Susannah
opened her mouth to reply, but his mother’s impatient
voice rang across the shadowy room, her slight Italian accent
more pronounced in her agitation. “Is that you Miss
Pickering? I would assume so, but I cannot see your face,
and every woman looks about the same in that position.”
Rather
wishful thinking on his mother’s part, given that she
preferred Miss Pickering as a mate for him, but she had managed
to insult Susannah twice over with that statement, which
he had to assume was her intent. Susannah despised Miss Emily
Pickering, which his mother was surely aware of, and her
indelicate words sent his love clamoring off of him with
more determination than grace. Vittorio scrambled to his
feet after her, adjusting his breeches as Susannah dropped
her skirts and whirled to face his mother.
“It’s
Miss Hurst, Mrs. Ridgewood,” she said in a dignified
tone, her chin up, shoulders back.
Susannah
wasn’t a classic beauty by any means, and she was several
years older than him, but Vittorio was rather fond of her
bossy high handedness. They would suit as husband and wife,
and that was all he required.
His
mother raised an eyebrow and looked Susannah over from head
to toe, her expression disdainful. “I heard your mother
inquiring as to your whereabouts, Miss Hurst. Run along and
ease her mind that you are quite fine.”
It
was a precipitous moment for him to speak so he cleared his
throat and said, “Susannah and I are to be married,
Mama. Wish us happy.”
He
hadn’t actually proposed, but he had intended to eventually,
and given the current circumstances he intended to protect
Susannah from any further embarrassment. His mother had been
ill of late — she was still pale from her sickroom
ordeal — and he knew this news would not please her,
but he was quite sure she would recover both from her illness
and the fact that her son was marrying a woman she did not
like. Truly, there was nothing objectionable about Susannah
other than her age. She was of good breeding and carried
herself with a ladylike deportment.
Usually.
At the moment she was leaning perilously close to him and
kissing him full on the mouth right in front of his mother. “We’ll
be quite happy,” she told him confidently before turning
and moving towards the door. With a smile she reached out
and bussed his mother on the cheek. “I so look forward
to the day when I may call you Mother instead of Mrs. Ridgewood.”
His
mother said nothing as Susannah left the room, softly closing
the door behind her. Then she rounded on him. “You
will not marry her, Vittorio.”
“Yes,
I will. I have a most sincere affection for her and as you
were witness, I have thoroughly compromised her. I would
not be a gentleman if I did not marry her, though I fail
to see what you dislike so much about Susannah.”
“She’s old.” His
mother shuddered. To her, aging was the ultimate punishment,
and she was fighting it with every ounce of her energy, struggling
to retain her glorious figure and her exotic Italian beauty.
Age
didn’t mean much to him, personally. He found a woman
intriguing based on her conversation, her wit, her sense
of humor, more so than her outward appearance, and he had
discovered that date of birth was often irrelevant to one’s
maturity, or lack thereof. “She is only eight and twenty.”
“A
full six years older than you!”
Annoyed,
Vittorio ran his hands over the gleaming mahogany of his
father’s desk. “May I remind you that you were
ten years older than my father?”
His
mother waved her fingers around before settling them on the
ruby pendant dangling from her neck. She fondled the jewel
as she said, “Your father, sweet, dear pet that he
was, was also a fool. I loved him and am grateful for every
moment we had together, but he was still foolish to marry
me. His mother and brothers were right to object to our match.”
He
had no doubt as to his mother’s affections for his
late father, but he did not appreciate the implication that
both he and his father were men horsewhipped by their women
into poor choices. There was nothing wrong with Susannah
Hurst.
“I
am still marrying Miss Hurst.”
“Why?
Why her over all the other young eligibles?” Her lip
quivered and she brought her glove to rest delicately on
her mouth. Moisture appeared in her black eyes.
He
was not impressed. She had been stirring guilt in him with
her tears since he’d been in leading strings. And he
had no intention of disclosing his intimate feelings to her.
It didn’t entirely make sense to him, the feeling of
security and comfort that being with Susannah leant him,
nor was he sure why he appreciated her maturity and experience
as much as he did. Perhaps it was just that it made it all
so much easier, from conversation, to decision making, to
sexual intimacies. Susannah was his equal and the burden
didn’t entirely rest on him.
“I
love her,” he said, because that answer was simple
and inarguable.
His
mother burst into tears and cursed him in Italian, calling
him an ungrateful wretch, and wishing him sterility for disobeying
his mother. Knowing the lines were likely drawn straight
from an opera his mother had performed in her youth on the
stage, he was not particularly offended or concerned. He
just sighed and turned to fix himself a brandy. This could
be time consuming.
But
when he reached for a glass on the tray set near the French
doors to the garden, his body suddenly ceased to function,
as if he’d been frozen in one of the cook's ice sculptures.
His fingers tingled, fiery flames of pain shooting down past
his knuckles, but Vittorio couldn’t bend or use them,
and he found his legs were rooted to the carpet, still and
utterly immobile. Panic set in as he tried again to move
and couldn’t. What in hell was the matter with him?
There was absolutely no response from his body as he tried
desperately to control his muscles, to no avail. His mouth
was sealed shut, lips defying his mental command to part,
and the obvious consequence was that he could not speak.
Frantic, he darted his eyes over to his mother, wanting assistance,
reassurance.
What
he saw only made his fear increase. It looked like his mother
descending upon him. It even smelled like her, the soft hint
of lavender wafting up his nostrils as she yanked the back
of his head with an iron grip, sending the base of his skull
towards his shoulder blades. But his mother had never shown
any signs of unnatural strength, nor had her eyes ever been
quite that black, with an amber rim around the edges glowing
in the candlelit room.
“You
will not marry Miss Hurst. And you will spend eternity preventing
me from loneliness, as an obedient son should.”
Then
she leaned over him and he saw quite clearly the shiny luminescence
of moonlight from the garden reflecting off the pearly white
of her fangs before the pain pierced his flesh, his mind,
his soul, and he screamed in silent agony.
© by Erin
McCarthy Feb 2007
Vittorio
Ridgewood harbored a fair amount of affection for his mother,
and in general, was pleased to see her and spend time in
her presence. It was safe to say, however, that he would
have preferred a maternal visit at any time other than the
current one, given he had the Honorable Miss Susannah Hurst
astride his lap, skirts about her waist, as she moved with
impressive dexterity and enthusiasm. 
Link
to The Impalers 
