The Rose of Sebastopol
The room was in semi-darkness because, though one shutter was half open, a drab blue curtain covered the window. Through the gloom I saw that the room was small and contained a narrow bed, a washstand, a table heaped with books and a low chair with a rush seat upon which an untouched tray with a roll, a jug and a cup had been left. There was a smell of cold coffee and damp linen.
Henry was in bed but he’d raised himself on one elbow and even in the darkness I saw the eager brilliance of his eyes and that his hair had grown so long it flopped over his brow. We stared at each other. Then I stumbled across the room, knelt by the bed and held him.
My bonnet was knocked sideways as he covered my face with hot kisses. I wept and seemed to flow out of myself when I felt his lips on my hair, ear and neck. Though I was distantly aware that the door behind us was closed abruptly and that we had been watched, I didn’t mind. I clasped his too thin arms as his hands caressed my back and I helped him with my bonnet ribbons, wondering how I could ever have doubted that I did the right thing in coming here. I realised that I had waited most of my life to have Henry kiss my throat, even to let him fumble with the buttons of my gown and pull loose the neck of my shift. My skin contracted as his lips closed on my breast. His breath came in rasping pants between kisses.
I fell back on the pillow, smoothed his hair and felt him grow heavy in my arms. Astonishingly, he slept. For perhaps half an hour I didn’t move though I lay half off the bed, my bonnet dropping from my neck, a draught swaying the curtain, the clop of a mule’s hooves on the street below. Because my hair was caught by the weight of his head all I could see was a fragment of cracked ceiling, a broken frieze and the shifting blue-grey curtain. I kissed him again and again, tiny, weightless kisses on his hair, which was far softer than I had ever imagined, like a cat’s fur, and I thought: All these weeks he has been alone, watching that curtain and waiting for me. I was afloat in the miracle of his touch, the strangeness of a male body half covering mine, the fact that this was Henry who I had missed so much in the past months that even the blood in my veins ached for him.
Then I tightened my hold because although never in my wildest imaginings had I expected such a loving, needy reception as this, nor had I really thought to find him so weak that he was confined to bed. I had always relished his energy and the hardness of his arm under my hand but now he was as frail as a bird. And he smelled entirely different to the Henry who never failed to delight me with his scent of good soap, balsam or camphor. Instead the odour of confined flesh reminded me of the governesses’ home. As he woke his breath grew uneven on my neck. When he moved his head my skin was damp and hot from where his cheek had rested on me. I closed my eyes as my breast tightened under his circling fingertip.
This is Italy, I thought, no one will know. And anyway, what do I care?
‘My dear love,’ he whispered, ‘I thought you would never come.’ His finger was making a diminishing spiral on my nipple so my words were disjointed: ‘I wasn’t sure you would want me here. And yet I wouldn’t be stopped, even by you, so I thought it best just to come without letting you know.’
‘You are my love, my love.’
‘Your letters sounded so lonely I thought I must come.’
He nuzzled his cheek into my bosom and pressed his face to my neck, drawing me closer and closer under him. I didn’t mind that he had the smell of fever on his breath; I was scarcely conscious of anything except the heat of him as he murmured, ‘I thought I might never see you again. I thought you were gone.’
‘Of course you’d see me again.’
‘But you never answered me. You never said a word. It was killing me.’ He laid his head beside mine on the pillow and reached out to turn my face towards his. I had time to see how pale his skin was and that because his moustache had been shaved off his mouth was as full-lipped and boyish as when I first knew him. Then he said, ‘Let me look at you at last. My Rosa. My dear love. Dearest Rosa.’
Henry was in bed but he’d raised himself on one elbow and even in the darkness I saw the eager brilliance of his eyes and that his hair had grown so long it flopped over his brow. We stared at each other. Then I stumbled across the room, knelt by the bed and held him.
My bonnet was knocked sideways as he covered my face with hot kisses. I wept and seemed to flow out of myself when I felt his lips on my hair, ear and neck. Though I was distantly aware that the door behind us was closed abruptly and that we had been watched, I didn’t mind. I clasped his too thin arms as his hands caressed my back and I helped him with my bonnet ribbons, wondering how I could ever have doubted that I did the right thing in coming here. I realised that I had waited most of my life to have Henry kiss my throat, even to let him fumble with the buttons of my gown and pull loose the neck of my shift. My skin contracted as his lips closed on my breast. His breath came in rasping pants between kisses.
I fell back on the pillow, smoothed his hair and felt him grow heavy in my arms. Astonishingly, he slept. For perhaps half an hour I didn’t move though I lay half off the bed, my bonnet dropping from my neck, a draught swaying the curtain, the clop of a mule’s hooves on the street below. Because my hair was caught by the weight of his head all I could see was a fragment of cracked ceiling, a broken frieze and the shifting blue-grey curtain. I kissed him again and again, tiny, weightless kisses on his hair, which was far softer than I had ever imagined, like a cat’s fur, and I thought: All these weeks he has been alone, watching that curtain and waiting for me. I was afloat in the miracle of his touch, the strangeness of a male body half covering mine, the fact that this was Henry who I had missed so much in the past months that even the blood in my veins ached for him.
Then I tightened my hold because although never in my wildest imaginings had I expected such a loving, needy reception as this, nor had I really thought to find him so weak that he was confined to bed. I had always relished his energy and the hardness of his arm under my hand but now he was as frail as a bird. And he smelled entirely different to the Henry who never failed to delight me with his scent of good soap, balsam or camphor. Instead the odour of confined flesh reminded me of the governesses’ home. As he woke his breath grew uneven on my neck. When he moved his head my skin was damp and hot from where his cheek had rested on me. I closed my eyes as my breast tightened under his circling fingertip.
This is Italy, I thought, no one will know. And anyway, what do I care?
‘My dear love,’ he whispered, ‘I thought you would never come.’ His finger was making a diminishing spiral on my nipple so my words were disjointed: ‘I wasn’t sure you would want me here. And yet I wouldn’t be stopped, even by you, so I thought it best just to come without letting you know.’
‘You are my love, my love.’
‘Your letters sounded so lonely I thought I must come.’
He nuzzled his cheek into my bosom and pressed his face to my neck, drawing me closer and closer under him. I didn’t mind that he had the smell of fever on his breath; I was scarcely conscious of anything except the heat of him as he murmured, ‘I thought I might never see you again. I thought you were gone.’
‘Of course you’d see me again.’
‘But you never answered me. You never said a word. It was killing me.’ He laid his head beside mine on the pillow and reached out to turn my face towards his. I had time to see how pale his skin was and that because his moustache had been shaved off his mouth was as full-lipped and boyish as when I first knew him. Then he said, ‘Let me look at you at last. My Rosa. My dear love. Dearest Rosa.’
<TITLE>Katharine McMahon, national bestselling and award-winning author of The Rose of Sebastopol, The Crimson Rooms and Season of Light</TITLE>
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<META NAME="DESCRIPTION" CONTENT="Welcome to the official website of Katharine McMahon, author of The Rose of Sebastopol (chosen for Richard and Judy's Book Club 2008), The Crimson Rooms and The Alchemist's Daughter.">
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<META NAME="KEYWORDS" CONTENT="Katharine, McMahon, author, novel, books, Rose, Sebastopol, official, Alchemist, Season, Light, romance, romantic, historical, writer, history, books, book, writer, readers, Crimson, rooms, Katherine,">
<META NAME="DESCRIPTION" CONTENT="Welcome to the official website of Katharine McMahon, author of The Rose of Sebastopol (chosen for Richard and Judy's Book Club 2008), The Crimson Rooms and The Alchemist's Daughter.">
<META NAME="ROBOTS" CONTENT="INDEX,FOLLOW">