by Lara Blunte
She allowed herself to shut her eyes as his fingers closed for a moment around her wrist. She shivered, and then his hand was gone.
Catherine opened her eyes. The andantino had come to an end and she started to clap, smiling to disguise what she was feeling; but Charles perceived her agitation and attributed it to the right cause. Beyond Catherine, Adrian calmly applauded and Charles wondered, his brow furrowing in worry, how far things had gone between them.
Catherine had a box of trinkets where she put everything Adrian had ever given her, every note he had ever written, even the note where he said, "Silly Kate, I'll wager my large fortune you're keeping the notes I've sent you. If you knew how many women were destroyed by paper..."
One day he gave her a beautiful gold ring with an intricate design. He put it on her finger and both were pleased that it fit.
"It's very unusual," she said. "What does it mean?"
He looked at the ring with a twinkle in his eye. "Incomprehensibility? Indispensability? Immodesty, I hope...?"
She stared at him with level eyes. "Shall I wait and see how many more words you can invent?"
He laughed, put his arms around her waist and lifted her, kissing her neck. "It's a ring! It’s for your finger!”
Rings bound people to each other, but she realized that he hadn't meant that. He was odd enough not to have remembered or cared that rings were given as engagement promises. He had found something beautiful and had thought of her, that was all. She didn't tell him that in spite of the lack of any greater meaning behind it, the ring was more precious to her than all her diamonds.
She took to wearing it around her neck on a thin gold chain at all times, because she couldn't stand to have to lie about it, and her mother would certainly ask where she had bought such an unusual piece.
When she next met Adrian, he saw it as soon as he took off her chemise and smiled.
"That's where you should keep it," he told her.
"Next to my heart?" she asked him, her eyes already closing with pleasure.
"Between these," he replied, kissing her breasts.
After making love she lay on her stomach and ran a finger over the nick on the bridge of his nose. "Where did you get all these scars?"
"That one I got from looking though a keyhole to spy on people. They opened the door right on it. Bam! That one," he said as she touched the one on his side, "is the result of a disagreement with an innkeeper in Bethlehem. They get testy around Christmas time. And this one," he touched the half moon on the temple near his left eye, "is the hole the doctors made to cure my madness."
"Well, I believe the part about the hole in your head," she said dryly.
"That's what mostly allows me to tolerate you," he laughed.
She covered herself with the sheet, to display her annoyance at him. A few moments later she felt him tucking it around her so that the silhouette of her head and body stood out. His lips touched hers through the linen and she couldn’t help moving towards him, even as he kept her prisoner.
She didn't mind being silenced in this way; she could always ask him questions some other day.
However, she would soon understand the difference between them. On the next day that they were scheduled to meet she received a note that simply stated, "Don't come today. There is something I must do."
As she read it, all the blood left her face, and Henriette rushed to her side asking her what was amiss. Catherine chided herself for being a fool. Nothing so terrible had happened. It was only one day.
But as she tried to comfort herself, she only felt worse. She could not think of a single thing, except an accident or death, that would have kept her from their appointment. She had waited every second of entire days to see him, yet he could send her a brief note postponing their meeting, as if it were a banal thing.
Another even worse thought took hold of her. Was he tired of her, was he meeting a woman? That suspicion possessed her in such a way that she could not leave her room, sending her mother into fresh lamentations about her health.
When they did see each other again at his apartment, Catherine could not help exhibiting a slight coldness. She was already chiding herself for having come; it was clear that she should have let him come to her, but at the same time she would have been unable to spend another night wondering what he had to do that was more important than she was.
"Maybe I shouldn't have come," she said with an air of indifference, walking about the room as he sat on the sofa. "You must be busy."
"No, I was busy yesterday."
They looked at each other. She could not help saying, "And I suppose it was something that had to be done between two and five in the afternoon?"
"Yes."
She was looking around the room for some trace of lovemaking that would prove he had been with another woman, and either she was not very subtle or he was too perceptive by half as he told her, "I wasn't meeting a woman."
She shrugged. "As if I cared ─"
He pulled her down onto his lap. "You do care. But I wouldn't lie to you."
She resisted a little, but she always gave in to him as soon as he started kissing her. She couldn't help it. When she went away that afternoon she knew he was telling the truth. There was no other woman. He was incapable of lying, and that was why he had never told her that he loved her.
Yet, he was capable of secrecy, of shutting her utterly out of his life. That was not the last time that he could not keep an appointment and would not tell her why, or what he was doing.
She realized that while she was a pleasure to him, he had become a necessity to her. He had a life apart from her, with things he must do, days when he couldn't see her. And she, like the king's concubine, longed for nothing else than the hours when she would be in his company, and hungrily enjoy his loveless passion.
II. Eight. Asunder
Who was Mr. Lloyd, and what business did he have with Adrian?
She met this gentleman once as she was arriving and he leaving Adrian's flat. He was a small man with thick orange hair and such prominent eyes that he looked as if he were perpetually receiving shocking news. His teeth, when he smiled at her, were so sharp and pointed that, had they not been in London, she would have believed herself in the presence of a cannibal. Adrian did not introduce her, and she only caught Lloyd's whispered name as he bowed.
As she removed her veil and hat in front of the mirror, she could see that Adrian was in a mood that she hadn't seen since their first meeting at Halford. He sat by the window looking outside and frowning, and when she approached him, he hardly acknowledged her presence for a few moments.
"What's the matter?" she asked him, reaching out to touch his face.
He took her hand and said, "Nothing that should worry you."
No other explanation was offered, but these troubled moods became more common in the weeks that followed. Catherine knew that they had something to do with the pointy-toothed Mr. Lloyd.
During another meeting between the two men, who had shut themselves in the library, Catherine looked through Adrian's papers, which he kept carelessly unlocked.
She found a long correspondence between Adrian and his solicitor. Mr. Baldick had known for years that Adrian was alive, which explained why nothing had been done about the inheritance. He was, however, instructed to keep this information a complete secret.
Then there was a letter from Mr. Lloyd himself, informing Adrian that his aunt, the beautiful Bianca Lawson, whom the old Earl had banished from the family for marrying badly, had just died of tuberculosis in Naples.
Catherine suspected that Adrian must be looking for some other relative, someone who might inherit his title and his fortune. Did he just want to hand it all over to someone else, a last act of respect towards his dead father, before he disappeared for good?
When Lloyd did not come for several days, and Adrian became tender and good-humored in his absence, she asked, "Who is Mr. Lloyd?"
His eyes remaine
d closed. "An employee of mine."
"I know that. But what do you employ him to do?"
"To run errands."
"What sort of errands?"
"Fruitless ones, so far."
"It sounds as if you were committing a crime together."
"It may come to that."
Encouraged by his nonchalance she insisted, "What Mr. Lloyd is doing has something to do with your family, doesn't it?"
"Perhaps."
She was silent for a moment and then asked, "Do you ever speak of it?"
He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Why don't you ever speak of your father?" He looked at her over his shoulder. "You don't speak of him because it hurts."
She bit her bottom lip, looking down at her hands.
"He only fell in the street," Adrian continued. "A silly accident, as Aunt Helen always says. You think it's unfair and you can't make sense of it because you think that things should make sense."
He got up and wrapped a striped linen towel around his waist. "I don't think there is any sense in anything. But whatever reason you have not to mention your father, I have threefold."
As he walked toward his dressing room, she sat on the bed thinking that it was true that she had never talked about what it had been like after her father died: the emptiness, that was replaced by confusion and anxiety, the sorrow that she had had to put aside but that had never gone away.
Donning her chemise, she went to the dressing room after him. He was at the mirror, shaving. She stood crestfallen, and eventually said, "Forgive me. You're right, it's hard to speak of things that...hurt."
He shot her a look and went on running the open razor over his cheek carefully. She ducked under his arm and climbed on his feet to stand face to face with him. "Is it so wrong of me to want to know you better?"
His eyes softened somewhat. "There is never anything good at the end of a mystery, Kate. There is always something sad, or contemptible. Don't ask me anymore, my sweet.”
She was forced to respect his silence, but remained obsessed with finding out more.
Yet Mr. Lloyd was faithful to the injunctions he had been given and within a week Adrian received a letter from him. Catherine saw that it disturbed him deeply. As he read he went pale, and he begged her to leave him. She did as he asked, for she had never seen him so perturbed. It must be the most terrible news.
"We cannot go back until he writes to me," Catherine told Henriette, not hiding her concern.
"Can't us!" Henriette cried, for now she had taken to speaking with her mistress in English as practice for her conversations with John. "I can go, madame!"
And the faithful maid contrived to meet John and learn from him that Adrian was gone, but the manservant had no idea where, or what the note he had received contained.
A week passed, then a fortnight, then a month. Catherine thought he had left forever, or that something terrible had happened to him. Again and again she sent Henriette to find out if there was any news, but she always came back shaking her head.
Seeing Catherine alternating between anxiety and misery, Henriette one day said with a scowl, “Ah, madame, but you could be more yourself and send Lord ‘Alford to the devil a little bit!”
Catherine sat up at this, looked at Henriette and suddenly began to laugh very hard. Henriette laughed as well, falling on the floor, and Catherine fell next to her. The girls laughed and laughed, holding each other by the waist.
“Je vais l’envoyer droit à l’enfer!” Catherine cried, holding her side. I will send him straight to hell.
Then she put her head on Henriette’s shoulder, and the maid rocked her and stroked her hair as she said, “I would, too, if I weren’t so afraid that he’s dead.”
“He’s not dead, he’s not dead,” Henriette comforted her.
“But, Henriette, this isn’t like anything else,” Catherine confessed, keeping her face hidden. “If I thought that he was playing with me, then I would have made him sorry a long time ago. I know he is not. I know that there is something else…”
Henriette tried not to sigh, because she thought that a love affair with a man who had secrets could never end well. But she only said, “He will be back, you will see!”
And then, after six weeks, John let Henriette know that his master was back.
Catherine received the news in the middle of a stormy night in July, and she knew she had to go to him immediately. But what excuse could she find to leave the house? She paced the drawing room tirelessly, tying the sash of her dress around her fingers more and more tightly.
"One might almost think you were afraid of the storm as well," Lady Ware remarked, observing her.
Catherine looked at her mother, suddenly understanding how bewildered she must be by the changes in her, by her constant nervousness. She sat on the floor and put her head on her mother's knee as she had done as a child. Lady Ware's hand caressed her hair, and she so wanted to tell her everything, but it was impossible.
"Forgive me, mama?"
"For what, my darling?"
Catherine thought, for everything I have done and everything I will yet do. But she only said. "For not telling you I love you often enough."
She had to wait a few hours after they had retired, until the whole household, including Henriette, was probably asleep. She went down the stairs stealthily wrapped in her cloak. The door to her room was locked, and her mother would think that she was asleep until morning.
Once outside, she began running in the rain, holding the hood of the cloak over her head as best she could. She had forgotten to bring money for a cab, and the streets were nearly empty.
She ran from gaslight to gaslight as quickly as she could. She passed a doorway where some forms lay huddled and heard a man's voice call out after her, "Come back 'ere, luv, I'll keep ye warm an' dry!"
Catherine ran faster to escape the sound of their laughter, and when she saw the light below Adrian's flat she almost laughed in relief. She knocked with all the strength she had left. John opened the door and, mistaking her for a beggar, cried out, "Wretch! Get out before I call the police!"
"It's Lady Catherine, John."
He held up his candle and gave a start of surprise, "Your Ladyship! Alone!"
She walked past him, dropping the cloak on the floor. Her hair clung wetly to her back and she shivered. "Where is he?" she asked.
John's eyes were as big as saucers. Adrian had always been skillful at sending him away, and he had never seen Catherine in the flat. Though he suspected that the young lady felt a strong attraction to his master, he could never have imagined that she would disgrace herself over him.
Catherine read his thoughts accurately, but she was way past caring. "Where is he?" she repeated.
"In his room, asleep. If you dry yourself by the fire, Your Ladyship, I shall call him."
"No need." She shook her head and knew she was damning herself with those two words. Yet John's expression was one of regret for her.
She turned and went towards Adrian's room. Behind her, John donned his jacket and left quietly.
Adrian was asleep, face down in bed. There was an empty bottle and a glass, half full, by the bedside. His room, which was normally clean and spare, was untidy, with wet clothes and muddy boots strewn about the floor.
A letter lay on his desk. Though her first instinct had been to go to him, she rushed instead to the piece of paper that might hold the terrible news that had driven him away.
Your Lordship,
I am afraid the search ends here. The subject has been found murdered in what we know to be his home in Alexandria. He has been identified by several independent witnesses and my own agent has seen the body. It is thought there that this was a business transaction gone very wrong.
I shall await your instructions. Your obedient servant,
Joshua Lloyd.
Who was the man Adrian and Lloyd had been seeking so desperately?
She moved slowly to the bed and was about to
touch him when he sat up, grabbing her by the wrists. He immediately saw that it was Catherine, and let her go. "I'm sorry!"
His grip had been rough, and she couldn’t help rubbing her wrist. He brought her closer to him and embraced her. "I'm sorry. I was asleep, I don't know who I thought you were." He felt her wet clothes and hair. "How did you get here, on a night like this? And where is John?"
He moved her back by the shoulders and looked into her face. "Did he see you here?"
"Yes, but he's gone out now."
"Catherine, have you lost your mind?"
She gave a small hysterical laugh. "Yes, yes, I have lost my mind. How am I supposed to feel, when you disappear for six weeks without a word?"
"I'm sorry, I had to..."
"I know, there are always things you have to do, things you can't tell anyone about, your great secrets!"
He said nothing. The anxiety she had felt during his absence, his determination not to tell her anything, and the fright he had given her by grabbing her so violently were too much for her. She stood next to the bed, her face a mask of rage. "Yes, you can do what you want with me. You can come and go, and send for me, or send me away, and like a little lapdog I do what you say."
Adrian got up as well and went to draw the curtains.
"Leave them open!" she shrieked. "Let everyone see me for what I am. I don't care if the whole world knows!"
His temper was also up. "And what is it that you are, then?"
"A harlot!" She could hardly say the words. She knew them, but she had never spoken them out loud. "Your whore!"
Had she not lost all control she would have seen the sudden regret in his eyes, his hand reaching for her, but she kept screaming. "I'm the girl you seduced, the girl you tricked, the girl who matters less to you than the mud on your boots!"
He stopped cold. "I think it was you who seduced me," he said with deadly calm.
"How dare you?"
"How dare you? You came to me, here. You said you would never throw it in my face. You know I don't care about your virtue or anyone's, but where is your honor?"