“Mary! My dear.” Yvonne held up a pale hand and waved it in greeting. The horrid bruises upon her face had faded to mere shadows and the cuts were small, barely noticeable spots now. But the damage invisible to the eye was far more significant—two broken ribs, and Yvonne had yet to recover the full ability to walk without her ivory-headed cane, which was propped against her ornately carved cherrywood chair.
Even so, the woman held a sense of self-worth and self-respect that would rival any duchess as she sat upright, savoring one of the splendors from Powers’s cellar.
Yvonne reached toward the silver bucket on the table. A bottle of French wine in its green bottle, half consumed and uncorked, sat nestled in ice. “Would you care for a glass?” she asked, lifting a crystal flute and pouring the bubbling liquid.
Mary smiled, wondering whether Yvonne had already consumed a bottle on her own, she was in such fine spirits. She glanced about the table legs.
“No, no,” Yvonne said, reading her thoughts. “It is far too early to have imbibed so devotedly.” She held out the champagne with her delicate fingers. “For you.”
Mary took the glass by its stem and lowered herself onto the chair beside Yvonne’s. They’d yet to discuss what had happened with Hardgrave. Edward had attempted to discuss that night with her, but Yvonne had broken down into inconsolable sobs. Neither Edward, Powers, nor even Mary had dared to bring the subject to light again.
“I cannot believe how fine it is!” Yvonne sighed. “I have lived in London so long that I had forgotten the beauty of the country.”
Mary’s previous experience with the country had been dragging her worn body along mud-soaked roads in search of laudanum and safety. Though it had now been several days since she had avoided the ever-present temptation of laudanum, thoughts of it, even in this lovely place, were never far from mind.
Yvonne tilted her head back, closing her eyes. “Doesn’t the air smell delicious?”
Even in her agitated state, Mary could appreciate the scent of peat on the air, the sweet fragrance of early-spring flowers giving weight to the air. “Yes.”
Everything about the growing evening was delicious, except for the undercurrents of sadness that never quite let her be. But there was so much to be grateful for. The sun was setting slowly, casting its shadows on the sapphire rug draped over the perfectly cut grass. Silver trays of strawberries, salmon sandwiches, bread and butter, and caviar placed artistically across the table encouraged one to sit for hours in the waning evening.
Up above the perfectly groomed lawn and under the shadows of the house, a liveried servant stood waiting in attendance for any need they might have. Powers lived well. Very well. “I spent the afternoon with Edward,” Mary said, unsure how to really begin.
“I saw you two galloping off into the distance.” Yvonne sipped her champagne. “You know, I think you’ve made quite a conquest.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Yvonne rolled her eyes. “My dear girl, to be direct, do you wish to bed the duke?”
Mary hesitated at the blunt question. She was still terrified of men. But Edward wasn’t men. He was her caretaker, the man who had seen the beauty in her soul. When she thought of his touch upon her skin, she didn’t shudder. This day had awakened an entirely new feeling. Curiosity . . . and desire.
The kiss on the beach had seemed to promise something. She hardly dared contemplate it, but it was there all the same.
Could she bed Edward? There was so much more to it than a kiss, and that was frightening.
Still, she smiled to herself. The answer was yes, because Edward would never touch her in any way that hurt her. “I do.”
“I know you’ve been afraid,” Yvonne said softly. “And I’ve seen your turmoil. I hope you take no offense at my asking, but I can see you wish to be close to him.”
Mary nodded carefully.
“The only thing keeping you from that closeness is you.”
Yvonne was right. Mary lifted her chin. She’d suffered enough in this life to deny her the pleasures of the present. Fear had ruled her too long. With Edward, there was nothing to be afraid of and it seemed wrong to deny the intimacy they both desired.
Yvonne laughed a delighted laugh. “There—I see it on your face. You’ve made your mind up and I promise you that you will not regret it.”
Mary drew in a deep breath. Now that she’d made her mind up, as Yvonne had put it, she could hardly wait. If she could have, she would have gone to Edward right away.
Yet she couldn’t leave Yvonne. Not yet. The woman was still struggling with her recovery. So Mary leaned forward and pushed the dish of strawberries forward. “You must eat. That is what Edward is always telling me in any case. We must eat.”
She’d filled out considerably and had a physical strength now that she hadn’t possessed in years.
Yvonne’s mirth dimmed. She stared at the table covered in its beautiful repast. “I wish I felt some sort of hunger, but I do not.”
Yvonne had lost weight. A great deal of it. The softness that had once given her a voluptuous air had faded into sharper angles in the last weeks.
“You see,” Yvonne began shakily, “I can’t stop thinking of what I did. And I feel ill. All the time. It consumes me and I cannot bring myself to eat for the feel of it.”
Mary placed her hand over Yvonne’s. “You did nothing.”
A tear slipped down Yvonne’s cheek as she gazed at Mary’s hand on hers. That single drop trailed from her chin to her champagne. “Oh, my dear. The feel of your hand touches my heart, but I did the most terrible thing.” A sob racked her frame and she pulled her fingers from Mary’s and pressed them against her lips.
Mary didn’t know what to do or say. She, too, had known the unpleasantness of isolated pain where the world seemed such a faraway and unattainable place. She had not wished to be hugged or consoled. All she could do now was sit and wait and not judge this woman who had helped her so much.
“Mary . . . I—I told him. I told him where you were. I couldn’t stay strong. I was so sure that I could. With those first blows, I vowed to myself I wouldn’t speak. But I . . . did.”
“He brutalized you, Yvonne. I will never forget how badly you were marred. Anyone would have spoken.”
Yvonne sobbed again. “I suppose I was a fool for thinking I would not be like everyone else.”
“If anyone is a fool, it is I,” Mary countered quickly, her own guilt grabbing hold of her in its cutting talons. “It was I who drew you into this. If anyone deserves blame, it is I.”
Yvonne’s eyes narrowed and her face grew hard. “It is your father,” she hissed. “And men like him.”
“I wish . . .” Mary gulped the words back with a swallow of champagne. She couldn’t dare give life to the thought.
“What do you wish?” Yvonne coaxed as she assessed Mary.
She shook her head vehemently.
“Come. We have both bared ourselves.”
Mary glared down at her bubbling wine, wishing for the power men had. Wishing she did not have to be a prisoner of her sex. “I wish I did not need Edward.”
Yvonne regarded her with subtle concern. “But you wish to bed him? I thought you liked him.”
“I—I like him very much.” How could she ever admit she liked him far too much? With each encounter between them, she found her heart softening toward the hard man who had given her hope. “It is just that I wish I could live this life without needing the protection of a man for fear of other men.”
Yvonne’s look was wistful, tinged with the bitter note of acceptance. “What woman has not wished such a thing? Though you have more cause than most.”
Mary worked the folds of her skirts with her fingers. “I want to be Edward’s equal and I don’t think I ever can be if he is my rescuer. I feel I am using him.”
“But, my dear,” Yvonne soothed, “he longs to be rescued in turn.”
Mary dropped her gaze to her lap. “I know it, but how is it
possible that I, a woman, can do for him what he cannot?”
Leaning back against the chair, Yvonne sighed tiredly. “You know what happened to his father, but he is inundated by his own feelings of guilt . . . He, too, longs to find peace. Perhaps you, a woman, can find a way to give it to him in a way no other could.”
Mary gripped her champagne flute so hard its grooved pattern pressed into her fingers. How could she give anyone peace? She had only just barely reclaimed herself . . . Aside from that, she didn’t deserve a man like Edward, not after what had happened to her. Society would not welcome her back into its fold. Finally, she gave voice to her greatest fear. “What if I can’t? What if he can’t? He cares for me. I know he does, but I am afraid he may never be able to do more than that.”
“Does he need to?” Yvonne asked softly.
Mary looked away. Admitting that she wished Edward’s love seemed a weakness. She should be grateful for his help and that should be enough. But he’d never had love. Never been taught how to love. Would he even know how?
Yvonne shrugged. “As long as he gives you what you desire, does it matter?”
Mary wished she could recoil at the harshness of such words, but the world was a harsh place.
Was it indeed that simple? Two people using each other for their own gain? What she had begun to feel for Edward didn’t feel so cold. But it was dangerous to give one’s self completely to a man.
Her own mother had understood the business of it well enough and it had not been until she’d given her heart that she had lost everything.
She’d give as much as she could to Edward to help him as he had helped her. But she wouldn’t be the fool her mother had been.
Mary contemplated the small brown vial and considered that she had come for a small tincture of headache powder for Yvonne. It was not the powder she contemplated now. Her rational mind spoke to her with utter conviction. To pick up the slim bottle from the medical chest, to finger the faded brown paper labeling it laudanum was an exceedingly dangerous proposition. But it was not her rational voice that was speaking the most convincingly or with such strength.
Another voice slithered through her mind. A suggestive voice, offering a merciless pleasure, whispered, Take it, Mary. Take it. You will only have a little. Just a little. And all your confusion and all your pain will disappear on a tide of blissful peace.
It was a powerful, almost undeniable call. Even though she had not had laudanum for days, seeing this bottle, feeling it in her hands, and smelling its scent . . . Her skin crackled with need. Some doppelganger creature, a ferociously insistent version of herself, had crawled inside her. It raked at her sinew with sharp, ragged nails, desperately attempting to consume what for years had simply been a medicine.
’Tis a prison, she hissed back at the creature. Even as she spat at the poisonous twin within, she found her fingers stretching out to the small medicine chest left conveniently open. Her fingers skimmed over the ipecac and headache powder, drawing toward the laudanum bottle and relief.
It was not her hand dancing over the colored containers. It seemed to be someone else’s pale appendage that finally traced the rough cork stopper, then clasped at the bottle. Slowly, she lifted it from the chest, the weight surprisingly light in her palm. Desperately, she wished to rip the stopper out and tilt it to her lips. Oh, how she wished it. For, certainly, after so much time she could control her need now to just a few sips?
But last time I almost died, her rational voice countered feebly.
But this time will be different, soothed the other.
This time you will not drink so much of it nor drink wine with it. You will be safe from ill effects and will be awarded with the peace you have been without for far too long.
Mary fingered the small cork, her breath coming in odd little catches. If she drank it, in a few moments blessed oblivion would trace through her veins and she would be floating on a sea without concern or fear. She wouldn’t have to worry about Edward or whether he could ever love her or how she had put Yvonne in such danger. And, yes—she could control herself. She could. She was no weakling to be lured into hell again.
Without allowing herself to reconsider, she popped the cork and lifted the bottle halfway to her lips.
You can learn to be as normal people. ’Twill be easy to learn to take but a sip of laudanum for a temporary ailment, the twin, so animalistic with its driving argument, reasoned. Many must learn to curtail their eating habits when they have overindulged. And so can you learn to take laudanum in moderation.
She smiled. How foolish she had been to be so cruel in denying herself a bit of relief. Of course she could learn to take it in small doses. Look at what she had endured over the last years. Surely, a person who had gone through so much could summon the power of will to stop before she had consumed too much. Her hand shook in anticipation as she lifted the bottle to her lips. Even before she drank, her entire body relaxed, so relieved that it was about to welcome its old friend.
“You won’t, you know.”
Mary jerked the bottle away from her mouth, twisting her arm so she could hide it behind her skirts.
Powers stood in the doorway of the small pantry, his shoulder pressed lazily against the frame. Daylight haloed him, basking his face in shadows.
“I beg your pardon?” she said quickly, her heart racing so harshly she could barely speak those few words.
“You won’t drink just a little.” He cocked his head, his face impassive. “You will drink most of the bottle. And someone—Edward, myself, though not Yvonne with her wounds, or a servant—” He shrugged lightly, not moving from his careless rest against the doorframe. “They will find you on the floor quite incapacitated. You may not be dead . . .” He trailed off and his brows rose ever so slightly. “But then again—”
Mary narrowed her eyes and pinned him with as much animosity as she could muster. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Am I?” he asked gently. “Being ridiculous?”
The immediate, burning fury at being caught fizzled, replaced by soul-breaking recrimination. Hot tears stung her eyes as she realized what she’d been about to do. How was it that she could now cry so easily? It didn’t seem fair that after years of no tears, she was suddenly inundated.
It was like slowly coming out of an unyielding dream. She gasped for breath. Her body began to shake and she set the bottle down on the table, thrusting it far from her reach. “H-how do you know?”
He pushed away from the doorframe and crossed the short distance between them in slow, measured strides. “I have seen it many times. That moment in which a line is crossed from simple use of alcohol or opium to consuming the substance with such determination that one will die in the pursuit of getting it down one’s gullet.” Powers gazed down at her without accusation but with such kindness, his eyes seemed ablaze. “You’ve already crossed that line, Mary.”
A dry cry racked her body and for the first time since she had left the asylum, she wished she were dead. She wished she could burn apart and collapse, never to face such an ugly truth about herself again.
“Shhh, now.”
And much to her astonishment, cold, calculating Powers folded her up against his big chest. Even more astonishing, she allowed him to do so. His chest against her was like a great fortress of comfort, fending off the terror so wholly swallowing her up. “Wh-what am I to do?” She gasped.
As he rocked her gently, swaying with his arms completely bound about her, he said, “It is quite simple. You don’t drink laudanum, love. I don’t recommend the consumption of wine either for those such as us.”
Mary pressed her fingers against his linen shirt and blinked. “Us?”
“Of course,” he said against the top of her head.
“Unlike you, I have chased my demons for many years. And I still fail in my battles with them. But I don’t want that darkness for you.”
“But you’ve never—” She swallowed, unsure whether she could force the words out. I
t was so hard to expose her own weakness to such a man as Powers. “Never accidentally tried to kill yourself, as I have done.”
A soft rumble of laughter came from his chest, jostling her cheek against his sternum. He stroked his own cheek against her hair. “One night when I chased the dragon, sweetheart, I woke up in my own piss and vomit, shaking, terrified . . . I was utterly alone except for a few bastards who were picking my pockets in the filth of London’s East End.” His grip about her tightened as though he were anchoring himself in the present so he would not lose himself to that past. “I should have been dead.”
“You?” She marveled. “But you’re so strong. So . . . powerful.”
“How flattering, but then again . . . so are you.”
“No.” She shook her head slightly. “If I were, I wouldn’t wish to drink the laudanum.”
A bark of a laugh came from him. “The drug overtakes us, Mary. It is our master and we owe it our allegiance. Do you think it will give us up so easily?”
“But I don’t wish to . . . worship it.”
“You must wish to stop. With all your heart, and then . . . you must talk to me whenever you wish to take it. As I must talk to you. Perhaps . . . together we can stop. I know I’ve tried many times, only to end up back in a den, smoking my brains away. Perhaps . . . we can save each other.”
What he was proposing sounded so wonderful, a tendril of hope sprung in her soul. It also sounded terribly intimate. “And Edward?”
“Edward will never judge you, good man that he is. But he will also never understand the control the drug has over us. He has never felt that soul-rending voice demanding that you consume your drug until you’ve no mind or soul left. Edward is . . . not truly capable of understanding the likes of us.”
“But he—”
“He is good, and strong, but his demon is of a very different sort. He doesn’t let anyone in. He can’t, you see. He’s afraid of his own taint.”
She frowned. His supposition sounded so like her own, it frightened her. If Powers, who had known Edward for years, doubted his ability to ever love . . . “Have you ever been loved?” she asked.
Lady in Red: A Novel of Mad Passions Page 16