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Chapter 1: O Fortuna
How to get back! Clue or landmark there was absolutely none! My feet left no signs on the granite and shingle. My brain throbbed with agony as I tried to discover the solution of this terrible problem. My situation, after all sophistry and reflection, had finally to be summed up in three awful words—
Lost! Lost!! LOST!!!
Lost at a depth which, to my finite understanding, appeared to be immeasurable.
These thirty leagues of the crust of the earth weighed upon my shoulders like the globe on the shoulders of Atlas. I felt myself crushed by the awful weight. It was indeed a position to drive the sanest man to madness-
“Anna!“
I tried to bring my thoughts back to the things of the world so long forgotten. It was with the greatest difficulty that I succeeded in doing so. Hamburg, the house on the Konigstrasse, my dear cousin Gretchen—all that world which had before vanished like a shadow floated before my now vivid-
“Reading still? At a time like this?“
Maria snatched away Journey to the Center of the Earth from my grasp. She snapped the book shut, though not fast enough to catch the postcard I had been using as a bookmark before it fell to the ground.
“Give it back!“ I protested, already angrily reaching for the novel. I retrieved it easily, my older sister seemingly too tired for our usual bickering.
“Ma’ and Pa’ were asking for you,“ I felt Maria’s accusatory glare as I bent down to pick up the postcard. “You can’t hide in your books forever, Anna.“
I chose to ignore her morose reprimands, flipping through the pages to find the passage I was reading before the rude interruption.
“Are you listening to me?! Our sister is dying and you’re-“
“Shut up!“ I snapped, abandoning my search for the lost page. “She’s not dying! And you’re all cursing her by speaking as if she’s already six feet under!“
“How dare you, you-“ Maria turned red in the face like she often did when talking to me, and I would’ve mocked her if I weren’t the same shade. Maria sighed. “I can’t deal with you right now. Just come.“
It wasn’t much of a demand as it was an order; she was strongly grippingmy wrist and dragging me behind her. I tried to stay put, but she just tugged, sending me staggering forward. My head hung low as we walked to our family, black curls curtaining my eyes. The house was dark at this hour, so with my vision now completely obscured, I had to trust my sister’s guidance. I had been reading by the flickering lights of the chimney earlier, squinting at the words hoping they’d bring me comfort like the flames brought me warmth. But the closer we got to our destination, the colder the air grew, and the harder it was to ignore the reason for this awful reunion.
A telegram had been delivered early in the morning.
MR AND MRS BENEDETTI —(STOP)—
DOCTOR SAID VALENTINA WOULD NOT SURVIVE TOMORROW —(STOP)— I PRAY HE IS WRONG —(STOP)— PLEASE COME FAST
CARL HARRISSON.
Identical messages had been sent to Maria and Francesco as well. Pa’ had to close the restaurant so he sent Ma’ and I ahead, arriving around the same time Maria had. Francesco was probably still riding the train from St. Denis. I doubted he'd make it before tomorrow.
We stopped in front of the room, the open door framed by our weeping mother on one side, and our father having a hushed conversation with Carl and the doctor on the other.
Maria finally released my wrist—, or rather, I snatched it away when Ma’ came to embrace me in a wet hug. It was a touch rare enough for me to reciprocate it, if not a mercy from seeing her already grief stricken face. Anything to be out of that damned room, really.
But the embrace was a trap, as those same reassuring arms started pushing me into a living nightmare.
“Pray for her soul mi cara,“ her mother murmured before leaving me freezing.
The window was open.
Soft wind howled into the room, lifting the curtains in its passage and making the white fabric eerily, almost ghostly in the faint sound of a ruffle. But their melody wasn’t enough to cover the slow wheezing from the figure in the bed.
I finally looked up then.
Valentina was a beautiful woman, inside and out. Back when everyone was still home, she’d put a smile on every patron’s face. Even now some still asked for her, years after she’d left and married. No, no one missed any of the Benedetti children like they missed Valentina, and the one remaining just made them miss her more. I was nothing like my eldest sister, gentle smile replaced with a scarred smirk and confidence replaced by youthful arrogance; it was easy to become nostalgic.
I struggled to see with just one candle and the moonlight, but beneath the darkness I knew what sickness had done to my beautiful Valentina. It had been a slow thing, unnoticed at first. But I’d been visiting more frequently than the rest of the family, and had seen her life slowly drain before any one of them. What was once mere fatigue had turned into exhaustion. Her voice so sweet yet unwavering had been weakened to pained rasps. Diphtheria, doctor had assessed, but only once it was too late, once her bones had started to show from her inability to swallow, once her rosy cheeks came from the fever rather than liveliness.
I slowly dragged my feet to her bedframe. It had only been a couple days since I’d last sat by her side, a ritual we’d had since the sickness had left her bedridden. After work, I would come and bring my favorite books, may it be The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, or the one I’d brought today: A Journey to the Center of the Earth. I’d sit on the chair of the desk table and read some passages,mimicking the voices I imagined for the characters and sometimes slithering in my own commentaries. Sometimes Valentina would comment too. But I didn’t try my luck today.
Today I simply stood, watching the slow, agonizing, rise and fall of her chest.
“I know you usually enjoy my reading, but Maria might strangle me if she heard me now…“ I said softly.
Wheeze.
I squeezed her eyes shut. Focused on the hushed conversations just outside the room rather than hoping for an answer beyond a weak exhale.
“Francesco is still on his way, I think. I mean, I know. He’d never miss this,“ I continued, my voice was louder but I felt how the confidence slowly seeped out of it. “Not that there is anything to miss. You’ll be fine, Valentina.“
I opened my eyes to send a glare towards the doorway. “They’re all fools,“ I spat. “I’ve heard Pa’ talk about the funeral costs and Ma’s crying l-like you’re already…“ I heard my voice break as I trailed off.
I turned to look at Valentina in the eyes for the first time that day. They were heavy lidded, glazed over like she was miles away. But she was there. I could see she was right there, but I couldn’t help but irrationally worry that if I reached down to touch my sister's feverish skin, I’d be met with nothing but smoke.
“Are you really dying tonight?“ I murmured, so quiet it was almost drowned by the howling wind.
Wheeze.
Shaky knees collapsed to the ground in a thud easily covered by the painful beating of my heart.
I scrambled for my sister’s hand and gripped it tightly, shaky meeting rigid, hoping my warmth would spread through her body and bring back life to it. The tears I hadn’t allowed myself to shed yet rolled down my cheeks like waves in a hurricane, taking me down a current from which I couldn’t escape.
“Lost! Lost!! LOST!!!“, had cried Axel.
I felt like him at that very moment, searching for my companions, my family, but only departing further into the unknown. The progression of Axel’s story was at the very least known to me—I’d read it enough times to recall it by heart now—, he eventually found his uncle Liedenbrock and Hans Bjelke and their adventures continued. But the same couldn’t be said about my own story.
I gripped the hand tighter, like I was the one dying really, and my sister’s hand was the only thing pulling me away from the void awaiting.
“Please, Valentina, I can’t-“ I choked between quiet sobs. I swallowed and continued in hushed tones. “Maria despises me and still I wish I had her back home. Pa’s unbearable without you all. He’s already talking about wedding me off! I’m not ready Valentina, I’m not!“
Wheeze.
I took in a shaky gasp to try and calm myself down, wishing I could offer all those breaths to the one bringing me all this sorrow.
“Please live. I need you Valentina, now more than ever…“ I whispered.
I waited then. For the reassuring hand Valentina would brush through my curls whenever I worried. For the reprimand for talking so badly of our sister and father, defending that each had their faults which we shared. For the light that used to be ever so bright in her eyes.
But nothing came, and I crumbled against our joined hands.
I remembered the words ushered at the doorway. “Pray for her soul mi cara.“
Our parents always prided themselves in Catholic values, but Sunday service was often forgotten, and they weren’t shy with the bottle. I was —secretly— not the biggest believer of Christ myself. But today, I pushed all of my blasphemous doubts away in favor of seeking some sort of blessing.
“Lord and loving Father, touch Valentina with your healing hands f-for I believe that your will is for her to be well in mind, body, soul and spirit,“ I prayed against my sister’s freezing skin.
The wind howled louder and tears fell heavier. I quickly wiped them away.
“Please Lord, forgive whatever sin my dear sister could have ever committed and punish me instead. I have lied, stolen, cursed and let wrath control me and will continue doing so if you do not heal her.“
The window suddenly slammed shut, but the sound wasn’t what made my heart drop, it was the silence that followed.
The wheezing had stopped.
“Please- Lord I beg, just take me!“ I sobbed. “Take me instead, take me instead, take me-“
🂳
“Do you, Benjamin Raymond Churchill, take this woman to be your wedded wife?“
“I do.“
“Do you, Anna Isabella Benedetti, take this man to be your wedded husband?“
The funeral had been just two months ago.
I couldn’t help but be reminded of it when we were wearing clothes just as fancy and were gathered in the same church we had been then. But where Valentina’s coffin was positioned just two months before was now just a thick air of emptiness. Emptiness that kept stealing my eyes from the altar, flickering with images of Valentina’s fabricated looking corpse. I had been warned before making my final goodbyes that the dead could look so unfamiliar they didn’t look like dead at all, just some vulgarly detailed mannequin doll. But I hadn’t been able to manage my shock at the sight. I couldn’t even kiss the figure in the casket like I had been instructed to, asking my exhausted mother why I would even touch such a grotesque imitation of my sister.
Of course, I knew she was dead. Couldn’t lie to myself much longer after witnessing her final breaths. And nightmares could only go for so long before eventually waking up in cold sweat, sighing in relief that it was all just a sick dream. But I kept waking, and waking, yet all remained unchanged. Valentina was still buried, and I was still to be wedded.
“Hum hum.“
I blinked away my sister’s ghost and looked back at the man before me.
Brown slicked hair, lake blue eyes and a mustache twitching with confusion. Or maybe nervousness. Could men like him be nervous?Benjamin Churchill was a sturdy sort of feller that I needed to look up at through my brows to meet his eyes if I didn't want to tilt my chin up.
I had met Mr. Churchill a few times before that day. I hadn’t counted— didn’t think I’d have to— but it mustn’t have been more than an amount I could count on my fingers. Maybe he’d seen me more than that, but I hadn’t been looking.A reserved patron that had stared too long as I had taken his order. I hadn’t minded, never did from any client. He had come back with an older woman, his mother, and she’d smiled brightly enough for the both of them while he’d looked quite embarrassed. The visits that followed weren’t notable, but in hindsight I should’ve paid more attention to them. Maybe if I hadn't been so blinded by grief, then I would’ve seen it coming.
The man’s mother and my father had apparently started conspiring. Mr. Churchill had taken a liking to my person, and his mother was excited to marry him. The Benedetti patriarch was quick to give his blessing once he heard the man was wealthy enough. All decided behind the soon- to- be bride’s back.
I had been broken the news over dinner a little more than a month ago, the table usually so quiet with the heaviness of loss, disturbed by a short damning conversation:
“You know the Churchill fellow?“ had asked my father Marcello, not looking up and still chewing on his beef.
I looked up and scrunched my face in concentration. “…Yes.“
“He’ll come tomorrow and invite you for a… Whatever he’ll invite you to,“ my father had continued, wiping his mouth. “And he’ll propose. You’re gonna say yes.“
My shock had been numbed by expectation. Still, after a minute, I’d gulped on a dry throat and mumbled, “I don’t want to marry.”
We had had this conversation before, several times, and each time my resolve weakened. I had shouted the first time, and my answer? A burning cheek.
“Do you love this family?“I couldn’t respond fast enough.“If you do then you won’t betray us like Maria and you’ll marry that man.“ But what he really meant to say was, “
You’ll marry that money.“
If there was one thing I could admire about my remaining sister, it was her resilience. She’d run off with some farmer boy knowing she’d be disowned and deemed a curse by her own parents. I hadn’t cared much about who the spouse was at first. That is, until I understood that Maria’s dismissal of their father’s choice in her marriage meant he’d concern himself with mine… So I started cursing Maria’s name as well. One could argue the resentment started well before any of Maria’s poor marital choices, but that would take a moment of introspection I couldn’t handle at that very moment. Or ever.Maria wasn’t seated at the pews anyway. And I couldn’t handle thinking about both of my sisters missing my wedding either.
Francesco was there at least, poorly masking the despair that had painted his face the last time we’d been in this church with a pinched sort of smile. I hopefully thought he shared some of the bother I felt over this marriage. Was he as worried about his young sister wearing white for a stranger? Or was it just the guilt of missing his older sister’s death that was still souring his expression?
Mr. Churchill narrowed his eyes, and looked like he was about to turn to follow the point beside him which mine were directed to. I corrected my gaze and offered a smile, only barely caring that it probably looked like the grimace it was often confused for.
I was supposed to answer, wasn’t I?
“I d-“ I swallowed the rasp in my voice and tried again. “I do.”
🂳
I rubbed a finger over my top lip again for what must’ve been the hundredth time since Mr. Churchill and I shared our first kiss at the altar. I hadn’t anticipated how scratchy his mustache would be, even if the contact was brief. The itchiness was still bothering me, even as we finally entered the stagecoach back to his home at the end of the ceremony. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. What was really bothering mewas the memory of the kiss. I sought the attention of a crowd more often than not, but puckering my lips for a man I barely knew in front of my family and their friends had felt like public humiliation.
I looked over to Mr. Churchill to find him wearing a different type of discomfort. Although, I could tell it wasn’t directly tied to me, since for some reason he had chosen to sit beside me instead of opposing, and had his gloved hand encircling mine in a tight grip. He kept looking around nervously, checking both windows like something was about to pop out of them at any moment. A good wife would’ve asked if he was alright, but to be fair with myself I was still new at that so I pardoned my calculated mistake.
Outside, civilization was being progressively replaced by nature, until the last sign of mankind I could see was a lone shed out in the distance. Mr. Churchill had already told me his house was a little less than an hour away from the city, so we would be arriving soon enough. Although this was solely based on assumption, since brides didn’t typically wear watches. Not that I possessed one anyway.
Mr. Churchill did. I’d seen him pull one out of his breast pocket earlier today. I swallowed down my unusual timidity and pursed my lips in a smile. If I had to talk to the man for the rest of my life, it would be useless to cower now.
“Mr. Churchill?”
The man broke out of his manic stupor to look at me with eyes blown as wide as saucers. With the light of the sunset hitting through the window, his blue eyes seemed even brighter.
“Huh?” He blinked, composing himself. “You may call me Benjamin now, you know? No more need for formalities,” he smiled.
I stared back silently.
“Um. Was there something on your mind?”
“What time is it?”
“Ah, yes.“ He finally let go of my hand to fish out his fancy golden pocket watch and I almost let out a sigh of relief as I joined my hands on my lap. “A little over seven. We should be home any minute now.”
Home.
I nodded slowly, assessing how much panic I could allow myself to feel at that point. None really, but knowing I had to stay strong didn’t make me feel any less feeble. I scratched at my top lip again. The kiss was just a start.
A bump on the road reminded me that the man was still beside me. That my husband was still beside me.
“Thank you,” I nodded, and we both went back to looking at our respective windows worryingly.
It was in fact just a few minutes until we reached our destination. The coach had barely stopped that Mr. Churchill was jumping out of his seat and throwing himself at the door. My face cringed at his desperation while he took his exit. Once outside he held out a hand to help me down. I was debating whether or not I could pretend I hadn’t noticed it, when a brown blur sent the man falling to the ground.
I screamed.
Body as large as its victim’s, paws keeping him pinned to the ground by sheer weight, drool dripping from oversized teeth, those sharp enough to devour the man alive. Its barks rumbled through my chest like an earthquake, shaking up my whole being.
But I was the only one taken by such terror it seemed, as laughter joined the animal’s roaring.
“Woah Perci, down boy!” guffawed Mr. Churchill. The dog barked as if responding. “Yes, yes, I missed you too. Now get off before you completely ruin my-” Mr. Churchill stopped as he noticed me. “God! Anna are you alright?”
Unfortunately, loyal to its owner, the beast followed his gaze and landed on mine. Overexcited at a new face to tear to pieces, it leaped off Mr. Churchill to get into the coach. I screamed again.
“Away! No!” I flayed my arms in a shooing motion but it only stirred the animal more. “Smamma!”
The dog was about to take a bite out of my arm when Mr. Churchill finally grabbed it by the collar and pulled it away. “That’s it Percival, down!“ The dog obeyed at last and sat at his feet with a huff, loudly licking at the strings of saliva dangling from its snout.
“Here, he’ll be good now. You can come down.” Mr. Churchill offered me his hand again. I didn’t take it, still eyeing his pet with labored breaths. He looked down then back at me with a smile, petting his companion. “Oh, there is no need to worry. Percival may seem rough but he is the nicest, I promise!”
“I- I don’t…” I shook my head before looking at myself, only now realizing I had landed onto the floor. Shame stopped me from finishing my sentence.
“I promise,” repeated Mr. Churchill in a tone that was probably meant to be reassuring, but his insistence only served to frustrate me.
“It’s-” I swallowed a trembling breath. “It’s not just this one, sir-”
“Benjamin.”
“Right. Well, don’t take offense but I can't deal with… Dogs… Any dog.”
“Ah.” His eyes jumped between his wife and his companion again before settling on me. He analyzed my shaking figure and asked, “So, you’re afraid of them?”
“...” I scowled. “Yes…”
“Ah.”
A silence settled between us, only disrupted by the heavy breathing of the animal. I would’ve stood up to recover from my embarrassment by now, but I found myself frozen in place, as the bringer of my terror started curiously sniffing the air in my direction. Mr. Churchill noticed and gripped his collar tighter to stop it from approaching me again.
“This might complicate some things,” sighed Mr. Churchill. “You haven’t mentioned it before, have you?”
“It wasn’t exactly brought up,” I tried to reply as politely as possible, but the situation was starting to irritate me more than it scared me. The man was looking at me like I was purposefully being difficult. Maybe if we had had more than two proper conversations before he proposed to me, this whole situation could’ve been avoided. I bit my tongue.
“Well,” he gave his dog a sad smile who oddly seemed to return it, “looks like you’ll have to be confined to the backyard, boy.” Percival closed its mouth and angled its head inquisitively.
“I’ll be back,” said Mr. Churchill, to me this time. “I will tie him to his kennel to avoid him from spooking you any more,” he assured.
And with that, the two walked away.
I waited a few long seconds before finally lifting myself to my feet, and fought my dress to march down the step of the coach.
In front of me stood a large house.
I knew Benjamin Churchill wasn’t a struggling man, but maybe I had underestimated.The house wasn't some kind I hadn't seen before, but it was definitely larger than I had imagined for an unmarried man. It was modern enough, but the foundation wasn't exactly new, judging by the scraping white paint of the facade. The porches’ columns supported the first blue tiled roof, accessible by a bay window. The smaller, lone window on the second floor suggested it was only filled by an attic.
I would’ve analyzed the residence for longer if my thoughts weren’t interrupted by an unfamiliar man walking in my direction. Well, less familiar than Mr. Churchill.
“I’ll be taking care of those, thank you!” called out the young feller.
I didn’t ask what he was talking about, since he was evidently not addressing me. I followed where his eyes were directed to and landed on the driver of the coach, unloading my belongings from the safe in the back. There were only two bags, one for my clothes and a second, smaller bag, for my books and useless junk I didn’t have the heart to abandon at home. My true home.
The young man was walking back in the direction of the house with half of my possessions in each hand without as much as a look to their owner. I decided to remedy that.
“Not too heavy I hope.”
He stopped, almost tripping over his own feet, then turned around with a look of surprise. “No missus! Quite the opposite actually.”
The boy was maybe a little older than me, but not by much. Probably twenty. Either way, he looked much younger than Mr. Churchill and generally pretty different too. He wasn’t as tall, had approximately the same width but his was more muscular, and his hair was of a dark shade closer to mine than Mr. Churchill’s. His freckled skin shaded a perky nose, but what drew me in the most to his face were his eyes: big and green.
I couldn’t compare his outfit to mine too much since I could be considered overdressed outside of a ceremony, but his clothes definitely suggested he was here as a worker and not a friend. And the fact that he was carrying my luggage.
“You just seemed so focused. Figured the task must’ve been too hard to allow for some courtesy,” I continued raising a brow.
“Oh!” The boy finally looked ashamed. “Ah- I’m sorry missus! Pardon my manners. I wasn't raised the best!” He laughed nervously before seemingly regretting his words.
“Forget that- I uh…” He brought one of the bags to his left hand to free his greeting one, extending it for a shake. “Name is Richard. Richard Carlson. Mr. Churchill kindly hired me to do some work around here.”
I looked down at his hand and feigned confusion for a second to gauge his reaction. To my satisfaction his eyebrows twisted in worry for having somehow offended me again. I let it last long enough for him to start hesitantly lowering his hand before I finally granted him the grace of shaking it. I even offered him a smile, which he returned bashfully. His embarrassment put me at an ease I hadn’t felt in some time. A type of confidence lost between two different ceremonies in the same church.
I was about to introduce myself in turn, but the words died in my throat as I realized the Benedetti surname wouldn’t have been correct anymore. I was a Churchill now, and struggling to vocalize it didn't make it any less true.
Richard gave me a strange look, noticing my barely parted lips and expecting words out of them. I swallowed instead, and the little composure I had managed to find in our dialogue was washed away, letting the heavy sense of bother weigh me down again.
“Are you all-” started Richard, before his attempt at concern was thankfully interrupted by Mr. Churchill’s reappearance. His concern took me by surprise, which quickly turned to offense. What would an “Are you alright?” even do besides force me to lie?
I let go of his hand and looked up at Mr. Churchill who was dusting off his suit from Percival’s earlier attack.
“Ah, I see you’ve met our hand, Richard. The house has been asking for some care that I’ve been neglecting for too long, so he’ll be working on that or any sort of heavy lifting we might need,” nodded Churchill, admitting the first part with a little embarrassment.
I nodded back, glancing at Richard, then the house, for emphasis.
They both just stared dumbly.
“Alright,” I said to move the stagnant conversation along.
That seemed to wake up Mr. Churchill, who turned to his working boy. “Would you bring those up to my room?” He said, pointing to my bags.
“Yes-sir!”
He gave one last look my way, “Missus.”
Then walked away.
Mr. Churchill sent a brief farewell behind me, where judging by the sound of hooves and wooden cracks, the driver of the stagecoach was parting as well. I didn’t feel the need to turn around, too intrigued by the boy carrying my things into a house far too big for one.
🂳
Dinner was… Long. Yet, I never wanted it to end.
Not because the food was especially good, no. It was some chewy duck fillet with under-seasoned greens that were apparently Margot’s specialty. Margot being the fifty-something-year-old maid, who Mr. Churchill introduced me to while giving me a tour of the house. He seemed to be much more comfortable introducing her to me than Richard, since she’d apparently been working for him for over a decade. She seemed nice enough: she smiled like she’d known me for just as long as him, and gave me sweet promises of making sure I’d settle nicely into my new home.A part of me wanted to trust her word, that I’d quickly learn to love my husband without the discomfort of knowing I’d rather be anywhere else. But since she was arranging my belongings into the closet and drawers of Mr. Churchill’s room while making those promises, I could guess that settling was meant in the physical sense, rather than emotional.
The house tour itself had the merit of being interesting enough. It was fancy for one, much fancier than anything I’d visited before, much less planned to live in. Ornate furniture, silver cutlery, porcelain dishware, paintings of artists I was much too uneducated to recognize… The living room even had a piano.
If the exterior could still be qualified as somewhat modest, the inside left me feeling like I was among high society. Which I maybe was? I still wasn’t sure on how much of a rich man Mr. Churchill was supposed to be. Either way, walking through the expensive decor I used to only be able to picture through my books, had left my jaw ajar enough times for Mr. Churchill to comment on it.
“This one’s my favorite too,” he had chuckled as he noticed me stopping in front of another painting with amazement blatantly shown on my face. I was actually looking at the golden frame, trying and failing at recognizing if it was real, but I was too taken by surprise to do anything but nod and step back.
The painting showed a meadow. In the horizon, a forest framed the morning sky, the soft light bringing a calming atmosphere. The subjects weren’t obvious, but still there, almost hidden by the tall grass. Small and blurred by the approximate brushstrokes, a boy and his dog were playing with a stick.
I didn’t think much of it. It was nice; the painter didn't seem as skilled as the ones in the other pieces, but it was still nice. Yet when I looked over to Mr. Churchill, his face told me that I must have missed some sort of detail. Some detail that would’ve given me the same gloomy veil that covered his eyes.
He blinked it away after realizing I had turned to him. If I had any confusions, he swept them away by enthusiastically nudging me to continue the tour.
Once we were done with the ground floor, we moved upstairs, where all my amazement was crushed by dread again. That's when we stopped by Mr. Churchill’s room. Where Margot was arranging my belongings. Where the queen size bed stood.
I made sure not to linger.
There were a few other areas on the first floor: Mr. Churchill’s office, the bathroom, the door to the attic, and another smaller room. Its lack of decoration piqued my curiosity. Why didn't it match the aesthetic of the rest of the house, if it was what I assumed to be a guest room? Unfortunately, Mr. Churchill was already walking away and I was obliged to follow before getting any answers.
Now we were eating in the dining room, Mr. Churchill making polite conversation, while I tried to chew as slowly as possible. For the first time that day, I was glad for the wedding gown to be so restrictive, since it provided me another excuse for my sluggish movements.
As the sky grew darker outside, I was finding it harder and harder to swallow.
The bed was upstairs and dinner was almost over.
Anxiety pulsed through my veins, and I tried to not seem too desperate as I gulped down another sip of wine. At least the wine tasted better than the food, it was of a far higher quality than anything I’d sneakily tried before. I focused on this consolation to drown my worries.
“How long have you been living in this house?” I asked instead of taking another bite of my food.
Mr. Churchill, who was long done with his meal, pulled away the wine glass he’d been awkwardly sipping on. “Hm- It must’ve been ten years now. Why?”
I took in the answer with a twitch of an eyebrow. This just left me more confused. Everything about the house suggested it was made for more than one: the large space, the additional room, its distance from the city… I had started to assume he’d only bought it recently, in preparation for the start of a new family. But since he’d gotten it so long ago, this meant that Mr. Churchill has been searching for a wife for the past decade now, which seemed a little ridiculous. He was wealthy enough—while not seeming to be new money—, and his physique wasn’t repulsive. He could probably be described as attractive, actually.
Wasn’t I so lucky.
The second reason was much simpler. Maybe he just valued big spaces and quiet. And I wasn’t sure what to make of a man like that.
“It’s a beautiful home,” I finally answered with a smile. Flattery was always a good getaway. As expected, Mr. Churchill’s confusion was replaced by a pleased grin.
“I’m glad you like it.”
He put his glass down and his face suddenly set into something much more vulnerable. “I understand that this… Situation, is very different from your previous lifestyle. That so many changes can be hard, and I only wish for your comfort. I’m hoping you’ll be able to settle nicely, despite… Well, everything.”
The sincerity took me aback. A complicated mix of emotions poured into me, flooding my brain with confusion. The acknowledgement was nice, but I couldn’t help but feel ashamed for letting my anxieties be so visible. The little gratefulness I felt was overshadowed with apathy. Apathy towards this man I didn’t know who for some reason chose me. Who now either pretended to understand me or was so far from empathy that his attempt was only upsetting.
“I- Um.” How dare he. How dare he act like he wasn’t the one taking me away from everything familiar. Like he wasn’t the source of my discomfort. How dare he choose me.
Compose yourself dammit.
“I hope so too,” I set my expression to something grateful. “Thank you.”
The rest of dinner passed in a blur I and was unable to appreciate it entirely . Upset simmered in me, knotting my throat, and it wasn’t long before Mr. Churchill noticed I could no longer eat. He called over Margot to take my plate away, and I couldn’t even protest. If I had to stare at her bland, rubbery, cold duck filet any more, what I had already swallowed would land back into the plate.
The bed was upstairs and dinner was over.
While saying our good nights to Margot it was all I could think about. My eyes decidedly avoided any contact with Churchill's, afraid to be met with anticipation. He held my hand as we walked the stairs. He could probably feel how clammy it was, and for a second I deliriously hoped it was enough to slip away. Lose my balance.
Light poured into the hallway from Churchill's doorway, projecting my silhouette in a shadow much bigger than I could ever wish to be.
“Quite the day, wasn’t it?” He asked, unbuttoning his sleeve.
“Yes,” I heard myself answer. I lingered at the edge of the room, eyeing the pristine sheets and fluffed pillows.
“I hope you’re not disappointed we won’t be having a bridal tour,” he continued, removing his vest. “I’m not too fond of traveling.”
My finger traced over my lips again.
“I was thinking of acquainting you with my friends this week instead,” he smoothed a hand over his vest before hanging inside the dresser. “Some were present at the ceremony but I don’t think we had enough time for proper introductions.”
The kiss at the altar hadn’t been my first.
That honor had been stolen by a boy a couple years ago, whom I’d met while he was digging in our trash. I had laughed at him and my amusement made him come back every now and then for a quick chat and stale bread, until one day he’d shut me up with a peck on the mouth. Our romance had been cut short the day my dad discovered us. He had threatened to kill the boy if he ever came begging for our leftovers again, then gave me a correction for “whoring with hoboes”.
Of course, it would’ve been useless to argue that the “hobo” and I had only gone as far as clumsy petting.
Between the boy and Mr. Churchill, I hadn’t received any man’s affection beside the occasional brush over my skirt from improper patrons. Which wasn’t surprising: compared to Valentina and Maria’s distinct perfections, my physique and “difficult” personality made me the obvious ugly little duckling.
All this to say, I wasn’t prepared for lovemaking.
“Anna?”
I was brought back from my thoughts for the umpteenth time today. “Huh?” I replied lamely.
“I was asking if you- Never-mind,” he shook his head before taking a step toward me. He stopped when he noticed me flinch backwards. “You seem troubled.”
Words failed me as I tried to find anything to get out of this situation. But I couldn’t run and play ignorant, couldn’t hide, couldn’t spit my venom. I felt myself shrinking under Mr. Churchill’s scrutinizing eyes.
My own betrayed me, jumping between him and the bed.
Soon enough, he understood.
A nervous smile tugged at my lips as I gulped, still trying to speak. I was interrupted before I could:
“As I said earlier, the last thing I’d want is to make you uncomfortable.”
I blinked. “Huh?” I mentally slapped myself. I usually couldn’t shut up, why couldn’t I even form a word now?
“I’m aware that as newlyweds we may have some… Duties,” he started carefully. “But I don’t expect anything to happen tonight, rest assured.”
Key word: tonight.
“Or the next night. I just- I’d hate to pressure you into anything, Anna.”
Oh.
“I… Didn’t mean to offend,” I finally managed to say.
“You didn’t. It’s all good.”
He took the last step into my space and took my shoulders into his hands. I made sure not to flinch again.
“Love can take time,” he smiled.
🂳
When our server announced they had duck filet on today’s menu, I had to bite down a scoff. I ordered it of course. Since I had never tried the meat before that wedding night, I had to make sure if it was simply not to my taste, or if Margot was in fact a terrible cook. The answer was the latter, which I found amusing for a second before realizing I would have to endure it for the rest of my life. Or rather hers, the woman being closer to expiration than I was.
Unless I suffered the same fate as my sister.
I shook my head.
Maybe I could convince Mr. Churchill to hire a cook. Because, I could say it with certainty now, he was wealthy enough.
The last two days had been spent shopping, filling my new wardrobe with silky hues, frills and embroidered everythings. The pearl necklace hanging from my neck wasn’t stolen, or a treasure bounty from one of my fantasies, but an honest gift from my one and only. Mr. Churchill hadn’t even winced at any of the bills the store clerks had announced ; he’d just pulled out his wallet or a pen, and somehow walked out the store happier than he’d entered it. Like the dresses were actually meant for him.
In a way, they were. I couldn’t see the beautiful lady he and Margot did anytime I got out of the changing room with yet another article, even as I stared back at my reflection. It wasn’t a new feeling, but it felt stranger with an audience that had somehow found something pretty in me. But I smiled and nodded, and agreed to the outfits that objectively made me look less pathetic.
The purpose of these spendings was made clear today : I was my husband's prized pony.
As ugly as I put it, part of me couldn’t help but revel in it.
Never in my life had I been regarded as something… Precious. Something to show off, to decorate, to take pride in. But as Mr. Churchill introduced me to the Moores, the Thompsons and the what’s-their-names with a guiding hand to my back and eyes bright enough to light up a room, I was surprised to feel the warmth of pride well up in my chest.
“You see Edith?” He’d pulled me in conspiratorially before we’d gotten sat at our table, discreetly pointing at the Thompsons. “She’ll be mentioning Rome, mark my words,” he winked. I raised my brows, matching his odd attempt at fellowship.
I had decided in the days since that miserable wedding night that I needed to dig myself out from whatever hole of self pity I’d fallen into, and that had to start with my sentiments towards my husband. Although he wasn’t my choice, Mr. Churchill was fine. He might be old but he wasn’t wrinkly. Or ugly. He was touchy but he’d kept his promise and didn’t try to enforce our duties. And of course, who could stay upset while basking in riches such as his.
I was lucky.
Even with the ever present torment that wouldn’t be shaken off my heartstrings, or that caging feeling that crept up with the probing glares of Churchill's friends, I continued to tell myself:
I am lucky.
“You know, it’s been a while since I’ve seen Benjamin so merry. He’s been nothing but happy sighs ever since he’s first mentioned you.” said Thompson over a bite of potato, like that could hide the teasing grin.
“Oh quiet, Silas,” berated Churchill, trying to not appear too bashful.
“But it’s true!” jumped in Thompson’s wife. She turned to lay a conspiring hand to my forearm. “You two truly form a lovely couple. My best regards.”
“Thank you.” I nodded.
“Ah- That accent. I couldn’t help but notice it, and if you don’t mind me asking-” started Mrs. Moore before I interrupted.
“Accent? I didn’t think it was that strong.”
She looked at me horrified and stuttered. “Oh- I apologize- I-”
“It’s alright,” I added quickly, seeing her husband shake his head.
“Well, ahem, I would be right to assume that you’re an… That you’re of European origins?”
I blinked. “Aren’t we all?”
There were a few chuckles around the table and I felt obliged to join in.
“Anna is Italian,” provided Churchill.
“My parents are,” I corrected. “I was born here.”
“Italy!” gushed Mrs. Thompson. “Tell them Silas, about Rome!”
My head slowly shifted in Churchill’s direction. I half expected him to already be looking back, but I found him carefully cutting his steak instead, almost bored. Yet with a more careful glance, I could see the corner of his mustache twitch upwards. I returned to my own plate, making sure to purse my lips.
“Oh please, they already know all about it.” lamented Mr. Thompson.
“Not everyone!” His wife turned to me. “Say, have you ever been to your home country, dear?”
Before I could retort that her question didn’t make much sense, she continued: “It is simply exquisite. The streets, the southern landscapes and oh the food… Even the people were surprisingly pleasant! Well I couldn’t understand a word of what they were saying but truly, lovely language,” she nodded and gesticulated with each word, making me worry that her head would pop out of her neck.
“That is-” I attempted before Mr. Thompson jumped in:
“What does your father do?” His wife looked disappointed, robbed from boasting about the most expensive trip of their lives to a new set of ears.Meanwhile, the rest of the table sighed in relief.
“He owns a restaurant.” “He’s a cook,” Churchill and I replied at once.
I couldn’t stop myself from scowling as he spoke for me for the second time today. We shared a look, but he didn’t seem very guilty. He just stared back patiently as if urging me to continue.
“He owns a restaurant,” I parroted him.
Mr. Thompson’s eyebrows rose up to his hairline. “Really?” There were a few awkward glances around the table and he cleared his throat. “I mean as an immigrant that's…”
“Surprising,” I finished mentally.
Truth was, when my parents first arrived in America, all they had was an unborn baby and dreams only a young couple would be stupid enough to have. They had hoped for an escape from the southern Italian poverty and found themselves trapped again, this time burdened by a child of the wrong sex. Her memory was hazy, but Valentina could still sometimes recount those early hardships. The cramped home –shared with other families working for the same mines as our father– the scarce meals, the language barrier.
It all changed the day Pa’ met his best friend Frank. My father had saved the man’s life in a story he refused to share, and Frank had employed and housed the Benedettis into his wilting saloon as repayment. The saloon had been revived as a restaurant, and Frank died while I was still young, passing the property to his best friend. There was a silent understanding that Pa’ hadn’t been the same since.
“He’s a very hard worker,” I shared earnestly. If meeting Frank had been luck, Marcello had doubled the efforts to earn it… And he made sure his children never felt entitled to it either.
“Of course, must've been hard to achieve by himself,” nodded Thompson, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced.
“It’s a family business,” I continued, suddenly defensive. “He’s built something strong, but he wasn’t alone. Myy mother and my siblings and I have been helping him along.”
A smile tugged at my lips as memories flashed before me. “My mother’s actually quite the performer. Every Saturday night she signs or reads off a play, and that's when our tables are the fullest.” Pa’ liked to complain about the overwhelming crowd, but we’d always catch him muttering along to whatever show Ma’ put on.
“Why not perform every night then?” Giggled a woman who I assumed was Mrs. Allen, although with all the new faces I could've been wrong.
“She needs a week to recover her voice,” I grinned.
The table laughed and I found it easier to imitate them this time around.
"Don't you have a cousin in the Parisian opera, Mr. Moore?", asked Mrs. Thompson.
The man was sucking on a cigar looking entirely disinterested in the conversation when he was called and took a couple seconds to catch on. "A sister, actually. Why?"
"Maybe you could give in a good word about Mrs. Churchill's mother," joked maybe-missus-Allen.
Moore's eyes traveled to me before exhaling puffs of smoke in a quiet chuckle. "Sure."
"I'm afraid my father won't let her back to Europe after all the trouble it took to get here," I said as I reached for my glass.
"You've mentioned siblings as well?"
The rim of the glass grazed my lips before I froze at the question. When I looked up I wasn't sure which eyes I had to meet, as the question took me too much by surprise to pay attention to it's owner.
I put the glass down but kept it in a tight grip. "Yes."
An awkward pause weighed on the table. My mouth contorted into a smile that was supposed to be polite and I hoped that it would satisfy their curious faces.
Unfortunately for me, it did not.
I heard Churchill attempt to start on another topic but Mrs. Thompson spoke louder. "And, who are they?"
Air escaped my lungs in a nervous chuckle. "Um. Right, uh…" I cleared my throat, which suddenly felt incredibly tight. "Well there's my older sister, Maria. She's uh…"
A priss? A self centered traitor who decided to run off with a bum?
"She's also recently married," was what I ended up settling for.
There were a few coo's around the table.
"Then my older brother, Francesco. He's in college in Saint Denis. And um… Yeah," I stuttered. "Yeah."
The short silence I left after speaking made me realize how fast my heart was beating. My stomach was twisting, and again I feared the duck filet wouldn't get to be fully digested.
"Saint Denis! It's quite the city, your father must be so proud."
I felt myself nodding.
"There are actually quite a few clients of mine down there…" and my ears didn't catch the rest of the conversation.
Was I right not to mention her?
She deserved better. Better than a sister who couldn't bare to say her name to a bunch of strangers. She had looked after me more than our mother ever had and I couldn't even honor her correctly.
But saying it just made it too real.
"Valentina is our eldest," I practiced in my head. "And she died in July."
My throat felt itchy.
I had to convince myself I couldn't say those words out of courtesy. Who wanted to hear about some girls dead sister while eating their steak? I felt sick just thinking about it.
Wind howled in the distance as my vision blurred.
But I couldn't cry now. How ridiculous would that be? Dressed in sapphire tinted fabrics and eating among respectable men and their wives, tears would soil it all like mud on satin cloth. Spoiled little girl, sobbing while fed off a golden spoon.
I'm lucky.
With a sweaty palm I realized I was still gripping the wine glass. Swallowing in a click, I decided to shakily bring it to my lips again, hoping it would drown the desert that had niched itself inside my throat.
Gulping once, twice, wasn't enough. But at my third a weight landed on my shoulder and I lost the little balance I still had.
"Is everything- Oh! Christ!" Churchill gasped and took his hand off me but it was too late.
Taken by surprised, I choked on the scarlet beverage and the rest of it splashed onto my outfit.
Sputtering, I tried to find my breath again. I could vaguely register Mr. Churchill rubbing circles on my back, while Mrs. Thompson worried loudly. Even when I was done actively choking, I continued letting out small strangled coughs.
It was unbearable.
I waved a reassuring hand at all the bewildered eyes set on me. "It's alright- Ahem. I'm-" cough "fine."
"Anna, I am so sorry-" Churchill's words died out when I got up, brushing away his hand too aggressively for a wife, but I was too shaken to care.
"Excuse me," I huffed out.
The wind howled louder.
With my irregular panting, it was all I could hear. But I knew which one could be heard by others and which one was a figment of my imagination—an awful reminder of a night I'd never forget.
The waiter didn't wait for me to ask when he directed me to the restroom. Seeing my tainted dress was enough, and I was grateful for that.
But the relief hardly qualified as one. My heart was still breaking out of it's ribcage and I had to keep my lips sealed in order to not fall into another coughing fit. Once I reached the door, I put all my weight on the handle, closing it in a slam as soon as I entered.
I grabbed the first towel within reach and unceremoniously dipped it in the washbasin. I focused on wiping the crimson off my dress, but it was hard labor with my trembling grip.
The stain just smeared further.
"Cazzo!" I cursed between clenched teeth.
I was ruining it. Everything was ruined.
My next breath came out in a whimper. I continued to rub at the fabric but it was to no avail. My grip tightened.
Iwasn't lucky.
Valentina is our eldest and she died in July.
None of this was luck!
The wet cloth splashed to the ground, leaving a halo of rose water. A strangled sob broke out of my lips and I couldn't stop the tears from joining the ground as well.
I was supposed to leave. I had plans.
Plans of adventure, an escape from the lifestyle my mother was trapped into: dreams and passions forever unachieved, burdened by the weight of children she didn't feel like raising. But Maria left with that poor bastard, taking the choice of love with her and leaving me with no freedom for mine.
Plans of healing from a family that wouldn't look at me. All but one: and she was gone. Killed in a slow and painful death, strangled by her own body.
Valentina was dead and I missed her.
I missed her like one would miss a mother, yet my own wouldn't comfort me in those sleepless nights of grief, too occupied with her own.
And if I couldn't speak of my sorrows with my family, I certainly couldn't now. I felt like a squatter in a home that was supposed to be mine, its real owner a stranger I was supposed to call my lover. The sleepless nights were by his side now, worrying about death and the threat of unwanted affection.
Feeling my weeping intensifying, I shook my head. I tried to breath slowly instead, but it was quickly broken with a whine and I covered my mouth.
"Smettila di piangere, cazzo!" I hissed while angrily wiping at my face. Now wasn't the time to be a crybaby.
Suddenly there was knocking at the door and I flinched so hard it made me stagger.
I tried not to sniffle too loudly before croaking out: "Occupied."
"It's Benjamin," Churchill's voice called on the other side. "I wanted to check on you."
My face scrunched in frustration and I felt a couple more tears roll down my cheeks. I took in a shaky breath before sighing, "I'll be out soon."
"May I come in?"
"I'm-" I looked up the ceiling while pinching the bridge of my snotty nose. "I'm not decent."
There was a pause in which I hoped he stepped away.
"Tell me when you are then."
Just fuck off!
But I couldn't say that, so instead I wiped my tears again. After splashing some water on my face and carefully avoiding my reflection, I searched for the towel only to remember it was still on the floor. Picking it up, I wiped my face against my sleeve; water wasn't going to ruin the dress more than wine already had.
I let a few seconds pass, praying that when I'd say "Come in," he would have left already.
Instead, I heard the door slowly open in a creak, so I pretended to still be busy wiping away the stain while he approached me.
The man remained silent as he watched me be useless. I thought about apologizing for the wine spill, joking about how much of a klutz I was, but I had no energy left for empty apologies or self deprecating lies. If he couldn't buy a new dress —which would be surprising— there were still enough to replace this one in my wardrobe.
I honestly couldn't care less.
"I'm sorry," he finally broke the silence.
Ah. So he was choosing to be a gentleman about startling me. I could work with that.
"It's alright. I'm sure Margot will find a way to wash it off-"
"No, not the dress…" he interrupted.
My eyebrows twitched in confusion and I finally looked up to him. In his eyes, I found the same look he gave to that painting of the boy and the dog.
After a beat, he continued: "I'm sorry about your sister."
My stomach dropped.
"What?"
"I knew family would be brought up, naturally. But I-" he sighed looking back at the door. "I shouldn't have let the conversation get to this point. You were put into an uncomfortable position."
He turned to me again, only to be met with my baffled expression.
"How do you- I never-" my eyelids fluttered as I batted away tears threatening to spill again. "Told you…?"
"I've spoken with Mr. Benedetti a few times, and he's told me about… Her passing"
"Valentina," I provided, though my voice was barely above a whisper.
He nodded somberly.
There was another beat where Mr. Churchill seemed to wait for me to speak, but my mind was too busy reeling with the fact that he knew. This whole time he knew.
And Pa' told him? The same man who couldn't even hold a conversation with his youngest, decided to grieve with a stranger? In a way it was entirely unsurprising that he would choose my husband over me.
Still, it didn't stop the bitter resentment for both men.
What else had my father revealed? How come Mr. Churchill could fill in the gaps when I spoke of my family, while I didn't even know his age?
"Grief is a terrible wound," he interrupted the storm rumbling through my head. "I wish I knew a way to ease the pain."
Despite all my frustrations, the image of Churchill standing in the dimly lit bathroom of a fancy restaurant stayed forever engraved in my memory.
Every twitch of his muscles, the way his wrinkles deepened, how his eyes shone: each detail painted a picture of such profound loss and understanding that I found myself looking away. It was all too intense.
Too intimate.
"But for now I could excuse us if you'd like," he continued, before huffing."Can't say we'd miss many interesting conversations."
"I-" I did want to leave.
But my definition of leaving was probably not the same as Churchill's, so I didn't voice it.
Staring at the shiny pink droplets on the tiled floor, I debated my options. What would be worse: staying and having to endure the curious stares of my husband's friends, or leaving with a bad first impression?
I still had a chance to fix my image. There was no use in cowering in Churchill's bathroom instead of this one, and really, I shouldn't even be weeping at all.
She was gone and that was that.
And crying over a wedding that had already happened was just as much of a waste of time.
"I'll stay," I finally muttered.
The lines of his face contorted in badly controlled disbelief. He sighed through his nose with a dramatic rise and fall of his chest, before shuffling slightly on his feet. Carefully shined shoes slid against the the floor as he attempted to reach out for me: "There's no shame in-"
He dropped his outstretched hand when I took a step back. "Please join your friends and explain that I'll be back in a minute," I said after clearing my throat.
The rejection was clearer than any I'd given him before, and he took it with a perplexed blink. But he didn't linger with his shock, and nodded curtly, "Very well."
He hesitantly moved to exit the restroom, slow enough to allow for a change of heart. When all I did was glare at his back, the door was closed and sharp steps resonated from the hallway. With the return of stillness, it took my all to not crumble again.
🂳
"You see, Mercédès," said the young man, "here is Easter come round again; tell me, is this the moment for a wedding?"
"I have answered you a hundred times, Fernand, and really you must be very stupid to ask me again."
"Well, repeat it,—repeat it, I beg of you, that I may at last believe it! Tell me for the hundredth time that you refuse my love, which had your mother's sanction. Make me understand once for all that you are trifling with my happiness, that my life or death are nothing to you. Ah, to have dreamed for ten years of being your husband, Mercédès"-
I slammed the book shut.
I had picked up The Count of Monte Cristo while shopping with Churchill and had tried distracting myself with it a fair amount of times since, yet somehow I was still slugging through the beginning. If I used to devour a novel within a week, the last couple months had seen a change in my appetite.
A few days had passed since meeting my husband's friends. The small bridal vacation he had allowed himself was over and while part of me was glad he was busier being at work than trying to make awkward conversations with me, the other part was faced with the incredible boredom of being a wife.
Gone were the hours of labor serving lousy patrons and following my dad's orders in the kitchen. Today I was a lady, and apparently all ladies did was walk parks with their maid and have tea with other, fancier ladies.
Once I had come back from my crisis in the bathroom and awkwardly tried to salvage myself throughout the rest of the meal, Mrs. Thompson offered an invitation to join her and the other wives in their weekly "reunions". Surprised they still wanted my company after the embarrassing scene I had caused, I agreed with an unfamiliar shyness. Turns out I was right not to accept Churchill's preposition to leave after all.
But the tea party wasn't due yet and all I could do when I wasn't out was stare at wordy pages in hopes it's stories would overpower my thoughts.
But alas.
Aside from the same old ruminations about my family —and newer ones about Valentina —, my mind was overflowing with the mystery that was my husband.
His past, his family, his person. I knew nothing while he seemed to know all about me. There was the option to simply ask of course, but since that lunch with his friends I spoke less to him than the bare minimum. Any attempts at friendliness had been crushed, just like he and Pa' had crushed my trust.
So I had to find the answers for myself.
I was laying on the living room sofa, staring at the ceiling instead of the book in my grasp, when I heard steps from behind the backrest. Stretching to peek out, I noticed Margot carrying a mountain of laundry to the backyard and it was then that I knew: this was my chance.
Margot was a nice woman. Age had melted her face into something kind and she always spoke to me in a careful volume like I'd break into pieces if she was any louder. Still, that didn't stop her from speaking of things. But mainly nothings. Like where she was going to accompany me for the day, how "splendid" I looked in the outfits she helped me put on, or how nice my hair looked when she insisted on combing it for me…
Margot was also an overbearing woman.
It was probably custom for servants— but hell if I knew, this was my first one.
Point was, it felt like I couldn't exist anywhere without her in my periphery. I wouldn't have been surprised if she came in with a towel because she heard me using the chamber pot.
Quickly, I rolled off the couch to land on my feet while the book clattered to the floor. Not bothering to pick it up, I made my way upstairs, heading straight to the door leading to the attic. It was the only corner of the house I hadn't explored yet and never found an appropriate occasion to do so before this moment.
Technically, I knew there wouldn't be any serious consequences to me snooping around, but it was still an embarrassing position to find myself in. Plus, playing this one sided game of hide and seek with Margot was far more entertaining than any activity I've been restricted to lately.
I was met with disappointment when I realized with a few tugs at the handle that the door was locked. Although,the feeling was quickly replaced by a hint of excitement at the idea of looking for the key like the next piece to an intricate puzzle. Naturally my first instinct was to step backwards into Churchill's office, full of cabinets and drawers I hadn't yet inspected contrary to the ones in our room.
On the dark wooden desk, presented in a way that could only arouse temptation, laid a cigar. I plucked it and inspected it between my dainty fingers. The tobacco was rolled in caramel paper, collared in a red label reading "Romeo y Julieta". The name made me scoff.
Unfocusing my vision from the cigar, I spotted the guillotine sitting on the table. My hesitation wasn't long before I decided to cut the thing and bring it to my lips. While I grabbed the matchbox I could already taste the nutty flavor.
I picked a stick and lit the flame, and as I burnt the end of the cigar I remembered a night some good years ago: Pa' had caught Francesco staring too hard at the roll he'd been gifted by a client and surprised his son when he used it as an opportunity to teach him how to smoke it properly. For him to be a "real man". I had been watching from the doorway, trying my hardest not to be noticed as I was supposed to be mopping the floors. But Francesco coughed up a lung and I couldn't contain my laughter, so I was angrily dismissed.
Still, I had learned the one basic rule: don't inhale it.
I sucked a few puffs and tried letting them rest in my mouth, but I quickly coughed them out at the bitter taste. I didn't let it discourage me and tried again, with less hacking this time.
While rummaging through each cabinet, I made sure to misplace some papers and trinkets ever so slightly. Just enough for mild annoyance, while still making it look like a mistake Churchill could've done himself. The mischief accompanied with the smoothing taste of the tobacco eased me into something close to contentment. Not fully there, but not impossible either.
His cabinets were mainly filled with boring paperwork regarding his clients and whatnot. The lack of anything of personal value made me wonder if Churchill wasn't just a being disguised as a man, who had forgotten that humans we're supposed to be more than just a mustache and a suit. I could've kept the theory if it wasn't for the other day.
"I wish I knew a way to ease the pain."
His words, while dramatic and confusing, weren't exactly what had caught my attention. But his look? That same sorrow I could find in a mirror was reflected in his eyes, irrevocable proof that Churchill had something deeper to him than his pockets.
Aha.
I'd been too focused on the inside of the drawers to observe what was sitting on top of them. Between a bottle of expensive liquor and a desk clock sat a family picture of three. A man and a boy standing on each side of a chair, in which I could recognize Churchill's mother. Her young son was leaner than now, but still had that same cleft chin and tall disposition that assured me that it was in fact my husband. He must've been a year or so younger than me when the picture was taken. The patriarch had lighter hair than the two others, but the same nose as his boy.
I picked up the framed picture to flip it around and was lucky enough to find a folded piece of paper attached to the back. Carefully sliding it out, I read what turned out to be a short letter.
"My dearest boy,
In these arduous times I will ask you for little but necessary tasks. Please, read the Lord's words when you feel in pain and see this photograph when you feel lone.
"Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid."
With heart and prayers,
Your mother."
While wondering what she had meant by "arduous times", my eyes slid to an inscription on the back of the picture. Blurred by time and oily finger prints, the numbers weren't immediately recognizable. But when I did manage to decipher, all I could do was let smoke escape my parted lips.
"1874"
My birth year.
It wasn't all that surprising in the end. If my guess and calculations were correct, that would make him thirty-one to thirty-three today, which was actually younger than I thought him to be. Still, being faced with these numbers made me queasy enough to put the frame and the letter back as they were and continue my search.
Unfortunately for me and my time, no key in sight. Proof of the wasted minutes were the ashes of the cigar slowly powdering my dress and the floor. Not too keen on ruining another one of Churchill's gifts, I tried looking for an ashtray, before remembering I was pushing past the limit of disorder I'd allowed myself to leave around the study. I found my solution in the form of a window instead.
Elbows propped against the frame, my finger tapped away the residue as I watched the gray particles be taken by the wind. The thought of giving up teased my mind but it was too frustrating to consider. Huffing, my head went to rest heavily against my palm and I wondered about how I could get Margot to indicate the location of the key without giving myself away.
But as I thought of a third lie, more ridiculous than the previous ones, the crown of a brown set of hair walked beneath the falling ash.
Richard.
"Hey," I called. "Hey!"
The boy jumped and one of the logs he was carrying rolled out of his grasp. I snorted as he searched around like a startled animal before he finally looked up and spotted me perched against the window.
"H-hello?"
"How busy are you?" I asked before putting the cigar back to my lips.
Richard looked down at the fallen log then back at me. His body stuttered like he wasn't sure if he was supposed to pick it back up, and his mouth opened and closed like a fish as he hesitated, worried he was being tested. "Well, err…-"
"You know what," I blew out some smoke. "just come up here. Your help is needed."
Without giving him the time to refuse I left windowsill and slowly walked out of the office. After a short minute he found me leaning against the wall of the hallway, hands crossed impatiently over my chest. His own chest was heaving, likely from the previous effort or rushing up the stairs. The last thought made me bite back a grin.
"What did you need, missus?" he stuttered out, his eyes jumping to try and find what he was summoned for.
I uncrossed my arms to push myself off the wall and moved closer to the locked door. Then I tugged at the handle demonstratively, facing him again with a pout.
"I went into the attic and forgot something precious of mine before locking the door. But of course with my luck, I just lost the key as well," I sighed pathetically.
The young man blinked at the sudden change in attitude. Once he seemed to get over it, his eyebrows raised inquisitively. "What did you lose?"
My frown turned into a scowl. "What's it matter to you?"
"Oh um- Sorry…" he scratched at his prickled neck, which still shone with sweat. "Why not ask Missus Langdon if there's a spare?"
There was a beat in which I had to figure out who he was talking about, before remembering how I'd heard him call Margot before. Churchill had introduced her to me by her first name, but I wondered if it had been rude of me not to ask for her last. To be honest with myself, I did not actually care all that much.
But God, was Richard being difficult. I smoothed my features into worry. "I wouldn't want to bother her, she's always so busy."
It took some might not to break the act upon seeing the boy's reaction. His mouth thinned into a line, trying his best not to let any hint of exasperation show. Some pink even dusted his freckled cheeks while he cleared his throat.
"I was actually wondering if you could maybe… Force it open?" I continued tentatively. As his eyes widened I quickly added: "I've seen you lift bags of horse feed like they were feathers, I'm sure you're strong enough."
His cheeks promptly burned up this time. He bashfully rubbed his hands over his jeans, as I guessed they were becoming sweaty too. "Ah well… It's just part of the job mam- Missus!" he mumbled before shaking his head apologetically. "But I- I'm sorry… Mr. Churchill's paying me to fix things here. Not uh, break them."
Dammit.
It was my turn for exasperation. I turned away from him to suck on the cigar and ponder on my other options with furrowed brows. Seeing my discontent, Richard wriggled awkwardly. After a short silence, I heard him squeak out a word before quickly shutting himself off. Tired of trying to charm my way into acquiring his help, I gave him a sharp sideway look.
"What is it?"
"Nothing!" he exclaimed too quick for sincerity.
"Just say it," I rolled my eyes.
"Really, t'was nothing…I think you'll need to excuse me, I've still got some work-"
"Cazzo- Spit it out already!"
He jumped at my outburst and sputtered, "Ah well hum! I may have a solution but it might seem a little, ah, unconventional?" He let the sentence hang to gauge my reaction, but I just urged him to continue with a jut of the chin.
"Could try pickin' the lock…" he said lowly, throwing a look behind himself in case Margot was lurking by.
My eyebrow twitched upwards before a smile slowly stretched my lips into an asymmetrical grin. On his face a surprised smile mirrored my own, albeit his being more tentative.
"But, please, I'm gonna have to ask for secrecy. I can't seem like a delinquent to your husband."
"Deal," I nodded eagerly.
With this new sense of conspiracy, I let him near the door handle and moved to stand behind him. Richard knelt down and paused, suddenly patting down his pockets.
He looked over his shoulder with a bashful wince. "I don't got my tools, could I borrow two hair pins?"
"Sure." Sparing a small thought to Margot who had so carefully put my hair together in the morning, I reached out behind my head and dug out his request. A curl escaped my chignon but I didn’t pay it any mind.
I passed him the pins and if our fingers brushed,we both ignored it. He bent one in a square angle, and unfolded the other before sticking it into the lock and slightly crooking one end of it. Then he inserted the first one at the bottom of the lock and started tilting the other one inside of it.
My body leaned forward to watch his ministrations from a closer angle. He stopped for a second and I heard him expel some air through his nose.
"The smoke bother you?" I asked, although I wasn't about to retract myself if he agreed.
"No missus," he lied.
"How does this even work?"
He threw a quick surprised look over his shoulder before realizing I had gotten closer and faced the door again. He shifted to the side to allow me a better view of his work.
"Basically, I'm using the top one to lift each pin —well the pins of the lock not the hair pins— and I turn the bottom pick so it…" he paused and there was a sharp sound. "Clicks into place!"
With a grin on his face, he glanced at me again, meeting my controlled neutrality. He forced the smile down quickly before admitting, "Well, it's more complicated than that but I'm not the best at explaining."
I hummed and for a while we remained in a silence only interrupted by the small ticks of the lock. Suddenly, Richard moved to get up. I backed off and watched him tug the handle with one last snap.
The door was open. Finally.
Delight must've been painted plainly on my face because Richard let out an odd chuckle. Scolding my expression, I squinted, giving him a long stare.
"Now I know who to blame if we're ever robbed," I quipped, watching him blanch.
For a few seconds I let him panic. There was a strange satisfaction in playing with this man. Knowing that I could. Knowing that each word out of my mouth mattered enough to gather a reaction. Eventually a short laugh bubbled out of my throat and he froze in his desperate begging.
"Quit worrying, your secret's safe with me."
Richard let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders dropping with his gesticulating hands and his worry now replaced with confusion. He let it simmer for a second, watching my face like he was deciphering some riddle until his features slowly relaxed. He had found whatever he'd been searching for.
He huffed out a single dry laugh. "Thank you, missus."
I jutted my chin and pulled out the now wilting cigar from my mouth. "Well, you're dismissed. Wouldn't want to keep you from your work."
"Yeah," he nodded slowly backing away. Before reaching the end of the hallway he called out: "Hope you find that… Precious thing of yours!"
Ignoring that hint of disbelief in his voice, I called back: "I will!"
He shook his head and disappeared.
A scoff escaped my chest.
I didn't waste more time in the hallway and stepped through the door. A narrow staircase led to the almost completely obscured attic, and as the wooden steps creaked beneath my shoes, I felt my body buzz with excitement. Nobody locked a space if there weren't any secrets in it. I was finally about to find some answers. I wasn't even sure to which questions, but I knew there was some kind of mystery to be unraveled.
The attic slowly came into view, the dusty ground lowering before me as I rose. The only source of light was that single window visible from the front of the house. It was covered by molding curtains, basking the room in a dark orange hue.
It was so full.
What first caught my eye were all the children's toys. A rocking horse, wind-up figurines, a cup and a ball, wooden guns and swords… It was overwhelming. As I walked along the trail of playthings, I realized none of them were new. Chipped materials, paint scraped by use and time… Framed by it all, sat a rusty wooden chest, which I couldn't help but feel drawn to. I opened it cautiously and found an abundance of boys clothing. On top of it laid a teddy bear, with only one beady eye and limbs almost falling apart, only attached by loose strings. Worn by love long lost.
I took a step back, suddenly sick to my stomach.
It couldn't be. All this- It had to belong to Churchill, right? Childhood belongings he couldn't leave with his parents. Couldn't sell or give away out of some sort of immature nostalgia…
The other option was too awful to consider.
I rushed away to the other side of the room, scared off by the lonely smiles of the abandoned figurines.
Paintings surrounded me. Bigger ones, propped against the wall, all showing some kind of landscape. The smaller ones stood on an easel— more landscapes but some portraits as well. Mainly of boys, who I realized were all the same one, just growing over the years. Some of Churchill, too.
The realization was creeping on me, but it was too much, too heavy.
All I could do was continue to explore. It felt perverse, invading a past made of lives so full.
But once I'd tasted the knowledge I couldn't be satiated.
Folders upon folders of charcoal sketches: scenes of a routine now broken, figures of Churchill, some of him working at his desk, some even nude. More chests, these overflowing with dresses. Glass displays bursting with tangled, rusting, jewels. Trinkets, hats, fountain pens, books-
Pictures.
One in particular.
Churchill, much younger, standing with a woman dressed in white.
I only realized how much I was shaking when the long forgotten cigar slid out of my grasp to land on the dirty floor. It felt disrespectful to leave trash in such a place, but I couldn't get myself to move, my vision tunneling onto the photograph.
She was beautiful. Peaceful smile on a gentle face. The wedding gown made her shine, a spark strong enough to be reflected into Churchill's eyes. We shared the same dark curls.
I couldn't stare any longer.
I flipped it around.
"Benjamin & Beatrice Churchill ⚭
1879"
🂳
Waltz of the Flowers by Tchaikovsky resonated much too merrily against the ornate walls of the living room.
Churchill had come home not too long ago, and like every previous dinner he told me of his day and tried asking about mine. I just shrugged, because I couldn't risk opening my mouth.
The revelation that my husband had not only been married before, but also a father had left me in shock long enough for Margot to start calling for me. I escaped the attic fast enough for her not to find out, leaving behind its ghosts and forever lost belongings.
I didn't understand. I couldn't grasp how something so tragic could have happened and this man, this sole survivor, could still stand. He still smiled, he still joked at the dinner table and he still played the damned piano.
And why wasn't I told?
How could one omit this, an entire life of love and loss of another, completely erased- For what purpose?! What was the point of deliberately leaving me in the dark?
Every one must've known, right? Margot knew, she'd been working for him since their marriage. His friends knew. Did Richard? No, he was just fine with letting me reach the secret…
Did Pa' know?
Was this how Valentina had been mentioned, over the loss of another wife and child?
I felt devastated.
I felt furious.
But I didn't know how to approach it. Didn't trust whatever words would spill out to be sensible enough. Didn't trust myself from appearing too needy.
So I sat on the piano and followed my husbands hands rhythmic hits against the keys. His shadow moved over the black and white tiles, following the sway of his body to his own melody. I glared in quiet anger and despair, trying to find the right way to tell him that I knew. But the melody was too gentle, and his fingers flew too smoothly to adapt to the harsh reminders I wanted to subject him to.
"You stare a lot, you know?" he purred, barely audible over the music. He hardly even glanced at me, either too preoccupied with his playing or too intimidated by my glare.
His words did take me by surprise, and I couldn't control the shameful flush at being caught. I knew that I stared. It was one of those things that my parents hadn't told me was rude until it was too late, and I couldn't stop myself from prodding too openly anymore. It had often gotten me in trouble, but I wasn't one to be easily educated. "I guess," I shrugged, eyes jumping to one of the paintings on the wall.
Was it one of hers?
"Your eyes disturb me sometimes," he admitted, forcing me to look back at him. "I believe it's their color."
I scowled.
"They're pitch black, like ink spilled on paper."
"What color were Beatrice's?" I heard myself say.
The music stopped.
This was why I didn't trust myself. Even to myself the words tasted like venom. Bitter meanness and inconsideration. Similar to bile on my tongue, spilling and leaving a mess that was hard to clean.
Churchill remained completely frozen for a moment, and the horror in his eyes almost made me regret even going to the attic. But if he got to steal my secrets, I got to take his. Cruel but fair.
"She had blue eyes," he eventually breathed. His hands fell on the keys, a dissonant accord to punctuate his woeful admission. "Ocean blue."
A few seconds passed during which the statement floated through the heavy air, too irrelevant to what was really being said. Then, Churchill bowed slightly, body closing in on itself in a way that seemed so unlike him. His gaze remained fixed on the piano, still lost in a whirl of unshakeable memories.
"How… do you know of her?" he rasped out. The sight was pathetic.
I couldn't stop the regret from pouring into me with hot shame. In the end, how much did fairness matter when I was hurting the man so intensely?
"Margot," I lied. "She mentioned her in a slip up and- I-I'm sorry… I didn't want to corner you like this I just-"
"No," he interrupted, shaking his head and thankfully straightening up. "No, it's my fault I should've… Let you know."
My mouth snapped shut.
"I don't know how much she revealed but… Yes, Beatrice she- Was my wife. Before you," he explained as he rubbed his hands against his thighs. "And we had a son, named Theodore."
He took in a few breaths, during which I held in mine.
"They both passed last year."
Grief is a terrible wound.
What he has said the other day wasn't some clumsy attempt to comfort me by stating the obvious.
It was a testament.
He had suffered—still suffered—the pain, and had admitted it to me, and I had been too blinded by my own aching to understand.
"My condolences," I muttered entirely dejected, but he lifted a reassuring palm and shook his head.
"I'd explain the event of their deaths to you but-" he chuckled humorlessly. "As you can see it still takes a lot of effort to even mention them so… I mean, you must understand, it is quite similar to how you couldn't speak of your sister the other day."
I was taken aback by his statement. Then the earlier frustrations came back flooding and no dam could've stopped it.
"With all due respect this isn't a fair comparison!"
He finally met my eye again, surprise written on his face.
"I don't know your friends. I don't owe them any knowledge about- about whatever tragedies happened in my family!" I huffed indignantly. "You can't just bring this up like the situation is at all similar. Yes we've both suffered losses that are hard to vocalize but pretending like I'm not your wife and they are not basically strangers to me is- Absurd! And I'm not even asking you to telling me the how just the- Well at least that there was someone. You had the privilege of my father telling you about my sister before we even married, while I had to be the idiot who didn't know she was the second! I mean you need to admit that this isn't just something you can hide— Wh- Why are you making that face?"
Blinking away my train of angry thoughts, I realized Churchill was almost… Smiling at me?
"I'm- I'm sorry," he chuckled with upturned brows. "It's just… I believe those are the most words you've said to me in one conversation."
That promptly swept me off my feet. Was he serious?
I scoffed and looked away from his hardly contained grin. "Well, people usually say I'm big-mouthed so I thought I'd spare you," I muttered as I crossed my arms over my chest.
"None of that here. Please, even if it's to berate me, I'd love to hear you more."
I sent him a suspicious side glare. "I don't appreciate being left in the dark."
"And you're right not to. I'm very sorry."
Churchill sobered and stood up to face me properly.
"I've made a cowardly mistake and I want to remedy it because…" he reached for my folded arm, and I let him put my hand in his. "Because, I'll admit, this marriage wasn't fully my idea. My mother insisted it would help me move on from… My previous family."
I blinked at the earnestness,and relaxed my body to face him as well, willing to hear him out.
"Despite all that, I'd like to build something real here, Anna. Without all the unsaid, without the discomfort and- God, please, without the "sir"s and "Mister Churchill"s. Makes me feel old," he lamented and I couldn't help but chuckle. "I truly believe we can form a strong team. So please, let's promise each other to be more open to one another."
With his palms holding my hand and his blue eyes staring down at mine, it felt like he was proposing to me again. Except this time, I wasn't looking at a complete stranger. This man had vulnerability in him that I hadn't seen in any other man, and the way he looked at me… It was like he couldn't possibly tear his gaze away from mine.
I decided that maybe, it would be fine to indulge.
"Alright," I breathed. "Benjamin."
🂳