Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  She only fell to earth when the last customer had left the coffee-house, the doors closing, the London night barred from entering. She sat numbly at a table, chilled and tired, but still burning—burning with feeling so strong, so sharp, that she wondered how her own body managed to contain it.

  She almost didn’t notice her father approaching. Only when he stood in front of her, cap twisting in his hands, did she feel the first discordant note in her internal symphony.

  ‘Adam Barton visited the coffee-house today, Jane.’ The mention of Adam’s name, combined with the slow, overly-careful tone with which her father said it, let Jane know that all was not well. That all, in fact, could be about to crumble. ‘He asked to speak to me privately… and he told me something troubling. Something that I would like, very much, for you to deny completely.’

  Jane said nothing. She simply sat, her face carefully impassive, waiting for her father to give away how much he knew. He clearly had a speech prepared—he always spoke in such cases, instead of signing.

  There was no point denying things that hadn’t been asserted. No point in bringing things to light that could stay safely hidden.

  ‘He seemed terribly concerned, Jane. Not in the manner of a paramour—almost of a brother. I couldn’t doubt his veracity, much as I wished to.’ Her father’s voice trembled a little; he stopped, as if to collect himself, before beginning again. ‘He saw you walking through Vauxhall Gardens, Jane. Walking with… with a certain gentleman. A—a foreign gentleman. The foreign gentleman that seemed so very keen to come to your aid, the day of the parkesine explosion.’

  Jane couldn’t keep her eyes from flashing. Foreign? Was that the problem? But she saw her father’s face, the deep lines denoting lack of sleep, and kept silent.

  ‘To walk so freely, in public, alone with a gentleman you have never been introduced to formally… I can’t believe it of you, Jane. I don’t want to believe it.’ Her father sighed harshly, sitting down at the table. ‘Not because of John Sweeting. I understand his proposal didn’t please you, Jane, and I would never make you marry someone you weren’t inclined to marry. But… but because I know that I taught you differently. I know that—that your mother would have taught you differently. Not for propriety’s sake—although that is important, Jane, especially for those like us who cannot fall back on one’s breeding. Our name is everything.’ He paused. ‘But… but the development of—of sentiment between you, and someone of a higher class… it only leads to broken hearts on our side, Jane. You must know that.’

  This wasn’t what she had been expecting. Jane shifted uncomfortably in her seat, disliking the raw honesty in her father’s eyes. Better a thundering lecture on propriety, or a stern reminder of the risks to her reputation… not this.

  Please, anything, but this.

  ‘Gentlemen… they do pretty things, and they say pretty words. It’s their birthright.’ Her father shrugged, apparently resigned to the ways of men above his station. ‘But his pretty words to you, if he has said any… they are practice words, child. Words that he will one day use on a woman his equal, or his better—and forget ever having said to you. They play at love in the streets, before finding it in ballrooms… Jane, please don’t leave. Please.’

  Jane couldn’t help it. Her body was guiding her away from his distressing, horrible words—making her stand, making her walk. Making her run up the stairs two at a time, nearly tripping over her skirts, before locking herself in her bedroom with trembling hands as tears came. Stupid, helpless tears that she couldn’t stop, however much she tried—just as she couldn’t stop the rush of feeling, of sheer, dizzying sensation, whenever she conjured up Nikau in her mind.

  It wasn’t true. He wasn’t playing at love.

  Was he?

  She tried with all her might to erase her father’s words. Tried to block them out, even as they played again and again on her mind. Her strength of will sufficed during her daily work at the coffee-house, her meetings with the Deaf Society—as she lay alone in bed. But the first morning with Nikau, after the conversation… even Jane’s formidable strength failed her.

  Her father’s words couldn’t be true—but neither could this be true. It was too good to be true; he, Nikau Roera, was too good to be true. Too gentle, too strong, too handsome. Too infatuated with someone as forgettable as herself.

  His pretty words are practice words, child. Words that he will one day use on a woman his equal, or his better—and forget ever having said to you.

  Jane heard those words as she stood in front of Nikau’s house. She heard them as Nikau opened the door; as he closed it impatiently, taking her in his arms, carrying her to the bedroom. She heard them one last time, as he gently placed her on the bed… and then, thank goodness, her mind was gratefully silent for a half-hour.

  But as her climax ebbed away, and Nikau’s kisses on her neck ceased, the whispers came back. She swaddled protectively in the bedclothes, her mind racing as Nikau rummaged in the drawer of his bedside table.

  ‘For you.’ He smiled, pushing the book over to her. ‘Open it. An early Christmas gift.’

  Jane opened it, her heart in her throat. All she wanted to feel was joy—and she did, as she slowly unwrapped the ribbon. She did. But marring the joy, twisting it and making it ugly, was a new layer of fear.

  Perhaps Adam and her father were right. Perhaps all the passion in Nikau’s eyes, all the fervent statements of admiration he uttered, only came from the illicit nature of their arrangement. Perhaps all his protestations of nervousness, all his ostensible concern for her reputation, was an act… a way of making her bolder.

  More likely to seduce him. More likely to accept his offers of seduction. And if something unexpected occurred, like a child… he would discard her.

  A mother would have smoothed her hair, and kissed her forehead, and told her to listen to her best and truest self. But her mother wasn’t here—and oh, how she missed her, in moments like these.

  She gasped as she removed the layers of paper. A fresh, woodland smell swept over her as she saw her gift; new pencils, shining tips sharpened for writing, atop a deep green calfskin folio.

  A beautiful gift. A clearly expensive gift… a gift she wanted, oh-so-desperately, to love. But not, under any circumstances, a gift a gentleman gave to a respectable woman at the beginning of a legitimate courtship. It was too valuable. Too deeply-felt.

  She would have to say something. She didn’t want to—but the fear in her father’s eyes when he’d warned her against such behaviour compelled her. She put the lid back on the box, noting his surprise as she picked up the pencil and paper she had previously been using.

  A wonderful gift. I’m afraid that I cannot accept it.

  ‘Oh.’ Watching Nikau’s face fall felt like cold water down the back of her neck. ‘Is it not to your taste? I can find something more to your taste.’

  No. It’s very beautiful. Nikau’s look of relief sent a hairline crack through her heart. Too beautiful. Beautiful enough to mean a courtship.

  ‘But… but we are courting.’ Nikau’s furrowed brow, his impatiently folded arms, left Jane not knowing what to think. ‘Aren’t we?’

  We are by no means courting in a traditional way. Jane tapped her pencil against the paper, growing slowly more irritated with both Nikau and herself. Please don’t ignore that, or pretend you can’t see it. I understand that this must be something of a gentlemanly fantasy for you—a type of lightning-strike, as it has been for me. An excuse to behave badly for both of us. I take responsibility for my own conduct, but—

  ‘Stop.’ Nikau held up his hand abruptly. ‘Please… stop.’

  Jane stopped. She waited, her heart tight in her chest.

  ‘This… this was not a sudden lightning-strike. At least, not for me. My behaviour would of course denote a… a lack of care, or… or the sort of impetuous nonsense that a gentleman says when he has no plans to commit himself.’ Nikau’s words were brusque; he was speaking too quickly for Jane to under
stand easily, but she didn’t want to interrupt.

  She didn’t think she could. She had ruined everything; she knew that now, from the terrifying swoop of her heart in her chest. But she had to know how she’d done it.

  Nikau rose with a sudden, abrupt movement. Pulling on his breeches, almost ripping his shirt as he pulled it over his head, he avoided Jane’s gaze with an anger that wounded her almost as much as his sudden absence did.

  ‘I wished to tell you this from the—from the first. I was afraid to frighten you, just as I have been afraid of everything else.’ He moved to his desk drawer, removing a slim, leather-bound folio of what looked like creamy white paper. ‘But given that you consider me a callous gentleman; a rake, out for what he can get… I cannot rest, if you think this. I cannot exist.’

  He threw the folio onto the table. Jane reached for it with trembling hands, but stopped as Nikau waved his hand.

  ‘I am going to my study. I cannot be here and—and watch. You may leave when you wish.’ Jane saw the tremble in his mouth; the stutter that meant feeling too strong to be hidden. ‘But before I take my leave, allow me to say this. I never hoped for anything from you. I never allowed myself to. You have always had whatever power exists between us, Jane—if you haven’t felt it, it is my failure. My heart has always been in your hands. My soul has always been under your command. I… I count it as the greatest failure of my life, that I haven’t made you see this.’

  Jane watched, shaking, as he left. As soon as his shadow vanished she opened the folio, leafing through the pages, wanting to know what on earth could reveal so much.

  Drawings. Exquisite, lifelike drawings; houses, horses, people. Nikau’s London, drawn in painstaking detail; sometimes with a smudged graphite sun illuminating the streets, but all too often in the fog, the dark… a mysterious, lonely place, but full of small touches that made every mark beautiful.

  Each sketch was carefully dated; the first drawings were from six months ago. Oak trees in the park. A man in a carriage, smoking a cigar. The hem of a woman’s gown; silk stained by the wet streets… her face.

  Her face. Her own face, as accurately drawn as if she’d done it herself. Every detail perfect; every minute part of her, there on paper. Jane sat still as marble, looking at the drawing, before turning the page.

  Wet carriage wheels. A lamppost. Her. A flower market. A teacup. Her.

  He had admired her from afar, while making himself invisible to her. He had never pressed himself upon her, never made her feel uncomfortable… he had simply admired her, expecting nothing from her, long before they had ever truly met.

  From any other man, in any other circumstances, it would have been frightening. But knowing Nikau, tracing every moment of connection she had shared, Jane saw that she had instigated every single moment they had spent together. She had kissed him first, she had walked with him first, she had… she had been intimate first.

  And he had accepted, with all the pent-up longing and passion of a man who couldn’t believe his luck. And she… she had just told him that he didn’t believe any of it.

  Damn Adam Barton. Damn her father. And damn herself, most of all, for believing his words instead of what her own heart told her.

  He briefly buried her face in her hands, fighting the urge to cry. She really had ruined it; ruined it all, so completely…

  No. The voice was so loud in her head, it was almost a living whisper. No.

  After the loss of her mother, after a poverty-stricken childhood, after degradation upon insult upon degradation thanks to a part of herself she refused, absolutely refused, to apologise for… was she going to give up now?

  Was she going to let the only man she’d ever cared for—cared for with all of herself, body and soul—walk away because of a stupid mistake? Because of her own foolishness?

  Her eyes narrowed. No. She may have ruined everything… but she was damned if she was going to walk away. She would leave here, today, with everything in pieces—but only to give herself time and space enough to put them back together.

  She closed the folio with reverent hands. If she thought hard, and found her nerve, and resisted the near-overpowering urge to cry—then, perhaps, she could think of an appropriate plan.

  During the following week, three things happened that were of no particular note to the general London population. Three small, relatively inconsequential things, that any great author of the age would have left crumpled in the waste-paper basket.

  The first occurred in the Ethnographical Room of the British museum, overseen by a harried Mr. Richard Montague. After a tiring day cataloguing masks and minute wooden idols, ignoring the gawking spectators with a pompous curl of his lip, he had the pleasure of being interrupted by a young woman who had been separated from her group… a Miss Jane Maldon, if he remembered correctly.

  Such a charming young thing! Pretty, in a quiet way—and really, if you looked at her face for long enough, you could almost forget she was deaf. He’d been ready to escort her to wherever she wished, but she’d insisted on staying in the room for a little while. To catch my breath, and take in these marvellous things, she’d written in a neat hand on paper she’d carried with her.

  Marvellous things? Mr. Montague had to correct her on that score. He’d spent an hour taking her through every case and catalogue, letting her hold some of the more worthless objects, explaining to her how works of such savage craftsmanship could never compare to the purity of, say, Greek sculpture. Miss Maldon had looked so attentive, watching every movement of his mouth… and how her eyes had flashed! Why, it was almost as if she’d been angry—but she had merely been so taken by his explanations, as she’d been at pains to inform him. She had even looked at the collection of Maori proverbs Mr. Montague had been offhandedly compiling, asking how to pronounce some of the words. She had even made notes.

  A rare creature, Miss Jane Maldon, and one who had made Mr. Montague’s afternoon considerably more pleasant. When she’d finally caught sight of someone she’d recognised, running away before Mr. Montague could escort her, he’d almost asked her to stay. A pretty, near-silent woman was a wonderful ornament for a room, after all.

  Mr. Montague had slept easily that night. The easy sleep, in fact, of a man who hadn’t realised that one of the taonga in the Ethnographical Room had been stolen.

  The second event occurred in a pub on a dingy London backstreet, between two gentlemen of very minor celebrity. One was Nikau Roera, the foreign gentleman who everyone agreed was surprisingly soft-natured, given his size. The other was Jack Swift—who everyone knew for a fact wasn’t soft-natured at all.

  None of the other drinkers in the pub had caught the details of what the two men were discussing. All they saw was Jack Swift grab Mr. Roera by the collar of his coat and shout you bloody idiot, before sending two full pint glasses flying across the room. He’d remained deaf to Mr. Roera’s muttered protestations—about what, no-one could say, but from the blush on the man’s cheeks they’d assumed a woman was involved—and had, without so much as a by-your-leave, walked out without paying for his pint.

  It had certainly been something of a commotion—and the drinkers weren’t about to ask Mr. Roera about it. Soft-natured he was, but he was also built like a cargo ship. All they’d done was watch as the Maori man had paid for both pints, tipped his hat, and left.

  None of them followed him back to the centre, where he’d stood forlornly on the doorstep for some minutes before going inside. No drinker had waited to see a young woman run up to house, rap quickly on the door, and leave a small box on the doorstep before fleeing.

  No drinker saw Nikau opening the door, bending down, and picking up the box. No drinker saw him tense, his mouth opening—as if what he held in his hands was of the utmost value.

  The third event was a private one, taking place on Christmas Eve in a coffee-house of little public note, but with a loyal local following. Jane sat at the kitchen table, her best church clothes already on for the evening service,
waiting as her father walked into the kitchen.

  Father. She signed hesitantly, gaining courage as she looked at her father’s careworn face. Please sit. There is something I wish to say, and I cannot say it with you standing.

  Her father immediately pulled out a chair. Jane watched him as he leaned forward, noting for the first time how old, how fragile, he seemed.

  What you heard from Adam… but the central fact was not inaccurate. She saw her father’s eyes widen, and hurriedly continued signing. There is no more delicate way to say it. Mr Roera and I… we have an understanding. A clear, mutual understanding.

  ‘I—’ Her father stopped, taking a deep breath; Jane saw his hands trembling. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he attempted to keep signing. What—what did I tell you about gentlemen, my child? What did I tell you? His face makes no difference—his money makes him just like all the others! He will use you, and discard you, and leave you with no chance of regaining your—

  He stopped, clearly shocked, as Jane beat the table with her fists. She stood, signing even more rapidly than before, hardly caring if he could follow.

  And Helen, father? Helen Mornwell, who has more money than we can even dream about? Does she use you and discard you, father, or does she wait for you in the bakery every day even though she has cooks and maids to buy her everything she could possibly need?

  ‘Stop.’ Her father stared at her, his eyes disbelieving. ‘Lady Mornwell is a—a kind woman, and a great friend to all those both above her station and below it, and—and I advise her, Jane! She doesn’t know how to keep a garden since Lord Mornwell died, the servants run her ragged—she needs advice from someone who—’