I Carry Your Heart

Carole W

Part 5

Chapter 14 ~ See Me

After a while, even an infant cries itself out, gives up the fight. So Catherine found herself spent, lying alone in a strange place neither real nor magical, suspended in her own disbelief.

“Damn it,” she repeated, weakened. She covered her eyes with her arm.

After a while, she turned to the light of the bedside candle. “Well, what now ...”

She let her mind drift; her gaze fastened on the dancing flame ... and heard the soft lilt of Eimear O’Carroll’s voice ...

 

“Oh, sometimes he says he wants to be alone. Maybe ... maybe he even means that. But I won’t let him be alone in this. Ever. No matter what.You can only step closer to him, Catherine, so that the chasm is not so fearful."

 

And then her own voice, loud in the silence of her chamber, unfaltering, sounded words she remembered saying first, many months ago –I am never giving up.

She rose from the bed. She washed her face and brushed her teeth, brushed her hair. She took one last look at the silky nightgown. It was for her wedding night.

I’ll hang on to it a while longer, she said to herself as she left her room for Vincent’s. And if I don't get to wear it, I'll throw it into the abyss.

She had imagined he would be in his chamber, but his room was empty. His pack was where he said he’d dropped it, just inside the doorway, a book protruding from the outermost pocket. It was Adam Bede, marked at a passage with a folded page of paper.

Perplexed, she scanned the chamber. Where could he have gone? There were miles of tunnels, many likely known only to him. She noticed then that her gift was missing. Empty, his chair was pulled toward his bed. The jute strings lay loose on the floor near the wall where there was, she found, a slight misalignment of the rocks.

“Ah ha! Hidden passage!” A frisson, a gleeful little triumph washed through her. Pushing, pulling, running her fingers over the surface, she located the ring and chain that maneuvered the stone. “Yes!” she crowed. The passage took her to a ledge behind the stained glass and the way out was dark, but she forged ahead on a remembered path. At the stairway, she hurried down, her first instincts propelling her toward the chamber with the mirror.

And so ... she found him. He was there. Her approach was stealthy, though she expected he would sense her arrival. Regardless of his contradiction, he was difficult to surprise. But if he heard her or was aware of her, he gave no sign.

She saw him reflected – sitting down, his elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped, his head lowered to those troublesome hands, hair streaming down, the epitome of misery. She could feel despair and turmoil, savage and loose in the room.

That was not all she saw.

She saw all that she’d dreamed, what she’d imagined with the anticipation of a virgin and the appetite of Aphrodite. He was beautiful, exquisite, even stunning ... as it might be to look upon the face of an angel. Raising his head, he stared at her image in the great mirror that leaned against massive stones. She saw herself – small, determined, unflinching.He flung himself from his seat, whirling away from her and then back.

“Is this ...” He spread his arms. “Is this what you wanted to see, Catherine? THENLOOK AT ME! SEE ME! See what I am!”

He was stripped to the waist, some strange loose leggings, long and stark white, folded over at the belt line, hanging tantalizing and low on narrow hips. The ladder of his muscled abdomen rose to his powerful chest and his arms outstretched were defined by the demarcation of hard work and his peculiar nature.

Tawny bristles covered just to his upper biceps. His shoulders and back were clear and sleek, though long silky swirls covered his chest and curled down his flat stomach. A ripple of muscle in his thighs strained the leggings. More than all of this, more than his magnificent virility, it was his color that seized her. He was bronze and gold and rose-colored, flushed with an internal heat and bright with a sheen of moisture. With his mane of hair untamed and flying and the fierce energy he expressed, each breath a guttural, constant rasp, he was a vision beyond imagining.

He held this pose for long moments, his eyes trained on her, more brilliantly blue against his heightened color. Then he began again to pace. His familiar step was altered, his stride long and potent ... back and forth, treading the roadways of a shrouded, impenetrable, unseen map – self-caged. She was careful to hold herself still and silent.

He stopped, closed to within a few feet of her and in a voice new and dark, a shadowy rattle beneath the words, demanded, “Tell me, Catherine. What do you see?”

“I see the man I love.”

He pressed the heels of his hands hard to his eyes, raked his fingers into his hairline.

“I AM NOT A MAN!” He wheeled and strode away, his chest heaving with labored breath ... wheeled again. “But I am, as many men, FOOLISH, SELFISH AND A COWARD!” He fixed her with a fiery stare, a dare to contradict him.

“Vincent, NO!" She moved closer to him, but the room was large and the gap between them seemed a dreadful chasm. “Take that back ... take all of it back.”

She reached out to him, touched the bare, hot, velvet skin of his shoulder. He recoiled from her touch, cringing, each exhalation a warning rumble. “I WILL NOT ... take it back. Look at this room ... a testament to my folly. See that I am selfish, selfish enough to dare to believe ...”

Even as he swept across the space, even as his face distorted with sadness, even in his wounded state, his presence stirred blood memory deep within her. She did as he requested – she looked.

There was the mirror, leaning huge, measuring surely over eight feet tall and as wide, a wooden frame of carved flowers and beading, gold-leafed. Reflected in it, the entire chamber was reduced to its marrow - a majestic mahogany bed, unusually crafted with raised convex panels, fluted and lotus carved stiles, over-wide and blanketed with quilts the color of alabaster and pearl and ivory. It was magnificent and suggestive of pure passion. She knew her gasp was audible and she saw Vincent's eyes narrow as he watched her.

In the middle of the room where she had first seen him seated, there was a broad stool with low rolled arms and arched legs, a fabric of sapphire. A Renaissance library table of dark walnut and with griffin ends stood against one wall, host to several small objects – keepsakes, remembrances – and where Catherine’s gift rested, middlemost.

“Vincent.” She spoke softly, hoping to soothe his distress, unsure of the direction of this exchange, but knowing in her heart that much – no, everything –depended on it. “Tell me what this room is to you. After all these months, you’ve never spoken of it.”

She walked toward the table and the curious collection he'd amassed there, but he moved in front of her, blocking her, leaning on the table, arms wide, protective, possessive. Each muscle in his broad back quivered with his efforts to still his movements. He gathered a breath, released it, bowed his head low, his voice now a raspy whisper.

“In Thailand, there is a shrine, an elephant shrine ... where centuries ago a nobleman’s favorite died. A temple was built at the site to honor the animal and it was believed that there one could make a wish ... and if the wish came true, one must return with a gift for the lost elephant, to thank him. Even today, gifts are heaped at the base of the shrine, evidence of fulfillment.

“Here in this place where I would come – even before you, Catherine – where I would come as a young man and dare to dream ... of one day finding that which Father deemed impossible ... for me. A life beyond duty and obligation, a life in which I am chosen by a woman, held and loved, a life with children of my own, whom I would adore. In that dream, I created a home for them in these rooms. But after a while, only a terrible truth was reflected in this great mirror and I grew to accept my limitations, even to be ... content ... and I came here more for the privacy of it. These are mine after all, all the rooms in this hall mine alone.

“After you came into my life, I visited here with a stronger, stranger dream. I came with a new regret and a cherished optimism. What I once dreamed ignited my thoughts again, and I came here ... to wish.”

He turned to her then, softening his grim expression, beckoned to her, moving aside so she could better see ... allowed her in. He chose an object, a large shard of reflective metal, cradled it, held it out to her.

“Do you recognize this?” Without allowing her answer, he went on. “You threw this at me when you were healed, the day you first saw my face, the day you ... returned home. After I cleared away the pieces, I saved this one. I pushed it far back on the shelf, yet it would glint at me as I passed. A memory of a memory ...

“Months passed. I tried to forget, all the while becoming more and more deeply connected to your feelings, more aware of yours than of my own. I stared long into this mirror, until its reflection was no longer of me, but of you, Catherine. I wished that I could see you again ... that you would welcome me ...

“That wish came true. I was ... so grateful. I ferreted out the shard and placed it here, a gift, the beginning of my own shrine ...”

He held out a small music box that played, when he opened it, slow, mournful measures from the Pathetique. “This gift I brought when I was granted a second wish, that you would not ... find love with Elliott Burch.

"And this,” he said, holding out a worn leather-bound book, its edges gilt, marked with a brilliant blue feather, “is the gift I offered when you did not go to Providence.” She took the book from him, found the marked verse.Surprised by Joy.

The next was simply a small paint container, empty, orange color dried to its rim. “I brought this when you did not marry Elliott.”

One finger brushed the rim of a crystal candleholder. “When you left, confused, in despair of knowing me ... I visited your balcony to say goodbye. I took this. I thought my heart would stop, or feared, rather, that it would not and I would have to live on in my wretchedness, but I wished ... so desperately ... and you came back. You said we were worth ... everything. I brought this gift then.”

His voice broke. “I have made many wishes of late ...”

She pulled her sculpture toward the table’s edge. “Do you like this, Vincent? It's so beautiful. I had to have it for you. You see, I've been wishing too.”

“I treasure each gift you've ever made to me, relive each moment of surprise. But this ... this mocks me, Catherine.” His voice darkened and there was again a low rumble behind his breathing.

“Mocks you? NO! How? I could never ...”

“I know you did not mean it to ... but see, his hands are forever clasped behind him, his kiss is upon her heart, below her breast, but he is destined, eternally, to be separate from her, restrained.”

“No, that’s not right. This is different!” She turned the sculpture in the candle's light. “Look,” she implored him, moving closer. “See, he’s let go. His arms are moving toward her and her hand is lifting his face. Everything ... is beginning!”

The scent she knew rose around her, strong on a radiating wave of heat and light from him. The room, which by all rights should have been cold, was not. She could not discern the source of warmth beyond him; as she had come to expect, there was simply magic here.

He was so very beautiful, so near. She wanted to be held, to be kissed. There was no mistaking her desire, but again his eyes narrowed and he backed away from her.

“Will you not ask me about this bed?” he snapped, ice and daggers in his tone. “Will you laugh at the exposure of a fool’s desire?”

He stalked to the bed frame, shook the high finial hard and flung back the covers. He passed his hand seductively over the sheets as he peered over his shoulder at her. She stood very still, not afraid of him, but for him. His pain was as unclothed as he.

“I discovered this bed months ago in a deep chamber, not long after you found the lilacs for Kanin and Olivia. I sensed your longing at that moment and in my dreams, I surprised you with a perfect room of our own. I dragged the frame in pieces to Cullen’s workshop, cleaned it, polished it, in pretense of giving it to a helper. I doubt Cullen believed me. I asked Olivia to find the appropriate bedding. She went above, brought back these.

“Nights, after visiting you, I would come down, sit beside this bed and think only of having you close to me. I had such ... skin hunger. I dreamed of the day you might choose me. I expected I would faint with joy, but instead, I heard the lie.”

His voice sparked. A drumming thunder reverberated in the chamber, a clash in the stillness that was simply his energy. Catherine stood unsupported, apprehensive, in the middle of the room.

“Yes, I feel that in you –the lie.” He began a slow circuit around her, moved close behind her, bent to her ear. His breath, hot on her neck, moved her hair.

“I haven’t lied to you, Vincent.”

“No, your lie is the one you refuse to admit, your deepest fear, unconfessed.”

“I don’t understand.”

His arm encircled her, pressed her backward against his body, his open hand low against her abdomen. She could feel his groin at the small of her back – so large he was, towering over her. His words were thick with pain.

“Would you take me as your lover ... come to me willingly, Catherine ... and live in fear of carrying a monster in your belly ... or would loving me condemn you to a lifetime with an empty womb.”

In a sudden movement, he released her, the burn of his touch still on her skin. She pushed both her fists into the pain of it and her tears welled and cascaded, hot and sad and desperate.

He walked to the head of the bed. His back to her, one hand on the bedpost, he sagged onto an arm bent against the chamber wall. His beautiful shoulders, smooth and wide and strong, shook with sorrow.

When the tears stopped, when his silence settled in, she spoke.

“I thought you knew ... I took for granted you would feel what I feel, always. I should have told you, the moment I knew ... when I saw you holding Lena’s child, when I asked you how it felt to hold a baby in your arms. I knew then that we were ... a possibility ... and that we could make a baby together, an extraordinary child, a most welcome child. I knew, Vincent. If only I’d realized you didn’t.”

She went to him and pressed her hand to the deep V of muscle low on his spine. He stiffened, but did not move away. A rasp stuttered from deep in his throat, a painful scuffle through shards of glass, fading, as she stroked his skin, to a rough drone, to a velvety, harmonic vibration.

At last!

His voice quivered, dawning thought crowding his breath. “I felt that word, heard it in my mind ... possibility ... but I thought it was ... Lena’s word and after the briefest moment, I had to block the pull of the feeling. I didn’t understand ...couldn't dareto believe ... it was yours.”

“Perhaps it was Lena’s too," she said. "Her feelings were strong and you are so kind. You know now, don’t you? You even know that possibility isn't the right word. You are necessary to me. I don’t harbor that fear. There is nothing more to confess. And I won’t have you ever, ever, call yourself a monster again.”

He turned to her with a keen, unblunted roar and sank to his knees. She moved in close; his arms went 'round her. Her hands caught in his wild hair and she held his face to her breast until his heartbeat evened, until the tension eased from his shoulders, until the cold, bunched cords in his neck loosened under her touch.

“Vincent,” she said, stepping back, tugging him to his feet. “You’ve used words today I’ve never heard from you. Tell me. How can you call yourself a coward? You're the bravest man I’ve ever known – selfless, valiant. What is it you're afraid to do or to say? And I’ve never heard you refer to anything as ‘mine’. You claim so little for yourself. Tell me.”

She kept both his hands in hers, waiting, fighting a strange impulse to smile.

“These two ... words ... are superimposed, inseparable. I am a coward because I'm unable to tell you what it is that I want ... what I want for my own ... afraid to ask you, afraid to hear your answer.”

Her appeal to speak met with a customary silence. She pressed and coaxed with similar unsuccess. Finally she touched his face, raising his chin as she had done hours before. She flattened her palm against his cheek and he covered her hand with his.

“Vincent, just say it. Whisper the words into my palm. I’ll keep them safe for you.”

And so he obeyed her. He held her hand open, tight to his mouth, pressed his lips to her skin. She felt the words carry to her soul, surely singing her body electric ...

“Cleave to me, Catherine. Marry me.”

 

Chapter 15 ~ An Ancient Word

“Cleave ... what a beautiful word, Vincent.”

"Yes."

There was a charged moment between them, yet he knew before she spoke.

She was his.

___

“If ever two were one, then surely we,” she promised.

He drew her close and she laid her cheek to his chest. She felt the rise of his lungs and the drub of his heart, the strange hidden parts of his body fully vulnerable to her. Sweetest was that he did not pull away from her and, while his skin quivered under her touch, he did not flinch.

Setting her away from him, a bare half-step, he looked at her fully on, still holding her in his loose embrace. “How will this work? We are destined for a significant journey and we have no map.”

“We don’t,” she agreed, “but we are never giving up.”

“I have so little to offer you, except this ... for all eternity ... my heart is bound to yours and I will never leave you.”

“What greater thing is there, Vincent, for two human souls, than to feel they are joined ... to strengthen each other, to divide the burden of sadness, to multiply the joys, to live together and share unspoken memories?”

He thrilled at her words –two human souls.“Will you ... will youmarry me?”

“I have. Just now.”

She favored him with her slow smile. He drew back, never letting go of her.

“You do surprise me, Catherine. Know that.”

She simply looked up at him, never taking her eyes from his. Waited. Waited ...

Until he bent to her and touched his lips gently to hers, fleeting, almost chaste. Until he took her face in his hands, without worry or fear, and kissed her again. His touch was warm and his breath shortened ... he opened his mouth first against hers. He gathered her close to him, tighter, and she felt the first shy probe of his tongue, a quickening and a rush and finally his restraint as he broke from her.

He bent his forehead to hers. “Too much.”

“No,” she replied.

“That wasn’t a question, Catherine, but a statement. I have to ... stop.”

They shared both a shyness and deep exhaustion. This day had drained them, turned them both inside out. It was enough, this much. Later would come and with it ... everything.

She toed off her shoes and smoothed and straightened the bedclothes. His gaze was riveted to her motions; his heart would not slow, the thud of it shaking him.

She crawled in and settled herself. “Lie down with me.”

He would not deny her. Pulling the quilts around them, she burrowed close. He enfolded her, reverent in his touch and with her head in the crook of his arm, they fell asleep ...

After ...

After she’d kissed him twice more ... and after she'd touched his hot, rose-flushed skin and told him he was beautiful. After she'd brushed back his tangled mane and traced his peculiar ears with her fingertips.

After she’d whispered, “For I am running to Paradise ...”

After he’d answered, “And all that I have to do is wish.”

 

Chapter 16 ~ Anticipation

From this dream Catherine did not mind waking. It was a wonderful dream, complete with poetry and candlelight and a vague image of a ride on a rearing, golden carousel horse. But to wake to Vincent’s gentle touch, to his soft voice speaking her name ... that was Paradise.

“Are you awake?”

“Are you really here?”

“I’m here.” He smiled at her, fully clothed, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“What time is it, do you think?”

“I’m not sure I can think,” he replied, “but I’m guessing it's either quite late or very early. The pipes are still and the tunnels are dark.”

“Vincent ... I, ummm ... where’s the ...”

“Facilities?”

“Umm, uh huh.”

“I’ll show you. Come. Don’t worry. It's close by,” he said, still smiling, showing the white tips of his teeth.

She crawled from the deep bed, reluctantly but necessarily, padding in her sock feet beside a changed man. His step was light and long and a sweetly dazed expression replaced the glower and gloom of yesterday. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard a low humming tune in the air between them.

Vincent led her out into the atrium and across it, through another archway, a turn to the left down a dim hallway, past two darkened rooms. She was ready to complain about the measure of tunnel distance when they came to a wooden door. It was a fairy-tale door – tall, arched, banded with metal strips and faceted nail heads and latched by a massive lever with a twisted iron handle. How it was set into the stone was yet another mystery.

She pushed inside and turned to question him, her eyes wide with surprise, but he'd retreated to the hallway, already hurrying around the corner. She wanted to call to him, yet necessity propelled her forward, and in an arched, ancient alcove, the found the facility soon enough.

In the antechamber, a long, narrow, black stone sink ran the length of one wall. The basin was carved so that water swirled over scalloped cuts in a cascade. Pipes laddered the stone.

“Warm water?” She shook her head in wonder as she opened the metal gates.

On a ledge of rock above the sink, she found her toiletries from the guest chamber and a fascinating assortment of his things through which she pawed with giddy enthusiasm. She learned he was partial to French-milled sandalwood soap, for there was a large ivory-colored cake of it open at the sink and two more still in brown paper wrappings and tied with thin string. There was an aromatic conditioner made with Acacia honey and a shampoo combining aloe vera with Black Mud from the Dead Sea. The toothpaste he used was a homemade recipe. She twisted the top from the jar to discover what looked like baking soda mixed with gelatin. She tried a little on her brush. It was gritty, a little salty and flavored with cloves.

One of the helpers must have quite the shop.

Turning from the sink, she headed for a narrow, seductive opening in the far wall.

Oh ...

The room was lit with candles that lined stair-stepped ledges on one side. Rougher cut but carved from the same black stone as the sink, three steps descended into an obsidian pool. At its farthest reach was another alcove curtained by a waterfall that steamed and streamed over a shelf above. A water-worn hollow formed an intimate bench, above it a deep niche where she discovered an array of sponges and brushes and a strange, wide-toothed comb.

At the water’s edge, Vincent had stacked a dozen towels and there was a large basket filled with garments from her chamber bureau and wardrobe. Her breath a rushing exhalation, she reached down. So warm! She slipped out of her clothes and into the pool. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to dream.

After the soak and the shower, after an invigorating experience with the black mud shampoo, she picked through her clothing, choosing the layers carefully. She had the fleeting vision of Vincent folding her lingerie.

“Whoo!” She fanned herself, imagining. And then her stomach rumbled. “Uh oh.”

She emerged from the bathing chamber and retraced the hallway. Two rooms stood empty, but were clearly closets. Shelves were cut into the stone and long poles spanned each space. Across the empty foyer was a high-arching room, its walls lined with shelves jammed with books; at its center, a broad pedestal table on a faded flowered rug. She would demand a tour, right after breakfast or a late supper, whichever applied.

Vincent stood near the base of the curving stair and she couldn’t resist. She ran – as fast as she could – and threw herself into his arms. This kiss, at first playful and easy, deepened with desire … and ended in laughter.

“What is this place?”

“Do you like these rooms, Catherine?”

“I love these rooms!”

“They are ... ours, then.”

“Will you show me everything? Tell me everything?” Her stomach rumbled again. “Right after we eat? I’m starving!”

He led her back to the mirror room to a small table flanked by the low stool and a second armless chair. There were crockery bowls and silverware, a large thermos, a stack of homemade rusks and beaded glasses of cold cider.

“You can read my mind!”

“No. I’ll admit I was thinking of myself.” He poured a rich chowder from the container. “This was William's supper last night. There’s no breakfast cooking yet, but I think it must be close to dawn.”

“Time doesn’t really matter now."

“No, except will I cherish every moment of it with you.”

"We have so much to talk about," she said.

"Yes."

"Most of it can wait."

"Yes."

They ate with hearty appetites, but Catherine more than Vincent.

“Did you have a snack in the kitchen?”

“How did you know that?” Behind his napkin, she was sure he hid a smile.

“Because I’ve eaten maybe twice what you have? I’m going to be embarrassed if I'm the trencherman in this family.”

With his thumb, he pushed the plate of rusks across the table. “I woke Father and told him we married ourselves last night."

"I'd like to have been there for that! What did he say?"

"He grumbled that we would not get by with just an announcement, that he would not be denied performing some sort of ceremony. He's up, right this minute, pouring over dusty texts for just the right words."

"That should keep him busy."

"Yes, the old fart. Who knows what he will devise."

Catherine laughed. "He told you?"

"No, Pascal did. I passed him coming back with our food." Vincent chuckled, then paused. "I brought your things down for you.”

“I found them. Thank you.”

“I brought all of them.” He ducked his head and shifted his gaze over her shoulder.

Her nightdress was draped across the footboard of the bed. She turned back to him with a mischievous expression.

“You said that was for a wedding night.”

He blushed, a deep, bronzed rose. “I did.”

“It’s morning.”

“Yes.” He looked a little puzzled.

“Do we have to wait ... all day?”

“Let's not,” he said, as he closed his beautiful hands over hers, his hands that absolutely could, absolutely would, give her exquisite love.

***

^[1] George Eliot. Adam Bede. Chapter 54. The Meeting on the Hill. 1859.

^[1] William Butler Yeats. Running to Paradise. 1914.

Next:  Marriage Morning,
found in The Steam Tunnels.