Dangerous Obsession

by Natasha Peters

  I made my way back to the kitchen. I was hot with anger. Jules took one look at my face and said, “So he’s like that today, is he?”

  “If you mean he’s like a mad dog when somebody steps on his tail, yes, he’s like that,” I said bitterly. “I hate him. I hate him!”

  Jules shook his head. “I hope this one doesn’t last too long. Last time it went on for three weeks.”

  “What went on? I don’t understand.”

  “He gets black moods once in a while,” Jules explained.

  “Oh, I’ve seen his black moods before,” I said. “Sometimes he won’t talk to me for hours on end.”

  “I bet you’ve never seen him like this,” Jules said.

  Jules was right. That day was the start of a mood that I hadn’t seen before. Seth stayed in his room until late afternoon. He appeared in the kitchen, where I was helping Jules chop onions for a stew. Seth hadn’t shaved and he had dressed haphazardly, with none of his usual careful attention to his costume. His eyes were glazed with drink—I could smell it from across the room—and he was limping badly, one reason for his bad humor, I thought.

  He drank for three days, taking no food at all. And all that time I was trapped in the house by heavy rains. He didn’t speak to anyone, not to Jules, not to me, not to his friend, a jovial man named François Nerval, who called on the second day. Jules and I tiptoed around, speaking to each other in whispers. I didn’t dare sing. Not that I felt like singing.

  Then on the fourth day the weather cleared. I rejoiced that my period of enforced inaction was at an end. I put on my habit and took Blaze out to the Bois.

  I hated trotting sedately up and down bridle paths, and there were open areas beyond the western edge of the park that Seth and I used for racing. When Blaze and I were clear of the trees, I whipped him up and we galloped across the plain. When I finally pulled him up I laughed aloud because it felt so good to be outdoors again, on a warm, fine day in early June.

  I heard the thud of hooves on turf and I looked around. A rider came towards me from the trees, a man mounted on a fine chestnut horse. When he was very close I saw that it was Martin de Vernay, the young duke who had been so attentive at the Delacroix Ball.

  “Countess!” he said happily, reining in his horse. “I saw your wild ride and I wondered if your horse was out of control. I’m glad I was wrong.”

  I felt suddenly shy of him. “Yes. He likes to run. We both do.”

  “Magnificent animal,” he said, running an appreciative eye over the black stallion. He looked into my eyes. “I’ve been hoping that I would see you again, Countess.”

  “I am no Countess,” I said brusquely. “Please excuse me, Monsieur. I am late—.” I wheeled Blaze around and galloped away from him. I could feel the hurt expression in his eyes, the bafflement in his face. What do I care, I thought angrily. He is nothing to me. Nothing.

  When I got back to the house Jules was arranging masses of lilacs in the twin vases in the foyer.

  “Would you like some in your room. Mademoiselle?” he asked.

  “Oh, Jules, I have told you again and again that it is bad luck to bring dying things into the house!” I shook my head. “But they are so beautiful—. Perhaps, just a small bouquet?”

  He smiled warmly and I laughed and tripped up the stairs. I halted abruptly. Seth was waiting at the top. He looked awful, rumpled and with three days growth of beard on his cheeks and chin. His eyes were red-rimmed and bleary. He leaned heavily on his cane.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded in a whiskey-soaked voice.

  “Why do you ask?” I said coldly. “Did you run out of liquor and need someone to run to the wineshop for you?”

  “I asked you where you’ve been!” he barked. I tried to pass him but he blocked me.

  “I have been riding in the Bois,” I said, waving my short riding crop at my costume. “I should think that would be obvious, even to one in your condition.”

  He moistened his lips. “You’re not to go without me, do you hear? You are not to go out alone.”

  I regarded him with a mixture of pity and loathing. “I do not take orders from a drunk,” I said.

  He grabbed my arm. “I’m master here!” he snarled. “And you’ll damn well do as I tell you! Go to your room.”

  “Take your hand off me. You’re hurting my arm.”

  “I’ll hurt more than that. Miss Impudence,” he said, shaking me roughly.

  “I am not your slave,” I told him. “Let me go—ahhh!” He twisted my arm behind my back and dragged me close to him. The stink of whiskey on his breath made my eyes water. I thought my arm would break if he didn’t release me soon. I lifted my riding crop and struck him a light but cutting blow on the neck. The next thing I knew I was staring up at him from the floor. My ears were ringing. I put my hand to my nose. It came away bloody.

  “Do you feel better now?” I asked softly. “Now that you have shown me who is master here?”

  He swayed. “Get up,” he said hoarsely. “You’re not hurt.”

  “And neither were you,” I said, getting to my feet. “You just like to club young women for fun. You remind me a little of the Grandfather when he was dying. He had good days, and then he had days when he could barely lift his head, he was so weak. But even on the days when he was feeling well, the disease still lived in him. It grew stronger and stronger while he grew weaker and weaker. Until it finally killed him.”

  “Shut up,” he snapped. “I’m not interested in your curses, you damned Gypsy.”

  “It’s no curse.” I dabbed at my nose with my handkerchief. “Only the sickness in you isn’t in your body. It is in your soul, in your heart. Drinking whiskey won’t make it go away.”

  He seemed to grow large with anger. He loomed over me, cane uplifted, wavering. I gazed back at him steadily and reproachfully. He made a quick movement, as if to strike me. But I didn’t flinch.

  “I am not afraid of you, sick man,” I said huskily. Then I brushed past him and went to my room.

  Jules appeared in a few minutes with a bowl of ice water and a cloth.

  “Did he hurt you badly. Mademoiselle?” he asked solicitously.

  I shrugged. “Not too badly. But my head aches like there was a devil inside it.” I lay back on the chaise longue and he dipped the cloth in the water and pressed it lightly over the bruised area.

  “This will make it feel better,” Jules assured me. “I know. I used to be a barber.”

  “Better than being a barbarian,” I grunted under the cloth.

  “I agree, Mademoiselle.” His voice was apologetic and sorrowful. “Will you leave him?”

  “How can I leave? Where would I go? I have no one in the world to love me. Ah, I have suffered worse beatings. This was nothing. I think he must have a very big devil inside him to make him like this. A very great sorrow. Do you know what it is, Jules?”

  “No. Mademoiselle, I don’t.” He picked up his bowl and went away.

  I closed my eyes. I thought not of Seth but of Martin de Vernay, gentle and handsome and eager. He didn’t know what I was, what sort of woman. He had treated me like a lady, and I had been rude to him. Because I was ashamed. By now I had seen enough of life and heard enough gossip finally to have a clear understanding of my own position. I was Seth Garrett’s mistress, his property. Any time he tired of me he could throw me out. Or beat me. Or rape me. Resentment flooded through me. Why couldn’t he have stayed away a little longer? I could have been married by now, to Martin or someone like him, someone who would really care about my feelings, who would love and protect me.

  But it was not to be. In the eyes of the world I was a low creature. A whore. But whores gave themselves to many men, and I had had only Seth. So in a sense I was married to him. If I stayed faithful to him I couldn’t be called a—no, I couldn’t say the word again, even inside my head.

  Two more days passed. I didn’t go out. There was no point in stirring him up again. It’s a wise Gypsy who looks after h
er own skin. But then he appeared in my room one morning, freshly bathed and shaved and dressed for riding.

  “Let’s go,” he said curtly. “I’ve been cooped up in this house long enough."

  I was brushing my hair and I paused in mid-stroke. “Are you sure you’re steady enough to sit on a horse?" I asked. “There’s nothing the matter with me. I wasn’t sick."

  I looked at him. His face was drawn and pale. His riding jacket fit rather loosely around the chest. I wasn’t surprised that he had lost weight; he had eaten nothing for a week or more. Without another word I stripped off my morning dress and put on my riding clothes. He sat on the bed with his hands on his knees, saying nothing, watching me through tired eyes.

  “I’m ready," I stood in front of him and drew on my gloves.

  “I meant it when I said I didn’t want you to go out alone," he said in a watered-down voice.

  “Did you?" I couldn’t help the hardness in my tone. “I thought you were joking."

  His lips tightened. He rose and we went out. We cantered through the trees until we got to the open plain, then I challenged him to race.

  He shook his head. “I think Hugo has a loose shoe." Hugo was his big roan. “You go ahead. Ride out and come back, and then we’ll head for home."

  I nodded and urged Blaze forward, towards a fallen oak tree. Blaze cleared it easily, soaring over it as though he had wings. I patted his neck fondly, and when I looked up I saw a rider come out of the trees at the end of the field. It was Martin de Vernay again.

  I pulled Blaze up short. He reared high and danced. “I’ve been haunting these woods," the young man said. “Hoping you’d come again. Please, can we talk?"

  I looked back over my shoulder. I could see Seth waiting for me. “No. I can’t stay," I said. “Please, try to understand." I turned Blaze and rode away, hoping that he wouldn’t follow.

  “Who was that?” Seth asked when I reached him. “Nobody,” I said with a little shrug. “One of the silly boys I met at the ball. I can’t even remember his name. He thought my horse was out of control and he wanted to see if he could help.”

  We went to the Opéra Favart that night. The program was Lucia di Lammermoor. As usual my entrance provoked a turning of heads and appreciative murmuring, at least among the masculine segment of the audience. Their female counterparts whispered and fanned themselves when they saw me, as though they smelled something dreadful. They hoped that I would look in their direction, just so they could snub me. But I knew better than to greet anyone who was not a friend of Seth’s. Even the women I met at the Delacroix Ball made a point of not speaking to me, since I had become one of those women.

  At intermission several of Seth’s friends came to our box to pay their respects. Among them was Martin de Vernay. He clung to my hand a second longer than necessary and complimented me on my fine horsemanship.

  “Ah, so it was you in the Bois this morning,” Seth remarked. “Did you hope to keep Rhawnie from breaking her neck? I have warned her about taking chances but she pays no attention to me.”

  “I think we need have no fear for Mademoiselle Rhawnie,” Martin smiled. “She rides like a hussar!”

  Martin stayed for the whole intermission. His presence made me feel nervous and breathless. Seth and his friend François Neval chatted and laughed together while Martin gazed soulfully at me and I stared out over the audience. Then Seth said, “Listen, Rhawnie, I’ll send you home without me tonight. François and I have business.” The business, I knew, was cards. I nodded. Martin spoke up, “Perhaps you would permit me to take you home, Mademoiselle? It would be a pleasure and an honor.”

  “No, please don’t trouble yourself,” I said quickly. “I would like to come with you, if you don’t mind?” I said to Seth. He looked annoyed, then gave a curt nod of consent.

  Martin looked crestfallen and left the box with a cool nod and a shallow bow.

  “You weren’t very nice to him,” Seth said. “You shouldn’t discourage rich titled men: they make excellent lovers.”

  “For God’s sake leave me alone,” I hissed. “I don’t like him! He’s a baby. A bore! And I’m not looking for— anyone.”

  Seth chuckled. “Remember, social contacts can be useful.”

  I gave my attention to the action on the stage and to the glorious music of Donizetti. How I wished I could be down there, singing beautifully and reaping applause and love.

  The card party was at François’ home, an elegant mansion not far from the Louvre. All the players seemed to know each other. The men greeted me warmly, remarked to Seth that they hadn’t seen him for a while, then settled down to play. The few women at the house avoided me like poison, so I watched the action at the card table from behind Seth’s chair.

  The game was faro, still popular all over Europe. It didn’t look terribly complicated: the men bet that certain cards would win, and then the dealer—they took turns dealing—would deal two piles, one card at a time, face up. If the card turned up on the first pile it was the dealer’s win; if it appeared on the second it was the better’s win. The men also bet that certain cards would be “high” or “low” on a particular deal.

  Seth lost on deal after deal. Every time he bet a card would win, it lost. I could sense that his mood was growing blacker.

  “Your luck has deserted you, Seth,” François laughed. “Rhawnie, you’re not trying hard enough to inspire him!”

  “Perhaps I am distracting you,” I said to Seth. “I shall leave you.” I leaned over his shoulder as he was about to place his bets and said softly, “Play the six of hearts and the king of clubs; and the ten of spades and the queen of diamonds.”

  “Why in hell should I?” he growled.

  “Why shouldn’t you?” I wandered into the drawing room at the other end of the house. A group of women in one corner looked up, saw who it was, and retired behind their fans. I smiled at them and sat down at the piano. I picked out tunes I knew and loved and sang softly to myself. Seth didn’t have a piano. He said he didn’t like music at close quarters, but he really didn’t like me to sing.

  “Good evening. Mademoiselle. Have you tired of cards already?”

  I looked up. A tall, slim man with a very prominent nose and a mane of light brown hair leaned gracefully against the piano.

  “I do not play cards,” I said with a smile. “It seems rather a silly pastime. You win money one night only to lose it the next. You do not play either?”

  “I’m afraid not.” His smile was very warm. “But please, go on with what you were doing.” His French was very good, but slightly accented. I knew that he was a foreigner, as I was.

  “It was nothing special,” I said with a shrug. “I just sing to pass the time.”

  “What’s that you were playing when I came in?”

  “A song I learned as a child. A Gypsy song.”

  “Sing it for me, will you?” he asked. He gave me a dazzling smile. “And I will try to play it for you.”

  He sat on the stool in front of the keyboard and ran his incredibly long fingers over the keys. Music cascaded out of that piano. I looked at him, astonished.

  "You play so well. Monsieur! Much better than Madame Odette.”

  “Thank you. Now for your song.”

  I sang a sad Gypsy song about unrequited love, and the man was miraculously able to follow me and to play the exact chords that were needed to evoke the proper mood of pathos and longing.

  “That is wonderful,” I breathed when we were finished. “Are you sure you haven’t heard that song before?”

  “Quite sure. How about another? Do you know any Hungarian Gypsy songs? I learned some of them as a child.”

  I knew several because we—our Gypsy tribe—had travelled through Hungary several times while I was growing up. I lost my shyness and let my voice float free.

  My accompanist applauded me. “What a wonderful instrument! Such a rich, bright sound! Who is your teacher?”

  “I have no teacher. I just sing,” I tol
d him.

  “A marvelous natural talent!” he said warmly. “You are very fortunate. But you would sound even better with a little teaching. I will give you the name of good man at the conservatory here in Paris.”

  I laughed. “ I could not go to a conservatory! It wouldn’t be possible. Besides, the man—the person I live with doesn’t like me to sing. He says it gives him headaches.”

  “He is a fool,” my new friend declared. “Do you know any opera arias? How about ‘Casta Diva’ from Norma?" He played the song I loved. I sang it with him, wordlessly. I had heard it only once but I could remember every trill, even though I didn’t know the words.

  “Excuse me!” A plumpish woman with blond hair bustled over to us. My friend stood up and she threaded her hand under his arm. “Dear Franz, you’re always running off! Such a naughty boy! But I always know where to find you—at the piano.” She gave me a cold glance. “Come with me and have some supper. If you will excuse us, Mademoiselle?” I was obviously excluded from her invitation to dine.

  The tall gentleman very gently removed the woman’s hand from his arm and said, “But I have already had my supper, Louise. This beautiful young lady and I have dined on music, and I think we would like still another course. Will you excuse us?”

  The woman blanched and sniffed and left the room, and her skirts swished angrily.

  “Come, nightingale,” said my friend Franz, resuming his seat at the piano. “Do you know any Schubert? This one is very simple. I can write the words for you—”

  “Please don’t bother,” I said quickly, feeling slightly embarrassed. “I cannot read very well. Just teach them to me and I will try to remember.”

  He laughed and taught me the words and the music to “The Nightingale,” a very short, sweet song. He was not much of a singer, but he played the piano wonderfully well. We passed the next two hours together. I sat next to him at the piano and sang while he played. I taught him Gypsy and Russian songs and he taught me songs in German and Italian. People drifted into the room to listen. Franz told them they would be permitted to remain only if they stayed absolutely quiet. Astonishingly, they obeyed. When I was tired of singing he played alone, a thrilling, chord-filled composition which he said he had written himself. I was very impressed and I told him he sounded like he had six hands instead of two.