Keeping Katerina (The Victorians)

by Simone Beaudelaire

  Deep within herself, Katerina did not hear her husband arrange to purchase the piano from the salesman and deliver it to the home they had rented. She was in love, desperately in love. And when the piece ended she felt like weeping, but restrained herself. Surely crying over a piano was too much. She took several slow deep breaths.

  "This is the one, isn’t it, love?"

  "Yes."

  "All right. It will be at our house by tomorrow."

  She nodded. "Thank you, darling."

  "You are very welcome."

  "Thank you, sir," she told the salesman earnestly.

  "Thank you, my dear. I never grow tired of hearing a pianoforte played well."

  She smiled and let her husband lead her from the showroom, back down the street past rows of multicolored awnings. They walked past the massive display windows of a toy store, from which dolls and teddy bears regarded the street with black button eyes. A greengrocer teased the frozen inhabitants with a pyramid of oranges imported from Spain. A bookseller displayed the latest collection of poetry against a backdrop of rather dusty black velvet. At last they arrived at a garment shop.

  "Now then, my dear, I believe you said you were lacking in clothing?"

  "Yes, terribly, but we’ve spent enough." Her concern for his finances touched him. Worrying about the money was just the sort of thing a wife should do. He hurried to reassure her.

  "Love, my father OWNS a cotton mill. I’m his second in command. We’re hardly lacking in funds. I’ve been saving for years."

  "Why?"

  "I’m middle class, love. I don’t believe in wasting all my money on dissipated living. I knew I would want a wife someday, a family. So at any rate, I can afford a few new things for you. Besides, our company supplies this woman with fabric. She gives us a discount. As I recall you need chemises, and dresses for various occasions. Do you ride?"

  "No."

  "All right. You won’t need a habit then. Ah, here’s the modiste."

  "Madame Olivier, my wife is in need of a complete wardrobe. Please outfit her with everything. Love, do you mind if I step out? Women’s clothing shops suffocate me. I’ll be back and collect you soon."

  "Very well, Christopher."

  "Oh, but remember, no corsets. You don’t need them, and I like you to be able to breathe."

  He swept out, leaving his bride blushing in the stuffily close environment of the shop, in the care of a stranger who quickly had her stripped down to her borrowed undergarments, tutting over her lack of womanly endowments. Katerina kept silent, but dared to admit to herself that her husband had found no cause to complain.

  "O mon Dieu!" the woman exclaimed from behind her.

  Katerina sighed. "Oui, ils sont terribles, n’est-ce pas? Mais il n’y a rien à faire. S’il vous plaît, madame, aidez-moi avec des vêtements."

  "Yes, you’re right." Mme Olivier switched to English, "I apologize. I was… startled. Of course we can get on with clothing. It’s very good that… they don’t come up any higher, or it would be hard to find you anything fashionable to wear. But was he serious? No corset?"

  "Yes."

  "How will you support your bosom?"

  "It needs very little. Perhaps some stays will suffice?"

  "Yes. That will do nicely. A little extra padding in the skirt will create the illusion of a more generous curve."

  "Very well."

  ******

  Two hours later, Christopher returned for his wife. He had arranged to have their meager possessions moved to their new home, and had informed Mackenzie of the change of address. Mrs. Bristol was employed by the hotel, and would be staying at her current position, so he had posted an advertisement for a cook-maid, which was scheduled to run the next day. Soon, they would need to shop for more furniture, but today he was tired, and he was sure Katerina was worse. By the time he settled the bill at the shop, their bed should be in their home and ready for a couple of newlyweds to retire in.

  He entered the shop and found his wife standing on a little stool while Mme Olivier adjusted the hem of a dress, no doubt lengthening it to fit Katerina’s height. It was a lovely color for her, a rich burgundy with black piping, and the sleeves, rather than being heavily puffed to the wrist, were fitted to her slender arms. Lovely. Undergarments, nightgowns, and more dresses, in sedate plaids and brown prints, were set aside ready to be purchased, and a glorious gleaming white party dress was being held by an assistant, ready to be fitted to Katerina’s delicate figure.

  "She looks very good in white," he commented idly, from the doorway of the room.

  "With her lovely coloring, she certainly does," the modiste replied.

  "Well done. I see you haven’t let her economize too much."

  "No, I know you are a man of excellent taste and want your wife to look her best."

  "I do."

  "I think this is excessive," Katerina said softly from her perch.

  "Hardly, love. I would say it’s just enough."

  She pondered this in silence for a moment, and then said simply, "thank you." The words were accompanied by an intense look which promised more visceral thanks later.

  "You are very welcome, love," he replied, risking the wrath of the modiste to lift his wife’s delicate hand to his lips before stepping back, letting the women finish their work.

  The hemmed dress was unlaced and pulled from Katerina’s body, leaving her in a chemise and a set of short waist-length stays which supported her breasts without constricting her breathing. The white gown was tossed over her head and quickly fitted for alterations. She then wriggled into a ready made dress in a cream flowered print with a full skirt and heavy pleats in the bodice that created the illusion of a full bosom above a tiny waist. The waist was natural. The bosom was a clever excess of fabric, but so skillfully done that the ruse was not readily detectable.

  Christopher paid for the dresses and led his wife out to a waiting cab, which took them to their new home. As he had hoped, the bed was in place in the largest bedroom, and the young couple retired for an afternoon nap which involved very little sleeping, but was wonderfully relaxing nonetheless.

  ***Chapter 11***

  Monday morning, Christopher and his father headed to the cotton mill to meet with Colonel Turner and some of the other employees. As he exited the Hansom, he glanced through a mist so heavy it was nearly rain at the tenements. What a shame people had to live like this. London had always been full of the poor and downtrodden, but in the three quarters of a century since the Industrial Revolution had begun, massive numbers of people had swarmed into the city to work in factories. Most were poorly paid, and ended up living in places just like this. The failure of the potato crop in Ireland, which had begun a few years before, had only increased the crowding. Those squalid little apartments sometimes held multiple families in their filthy depths. Disgusting. He hurried inside.

  No matter the season, it was always swelteringly hot and humid inside a cotton mill, the heat and moisture necessary to keep the strands supple. For the moment, however, the heat was a welcome respite from the cold of the morning. Christopher met his father and the colonel at the door and they made their customary rounds, first donning masks Christopher had invented to keep cotton fibers from being inhaled, which was terrible for the lungs. The workers were also required to wear them.

  They toured the factory, as they did weekly, and admired the hard work of the men and women, all teens and older, who were taking bales of raw cotton imported from America and feeding it into machines that would card, spin, dye, and weave. Eventually beautiful fabric would emerge and be distributed to shops in London, across England, and abroad. There were several businesses that would work only with fabric from the Bennett Mill, not only because the fabrics were of excellent quality, but also because of the father and son’s dedication to fair treatment for their workers. They produced less product, and it was more expensive, but the dividends in human happiness were worth more to both men than money, and they certainly were
far from destitute.

  The noise in the factory was earsplitting, and most of the employees had, with the owner’s enthusiastic permission, taken a little bit of the raw cotton and stuffed it in their ears to preserve their hearing.

  There was no point in talking; nothing could be heard over the racket of the machinery, so they looked on in silence as employees communicated with hand gestures. One young lady was new. Christopher hadn’t met her before. She was sitting at a weaving loom, a shuttle flying fast under her skilled manipulations. He was appalled to notice she was completely missing the ring finger on her right hand. The stump was raw and red looking. She seemed to have sensed his presence and looked up, and, seeing he was young and handsome, winked at him above the mask. She was a comely little wench, but he found her completely lacking in appeal. Then his eyes narrowed. She had a bruise around one eye.

  Shaking his head, he followed his father and the manager to the office, which was equipped with simple plain desks for father and son. The walls were fitted with the best sound-proofing that could be had in 1848; the walls were stuffed with newspaper. It was still rather loud.

  "Well," Adrian said as the men removed their masks, "How is everything since our last visit, Turner?"

  "Excellent. As you can see, we have a new girl, Miss Jones. She’s quite accomplished on the loom."

  "What happened to her," Christopher asked, his voice dark.

  "What, her finger? She lost it at her previous employment. Machine accident."

  "I’ve seen that before. Who’s beating her?"

  "What?"

  "She has a black eye."

  "You know, I’m not sure. I’ll see if I can get Mrs. Turner to talk to her and find out."

  "That would be good."

  Christopher thought of his own sweet wife. After their lovely weekend together, it had been wrenching to leave her. She still seemed so frightened and uncertain, but she had assured him that wives stayed home, and she had cook-maids to interview, and her lovely new pianoforte to keep her company, and perhaps, later, she would go visit his mother. He had left, and despite long good-bye kisses perfectly suited to newlyweds, he had almost been on time.

  The gentlemen settled into their desks upstairs while Colonel Turner returned to the floor. A new shipment was coming in from Charleston and he wanted to oversee its unloading. There was, as usual, a mountain of paperwork for the father and son, and they settled in to reading and signing. Christopher was in charge of dyeing and distribution, Adrian, everything else.

  "So, son," Adrian asked, signing a document with flourish and setting it aside to dry, "how is your marriage so far?"

  "Quite good. We’ve settled into a little house and Katerina is interviewing cook-maids today. I bought her a pianoforte."

  "Does she play?"

  "Yes. She’s incredibly talented. I’ll ask her to play for you some time. You’ll be astonished."

  "What are you not telling me? You look… upset."

  "It’s nothing."

  "Come on, son. Let it out. Who else are you going to talk to? You’ve undertaken a massive and risky venture with this woman."

  "Actually she’s doing better than I expected."

  "Excellent. But?"

  "But she has a little… mannerism I dislike."

  "And that is?"

  "She flinches. A lot. Any time someone makes a sudden move near her, she shies away, covering her head."

  "Does it surprise you?"

  "No, not really. I just wish… she didn’t do it to me, that she trusted me not to hit her. I suppose it’s too soon."

  "Does she shy away from every touch?"

  "Not at all. She’s quite… affectionate. Just easily spooked."

  "Well then, she’s not really reacting to you. It’s the movement."

  "Right. Of course. Do you think she’ll ever stop doing that?"

  "Perhaps, but even if she doesn’t, is it really so bad?"

  "Yes."

  "It doesn’t mean she mistrusts you. She can’t help it."

  Christopher looked out the window. It was barely warm enough to be drizzling drearily today, and the bone chilling droplets obscured the unlovely view of the tenement across the street. He debated whether to say more. "I was making love to her at the time. All I wanted was to caress her face."

  "Sorry." Adrian grimaced. How unpleasant that must have been at such an intimate moment. "You know, son, in all marriages, there are things each spouse dislikes about the other. That’s simply the nature of close relationships. You’re not required to like everything about her in order to have a happy union. And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you there will be things about you she does not prefer as well."

  Christopher nodded.

  "Listen, you’re putting a great deal of pressure on yourself. Any marriage would have created this same period of adjustment. Let yourself dislike things about her. They don’t imply you dislike her. And then remind yourself what is good about her. She’s affectionate, she plays the pianoforte well. And she is quite lovely. Aren’t all those things much better than a little nervous gesture she can’t control?"

  "Of course."

  "And more will come, good and bad. That’s real life. That’s your marriage becoming real. Does it help any to think of those things?"

  "Some. I just wish she hadn’t been so terribly hurt."

  "You know, she may not be the only one with some grieving to do."

  "What do you mean, Father?"

  "Just this. You care about her. You’ve married her. She belongs to you. That means her suffering affects you. She’s not the only one who lost things she wanted. Weren’t you cheated of a normal courtship, of the opportunity to take your time with her and let the relationship develop more naturally?"

  "Yes."

  "And doesn’t it bother you?"

  "Yes."

  "And you have had to look at this woman, your wife, and see painful injuries on her body and face, and know someone harmed her and you were powerless to prevent it."

  "I know. I hate that." His tone was bleak.

  "Let yourself hate it. You should."

  "My poor Katerina." Christopher’s voice broke. He looked out the window again for a long moment. Then, eyes red, he turned back to his paperwork, ending the conversation.

  Adrian looked at his son. This was not going to be a rescue forever. Christopher was well down the road towards loving his wife, and as a deeply loving husband himself, his father recognized all the signs. If his love meant anything to Katerina, some day, Lord willing, they would have the kind of vital marriage they both claimed to want.

  They worked in silence for a long period of time, Adrian letting Christopher regain his composure, and then he spoke again.

  "You know, it might not be a bad idea for you two to take a little… trip together. A sort of wedding tour. You jumped back into everyday life three days after your marriage."

  "You know, you’re right. But who will take care of… all of this," he indicated his desk, "if I went away?"

  "Let your brother do it. He needs a taste of the family business. I know how you run things, and I can guide him."

  "Interesting thought. Where should I take her? The south of France might be nice this time of year, and we both speak the language rather well."

  "Ask her where she wants to go. She might prefer Italy."

  "Ah, good point. So, you would really be in favor of me taking an extended holiday on short notice?"

  "I really would. This is your family, son. Your marriage is for life. It’s very important."

  "Well all right then, father. Thank you very much."

  Adrian smiled. The thought of getting away with Katerina alone seemed to appeal to Christopher very much, and no surprise. He had been married a long time himself, but he could still remember the potent blend of desire and tenderness which accompanied the beginning of a marriage. Honestly, nothing much changed over the decades except those sizzling feelings deepened and strengthened. With luck, Christop
her and Katerina’s marriage would do the same.

  ******

  That afternoon, Katerina successfully found a very efficient young woman named Katie Lawrence to do the cooking and cleaning of her home. While it was traditional to call such a woman by her last name, she and Katerina were the same age, and she liked the girl’s confident manner and open, country-bred kindness. It was likely they would be more friends than anything else and had already decided to call each other by their first names when no one was around. Then she practiced until her fingers were sore. Finally she sent a brief letter to her mother-in-law. Now that all her appointed tasks were complete, she indulged herself with a cup of strong black tea and the collection of poetry Christopher had left in a folio on the bedside.

  So far she was enjoying being married very much. Her husband was a charming man, and pleased her tremendously both in bed and out. She was also surprised at how good she was feeling about herself. The bishop had made her think she would grieve and be miserable for a while and then begin to heal, but in fact, the two processes seemed to be simultaneous. She still had those old feelings of fear and depression that had been her constant state for the last ten years of her life, after her mother’s death, but they were interspersed with moments of radiant joy. And while she allowed herself her unhappiness, knowing it had to be felt to be healed, she was far from miserable all the time. How could she be when she had Christopher to hold and kiss and talk to her?

  She took a sip of her tea and opened to the first poem, her eyebrows drawing together at the title, ‘Porphyria’s Lover’. This must be one of the conversation pieces he had mentioned before the poetry party turned into a crisis. She wondered how lascivious it would be… well, she was a married woman, was she not? If this poem was a little scandalous, she could handle it.