Page 2 of The Devil In Blue
Sighing, I said, “Fine.”
Catlyn wasn’t leaving. I could hear her heavy breaths still in the hall. She was a little plump and climbing my stairs made her quite fatigued. I waited, wondering what else she had to say.
“You have read all your books,” she said.
I glanced at my bedside table where my books were sitting in a neat stack. I had read them all… twice.
“Yes,” I answered. “I wish I could read more history books. They fascinate me.”
“I will see what I can do,” she whispered. She paused a moment, looking around like she was trying to figure out her next sentence. But she didn’t have to. I sensed what she was going to say by her body language alone. “Um, he has requested your white dress,” she finally said.
My heart stopped. It had been a while since I’d wornthewhite dress. I had many in cream and ivory, but only one in white. I didn’t enjoy it. In fact, the garment sickened me.
But I would not have to endure it for long.
“Very well,” I said, still staring out toward Cragborough with a mix of disgust and longing.
Finally, Catlyn’s footsteps could be heard waddling down the stairs to leave me be. I basked in the cold for a moment longer before walking toward the foot of my bed where a trunk wrapped in leather sat latched. I flipped the metal lock up and opened the heavy lid. It creaked in protest, its hinges sticking.
Inside the chest were some trinkets. Nothing important. I had so few important things and I certainly did not keep them somewhere so easily found. Among the trinkets was the white dress. It was an old thing all wrapped up in silk. I reached in and pulled the folded gown from its confines, placing it on the bed. It was torturously prominent on my blue-gray sheets. Tugging at the tiny bow on the top, I untied the silk and pulled the dress up by the shoulders to look at it.
It was magnificent with its lace and beads and embroidered bodice. Magnificent for an innocent woman to attend a day of prayer in some holy place.
But I wasn’t an innocent woman. Maybe I never really was. Inside, my soul was black as onyx and just as hard. Just as heavy. But I would cover that blackness with white if that was what Lucien wanted because despite all that felt wrong, he had saved me from a worse fate.
I owed a lot to him.
Which only amplified the guilt I felt every time that voice in my head told me to drive a knife through his gut…
Lucien was dull company on the most boring of days. He was not fond of conversation and I was not fond of him in general.
Shame racked my brain every time I told myself that…
Lucien deserved all my love and respect and still, something in me itched around him like I was allergic to the air he occupied.
I’d put on his dress. Despite its beauty, it was not a comfortable thing. It squeezed me too tight and some kind of fiber on the inside scratched at my skin. Had I not been practiced in being uncomfortable in corsets and bustles, I would have been audibly squirming with irritation.
In front of me was a cooked steak slathered in butter and onion. I cut into it soundlessly, every stroke of my knife precise and gentle while Lucien made no such efforts across from me. The table was long with six mahogany chairs on either side while we sat at each head, new candles burning along its length. In the very center was a fresh vase full of white carnations, a flower Lucien swore was my favorite, though I couldn’t remember telling him that. In fact, I didn’t much like the sight of them.
Not that I knew what my favorite flower was.
The gardens behind the estate had many different kinds and they were all beautiful. I would have chosen any of them over the fluff of petals that was a carnation.
Lucien valued new and shiny things. He never let candles burn past one meal. Never let me wear the same dress twice besides my special white gown. He despised dirty dishes and dusty sills or charred logs sitting on the hearth. It was a wonder he’d kept me so long. I had certainly been used more than once.
I swallowed a bite of tender steak and reached forward to take my wine glass. In it was a dark cranberry concoction with a sour taste, but it wasn’t wine. Lucien denied me adult luxuries. Which didn’t bother be much because the taste of wine was too sour and overpowering for my pallet. He still kept the hems of my skirts off the ground when we were in private like unmarried girls had them and he liked when I curled my already wavy hair and adorned it with silk bows.
There was always something wrong with that for me. I was locked behind a veil that only showed me glimpses of the outside world, but I knew enough. I knew that after my maidenhood had been taken, I should not have been wearing so much white. My hair should have been styled however I liked it. I should have been able to drink whatever I wanted and go to town with friends, but Lucien had his own traditions.
“Did you paint today?” he said, picking food out of his teeth with a chicken bone. Each time he did, I caught of glimpse of his gold molars. He had three. “Father Eli was adamant about you painting when I took you in.”
I lifted my eyes over the rim of my cup as he leaned back in his chair, his bodyweight straining the solid wood. He was not fat, but he was not muscled like the men who tended the chores outside. He had clean skin that was shaved smooth every morning, but his eyes had yellowed through the years. Too much drink, I suspected. And his teeth were following suit, likely because he smoked his pipe every night.
“I did not want to paint today,” I said, putting my cup down. “So I read.”
“You read? Have you new books since last I bought you some?”
“No,” I sighed. “I reread the one about the ghostly sailor from the coast.”
