Finagled (7 page)

In her nightgown fastened up to the throat, the buttons blessedly in the front, she climbed up into the large bed, it was soft and well made, the sheets were  a little cool, and there was no one to ask for a warming pan. She curled up fetally, shivering, and tried to will herself to sleep. She felt nervous. What if George awoke before her? Would he wake her? She blushed and felt a little warmer. The exhaustion of the day finally took over.

George touched the beautiful satin chemise with the toe of his shoe, it shifted slightly. He stood over it for some time, with the torn and cut ribbons to the left, silk stockings like little snakes crawling towards him, to the right. He sat on the couch, and looked at them. It was hard for him not to imagine a different scenario that would have left these articles strewn about so wantonly.

Even the scissors and cut ribbons offered a tantalizing display in his mind's eye, turning his young bride around as he fumbled with her impossible knots and finally divesting her of the device with sharp sterling blades in a delicious frustration.

This reminded him that under the expansive, beautiful gown this morning, when she stood beside him, she had been wearing these items as well, specifically chosen and crafted to please her husband. It was their entire purpose, and they would have pleased him, but not as much as that soft and satiny skin that he just barely felt while unbuttoning Ramona's dress.

He remembered the sweet and unexpected parting of her lips in the arbor. Looking over this room, soft golden candlelight across pools of silk and satin and lace, he felt the keen unfairness of such a bridal trousseau gone to waste, he thought of the way a young bride must feel when she is dressed in each article of clothing, meant later to be undressed just as methodically and become a new woman in the arms of an affectionate and well-meaning groom. What a disappointment he must be to Ramona. But then, perhaps she was too frightened of marital congress to feel the lack. Perhaps all she really wanted from him was friendship, and his own lusts were applying more wanton thoughts upon the poor, innocent girl.

He grunted gruffly, loosened his cravat and lay back on the couch. He did not expect to get much sleep, but the alcohol was still affecting him and he slipped into unconsciousness easily.

Ramona was clearly visible upon the bed. It was still dark out, and would continue dark until they were well on their way. Her soft, sleeping expression was darling, her brow, previously furrowed, was smooth and white. He went over to the bedside table and sat his candelabra there, wondering how to wake her. His fingertips soft on her cheek, his lips softer on her own, the shifting of blankets and sheets as he held her against him, even as he thought of it and tried to stop himself it was happening. She opened her drowsy little eyes as his fingers searched for ribbons and buttons. She did not look shocked, or upset, just expectant. He pushed her nightgown up to her waist. Everything was so dark he felt for her with his fingers without seeing, sharp little hip bones, smooth flat stomach, the hair between her thighs, and what was this? a book, two shoes, a hand mirror. He pulled out a variety of household items in confusion and looked down through the inky darkness. She was gone. No longer a soft supple form below him, a pile of junk. He put his hands out further, searching all of the large bed, and it was so large, so much larger than he had remembered it, inviting and, covered in lush fabrics the night before, just hours before, and it had grown so very large. Handfuls of sheet, downy pillows, ribbons, tassels, a whisk, a kitten, that mewed pitifully as he held it. "Ramona?" he said aloud, trying to see the color of the kittens eyes, "is that you?" he asked. It mewed. He did not know if it was mewing in the affirmative or negative. Had his new wife become a kitten? He furrowed his brow. What would her mother say?

He shifted violently and fell off of the couch with a crash. A dream, of course. He laughed at himself for a moment. Of course it was just a dream. He stumbled around the room for a candlestick and matches. Once lit, he looked in his pockets for his watch. Crawling around on the floor near the couch he found it. It was 2 in the morning. Holding the pocket watch in his hands he tried to find sleep again but it resisted. He left the candle lit, watched the color of the flame and tried to hear some noise from the adjoining chamber. He felt a little trapped in this room, no windows, just the little candle and one door. He wanted to go for a walk in the moonlight. He tried for a bit longer to recapture sleep and then stood up.

The hotel was finely kept, the door opened without a creak, and he crept across the carpet without a light, hoping not to disturb Ramona, he stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the moonlight through the large pane-glass window. He could not see Ramona in the pile of bedclothes, just a distorted lump of blankets, their dinner things still strewn about the table, her clothes laid out flat on the sofa, her carpet bag still open on the floor at the foot of the bed. He sought out a clear pathway to the hallway door. Turning and removing the key from the inside lock, he opened the latch carefully and left the room, locking the door behind him. He would try to be quick. Just a turn around the block and then back in the dressing room before Ramona awoke.

The night was cool. Autumn was just beginning, and the air had the crisp coldness that matched the crunch of leaves underfoot.  There were few people about, and all of them had the look of being on their way to somewhere, not out to enjoy the crisp air, but holding their thin jackets against themselves in the hopes of keeping it at bay. George stood for a moment with his hands in his pockets. A hansom cab passed. He saw a girl in a brightly colored dress across the street, her body language was speaking to him. He turned away, hoping to indicate disinterest, when he felt the sharp pain in his lower back, shocking and sudden, he fell forward and into an inky unconsciousness.

Ramona awoke in the dark. She did not know the time, but it seemed more like morning than night. Had she overslept? She slipped out of bed and put her dress and underthings on hastily. Her hands were cold and it was difficult to strike a match. She wasted two before she got the wick lit on her candlestick. She peered at the small gilt clock on the mantle. 3:3o am. It was still an hour or so before they expected to set off, but surely George was awake by now. She stuffed her toiletries into her travel bag. She could not get all of her buttons done up, but with her loosened corset she managed the ones nearest the top, so that the dress gaped just across her shoulder blades, only 6 buttons or so shy of done up.

She knocked on the dressing room door. She did not, of course, receive a reply. She cracked the door quietly. The couch was within her line of sight, empty. She opened the door the rest of the way. He was up already. Probably preparing their servants and carriage for travel.

Ramona lit several more candles around the two rooms and picked up her crumpled wedding clothes. The gown was rent across the arms, of course, but she stuffed it into her larger trunk, not worried about damaging it as she might have been under different circumstances. The corset, chemise and stockings joined the dress and she looked over the room. George's cravat was crumpled on the couch. She went over to it for a moment, held the soft, satiny material between her fingers. She resisted bringing it up to her face. She put it on the dressing table. All of her own things in order, she went to wait for George to return, by the dying fire. She tried to fan it a little, like she had seen the servants do, but failed rather miserably. She pulled out a wrap from her carpet bag and curled her feet up underneath her. She stared at the dying embers.

It did not take long for her to get uncomfortable and worried. She pulled her wrap close around her shoulders to hide the buttons gaping open and went to the door. She tried the handle and found it locked. The key was not in the lock. George took it with him, of course, but she felt panic rising in her throat. She did not want to make a scene by pounding on the door. George was on his way to wake her, most probably. She sat back down by the fireplace, now it seemed to be completely dead. She held her wrap closer and waited. She watched the clock. If it struck four-thirty and he had not returned... but where would he have gone? It would not strike four-thirty. She remembered a bell by the door, to call for service. She would ring that. If he did not come back, she would ring the bell. She tried to breathe slowly and not worry. Had he abandoned her here? Did he realize his mistake and leave her?

Four-thirty. They were supposed to be riding to Loathewood now. She rang the bell. She tried to ring it casually, not frantically, but she was shaking. She waited. In a few minutes there was a knock on the door.

"The door is locked," she said, "from the outside, my husband took the key." Her voice shook a little.

"One moment, ma'am," came a quiet female voice from the other side.

Ramona sat back down. She heard slightly quick steps returning, two sets. The key turned in the lock, and another knock came. Ramona answered the door.

"Thank you," she said quietly. A young woman in a uniform stood to the side and a man, probably the concierge, stood before her with the key.  "Have you..." she looked up to the man, "have you had any word from my husband, we were supposed to be leaving this morning, within the past half hour..." her voice cracked a little, "but he... went out, while I was sleeping, and he has not come back."

"I am sorry, Your Grace. I will have someone ask your driver." he bowed slightly.

"Would you like something?" the young woman asked, "breakfast, tea, or assistance packing?" she asked.

"Yes. Tea." she replied, "and my maid, Melanie, could you send for her?"

"Of course, I will be right back."

"Thank you."

Ramona went back into the lonely, dark room and sat on the edge of the bed. The next knock on the door was her maid.

"Melanie," she said, "I... I had to dress myself this morning. I..." she smiled slightly, "I am afraid I did a poor job of it,"

"Of course, Your Grace," Melanie deftly finished doing up Ramona's buttons.

"Shall I pack up your things?"

"I think I got it all taken care of... thank you."

Then tea was brought, hot breakfast, with toast and butter. She made herself eat something. It was still so dark out, the inky fog that covered the city meant she could barely see pinpoints of light here and there out of the window.

The next knock on the door was the concierge again, with a serious look on his face. "Your Grace. We have located your husband,"

"Where is he?" she looked past the concierge, almost expecting to see George looking sheepish.

"There has been an accident."

"My God, where is he?" Ramona's voice became shrill.

"He is downstairs, we have summoned a doctor. One of the men found him a half hour ago. He has been stabbed."

"Stabbed?" she exclaimed, "who would do such a thing?" she rushed forward.

"A street person, most likely. He was on the street. He may have been mugged."

"I would like to see him." she said, shaking.

"Of course I understand, Your Grace, but he does not look himself."

"I don't care. For God's sake, take me to him."

"Yes, of course."

She followed the concierge out and down the two flights of steps to the ground floor.

"We took him to the nearest empty room, Your Grace," the concierge explained on the way.

George’s hair was mussed, he was so pale, with sweat shining on his brow. He no longer looked hale, hearty, or swarthy, just  a little sallow and sick. His eyes were closed, the lids looked bruised and dark. His shirt had been taken off and a sheet wrapped tightly around his waist. He had a curl across his brow. It was the most unlike him, the thing that made her heart clench slightly, a hair out of place.

She ran to his side, started to reach for his hand and then held herself back. Did she have the right, as his wife, had he offered her his hand before? She thought of holding tightly to him the night that they had kissed, she took his hand in hers.

"George," she said, quietly. She sat down in a chair someone, she didn’t see who, had pulled over for her. She held his hand tightly. She waited.

When the doctor came he made her wait in the hall. She tore herself away from George. The concierge offered her something to eat in the dining area. She looked at him with wild eyes. "I have to stay here," she said. "He... he is... he is my husband," it felt somehow natural to say it, suddenly. "He
is
my husband."

"Of course, Your Grace. Please let me bring you a chair,"

She sat down. She sat down across from the doorway and stared at the paneling, every line in the wood, the swirls of  knotholes and rings. She counted them, she looked at the space between the carpet and the wall, she saw the shapes of flowers and fruit on the ceiling panels. She remembered every detail of the hallway, when the door opened, changing the scene perversely, she tried to peer inside and see the Doctor leaned over the bed. Someone took in water and bandages. She heard a clock somewhere strike six in the morning. She felt herself breathe when she felt like she was about to forget how.

The door finally opened and the doctor stood before her. "He has lost a lot of blood, but no vital organs were damaged. He was bleeding for a couple of hours before the valet found him."

"Is he okay?" she asked, "Is he going to be okay?" like a frantic little bird.

"I think so, but it is hard to say at this stage. The blood loss has weakened him and if the wound becomes infected, it could be very bad. It must be kept clean. I can send for an agency nurse to attend to it."

"Is it something I could do?" she asked.

"Yes, if you felt comfortable. You may not realize how unpleasant a job it will be. The wound or sight of blood may unhinge you."

"I would like to feel like I was helping him." Ramona said. "I think I can stand it."

"I will take you in and show you what would need to be done, but it is very important that you do it regularly."

"I understand."

"And he should not be moved for the time being. This would, I am sure, all be much easier in your own home, but until the crisis has passed, he should stay right where he is."

"Of course," Ramona said.

The sight of the wound was shocking, it was not large, it had been stitched up, but still seeped a clearish pink liquid. There was a dressing which that had to be changed every few hours, the wound washed with soap and water and cleaned with alcohol before another, fresh bandage could be applied.  The bandages themselves required preparation, to be sterilized she would have to have access to boiling water, and keep the bandages stored cleanly afterward.