Keeping Katerina (The Victorians)

by Simone Beaudelaire

  Suddenly, Katerina felt ill. She was actually, intentionally defying her father, trying to escape him at last. If they failed, she was dead. She had to trust her future to her little-known champion, a man of two weeks’ acquaintance. He seemed kind, but how could she trust him? How could she actually marry him and give him complete control over her for the rest of her life? What if he changed after they were married? She was subtly aware that the abuse a husband could inflict on a wife would be different from that of a father. Just look at how her mother had suffered all those years until she finally died of it.

  In Christopher’s defense, his mother had been one of her closest friends for the last year. There was no way such a good woman could have raised an evil son. Realistically he should be trustworthy, but the terrified creature inside her shied away from trust. Injured and frightened, she was at last overcome by nausea and she stumbled stiffly to the chamber pot, knelt painfully, and vomited. And that was where Christopher and Cary found her a few minutes later.

  As the last of the spasms passed, her suitor placed his hands on her shoulders, supporting her. Cary approached with a glass of cool water. She rinsed, spat, and took a deep sip. Christopher helped her to her feet, turning her to face them. Both men reacted to the sight of her face.

  "My God," Cary said.

  "Was that the whip?" Christopher indicated a deep bruise on her cheek.

  "The stick."

  "Are your teeth all right?"

  "They seem to be."

  "Thank God. Cary, do you think your uncle would agree to issue a license tonight? There’s no time for the reading of banns."

  "And it would undoubtedly prove fatal if we tried." Katerina said softly

  Cary stared at the injury in silence for another moment, and then visibly shook himself. "My uncle is a rabble rouser. He loves social reform. I think he would be delighted. Let’s go right now."

  Katerina was swaying again. It was so hard to remain upright.

  Christopher sighed and scooped her into his arms. Although the corset had hurt, not wearing it meant the scratchy linen of her chemise chafed her raw flesh uncomfortably. Determined to enjoy the warmth of his arms, she tried to ignore the painful sensations, even when a couple more of her wounds reopened and started bleeding. They would heal, and by then she would be safe. Safe… did such a place actually exist? How wonderful it would be to find it. It seemed Providence had decreed she had suffered enough and provided her an escape. If this was wrong, she couldn’t see it. ANYTHING was better than waiting for her father to succumb to a fit of rage and beat her to death, and the risk was constant.

  The carriage was already waiting, and Cary gave directions to the driver while Christopher settled inside with her on his lap. She winced again as her weight settled on her bottom. He hadn’t seen it, but the bruises there were worst, deepest. It was where he had started, full strength, bending her over his desk and whipping her thighs and buttocks violently. Then, as always, when his strength waned, he became enraged, flailing harder, with less aim, only this time the worn horsewhip had snapped, infuriating him further. He had grabbed his cane, beating her savagely until he could scarcely lift it. She had remained passive, motionless against the onslaught until Giovanni, in a fit of fury, had whipped her face. Startled, she had turned, avoiding another blow, and he had thrown her to the floor, pummeling her belly with his fists.

  There was little doubt he would have killed her had not his footman, unwilling to witness murder, pulled him off. The servant would have been fired, of course, except that Giovanni, drunk beyond imagination, had finally passed out, and awoke remembering nothing. And so, as always, Katerina’s maid Marietta had tended her injuries, all the while lecturing her about what a bad girl she was. Nothing ever changed.

  So Katerina, driven beyond her ability to cope, had decided to take this opportunity and flee. And with luck, this would be the last beating she ever had to endure. Imagine, a life without fear. It would take time, probably years, but she was determined to make it happen.

  The ride to the Bishop’s snug little home took only a few minutes, and then they approached cautiously, uncertain of their reception, especially as Christopher still cradled Katerina in his arms. She leaned her cheek against his shoulder. Cary knocked. The bishop himself, wearing a burgundy dressing gown, a cup of hot tea in one hand, opened for them and took in the scene with an eyebrow quirked in curiosity.

  "James, what’s happening?" He asked his nephew.

  "Can we please come in?"

  "Of course." He ushered them through the door and into a little sitting room, where they all settled. He looked askance at Katerina, whom Christopher was cradling in his lap. It was very embarrassing, but she couldn’t move. She was once again dangerously close to passing out.

  "All right James, what’s going on?"

  "Perhaps Christopher should tell you."

  "Well Bennett, what on earth are you doing?"

  "I need a favor of you, Reverend Cary. I need a license right away."

  "A marriage license?"

  "Yes."

  "I see you’re making rather free with the young lady."

  "I beg your pardon. She’s injured."

  "Injured?"

  "Her father has beaten her nearly to death. If I don’t marry her immediately, I doubt he’ll let her live another week." In his arms, Katerina shuddered.

  "How can I know this is true?" The bishop asked, suspicion thick in his expression and tone, "Sounds like a clever ploy to circumvent his wishes. Has he forbidden you to court her?"

  "He’s not safe to approach. If you doubt me, just look at what he did to her face."

  The bishop approached and regarded the livid bruise.

  "He did that with a walking stick. He could have knocked all her teeth out."

  "I have seen bruises like this feigned before."

  Christopher growled with frustration.

  "Please, uncle. Listen to him. Christopher would not be doing this if it weren’t vital. Last week he was all for wooing her slowly. Tonight he’s frantic to marry her. Something terrible has happened. And you’ve known him since we were at school together. You know he’s not the sort to take advantage of a woman."

  "My dear," the bishop addressed Katerina directly, "you would be best served to listen to your father."

  She shook her head, but speech was beyond her.

  "I promise you, reverend, I’m not trying to dupe anyone." His tone softened. "Katerina, I think we need to show him. I’m sorry love. Will you let him see your back?"

  She nodded numbly.

  "All right, I’m going to set you on your feet. Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall. Just lean on me." He stood, still holding her close, and then lowered her to the floor, his arms under hers, supporting her. She rested her head on his shoulder.

  "Cary, James. Can you… can you open the back of her dress?"

  "What? Why?"

  "Trust me. Please."

  He approached.

  "What in heaven’s name is all over her dress?"

  Christopher glanced over her shoulder.

  "Damnation. I beg your pardon Reverend. It’s blood. Looks like more of her injuries have opened up. I’ve moved her too much. Sorry love."

  Cary reached for the fastenings of her gown, but hesitated.

  "This is wrong."

  "It’s necessary. And she agrees, don’t you Katerina?"

  Katerina nodded against his shoulder.

  "Please hurry. I’m afraid she’s going to faint."

  Cary opened the back of the gown and Christopher slid it, and her chemise down to her waist, keeping her front pressed against his chest, preserving her modesty.

  "Good Lord," Cary exclaimed, and his uncle grunted in astonishment.

  "There you see? Have you ever encountered injuries this bad?"

  "Once," the Bishop said grimly. "The unfortunate lady did not survive. I had to perform her funeral service. Her husband was hanged. Is that the extent of the damage?"
/>
  "No." Christopher did not elaborate. He didn’t need to. "Will you issue the license now?"

  "Perhaps. First I need to speak to her alone."

  "James, a little help please?"

  Together they worked her clothing back over her ruined flesh and fastened it. Christopher walked her very slowly to a comfortable-looking sofa with curved legs and funny little lion paws, and helped her to lie down on her side, the only part of her that was uninjured.

  "Don’t leave, Christopher," she pleaded, sobbing, finding her voice at last.

  "I won’t go far love. The bishop needs to talk to you. I’ll be nearby if you need me." He stroked her cheek gently and pressed his lips to her forehead. "Be strong, Katerina. And whatever he asks you, tell him the truth."

  It was difficult for him to walk away from her even for a moment.

  He lingered in the doorway until Cary pulled him out.

  "She’s safe with my uncle. Let’s go look for a snack. I hardly got a bite of dinner and you didn’t get any. Besides, you could use a drink."

  ***Chapter 6***

  "My dear," the Bishop approached Katerina slowly. Tears were sliding down her temple into the ebony colored upholstery, "do you swear to me it was your father, and not your young man, that hurt you so badly?"

  She looked askance at him.

  "Sometimes abusive men can coerce women into lying, but if you marry him, the abuse will continue."

  "No," she steeled herself, forcing the words out, "marriage is the only way to stop it. Christopher didn’t do this to me. Father did. I’ve only known Christopher two weeks."

  "I see, and those scars are much older, aren’t they?"

  "Some are ten years old."

  "I’m very sorry for all you’ve had to endure."

  "Thank you. Is it wrong for me to ask this of him? I’m too needy to be a good wife."

  "It’s good of you to think of it. He’s your only hope though."

  "Yes. I wish I had something to offer in return."

  "You will some day, when you’re better."

  "Will my heart ever heal?"

  "If you want it to, if you pray and try with all your might to trust, to let go of the past, you can grieve for a season, and then begin to improve. I’ve seen it. Have you ever been loved?"

  "Before my mother’s death, she loved me."

  "Then there’s hope. Remember her love. It will show you the way."

  "Yes."

  "And it really wasn’t Mr. Bennett that hurt you?"

  "No. It really wasn’t."

  "All right. You rest then. I need to talk to him, and to my nephew. I think, in the morning, you’ll be free of this danger for good."

  "Thank you, Reverend."

  Glad she no longer needed to remain conscious, Katerina finally passed out.

  The Reverend William Cary wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and left her to rest, following his nephew and Christopher to the kitchen. There, he found James slurping a bowl of soup at the rough-hewn table. Christopher was leaning uncomfortably against the wall between the cook stove and doorway, looking gloomily into a glass of brandy. Hearing the approaching footsteps, they both looked up.

  "Well?"

  "Calm yourself, son," he told Christopher gently, "I’ll issue the license. I’ll perform the wedding in the morning. Are you sure you want to do this? She’ll be years recovering, if she ever does."

  "And if she dies because I did nothing? What then?" He asked fiercely.

  "It’s a terrible burden. I know exactly how terrible, but we can’t save everyone. Laws must be changed first."

  "That will take years," he reminded the bishop fiercely, "So in the meanwhile, I can save this woman. Will you let me?"

  "Uncle," James said, "listen, I know this girl. I danced with her. I had no idea… I thought she was just shy. Christopher saw right through it. I think there’s something… special between them. Maybe he was always meant to be her savior."

  "Perhaps. He certainly wants to be very badly."

  "Is she all right?" Christopher was ignoring the conversation, intent on his fiancée.

  "She’s sleeping now. I’ve left her to it. I’m sure she needs the rest. I’ve said I’ll do it and I will. Here, get something to eat."

  "I’m too upset to eat."

  "Yes, and you’re very heroic to try and help."

  "I’m no hero. That’s not what this is about."

  "I know. I hope this fierce attraction and protectiveness turns into a deep and mutual love someday."

  "I have to believe it."

  "Yes. Well if you’re not going to eat, put the brandy down. It will do you no good to be hung over for your wedding. Why don’t you try to rest a little? I have a guest room made up."

  "Very well."

  Christopher rose and headed back through the house. He had been here often enough, with Cary, and knew his way. First, he returned to the parlor, where, as the Bishop had said, Katerina was asleep on the sofa. He knelt in front of her.

  "I wish I had helped you sooner," he told her as she slept, "but I swear I’ll never let him hurt you again."

  Then he kissed her lips tenderly. Her eyelids fluttered, opened. Warm brown eyes met his, and she smiled.

  "Rest, love," he told her, "tomorrow is your wedding day."

  "Thank you Christopher." Her eyes were filled with a dawning shy hope and gratitude.

  Since she was awake, he kissed her once more, and enjoyed her response. Then he ran his hand soothingly over her forehead until her eyes shut again.

  ***Chapter 7***

  At noon the next day, Katerina walked slowly, painfully into the little church where she would finally shake off the burden of her father’s abuse for good. It was a small and plain building constructed of blond bricks. A single, simple rosette window, leaded but colorless admitted light above a decorative arched entryway and a massive wooden door. A little wrought-iron fence surrounded the churchyard with its garden, now dormant under the grip of a frigid London winter.

  She was wearing a dress borrowed from the bishop’s late wife’s closet. It was icy blue and both too short and too generously cut for her, but there was no help for it. Her white party gown was ruined with blood. Thankfully, overnight, the bleeding had stopped and the wounds once again scabbed over. She was dreadfully stiff, but persevered as best she could, moving carefully, not wanting to upset her healing injuries. She leaned heavily on Christopher for support. They stood in front of the little altar with its colorful stained-glass window behind, beneath a white barrel vaulted ceiling, decorated with a wide wooden lattice

  Thankfully, though sore and uncomfortable, today she did not feel faint. A good night’s sleep and a tasty breakfast had helped immensely. There was also a fierce pleasure in the knowledge that while her father undoubtedly was searching for, he would never find her in time. Ironically, no matter how good she had been, she’d never been able to satisfy his harsh demands. And now she was being very bad, defying him, and the rewards would be considerable. By the time he could ferret out the name of her companion, she would be wedded and bedded and out of his reach. It was terribly unfair to Christopher, but he knew what he was doing. At least she hoped he did. And she would try to become a wife worthy of such a man, some day, Lord willing, she would succeed.

  The ceremony was as brief as Reverend Cary could make it. There would be no party to celebrate it, no fancy meal, no dancing. As soon as the vows were completed, Christopher led his bride down the aisle, supporting her with his arm around hers, back to his carriage, to his rooms; messy and cramped bachelor’s quarters, never intended to be shared with a woman. The whole living space consisted of only two rooms: a parlor and a bedroom. The parlor was sparsely furnished, as very little would fit into the narrow space. There was just room for a small sofa, of the typical style with a high curving back, solid arms that curved into a spiral, and short square legs. It was covered in a turquoise colored fabric, tufted on the back and studded at the bottom. Christopher also
had two matching armchairs, white with a pattern of turquoise leaves which matched the sofa. It was clear his mother had chosen the furnishings. A short-legged table stood in the center, littered with dirty cups and abandoned mail.

  "Sorry about this, love," he told her, as he escorted her over the threshold into the little sitting room, "I’ll look into finding us a home soon." He swept a pile of jumbled papers from the sofa to the floor and urged her to sit, joining her and taking her hand in his.

  "I’m just glad to be here with you."

  "Can I get you anything?" Courtesy had prompted the question, but there was little to offer in the apartment other than liquor, wine, and half a loaf of bread almost certainly too stale to eat. He took most of his meals in the hotel’s dining room.

  "No, I don’t need anything. Can we proceed?"

  "With what?"

  "I’m not really safe yet, am I Christopher? Isn’t there another step?"

  He shook his head. "You’re not ready."

  "It hardly matters. This has to happen."

  "You’re too badly injured."

  "And if he finds me? Can he not take me away, have the marriage annulled?"

  "He could."

  "And then I would die."

  Christopher looked down. It was true.

  "Then there’s nothing more to be said, is there? Let’s go."

  "Kat, you don’t know what you’re asking."

  "You’re right. You promised to explain it to me."

  "Do you have any idea what is involved in consummating a marriage?"

  "My mother died when I was nine. I have no idea."

  "Oh Lord." He sighed. This was going to be awkward. He steeled himself and proceeded "Very well. This is going to be difficult conversation. Are you ready?" She nodded. "All right, you know your woman’s time?"

  "Yes." She was already blushing.

  "There’s an opening there… between your legs."