CHAPTER TEN

The River

---

There were no mirrors in his chamber; exasperated, Vincent twisted around to see the back of his new doublet. It was black velvet with slit sleeves that flashed glimpses of a white and silver shirt. He fastened a collar that pointed down his chest, then surveyed his reflection in a window pane.

To himself he murmured, "Quite a cavalier. Thank you, Mary."

The knee-length breeches were also black velvet; the cuffs tucked into his high boots. There was a speck on one; he sat down carefully on the bed, licked a finger, and rubbed it off. A flash of memory illuminated his mind: Catherine’s white face, as perfect as a cameo, against his pillow. During the days of her blindness she slept in this very bed. His bed. He leaned back on one elbow and touched the pillowcase as he hoped to touch her pale cheek.

"One day, Catherine, if the gods are merciful. I’ve often doubted if mercy existed at all. After tonight, I'll know." Mary and Jacob had both warned him against speaking too soon, but he couldn’t chain himself back any longer. He’d already waited for centuries. Their shared meal in the great hall and the song in the garden had pushed him over the edge.

He sat up and thumbed through a pile of heavy books on the bedside table. He’d been reading them over and over for the past ten days and knew them almost by heart. There was a book on knights and ladies, one on courtly love, and another on marriage customs through the ages. As far as he could tell, there were some countries and cultures in which Jacob, as an elder, could perform a wedding ceremony. It would be unusual, perhaps, but he’d found one instance of a man being married to a ghost. So it shouldn’t be impossible to be married by a ghost. If…

If Catherine accepted him.

"I must be mad," he muttered, and closed the book hard. "She doesn’t even know I love her yet. Maybe Mary and Jacob are right and it’s too soon even to tell her that. The manuals of courtly love all claim that it takes years to overcome a maiden’s timidity and reserve. Too bad the books fail to tell me how to overcome my own. If I speak too boldly and frighten or offend her, she’ll never trust me again. If I don’t speak, I’ll despise my own cowardice."

He bumped his fists against his temples. "Drive yourself mad, Vincent -- that’s always helpful. How have you lived so long without knowing anything?"

He got up impatiently and moved to the window. Dusk was creeping across the garden, turning the trees to silhouettes. He leaned his arm against the sill and gnawed his knuckle.

"One chance. I have only one. Because if she’s repelled by the thought that a being like myself could love her, then all my dreams will have to be sealed in lead and buried forever. Should I speak in a roundabout way, or lead up to it gradually? ‘Catherine, suppose for a moment I were writing a poem about a beast in a castle and a fair maiden. In the poem, if I were to love you with all my heart, soul, body and breath, could you love me?’"

He grimaced and mocked himself. "Oh yes, that’s subtle. Should I give her a hint, or read her a fairy tale? Or just stammer and stutter until she thinks I’m an idiot? That’s what’s likely to happen, the way I’m behaving tonight."

He sat down heavily at the table and seized a sheet of parchment. "Before I can retreat under the bed and hide like a child in a thunderstorm, I’m going to write this note and ask Mary to deliver it." His quill pen scratched across the paper. Two folds of the paper, a drop of hot wax, an impression of his seal, and it was done.

"There. Now if I don’t trip over my own boots or faint in a heap, everything will go as planned." During the past ten days he had done very little except make plans for this night. He had worked out every detail, prepared for any possible contingency -- except Catherine’s reaction, which he could not foresee. Whatever she felt, he would know it instantly, through their bond.

He rubbed his forehead with his fingers. "She won’t laugh in my face or shriek and back away, I know that much. She’ll be kind, even if she can’t love me in return. Why should she, after all? She has known noblemen who take their ease, and gentlemen who ride fine horses, and ship’s captains. But no one like me."

A breath of wind let him know that Mary was there. "Is everything prepared? Of course it is, I don’t need to ask you that. Is she coming in from the garden now? I suppose she must be, the night is drawing in. I’m babbling, Mary, don’t pay any attention to me, I’m not in my right mind."

She found a quill pen and a scrap of parchment. "Your new garments -- do they fit?"

He rose and turned around to let her see. "Yes, you’ve made me look splendid, Mary. I’m quite the cavalier. That note is for Catherine, if you will please take it to her."

"Vincent, do you know that I love you?"

He closed his eyes for a moment. "Yes, I do know that. And I love you, Mary."

She picked up the note and vanished out the window. Vincent almost called her back, to tear it up, but it was too late for that.

He peered at the window pane and straightened his collar points once more. In the glass he saw slanted eyebrows; a flat, feline nose; a grooved upper lip; a flash of white teeth. Stabbed by self-doubt, he mocked himself. "Oh yes, splendid."

That reminded him of one thing he had forgotten to do -- a vigil he now performed faithfully every night. He carried a lighted candle to the fireplace and arranged it under Anya’s portrait.

For a time he stood looking up at that painted face. The uptilted brows and resolute jaw resembled his own.

He had been jesting to conceal his own trepidation, but the time for mockery was past. It was too late to retreat; by this time the note was in Catherine’s hands. His whole life depended upon how he appeared to Catherine and what he said to her on this one night.

He leaned his forehead against the mantle and spoke in deadly earnest. "Mother, can you see me? Can you see your son? If you ever cared for me, help me tonight. You believed in many gods, but there must be one above them all. Get near to the Throne and plead."

***

Catherine slipped off her shoes and threw her straw hat on the bed. She had been weeding the white garden all day, alone. For the tenth day in a row, Vincent had shared breakfast with her on the terrace and then mysteriously disappeared. It was not only puzzling, but disconcerting, for he would not explain himself at all. And the days seemed long without him.

She unbuttoned her dark blue traveling dress, which was stained with mud and grass. Her wardrobe blossomed with resplendent gowns, but they were all fashioned of satin banded with bobbin lace; or rich velvet encrusted with pearls; or silk embroidered with fine silver threads. Nothing suitable for working out of doors. She unlaced her corset and let her shift fall to the floor. Both were soaked with sweat.

Flower-scented water was already spraying up and bubbling into the fountain. A single whisper of wind circled around, holding a towel aloft.

"Mary, this is heavenly," she sighed, sinking chin-deep into the warm, silky water. Gentle ghostly hands scrubbed her hair free of leaves and dust. "You always appear just when I need you most. But I have you cornered now, and you cannot escape from telling me the truth. Why has Vincent been behaving so mysteriously these last few days? Since we sang together in the garden there have been secret errands, sudden disappearances... "

Mary hummed a nonchalant little tune.

"You’re trying to intrigue me," Catherine protested. "You know his secret."

"Perhaps."

"You’re fond of him, aren’t you."

"His fate hasn’t been an easy one, and I’ve always admired the grace and courage with which he meets it. Though Anya bespelled this castle, it isn’t magic that keeps us here now. Though he cannot hear us, we have been company for him, in a way."

A folded sheet of parchment hovered overhead. It was sealed with a ‘V’ in red wax. She dried her hands on a towel and took it from Mary.

The calligraphy was flowing and bold. "Dearest Catherine. It is my turn to surprise you. Tonight, in the ballroom."

"My!" exclaimed Catherine. "This is almost alarming. He has been conferring with you two and now I must prepare to be amazed."

Wrapped in a towel, she crossed the chamber to her bed, where a magnificent gown was displayed. It was foam green, the color of her eyes. Jewels winked in the folds of the skirt.

"Oh, Mary," she breathed. "Vincent won’t recognize me. He’ll think I’m an empress."

"I’ve been sewing day and night. I long to see how it looks."

The gown fit her lithe body perfectly, sweeping the floor like an ocean wave as she practiced a curtsey. The bodice was cut very low, and the soft sleeves rippled with lace.

"My dear, you are perfectly beautiful," sighed Mary.

"Do you think Vincent will like it?"

"Like it? I’m not certain he’ll survive it," said Mary, wickedly, and they both laughed.

"I’ll tell you something, Mary. A secret. That night in the garden, I almost kissed him."

Alarm rang in Mary’s tone. "No, no, you mustn’t do that, dear, not unless you’re certain.

Catherine curled her hair in ringlets over her bare shoulders. "I cannot see any harm in it. Gunther kissed me once or twice. It wasn’t at all like kisses in songs and poems. I wanted to be enraptured, but I didn’t feel anything. He accused me of having a cold nature, but I don’t believe that’s so. Just lately I’ve been sensing that my feelings could become very warm."

Mary tried a careful question. "You and Vincent seem to be better friends these days. His face isn’t dreadful to you any longer?"

"Oh no, not at all. Did I ever think that? When he smiles it’s like the sun coming out. His hair is much nicer than my ordinary brown -- his has strands of copper and amber and gold. And his blue eyes have such a kind look. He’s been so gentle and chivalrous with me, even when I tease him, as if he thinks I’m made out of stars. Really, he’s the starry one."

There were loops of gems for her hair; she twisted them around her chignon. "Sometimes, Mary, I think he cares for me a little."

Mary spoke cautiously. "Would that distress you?"

"No, of course not, he’s the dearest person I’ve ever known. I’d be distressed if he didn’t. But after so many years of loneliness, I think he would have been fond of anyone."

"I used to think that, but now I’m not so sure. Wait for me just a moment." She dived out the balcony doors, leaving Catherine in a state of intense curiosity. While Mary was gone, she wriggled her feet into dainty green shoes and attached a fan to her sash, then looked at the note again. "Vincent, what are you planning?"

Mary swooped back in the door, carrying a roll of papers.

"What on earth is that?"

"As a boy he used to lie on the hearth in my chamber and paint pictures. I kept a few."

The ancient sheets cracked when the papers were unrolled. Though the ink and paint had faded, the childish drawings were still clear. A boy with a wild mane of hair, and his imaginary friend, a merry girl. Together they sat in the summerhouse swing, rowed across the lake, climbed trees, and read books under the grape arbor. The girl had soft brown hair and green eyes.

"Turn that one over."

On the reverse of the grape arbor drawing was scrawled, ‘V. and C.’

Catherine was startled, to say the least. "I wasn’t even born when that was painted. Neither was my great-great-great-great grandmother."

"Jacob tells me that dreams don’t exist in the realm of time, but in the realm of eternity." Mary rolled them up again carefully.

Catherine sat down hard on the edge of the bed. "All those years he could have been imagining a beautiful enchantress from a magical land ... or a princess from a fairy tale to share this wondrous castle. But all that time his noble heart was dreaming of someone like me. I don’t know what to think."

"Then don’t think about it, dear. Just tuck it away in a small secret part of your soul, until it’s needed. His note said the ballroom. You should be going!"

As Catherine hurried out into the hall, Jacob sailed in through the window. The fussy old spirit usually avoided the bedchamber, but this night was special.

"Tonight I believe he means to risk it all, and tell her how he feels." Mary released a romantic sigh and hugged herself. She hadn’t always been a ghost.

Jacob wagged his finger like a professor. "He’ll regret it. As I learned to my cost with Marguerite, it is a universal truth that only fools rush in."

Mary unrolled the drawings once again. "We raised him, Jacob. That brave little lad who was always escaping from your lectures to tend his pony is a man now. Do you remember when he came to you with a storybook and asked you the meaning of a word he didn’t know?"

Jacob coughed into his hand. "I have not forgotten. The word was ‘friend'.

"Such a simple idea, but not easy to explain to a lad who had no one. No one but us: two elderly people, trying to take the place of schoolmates and parents and brothers and sisters and kinfolk. I don’t know if he’s a fool or if he’s rushing in. Speaking for myself, though, I wish our lad every possible happiness with his beautiful friend. Don’t you?"

Jacob took refuge in another cough. "An apt quotation was on the tip of my tongue; however, the exact wording escapes me at the moment. To paraphrase the thought, ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. '"

Holding hands, they floated out of Catherine’s bedchamber and made their way across the rose bower: two old spirits, two old friends.

***

Catherine felt an unusual surge of anticipation as she sped through the halls and up flight after flight of stairs, as if she were running toward the sky. She was a little out of breath by the time she ran up sixteen flights. The ballroom took up the whole floor, she remembered that.

On the threshold she paused to smooth the bodice of her gown and shake out the skirt. The mermaid-green silk made her feel as if she were wearing water.

Beyond the crystal dome, the night was entirely black. The vast circular ballroom glittered with thousands upon thousands of candles. Vincent stood alone under the dome, all in black, like the night; his hair catching the color of the candleflames. Music began to ripple, and she recognized her name-song, but his hands were empty. Then she saw the tall curve of a golden harp, playing itself.

"I taught the harp your song," said Vincent. "Will you dance with me?"

Without a word she moved into the circle of his arms. He was so much taller that the top of her head tucked under his chin. Suddenly shy, Catherine allowed him to guide her steps for a moment. Then the music caught them both and carried them away. Their bodies fit together perfectly as they swirled around the polished floor. It didn’t occur to Catherine to ask where he had learned to dance. Nothing existed beyond the strong arm that held her and the black velvet that brushed her cheek. An echo of that night under her balcony drifted through her mind, and she allowed herself to feel cherished.

Vincent was far beyond thought. He had read poems that described that love was like. Images of happiness had haunted his dreams. But no poem or dream could be as beautiful as Catherine. He held her in his arms at last, after waiting all his life, and he wanted it to go on forever; the music, the night, and the brush of her slender body against his own. One small hand rested in his; the other reached up to his shoulder with a feather-light touch he could feel even through the black velvet.

Like leaves in a windstorm the music spun them around. He didn’t need to tell her how he felt. It was all there in the melody, that grew deeper and wilder with every moment that passed. At times the harp strings trembled like the wings of a caged bird; then deepened to the double pulse beat of two drumming hearts. She seemed to feel it, too; for she answered every slight pressure of his arm; wheeling and gliding in perfect accord.

Holding her, he felt their connection tighten and vibrate like harpstrings, and he sensed in her an echo of his own yearning. Tender tremors told him Catherine had feelings for him. Always she had been his heart’s desire. Pulsing quivers in the bond told him he was becoming hers.

His murmur was so low she could hardly hear it. "Has anyone ever died of too much joy?"

Her answer was just as soft. "I don’t believe so."

"That’s good."

Around and around the ballroom they veered, one sweeping turn after another. She looked up and something flashed between them that made him want to sob with joy. Another swift turn; candlelight glittered on the quivering harp and the jewels that flashed in her hair and winked in the folds of her gown.

The whirlpool of the melody spun up to a piercing ache of longing, then began to pulse more slowly, and finally faded into a shudder of silence. Dazzled and dazed, they stood close together. Her face was hidden against his chest; he could not read her expression. Involuntarily his grip tightened. She let out a little gasp and he released her ... reluctantly.

The silence still throbbed with unheard music. She glided out an open door, grateful for a breath of cool air. A covered gallery stretched to the towers on the far side of the river; urns of flowers lined the stone railing. Vincent followed, for he needed a breath of air himself.

Catherine gazed down between the urns of flowers and viewed a part of the garden she had never before seen.

"New wonders to explore," she commented, when she could find the breath. To conceal her nervousness she straightened his velvet lapels. "There. Now you’re perfect."

"Am I?" He stood beside her, trembling inwardly. The hour had come -- the hour to defy his solitary destiny; to hazard everything, even her faith in his friendship, on the hope that she could love him. He rehearsed phrases in his mind. Questioned if he were a fool after all. Wondered if she would spurn him or step into his open arms ... if he would know at last what it meant to be kissed by Catherine. He couldn’t tell if she were still feeling those tender tremors; he was in such a state he couldn’t concentrate on the bond.

He didn’t recognize his own hoarse voice. "Catherine, if I were to write a poem ... "

Her skirt rustled as she moved. The slight sound stole the last of his self-control. He couldn’t hold himself back, he was going to have to tell her how he felt; that he loved her beyond reason, and needed her forever. She gazed up at the night sky while he choked on his words. The risk was so enormous. But it was worth risking everything for. The only thing more terrifying than the thought of making a mistake was the thought of living another day without her. Perhaps they could circle again to the shimmering music of the harp. While the music cascaded, he would tell her everything, and ask her if she could find it in her heart to love him, just a little. Just enough to stay beside him of her own accord, rather than unwillingly.

‘Now. Now. Now,’ he told himself. ‘Before she turns away. Reach out to her. And may all the gods have mercy on me.’

With that prayer, he found the courage to lift both her hands and press them against his chest. She was looking down, he couldn’t see her face, but desperation had driven him past the point of no return. "If I were to place my life in your hands ... "

Like flowers touched by the sun her fingers opened on his chest. Her answer was so soft he could hardly hear it. "You might not get it back again."

She hadn’t repulsed him, hadn’t pulled away. He drew her nearer, so cautiously, so gently. Though she looked down shyly, her arms slid around his waist, and Vincent knew what glory meant. "I might not want it back."

His hands cupped her face. He bent nearer and Catherine let her eyes close. Her lips parted and rounded for a kiss.

Without warning, two tornadoes spun around them both. The wind stung Catherine’s eyes; taken aback, she drew away from him. White-hot anger exploded within Vincent. He couldn’t believe that Mary and Jacob would interfere at such a moment.

His gesture was violent. "How dare you!"

Alarmed by his anger, Catherine moved another step away.

The two spirits both spoke to her at once, interrupting each other.

"We were just by the river ... "

"Just around the bend there... "

"Catherine, you must come ... "

" ... Hurry, quickly!"

"It’s your family. They’re here!"

Her face whitened. The revelation stunned her. She put out one hand as if she might fall. "What are you saying?"

In that moment of confusion, Vincent thought the spirits had taken it upon themselves to confess for him. Seeing her shock, despair pierced him, and he stammered to rephrase the declaration that had driven the color from her face. "I don’t want it back. Keep it forever. You don’t have to decide so soon."

She didn’t even hear him. "But not on horseback?"

Now he was completely confused; his revelation had nothing to do with horses. "What are they saying to you? Let me speak for myself." Catherine was turning away to listen to the others, and he couldn’t endure it.

Mary was beside herself. "They came up the river! Charles is in the first boat!"

"Gracious heaven," Catherine breathed. "They’ve come to save me."

"Mary and Jacob came to save you?" Vincent still understood nothing, except that she was no longer in his arms, and that she hadn’t answered him.

She seized his sleeve with both hands. "My father and the others are here! They’ve come to rescue me!"

The life drained from his face as if he were bleeding to death. His stomach knotted like a fist; he felt suddenly sick. "To rescue you -- from me?"

Laughing and crying, both at once, she exclaimed, "I thought I’d never see them again."

Through the bond he felt her wild excitement. He reached out blindly for support, dislodging an urn of flowers that toppled and smashed. He felt the same breaking.

Something in his expression made her pause, suddenly uncertain. She clasped his hand; it was stiff and cold. Through that contact she sensed his shock. "Vincent?"

Numbly he repeated, "To rescue you from me."

Her words tumbled out. "I’ll tell them right away I don’t need rescuing. This is a wonderful chance -- they’ll come to know you as I do. You always wished for more visitors and friends." She couldn’t bear to see his face go gray, when she was so full of joy.

"Yes, that’s true," he managed to say.

Never had he seen such a light in her eyes. He could see clearly she was mad to be off. There would be no words of love, no second dance, no kiss. The time for that had passed. "Then run -- run. They’re looking for you."

Without a backward glance she whirled and ran through the ballroom. The harp had fallen silent. It seemed appropriate. Vincent held a hand up to quiet the two ghosts, who were spinning around the gallery. "We have visitors. Tend to their needs. That’s all I ask of you." They vanished, heading for the river.

He stood alone on the walkway, but his arms, his body, still ached for her. "Oh Catherine. Couldn’t you have waited just one moment, and given me an answer?" It seemed to him that the night wind was cold, or perhaps the cold was in himself. He tried to order his thoughts, to keep the ice of fear away. So Charles had returned to the castle after all. When he learned that his daughter was happy and well-treated, they could all become friends. This was good. They would have a lovely visit and then Charles and the others would go home and refute the bone-crunching monster rumors; and Catherine would stay here.

He made a sound like the moan of a wounded animal. She had sought him out in the keep. Sung with him in the alcove. Slipped a flower in his shirt. Danced with him -- almost kissed him. She couldn’t go. With a sense of deepening desperation he told himself that her family hadn’t come for that purpose.

"There’s no need to panic. They’ve come only to see that she is well. When they learn that Catherine is happy, they won’t mind going back without her."

He clutched the stone railing until it crumbled in his grip. "Catherine said she is happy here. I have to trust her affection. She cares about me. This is her home now. She wouldn’t leave me here to break my heart and die alone."

He forced himself to breathe evenly, and for a moment felt better; then his attention was caught by a chorus of excited voices far below. There were four people on the riverbank, carrying bundles up from two rowboats. One was Catherine. She couldn’t stop embracing her father. Vincent recognized his long buttoned jacket and flat hat.

"This is good," he repeated. "I’ll apologize to him for giving him a fright, and we can begin again. Why am I trembling? This is just as it should be."

There was also a young woman wearing a brown dress and a straw hat. Laura, perhaps, or Rebecca.

"She’ll like to see her sister. I hoped from the beginning that she would pay a visit, too. I’ll row her around the lake. Teach her to rebind books. This is all very good."

A handsome gentleman in crimson satin stood poised on the riverbank, giving orders to the others.

A cry of unbearable pain broke from Vincent. His hand went to his chest to see if he was still alive. He'd seen that arrogant pose before, on an ivory miniature. The third traveler had not arrived to pay a visit. Gunther had come to carry Catherine away.