Mrs Fitzroy

by Rachael Wright

  She looked up from the road and the scraggly pale green grass, which grew alongside in haphazard bands. A lone bougainvillea, the seeds must have blown from a house years ago, stood sentinel along the road, its long trailing arms of luscious pink flowers swinging in the breeze.

  The island was enchanting if you had the time to enjoy it; to sit on a lounge chair with a heavy book and a sweating glass of tea and naught on your mind except sunscreen. But with every step, Davonna's shoes displaced small rocks with tiny chinks, and the house grew ever closer. The sun shrank behind a cloud as if it recalled its warmth to a place of happiness.

  Davonna hurried as she passed in front of the gates to Ioannis' home; no more than a white blur. The hedgerow clicked and rustled in the breeze. A thick stone pillar rose from the green leaves. On it hung, pride of place, a sign so none might wonder where they were: La Chambre des Rois.

  The bright, late morning sun glinted off the gilt placard and threw a haze in Davonna's eyes. She moved passed it with a shudder. She hated the name. Hated that it was written in gold. Hated that it was in French. But as the house loomed, Davonna swallowed, swallowed it all, so she felt nothing. Hate didn't exist. Misery didn't exist. She just was. A blinking corpse.

  There wasn't the time for placards or house names. She didn't think beyond the endless line of chores, which swelled before her. It took too much energy to cry, worry, or imagine different.

  The house was silent as she walked into the kitchen. She placed the basket on the table and emptied it. The flowers went to the dining room, the Louis XIV entry table, the bathrooms, and the desk in the office. The chocolates into a silvery 1900s tin in the library. The steak and vegetables into the coolest corner of the refrigerator. The bread into a glass fronted cabinet, which smelled of heaven.

  Three o'clock came with indecent haste. As it did every day. Davonna's shoulders slumped forward. Was it finished? Dinner simmered ... how much longer did it have? Fifty-three minutes. Enough. They say the mind plays terrible tricks and none greater than time speeding up to welcome home an executioner every night.

  He arrived at a crawl; the tires eked ahead at a snail's pace, but fine dust still wrapped itself around the Morgan like a lover and the pebbles played around the tires like an orphanage of children. John drove into the garage, craned his head left and right, and checked to make sure the Morgan wouldn't hit anything. It never did. The only other car in the four-car garage, a black BMW sedan, was parked ten feet away. Davonna stood where she always did, to the left of the open door, her hands clasped demurely in front of her. The dirty, pungent white dress was replaced by one of blue silk. She couldn't be the woman who walked to Mitilini. That woman had ruddy cheeks and a spring in her step. This woman looked and moved like stone. Davonna sighed and took one last free breath. She drew in and savored the hint of gardenia on the air and the peace and the easy quiet.

  John closed the Morgan's door as though he was tucking in a newborn. He walked towards her, the garage door slid shut behind him, his chin lifted and a swagger in his shoulders. John was a man secure in his position. He was the owner of a fine hotel and a fine home and a fine car. But he made his wife quail. Behind the Savile Row tailored suit, the chiseled jaw, and the blue eyes, lurked something sinister. He didn't walk but strutted across the gravel, a hint of a grin played at the edge of his mouth.

  "Is it ready?" he said as he breezed by.

  She was silent, taking a last glance at the sky. A faint streak of clouds huddled on the horizon like sheep returning home.

  Davonna turned and stepped indoors. A quiet thud echoed through the house as the oak doors swung shut behind her. She followed John as he threw off his trench coat and dug his wallet out of the pocket of his suit. He walked towards the dining room with its mahogany table and oval-backed Louis XIV chairs. He sat like a king; ready to be served.

  It was ready. It was always ready. John never ate past six thirty and had only one glass of wine in the course of the day. Physical perfection was paramount to him and he would never allow his body to use his evening meal to make fat while he slept.

  Davonna slid behind a fake wall and pushed in a cart laden with the first and second courses. She placed these in front of John and sat across from him.

  "Your thighs have thickened. The silk stresses the problem."

  "Yes, John," Davonna said, her head tilted demurely.

  "Those thin models the Americans use, I'm sure, would love to have your curves."

  Davonna was silent. She picked at her salad, and when she brought John his main course, she did not serve herself.

  If John noticed, he said nothing. He was in full swing about the abysmal governance of England by the Conservative party and the deplorable fashion choices of Theresa May; which, in his opinion, only cemented her obvious inability to govern. He was sufficiently knowledgeable about British politics to talk endlessly on the subject. All he desired was a "yes" or occasional nod at a proper point. Anything more would have been unwanted.

  Last, Davonna brought out an unopened bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape and a victoria sandwich and placed them both in front of him. John opened the wine and poured a glass. She smiled and stole a glance out of the window. The sky was empty, and the sun hung easily, the pale light sifted through the leaves on the olive trees and hedgerows, which surrounded the house and the petals of the crown anemones, and lined them in soft halos.

  John rose abruptly, wiped his face one last time, and tossed his napkin on the seat. Davonna waited until he'd gone through into the office before she too stood. She wheeled the cart back through the hidden door and cleared the table. The dishes clinked together; the joyful noise reverberated through the dining room like the gongs of a bell. The kitchen, it was cool and quiet. She slipped off her heels as she walked in, luxuriating in the coolness of the stone floor and the respite of her domain. She tied the blue cotton apron with frayed ties around her waist was as comfortable as a plush hotel bathrobe.

  She left her sanctuary reluctantly. She counted off the minutes it took to wash the evening's dishes and put the kitchen to rights again. It was always the same, one half hour, enough for John to finish his glass of wine and plan his week. Davonna slipped her feet into the beige stilettos and tapped her way back to the office. John met her at the door, reeking of cigar smoke, placed a hand at the small of her back, and pushed her ahead of him, up the stairs.

  The staircase curved to the left, and emptied into a vast corridor, which looked onto the main hall. John led her to the master bedroom's large walk in closet, without a word. Davonna shrugged off the blue silk dress, her stomach rumbled, but in a strange way she cherished the sound; the denial. The pain made her seem alive.

  She pulled off her spanx. Unclasped the thin clasps of the La Perla bra. Tugged the lace underwear off, and stepped out of the closet, naked. She walked to the bed where John waited, his foot propped on the corner of the bed. He stood at a jaunty angle. Secure in his power. Whatever he had said earlier about her legs, he gave the impression they were pleasurable enough and nodded at the bed.

  It happened every night. Some nights were worse than others. If the meal wasn't satisfactory enough. If Davonna skulked. If she had, against all rationale, gained weight. If the house wasn't spotless. If an act or word was wrong or perceived to be wrong ... John's wrath and punishment rained down. She could nearly trick herself into believing she loved him while the sun shone, but at night during the humiliation, her heart wept.

  Tonight was easy enough. John only shoved her into different positions, wrung her neck, and took bites of her breasts. Two times. It took an hour. He was a creature of habit. Davonna curled around her white, silk pillow afterward. She didn't dare to massage her neck or cradle her stinging breasts, but she looked at the writing desk her grandmother had given her, tucked into the opposite corner of the room. The older woman stared out of a faded photograph in a simple silver and mother-of-pearl frame. She was lordly in her own right, with shrewd black eyes, curled hair, and, in h
er carriage, there was a resemblance to the Queen.

  It was only after John had finished and gone to wash and tinker around in his office that Davonna could bear to look in her grandmother's eyes. It was too easy to let the tears slip out, to betray her. Betrayal, she'd done it once and not been able to get a full night's sleep for a month.

  Davonna fell asleep as the light faded and twisted in shivering beams across the floor. Though naked, in between the light silk sheets, the fan twisting uselessly overhead, she was sweating.

  She woke as cool air blasted from the vents. She waited for the familiar shift and tilt of John as he flopped into bed. Sometimes he'd roll over, and if he were in a good mood, he'd throw an arm around her. For a moment Davonna let her guard slip and sigh and dream that John was different—that he was better. The air conditioner droned on, but John didn't come.

  She stared at the ceiling and pondered different scenarios. Maybe he'd fallen asleep in his chair. He'd blame her for it and complain about a sore neck. Or maybe he was in the gardens. Or tinkering on the Morgan. But the fear of being blamed, of the abyss of punishment, forced her forward. She stood, blood thundered so loud in her ears she couldn't hear her own mind. She grabbed her nightgown and slipped it over her thin body, which shone pale in the half-light.

  In the hall outside, she peered over the bannister. Except for a whistling breeze outside, the island was asleep. Davonna crept across the landing and down the red-carpeted staircase. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a small movement and stopped next to the large circular window that overlooked the garage. She leaned so close that the tip of her nose touched the cool glass.

  A single light shone in the garage window. Was it the bulb that hung over John's workbench? She strained, and by twisting around, she could see a hazy humanoid outline as it passed to and fro. It was John, wasn't it? Morgan parts were delivered to the house every week, but John never did the work himself. Or was it the burglar, back again?

  As she tried to hoist herself on the window ledge, the light died. She fled, her stomach churned, and slid back into bed. It didn't matter how many deep breaths she took, her heart galloped and sweat trickled under her armpits, itching to insanity. Was the burglar back? Had he met John in the garage? Was he alone?

  She strained, listening for the sound of the back door or the pad of John's feet on the staircase. The house was as quiet and still, and it taunted her with its silence. She lay in bed and tried to prop her heavy eyelids open. She wasn't awake to hear the faintest echo of rattling glass in the kitchen door, or the soft tread of stocking feet on the stairs, or the creak of the floorboards as the silhouette of a man filled the doorway.

  John stood unmoving, his eyes fixed on the bed, and the soft curve of his wife's body underneath the sheets. Davonna wasn't awake to see him stroke his chin, frown, and then, with a grin, strip off his clothes and slip noiselessly into bed. Davonna wasn't awake to see John send a text: "Tomorrow at lunch" to an 'Athena.'

  The moon slipped out from behind a cloud and bathed the room in a silvery glow. It fell upon the flare of redness on Davonna's neck, on the lank hair sprawled on the pillow, on the thick muscles of John's arm, which were, for once still and unassuming.

  IV

  Κι ο άγιος φοβέρα θέλει.

  Even a saint needs to be 'threatened'.

  Davonna woke clutching her neck. She winced as the pain radiated from her throat to her skull. It was a torment. It flared with every tiny movement, when she twisted or bent over. It was a constant reminder of John, of his presence and his power. As if she needed another.

  She crossed to the window and gazed across their property, quiet and peaceful. A breeze ruffled the dangling wisteria, but it was only a trickle from the sea. The garden was draped in shadow, but the light crept onward like an advancing army. There was nothing. No sign or hint of the strange goings-on of last night.

  Davonna sighed. She walked to the closet and buried her nose in a thick wool sweater. Memory flooded her mind like a tidal wave. The sharp tangy smell of sheep, the air of rocky Scottish hills underfoot, where she once roamed and laughed with her sisters. A freedom birthed by an easy childhood.

  But the happy memories dissolved into nonbeing and she was left with her chores. If she'd known what would come, years ago, she would've never complained when her parents asked her to make her bed or set the table or empty the dishwasher. She would've done it with glee, if it could’ve spared her this future. Davonna walked through the house hunched over, grasping her throbbing neck, and saying silent apologies to her parents.

  She walked into it. The closed kitchen door. Taped to it; a piece of garish yellow paper. 'London Conference: July 17-25.' He was gone then, off early to catch his flight. On the back was a list. Line after line of complicated, deviously long chores. 'Complete by the night of the 24th' was written in thick block letters at the bottom.

  She walked into the kitchen, tacked the note on the corkboard, and slumped into a chair. Light still hadn't permeated the house. She tugged at her shirt, running her thumb over the curve of the hem, and stared at the list. If she did three tasks a day, she'd get it all done.

  With that exhausting thought, Davonna put the kettle on, pulled out a teapot, and trudged upstairs. The double doors loomed like monoliths. But she walked towards them, swallowing the pain. She stopped on the threshold and stared at the crisp folded corners of the comforter. Why had she come here? Why was she staring at the bed? A memory whispered in her ear.

  'I'll always take care of you ... Just the way you are, that's how I like you ... My Queen, My Love."

  John's voice echoed around her mind. A husky muted whisper pressed against her neck. He'd promised. He'd been calm and kind. They walked the busy streets of London, arm in arm, laughed at the wind, ducked under awnings as the rain fell sideways, collapsed against each other in glee.

  He'd always be this good to her, he said, as she writhed in pleasure underneath him. She'd heard it. Smiled at the thought of a lifetime of his attention and love. But the noose tightened. The hard glint in his eye as he shoved her into the bed. The night the boeuf bourguignon was dry, and he'd punched her and she careened into the corner of the kitchen counter, and blood pooled under her fingers. The move to Greece afterward when there was nowhere to flee. Nothing to dull the pain. No one to break the solitude of instability. The countless nights of duty as she let him do what he wanted. Of laying with her face to the open window and dreaming; dreaming of peace.

  It didn't matter. Well, it did. But it couldn't matter.

  And the bed. The bed was always there under her. The white albatross. The final torture.

  Davonna shook her head and fled to the closet. There on the ottoman were her work clothes, folded. There was a black sports bra, worn out tennis shoes, and grey cotton pants with ground-in grass stains on the knees. It was the massive gardens that John wanted tackled first; they hadn't done the required work in March.

  Outside, the sun beat mercilessly on her bare arms. She plopped on the wide brimmed hat, slipped through a small gate near the kitchen door, and went to gather the tools from the garage.

  She kneeled on the edge of a rose bed and dug out the deleterious of the fall. Dirt worked its way into her gloves like a naughty child and she beamed. She slipped them off and plunged her hands into the warm soil. It was glorious, the smell of the damp earth as it squirmed between her fingers. She wanted to kneel at the edge of the flowerbed and knead the earth, but John's voice played over and over in her head and his condescending face loomed in front of her. ‘You’re wasting time, get to it.’ Davonna wiped the dirt off her hands and ran back for her tools.

  She weeded the cobblestones of the gazebo. For two hours she trimmed the hedgerow by the road, a trail of sad green twigs followed as she lugged the rest to the trash. Then she harvested the lavender and laid it on the table to dry.

  Her arms shone like beacons as the sun rose and the shadows shrank to pinpricks, and promptly turned red. The noond
ay sun was oppressive. The flowers wilted and Davonna gasped for breath like a fish. It was torturous to move. The heat loomed like a solid wall. She sat on the edge of a fountain, just beyond the gazebo, and trailed her hands in the cool water. But she couldn't relax. John's presence followed her everywhere. She wouldn't put it past him to have cameras in the house and the garden or spies in the village.

  She smiled. Smiled to fool him. To fool herself. Beaming in spite of him, she walked to the gazebo and the large cooler of water, took a long drink, applied more sunscreen, and walked back to the weeds.

  Davonna collapsed in bed on the night of July 24th, without taking off her clothes. She lay, sprawled on the comforter as twilight fell across her thin body. Cuts ran up the length of her arms from the roses. There were bruises from carting off branches, and thick lines of sunburn.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, the copper pots burnished to a rosy glow, the glistening stone floor warm, and bright white walls; there were small, thick check marks beside every task on John's list along with the date and time she'd completed it. Tomorrow's dinner marinated in the refrigerator. Even with John's unspoken threat of repercussions, as the days passed, slivers of his presence seeped out from the house and she read in bed, if she wasn't too exhausted. She even sung in the shower.

  Tonight though, his glare and quick hands came back on the white caps of a flood. He peered over her shoulder, watched as she burnt the first victoria sponge. She took the burnt cake out to the bins in the garage and shoved it under last week's black trash bag. Her shoulders slumped as she crossed the kitchen threshold.

  By the time the second cake had baked, the soles of her feet ached with pain. Would he expect more from her? Would he burden her with so many tasks she could never finish? Would he even care? Would he notice how well they were done?