Dangerous Obsession

by Natasha Peters

  “Really? What about Mademoiselle Simone? She lived here, didn’t she?”

  “Ah!” He gave a short laugh. “But not for long! And only while Monsieur Seth was away. He soon put a stop to that nonsense!”

  “Yes, so I’ve heard,” I said glumly. “Thank you for unpacking for me. I didn’t expect to return, you know. Your efforts might have been wasted, Jules.”

  “Oh, no, Mademoiselle. Monsieur Seth assured me that you would come back. He said that he would bring you back if he had to—”. He stopped himself but I had heard enough.

  “Indeed?” I said softly. “He told me he found me accidentally. What time did he leave the house yesterday?”

  Jules’ eyes twinkled. “About an hour after you. Mademoiselle. He was very angry. I don’t think he expected you to—run away.”

  He bowed slightly and left me alone. I didn’t even look at the breakfast tray. I wasn’t hungry. A bad sign, that. I am always hungry. I got out of bed and slipped my robe over my nightgown. I examined my new home in the light of day.

  The room was very large and it faced the street. The furnishings were low and gracefully modelled and beautifully inlaid with floral patterns in different woods. Seth told me later they were from the First Empire, whenever that was. The walls were covered with rose-colored silk, and the curtains at the windows, the upholstery, and the bedspread were the same color. In addition to the bed there was a chaise longue, a couple of padded chairs and a couple of straight-backed ones, a small dressing table, a tail armoire, a chest of drawers, and a washstand. A thick rug, ivory with a border of small pink wreaths and green garlands, covered the floor. A nice-enough prison, I thought.

  Seth came in without knocking. I knew it was he and I didn’t bother to turn around.

  “Not dressed yet?” He came around the end of the bed and stretched out on the chaise longue, which was only a few feet away. “You haven’t touched your breakfast, either. You’d better eat something. We have a lot to do today.”

  “I will do nothing,” I said disconsolately, putting my hand to my shorn head. “I cannot go out—like this.”

  “What are you going to do? Sit here until it grows back?” He tossed a newspaper over onto the bed. “You might be interested in the little item on page four. It appears you didn’t kill your friend Louis after all. Just gave him a bad headache.”

  I didn’t even glance at the newspaper. “I can’t read,” I said.

  “Oh? Well, the good stuff isn’t in the paper anyway. The old gent was one of the most notorious whoremasters in Paris. He told the police he was attacked by a young man, a common thief who escaped with his billfold and his watch. The whore who saw the thief and the desk clerk both backed him up.”

  “Then the police aren’t looking for me any more! That is strange.” I saw that Seth was looking a little smug. “You had something to do with that, didn’t you?”

  He shrugged and folded his arms across his chest. “I had a word with a high official in the Ministry of Justice last night, that’s all. He owes me a favor.”

  “And now I owe you a favor,” I said bitterly. “I am in your debt for saving me. But I don’t care! I almost wish the police were after me!”

  He laughed. “You wouldn’t say that if you saw the Saint Lazare Prison for Women.” He got up and threw open the doors of the armoire. “God, Odette’s a cheap old bitch. I wouldn’t let my scullery maid be seen in these rags.” I caught the reference but held my tongue. He pulled out a blue walking dress and tossed it over a chair. “This will have to do for now. I’ll take your over to Irma’s today and buy you some decent things.”

  I had heard of Madame Irma on the Rue de la Paix from Madame Odette: her clothes were exclusive, expensive, and it was said that she had only five customers in all of Paris, although she could have had a hundred times that many if she wanted to.

  Seth approached the bed. “I’ll give you half an hour to get ready,” he said. “Then I’ll toss you into the carriage the way you are.”

  I stared at the tips of his shoes. “Why did you bring me here?” I asked dully. “Why didn’t you just let me go?”

  He gave a short laugh and lifted my chin. “Because, my long-legged Gypsy Countess,” he said, grinning, “I don’t want any other man pissing in my fountain until I’ve drunk my fill.”

  I flinched at the coarseness of his remark and jerked my head away.

  He went on, "You will find that I like life on my own terms. I like to have my own way whenever possible. No man or woman tells me what to do. And no woman comes into this house or goes out of it without my knowledge and consent. You will stay here until I tell you you can go, and not before. Enjoy yourself, Rhawnie. You’re the envy of half the Parisian demi-monde today. I’m easy to live with and not ungenerous. You can have anything you want, within reason: clothes, carriages, baubles.”

  “Anything except my freedom,” I mumbled.

  “I’m not a jailer,” he said. “Treat it as a learning experience, if you like. I’m the teacher and you’re the pupil. And I must say, thus far you’ve shown a most remarkable natural aptitude—for love.”

  I pushed my ten fingers through my hair. Shame. “I should have plunged those scissors into my heart,” I said.

  He laughed. He left the room and he was still laughing long after he closed the door behind him.

  I hated him. I hated him for showing me what a wanton I was. I hated him for taking over my life. But that was what old Ursula had said, wasn’t it: that my life would be his life?

  We dined out that night. After we got home I went straight to my room and undressed. I waited for him to come to me. Two hours passed. Finally I heard him come up the stairs. His tread was heavy and slow, and I suspected he had been drinking. I braced myself for the onslaught. But it never came. He went to his room and closed the door and never even poked his head in to say good-night. I told myself that I felt relieved and thankful, but I suppose I would be a liar if I didn’t admit that I was a little disappointed.

  A week passed. Seth Garrett might have been my uncle—no, not my uncle!—but an older brother. He never touched me except to help me in and out of carriages or to drape a wrap over my shoulders. He never came to my room, not even to chat. He never gave the slightest indication that I was living under his roof for any purpose other than to take shelter from the elements. You might have thought that I was an honored guest, and not the girl he had made his mistress.

  I began to feel apprehensive. Perhaps he didn’t find me beautiful any more? I never should have cut my hair. Although when it was brushed and curled it looked quite attractive. I told myself not to be silly, that I was glad that he left me alone. It occurred to me that he had another woman someplace, and I experienced a pang of jealousy and anger. How dare he!

  The first garment that came from Madame Irma was a riding habit, a beautiful costume of green velvet trimmed with black. The jacket was tightly molded to my figure, and the skirt was long and flowing but split up the middle so that I could ride like a Gypsy. Seth brought it to my room early one morning—one week to the day after I had come to his house—and tossed it on the bed.

  “Put it on,” he ordered. He sat in a chair and smoked a cigar and watched thoughtfully while I shed my nightgown and donned the habit. Then Jules brought in two more boxes, one containing a black top hat with a little veil and the other a pair of fine riding boots, black and shiny and of a soft kid.

  When I was fully costumed he said, “Now come with me.”

  We went out to the stables. Boucher led out a huge black stallion with a white streak on his forehead. It was the most beautiful horse I had ever seen in my life. I stood stock still, lost in admiration.

  “How do you like him?” Seth asked. Boucher grinned broadly.

  “He is wonderful,” I breathed. I walked around the animal, stroking his flanks, feeling his legs, patting his nose and talking to him in Romany, the only human language that horses really understand. That horse and I became friends immediate
ly.

  “He’s yours,” Seth said. I looked at him sharply, to see if he was joking. “Don’t you want to try him?” He gave me a leg up on the horse’s bare back.

  I laughed and cantered him around the stable yard. The horse was temperamental and nervous and he danced sideways and reared several times. I hugged him tightly with my knees and let him show off.

  “I like him!” I shouted. “He is still a little wild!”

  “Like you,” said Seth, grinning. And like you, I thought.

  I named the big horse Blaze, after the horse of my Grandfather’s that I had loved so well. Seth and I rode together in the Bois de Boulogne that day. Three new gowns came that afternoon, and in the evening he took me to see a revival of The Three Musketeers. What a story! I fell in love with D’Artagnan and decided then and there that I would be an actress. Afterwards we went to the Cafe Champlaine for a champagne supper. We had a private room all to ourselves. But Seth was still on his good avuncular behavior and he didn’t try to take advantage of the situation.

  His mood was gay. He was witty and warm and attentive, and he made little jokes about my stealing the silver and snitching the crystal.

  “We should have had Irma put pockets in your gowns to make-it easier for you,” he said.

  “I don’t do that any more,” I informed him. “Why should I steal when you will give me everything I want?”

  “Because stealing is more fun,” he said. “And because you’re a bandit at heart. I wonder if old Louis has bought himself a new watch?”

  I sniffed and said, “I thought those things would come in handy. How did I know that you would find me? Besides, it is good for Gypsies to steal. Your Bible says so.”

  “I thought you couldn’t read?”

  “I have heard about it,” I explained coolly. “Have you never heard that at the crucifixion of your Jesus there were supposed to be four nails and the Roman soldiers could only find three because some Gypsy had stolen the one that was meant for His heart? Jesus said after that that it was all right for Gypsies to steal.”

  “You’re making this up.”

  “I am not! When was the last time you have read the Bible?”

  He laughed and said, “You know, Rhawnie, for a girl who was an accomplished thief at the age of four, you’re remarkably prudish about love.”

  I blushed a little and said, “That is different. Gypsies are very strict about such things. Men and women do not sleep together until they are married—to each other. Young girls guard their honor very carefully. But you know ail this.”

  “Yes, I do. But why should married people have all the fun?”

  When we got home he said, “You run up to bed now, Rhawnie. It’s been a long day. Good-night.”

  “And what will you do?” I asked.

  “Some heavy drinking. I’ve gotten behind in my daily quota. I need to catch up.”

  I went to my room and sat on the edge of the bed. I felt annoyed. And irritated. And frustrated. What kind of game was he playing? I was still attractive to men; I had seen the way the men at the theater and the restaurant had looked at me. And that same light still shone in Seth’s eyes from time to time. So what was he waiting for?

  He came up the stairs. I held my breath. He passed his own door and paused outside mine. My heart pounded. I waited. Then he turned around and went back to his room and closed the door.

  I waited a few minutes, and then I crept out into the hallway and tapped on his door and pushed it open. He had taken off his coat and waistcoat and his shirt was open.

  “I cannot get out of this dress by myself,” I told him. “I think I need a maid to help me.”

  He smiled a little and shook his head. “No. One fulltime woman in this house is enough. Come over here. I’ll help you.”

  “This has been a very nice day.” I turned my back to him and he busied himself with the hundred and one hooks and eyes on the back of my bodice. “First a beautiful suit to ride in, then a wonderful horse. And more gowns and the theater and dinner.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He was deft and quick. “There, all done.”

  I turned around, holding the front of the bodice up over my breasts. “I would have thought you would want me to show how grateful I am.”

  He lifted his eyebrows and smiled. “I wouldn’t want to force you to do anything that is distasteful to you,” he said with just a hint of sarcasm.

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” I said graciously. “It is inevitable, no? There is no reason to put it off. But perhaps it is rude of me to talk about it. You would prefer to have me in your own way, in your own good time. And you may not even want me at all—.” I gave him a small smile and a shrug and turned away, as if I were leaving.

  He laughed and pulled me swiftly into his arms. “I’m glad you’re being sensible about this.”

  “Why not? A Gypsy knows how to enjoy life. I would like it better if I were married. But I shall never marry. It is not in my future. So I can learn to enjoy love without being married. I have done my penance.” I pulled at a golden curl over my ear. “Every time I look in the mirror I am reminded of my weakness and foolishness. But that is past. It is over. I cannot fight my fate. You are my fate, Seth. You.”

  His kisses were very warm and knowing. It wasn’t like being kissed by that idiot Gaston or by the old man with the white hair and mustache. It was like being bathed in pleasure and delight, like lying on a riverbank after a swim and baking your naked body in the sun, like riding a horse bareback and laughing into the wind because you knew that nothing on earth could catch you. This was like sitting next to a blazing fire on a cold night, like lying on soft pillows inside a caravan while rain pounded on the roof and eroded the earth under the wheels. It was better than sucking hot tea through a sugar lump, and almost as good as forking food into an empty belly. It was simple and necessary and right.

  Whenever we lay together, that night and any time after that, all the bad feelings I harbored against him, the hatred and the anger and resentment, seemed to disappear. For as long as it lasted I felt whole and complete and happy. Seth taught me a few of his “permutations and combinations.” I overcame my instinctive shame and prudery and learned my lessons well. I discovered that a man insane with pleasure is virtually helpless. I liked to work my woman’s magic on him. The only time I had any power over him at all was when we loved.

  I began to see how I could avenge myself on him, how I could punish him for what he had done to me. I would make him love me. I would become as necessary to him as his drink. And then, somehow, I would use that power to destroy him.

  We rode together every morning when the weather was fine. In the evenings we dined out or went to the theater or a concert. Three or four times a week Seth sent me home alone and went off to play cards somewhere. I wasn’t much interested in his card-playing; in fact I had an ingrained aversion to it. I’m not sure why. Because my uncle had wagered me and Seth had won me? Or because gambling symbolized everything about him that I hated: his coldness, his callousness, his cavalier attitude towards all his possessions, including me.

  I had been with him one month when his light-hearted mood changed abruptly. One night he was unusually silent and tense, the way he had been when we were travelling in Russia together. I asked him what he was thinking.

  “I’m thinking about someone who is dead,” he said softly.

  “Who?”

  He gave me an angry look. “None of your damned business. Leave me alone.”

  I cocked my head and looked at him. “The dead don’t like to be remembered like that, with anger and sorrow,” I told him.

  “Shut up and leave me alone,” he snarled. That was the afternoon. We went to the opera that night, to see Bellini’s Norma. I fell in love with Pollione, the Roman soldier, and decided that I had to be an opera singer.

  “I can sing much better than that fat sow,” I told Seth as we rode home after the performance. “Any Gypsy can sing better than that." I had a good ear for tu
nes and I sang the first lines of the first-act aria, full of trills and swoops and glides. I really did sound better than the soprano who had sung Norma. But Seth didn’t think so.

  “Shut up,” he said. “Stop that noise.”

  “It’s not noise,” I said defensively. “It is singing! When I feel happy I—”

  “Shut up. Or you can walk home.”

  I subsided, resentfully. We made love that night, in spite of his mood. Or because of it. I had been with him long enough to know that he used love as he did brandy and whiskey, as an aid to forgetfulness. He was quick and cold and passionless. When he was finished he left me without a word.

  The next morning Jules was in the middle of cooking something and he asked me to take Seth’s breakfast up. I tapped on his door and went in. His bed looked like a battlefield, rumpled with the covers and pillows every which way. He lay on his back, stark naked, snoring heavily. The room reeked of whiskey and stale cigar smoke.

  I set the tray down next to the bed and went over to the windows. I opened the curtains, flooding the room with light. Seth moaned and threw his arm over his face. It was raining heavily, I remember. I stood for several minutes watching the water slide down the window panes and drop from the eaves and rustle the leaves of the chestnut trees outside. We would not ride that day.

  I turned back to the room. “Good morning,” I said brightly. I sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s a wretched day. Are you going to sleep forever?”

  “Go away,” he muttered, turning on his side away from me.

  “You’re just feeling bad because you drank too much last night,” I said briskly. “Come, drink your coffee before it gets cold. You’ll feel better—”

  “Don’t want any coffee,” he growled. “Take it away and get out.”

  “You’re like a nasty bear today,” I remarked.

  “Leave me alone, God damn it!” He sat up quickly and swung his arm at me. I leaped out of range. He picked up the coffee pot and hurled it at my head. I ducked and skittered out of the room.