Caribbean Reign Ch. 23-24

Chapter 23: The Patience of Benjamin - Catherine's Perspective

The whalebone corset squeezes the last bit of breath out of me. Soon, I am swaddled in salmon pink fabric and gold damask embroidery. These skirts stretch to the outermost edges of the looking glass. My fingers bounce off the taut fabric around my midsection. My body has grown accustomed to more relaxed attire.

"Mademoiselle, we must do something about this hair," mutters Ana, her mouth full of pins.

"If you insist," I sigh. My lady's maid fiddles with my unruly strands. I think I rather liked my hair wild and free. However, that simply isn't an option for a proper young lady.

My room was dutifully cared for in my absence. Lush, velvet curtains surround the four-poster bed. The floors shine with wax. Upon my vanity's surface, not a stray bauble is out of place and not a shred of dust has been permitted to accumulate.

My engagement ring has been safely preserved in the bedside drawer. Benjamin suggested that my parents keep it in my absence. Should they manage to find me, he thought it would be a great comfort to me that his affections had not waned. I find this idea less comforting.

Ana kneels to adjust the layers of the billowing gown. Her skinny wrists move with great intention. No one suspected that my lady's maid was involved in my disappearance. She was only thrashed for losing her papers, a punishment to which I am most sympathetic.

She slows her fingers once they brush against my thigh.

I know why she's stopped. Just above is his sigil. His family crest burned into my flesh; the claws of lions are unmistakable. I can tell her fingers are curious, wanting to see if I'll flinch at its touch. It will bear tantalizing gossip. I only hope that it will stay out of the ears of my mother.

"I believe they're waiting for you, maîtresse," says Ana.

"I suppose they are." Even if I may owe her a favor or two, she's smart enough not to press the issue.

My parents have insisted on making up for lost time. In a week, I shall be wed in the veritable event of the season.

This afternoon, my parents are holding a small birthday celebration to make up for the one I missed. Nineteen years old passed in the viscount's care. It is a trivial signpost in the grand scheme of things. The edges of fencing lessons and evenings with Isabel all blur together compared to the aftermath of our voyage.

Those sharp fragments of devastation have prevented my appetite from fully returning.

Ana retrieves Benjamin's ring from the bedside, holding the metal band covetously before presenting it to my hand. She stares longingly at the conspicuous gemstone, its sparkle catching in her eyes. The great irony of her imagining a life as Catherine de Guînes.

I twist the large emerald down to the base of my finger. It is time to eat, drink, and be merry.

Despite an uneasy stomach, I ease myself down the stairs in order to appease my mother. The foyer has been decked out in swathes of pink ribbon and freshly cut flowers. Servants rush to put final touches on a celebration restricted only to the family. We are still days away from the main occasion.

A maid crosses my path. "Bon anniversaire, mademoiselle."

I nod, "Merci."

"Bon anniversaire," says a footman.

"Merci."

Others passing follow suit, each grateful for the opportunity to be recognized for their part in the event. It was only at my insistence that our estate is not filled with rows of carriages and well-wishers. My parents wish all of Saint-Michel to learn of their triumphant joy. Their prodigal daughter has returned. Whether my parents can rationalize my swashbuckling tale or not, they recognize that I am now much more amenable to their choice of suitor, and that is something to celebrate in itself.

A quick, sharp pain beneath my abdomen ripples through me. Ana insists that I pause near the fire before continuing. A lady is bound to have fainting spells from time to time.

My fiancé's portrait gleams above the mantle. I protested such a garish display when I received the gift during our courtship, but there it remains. Two brushstroke eyebrows and a flat jaw. My knight in shining armor, returning from France to rescue me from an ignominious existence.

Apparently, he was only in France to rescue me in the first place. Given my headstrong nature, my parents thought it possible that I had simply run off to Paris and eloped with a haberdasher. And for reasons beyond my comprehension, Benjamin carried their concerns to Europe - scouring the streets for a bride that was by all accounts dead. Even finding himself empty-handed, he returned to console my parents. A simple letter would have sufficed.

Such a hopeful nature is admirable I suppose.

I gather my skirts and proceed toward the celebration. Turning the corner with haste, I intercept the path of a speeding tea service.

"Watch out," a young footman yelps from behind.

It is too late to stop the collision. Upon contract with my train, gold-rimmed cups and saucers cascade to the ground. Porcelain shatters into crumbs, streaking tea across the floor.

The footman kneels to pick up the broken pieces, hands quivering. His companion darts off to fetch a more appropriate tool.

"My sincerest apologies, mademoiselle," he stutters.

"Not to worry. If the Guînes family were for want of tea services, this would be the first I've heard of it."

Brown beads of liquid zigzag down the back of my dress. It is a strange thing. I could have this man strung up by his toes for this offense, even if though I've never been known to wear an ensemble twice. A maid arrives to dab the quickly forming stain with a damp cloth. I shoo her away and continue onto the dining room.

My family sits, bunched up around the head of an overflowing table. The low-hanging chandelier glimmers above. We are often situated further apart, with Papa at the head and Maman and me somewhere in-between. After my disappearance, my parents seem to have developed a new affinity for physical proximity. Benjamin sits at the place setting to the right of my father.

"Come join us, Catherine," says my mother. "You must be starved."

Her tendency toward a reserved diet has been curbed by concerns about how I was treated at the hands of my captors. And out of all of the abuses I might have suffered, food is the one most easily remedied.

I am ushered into a high-backed chair to Benjamin's right. One of the serving girls loads pastries onto my plate. I nibble at the flaky crust placed in front of me and make polite conversation about the wedding preparations. While my parents' spread is abundant, I can't help but crave the spicy meats I once experienced at Rafael's table, even if that table was closer to the floor than I might have liked. Pork cracked with chili-infused steam. Vegetables crunched and stinging with fiery spices. Even when my mouth burned, I'd bite down on my tongue, unwilling to show weakness. Once my meals were no longer served from the servant's kitchen, my tolerance for spice steadily increased.

I drown the memory with a spoonful of fruit jam. There is no reason to build up a tolerance for such a place.

Benjamin interrupts the relative quiet. "My darling, I'm so glad that you've returned to us."

"How kind of you to say so. It is so wonderful to be home, especially after such an unspeakable experience," I reply, voice faltering.

My sincerest problem with Monsieur Dupré has not improved. The love on his lips does not match his eyes. Besides, wonderful is quite a relative word. Returning home is the cool relief of nothingness washing over me, one tepid wave after another. And yet, nothingness is far superior to a Pandora's box of emotions contorting all sense and reason. I pray that a presumption of 'unspeakable violations' will quell any further discussion on the matter.

"Elise," my father says to my mother, "let us present the girl with our gifts."

With a single, steely look, Maman signals the staff. The plates are cleared away in an instant. Those who stand at the fringes behind us spring to life, stacking dishes and sweeping crumbs. Since nearly everything is prepared in the family's absence, it is a strange sight to see. If I were still a member of the Navarro estate, would I eventually become one of those?

A neatly tied package arrives on a silver tray. Maman adjusts the strings before handing it over to me.

"Me first," she says. "Bon anniversaire, Catherine."

Inside the long, flat box is a stunning family heirloom. It is a necklace of rubies bound by gold filigree, not dissimilar to the one I offered dear Ana for her silence.

I hold the cold metal to my neck.

"Merci, Maman."

My father hands me a leather-bound journal. Dried flowers have been pressed between its bindings. No doubt this was a present was chosen by my mother. It's the perfect thing for sketching landscapes or jotting down a list of errands for a lady's maid.

"Merci, Papa."

His brow is earnest, "Anything for my little girl."

Papa has been uncharacteristically quiet about my disappearance. There is some amount of shame, I'm sure, that such a thing had happened on his watch. The responsibility to protect the fairer members of the estate rests squarely on his shoulders. At least, before that responsibility is turned over to my husband.

Only one potential gift-giver remains. Bearing no tinsel-wrapped boxes or sparkling vials of perfume, Benjamin reaches for my hand.

"My love, I intend to give you the world, but for the anniversary of your birth, I only wish us to know each other better. My gift to you is a picnic by the shoreline. We shall dine at sunset with the blessings of Aphrodite."

He gestures upward, and his footman unveils a basket overflowing with various breads and cheeses.

Maman claps her hands together, "Oh, how romantic!"

Being alone with Benjamin for an entire afternoon is far from my idea of romantic. It is bad enough that I'll have to spend a few decades with the dullard. There's no reason to expedite the process. We know each other as well as necessary for a future husband and wife. This can only be an attempt to weasel his way under my skirts, an eventuality of which I am not terribly fond.

The dubious nature of this engagement is not lost on my father.

Papa coughs politely, "I'm not sure an unchaperoned date is appropriate for a young lady."

Benjamin tightens his lips. "Monsieur, I assure you that I have nothing but the greatest respect for your daughter's virtue, but you must admit that I have been extremely patient in awaiting my new bride."

The implication is clear. Surely my father has considered that his daughter might have been deflowered during her nautical adventure. Of course, it would be much too improper to ask about outright. Young ladies aren't even supposed to know about such things. If Benjamin has agreed to wed me, despite the possibility that his bride is already ruined, unchaperoned dates are a rather small price to pay.

My father grimaces his silent consent.

Benjamin pats my hand, and I smile.

While I'm less than thrilled to be bartered like an object, the exchange does pique my interest. This is a side to Benjamin I've never seen before. Standing up for his own desires, and for some reason, those desires amount to a seaside picnic.

Before embarking on his well-earned plan, an ache strikes between my temples. I hold back the oncoming wave threatening to unravel my insides. Glancing down at the pastry crumbs, I nearly retch at the thought of further sweetness.

It would not do to become ill at the table. I reach for my handkerchief.

"That all sounds quite lovely, but I'm afraid we may have to delay the outing until tomorrow afternoon. I really must lie down."

I press the embroidered cloth to my hairline. As much as I hate to play the swooning lady, it is remarkably effective.

I stumble to my feet. Benjamin catches my elbow. "Then tomorrow it shall be, my love. I'll make the necessary arrangements." His footman happily exits with the bounty of food, knowing that whatever is discarded will be provided to the servants.

"Yes, darling," says my mother, "You shouldn't be out in the sun if you require rest. Shall I have someone carry you upstairs?"

"No, Maman. I'll be fine. I'm just a bit weary, that's all."

I attempt to depart.

My father calls after me. "Catherine," he says, "I have one more gift for you. In private."

Maman gives him a look that could melt candle wax. I merely nod in assent. Any longer at the and the room might start spinning.

Benjamin gingerly takes my hand. "À demain, ma chérie."

"À demain," I mumble as he places his lips to my flesh.

The headaches, the cramps, they aren't getting any better. I paid enough attention to my governess to know the signs. Still, the wretched thing requires a second opinion. From someone I can trust. The staff cannot be relied upon not to gossip or relay the information to my parents.

While my throbbing temples ache for the comfort of lying prone, I force myself to sit down at the writing desk. I reach for a fresh quill and dab it in the ink.

Dear Isa...

Chapter 24: Chasing Love - Rafael's Perspective

"Rafael, you return that to me at once!"

Isabel snatches at the envelope rightfully addressed to her, hopping on her toes like an angry sprite. I merely raise my hand above her head. Try as she might, I cannot relinquish this information.

Catherine will be at the shoreline this afternoon.

That gives me enough time to do something. A dread feeling of guilt has been eating at me ever since Sebastián had confessed. I left that maddening vixen, disgraced, and discarded, in my cellar when I should have torn into every crevice where she would have me. When I should have driven her to new heights of pleasure. When I should have begged forgiveness for any indignities she suffered at my hand. When I should have trusted her.

While I cannot say whether an auspicious movement of the celestial bodies can restore my claim upon her, every muscle in my body urges me toward seeing her again. A picnic on a parcel of land close to the Spanish border. That was where she would slip away to meet with my sister, her confidante. For once, I am grateful for their incorrigible, scheming ways.

I fold the letter and place it in my breast pocket, cooking up a plan of my own. It was no less than destiny that my new steward was able to intercept their correspondence. Isabel never would have told me such compelling information.

We haven't been on speaking terms for some time. She hasn't forgiven me for imprisoning the mutual object of our affections, and I haven't fully forgiven Isabel for setting her free.

With Catherine still in front of me, I could entreat her. I could entice. I could reason with her. Apart, we are oil and water, separate by nature. The last words exchanged between us were unkind.

I make haste toward the front door. The hour has almost come upon us. There is no time to draw up a carriage or prepare a grand, romantic gesture.

Isabel chases after me.

"Rafael, those words are not for your eyes. She doesn't want to see you." She pauses, "What can you possibly want from her?"

"I simply wish to apologize."

A vast simplification of the truth. I want to hold her in my arms and shout the words that I've been choking down for the past few months. I want her to look at me, the way she did the first night she breached those wooden doors. I want to turn over in bed and see her lying next to me for the rest of my life.

Isabel throws her hands up in exasperation. "And you can't just write a letter? You have no right to poking in her business after what you did."

I turn around. "Isabel, do not get in my way. You have meddled enough, and if I find it necessary, I will have men ensure that you don't follow me."

The warning echoes in the empty hall. The staff has made themselves scarcer after señor Velasquez's death. As much as I would have delighted in making him regret every move her ever made against me, his frail, old body couldn't stand up to his fighting wounds. He passed away unceremoniously.

"Don't hurt her," Isabel calls after me.

I grin. "Isabel, I promise. I will never make that mistake again."

"Rafa, that's not what I meant - "

My valet closes the door before she can distract me with any more of her pessimism.

***

Yesterday's rains have muddied the path, slowing my horse's ascent. I trudge up the forest path through the mud. I must catch her before it is too late. The splatter of the hooves almost drowns out those last terrible sounds. Her voice, heaving and empty.

Isabel's concerns aren't completely without merit. As much as I pride myself on being a man of action, there have been times where temper has made me a fool.

Catherine will never have to worry about that again. I must make a finer husband than whatever bland French egg her parents had chosen for her. Convincing her parents to end an age-old feud will be difficult, but not as difficult as living with her haunting presence, day after day.

The clearing opens in front of us, a steep descent into the beach grasses. My thighs tighten around Centurion's steady torso. We slow to a canter, circling the edge of the precipice. The confiscated letter lays neatly in my breast pocket.

She will be here. Catherine would never disappoint Isabel.

My dark trousers are speckled with the evidence of the ride. It is no matter. I dismount to get a better look at the shoreline.

Beyond the wiry grasses, a blanket has been set out for a young couple. The man, a tall, gangly thing, and my Catherine, resplendent as ever. The pink riding habit reveals the trimness of her figure, even as her skirts sprawl out across the blanket.

She notably freezes whenever the gentleman edges closer. She treats his touch as poison. This isn't the man with whom she's meant to be.

I watch them for a while, making pleasant conversation, nervously laughing at each other's jokes. Wind bites at the back of my neck. As they eat, her posture softens.

She begins leaning in to hear his trite, little stories. Another touch of the hand nearly prompts me to action.

No, I must wait for her to depart.

Now and then, Catherine glances backward, presumably scanning the landscape for my sister. Guilt flourishes each time I duck out of sight. I am aggrieved by a stubborn ember of doubt.

Is it possible that I am disturbing a happy future?

I cannot think like that. What news could she have for my sister other than that she was unhappy in her new life? I have injured her and now, I must be the one to remove the thorn, no matter how painful. Eventually, she will come away from the shoreline, looking for Isabel, and I shall have my moment of redemption.

From careful observance, I watch her fingers lightly brush her pocket and loosen its strings. Clever girl. The pouch comes free in the wind of its own accord, tumbling halfway up the beach before she excuses herself to collect it. The gentleman gestures that he'd like to go and retrieve it for her, but she bids him sit.

I take a deep breath, the dry foliage brushing my knees.

"Catherine!"