Beauty: an Everland Ever After Tale

by Caroline Lee

  “I’m not goin’ ta be at peace with it, ever.” Vincenzo turned on his heel to stalk out of the dining room, but before he did, his friend said quietly, “I expected better of ye, really.”

  Pausing with one hand on the doorframe, Vincenzo snorted. “Once, I did too, my friend. But now…” He continued down the hall to his violin, to his peace. Now I know better.

  When the knock at the door came, Arabella was ready. She’d been ready, all afternoon. Ever since Eddie showed her that photograph. Swallowing past her dry throat, she pulled the door open, to see him standing on the back steps, just like she’d expected.

  Only…only, in the fading evening light, he wasn’t whom she’d expected. Wasn’t whom she was used to. He’d shaved. Not completely, but enough for her to see the line of his jaw clearly; see his lips, see that cleft in his chin she’d always—no. This was just a coincidence. Her Edward had been able to grow a beard, but this man’s was broken by the scars that ran up his right cheek. Her Edward had looked at her with the most wonderful blue eyes, and had smiled often. This man…this man wasn’t him.

  His beard was trimmed, but could only do so much to cover his burns. Those burns—the scars that traveled up his face and under his blindfold—also continued down his throat. They’d been hidden by his thick beard for so long, but also explained why his voice sounded—No! This man wasn’t Edward.

  This man—Vincenzo’s—flared his nostrils and lifted his chin. “Arabella.” It wasn’t a question, and she knew that he was smelling the honeysuckle scent he’d always loved. No. No, she’d only met this man a few weeks ago.

  She tried to speak, but no sound came out. Instead she stood in her doorway, resisting the almost-overwhelming urge to stroke his cheek, like she had that evening in this garden. Like she had in her daydreams. “Arabella?” This time he sounded hesitant, like he was second-guessing himself.

  She had to answer. Had to. “Yes,” she managed to croak out. “Yes?” She tried again, sounding stronger. “Would you like to continue Roughing It?” They’d started to read Twain’s sequel at the picnic last Sunday, before he’d taken a break to fish with Eddie. Before he’d begun to act strangely.

  “No.” He ran one hand through his hair, pulling it back off of his forehead momentarily. Then, all of his breath exploding out of him at once, he gestured abruptly to the garden. “I came to talk to you. Can we sit out here?”

  “In the garden?” She knew that she sounded flat, rude, but he only nodded. So she gripped the silver frame a bit tighter, and said. “Of course.”

  Vincenzo’s shoes crunched on the gravel, but when he reached the center of the garden, he hesitated. Knowing that he needed her, she touched his elbow, and murmured “This way” as she guided him towards the wisteria grotto. Was it her imagination, or did he let out a little sigh as he sunk down onto the bench?

  “Vincenzo, I have something—“

  “Wait.” He made a harsh gesture with one hand. “Wait. I have something to tell you first.”

  Yes. Yes, she supposed he did. “Does it have to do with why you have my photograph?”

  She’d surprised him. Had he not realized it was missing? “What?” He sounded like he was strangling.

  “Eddie came to visit you while you were…while you were asleep. He saw this frame, and took it to show me.”

  Hands shaking, she turned one of his over in his lap and placed the frame in it. He grabbed both her hand and the small frame, tracing the border with his opposite fingers. By the third heartbeat, his hands were trembling harder than hers. His shoulders shook, and he hunched over the frame. She was torn between the urge to comfort him and to pull her hands away. “Vincenzo?”

  “I’m sorry, Arabella. I didn’t know...” His voice was thick, as if he was crying without tears. “I’m sorry.”

  She took a deep breath, and pulled her hands out from his. “Sorry for what?” Why was he apologizing? Was one of those horrible maybes she’d imagined the truth? “Eddie should be the one apologizing.”

  A harsh bark of laughter, and he held the frame clasped in both hands, like it was a lifeline to a drowning man. “No. He’s done nothing wrong. I should thank him.”

  “Thank him?”

  “For showing this to you. For helping you to understand.”

  She didn’t understand. “Vincenzo, I—“

  “No.” He lifted his face—his horrible, familiar face—towards her, and she watched his shoulders expand as he took a breath. “No, don’t call me that. Not here. Not now.”

  “What should I call you, then?” What truth would he tell her?

  His hair hung down over his blindfold, but she watched his mouth twist into a humorless grin. “I came here to tell you a story, Arabella. But I find that I can’t with you looking at me.” He cocked his head to one side. “You’re looking at me right now, aren’t you? I can feel your gaze.”

  There was no reason not to tell him the truth. “Yes.”

  He nodded. “I’ve spent ten years being looked at. I know how it feels.” He touched her shoulder, and followed her arm down to her hand. Taking it in one of his, he pressed the frame into it. “I want you to hold this, for now.” Her fingers twisted around the silver the way his had a minute before.

  As she watched, he reached up and untied his red silk blindfold, pulling it away from his face. The sun had just set, but there was enough light to see his expression—or lack thereof. This was the way he’d looked when she’d first met him. When he’d smelled her honeysuckle scent above the sweat and the passion and the music that filled the room and her soul. His hair hung across his brows, but not enough to disguise the roiling mass of thick red scars where his eyes and bridge of his nose should be. Not enough to hide the scars that traveled up his brow and into his hairline. Not enough to cover the ruin of what once had been a handsome face.

  “I can still feel you watching me.” She saw him swallow, saw the cords of his throat—still bearing burn scars—flex. When he lifted the blindfold towards her, she didn’t understand what he wanted. Each of his hands rested on one of her shoulders, then, and it was hard for her to take a full breath.

  Whereas a few times in the last months he’d touched her shoulders to find her hands, this time was different. This time, he slid his hands up, towards her neck. Briefly, his fingers played with the lace at her gown’s neckline, and then she shivered when he touched her skin. The calluses on his fingers were rough as they skimmed across her throat and then around to twine in the little hairs at the back of her neck. She knew her eyes were wide, but she wasn’t watching the scarred face in front of her, no; her entire being was focused on the feel of his fingers against her skin. Tiny tremors wracked her body; she’d forgotten how to breathe, and her pulse sounded loud in her ears, but she didn’t want him to stop, not at all.

  But then, with an efficient flip, he pulled the material up. Over her eyes. He held it in place with one hand while he positioned it properly with the other, wound it twice, and tied it behind her head. He’d blindfolded her? She couldn’t see a thing. It was pitch black under the scarf, and not the black of night, but the black of nothingness. Whereas a moment ago, she’d stopped breathing, now her breaths were coming in short, desperate gasps. She felt like she was cut off from the world, from everything she knew, and it was a horrible feeling.

  “Arabella, it’s okay.” Surprisingly, the surety of his voice did make everything okay. It was familiar and utterly foreign all at once, but she trusted it. He took her hands, still wrapped around the frame, and spoke again. “Listen. Listen. You can hear me breathe.” She…could. She could hear him breathing, deep, steady breaths that she tried to match. She wasn’t perfect, but soon she didn’t feel so light-headed.

  “Good, good. Now…” He squeezed her hands. “Now, smell. Listen. Feel.”

  “I can’t see anything.”

  “How horrible.” His sarcasm might’ve made her smile any other time, but tonight felt far too serious. “I mean it, Arabella. The wisteria
is wilting, but the roses are still blooming. Your honeysuckle is only beginning to scent the night air. Can you smell it?”

  She took a deep breath, and nodded. She was sitting among the most beautiful scents, and while she’d always enjoyed them, she’d never bothered to immerse herself in them. But, by quieting her heart, and breathing deeply, she could smell every individual type of flower.

  “Good. And now listen. Do you hear the crickets? The rustling of the pear tree leaves in the breezes? The tiny scurrying insects?” No, but she could understand how he might. Without her sight, her ears were working harder, and she felt like she could hear even his heartbeat.

  “I’m trying, Vin—“ She remembered what he’d said about not calling him that. “I’m trying.”

  “That’s all I can ask.” He sounded sad. “Can you feel the night, around you? Can you feel the breeze, feel your own pulse, feel my breath on your skin?” From his voice, he was still sitting beside her, their hands still clasped on her lap, but…but yes. She could feel his breath, feel him, feel his pulse against her palm. A tingle of awareness climbed up her spine, and suddenly the world was bigger somehow. Bigger and fuller and more…incredible.

  “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, I think I understand what you mean.”

  “Good.” He squeezed her hands again. “Then I want you to listen while I tell you a story.” She nodded, and heard him take a deep breath.

  “Once upon a time, there was a man. A lucky man, who married his childhood sweetheart, who was the most beautiful woman in Boston. He played violin, and played well, giving lessons.” Just like her Edward. “They lived happily, until the war. Several years went by, but he finally felt like he had to join, to do his part. So he did, and was assigned to an artillery battery.”

  This man, this story… “You’re talking about my—“

  “Shhhh, Arabella.” She felt him press fingertips against her lips, and the sensation was unreal. “I need to tell you this story, and the only way I can is to push through it all. Will you let me tell it?” Will you not interrupt? She nodded, under his fingers. After all, she wanted to hear this—needed to hear it—as much as he needed to tell it.

  “Thank you.” He dropped his hand again, and cleared his throat. “This man made good friends with his commanding officer, a major who enjoyed music.” How many times had Edward written her about his major, who singled him out for special treatment, because he enjoyed Edward’s talent? “This man had a photograph of his wife that he kept with him at all times. At the Battle of Hatcher’s Run he was looking at it when his major gave the command to begin shelling the enemy.” Hatcher’s Run. Where she’d lost her Edward. “Moments later, a rebel shell hit the powder supply, and it blew up in front of him. He felt the shards of wood shredding his face, and knew that his wife’s beauty was the last thing he’d ever see.”

  Her throat closed up, choking her with unshed tears. She’d mourned him once already. She didn’t need to hear this again. Did she?

  He seemed to sense that she was having trouble, so he paused. She jumped when she felt the back of his hand brush against her cheek, and suddenly remembered the kiss he’d placed on her hand, all those weeks ago. The deep breaths he was taking helped her remember the lesson of a moment before, and she tried to match them. His hand twitched under hers, but she just gripped harder, determined to not let him—or the photograph—go.

  “This man lived, Arabella. His major found him, and wasn’t willing to let his talent die. At least, that’s what he later claimed.” He paused, and she heard him exhale, long and low. She found herself gripped by fierce, unjustified hope. “He made sure that this man got medical attention away from the field, in a real hospital with skilled doctors. When this man finally woke up, finally broke free of the heroin and then the morphine, he knew he was a different man. He was horribly disfigured, for one thing. Months had gone by. His wife and friends had been told he was dead, had mourned him already.”

  We had, she wanted to scream. We mourned you, Edward! That was the first time she’d let herself think it, think that this man, this man whom he was telling a story about, could be her Edward.

  He seemed to understand, to know what she wasn’t saying. He took her hands in both of his and lifted them slightly. “This isn’t the nice part, Arabella. I’ve thought about how to tell you this part, but I can’t find a nice way. So I’ll just…” Was it her imagination, or did he shudder? “I’ll just say it.”

  A deep breath. “The man was dead. Dead to everyone who mattered to him. And he was so, so different, so…hideous. He loved his wife—never stopped loving her—but she was beautiful. So beautiful, and didn’t deserve a husband who was not only blind, but deformed.” His words seemed to float around her, as she watched them form sentences across her mind in a sort of detached stupor. His story…his story wasn’t her story, was it? “And despite his depression, he grew stronger and stronger, until that major came to visit him, and told him everything that had happened. The man told the major that he didn’t want to go home, not looking like this, and the major immediately suggested a trip abroad, suggested some orchestras in England that would be interested in hearing from a foreign violinist. I—the man went.”

  He paused, and she couldn’t tell why, not without seeing him. But when he didn’t begin speaking again, right away, she hesitantly squeezed his hands. “And became famous, didn’t he?”

  Another harsh bark of laughter. Laughter that told her he wasn’t really laughing. “No one wanted to hear from a Yank, but everyone knows Italy produces the best musicians. So the man took an Italian name, and they adored him. Within a year, he was the lead performer, playing in front of crowds from Edinburgh to Sofia! They were coming to listen to him, but also to see him, to mock him. To pity him, for looking the way he did.” With a sudden pull, he had her hand pressed against his cheek. His right cheek, where the burn scars traveled across his eye sockets. “He’d become a different man, and let himself be that different man. Until he’d had enough, and decided to retire…” He took a breath that she felt under her palm. “And met a woman. A woman who changed him again.”

  Placing the frame on her lap, she lifted her other hand to touch his opposite cheek. Her questing fingertips skimmed the horrible scars, probing at the nooks and crannies that had once been a face she’d adored. She felt his brow, then down his nose and across his soft lips, lips the rest of the world could see now that he’d trimmed his beard. She caressed the places where his beautiful blue eyes—eyes he’d given his son—had once rested, and knew. Knew.

  “It is you, isn’t it?” You’re alive.

  With a great, heaving sob, he pressed her hands against his face with his own. “I’m sorry, Arabella. I’m sorry.” She wanted to tell him that it was all right, that everything would be all right, but she couldn’t. Couldn’t make her throat work. He’d left her, but he’d come back. Come back to her, to them. “You didn’t deserve this.”

  Finally, she managed to choke out a strangled, “You came back.”

  “That’s why I’m sorry!” He pulled her hands away in a tight grip. “I’m sorry because you had to find out. I’m sorry because you’d moved on with your life, you’d raised…” He made a strangled noise. “You raised Eddie on your own and were doing fine, and then you met me.”

  He wasn’t making any sense. “Meeting Vincenzo Bellini was the best thing that’s happened to me in…in years.” He’d taught her so much. Had made her reevaluate herself and her opinions. Had made her feel beautiful in a way she hadn’t since Edward had left.

  “When I—when that man decided to not come home, it was because of how he looked. He wasn’t Edward Hawthorne anymore. And now… now I don’t know who I am. But I’m not going to make you look at me forever, either.” What was he saying? “I’m leaving, Arabella.”

  No. “I just found you!”

  “I know what you value, Arabella, and I know I can never be…” He took a deep, shuddering breath that she felt down to her soul. “I
needed to be with you, one last time. To explain. To tell you why Eddie will become my heir, why you’ll have enough money—as soon as I can find a reputable lawyer in San Francisco—to live without worry. I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

  She swallowed. “You’re…you’re leaving me?” He was leaving her again? Only, it wasn’t again. It wasn’t the same. The first time, Edward had died. This time, Vincenzo was abandoning her.

  “I’m going, so that you don’t have to ask me to go.”

  “I…” I wouldn’t ask you to go. “I…” I don’t think I could go on without you.

  With a curse, he dropped her hands and grabbed her cheeks. Her mind went blank when she realized he might kiss her, and when he didn’t, she wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or angry. Instead, he pressed his forehead to hers. His breathing harsh in her ears, his scent on her lips, her entire being was focused on this man. This man, here and now.

  I know what you value, Arabella. And she understood. He thought that, because of how he looked, she couldn’t love him. Couldn’t love him the way she’d once loved him.

  “Jane, you—No.” He jerked when he cut off his old nickname for her, and then, then was when the tears began. She’d forgotten. How could she have forgotten the way he’d tease her, call her his Plain Jane? Her chest grew tight with grief and memories and mourning for the life they’d lost. “No,” he continued. “You’re Arabella.” She was. She was Arabella now.

  When he spoke again, his voice was a harsh, desperate whisper. “When you were fifteen, I pulled on one of your braids, and told you that I would never love another woman.” He gave her head a little shake, still pressed against his. “Do you remember?”

  She tried to nod, but then choked out a strangled “Yes.” How could she forget? Her Edward had been eighteen, and it was the same glorious summer he’d kissed her for the first time. It had been that memory that kept her warm during her long, lonely months of pregnancy.