Finagled (6 page)

She held her breath. He could stop, now, her arms bare, she could reach the laces on her corset without him. She held her breath because she hoped he would not stop. She could not make herself speak, to protest, to remind him that he needed to stop, he had promised someone... she tried to breathe steadily, he touched the nape of her neck with his fingertips, ran his hand down her back, lifted the strings of her corset, and then she didn't feel him at all, softly she heard his step as he left the room, and then the sound of the exterior door leading out into the hallway. Ramona wrapped her arms around her waist and cried.

She had never asked for this. She had not asked to be married to him, she had not entertained it from the very first, but since she was here... why couldn't it be something real, something romantic like the little paperback novels she was not supposed to read? Of course
that did not exist
. She wasn't really sure what love was, she had felt infatuation several times during her season, she felt it now, she supposed, but, she was not foolish. She could not say for certain that it was love. It was certainly nothing like anything she had read about.

She just wanted to do what she had been raised for.

The two things she had always counted on in her future, to be a wife and a mother. To be a wife, not to have a husband, the husband had always been hazy, immaterial, but her role had not, and now her role was nothing, reduced by a stupid mistake and a mysterious promise, to nothing.

She felt so angry with herself, and clumsy, it took her a very long time to undo her corset, the special one, brand new, tiny and waspish, crafted specifically for this night. She felt like the knots only got tighter. But then, it did not matter. She angrily took up a pair of scissors from the vanity and cut the ribbons. She kicked the offending apparatus underneath the vanity table, and looked at her reflection, standing there, red eyed, red faced, standing there, holding a pair of scissors in her beautiful chemise. She tore it off, over her head, garters and white silk stockings, crumpled on the floor. She grabbed the wool traveling dress that was laid out for the morning journey, and her regular corset and petticoats. She could not tie the corset very tightly. Her eyes stung with frustrated tears, again. It was well enough to get into the dress, but again she could not do all of the buttons. It had never occurred to her that someday she would have to dress herself like this, and that then it would be so damned difficult. Why were all of her clothes made to be taken off for her? It would not matter once they arrived at Loathewood. Though she was ashamed to call on
this night
for her maid who was traveling with them, it would be easier when she had gotten into a routine. She left her clothes crumpled on the floor, slipped her feet into her wedding slippers, soft and comfortable, and went back into the bedroom, half of her buttons undone.

George was just going to have to live with the agony of touching her again. She was sitting, feeling silly and useless by the fireplace, when he returned, slightly pink and smelling a bit like liquor.

"Dinner, my dear, is about to be served," he said, with a flourish. "Would you be more comfortable if we took it down to the restaurant?" He asked this because he would be more comfortable, if they weren't alone, alone in this beautiful room furnished for the very act of consummating a marriage.

His mind wandered then
, why, really, so much of the furniture was suited for that very act.

She looked at him coldly, "I would not. I don't think I can stand to look at anyone." she said, "Besides which, I am indecent."

"Indecent? You look prim and proper to me." he squinted.

"Please, button up my dress before the food is brought. I could not bear it if... well... never mind, just please, assist me...
husband
."  She stood up and turned her back to him.

"Oh yes, yes, I see, " he came close and fumbled with her buttons. "Not feeling... quite so nimble..." he mumbled, his breath deliciously hot on her neck.

Without looking into his eyes, she found the strength to say cruelly, "I am also not wearing any stockings, so I could not possibly dine downstairs."

"No stockings?" he turned pink.

"No, none." she kept her back to him, but felt a strange warmth at this wanton admission.

"Oh." He left a hand heavy on her shoulder. "
Oh
." he repeated dumbly.

His hand squeezed her shoulder a little. He was using her for balance, and then she felt the weight lift. "Please, have a seat," he said.

She turned around, still feeling hot in her ears, and sat across from him at the small, intimate dining table. She fumbled for something to say. Conversation to make.

A sharp knock on the chamber door. With relief George said, "enter!" loudly, and a hotel employee wheeled their dinner in, silver platters, rich dishes, incredible smells and suddenly Ramona remembered that she had not eaten since breakfast, and then she had been too nervous to eat much. She felt positively weak. Tired from sobbing, traveling in the carriage, struggling with her gown and emotions. She was just exhausted and terribly hungry. Frayed and embarrassed. Her hands shook as she picked up her fork.

The man who had brought their dinner made a slight bow and left, leaving a large table with wheels covered in several courses, from a delicate sorbet to a rich chocolate cake, and everything in between.

George served her, as she sat and contemplated how romantic this could have been, being served in a hotel room by her new husband, his strong tanned fingers scooping out a fruity delight with a silver spoon onto her delicate china plate bearing the emblem of the hotel. He was careful and methodical. Giving her perfect little portions of everything.

"If you want more of anything, let me know." he said, taking his seat. He had put bread and a little chicken on his own plate, sat back drowsily and ate with his fingers. She could see that he was exhausted, and a little drunk. She tried not to eat too ravenously, though the first bite awoke an even more terrible hunger within her. It tasted like the best meal of her life should taste, smooth where it should be, salty where appropriate, sweet, moist, perfect. She closed her eyes and tried not to moan over her food. Her breathing slow and steady. She tried to ignore everything else and focus on abating her hunger.

George watched her. He had never seen a woman enjoy a meal like Ramona was. So often in company a lady picked at her meal delicately, moving it around on her plate more than actually ingesting.  Ramona slowly and methodically cleaned her plate, each bite that entered her mouth was considered and loved before another came to take its place. She ate with her eyes closed, opening them only slightly to seek out the next spoonful. She did not look up at George. As he watched her it was as if she were completely alone, indulging as she would without witnesses.

The bread hit George's stomach. He felt himself sobering up a little bit as it soaked up the alcohol he had imbibed on a completely empty stomach. He found his own hunger. He served the dessert course.

Ramona was aware of him again. He took her plate, a different calmness about him, he sliced the decadent cake and placed it before her. She was starting to feel full from the slowly eaten meal, but the cake looked divine. She took small bites. It was the sort of thing her mother had never really let her eat. Angel food cake and fruit were for special occasions,
chocolate cake goes right to your hips
! She felt a new and perverse freedom. It was spongy and delicious as she slowly felt the fork with her teeth and pulled it out of her mouth. Something wonderful and new that she was now allowed to have.

She doubted that the Duke of Blusterfuss would put many restrictions on her, he had implied that he would do everything to make her happy, except allow her to fulfill her conjugal duties. She was to have a lovely room, in a huge house that she would be mistress of, busyness with the servants, planning the menu everyday, in fact she would probably only see her new husband at meals, anyway.  She did not imagine that he was planning to spend much time with this unsuitable wife he had been saddled with. He did not ask anything but that she treat her new position with respect and try to be happy with it.

The only thing he had ever asked her was that she be happy.

The very fact that that was his chief concern for her should have been enough. She could not pinpoint why it was not. She supposed, sitting across from him as she did now, that she wanted something back that had been lost. They used
to talk
. Parties, soirees, concerts, the opera, they conversed, shared interests, life experiences and humor. She had not really spoken to him about anything since that horrible night in the arbor.

What had they been talking about when that damnable pin had slipped through the fabric of her cursed slipper and jabbed her in the flesh of her heel?

Swallowing the bite of cake she tried to remember.

So much of what they talked about had seemed like nothing at all, and yet there were not many silences that were not filled up with some companionable thought. But then, she had felt comfortable in silence with him, as well, not like now where it seemed to stretch across the table between them, a yawning chasm of discomfiture. The silence had come as easy as the words, and now it was all blocked, awkward and wincing.

The stars. George had been talking about the stars. She had been walking close beside him and looked up between the trees that grew all around the garden. She had not seen it at the time, but it had been the most romantic moment of her life, then it had just then felt natural, comfortable, almost perfect.

She looked up from her plate, at George, into his eyes, which were fixed upon her in a steady gaze. He looked startled by the sudden eye contact. She looked at him closely without speaking, trying to find her way across the yawning chasm of loneliness and back into a comfortable, companionable silence. She relaxed a little. She felt warm, sleepy, full of food and a glass of wine which she had hardly noticed being filled. She smiled at him, and meant it.

"... Ramona," he said. She could not remember him saying her name before. His aristocratic accent caressed it in an unexpected way.

"Let's be friends," she said, her drowsy voice soft, "we used to be friends..."

"We
are
friends. I..." he stopped. Still leaned back in his chair, he sat upright, held his hands in his lap, "I want very much to be friends with you, Ramona. I am committed to it."

"Oh good," she leaned back in her chair, "good..."

"It's still early, but we have a long day ahead of us..." George stood up.

"Yes. Oh bother." Ramona grimaced. She turned her back on George and waggled her hands in the direction of her excessive buttons.

"Yes. Of course," George chuckled. "Someday, when you have not had to worry about your buttons in years, you will laugh about this, I hope."

Ramona laughed then, not jovial, but slightly bitter and acrid, "I am sure I will laugh about a lot of things, someday." she said, shortly.

The buttons undone, George held her arms for a moment, looked straight down at her small frame, the top of her little blonde head. It would be much easier to give in. So much easier, but the easy route was so rarely the right one. George thought of his young nephew and charge, Andrew, and he let go of Ramona's arms.

"Where are your night clothes?" he asked. "In the dressing room?"

"I... think so," Ramona remembered the mess she had left there, it seemed so distant, she started for the door, but George was ahead of her. She stopped. He wouldn’t say anything, but her face burned at the thought of him seeing her crumpled underthings strewn and wrinkled all around the room. She wrung her hands a little bit, watching him stand in the doorway, his hesitation clear.

George moved past the piles of crumpled silk and ribbons, for Ramona's carpet bag, where her night clothes and other toiletries were stored. He carried it out to her and sat it on the bed.

"I will sleep in the dressing room, on the couch." he said, "Sweet dreams,"

When the dressing room door closed in front of her, she said quietly, "Sweet dreams..." addressed to George, or a commentary on the ridiculousness of such a statement, she herself  did not  know. She slipped off her dress, laid it out flat the sofa, so she could put it on again in the early hours. Her loose knots came undone easily and she folded the corset and put it and her petticoats with the traveling dress.