Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

She needs YOU! Jane slapped the table again with open palms, tears falling down her cheeks. She needs you, father, and you need her, and there is no shame in admitting that! There is no shame in love, father—and I tell you here and now, mother would want it! She would want you to be happy!

  She slowly sat down again as her father stared, the silence full of truths previously ignored. They looked at one another, newly equal, the room suddenly larger than before.

  It is him or no-one, father. Jane signed as precisely as she could. It is my right to choose the man I love, and I have chosen. Him, or no-one.

  Her father rested his head in his hands as Jane waited. She watched him breathe once, then twice… then he rose, absent-mindedly wiping his brow, and came to where she sat.

  I want you to be alright. He sniffed, a tear falling; Jane stood, overwhelmed with love. Please be alright, Jane. I can’t have you not alright.

  I will be alright. Jane pulled him into a hug, weeping, signing even as her father buried his face in her shoulder. I will be. I… I am.

  Christmas day came, at least for Jane, with a curious sense of anticlimax. Curious if she considered the glorious freshness of the day, the pink cheeks of children holding bundles of chestnuts, and the horses brushing the frost off of their manes with impatient shaking of their heads… but not curious at all when she thought, even for a moment, about the absence of the person that should have been beside her.

  She knew he had received the gift. She had seen him holding the box, from her hidden vantage-point between two houses on the opposite side of the street. The taonga, a sacred thing—a part of his heart, and the heart of his people. Finally, he had held it in his hands.

  All of that, and nothing? No word, no appearance… nothing. Just pain, pain at her own foolishness—pain that she was forced to dampen down, hide behind a festive smile. Pain that increased whenever she looked out of the newly-replaced window of the coffee-house, into the darkening London street.

  Pain that cracked open, revealing something much more tender, when a messenger-boy bundled up in scarves arrived at the coffee-house. He handed an envelope to her father, who gave it to her with a flash of compassion in her eyes.

  Creamy paper, impossibly elegant handwriting—it had to be him. No-one else wrote like that, with such evident care for the paper he used. Jane gently cut open the envelope, holding the note up to the lamplight.

  Come to where you took me. Cryptic to anyone else, but to Jane it was as clear as day. She had to go to the secret temple, hidden in Vauxhall gardens… and she had to leave as soon as possible, before her heart jumped free of her chest.

  Her father watched her frantically pull on her gloves, his eyes worried despite the crowds of festive guests exhorting him to drink, to dance, to sing. As Jane moved to the door he put out a hand, gently squeezing her shoulder.

  ‘Be careful.’ He spoke clearly; Jane read his lips, half-distracted by the concern in his face. ‘Let the boy guide you.’

  Jane nodded, looking at the messenger boy. He stood stamping his feet, breath clouding the air… and behind him, her elegant dress luxurious against the drab London cobblestones, stood a woman she vaguely recognised.

  Helen Mornwell. Helen Mornwell, who appeared to have summoned up enough courage to search for Jane’s father beyond the bakery.

  I will be careful. Jane signed to her father, smiling. And you… enjoy yourself.

  Even with a heart full of love, a London night in December was not for the easily chilled. Jane shivered her way through street after street as the messenger boy darted ahead, wrapping her cloak tightly around herself, giving thanks for the energy that kept her moving despite her freezing limbs.

  Just a few more streets, and she would be with him. Just a few coins given to the ticket-seller at the entrance to Vauxhall Gardens; just a few shoves through the crowds of merry revellers, the air thick with the smell of cider and burnt sugar… just a few more coins given to the messenger boy, who gratefully melted into the shadows to pursue who-knew-what mischief.

  Just the hidden temple, drab and hidden by the surrounding trees; few revellers knew its location, and even fewer cared. Their temple, that they had consecrated together.

  Jane took the last few, cold steps to the door. To her surprise, it creaked open with very little resistance.

  She stepped inside.

  She looked around, astonished.

  The cold, damp space had been transformed into a glittering palace. Candles shone from every available crevice, along with festoons of holly and ivy that filled the air with a fresh, green perfume. Oranges and chestnuts covered the floor, piled as high as a market stall—Jane saw other foods hidden in the bounty; filberts, grapes, lemons and nutmeg and sugared fruits…

  Someone had bought the entirety of a grocer’s shop, and picked a woodland’s worth of greenery. All for her. All to give her the bright, abundant Christmas she had wished for so desperately, when she had been nothing but a child in rags.

  She looked again at the pile, eyes narrowed. Yes, that—that was a new hat, a very beautiful one, half-hidden under an orange. And… and that surely couldn’t be…

  It was a howl. The sleepy, small-muzzled howl of a puppy, of indeterminate breed, nestled in a well-cushioned basket under what looked like a woollen blanket.

  A puppy? A new hat? The Christmas that she’d always wanted? Jane turned, too shocked even to smile, as she felt footsteps reverberate through the flagstones.

  Your gift was perfect. Jane gasped as she read Nikau’s hands; the signing was hesitant, but accurate. Nikau paused, as if to make sure she had understood, before beginning again. More perfect than anything. Just like you.

  I just wanted to give you something you wanted. She winced at the pain in her hand, even though the scar was healing—and stopped as Nikau’s large, worn hands gently took hold of her palms, caressing them.

  ‘You. All I want is you.’ He said it slowly, precisely, as if he didn’t want her to miss a single word. Jane watched the shape of his mouth as he spoke, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart. ‘And if I stop trying to obstruct myself, or deny myself, or rob myself of happiness… it’s the easiest thing in the world to feel, and think, and say. And I am so, so sorry… and I will continue to be sorry, for all the days I have left, and all the days the world has left.’

  Jane couldn’t keep the tears from falling. She buried her face in Nikau’s warm coat, trying to hide them—but he brought a hand to her cheek, bringing her face upwards, wiping away the salty tracks as he pressed his forehead to hers.

  ‘You are my gift, Jane. Everything you feel, and everything you are, is my gift.’ The warmth of the words shone with the light of the candles, filling Jane with a delicious glow. ‘And if you would… would do me the honour of being my gift—mine alone—for as long as I am alive in this world to see you…’

  Jane held a hand to her mouth as he knelt down, his dark eyes full of meaning. One hand vanished into the depth of his coat; as it came out, something shone in his fingers.

  A ring. A ring with a dark, liquid-seeming stone at his heart, flashing with subtle, moonlit shades.

  ‘Smoked quartz.’ Nikau looked up at her, smiling. ‘It reminds me of your eyes. And reminds you, should you accept it, that I will be your shadow… always with you. But if you want an enormous diamond, of course, I can see about—’

  He stopped as Jane held a finger to his lips. She slowly knelt down, the temple flagstones chilling her knees through her skirts, cupping Nikau’s face in her hands.

  ‘Ka nui… t-taku aroha ki a… a koe.’ She stumbled a little over the pronounciation, but kept going. The notes from the museum had taught her everything she needed. ‘E kore e… mimiti te aroha mōu.’

  My love for you knows no bounds. Words cannot express how much I love you.

  THE END

  A Gentleman of Passion

  As the sun rose over the dreaming spires of Oxford, Atuk Morothwaite yawned sleepily in the back of a carriage. He viewed
the flushed, dreamy dawn with a raised eyebrow, as if mildly surprised that it had come, before knocking on the roof of the carriage to alert the driver.

  ‘Let me off here.’ Lord, it was difficult to speak with a bottle of champagne, two whiskies and a port floating around in one's system. ‘I'll walk it off.’

  ‘You'll need to walk for a long time, sir.’ The driver took Atuk's proffered coin with a look of concern. ‘Don't fall into the Cherwell.’

  ‘Oh, that river and I are old friends.’ Atuk smiled, swaying slightly on his feet. ‘She always manages to spit me out.’

  Tipping his hat to the driver, he turned away. Striking out a slightly unconventional path, one which included a flower bed, a large puddle and a pile of discarded cabbage leaves, he began making his way to the last stop of the night.

  He always made this last stretch of the journey on foot, even if he didn't quite know why. He always had enough money for a carriage, up to the door of his student lodgings if necessary—and the drivers were used to his foreign face, by now. Or even if they weren't used to it, they were more than ready to ignore it when they heard his cut-glass accent and saw his fine clothes. He could have a different carriage for each street... but the fresh morning air always sobered him up, at least a little, and he liked the sunrise. It had a beauty that the rest of his life, privileged as it was, seemed to lack.

  What did he spend time looking at, apart from sunrises? Dusty books, inkwells, and the disapproving faces of his professors. Then, at night, it was all champagne glasses, gilded ceilings, and the parts of people one was never supposed to discuss in company.

  If the separate spheres of his life were ever to collide, Atuk imagined his professors would begin to look even more disapproving. Students weren't meant to know about the existence of pleasure clubs, let alone perform in them. He was a confusing student for them in any case, with his foreign name and foreign face and frustratingly English voice—conduct of this kind would be very much beyond the pale.

  Still. His father's money had made larger problems disappear. Atuk’s lip curled, reflecting that he’d seen more of the his father's bank manager than he had the man himself.

  Climbing over a wall with considerably less grace than normal, he briefly slumped onto a patch of damp grass. He looked up at the row of darkened windows that sat above him, searching for the sign he always searched for. If the window were black, he wouldn't bother her. If there was a candle-flame, she'd be reading—

  Oh, bugger. The gas lamp was burning. Something had happened to Violet.

  Springing to his feet, giving his own face a brisk slap, he ran over the dewy grass to the porter’s office. The porter was, as always, asleep; Atuk leaned over his prostrate form with pounding heart, slipping the key off of its hook, before taking the route he’d taken a hundred times before.

  Through the Tudor door. Four flights of steps. Third door on the right—not the second door, that's the room where they keep the bath, and a screaming woman in the bath is very difficult to placate—then another flight of steps. Sixth door on the left; the one with light streaming from under the door...

  ... Violet. Violet Belgrave, his dearest friend. His brother-at-arms, if he could call her that. Violet Belgrave, sitting at the small table by the window she used for reading, a letter in her shaking hands.

  ‘Frater?’ His usual Latin nickname for her rolled off the tongue; she looked up, startled, and Atuk felt a little better. No tears on that sharp, intelligent face at least. ‘A gas lamp burning so late? Has something happened to Hercules?’

  Violet’s chuckle reassured him even further, as did her quiet, definite tone. ‘Hello, frater. Has anything ever happened to Hercules? He's the most spoiled creature on the face of the earth. He’s somewhere on the premises, conducting whatever business he conducts in his private hours.’

  She clearly didn't want to talk about the letter yet. Atuk gamely played along, looking around her cramped, cluttered student quarters for a tell-tale beady eye. ‘What on earth does a tortoise do in private? Write letters? Polish the old shell?’

  ‘I don’t know. He hardly ever comes to me when I call him—that's your speciality.’ Violet smiled wearily; Atuk felt a ripple of anxiety again. ‘So call the tortoise, tell me about your drunken escapades—you're swaying from side to side, by the way—and I'll tell you about my distressing little piece of news.’

  Distressing? Atuk had never seen Violet distressed by anything—and as one of the few female students at Oxford, she’d undergone enough difficult and humiliating treatment to distress anyone. He sank to his knees, making the familiar clicking of his tongue that brought the tortoise running to him. ‘Hercules... Come on.’

  There was a sudden scrabbling from the corner of the room. Atuk watched as Hercules, a glossy brown tortoise of indeterminate age, eagerly made his way over the Turkish rug to him. A shred of lettuce hung from his leathery lips; Atuk gently removed it, picking Hercules up as he sat on a heavily embroidered cushion.

  ‘Hercules is present and correct.’ His fingers absent-mindedly traced a pattern over the tortoise’s shell. ‘And I don't think I'll be able to tell you about my drunken escapades without at least a little reassurance regarding the distressing piece of news. Are Jemima and Henry well? Has something happened to the house?’

  ‘My parents are hale and hearty, as is the house.’ Violet shifted in her seat, letting the piece of paper in her hands fall to the table. ‘My family remains irritatingly happy.’

  ‘Good. Then what is it?’ Atuk looked down at Violet's loose, billowing trousers. ‘Have the professors finally formed a committee to force you into skirts?’

  ‘If they do that, they’ll have to stop taking all the money father’s throwing at their chapel. They’ll be left with half a roof.’ Violet looked at him, her eyes full of an emotion Atuk couldn't quite define. ‘I'll pour some tea. Then we'll discuss things.’

  Tea did sound perfect, especially with the champagne making his eyelids droop. Atuk let Hercules nestle in his lap, head leaning dreamily on his chin as Violet took the teapot off of the fire.

  How had he ever made his way through the world without the steadfast friendship, the serious, working companionship, of Violet Belgrave? He had known they would be friends ever since he’d seen her walking angrily across the quad, her hands full of books, only stopping to loudly remonstrate with a group of students laughing and pointing at her trousers. Her determined eccentricity, the fact that she was both out-of-place and making the world bend to her will... Atuk, with his different face and unusual name, knew all about that.

  He had nodded to her, acknowledging her bravery, and received a wary nod in response. Then, upon seeing her in the library later that day, he had dropped a casual note onto her desk as he passed.

  Thucydides is murdering whatever love I ever had for Greek. Help me, fellow scholar! I am sitting by the window near the Plato.

  He’d sat by the window, biting his nails, wondering if he was being stupid. Men and women weren’t really meant to associate, after all - and with his face, he couldn’t explain Violet away as a sister or cousin. But a frank, brotherly friendship, without complication... was it even possible, between the sexes?

  Then, with a defiant billowing of fabric, Violet had sat opposite him. Looking into her grave eyes, Atuk knew he had found a kindred spirit.

  ‘Take your tea.’ The scalding cup in his hands jolted Atuk out of his reverie. Violet poured a cup for herself, placing the kettle back on the glowing coals of the fire. ‘It's cheap stuff anyway—I could boil it for days without changing the flavour.’ She sat down in her chair, holding the cup to her chest. ‘So. Oxford’s pleasure clubs are finally welcoming you with open arms?’

  That was the other thing Atuk relished about Violet’s friendship; her ability to discuss even the most sensitive of subjects. A countryside childhood and voracious passion for books, even the ones she wasn't meant to read, meant that he could discuss any matters with her in perfect frankness. ‘No.
This was a formal gathering, which became progressively less formal as the night went on. Oxford’s ladies were in need of some excitement.’ He sipped his tea, wincing at the bitterness of the tannin. ‘Although I probably needed considerably less champagne than I actually drank.’

  ‘Does Mr. Swift allow you to... freelance?’ Violet took a gulp of her tea. ‘I would have thought he’s quite strict about that sort of thing.’

  ‘I didn't take money tonight—and none of the ladies and gentleman will be at the party happening in a day or so.’ Atuk shrugged. ‘And I think Swift knows not to push me. My father may ignore me completely, but he doesn't appreciate other people threatening the family. Even the part of the family with a Mongolian face and a tendency to get into scrapes.’

  ‘Didn't your father write to you recently?’ Violet smiled. ‘I recall you receiving a letter.’

  ‘Yes. It turned out to be for his brother, not for me. Frater, this is the man who gave me an Inuit name, not knowing that the princess he briefly married was from Mongolia.’ Atuk took another, bigger sip of tea. ‘His absent-mindedness may be the most positive of his qualities. And I do believe you’re trying to distract me from the reason I came here. What on earth is in that letter?’

  Violet sighed. ‘It's... delicate.’

  ‘Delicate? That doesn't sound like the fearless scholar who doesn't even blush when she reads Catullus.’ Atuk smiled, but Violet didn't smile back. ‘Come now. Tell me. I promise to remain grave and emotionless.’

  ‘... This letter is from my mother. With my father's tacit support, I suspect.’ Violet picked up the letter by one corner, eyeing it as if it could rear up and bite her fingers. ‘She... suggests, in the firmest of words, that it is time for me to seriously consider marriage. Or, if not marriage, at least... courting.’

  ‘... Oh.’ Atuk realised he was gripping his teacup tightly. ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes. Apparently a friend of my father, Lord Brandmead, had expressed an... interest, as it were. In courting me—I don't know about marrying me, but I assume one doesn't court without marriage appearing at the end of it.’ Violet smiled humourlessly. ‘He is a pleasant man. I can’t say I remember him all that well, given that I spend my summers at home studying, but... well. He is rich, and not ugly, and realistically the sort a man a woman like me should be extremely happy to receive as a suitor.’