She shook her head. “My inability to handle my disappointment without doing something stupid was not your fault, but my own shortcoming. In fact, this time, I was determined that should you turn me down, I was absolutely not going to do anything foolish—like sleeping with Penny, for instance—to soothe my bruised vanity.”
“Penny would be traumatized. He still thinks of you as a sister.”
She chuckled. “I would be traumatized, too.”
She lifted her arm and set her hand down atop a small framed picture on her nightstand. Absently she twisted the frame this way and that, and he saw that the frame contained a pencil drawing of her face he had sketched many years ago and given her as a gift. The art critic in her should have found too many defects in the sketch, which lacked both technique and composition, and seemed to have only a great earnestness to recommend itself.
He’d always loved and cared about her, but now his heart was filled with tenderness, so much that it was almost painful. “I’m glad you came back,” he said, tracing his hand across her cheekbone.
“So am I,” she said, her gaze direct and clear. “So am I.”
It was very late at night, but her husband still had not returned from London.
Elissande lay awake in an unrelieved darkness, staring at a ceiling she could not see, thinking of the first time she laid eyes on him. She remembered every detaiclass="underline" the homburg he’d worn, the glimpse of blue waistcoat beneath his fawn jacket, the spark of sunlight on his cuff links, but most of all, the joyful buoyancy she’d experienced when he’d smiled at his brother.
If only they’d met a week later, when she no longer needed to entrap anyone. How different things would have been.
But she had entrapped him. And he was not happy with her. And if he would not talk to her—or make love to her—how would they ever be anything but strangers in this marriage?
Her door creaked slightly as it swung open. He was home. He had opened her door. He was on her threshold and had but to take one more step to enter her room.
Excitement shot through her, an excitement that was almost panic. Her heart pumped madly, like a steam-driven piston. She bit her lower lip to not breathe too heavily.
She must hold very quiet, and give the firm impression of being sound asleep. Then he might be more encouraged to approach her. To touch her. And from there, to forgive her, some day.
She willed him to come to her, to seek solace in her arms for his loneliness, his weariness.
But the door closed again and he sought his own bed instead.
The longcase clock gonged the hour, three brassy chimes that quavered in the dark, still air.
It was always three o’clock.
He ran. The pitch-black corridor would not end. Something slammed into his calf. He cried out in pain, stumbling. But he must keep running. He must reach his mother and warn her of the mortal danger.
There, the hall. At the distant end of its Olympic length, the staircase that would be her undoing. He’d almost made it. He would save her; he would not let her fall.
He stumbled again, pain lancing deep into his knees.
He hobbled on.
But she was already there when he at last reached the foot of the staircase. Blood pooled under her head, blood the same black-red as her gown and the rubies glittering on her chest.
He screamed. Why could he not save her? Why was he never in time to save her?
Someone called his name. Someone shook his shoulder. It must be the person responsible for his mother’s death. He threw the person down.
“Penny, are you all right?” she squeaked.
No, he was not all right. He would never be all right again.
“Penny, stop. Stop. You’ll hurt me.”
He very much wanted to hurt somebody.
“Penny, please!”
His eyes flew open. He was gasping, as if he’d been running from the hounds of hell. The room was pitch-dark, just like in his dream. He made a sound at the back of his throat, not yet free from the terror of the nightmare.
“It’s all right,” murmured the person in bed with him, someone warm and soft who smelled of honey and roses. “It was just a bad dream.”
She caressed his face and his hair. “It was just a bad dream,” she repeated. “Don’t be afraid.”
Ridiculous. He wasn’t afraid of anything.
She kissed him on his jaw. “I’m here. It’s all right. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
He was big, strong, and clever. He needed no one to protect him from something as flimsy as dreams.
She pulled him into her arms. “I have bad dreams too. Sometimes I dream I’m Prometheus, chained to the rock forever and ever. And then, of course, I can’t go back to sleep afterward, so I think of Capri, beautiful, faraway Capri.”
She had an exquisite voice. He’d never noticed before. But there in the dark, as she spoke, the sound of her words was as lovely as the sound of water to a desert tribe.
“I imagine that I have a boat of my own,” she whispered. “When it’s warm and breezy, I sail it into the open waters, sleep under the sun, and turn as brown as the fishermen. And when it’s stormy, I stand atop the cliffs and watch the sea rage, knowing that an angry sea keeps me isolated—and keeps me safe.”
His breaths no longer came in quite such huge gulps. He understood what she was doing. After the abrupt loss of their mother, he’d done the same for Freddie, his arm around Freddie’s shoulders, talking about netting trout and catching fireflies until Freddie fell asleep again.
But he’d never let anyone do it for him.
“It was unlikely, of course,” she continued. “I always knew that it was most unlikely. If ever I managed to get away from my uncle, I would need to work for a living, and nobody pays a woman much for anything. I’d have to scrimp to save for a rainy day, and count myself fortunate if I could someday spare the coin for a train ticket to Brighton.” Her fingers traced his cheekbone. “But Capri made it possible to go on. It was my flame in the dark, my escape when there was no escape.”
He tightened his arm about her—he hadn’t even realized he had his arm about her.
“I know everything there is to know about Capri. Or at least everything people thought worth writing down in travelogues: its history, its topography, the etymology of its name. I know what grows in its interior and what swims in its waters. I know the winds that come with each season.”
Her hand rubbed his back as she spoke. Her words were quiet, almost hypnotic. She might have successfully lulled him back to sleep were it not for the fact that her body was directly pressed into his.
“So tell me,” he said.
She must have felt it, the physiological change on his part. But she did not pull away. If anything, she fitted herself more snugly to him.
“It is probably quite overrun these days. One book mentioned that there is a colony of writers and artists from England, France, and Germany.”
He could not stop himself anymore. He kissed her throat, his fingers unhooking her nightdress. Her skin, the smoothness of it, made his heart lose its beat.
“Of course,” she went on, her voice increasingly unsteady, “I ignore their presence entirely so I may preserve my illusion of a sparsely populated paradise, empty except for the sea and the sky and me.”
“Of course,” he said.
He peeled her nightdress from her, pulled his own nightshirt over his head, and turned them so that she was on top of him.
“What do you think about when you wake up from nightmares?” she asked, her words barely audible.
He tugged off the ribbon at the end of her plait and loosened her hair. It fell, like a cloud, about his face and shoulders.
“This,” he said. “This is what I think about.”
Not the sexual act per se, but the presence of another. A closeness that would cocoon and shield him.