So, they talked, and talked, and talked, trying to break through, trying to get her to listen and engage. By the end of the fifth day after the attack, their hope began to fade. Adrian dragged his son to the guest room and forced him to lie down and rest. Julia remained with her daughter-in-law.
“Katerina,” she said softly, “that's enough, love. You need to come back to us. You need to wake up and be present. Your baby needs you. Your husband needs you. Everyone loves you. Can't you wake up?”
The girl stirred. Julia held her breath. And then Katerina rolled to her side and closed her eyes.
Exhausted, strained to the breaking point, Julia's temper flared. “You selfish girl. You can't do this. You can't just give up. If you die, Christopher's baby dies with you. Stop this. Wake up and fight to live, Kat. Your life is not over.”
“Mother, stop,” Christopher said from the doorway where he leaned against the doorjamb.
“I was trying to break through, to wake her up,” Julia said, trying to defend her harsh words.
“I know,” he replied, “but maybe it's too much to ask. She's been so hurt for so long. Perhaps she finally reached her limit. Who are we to say she's being selfish? She's already endured more than anyone should have to. It might be asking more than she has to give.”
“Do you want her to `fade' Christopher?” his mother demanded, fresh anger flaring.
“Of course not,” he replied, “but I can't choose for her.”
“Do you understand, son, that if she dies, your child dies with her?”
“Yes, Mother. I understand. I would lose them both.” His breath caught.
“And then we would lose you, wouldn't we, son?”
Christopher didn't answer.
“Damn you, Katerina, wake up.” Julia shook the girl's arm sharply.
“Enough, Mother. Enough. Please, just go.”
Unable to think of anything else to say or do, Julia walked unsteadily down to the parlor where she cuddled up with her husband and wept.
* * *
Christopher crawled into the bed beside Katerina and slid his arm under her, cradling her. He turned her towards him.
With his free hand he traced the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lip, the line of her nose. She's so beautiful, like an angel. I love her with every fiber of my being, and I will lose her. I'm already losing her. How can I live without this woman who warmed my life, my body, and my heart? The future stretched before him, cold and empty.
“Don't go away, love,” he begged her. “Don't go where I can't find you. Come back.” Tears fell and splashed on her face.
* * *
Katerina had been wrapped in a silver mist for the longest time. She burrowed into it like a comforting blanket and hid. If she emerged from the shadows, something so horrible, so excruciating awaited her that she would die in agony. Better just to let go slowly. Nothing hurt here, in the mist, in the darkness. Hunger didn't bite at her and pain didn't assault her. She was numb, and content to remain so until numbness dissolved into death. Yes. That's the way to go. Just slowly release life. Release. It was easy to die. Simple. She was vaguely aware of people talking around her, trying to encourage her to engage, but she could ignore them as easily as a housefly buzzing against a windowpane. What did their struggle have to do with her? Nothing.
And then something wet hit her cheek. She had been bathed enough times and could ignore it, but this was not bathing. Where is the cloth? It's like a warm rain. Another drop splashed on her skin. What is this? Curiosity awakened within the mist. She wanted to know what was happening. The darkness would still be there if she roused herself for a second, just to know, to understand. Another drop. Another. Burning droplets rained on her.
She struggled to engage, to move up through the numbness back into her body and into awareness. There are arms holding me. I know these arms, but how? They mean something. They've held me before, and it was always good.
She emerged more fully into reality and saw the face. Handsome chiseled face, scruffy, unshaven, silver eyes tightly shut, tears dripping from beneath the lids onto her. He was crying. Crying on her. The hot rain of his tears fell, streaking across her skin and burning her, forcing her to increasing awareness.
The darkness beckoned, receding. If she wanted to withdraw with it, she needed to do it now, because life was taking hold of her again. She could feel it. It would hurt. She didn't want to hurt. She wanted peace.
She retreated. But why is he crying? What made this beautiful man so sad? He was sobbing one word over and over.
“Katerina, Katerina.”
That's my name. Is he really crying over me? Is he?
I know this man, know every inch of his body, know his heart and soul. Despite her desire for oblivion, she couldn't leave him in such pain. She tried to think of a word. What is it?
“Christopher?” her voice sounded rusty and harsh. The darkness retreated further. She tried to hold onto it, but it slipped away from her.
Silver eyes opened and seemed to sink into her soul, snaring her and anchoring her to reality. “Kat?”
She had to choose. The darkness would soon be gone, leaving her stranded here where everything hurt. But here also was Christopher, hurting and crying. How can I leave him in such pain?
The beautiful face drew close to her. Soft full lips touched hers, and that touch was pure light, obliterating the last of the darkness. She flared to life again, at last fully present. He crushed her to him, sobbing in relief. She cuddled in his arms, liking the connection to this man. She remembered him more minute by minute. My hero. My husband. The father of my child. And at last, she remembered the terror that stalked her.
“Chris…” Her breath caught as agonized horror broke over her.
“Yes, love?” Pure tenderness poured from his tone.
“The baby. He killed our baby.” She sobbed.
“No. The baby is fine,” he protested.
She swallowed hard, forcing down her tears and gave him a quizzical look.
“I stopped him,” Christopher explained. “He didn't get that far. You've been checked several times and there's no sign of miscarriage.” He placed her hand on her belly, so she could feel the little movements.
Her mouth opened. “Fine?”
“Yes, the baby is fine.”
“I was so afraid… I said I didn't want a baby…. But now I do…. I couldn't bear the thought that…” she stammered.
“No. That didn't happen. I got there first.”
“Father?”
“Gone. On a boat to America. We're safe from him.”
“Good.” Good riddance.
He cupped her cheek. “Oh, Katerina, are you really back with me?”
“I think so.” I ache enough to be. Even the pains in her head and muscles helped her remember she was alive.
“Thank God. I was so worried.” He kissed her lips again.
She tried to pull him closer.
“Easy, love. You have to try and be still.”
A sharp pain speared through her. “My head hurts.”
“No doubt. You have a fractured skull, but it's healing.”
“That explains why I'm so dizzy.”
“It might also be hunger. You haven't eaten in days. Can you stand to eat, love?”
Her stomach rumbled. “I think so.”
“Good. Kat?”
“Hmmm?”
“I love you.” He rose and rang for a maid, his eyes remaining fixed on his wife as he waited. She gazed back, feeding her fragile soul with the pure love flowing between them.
A middle-aged woman in a white mob cap and dressing gown poked her head in the door and beamed to see the young woman finally present. I think I caused a lot of trouble, Katerina realized, feeling dismayed with herself.
“Could you get my wife some broth and some tea, please,” Christopher asked. The woman nodded and hurried from the room. Her boots clattered on the wooden floorboards in the hallway.
Christopher
poured a glass of cool water from a pitcher on the table by the bed. Then he sank back onto the mattress beside her and helped her sit partially upright against a pile of pillows behind her back, so he could raise it to her lips.
She took a deep sip. “Can you forgive me, love?” she asked, finally fully awake.
“For what?” he asked.
“The attack. It was my fault.” She closed her eyes as a tear slipped down her cheek.
“How?” he asked, puzzled.
“I didn't hide. I told him… I didn't want to see him. I told him to go away.”
“But that's good, love,” he assured her, stroking her hair. “It means you're finally getting strong.”
“It made him so angry.”
“And I wasn't there to protect you.” Now Christopher looked ashamed.
“Yes, you were. You stopped him. You're my hero again.” She touched his cheek with one delicate hand.
“I'm no hero,” he protested. “Just a husband who adores his wife. You're the brave one.”
“But I'm not brave. Not without you.” She stroked her thumb over the scruff on his cheeks.
“Then be with me.” He covered her hand with his.
How could she have ever thought to do anything else? “Oh yes. I'm here now. I'm sorry I went away.”
He smoothed an errant lock from the tangled mass of her hair and looked tenderly into her eyes. “You came back. That's what matters.”
“I love you, Christopher. There's no place I would rather be than here.”
“I'm so very glad.” He brushed his lips against hers in a kiss of such aching tenderness that she was finally able to release the terror in a flood of wracking sobs that shook her slender frame. But she was not alone. She was part of something bigger than herself. She was part of Christopher, and he was part of her, and both of them were part of the child she carried. And now, at last, she could finally finish healing and make herself into the woman she had always wanted to be. And he would be here with her. And she was finally safe.
Afterward
Dear Reader,
I hope you have enjoyed the time you have spent with the Bennetts. If you did, I would appreciate it very much if you would leave me a review. I also love to hear from readers. If you have any questions, comments, or issues, or if you just want to get in touch, you can email me at [email protected].
Keeping Katerina is intended to be part of a three-book series. Book 2, Devin's Dilemma, is also available. Turn the page to read an excerpt from chapter 1.
You can also check out my website http://simonebeaudelaireauthor.weebly.com/ to see my upcoming writing projects and works by other notable authors.
Historical Note
The cotton mills of the Victorian period were well known to be horrible places: hot, dangerous, and prone to employing small children, who often died or were maimed. No precautions were taken to protect these small and vulnerable workers. There was no health or life insurance. While most cotton mills were located in cities such as Lancaster, there were a few in London.
My research did not reveal the existence of any such thing as a “progressive cotton mill” so I invented one. The Victorian era was a time of dawning awareness of the rights of the poor and disenfranchised, as evidenced by Robert Browning's poems, as well as by the passage of several laws intended to improve the lives of the working poor, particularly children. And after all, socially conscious middle-class families like the Bennetts could hardly be expected to own anything else, right?
Other than that, I have strived to remain historically accurate. In 1848 railroads stretched across England and Italy, steamships were under development, and gas lighting was quite common.
Robert Browning, who is one of my all-time favorite poets, is famous for his love affair with and marriage to the poetess Elizabeth Barrett, who during her lifetime was far more famous than her husband. Her father, like Giovanni Valentino, did not want his daughters to marry. However, it is not generally believed he was abusive. Just possessive. When Robert and Elizabeth married in secret, they returned to their separate homes after the wedding and later ran away to Florence, where they lived happily together for several years, and had a son. While living in Italy, Robert encountered many works of art and wrote about the artists: Fra Lippo Lippi and Andrea del Sarto, for instance. And Browning's poetry was hated at first. It was only later that people began to appreciate his vision.
Bullying is quite a buzz word these days, and thus might seem like a modern term. However, the concept is not new. People have been bullied forever, and the term first appeared in print in the 1500s.
Child abuse has been a scourge of society for a very long time, but in the early Victorian period, people were becoming increasingly aware that such things happened and were debating how to deal with it. I wish I could say the problem has been effectively dealt with, but that would be too great a piece of fiction.
Excerpt from Devin's Dilemma (The Victorians book 2)
Simone Beaudelaire
Chapter 1
“Harry! Harry, please come here. I need you.”
With a sigh, Harry put her book aside and rose to her feet. Her arches ached in her cousin's too-small boots and her second-hand petticoats drooped to the floor. I have to make time to alter this monstrosity. But she knew better. The petticoat had been tripping her for months, and yet, when she had a chance, it was a novel, not a needle, that drew her attention.
“Harry, please hurry!”
Harry hurried down the hall from her small bedroom under the eaves to her cousin's larger central room, careful to keep her noisy boots confined to the soft black and rose runner lest they boom like thunder on the floorboards. A racket like that would certainly draw Uncle Malcolm's attention… again. That's the last thing I want.
She wrestled the cranky crystal knob on her cousin's bedroom door until the catch conceded to release. Harry slipped into the room.
“What is it, Fanny?” she asked. But even as she spoke, Harry knew the answer. Her cousin, Fanny, stood in the center of her room in her underwear, muttering under her breath as she laced her corset to the carved mahogany bedpost. Her pale forehead shone with sweat and her black hair clung to it.
“Fanny, stop,” Harry urged. “We tightened that thing already, remember? You don't need to do that.”
“It's not enough,” Fanny whined, her rosebud lip poking out into a pout.
“Why not?” Harry crossed the floor and smoothed Fanny's hair back. “It's not necessary to turn yourself inside out, you know. You have an enviable figure. Why tight-lace?”
Fanny looked down at her generous bosom, her tiny waist, artificially narrowed by years of tight-lacing, and her perfect, round hips. “Once William proposes to me, then I'll loosen my laces, but until then… I can't let my guard down. What if I have to make another match?”
Harry closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her own, much looser-fitting garment restricted her, but not to the point of dizziness. “You won't,” she insisted. “William adores you. He has your father's permission to court you. You'll be his bride before you know it. But what happens if you pass out tonight? You'll miss all the fun, and they'll have to loosen your laces anyway.”
Fanny's pout in no way diminished. “That's easy enough for you to say. You don't have to worry about finding a worthy husband.”
Harry bit her lip. “You're right.” And how kind of you to remind me that I've gone from a poor relation with few prospects to a domestic with none. Then she sighed. Fanny's comment had not been made from cruelty and Harry knew it. “At any rate, I still think you'll be fine with it the way we had it. And you won't need to worry. Heaven forbid if something were to happen to William, you'd have a line of suitors waiting to claim you whether you tight-lace or not.”
“Do you really think so?” Fanny's huge blue eyes widened until they seemed to swallow up all of her pale, heart-shaped face.
“I know so,” Harry replied, patting her cousin's shoulder. “N
ow why not bathe your face in some cool water and let's get you dressed. You have a big night tonight.”
Fanny beamed, no doubt thinking of her beloved William, and Harry relaxed. Her cousin's obsession with her looks bothered the bookish young woman, but she had to admit, they were more likely to win her a comfortable existence than any tome ever written. It's not like you would have been popular anyway, Harry Fletcher. Not with your… she let the dangerous thought trail off. Taking slow, deliberate steps, carefully placing her shoes on the floorboards so as to avoid stomping, she approached a massive wardrobe in a dark, carved wood. Red-paneled doors gave way to rows of hanging dresses, each one worth at least as much as she earned in a year. Harry pulled out the midnight blue and lace ball gown her cousin had commissioned for tonight's dinner.
“It's dreadfully hot,” Fanny commented as she splashed cold water on her face.
“It is,” Harry agreed, carefully removing the dress from the wardrobe and laying it out on the gold brocade bedclothes. “Did you father say when we're leaving?”
“To Brighton?” Fanny turned away from the ewer on her mirrored commode and approached the window, parting the curtains a crack to peer out onto the loud and dusty street. “He said it depends on me. If I can bring William up to scratch in the next week or so, we'll have to wait until all the arrangements are made. Otherwise, we'll leave next week, and he'll have to catch up with us there… or wait until next season.”
Harry grimaced. Fanny was sure not to like either of those options. I suspect there's to be a great deal of pouting in my future.
Fanny turned from the window and Harried carried the corset to her, settling it around Fanny's perfect figure and beginning the laborious fastening process. Thank goodness she didn't tighten it any more. This can't be healthy. But Fanny didn't worry about her health, only about her beauty. Harry had no choice but to accommodate her.
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