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 | comment
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