them away."
He was disappointed. He was almost hurt. "But —? Away?"
"My own clothes are perfectly satisfactory. I would like the opportunity to wash them, that is all. I have found nowhere in this — this cell — that offers — washing facilities."
"You are not bored, Mrs. Amelia Underwood, with what you are wearing?"
"I am not. As I was saying. Regarding the facilities…"
"Well." He made a gesture with his ring. The clothes at her feet rose into the air, altering shape and colour until they, too, drifted to the ottoman. Beside the chocolates and the straw hat there now lay neatly side by side six identical outfits (complete with straw boaters) each exactly the same as the one she presently wore.
"Thank you." She seemed just a fraction less cool in manner. "That is much better." She frowned. "I wonder if, after all, you are not…"
Grateful that at last he had done something to meet with her approval, he decided to make his announcement. Gathering his robes around him, he went carefully down on one knee upon the curtains of fresh flowers which covered the floor. He placed his two hands upon his heart. He raised his eyes to heaven in a gaze of adoration.
"Mrs. Amelia Underwood!"
She took a startled step backward and bumped against a wine tank. It made a faint sloshing.
"I am Jherek Carnelian," he continued. "I was born. I love you!"
"Good heavens!"
"I love you more than I love life, dignity, or deities," he went on. "I shall love you until the cows come home, until the pigs cease to fly. I, Jherek Carnelian…"
"Mr. Carnelian!" She was stunned, it seemed, by his devotion. But why should she be stunned? After all, everyone was always declaring their love to everyone else in her time! "Get up, sir, please. I am a respectable woman. I believe that perhaps you are under some misunderstanding considering the position I hold in society. That is, Mr. Carnelian — I am a housewife. A housewife from, in fact, Bromley, in Kent, near London. I have no — no other occupation, sir."
"Housewife?"
He looked imploringly at her for an explanation. "Misunderstanding?"
"I have, I emphasise — no — other — calling."
He was puzzled. "You must explain."
"Mr. Carnelian. Earlier I was trying to hint — to touch upon a rather delicate matter concerning the, ah, appointments. I cannot find them."
"Appointments?" Still on one knee he glanced around the cellar, at the great tanks of wine, the jacaranda trees, the sarcophagi, the stuffed alligators and bears, the mangles, the wurlitzer. "I'm afraid I do not follow…"
"Mr. Carnelian." She coughed and lowered her eyes to the floor, murmuring: "The bathroom."
"But Mrs. Amelia Underwood, if you wish to bathe, there are the tanks of wine. Or I can bring aphid's milk, if you prefer."
Evidently in some embarrassment, but with her manner becoming increasingly insistent, she said: "I do not wish to bathe, Mr. Carnelian. I am referring" — she took a deep breath — "to the water closet."
Realisation dawned. How obtuse he was. He smiled helpfully. "I suppose it could be arranged. I can easily fill a closet with water. And we can make love. Oh, in water. Liquid!"
Her lip trembled. She was plainly in distress. Had he again misinterpreted her? Helplessly he stared up at her. "I love you," he said.
Her hands leapt to her face. Her shoulders began to heave. "You must hate me dreadfully." Her voice was muffled. "I cannot believe that you do not understand me. As another human being … Oh, how you must hate me!"
"No!" He rose with a cry. "No! I love you. Your every desire will be met by me. Whatever is in my power to do I shall do. It is simply, Mrs. Amelia Underwood, that you have not made your request explicit. I do not unders
tand you." He spread his arms to indicate everything in the room. "I have carefully reconstructed a whole house in the fashion of your own time. I have done everything, I hope, to suit you. If you will only explain further, I will be happy to make what you ask." He paused. She was lowering her hands from her face and offering him a peculiar, searching look. "Perhaps a sketch?" he suggested.
She covered her face again. Again her shoulders began to heave.
It took some time before he could discover from her what she wanted. She told him in halting, nervous tones. She blushed deep scarlet.
He laughed delightedly when he understood.
"Such functions have long since been dispensed with by our people. I could restructure your body slightly and you would not need…"
"I will not be interfered with!"
"If that is your desire."
At last he had manufactured her "bathroom," according to her instructions and put it in one corner of the cellar. Then, at her further request, he boxed it in, adding a touch or two of his own, the vermilion marble, the green baize.
The moment it was finished, she ran inside and closed the door with a slam. He was reminded of a small, nervous animal. He wondered if the box offered her a sense of security which the cellar could not. How long would she remain in the appointment? Forever, like a menagerie specimen which refused to leave its environment? How long could she stay there, hidden behind the marble door, refusing to see him? After all, she must fall in love with him soon.
He waited for what seemed to him to be a very long time indeed. Then he weakened and called:
"Mrs. Amelia Underwood?"
Her voice came sharply from the other side of the door. "Mr. Carnelian, you have no tact! I may have mistaken your intentions, but I cannot ignore the fact that your manners are abominable!"
"Oh!" He was offended. "Mrs. Amelia Underwood! I am known for my tact. I am famous for it. I was born!"
"So was I, Mr. Carnelian. I cannot understand why you keep harping on the fact. I am reminded of some tribesmen we had the misfortune to meet when my father, my mother and myself were in South America. They had some similar phrase…"
"They were impolite?"
"It does not matter. Let us say that yours is not the kind of tact an English gentlewoman recognises. One moment."
There came a gurgling noise and at last she emerged. She looked a little fresher, but she gave him a glance of puzzled displeasure.
Jherek Carnelian had never experienced anything particularly close to misery before, but he was beginning to understand the meaning of the word as he sighed with frustration at his inability to communicate with Mrs. Underwood. She was forever misunderstanding his intentions. According to his original calculations they should at this moment be together in the ottoman exchanging kisses and so forth and pledging eternal love to each other. It was all extremely upsetting. He determined to try again.
"I want to make love to you," he said reasonably. "Does that mean nothing? I am sure that people constantly made love to each other in your age. I know they did. Everything I have studied shows that it was one of the chief obsessions of the time!"
"It is not something we speak about, Mr. Carnelian."
"I want to — to — What do you say instead?"
"There is, Mr. Carnelian, such a thing as the institution of Christian marriage." Her tone, while softening, also became rather patronising. "Such love as you speak of is sanctioned by society only if the two people involved are married. I believe you might not be the monster I thought you. You have, in your fashion, behaved in an almost gentlemanly way. I must conclude, therefore, that you are merely misguided. If you wish to learn proper behaviour, then I shall not stand in the way of your learning it. I will do my best to teach you all I can of civilised comportment."
"Yes?" He brightened. "This marriage. Shall we do that, then?"
"You wish to marry me?" She gave a tiny, icy laugh.
"Yes." He began to lower himself to his knees again.
"I am already married," she explained. "To Mr. Underwood."
"I have married, too," he said, unable to interpret the significance of her last statement.
"Then we cannot marry, Mr. Carnelian." She laughed again. "People who are already married must remain married to those people to whom they are — ah — already married. To whom are you married?"
"Oh," he smiled and shrugged, "I have been married to many people. To my mother, of course, the Iron Orchid. She was the first, I think, being the closest to hand at the time. And then (second, if not first) Mistress Christia, the Everlasting Concubine. And My Lady Charlotina. And to Werther de Goethe, but that came to very little as I recall. And most recently to Lord Jagged of Canaria, my old friend. And perhaps a hundred others in between."
"A — a hundred others?" She sat down suddenly upon the ottoman. "A hundred?" She gave him a queer look. "Do you understand me correctly, Mr. Carnelian, when I speak of marriage. Your mother? A male friend? Oh dear!"
"I do not understand you, I am sure. Marriage means making love, does it not." He paused, trying to think of a more direct phrase. "Sexual love," he said.
She leaned back on the ottoman, one delicate hand against her perfect brow. She spoke in a whisper. "Please, Mr. Carnelian! Stop at once. I wish to hear no more. Leave me, I beg you."
"You do not wish to marry me now?"
"Leave…" She pointed a trembling finger at the door. "Leave…"
But he continued patiently: "I love you, Mrs. Amelia Underwood. I brought chocolates — clothes. I made the — the appointments — for you. I declared my everlasting affection. I have stolen for you, cheated and lied for you." He paused, apologetically. "I admit I have not yet lost the respect of my friends, but I am trying to think of a way to accomplish that. What else must I do, Mrs. Amelia Underwood?"
She rallied a little. She sat upright on the couch and took a very deep breath. "It is not your fault," she said, staring fixedly into the middle distance. "And it is my duty to help. You have asked for my help. I must give it. It would be wicked and un-Christian of me to do otherwise. But, frankly, it will be a herculean task. I have lived in India. I have visited Africa. There are few areas of the Empire I have not, in my time, seen. My father was a missionary. He devoted his life to teaching savages the Christian virtues. Therefore…"
"Virtue." Eagerly he shuffled forward on his knees. "Virtue? That is it. Will you teach me Virtue, Mrs. Amelia Underwood?"
She sighed. She had a dazed look on her face now as she looked down at him. It seemed as if she were about to faint. "How can a Christian refuse? But now you must leave, Mr. Carnelian, while I consider the full implications of this situation."
Again he got to his feet.
"If you say so. I think we're making progress, aren't we? When I have learned virtue — may I then become your lover?"
She made a weary gesture. "If only you had a bottle of sal volatile, I think it could make all the difference at this moment."
"Yes? You shall have it. Describe it."
"No, no. Leave me now. I must proceed, I suppose, as if you were not trying to make a joke of my situation, though I have my suspicions. So, until I have complete evidence to the contrary … Oh, dear." She fell back on the ottoman again, having just enough strength to adjust her grey skirt so that its hem did not reveal her ankle.
"I will return later," he promised. "To begin my lessons."
"Later," she gasped. "Yes…"
He stepped, with a rippling of silk, through the door. He turned and bowed a low, gallant bow.
She stared at him glassily, shaking her head from side to side and running her hand through her chestnut curls.
"My own dear heart," he murmured.
She felt for the pendant watch lying on her shirt front. She opened the case and looked at the time.
"I shall expect lunch," she said, "at exactly one o'clock."
Almost cheerfully Jherek returned to his bedroom and flung himself upon his cushions.
T
he courtship was, he had to admit, proving more difficult, more complicated, than he had at first imagined. At least, though, he was soon to learn the secret of that mysterious Virtue. So he had gained something by his acquisition of Mrs. Underwood.
His reverie was interrupted by Lord Jagged of Canaria's voice murmuring in his ear:
"May I speak to you, my tasty Jherek, if you are not otherwise engaged? I am below. In your main compartment."
"Of course." Jherek got up. "I'll join you directly."
Jherek was pleased that Jagged had come. He needed to tell his friend all that had so far taken place between himself and his lady love. Also he wished to seek Lord Jagged's advice on his next moves. Because really, when he thought about it, this was all Lord Jagged's idea…
He slipped down into the main room and found Lord Jagged leaning against the bole of the aspidistra, a fruit in his hand. He was nibbling the fruit with a certain clinical interest but no great pleasure. He was dressed in ice blue fog which followed the contours of his body and rose around his pale face in a kind of hood. His limbs were entirely hidden. "Good morning, Jherek," he said. He disseminated the fruit. "And how is your new guest?"
"At first she was unresponsive," Jherek told him. "She seemed to think I was unsympathetic. But I think I have broken down her reserve at last. It will not be long before the curtain rises on the main act."
"She loves you as you love her?"
"She is beginning to love me, I think. She is taking an interest in me, at any rate."
"So you have not made love?"
"Not yet. There are more rituals involved than you and I guessed. All kinds of things. But it is extremely interesting."
"You remain in love with her, of course?"
"Oh, of course, Desperately. I'm not one to back out of an affectation just like that, Lord Jagged. You know me better, I hope."
"I do. I apologise," murmured the Lord of Canaria, displaying his sharp, golden teeth.
"But, if the story is to assume true dramatic, even tragic, dimensions, she must, of course, learn to love me. Otherwise the thing becomes a farce, a low comedy, and barely worth pursuing at all!"
Dancers at the End of Time: An Alien Heat Page 9