Fitcher's Brides (19 page)

The first piece was for her, the next for him, and after that, the cake was steadily dismantled, like a pyramid, brick by brick. People kept arriving to take another piece.

Across the disappearing cake, Vern watched her husband standing, speaking with her father, and thought that there couldn't be anyone finer, greater, or more true than Elias Fitcher.

N
EAR SUNSET, THE REVELRY
ended. It seemed to her that all of Harbinger had suspended their daily routine to join in the celebration, as people were forever flowing through the dining hall, swirling through the foyer, congealing in corners, on benches and chairs, until another group arrived to replace them. It went on for hours. The room never emptied.

Finally, though, the reverend announced that everyone should return to their duties—that he and his bride must retire. He called for “Mr. Notaro,” and the young rakehell had to be sought, because he was no longer in the room. Neither, she realized, was Amy. People ran out in search of him, as if locating him constituted an urgent matter.

Notaro soon came bursting in, his demeanor disheveled, his greased hair falling in his eyes once more. It looked as if he might have stumbled and fallen on his way. Vern suspected he was drunk, but if he was, he had enough sense left to conceal it.

“Is the wagon ready to take these—my in-laws—home?”

“Yes, sir, Reverend, yes it is. Tied up around the side.” He pushed the hair back on his head.

“That's good,” was the response, and the way Fitcher said those two words made Vern suspect that things would not have gone well for Mr. Notaro had it been otherwise. She took brief cruel amusement at the prospect of seeing him punished.

He hurried off to bring the wagon up to the door. A moment later through the same door he'd come in, Amy entered. She wore the idiotic smile of someone lost in her cups. It appeared that, drunk or no, she hadn't loosened any of her clothing, but Vern had a sudden, horrible premonition that the spouse the spirit had promised for Amy might
be
Notaro. The matter needed clarifying, and her sister required some instruction.

And then she remembered that she wouldn't be going home with the rest of them. She would not have occasion to speak with Samuel again, nor be on hand to safeguard her fool sister.

She lived here now.

 

On the steps they made their farewells. Kate was weeping again as Vern embraced her. Amy hugged her, planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek, and promised in a singsong voice to visit soon. Lavinia assisted her on board the wagon, then sat beside her and quietly remonstrated against her “behavior fit for a doggery.” Vern experienced a pang of loss watching the familiar scene, as if she were a spirit herself, looking upon the world she had departed.

Mr. Charter hugged her one last time before boarding. “We'll be close,” he said. “We're going to see one another all the time, you know.”

“Papa,” she replied, the tone almost beseeching—and even she didn't know what she was expressing.
What has happened to me?
she wondered as the wagon lurched away.
Gone from betrothal to wedlock before I could draw breath. Samuel, what have you sent me to?
The wagon rolled through the wrought-iron gates. Exhaustion sank upon her as if the wagon toted her energy away with it.

Fitcher came up behind her, and his arms slid around her waist. His legs pushed the full train of her dress against her. “My dear Mrs. Fitcher,” he purred. “Beautiful creature.” His hands took her shoulders and spun her lightly like a vane. He looked down into her eyes, and his eyes flared, hot as the blue tip of a flame. “All your things have been brought from that house and put upstairs. You have your own room here. Come, take my arm and I'll show you.” His touch revived her, granted her energy to make her tired legs work, though her thoughts remained clouded with loss.

They went up the right-hand stairs, past the arm of the tilted cross. Vern glanced at it as she passed, noting the jagged hole in the wood near the end of the crosspiece, as if a spike had been hammered in and then torn out to add authenticity to the display.

Around the landing they went and up the center stairs to the mezzanine—a small oval balcony with a brass rail, two plush, wine-colored chairs, and a view straight into the chandelier. On the left side of the mezzanine, a few broad steps led up to a second-floor hallway, while the right side provided an enclosed staircase up to a third floor.

“You live on the second floor,” said her husband. “This way.” They climbed to the hallway.

The open foyer and chandelier behind them were so bright that at first the hallway seemed nearly black. As Vern's eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, she saw that the hallway was lined with doors, all of them closed, just as in her dream. The hall seemed deeper than it should have been, until she remembered that the foyer below led to an adjoining corridor and the wide porch.

Fitcher released her, strode ahead, and opened one of the doors. “Here, wife,” he said. “I'm sure you'll want to acquaint yourself with your chamber awhile. Become comfortable among your own possessions. I have many duties of my own yet and there's time enough for the exchanging of gifts later.” He ushered her into her apartment.

It was bigger than the room she'd shared with her sisters in their new house, and the walls had been paneled in a dark wood that made it seem larger still.

On the left, a fire burned in the small hearth behind a gilt-wood firescreen, the warm air smelling pleasantly of woodsmoke. A birch canopy bed occupied the center of the room, extending out from the far wall. White ruffles draped the bottom and the upper portion of the canopy arch. Above the headboard, the canopy seemed almost to glow. The fluted footposts were extravagantly carved with extended vases between reels. Fresh flowers had been placed upon the mattress. Her trunk, brought from home, stood beside it—open as if someone had gone through it. Her pink parasol lay across the top edge.

Along the right side wall stood a card table of satinwood. Painted green garlands graced its small drawers. Her father would have admired it. A pressed-glass candlestick in the shape of a dolphin stood at one end of it, the tail balancing the candle, which was half-burnt; a tray containing a douter and scissorlike snuffer beside it. The chair next to the table was what was called a wheelback, though the type of back always reminded Vern more of a spider's web than a wheel. The line of the narrow table directed her attention to the corner beyond it in which stood a large armoire. The doors contained panels of marquetry, much lighter than the walnut frame, and the almost black twist-turned columns on each side. One of its doors was ajar.

Vern walked past her husband to the armoire and pulled the door farther open. Her clothes hung inside. There were two drawers at the bottom, and she pulled one of them out. Her unmentionables had been placed there, neatly folded. She blushed, imagining someone like the wicked Notaro handling them. The massive cabinet dwarfed her: It must have topped eight feet, all of its bulk resting on small bun feet, which made it seem as if it must surely come crashing down. It was finer than any piece of furniture her family had ever owned. The glossy panels caught the flicker of the fire, drawing her attention across her bed to the opposite side of the room. That area contained an oval rug, a small Regency settee, a mahogany-framed cheval mirror with one candle cup, and a six-drawer commode beside a corner commode chair and chamber pot. Her hairbrushes and other toiletries had been laid out neatly on top of the commode chest.

She noticed then that the head of the bed did not in fact reach the wall, that there was space to walk around it, and that the bright glow within the canopy came through floor-length curtains behind it. She stepped into the narrow space and pushed aside the curtains. She was then looking out a slender window above one of the wings of Harbinger. If she'd pushed open the shutter and leaned out the window, she might have placed her fingertips against the roof. As she gazed out, once again her energy evaporated. She could not exert herself enough to open the window. She let the curtain drop and came out from behind the bed. Though flagging, she felt she should say something to her husband for his courtesy, for this lovely room. Mustering enthusiasm, she chirped, “Oh, Elias,” but as quickly stopped as she discovered he had left her. The door to her room was closed.

“Your duties,” she muttered.

She no longer needed to feign energy. She sat wearily on the edge of the bed a moment, then collapsed back onto it. The canopy was a great gauze above her. Cut flowers surrounded her head, their smell intoxicating. The light spilling in through the drapery over the bed was ethereal, and for a time she floated, dazed, content, halfway to Heaven already. There might have been a tear that trailed from the corner of her eye, or maybe it was just a tickle on her skin. She brushed at it, barely able in her torpor to raise her arm, to learn if her face was wet. Silently she insisted that she had no cause to cry except from joy. She was married now, she was Mrs. Fitcher, the mistress of a great property, the wife of a great man. She'd lost nothing in the bargain. Nothing at all.

 

Too exhausted to fall asleep, after lying there awhile Vern decided to undress and at least prepare for it. The light was gone behind her and the fire had burned low, but she didn't feel as if much time had passed.

She sat up, crossing her arms, fingers loosening the ribbons of her sleeves. She shrugged out of one and then the other, then undid the sash beneath her breasts. She pulled the dress up in front until she could reach one ankle. Unlacing the ribbons about it, she slid off the slipper and rubbed at her toes and the ball of her foot through her stockings—one, and then the other. She stood up, then undid the elaborate coiffure of her hair, unplaiting it, letting it fall, and shook her head.

She folded her arms down inside the loosened dress and lifted it up and over her head. Beneath it she wore three petticoats above her chemise. These she unbuttoned and stepped out of. It felt so good to be free of all the clothes.

She placed them in the armoire. Carefully folding the dress, she murmured, “Thank you, Mother.” She closed the cabinet and turned back to the bed.

The door to the room hung open.

The figure of her husband stood inside. He wore a silver silk robe. He simply stared at her, as motionless as furniture. Vernelia blushed under the stare. Even from across the room it pinned her to the spot, an insect in a specimen box.

He closed the door, and when he turned back, his robe was unbelted. Underneath, he was naked. With no seeming effort or speed, he arrived before her, almost as if he had simply traded one position for another without crossing the space in between. She knew she must have closed her eyes, fainted away for a moment. She didn't want that. Not on her wedding night.

His hands, hard and hot, parted her chemise at her throat. Fingers like blades unfastened the front of it. In the firelight, his eyes looked black, the pupils huge. The smell of him was intoxicating, a sinful perfume unlike his earlier smell. She wanted to press her face against him through the opening of his gown; but he kept her away and drew the chemise from her, leaving her naked but for her stockings of black net over flesh-toned silk. She shivered, and told herself it was anticipation. Her exposed skin rose in goose bumps.

One hand touched her belly. The fingers splayed wide across it and slid up beneath, then between, her breasts. She sighed and again tried to lean against him. He pushed at her breastbone and she fell back onto the bed. She raised her arms to invite him to her. He caught an arm and rolled her over, then with both hands clutched her bottom and pulled her up onto her knees. She didn't know what he wanted but tried to comply. Her hands reached for purchase on the quilt, plunging in among the flowers. In the instant she regained her balance, he spread and penetrated her from behind with one sharp thrust. She cried out at a flare of pain as sharp as if he'd driven a knife into her. “Please!” she begged. She reached out to push him back, but he wrapped her hair around his hand and pulled her head back toward him. The pain of having her neck bent back, of her hair threatening to tear out at the roots, overwhelmed any pleasure she might have hoped for. He tugged as if at coach reins, and thrust his torso against her. She wanted to order him to stop but couldn't find the breath for more than an outraged “Sir!” His body slapped her as if to drive her across the bed. She managed finally to rake his arm and he let loose her hair, so fast that she fell face first into the flowers; heard him growl, but not with anger—more as if he enjoyed the inflicted pain. She tried to get up, twisting around. “Please, sir, let me—” His fingers hooked over the back of her head. She glimpsed his face, his eyes rolled down almost beneath the lids, his lips drawn back from his teeth—a feral face—and panic took over. She swiped her arm back at him and her fist struck his cheek. He inhaled through his teeth a hiss, then thrust himself again, crushing her face into the leaves and blossoms. The smell of her bouquet, luxuriant before, threatened to suffocate her now. She flailed, gasping, her head twisting to get air. She inhaled greedily, lay still, and let him have his way. She hoped he might think she'd given in and loosen his grip, but he maintained the hold, like a male cat biting the female's neck, pinning her while he spent himself. Her mind fled to childhood memories of cats and lions, and snarling teeth. Her mother, coughing…

And then it was over.

Like a storm wind Fitcher withdrew from her, from the bed, from the room.

She lay trembling in the aftermath with her knees still tucked under her, until she was sure that he had really gone and wasn't lurking in some shadowy recess to savage her again. She pushed her face out of the flowers, surveyed her room. The chamber was empty, the door closed. He'd gone, wrapped in silver, making not a sound. He was smoke, shadow, the thing that had chased her dream self.

The fire needed another log. She noted this, trying to pretend that nothing had happened.

Awhile she maintained it was so: Her marriage, her fine and noble
husband
…couldn't treat her like this. This was nothing like Henri, not mutual, fumbling and tender. Nor was it anything like the love Elias himself had promised. She was offended. Outraged. But she was mostly frightened. Discarded and unsatisfied. Not Fitcher, though. His satisfaction chilled on the quilt beneath her.