Keeping Katerina (The Victorians)

by Simone Beaudelaire

  "I haven’t heard of any. What is it?"

  "Well it’s largely for diplomats, you see. Lots of foreigners. I don’t like it much because the music is poor and the swirl of languages makes my head spin."

  "How many languages do you speak?"

  "Myself? Three. Can you guess?"

  "English, Italian and… French?"

  "Excellent guesses. You are correct."

  "Are you fluent in Italian?"

  "It’s all I speak at home. I didn’t begin to learn English until I was seven."

  "Interesting."

  "And you?"

  "I speak French passably well, and a smattering of German, mostly vulgar words."

  The admission made her smile again. "With German, even words which are not vulgar sound as though they are. It’s a particularly difficult language to sing."

  "I imagine. I’m also rather good with Latin."

  "So you’re educated then?"

  "Naturally. One of the great benefits of being in the upper middle class is that I can dabble in a life of leisure, with all its benefits, but not be corrupted by it because I have plenty of work to do as well."

  "Very good. I think too much leisure isn’t good for a man."

  "Likely not. And you? How is your education?"

  "Rather self-centered I’m afraid. I’ve taught myself things I want to know: music, literature, religion, and so on."

  "Religion? Are you Catholic?"

  "Actually no. It was too difficult to be a Catholic resident of England, so my father joined the Church of England before I was born."

  "Interesting."

  "You’ve said that several times."

  "Well, Katerina, it’s because you are. I really do enjoy talking with you."

  "Why?"

  The stark question revealed a world of self-doubt, and he hastened to reassure her. "Because you’re so real. You don’t simper and giggle and try to guess what I want to hear. You just tell me what you think. I enjoy hearing it."

  "Goodness." Her eyes widened, "and here I’ve been told men prefer a woman with no opinion. Sounds like nearly the reverse is true."

  "Well I can hardly speak for everyone, but I really prefer my friends to be who they are, so I can know them. Particularly a friend with such… potential." There was a great deal of intensity in the words, and she glanced at him sharply.

  "Perhaps, Katerina, you might prevail upon my mother to walk with you tomorrow. And perhaps I might prevail upon her to invite me?"

  "Yes, that would be very nice."

  "And, as for the ball, do you think a non-diplomatic type such as myself would be unable to attend?"

  "Very likely."

  "And your father is certain NOT to be there?"

  "Yes."

  "So if you forgot your way and accidentally found yourself at a little dinner party with some friends of mine, men and women?"

  "That might happen. Where?"

  "It will be at the home of the Wilder family, a couple who runs a small printing business here in London. They say she’s as deeply involved in the work as he is. Gordon Wilder was just finishing school the year I started, but we met several times and got to be friends. We’ve formed a little biweekly poetry club, he and his wife, myself, my friends James Cary and Collin Butler, and a few others. It’s a totally respectable group. No young lady who attended would need to fear for her reputation, and we have several who do come regularly. Everyone takes turns ferreting out new works to share. We’ve hit on a writer who might… well please is the wrong word. It’s terrible stuff. But it might just incite some interesting conversation."

  "I would enjoy that. I do like poetry."

  "It’s not for the faint of heart."

  "I’m ready for anything."

  He grinned at her words. In another woman’s mouth they might have been seen as a flirtation, even an invitation, but Katerina was clearly too innocent to mean anything other than the obvious, that she liked poetry and was willing to listen to it.

  "Famous last words Katerina. Now then, my dear, here we are at the balcony." And sure enough, the arched, wood-framed doors were before them. "What would you think if we… stepped outside on it?"

  "I scarcely know. I’ve never been… taken to the balcony before." How could he really be asking this of her? It seemed unreal.

  "Would you object?"

  "I don’t think so." She was hesitant, but could not disguise the note of curiosity in her voice.

  He swept her out the door. It was very chilly outside, and the musicale, unlike the ball, was far from crowded. Katerina was instantly freezing, but she suppressed it as best she could. The moon was a sliver tonight, like the clipping of a fingernail, barely visible between the naked branches of the trees that rose from the garden below. She looked up at Christopher, wondering what was next.

  "Do you know why men take women to the balcony, Katerina?"

  Could he really mean what he seemed to be saying? Her heart began to beat faster. "Yes."

  "And do you fancy trying it?"

  She swallowed but did not speak. Her eyes were bigger than ever.

  "Tell me how you want this done, love."

  "What do you mean?" she whispered.

  "I’m offering you a kiss. Do you dream of being kissed, Katerina?"

  Oh Lord, he did mean it, and he was such a handsome man, and so kind. What a magnificent opportunity. "Yes." Oh, she did, and she liked Christopher so very much. He was perfect.

  "How?"

  She didn’t know how to answer the question. Her eyes grew puzzled.

  "Do you want my hands on you?"

  "Yes."

  "Where?"

  "Around my waist." She mouthed rather than spoke the words. He embraced her. He was wonderfully warm.

  "Where would you like your hands to be?"

  "Your neck."

  "Do it then."

  She looked at him for a long moment. Then, hesitantly, she slid her arms around him.

  "There, is that just right?"

  "Yes."

  It was a quiet reply, very quiet. He could feel her heart pounding against his chest.

  "Look up at me." Brown eyes met gray. "Close your eyes little one, and feel your first kiss."

  Her lids dropped. He lowered his head slowly and laid his lips gently on hers. It was a kiss straight out of a dream. His lips were firm, but he applied no pressure, just lingered against her mouth for a long moment. And then he lifted his head. She opened her eyes.

  "Was that nice?"

  "Yes, very." She was breathless with pleasure.

  "Would you like another?"

  "Yes."

  His mouth brushed hers again. When he released her lips, he kept his arms around her, sharing the warmth of his body.

  "Please let me talk to your father. It’s for the best. I think we’re going to be seen together a great deal. Wouldn’t it be better for him not to find out but to be consulted, right from the first? We have nothing to hide. You’re eligible. I’m eligible, and I want to be your suitor, see if whatever this is between us stays powerful over time. Don’t you want to, Katerina?"

  "I do. Believe me, I feel it too. I just… you mustn’t try to talk to him. It would be terrible. Promise me." Suddenly she sounded panicky, nearly hysterical, "Promise, Christopher. Don’t seek him out. Don’t ask him to be my suitor. You can’t imagine… no. You mustn’t!" She wrenched herself out of his grip and fled into the house. A moment later, before he could even gather his wits, she was outside, below, summoning a carriage, disappearing into the night.

  Startled, Christopher left the icy balcony and stepped into the welcome shelter of the house. From the music room he could still hear the sounds of the bored contralto, the lively harpsichord, the passionless flute. The whole conversation had taken less than half an hour.

  Still wondering what the hell had just happened, he slowly descended the stairs and summoned a hansom for himself, this one pulled by a shining black horse which pranced uncomfortably
in the chilly air. But instead of going to his bachelor apartment at the hotel, he headed to his parents’ home. He needed to talk to his mother. As the vehicle clattered through the slippery streets at a sedate pace, he relived the conversation and the kisses he had shared with Katerina. Perhaps she had become panicked because she had allowed the liberty at what was really only their second meeting. It was very fast to be talking of suitors, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask for her hand. Not yet. They had barely met, and he planned to take his time wooing her. As for that kiss, it had been an impulsive move, and really too soon, but she had been so sweet, so eager. Now he knew one thing for certain, Katerina, despite her shyness, had passion hidden inside her, and that was an excellent quality for… someday.

  He arrived at the home where he had spent his childhood. For all their wealth, the Bennetts lived rather modestly, in a middle class neighborhood in a comfortable spacious home which was in good repair, but in no way resembled the showy mansions in Mayfair. He walked up to the front door and knocked. An elderly servant answered. He really was far too old to work, but Christopher’s tender-hearted mother hadn’t been willing to dismiss him.

  "Good evening, sir," he told the younger man in a quavering voice.

  "Good evening, Tibbins. Are you well?"

  "As well as can be expected. The cold, you know? My knees dislike it."

  "I’m sorry to hear it. Is my mother in?"

  "Yes. I believe she’s in the parlor."

  "No need to show me the way. Have a good evening. Rest your knees."

  "Yes, sir."

  Christopher hurried to the parlor, where, sure enough, his mother was curled up on a scarlet velvet settee near the fire, reading a novel. She looked up at the sound of his approach.

  "Hello my love," she told him. "Out on such a cold evening?"

  "Yes, Mother. What’s wrong with Katerina?"

  She raised her eyebrows when he said her first name.

  "So you’ve moved to that level already, have you?"

  "Yes. She asked me to be her friend."

  "Did she? I’m astonished. She must like you very much. She can scarcely bring herself to talk to most men."

  "She seems to feel rather comfortable with me."

  "And you?"

  "I enjoy her company very much. What’s wrong with her?"

  "Nothing. What on earth do you mean?" She said it too fast, her voice uncertain.

  "So there is something." He sighed. "I want to court her. I asked her if I could talk to her father. She refused."

  "She did? I’m not surprised."

  "What am I not understanding here? She accepted my kiss." He hadn’t meant to say that.

  "Christopher!"

  "What? I kissed her. I didn’t seduce her. I wouldn’t do that."

  "Of course not. Listen, she’s right, you mustn’t talk to her father. If you do, you will cause her all kinds of problems."

  "So he really doesn’t want her to have suitors?"

  "He really doesn’t."

  "But what about her future?"

  "It doesn’t concern him. He’s a… a terrible man." It was unlike Julia to say unkind words about anyone, and her hard tone made the comment even more intense.

  "How?"

  She looked away. "I’m not sure it’s wise to tell you, protective as you are. I wanted you to meet her, to be entranced by her."

  "I did, and I think most likely I am. But how on earth can I move forward with this if it must be kept a secret from her father. He has authority over her."

  "Yes. Damned shame."

  Christopher gawked. He had never in his whole life heard his mother use strong language.

  "You have to tell me."

  "Her father…" Julia took a deep breath. "He beats her."

  Silence. Long silence. And then…

  "Badly?"

  "Terribly. You can’t imagine. The bruises I’ve seen… they would break your heart. And it’s escalating."

  "She had a cut on her lip."

  "You see? I’ve never known him to hit her face."

  "She said she bit it."

  "If she did, it was because she was in pain."

  "Oh God." It was a terrible thought and Christopher could hardly stand to consider the sweet girl he was coming to care for being brutalized. "What do you want me to do, Mother? Why was I supposed to be entranced by her?"

  "I want you to rescue her."

  "How?"

  "Think, Christopher. How? Only one man’s rights over a woman supersede the father’s."

  "Mother, I’ve barely met her. You can’t mean… you want me to marry her?"

  "Yes." The word was simple, but firm.

  "Well, I’m not opposed to the idea. But not yet."

  "Every day she stays in his care, the danger increases."

  "And just how am I supposed to do this if I can’t ask for her father’s permission?"

  "You know how."

  "Elope?"

  "Yes."

  "This is a very strange conversation."

  "I know. Think about it Christopher. When women are abused, the abuser is responsible, but so is everyone who knows and does nothing. I’m her friend, but I have no legal right to separate her from her father. This was all I could do for her."

  "Marriage is a big step, Mother. I wanted one like you and father have. How can I with someone I’ve just met?"

  "I barely knew your father when we married. What we have was developed over the years. If you make the commitment, and the effort, in time the rest will come."

  Christopher shook his head. "It’s too soon. I… I understand the problem, but I have my own future to think about too. I’m not going to rush headlong into an elopement with her, no matter how lovely she is."

  "I hope you can live with the outcome of waiting."

  And on that dark note, Christopher took leave of his mother and returned to his little apartment in a hotel across town, where he spent an unsettled night lost in painful contemplations, which eventually gave way to terrible dreams of an innocent, dark-eyed girl crying out for help. No one came to her aid, and finally the pleas were cut off and a disturbing silence fell.

  ***Chapter 5***

  Katerina walked up to the door of the unfamiliar home, her heart pounding. She had deliberately lied to and deceived her father. If he ever found out… she shuddered, and then winced. It was going to be very hard to act normal this evening. The pain was intense, and, silly vanity, she had tightened her laces more than usual, wanting to look pretty for Christopher.

  This little flirtation was a terrible idea. Somehow, someone had tattled to her father that she had been seen dancing and talking with a man. He had taken it worse than she had expected, so badly she had been unable to go for the walk Christopher had proposed. Even now she was having a hard time moving. Her muscles were stiff and sore, and the wounds on her back were scabbing over, pulling uncomfortably with every step. She should be used to it by now. Since her mother’s death, the only change to her father’s behavior was that it became more violent.

  She approached the salon where the guests were drinking sherry. They were seated on armchairs and chaises and sofas around a cheerfully crackling fireplace with an attractive brick hearth, waiting for dinner. A glass was offered, but she refused. Between the pain and the tight lacing, she was dizzy enough. And then Christopher was there, taking her arm.

  "Good evening Miss Valentino."

  "Good evening."

  "Am I still in your bad graces?"

  "You never were."

  "Good to hear. I missed walking with you."

  "Sorry. I was… unwell."

  His eyes darkened. "Unwell my dear? I’m sorry to hear it. Are you better now?"

  "Somewhat." She changed the subject, "So what does one do at these parties. I admit to finding your description intriguing."

  "Well," he led her to an unoccupied settee and perched her there, sitting beside her. "First, we act as though this were a normal party, conversing, gossi
ping, drinking and all. You don’t have a drink."

  "I don’t feel like it tonight."

  "Very well. Then we have dinner, quite a good dinner I might add. It’s not until after that the dark events begin to take place." His eyes were sparkling with mischief. "It’s an orgy of words, my dear. Women have been known to swoon."

  Katerina rolled her eyes, although as bad as she felt, it wouldn’t take much to loosen her grip on consciousness.

  "Come now," a rather tipsy gentleman shouted from a burgundy armchair in the corner, "I’m bored. Can’t we start the reading before dinner for once?"

  Christopher glanced in his direction and was disappointed to notice the upholstery was of rather inferior quality.

  "Now now Mr. Reardon," a lovely woman who appeared to be about thirty-five approached the gentleman and patted his arm, "It’s tradition to wait."

  "But there’s no new gossip this week. Nothing at all. The conversation is getting stale in here."

  "Reardon, that’s your cravat, not the conversation," a much younger man, with sandy hair and a naughty twinkle in his bright green eyes, who appeared to be about Christopher’s age, teased the malcontent.

  The drunk colored and subsided.

  "Well, he’s not wrong," another lady, this one a gorgeous blond with a petulant expression and a pouty lower lip whined, "There’s nothing new to talk about."

  "Well, Miss Carlisle," the young man called to her, "come with me and we can create a scandal."

  She giggled, "No thank you, Mr. Cary. I would really rather not."

  Now it was the young man’s turn to pout.

  Katerina was feeling dizzier than ever trying to keep up with the swirling conversations. For there being only seven people, the noise in the room was intense. The swish of fabric was unnaturally loud in her ears, as were the thuds of booted feet. She glanced around the room, hoping to fix her eyes on something to steady herself. The hostess was wearing a very puffy brown dress with wild yellow flowers on it. Katerina blinked and turned away. The blonde’s gown was a vibrant green which assaulted her eyes with its painful brightness. Even the fire seemed to stab at her. There was a smell of stale cigars in the air, which added to her nauseous dizziness. In desperation she turned to the back of the room, behind the seating area.

  Ah, there was a rather battered-looking piano in the corner.