Keeping Katerina (The Victorians)

by Simone Beaudelaire

  Having no idea, Christopher slid his arms around her waist, embracing her, and laid his mouth on one deep thick line, tracing it gently. The delicate touch confused her. What was this? His hands slid up her torso and cupped her breasts while he kissed her, one scar after the other. Her body relaxed, moistened, but her mind was still confused, trapped between the past and the present, the fear of pain and the pleasure of his caresses. He worked her nipples as he kissed his way down her bottom and knelt behind her. Gently he widened her stance so he could taste her, licking her succulent folds, sliding his hands down her sides so they could join in the stimulation. He worked and worked her until she exploded, and the beauty of the orgasm broke through her terror and suddenly she was fully alive, aware, on fire with pleasure, crying out with it.

  And then he was standing behind her, covering her body with his, parting her so he could press in deep. The fear was gone. She could relax with a man behind her, and she bent forward, letting him thrust and pull back, enjoying being taken.

  "Say it, Katerina," he growled as he filled her.

  "Oh, Christopher, oh," she moaned.

  "Tell me," he urged.

  "I love you. Oh God, I love you, I love you. Oh yes." Her head fell forward as her pleasure peaked again. He came with her, in a rush, groaning, pressing deep and releasing.

  He slid free and scooped her into his arms, carrying her to the bed, joining her, pulling her close. He kissed her lips gently.

  "Did you mean it, Kat?"

  "Yes. Did you?"

  "Of course."

  "Good. Then all is as it should be."

  "It is." He traced her lower lip with the tip of his thumb before leaning close and kissing her again.

  "Good night, sweet girl."

  "Good night, my darling."

  ******

  In the morning, Christopher woke early. His lovely wife was sound asleep in his arms, on her side, her back to him. He looked at the ravaging scars in the light of dawn. Horrible. They did not interfere with his love for his wife, not one iota, though he still hated how much she had suffered. But she had risen. She was his phoenix, his firebird, forged in hell and yet capable of carrying him to heaven. Suddenly shy of his intense feelings, he slipped from the bed and dressed. Scrawling her a brief affectionate note, he slipped out for a walk.

  It was cool this morning, but not as bad as previous days. There was a hint in the air of coming spring. He walked through the olive grove and further out, into the morning mist, over the tree-studded hill which separated the Bianchi family property from the unclaimed land beyond. The sun was still rising, coloring the landscape gold and scarlet and sparkling on the waters of the Arno, where it cut across the estate. Christopher felt a dawning hope. Oh, he had hoped before, hoped against hope. But now he dared to believe. Maybe she would really be all right. Not just survive but thrive, be happy, be the kind of wife he had always dreamed of having. She was so strong. And he loved her with a fierce passion. And she loved him. She had said it, and sung it, and meant it. He believed her.

  There was a little gust of wind and Christopher shivered in his coat.

  "Blast." The breeze carried with it a nearby voice, as well as a crumpled paper covered in messy handwriting and scratched-out errors. Christopher picked it up. Nearby was another sheet, and then another. He began collecting them, following the little trail of papers back to the source. On the other end, he found a gentleman, a bit older than himself, with a full and bushy chestnut beard, but no mustache at all. He was frantically scooping up scattered sheets as he went. Silently Christopher bent to help, and eventually returned a large pile to the stranger.

  "Is that all of them?"

  "I believe so, sir."

  "Excellent. Thank you for your help." He gathered the papers into a folio and set it down, holding it shut against the wind with a rock. Then he extended his hand.

  "You’re welcome." They shook. "I’m Christopher Bennett, by the way."

  "Welcome to Florence. Are you relocating?"

  "No, I’m here on my honeymoon. My wife’s family owns the estate nearby."

  "The Bianchis? They’re good folk."

  "They are. And you are?"

  "Oh, my name is Robert Browning."

  Christopher’s jaw dropped. He closed it with a snap.

  "The poet Robert Browning?"

  "You’ve heard of me?"

  "Yes. I’ve read your poems. My goodness, I had no idea you lived here."

  "Well, my wife’s father isn’t keen on me. We thought it best to live far away."

  "I can relate to that. Well, it’s an honor to meet you."

  "Thank you. Most people know my wife better."

  "I’m sure. But my friends and I, we discovered your poems. You really made us think."

  "Good. That was the goal."

  More needed to be said, but how? "In fact…" he considered. "You know, my father owns a cotton mill."

  Browning crooked one eyebrow.

  "It’s a progressive mill. We’ve always tried to be aware of our workers’ needs. From time to time we hear we’ve made a difference for someone. It always helps."

  "And why are you telling me this, Mr. Bennett."

  "Because if I help someone, I like to know. Reminds me of the reasons we do what we do. So I wanted you to know that… you made a difference."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, I was aware of violence against women before I read ‘Porphyria’s Lover’, but I never really thought much about it. Perhaps it was Providence, but the day after I read it, I met a young woman in a dangerous situation. I couldn’t bear the thought of her ending up like poor Porphyria, so I married her. I would never have given her a second thought, and certainly not done what I did, except the murder in that poem was so fresh on my mind. You made me aware. That poem saved her life."

  "Ah, well, thank you for telling me. And your marriage?"

  "It’s very good. We’re happy."

  "I’m glad for you then. Glad to know I helped. She’s like a grain of sand though."

  "I know. But until the laws are changed we can only do what we can do. I can’t save them all, but I saved this one. That matters. And your role in it matters. Thank you, Mr. Browning, for having the courage to write what you did."

  "Everyone hates it."

  "Guilt."

  "Perhaps."

  "And perhaps the time is still not right. But I know this will continue to make a difference. I intend to keep sharing it, to keep speaking out. Do you intend to keep writing?"

  "I do."

  "Good luck to you then."

  "Thank you, Mr. Bennett."

  "Thank YOU, Mr. Browning."

  The men shook hands and then Christopher hurried home. His bride was waiting for him, and suddenly he wanted very much to see her.

  ******

  Inside the Bianchi manor, Katerina was sitting in the breakfast room, sipping a cup of coffee, wincing at its strength. She became aware of a movement behind her, but for once, did not jump in nervous anxiety. She simply turned to see. How refreshing. It was Aimée St. Jean.

  "What do YOU want?" She asked the other woman coldly. Before Aimée could even open her mouth, Katerina continued, "You may have the damned piano. You may have grandfather. But you will stay away from my husband. Is that clear? He’s mine, and he doesn’t want you anyway. Leave him alone."

  "Yes, of course I will. You’re right. And I never wanted him either. As you said, he’s too young for me." Her chastened tone made Katerina even more suspicious.

  "Then what were you doing?"

  "Trying to unnerve you."

  "Why?"

  "Petty jealousy. I was jealous of your talent and of your grandfather’s attention. It was mean-spirited and I apologize." Aimée sounded disarmingly sincere.

  "Why?"

  "Because I’m woman enough to admit when I’m wrong. I should never have treated you this way."

  "You needn’t be jealous of my talent. Yours is greater."


  "No. My experience is greater. But I think you have more natural musical ability."

  "Is it still a competition, Madame?"

  "No. It’s not."

  "I mean, you’re a talented artist. So am I. Why can we not commiserate, since we share so many things in common?"

  "I don’t know. I’ve been feeling very… off lately, you see…" she leaned over and whispered in her ear. Katerina’s mouth fell open.

  "It’s no excuse," Aimée continued, "but I was so worried he was losing interest in me because of you."

  "There’s no comparison. You’re the woman he loves. I’m his granddaughter. There’s no competition there either."

  "You’re right, but I’m not thinking straight right now. I’ve been so worried."

  "I can see that. Well I suppose you two had better get married. How odd to think your child will have a niece from the first moment of life, a niece twenty years his senior."

  "That is amusing." Aimée chuckled, "so, Mrs. Bennett, can we start over, please? I mean you’re going to be my step-granddaughter."

  "Am I?"

  "Oh yes. We worked it out last night."

  "Very good. When?"

  "Soon. Probably before you leave. Will you come?"

  "On one condition."

  "What’s that?"

  "Let me play at the wedding."

  "Of course. Will you also sing?"

  "If you like."

  "Do you know the Schubert ‘Ave Maria’?"

  "I do."

  "Please?"

  "Of course."

  The women grinned at each other and moments later Christopher arrived.

  Unconcerned with Aimée’s presence, he scooped his wife into his arms for a long and coffee flavored kiss.

  "I love you," he told her softly.

  "How sweet you are Christopher. I love you too."

  "Good. It’s beautiful outside. Would you like to go for a little walk?"

  "That would be very pleasant."

  "Let’s go then. Madame St. Jean." He bowed and they left her.

  ***Chapter 19***

  The rest of the visit was exceedingly enjoyable. Aimée and Alessandro married quietly, much to the consternation of his son, who was five year older than his father’s bride. As promised, Katerina played and sang at the little ceremony. It was lovely.

  Apart from that, she and her husband spent time exploring the ancient city of Florence; playing tourists, and gawking at the buildings. Christopher had the pleasure of introducing his wife to the Brownings. Robert was effusively pleased to meet the charming young woman whose life had been spared in part due to his writing, and Katerina found a kindred spirit in his shy but passionate wife Elizabeth. There was much symmetry between the couples, as the poets had also been forced to marry in secret, and they and the Bennetts found each other very pleasant company. The Brownings escorted their new friends to the Galleria dell’Accademia, where they admired rich paintings and sculptures by many artists including Fra Lippo Lippi. Robert showed them the famous altarpiece the monk had created, with it gloriously-colored image of the angel and the Virgin Mary, and declared his intention to write a poem about it.

  Another day, Christopher and Katerina walked along the Ponte Vecchio Bridge, which was oddly lined with little shops, and gazed at the picturesque Arno River which flowed beneath. They admired the Botticini frescoes and attended mass at the Santo Spirito Basilica, a pale cross-shaped medieval church lined inside with rows of delicate columns. At last they visited the main Cathedral in the city, Santa Mari del Fiore with its famous Gothic-era red and white dome, gloriously painted on the inside.

  But they did not merely wander day after day. Sometimes they remained at the Bianchi residence where they devoured the delicious meals provided by Alessandro’s cook, and Katerina’s slenderness began to develop into a lovely hourglass shape typical of young Tuscan women. She was still too slender, but it was an improvement. And of course, they enjoyed their holiday in the traditional way, by pleasing each other in bed.

  In fact, by the end of the trip, Christopher was beginning to feel concerned. Katerina was growing increasingly tired during the day, and often had to lie down in the afternoon. Well, it was no surprise, after all, he kept her up late many nights, but she was starting to look a little fragile. He hoped she wasn’t coming down with an illness. But she was still as eager as ever, and it was hard to say no to his pretty bride. If he were honest, he would have to admit he never did. Secure in each other’s love, their marriage grew happier and stronger every day.

  But vacations don’t last forever, and in the middle of March, Alessandro drove them back to Livorno, foregoing the train in favor of a few more hours spent together. He promised to visit them in England in the fall, after the grape harvest, and before the olives. His and Aimée’s baby was due in July, and Katerina was looking forward to seeing the little one. It amused her to no end that her grandfather had not only bedded such a young woman but had actually succeeded in getting her with child. She wasn’t disapproving. Not at all. She was delighted that the couple was together. They faced a difficult future, to be sure, particularly Aimée. But all relationships have their problems, and they were happy. It was enough.

  Too soon the travelers arrived at the docks. Alessandro shook Christopher’s hand and hugged and kissed Katerina and the couple boarded the ship for their return to England. They would arrive some time around the first of April, again depending on weather conditions.

  The return trip was a repeat of their previous voyage, with Katerina being terribly seasick. If anything, it was worse this time. Her poor stomach could hardly hold food, and every dip of every wave caused a corresponding dip in her belly. She suppressed this as best she could, not wanting to alarm her husband, but she still retched often and miserably.

  As they sailed past Gibraltar into the Atlantic, the captain issued an invitation for all first class passengers to join him for a special dinner and socializing hour. Glad of a chance to be distracted from Katerina’s discomfort, the Bennetts readily agreed. The ship’s dining room with its white ceiling, golden wood on the walls and supporting pillars was beautiful. Rows of little round tables set with white cloths and golden wood chairs with cream upholstery which sported a pattern of elongated emerald octagons connected with thin green lines. Dinner was lovely, and the company superb, although the wine was not as good as Alessandro’s. Afterwards, Katerina clung to her husband’s arm for balance as they mingled and chatted, accompanied by a string trio that Katerina proclaimed very good.

  As the young couple talked idly to a doctor from New York who was touring Europe in hopes of learning new techniques, Katerina was suddenly aware that she felt… strange. Not nauseous, but dizzy. She tried to ignore it, to focus her attention on the conversation, but it grew worse, more insistent, and black spots began floating in her field of vision.

  "Christopher," her lips were numb and she could scarcely form his name.

  "What is it, love? Are you ill again?"

  "I…" and then it was too late. Unconsciousness rushed upon her and she sank into a faint. Christopher caught her before she could fall and carried her to a seat, cradling her against his chest.

  For the most part, the conversations continued unabated. It was not at all unusual for young ladies to pass out. The doctor approached cautiously. Christopher was stroking his wife’s face gently, trying to rouse her.

  "Is she all right?"

  "I have no idea. She hasn’t fainted in ages."

  "How tightly is she laced?"

  "She isn’t. She has no laces at all. She doesn’t need them."

  "Well if she’s not tight-laced, and you say she’s not prone to fainting, I wonder what’s going on. Is she ill?"

  "She’s seasick."

  "Perhaps she’s become dehydrated. That can happen when one is very nauseated."

  "Perhaps."

  "Would you like me to look her over?"

  "Yes, I think so."

  "Let’s ta
ke her back to your cabin."

  They left the party and headed to the Bennetts’ room, where Christopher laid his wife gently on the bed. He gave the doctor a hard look. He would under no circumstances be leaving the room. Dr. James took no offense. He had encountered protective young husbands before. He didn’t even ask.

  "Can you loosen her dress a bit for me?"

  Christopher opened the gown, demonstrating that there was, in fact, no corset underneath. The doctor checked Katerina’s pulse and breathing, and, finding no cause for immediate alarm, pulled some smelling salts from the little bag he always kept with him and roused her with the potent aroma.

  "Ugh," she moaned, waving the pungent mixture away, "What’s happening?"

  "You fainted, love."

  "I did?"

  "Yes."

  "Oh, I remember. I was dizzy. It was very unpleasant. Oh, Doctor James, why are you here?"

  "He’s concerned about you." Christopher replied, "He wants to understand why you became faint, to be sure you’re not dehydrated."

  The doctor was examining Katerina’s skin and eyes.

  "She doesn’t have the look. I don’t suspect dehydration. And you’ve just come from dinner. I saw you eating, so it wasn’t hunger which caused your faint. You’ve been very seasick?"

  "Yes."

  "Vomiting frequently?"

  "Yes. Is that why?"

  "I doubt it. Vomiting can be the mechanism for malnourishment or lack of fluids, which can cause fainting, but in itself is unlikely to do so. Hmmm. May I ask you a very personal question?"

  "Yes, I suppose so."

  "How long since your last menstruation?"

  Katerina blushed furiously. And then began to think…and think…and think. And then her lips parted in surprise.