Twenty-one

The second George stepped into the ballroom, he realized that Lord Charles had blabbed to everyone. He could feel it as sure as a coming rainstorm.

His mother assailed him. “My dear Lord Marylewick,” she said with hollow politeness and gave one of her tinkling laughs. “I’m sure Lilith isn’t feeling well and must stay in her room.” She seized his arm, lowering her voice. “Else I might put my fingers around her darling neck and choke her.” As she uttered this vitriol she gave a little finger wave to one of the guests. A sign that nothing was wrong. The Marylewick world was as wretchedly perfect and pleasant as ever.

George glanced around. Everyone peeked curiously at him while trying to feign polite disinterest. Then the room appeared to shift in his eyes. The detail turned to rushes of color and splotches, illuminated in the light falling from the chandelier. He stared, transfixed by the stunning image.

“George, tell me it isn’t true. Lilith would never play such a cruel joke.” Penelope appeared at his side with Fenmore trailing behind her.

“She’s a saucy minx to make a hay game of you,” her husband said, lurid admiration in his drunken voice.

“Of course that little monster did,” his mother replied. “All—”

“It was a joke between Lilith and me all along,” George cut in, unable to bear his mother’s nasty jibes a second longer. “I want you to tell everyone that.” He recoiled at how similar to his parents he sounded, glossing over an ugly truth. He wanted to live with integrity and dignity, not with the veneer of them. “Let me get through this first dance,” he muttered and turned to face the ballroom.

The room continued to swim in his vision, a whirling, teeming sea of color, energy, and light. He wanted to capture this moment on a canvas and show it to Lilith. Lilith. The thought of her made him angrier, but not at her. At this damn ball, Lord Charles, the bloody bill, and at these images he couldn’t get out of his head. Paintings waiting to be painted. Why did she have to write those stories when he only desired to lose himself in her body again? He forced himself to keep moving forward, one step and then the next, smiling politely. He had to think about England’s future.

He bowed before Lady Cornelia’s father. “May I ask your daughter’s hand for the first dance?”

Panic seized Cornelia’s features.

“She would be honored,” replied her father. He clasped Cornelia’s arm and tugged her forward.

She appeared like the frightened virgin of some indigenous people, about to be sacrificed at the yearly ritual to appease the harvest gods.

“A-are you really the sultan?” she stammered as he escorted her to the floor. Something about her high, girlish voice and vacuous eyes made him want to answer, Of course—apart from the times you’ve see me, I live in the sixteenth century, wear a caftan and turban, and maintain a large harem of highly intelligent, cultured women who live to pleasure my body and mind. I merely pretend to be a marquess and go to Parliament as a diversion. The life of an evil, murderous sultan can be so tedious. Instead he replied in cool tones, “’Tis an old joke between Miss Dahlgren and me.”

She tried to smile. However, his explanation didn’t entirely wipe away the fear in her eyes that George might somehow contrive to murder her on the dance floor.

Other couples came forward to dance. Fenmore, staggering from inebriation, led Penelope. She glanced at George as if to say help me!

Lord Charles, escorting Miss Pomfret, brushed George’s shoulder. “How are those wedding plans, old boy?” he muttered low enough for only George to hear.

George’s hands balled. Black rage burned in his heart and contracted his muscles. His dance partner made a frightened squeak. For God’s sake, woman! He glanced toward the door, hoping to see Lilith in all her creamy loveliness. Yet the threshold was empty. Where was she? He needed her.

The music began and the dancers swayed to the first steps of a waltz.

George’s eyes blurred with the colors of the dancers’ clothes—black, white, gold, rose, and blue, all bathed in the chandelier’s light. He forced himself to concentrate on the dance rhythm. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three.

Charles swept near again. “Where, oh where is your intended?” he quietly taunted as George spun Cornelia. “Clearly, it’s true love.”

George almost missed securing Cornelia’s waist. The ballroom transformed to splotches of angry color, like black and red paint tossed onto a canvas. Like the painting he’d created after the robin eggs were smashed. He needed Lilith. She understood what was happening. She knew him. He glanced toward the threshold only to see a servant entering, hoisting a platter of wine glasses.

Charles waltzed close again, his eyes shining with malicious, mocking blue light as when he was George’s childhood torturer. “I may vote on your little bill after all. I may—”

Charles couldn’t finish because a fist—George’s—had smashed his vicious mouth, silencing him. George wasn’t sensible of what happened until after the fact. He remembered his muscles flexing, fist flying forward, and knuckles hitting teeth, all the while shouting “To hell with that bloody bill.”

Charles was flung away from his partner, stumbling backward into the center of the floor. A drop of vivid red blood oozed from the side of his mouth, contrasting with his fair looks. Gasps resounded. George knew he should feel shock or remorse, but not the sheer exhilaration pulsing through his veins.

Charles charged. George didn’t flinch but leaned in with anticipation. Every morning he’d spent in the boxing parlor made it all rote. George easily deflected the oncoming punch and then rammed his fist into Charles’s ribs. George braced for a jab to his chin; a more seasoned fighter would have made such a move, but Charles was not as nimble or potent as his vicious words. He left himself unguarded for George to deliver another blow to the gut. Charles dangled on George’s fist and then crumpled to the floor.

The orchestra stopped with an ugly flat note of the French horn. An electrified silence crackled in the air, broken only by Lady Cornelia, who cried “He is the sultan” and fled to her father’s protective embrace.

George stared at Charles, who lay huddled, clutching his belly. George wanted to growl, Get up and fight through the pain. But Charles couldn’t follow through his flimsy cruelty with real strength. His facade ripped away, Charles was as substanceless and cowardly as George’s father had been.

The Duke of Cliven rushed onto the floor. “Son! My son, are you well?” he cried, as if Charles were nine and had tumbled from a tree. “Speak to me.”

Charles rolled over, cradling his bleeding face. “You bloody cove!” he hissed at George.

Lady Marylewick materialized in the center of the scene. The tightness around her forced smile and fluttering eyes formed a grotesque picture. “Ha, ha, ha,” she said lightly. “How very funny. Men roughhousing like little boys. Come, let’s all dance again. Play the music. Play it! What a darling little jest it all was. Just darling. But it’s over.”

“Darling?” Charles quipped. “He attacked me.” Charles came to his feet with his father’s aid. “Find another supporter for your ridiculous bill,” he told George. “I’ve grown weary of you, as has all of Parliament.”

“Lord Marylewick, you will answer for yourself!” warned the duke. “You shame this nation, the prime minister, the Tory party.” He paused for dramatic effect, dropping his voice to a low, gravelly tone. “And your late father.”

Wasn’t George supposed to be ashamed for dishonoring his father? But the duke’s words rested as heavy on his conscious as baby-bird feathers.

“Now, now,” cried Lady Marylewick. “It was merely a tiny misunderstanding. Everything is…is…perfect.” She glanced desperately about. Finding no one who shared her view, she turned to her daughter. “Penelope, look happy.”

Penelope bit her lip and began to shake her head. “I’m not happy.”

“Yes, you are,” retorted his mother. “You are perfectly content. Stop talking nonsense. Everyone is content. Perfectly, perfectly content.”

Penelope looked at George. Pain in her eyes. “I want…I want a divorce.” The words seemed to burst from her mouth, as if she couldn’t silence them any longer.

Another gasp rippled through the crowd.

“You can’t divorce me,” barked Fenmore. “A proper wife can’t divorce her husband. Tell her, Lord Marylewick. She’s embarrassing me.”

George began to pivot, taking in all the silent faces contorted in horror. Laughter began to flow through him like a spring breaking through the earth. England’s big, dumb joke, the plodding, starchy George was the sinister villain. Who would have thought? He had done something truly terrible and his bill was destroyed, his house party was in ruins, the secrets of his family exposed for everyone to see. All the things he fought so hard to maintain were crashing down, becoming gossip fodder for people he never really liked nor admired anyway. He should care, but he didn’t. He should be on his knees apologizing; instead he just laughed, the weight of years flowing off his shoulders.

“Yes, she can,” George choked through his mirth. “She can certainly divorce you, Fenmore. Good God, I would divorce such a faithless rogue. She’s been the best wife she could and now she can live the life she wants. That’s right, Penelope, my dear, don’t look happy, be happy. There is a huge difference, you see.”

Penelope burst into tears that transformed to wild laughter. She rushed to her brother and he wrapped her into his arms. He could hear the whispers around him. He realized that his guests didn’t understand the liberation he felt. They would only censure him, but he didn’t care what they thought anymore. All his fears, the things he thought so important and weighed on his mind, scattered like dandelion seeds in the wind. All that was left was what was true.

“Lilith Dahlgren!” his mother screamed, losing any semblance of propriety. “This is her work. She has ruined this family. This is all she ever wanted.”

“No,” George said. “She never wanted to destroy this family. She wanted to be a part of it. She only desired to be…” Loved. And he, too, had withheld it from her out of his own fears. “Oh, God. I am the sultan.”

He had to get back to her. His Colette.

He clasped Penelope’s hand and they rushed from the room.

Behind him, he heard someone clapping and then Lord Harrowsby said, “By Jove, a wonderful house party this year. The best I’ve ever attended.”

* * *

George slipped through his betrothed’s door, ready to take her in his arms and tell her the words I love you.

But her chamber was empty. On the commode, a letter with his name on the envelope waited atop a stack of papers. He could hear the roar of his own blood in his ears.

“Don’t you dare have done something rash,” he hissed.

He opened the letter and his stomach clenched.

Dearest George,

I was selfish to keep you for myself. I’m childish in my belief that my love for you was strong enough to overcome our history. That you would come to love me as I love you. You always said I was naïve in my beliefs and you were correct. And now, despite the deep pain I feel in leaving, I do not regret for a single moment sharing my love with you. You are an extraordinary man.

Do you think time really heals all wounds? I don’t know. I think it all remains, all the love and hurt. You will always reside in my heart, so, in truth, I will always have a part of you. My true home—loyal and kind—is somewhere else and I will find it. I couldn’t keep you in a marriage of duty. I can’t deny you the same love that I feel for you that you will know for someone else. I wish us all that kind of love—you, Penelope, and Beatrice.

I know you will want to look for me. You will be inflamed with that old-fashioned chivalry that I so adore. You think that I can’t care for myself. But I can. I will send you letters so that you know I am well. Never forget to draw or be a joyous little boy sometimes.

Please tell Penelope and Beatrice that I have not forgotten the vows of our sisterhood. When I am stronger, I’ll return.

Love Always, Lilith

“No! No! No!”

Don’t look for her be damned.

He tore out of the room and down the servant stairs. “Has anyone seen Miss Dahlgren?” he demanded of passing servants. A footman answered that he had seen her around the morning room, which opened onto the back gardens.

He rushed to that chamber to find it empty. He flung open the door to the outside. The velvet night was cold and windy. The whistle of a train broke the silence. Along the horizon traveled the black silhouette of a train and its long smoke trail.

“No! Lilith!”

He sprinted through the gardens and around the side entry for delivery wagons. He didn’t stop running until he reached the train station. The tired travelers descending the steps stared at the frantic man in evening clothes cutting through them. At the ticket counter, a young ticket agent with a fresh face and hair that spiked around his cap was idly stacking coins while reading from a journal that lay open below his lamp.

“Pardon me,” George said.

The agent didn’t look up from his periodical but continued reading, his lips forming the words.

“I said, pardon me.” George slammed his palm down on the page, obscuring the text. “I’m Lord Marylewick.”

The man jumped back, fear entering his eyes. He crossed his arms over his face and cried, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He began backing up, bowing at the same time. “Don’t harm me.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?”

The agent lowered his arms and peered at George. “You’re… You’re the…the sultan, my lord.”

“Oh bloody, bloody hell!” George boomed.

The young man yelped and crouched under the desk while the remaining people in the station took a few steps back.

In a matter of minutes the news had hit the village. It would only take a few more hours before the entirety of England knew.

George groaned and leaned over the counter. “That’s right. I’m the dangerous, evil sultan. Now, you had better tell me if you’ve seen a beautiful woman with auburn hair and luminescent eyes. A mole rests just above her lip.”

“Yes, my lord. We held the train a full two minutes for her.”

“You did?” All the breath left his lungs. Lilith! He had lost Lilith.

He could scarcely move his lips to muster the words, “W-when does the next train for London leave?”

“Eight twenty-five in the morning, my lord,” the agent said from under the desk.

George slicked his hands down his face, his eyes moistening as if he had received a nasty punch. How was he going to find her? She may think she could take care of herself but…

But who would take care of him?

The agent peered cautiously over the counter.

“You may come out,” George’s voice broke with a faint, bitter chuckle. “I won’t murder you. Today.”

* * *

George staggered down the station steps and then walked home in the darkness. The towers of Tyburn obscured the waning crescent moon. She had been like the moon, moving around him. Since he became her trustee, he always knew where she was, he knew the dimensions and path of her orbit. And now she was gone. His universe in disarray.

He entered Tyburn through the garden doors. No music filled the house. All was silent, as though a death had occurred. He continued to Lilith’s chamber. There, he picked up her letter, folded it, and slid it into his pocket. He took the pages stacked on the commode over to the grate. He stirred the coals until they burned bright enough to read by.

Colette had been captured and taken to the sultan’s palace. George could see very little of how Lilith had redeemed his character until the story twisted.

“Do not torture yourself, my dove. Sate your curiosity. Open the box.”

She could resist no longer. She knelt before him, lifted the lid slowly, and peered inside. In the dim light she could see nothing.

“It’s empty,” she cried. “You have tricked me.”

“It is merely too dark to see the thinnest of paper. So old that the text fades, but I know the words by heart.”

“What are they?”

“The secret to Greek Fire.”

“W-what?” cried Colette. “You knew all along. Why did you drag me from my home? My father died. I’ve lost everything because of you.”

Shadows concealed his face, but still she could see his eyes, glowing with tender light. “The secret couldn’t fall into the hands of my enemies. They are savage beasts, willing to stop at nothing to destroy the prosperity of my kingdom. For the safety of my people, I fostered a reputation as a merciless tyrant to frighten my enemies.”

He plucked a yellow budding flower from a bush and tucked it into her flowing tresses. “I came for you and your father, not knowing what I would find. I was ready to kill you both for the protection of thousands. But I found that you were neither cruel nor ambitious, only a loving woman desperate to save her ailing father and to keep a devastating secret from falling into the wrong hands. Alas, it was too late for my physicians to help your father and too late to garner your trust.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He caressed her cheek. “You wouldn’t listen. You believed the lies that I had propagated in your lands. So I made you think me the barbarian of your imagination in order to get you to safety. I knew that villains far worse than I would have no compunction about torturing you to death. These monstrous men are still out there, waiting. They want to hurt my Colette.” He gently kissed her lips. “Can you trust me? Can you find peace in my garden? Can you call my palace your home, my fair and loving Colette?”

She was a mere slave girl now. A nobody in a foreign land. He probably kissed all his concubines with the same tenderness. “At my home, my father loved me. My home had love. Here, there are so many men demanding your time, so many ladies who desire you. My love would be nothing.”

“There are many who desire me because I am the sultan, but none love me with the spirit I feel in you. I’m rapacious for your heart’s contents.” He cupped her chin in his hand. “I shall keep unto you only, sing in the garden to you, and feed you grapes from my lips. This can be your home, full of beauty, for the rest of your days.”

Colette had found a home in the sultan’s lovely gardens.

But her creator was still wandering, lost and hurt.