Disclaimer: The characters involved with this story were the creations of the genius Wilkie Collins from the Victorian classic The Woman in White. However, this project, which has been years in the making, was truly born from attending two performances of the London production of Andrew Lloyd Webber's adaptation of The Woman in White from book to musical. A fairly large amount of the text has appeared here before, under the story titled Shade and Light, but has been reworked and only portions of it remain unedited from that first publishing. What it has turned into now, is a love letter to as many incarnations of The Woman in White I could lay my hands on (1948 film, 1982 miniseries, 1997 two part miniseries and finally the musical). Though heavily structured on the musical's adaptation, with book by Charlotte Jones, there will be characters from the various versions sprinkled in and I have tried to make it so that no matter which version of the story you know, you would be able to follow the characters and situations. This particular world is separate, and cannot be pinned to any single version of the story but has an ode to each one. Anything which was exclusive to one version is explained one way or another as the characters discover it.
If I had to single it to one purpose, I would have to say that this story is dedicated entirely to Maria Friedman's performance as Marian Halcombe. The interpretation as played by her is single handedly responsible for creating this beast which you are about to read (whoever will, thank you!). Though throw in the other wonderful Marians, special recognition to Alexis Smith, Diana Quick and Tara Fitzgerald as well as the entirety of Coldplay's 2009 album Viva La Vida and you have the workings of a Shade and Light overhaul.
In essence, this is the love letter to all of the incarnations of The Woman in White, and my own interpretation of the unwritten future of the magnificent creation Marian Halcombe, seen through the eyes of a Maria Friedman devotee.
October 27th, 1866
Count Fosco was always a man who enjoyed watching people. It seemed naturally, that his need to understand others and observe would justify his necessity of sitting quietly on a park bench, often for hours, merely to watch. Much to the dismay and annoyance of his servant. No matter, he thought, even when I relax I need protection. The sky was clouded, but the rain only heaved, it was not yet ready to release a sigh of showers. Not while Fosco was without his umbrella. He heard another muffled cough to his right.
"Not yet," He said, "there are still so many out enjoying the air, why can't we?" The Count rested his hands on the top of his cane, raising his shoulders ever so slightly to shift the weight of his coat. A young blonde couple passed, quietly. Argument was seeping from the wrinkles on the lady's brow. Fosco let a smile escape from the corner of his lips; a smile of remembrance of the bygone days when female indignation would cross his path. Off behind him were the sound of carriage wheels and the symphonic whinnying of horses. He stole a look at his watch, while a dog came to his bench and relieved himself behind the post. Another muffled groan sounded from the quiet watchman. A breeze, cool and foreboding of the coming winter made the red leaves above him twirl down to the stones at his feet. Seeing them spin, again recalling the countless performances of ballet he saw in his native country, of petite ladies clad in red twirling in delight to augment the entrance of the hero. He lifted his right foot, keeping the leaves from falling and trailing dust on his fine leather boots. Another glance, he said to himself. Off in the distance past the end of the path he saw a man leaning against a tree, looking at his pocket watch. Another just passing through, holding his hat firmly to his head, afraid even the breeze may take claim of it. The Count took a deep breath; cool air filled his nostrils matched with the smell of warm wool on his shoulders. Another arguing couple passed, this time he was only able to distinguish a few words that he heard the gentleman say. The Count chuckled, the short intake of breath making his weight shift on the bench and the edge of his moustache tickle the dimple on his cheek. With one hand, he brushed down his waistcoat before moving to button the last few buttons on his overcoat.
Suddenly running towards him from the left, he spotted a little girl. Her hair fell out of place and her skirts were littered with crumpled leaves and dirt stained her stockings. She held her long dark hair in fists across her chest, where her blue coat remained unstained. The laces on her small black boots were loose and the heels wet from puddles on the path, shining flickers of light off of the soles. Looking around her with anxious eyes, the attractive little girl stopped where she stood and echoed a sound which pierced the Count's heart to hear. She had started to cry, momentarily using the sleeve of her fine coat to wipe the tears from her cheeks. Her eyes closed tight and drops of tears rushed down her face. The girl cried out for her mother. Fosco, unable to take his glance from her, looked more carefully. She could be no older than two or three years of age.
The Count, his sentiments overcoming his judgment to avoid social interaction, rose awkwardly from his seat. Settling his feet into the cobblestone path he rose from the bench, resting the bulk of his weight on his cane upon standing. With the servant coming to his side to keep his balance, the Count approached the girl.
"Mia cara, "He said softly, using tones he had not used in years. "Do not cry," He stepped closer, the girl unscathed by his unfamiliarity remained standing with her eyes lowered.
"Monsieur...my mamma." she managed to utter, a sweet sound filling the air.
"I see, I see well then let's try to find her, you may walk ahead of me if you like." The Count said gently, not willing to risk any questionable motive or response to his conduct. Gently he put his hand on the girl's back, his great height casting a shadow across the top of her head. He saw now the tie to her hat across her neck, the hat hanging across her back. Lifting the hat, he pulled it forward across the girl's face and held it out for her. With some hesitation, but quieter tears, the girl placed the hat back onto her head. He looked into her eyes. The Count's mind turned towards his past, startled as to why he should think back now about those days. Merely the flash of a distant memory, of standing in a parlor and watching a man in the corner; a drawing master. The man's name momentarily escaped his recollections, but something in the girl's eyes reminded the Count of him. Inwardly scolding his thoughts for their irrelevance, he looked up across the path, and saw the girl take several steps in front of him, looking out as well.
"Catherine!" A voice issued behind him.
The Count's body was not what it used to be. His knees creaked as he moved to turn, his servant now off to the side, sure that his master had found his balance. Remember the days, he thought, wishing he could toss the cane aside. The voice called again but he still could not distinguish which of the people around him had issued it. It did not help that the mind which he had cast off as irrelevant moments before, started up again and instantly he deemed the voice familiar. You really are getting old, he whispered to himself.
It was true. He was not the same man he was at his prime, the Count thought. If it had not been for the endless travelling, the long pursuit of a safe haven and place to call his own where he may avoid the lingering persecutions of his own countrymen. In the corner of his vision he saw Francis standing patiently as he was; he too seeming older and less refined as he had been when his only task was to serve as valet. Things had changed. The foreboding breeze of winter seemed to speak not only of the change in the season. The chills in his body which had no explanation were not of an earthy provocation. He had braved and escaped it many times, he thought. There were times even as a young man where he felt certain his number had been drawn and the consequences of his actions would at once be recompensed. But he thought back on the life he had as he noticed the sun appear at the tops of the trees behind the overcast sky; breaking through in brilliant auburn rays which skimmed the tops of the branches above him. He could see that same light cast across stone buildings, paths narrow and cramped between villas and market squares in his hometown while his naïve eyes looked up at each of the open windows above his head; remembering the sights of his neighbors casting out their pots into the street, or flying their rugs into the air like sails catching the wind. The Count could recall the same sunset across the coast, from his seat on the ship he had sailed with his brothers in philosophy. The same light cast across the thick trees surrounding the English estate he had frequented for many years; only his fondest memory of the evenings in the house were accompanied with the sight of a dark haired woman pacing the ground, her cashmere shawl trailing behind her tracing the hem of her gown as she walked to the edge of the trees. The golden light seemed absorbed by her ivory shoulders.
All at once, he saw the little girl dash ahead of him, turning and noticing the caller. The little girl's skirts pushed the air towards the pavement and scattered the leaves where she ran. Out of the corner of his eye, Fosco noticed his servant. He was staring, direct and disrespectfully at the point where the child was running towards. The Count had not seen that look pass over his servant's eyes in some time. With a momentary pulse of anxiety, the Count glanced to where the girl had stopped.
Taking the girl into her arms was a dark haired woman, dressed elegantly in what appeared to be blue silk topped with a fine plaid cape. He could see her hands, strong and well formed, wrap around the girl's face as she kissed the child's head. Her features, try as he could to see, he could not distinguish at this distance. With uncertainty, a foreign emotion to the Count's estimation, he stepped forward in a light pace towards the pair, still feeling unsettled by his own thoughts which lingered on his consciousness like a forgotten dream. The servant, who could see the woman's features by his distance, remained momentarily, than set off towards his master in a manner which suggested he meant to protect the Count from something. Like a man about to pull back a dog about to fly into a busy crossing. Losing sight of his servant, the Count continued forward until he was nearly five paces from the girl. The mother pulled her face away from the girl and looked up. Her eyes met the Count's.
The Count knew his mind to be better than it was. He knew now that nothing in his thoughts should ever be cast aside, and if his assurance thinks someone familiar, doubt would not be an option. But he never thought, never even dreamed he would ever again look into the eyes of the woman before him. Suddenly every vein in his body rushed, blood warming his face and quickening his heart. Overcome by his emotion he froze where he stood, even losing the feeling of his weight on his legs. Feelings and sensations he had not thought or entertained feeling ever again invaded every pore. That doting love, the powerful ardour of his youth, the perspiration on his brow, stripped his face of age and made him a stuttering boy of fifteen again. Or even a man of sentiment, denied that which he wanted most. Back when an Italian beauty, or more importantly, an enigmatic English rose, tempted his virtue.
That rose stood before him again, a vision he could only have imagined in his wildest fancies. He could do nothing save mutter her name on his breath.
Marian.
Everything he remembered, the magnificent Marian Halcombe of his past, came back to him. The first and last weakness of his life, before him again. For a moment he felt himself blinded by his own memories; his own remembrances of the wits and wiles of Marian Halcombe that would steal into his thoughts; the sound of her laughter at his outrageous tales, the shadowed glance of distrust, the way her eyebrows would raise ever so slightly despite her resolution to seem disinterested in his foreign insights. She was the first woman he ventured to have complete equality in matching his tremendous cleverness. The strength of her resistance to his courtship, the glances he would steal of her while she read in the library, the unmatched envy he felt seeing her white hand lay across the open page, the audacious night before his departure for the Continent. Everything. In the seconds while her eyes acknowledged his and her own recognition betrayed her expression, the Count cast other thoughts aside. He could see her eyes dry every tear of distress she had produced, fire sparked from her glance and the Count relished the pleasure of feeling her stare. Feeling her magnificent indignation stir his blood once again
"You found her," A woman came running towards them, holding her cap atop her pile of reddish brown hair. "Thank heavens!" She said, hinting an origin of Ireland in her voice. The woman passed Marian and the girl, who was standing with her hands on her mother's shoulders. The red haired woman extended her hand to Fosco.
"Thank you for looking out for her, sir." She said genuinely. Now Fosco's eyes betrayed his curiosity. Another person was in tow with the red haired woman. He was a light haired boy, clad in grey with soft features and long limbs; his suit even than showing to be tight for his expanding frame. The boy's arms reached out for the little girl, his gentle voice breaking the silence as he exclaimed his relief. The two children embraced, leaving Marian Halcombe on the stone path staring up at the Count's face, her lips parted from rushing breaths.
There she was, her fine silk skirts billowed around her thighs, and her hair set neatly behind her neck in an embroidered snood. She was even more luscious, her body more firmly set than the last time the Count had glanced upon her. Evidence enough that she had indeed, no matter how much the Count wished to doubt, produced the child before her. The bold colored lines of her cape drew his eye to her best features the Count observed with satisfaction; the lines of amber and rose traced with perfection the symmetry of her breasts and a black belt cinched her elegant waist; though clearly confined to the fashion of the times rather than its' natural circle. Her face had not lost any of its' appeal, though only to Fosco did he find her strong brown eyes and defined jaw attractive. There was at least in that short moment a glimpse of a temper he had observed but it was repressed with a thin, piercing glance and a pair of lips so tight against each other no sound came through. He begged to hear her voice, The Count mused. All of his senses held a memory of her and they stole into his thoughts like thieves rummaging through his memories; pulling them out like drawers full of linens; their flashes of white drawing his eyes to bring them back to his consciousness. He could hear her hushed tones in his ear again as though she were whispering to him once more. The Count could breathe the aroma of the warm silk gown she wore in the afternoons; the heavy handled masculine umbrella shading the sun from her face yet resting invitingly on her shoulder. He could not keep his expression from betraying his thoughts when he recalled the most thrilling of his senses; the moment when he should have known her actions were of purpose but the excitement of her hand reaching across to touch his leg conspired against his reason.
Still unable to speak, Marian Halcombe adjusted her skirts and rose from the path. She stood before the Count like a fine marble statue; a work of art the Count could only entitle furia. The last gasps of the sun caught in her left eye and casted a shadow over her face. Clenching handfuls of her skirt into both hands Count Fosco could see the color draining from her knuckles. So still and silent Marian remained before her feet stepped towards him and her lips parted. Red lips with hints of purple; proof she had done everything to hold her tongue before saying a word without proper preparation.
Finding no discomfort in taking every moment to observe her, the Count himself found no immediate cause to speak. Seeing the silence as the opportunity words began to be heard, but they were not from Marian. The nursemaid who stood behind her stepped forward standing between the Count and her muted mistress.
"Oh, Mrs. Gabriel, let's thank the gentleman and be back, Aaron would be worrying himself, and Catherine's spoiled her dress." The woman with the red hair said, matter of fact, and in perfect tones for a caregiver.
Mrs. Gabriel? The Count's thoughts stalled, and it was the catalyst he needed to break his glance, Marian beginning to breathe again as soon as he did so. He instead directed his attentions to the boy and his nursemaid. The boy stood to a height nearing Marian's shoulder and his warm and innocent eyes looked up towards the Count's face with silent inquiries. The boy was finely colored with beautiful brown hair and soft hazel eyes. The Count recognized the spirit of his boyhood in the boy's intuitive curiosity, almost narrowing his eyes to focus on his face in an attempt to interpret his character. In that same moment, his prying glance was seen by the nursemaid and her light tug on the sleeve of his coat reminded him of the cardinal rule of children's etiquette; don't stare. Taking the opportunity to bridge the silence between him and the impending tirade sure to emerge from Marian Halcombe, the Count put his hand to his heart and leaning on his cane bowed grandly towards the young boy.
"I am glad to have been of service." The Count said, with confidence, seeing the broken silence manifest at last in Marian with her reply of silent scowls.
"Yes, thank you sir." The boy approached the Count.
"Luke!" Marian said sternly. The Count's own breathe returned to him. The inflections of her honeyed voice were deeper then he remembered, no doubt colored by her unaccustomed situation. Marian's face flushed with rage, still keeping her eyes on his face. The Count secretly delighted that even against himself; she could not publicly break her prim veneer to expose her true feelings. The Count could not even be sure himself what those feelings were; hatred of course, he had after all succeeded in stealing the identity of her wealthy half-sister in trade for a persecuted lunatic. Admiration; since try as she may to have showed her disapproval in those brief moments when her vengeance showed in her face, Marian continued to acknowledge the genius of his scheme and the clever ploys in which he executed them. And lastly the Count knew of a feeling that had made Marian betray herself; he had seen it in her eyes the night before his departure. A moment broken through crystal clear from the haze of his zeal; it was Marian's face as he held it between his hands, withdrawing his kiss to look into her eyes. Her eyes were closed and he could feel her body fall slack against him. For a moment he fancied she had sighed, but the thought left him when she opened her eyes. He knew from that moment that in spite of her own resolve to prove his better she was only a woman in love after all; trembling with anticipation. The kiss that followed was not insincere; the Count had been the one to ensnare her and he relished every distraction he could force upon her to keep her from her purpose; to find where he had placed the crazed Anne Catherick.
There was a clear change, the Marian he knew would not take a moment's hesitation in pulling the boy back, releasing her temper in a spectacle only matched by a military ambush, and walk away from him, swearing upon her honour never to speak or see him again. But she was in the company of others, and rather than have her children or her or servants see her demonstrate an ill example or question her conduct, she remained silent.
"Pleased to meet you, young man," The Count said, humoring the final clause. "And what is your name?" He said gently. Marian closed her eyes and turned the little girl around, who had the moment before, been holding fast to her legs and wiping her tears on her skirt.
"Luke Gabriel, of London, sir." The boy said, in a tone appropriate for a boy of his age and station, every inch of him a budding gentleman.
"And the lovely young lady-
Marian sounded an audible gasp, her arms tightened around the girl with all of the force and grip of a band of iron welded to the barrel of a canon. This was one situation Marian Halcombe would not compromise in showing her distrust; her large and gloved hands closed over the child's shoulders. The sight before him stunned him; the disbelief that his Marian stood before him protecting a child of her making never once crossed his mind as a vision of her future. Words came back to him; words which he had tried to forget, taunting, sneering remarks he had made to Marian once the mask of her actions had been exposed. It was when the charade was over, when the Count found the missing document from his folio crumpled and stashed down the bodice of her gown which had only just been breached by her doing. She hadn't fooled him, not for a moment, the Count remembered. All at once he knew he could do nothing to prevent her from seeking the imprisoned girl. If he was going to let Marian escape with her life he had to take something from her. The Count hated physical violence; as Marian stared at him mustering every last ounce of courage to look him in the eye and deny his accusations, he could not fathom striking the cheek he had so enjoyed touching minutes before. He could not imagine renting the gown from her frame and taking her, an act he was sure his late lamented friend would have encouraged. Instead, the Count concluded, he would take the only thing she had left in the world: the fulfillment which came from feeling loved and the inevitable solitude rejecting his amorous advances would leave her with for the rest of her days.
The Count's thoughts were derailed when his eyes met those of the child in Marian's arms. All of his words, his ominous foreboding he had recalled uttering to Marian were cast back into his mouth. He recognized those eyes. He remembered the name of the man she saw in his eyes. The realization overcame him so fiercely he could barely say it to himself. The Count at once felt an unutterable excitement; akin to how he felt when he first heard how similar the dazed Catherick girl had looked to his desperate friend's wife and schemed in moments how to succeed with their conspiracy. The little girl moved her hands away from her face, her curled brown locks framing her face while straight wet paths of tears slid down her cheeks. The Count could see it so clearly now he amazed himself at how long it took him to notice. Marian had uttered nothing, but saw his gaze at the girl with intent and on seeing his delight display on his face, hastily turning the child towards the nursemaid.
"Her name is Catherine." The young boy said. The girl muttered a reply, before a stuttering breath took hold. The Count was unsure whether the break of speech was due to the girls recovering distress, or from Marian's rushed actions. Catherine muttered soft protests to her mother's orders.
"Katie we must get you home." Marian interjected hurriedly. She loosened her grasp and led her to the red haired governess.
"But mother," The boy said aloud "shouldn't we ask for the man's name, so father might send his thanks."
Fosco was taken back. The conduct of the boy was nothing less than the most gentile and respectable of any youth he had observed in his life. Appropriate that he should be Miss Halcombe's son, he thought, though still doubting her direct relation. Once again, Marian's conduct was reproached, and by none other than a ten year old boy. Again, he felt a shiver of amusement, similar to the amusement he felt when watching a ringmaster or circus man control the tigers or other great beasts, more powerful than the masters by far, but still at their beckon and call.
"You may tell your father, young man, that Count Fosco accepts his gratitude, and extends his gracious compliments to his family. You may tell him that!" He said. The Count watched the smile disappear from the governess's face. Turning towards her mistress, the Count watched as Marian turned her back on him, with no customary courtesy, and marched away from the Count. The little girl, Catherine, forced to hold tight and run to keep up with her mother's lengthy march. The pleats across the back of Marian's coat bounced and split open with her hasty motions. The boy however, kept up his pace and had enough time to come beside his sister and take her hand from Marian's. A breeze, cooler than before, brushed down the back of Fosco's neck as he watched Marian take the arm of the caregiver, whispering in her ear as they departed from the west gate of the park.
The Count, after a pause, addressed his servant:
"The Count is weary after all, Francis. When we get back, I want you to find the address of Mr. Gabriel. I mean to send to my thanks, and more perhaps."
Francis, nodding in reply, went beside his master to monitor the Count's first steps. Finding him steady, perfectly capable this time around, he took his position several paces behind the Count, keeping his eyes wary of everyone surrounding. The Count, surveying his corner of the park with all of the fortitude and resolution of a king overlooking his lands from a lookout post, made his progress back to his hotel. As he walked, he allowed his memories to take over, sure now that his mind was everything it was and more.
Please Count Fosco, you can see I am quite well, I will be fine.
Now, now my dear, you're shivering! It would be against everything I stand for if I left you here dripping wet. Come now, Miss Halcombe, I'll send for one of the maids, she can change your gown and than you will sleep like an angel.
No thank you, Count, I'm fine.
On this matter, Miss Halcombe, I must voice my objection. I am a doctor, I know best.
Marian took the small glass vile in her hands, grasping it firmly between her fingers. She put it to her lips…slowly at first, until the bottle was tipped and the nectar of darkness poured into her mouth. The Count placed his hand around her head and forced the bottle upon her lips, forcing her to drink every last drop. The glass vile fell from Marian's hand to the floor, where it shattered. The Count swiftly managed to hoist Marian into his arms He strode ardently towards her bed and placed her onto it. The Count lifted her head slightly and tenderly stroked her hair away from her face. His thick fingers skimmed over her throat and his breath grew noisier, his face inches from hers. The Count looked at her face cautiously, sure that her senses had been dulled by the drug. As he drew closer to her lips his hand, slowly and as gently as he could, touched the bare skin at the top of her breast. His kiss lingered, but he withdrew quickly. His hand savored the softness of her skin.
At first sight of Marian entering his home, The Count doubted it was her altogether. Her hair, which he always felt was beautiful, but never in any way ornamental, now dazzled his eyes by the delicate, carefully placed curls falling down the back of her neck. Her hair was pinned and braided into an arrangement which hung high, complimenting the shape of her neck. The Count's eyes left her hair and observed the almost perfect color of her skin. She looked years younger and healthier than before. She was no longer pale by candlelight, no longer wallowing in the loss of her sister, and just like he had hoped was prepared to seek solace in his company. And the gown, Fosco observed; a luscious, burgundy soaked satin clung to her shape, a constricted corseted waist. Her simple act of breathing became an aphrodisiac. The dress billowed from the waist and made folds along the floor. The ornate black lace bodice was embroidered with intricate, glittering black beads which shone in the light. There was a long black train spread across the back of the dress. Such a contrast from the plain calico country dresses he had seen her fashion at Blackwater Park. The firelight glowed on the beads of her dress. The shine, though meager, blinded the Count. The Count stood still for a moment, gathering his calmness as if it had gone astray out of his hands. He thought to himself; never thinking Marian could have ever looked as attractive as she did. But there was something different, in her manner and the way she entered the room so quickly. The Count turned back towards her. But his eyes strayed to the curls of hair winding down her shoulder. The wood in the fire began to crackle, spreading uneven spectrums of light across her face.
"I have been thinking..." Marian said softly. "About my dear sister, Laura, and what she would want for me…she would not want to see me this way. I cannot spend my life in mourning. I must try to move on, though I miss my sister so!" She said, covering her face. The Count placed his hand upon her waist, breathing softly, looking into her eyes. Marian ceased her tears. She sighed.
"I have to admit." Marian paused, leaning in closer to his lips. "I am glad that I came here…"
The Count, however, with open eyes, keen to her expression, hesitated. Instead he kept a steady hand in her hair, motioning his fingers through her curls rhythmically. He gripped her hair tenderly as he brought her face closer. Without pause, The Count place both hands on her face and pulled her towards him, locked together unable to speak. The Count felt her arms tighten around his large waist. He held her tighter; his hand following the line of her neck, stopping at a place where he could stroke the top of her breast with his thumb. Suddenly, and with a physical force he did not think Marian possessed, she thrust his weight away from him, making his balance unsteady and forcing him to fall inelegantly onto the chaise behind him. Aghast at her sudden refusal, the Count arranged himself on the chaise to rise again, but before getting the chance, his breath stopped in his throat. Marian unbuckled the top of her corset, fire catching a small tear in the corner of her eye. She pushed the sleeves of her dress down her arms and rolled her shoulders back. Lastly in a gesture that shocked every preconception he had about this magnificent Marian, she positioned herself beside the Count, leaning her back against the other side of the chaise, and with a free hand, lifted the left side of her skirt, showing the Count her left thigh and the top of her stocking, hinting at the flesh just above it. He should have know than her actions had more motive than what he had seen, but caught in the desire of her, no other thoughts occupied his mind. He could do nothing but obey. And that, he surmised, was all he ever wished to do.
The Count, having reached the door to his room, turned the knob and raised his left hand, making Francis retreat to the drawing room. As he pushed open the door, the hinges gave an awful creak. The hotel was not very old, he remembered, but anyone would think the door was a hundred years old by the poor old croak it gave as he pushed it open. Closing the door to his room, the Count removed the hat from his head and smoothed over the top of his wiry hair. As he crossed his room, a well-furnished room trimmed in gold brocade curtains and deep green tassels, he untied his cravat and pulled it away from under his chin. Unsure of his next move, an unnatural thought process to him he hoped not to repeat, the Count sat at his desk beside the window. He rolled back his shoulders, resting his weight on the back of the chair, which whimpered when meeting him. Of all his experiences and of all of the times when his actions were weighed with consequences too serious or too dangerous to execute, this time he did not know how to proceed. Restless for a solution, the Count than drew out a clean paper about him and dipped his pen into the ink, pulling it out quickly. A black streak of ink crossed over his desk and stretched to the floor with the flourish of a whip.
Marian,
I know your reluctance, but I implore, on peaceful grounds, the desire of speaking with you.
A thought crossed his path, a thought that years ago he would have employed as a sure tactic to use for his gain. Such thoughts resurfaced, and with confidence he continued to write:
I could not help, upon viewing your beautiful family, remembering a certain man. His eyes looked back into mine when I looked into the eyes of your little girl. Call me an old man with poor sight, but my mind showed no misgivings in seeing all of the resolution and composure of a certain man in the dear Catherine. I saw nothing of the same in the build of your son. Satisfy my curiosity or alight me with your indignation, I find it impossible that you should have married that "Mr. Hartright" when his motivations and actions against myself and my late lamented friend were so clearly deterred from yours.
You may find me at the Hotel Apollo, Gare de Lyon. Third floor.
FOSCO
'Oh my dear, Marian. Please, let me help you.' The Count said.
The Count entered Marian's room, striding unhesitatingly into Marian's bedchamber. It was the day before her sister Lady Laura Glyde's funeral. Having the orders to be prepared for travelling to Limmeridge that afternoon, her bags and belongings were still in disarray about her chamber. When he saw Marian, she was already partially dressed, covering her saintly white with a dire black gown. The dress looked itchy and he could sense Marian's discomfort as she continually pulled the sleeves on her arms and tried closing the collar. But throughout, Marian sat quietly on her chair in front of the window. She hid her face behind a handkerchief.
'Oh, bella, come now.' The Count said, striding closer to her. His large hands extended towards her. Marian sat frozen. The Count stood by her and went to his knees, his weight forcing him to stumble partially to the floor. Marian turned away, ineffectively trying to hide her sobs. 'Marian…my dear." The Count placed his hand onto hers, tenderly caressing it with his large fingers. The Count brought her free hand to his lips, kissing it fervently. She continued to weep and as he stroked her hand tenderly. The Count then rose clumsily from his place on the floor and gestured for Marian to stand as well. She shook her head, such as a child who refused orders.
'Come now, Miss Halcombe, we must prepare.' He said. She let out a louder sob with his words, not wanting to rise. All of his sensitivities were put before her, and still she drew back. The Count came to his feet. Whether from annoyance or fright, Marian suddenly rose from the chair and tried to avoid the Count's hands. But his arms stopped her and clutched her to him. Unable to think, Fosco supposed, Marian surrendered and leaned towards the floor, a spasm of grief temporarily rendering her speechless. She turned hastily and wept onto his waistcoat. The Count whispered 'we must get you ready', but Marian shook her head and lain it on his chest. The Count fastened his arm around her and brought one of his large hands to her face. He stroked the hair from Marian's eyes and tried to look into them. Her tears smeared his hand and Marian tried to resist, but having no defense, Fosco kept a steady hand and never faltered in his stance. The Count looked into Marian's eyes, and found her dumbstruck by his grey eyes, hopeless to resist his glance. Before the Count quite knew what had happened, Marian raised her own hand to the Count's neck and pulled her lips towards him. With broken senses, Marian pressed her lips onto the Count's. Fosco was stunned. He could not think. Soon his kisses became more frequent, holding her closer to him. Oblivious even to the purpose of his presence in the room, the Count failed to notice that Marian's tears had ceased, nor that her maid in service was standing in the doorway, her small hand over her mouth shielding her gasp
The small sound shattered the Count's momentary state of peace, and Marian pushed the Count violently away and screamed, demanding for his immediate departure and hurling endless apologies.
The Count awoke to the feeling of sunlight on his face, coming in through a gap between the fine heavy curtains. No dreams, he thought, at least not ones he could remember. As soon as he woke, he was filled with the anticipation of the next hours. Remembering his letter he had sent, with no prediction as to its outcome. As he was falling asleep the night before, he searched his thoughts for every possibility she could present. Would she come? Would she ignore his letter, or even his subtle accusation, enough to avoid him altogether? He could not tell.
The Count wrote down his list of delicacies he requested for his breakfast, and for his possible guest, and pulled the cord beside his bed. A small bell rang in the other room. In moments, his servant entered.
"Good morning, Count." He said, officially, coming towards the bed.
"Good morning, Francis." The Count added. "A few new things, with my compliments," The Count said, rising to let his feet drop over the side of the bed. "Take this down, then return and bring out my black waistcoat." The servant nodded, putting the note in his front pocket. He then moved to the tall dresser on the right of the Count's large bed, and opened both ornamental doors. Pulling out garments and making piles on the table beside him, the servant moved to speak.
"Sir, I intended to speak about my delivery last night. I did not send one of the hotel carriers." He said, taking out a shiny black waistcoat with silver threading making flourishes of ivy vines. "I delivered it myself."
The Count looked up at his servant, almost surprised at his choice, but than again checking himself, thinking it the best choice of actions he could have made. He nodded towards his servant, approving his choice, even when it had already been made.
"I thought you should like to know where Miss Halcombe is-
"What hotel?" The Count interjected.
"No hotel, she is residing here in Paris. I took my inquiries to the local office, an accountant just south of the hotel. He gave me the name and the address to his law offices across the river. I got a fly, and getting to the office, I saw his colleague. I did not refer to the letter, merely interest in getting his information as a prospective client. He told me that the Gabriel's, though London born, have resettled in Paris over three years ago. He told me that Mr. Gabriel was one of the most sound and trustworthy lawyers in the city, and even told me he had taken part in the organization of the book you mentioned." The servant paused, expecting the Count to interject with a fresh suspicion, or distrust of having written to her the night before.
"The caregiver or the girl's nurse answered; sure I had not been misled in following. She recognized me, for sure, but upon taking the letter firmly closed the door. No doubt the family knows of Miss Halcombe's disposition towards you." He said, unbuttoning the closed waistcoat. "But I got a look at the house. Amiable, not at all like St. John's Wood, but the man Mr. Gabriel certainly is in no poor position." The servant looked towards the Count, and they exchanged glances. Both thinking that even in residence, the Count could have offered her so much more.
"Never mind." The Count said, rising from the bed and pulling his nightshirt down to cover his legs. The servant placed the fresh waistcoat on the bed and crossed to the other side to help the Count to his feet. "Prepare nevertheless, who knows what today will bring."
The Count sat in his spot, a beautiful window seat overlooking the street below. The table before him was prepared with the best finery his hotel could accommodate. For breakfast he dined on the finest minced salmon, and a tartar of tuna with a rosemary garnish that filled the room with hints of spice. Accompanied by two towers of the best grapes, local figs, and even two glowing mangos topping the towers. He could only take small portions of everything, his appetite suppressed by the intoxicating air of possibility. He kept his eau de sucree on the windowsill closest to him, and occasionally while watching the world below him, sipped it methodically. True, he had not taken the same routines as usual, he abandoned his newspapers, not caring to read of any other lives and instead focus on his own. From his seat, he pointed flaws of décor to Francis to have him attend to. A statue too far over on the table, fringes on a lamp entangled. Taking another sip, the Count set his eyes on the corner of the street, staring into the faces of all the women crossing towards his hotel. So far, none resembled Marian. He had another moment of doubt, thinking he had been a fool to wait like a maiden for a caller for someone who detested him. At least in public, Marian detested him. He remembered how vividly she had written about him; the level of detail and one line in particular:
The man has attracted me, has forced me to like him. In a few short days he has moved straight into my good estimation, and how he has performed that miracle is surely a wonder to me!
He reflected on these words to ease his anxiety. The Count could recall her fine control of language, her wonderful recollection, and of his former desire of having her not only as his lover and companion, but partner to his interests. What wonders could he have achieved having a woman like Marian at his side? He could barely fathom it himself. With that woman as my friend, he thought again, I could snap my fingers at this world, and all would do my bidding. But on second thought, the Count paused, having her as a match to his games was more amusing than anyone he had encountered before. Too often the women involved with his bait at home were weak, foolish women who had no sense of foresight, of wit, or even resolution. Like dried trees in drought lands, the tiniest provocation and they would tumble over, powerless to stop it. In other words, a bore, after several years of much of the same. But this Marian, who unlike his previous experiences was merely sister to the prey rather than wife, showed more spectacular protection and fortitude to every step he and his lamented friend had made. Sir Percival was useless, he recalled, miss stepping every chance he had to gain control over his gaggle of women.
Just then, Fosco eye's followed the form of a woman turning the corner. His breath caught in his mouth; in disbelief he raised his arm to his servant, who upon the cue opened the door to his room. He looked back; noticing that at Marian's side was a man. He was not much taller than Marian, and by the neat wool coat with a leather belt, had to have been the lawyer Mr. Aaron Gabriel. He was a man not too far in years, no older than he supposed Marian to be. He could see the evidence of age at the soft grey tones at the roots of his hair. He had a gentle composition, and a strong hand on Marian's back as they walked together towards the entrance. She appeared different, her hands were together under a fine fur muff, but her eyes seemed uncertain of where to focus, looking about her constantly. She is no fool, Fosco thought, hoping she might not notice his precautions.
"When you bring her to, wait in the hall. I'll send for you if needed."
The excitement disappeared when Marian and Mr. Gabriel crossed under the entranceway to the hotel, losing sight of them as they entered the lobby. Francis stood by the door, his arms behind him neatly and looking out into the hall. Fosco took the last sip of his water and placed the empty glass on the windowsill. He turned in place to face the open door, looking across to the end of the hallway where the stairs were located. Unable to focus on detail, from his excitement, and admittedly his age, he waited to see the outline of her figure. Another woman came up the stairs, crossing to the left of the stairs to return to her room, and another, and lastly a man with spectacles and books turned away and moved left before he caught the sight of Marian.
To his prediction, Marian approached his room alone. He took note of this, thinking of what place in the lobby or stairwell below she had decided to station her husband. Husband, he inwardly scowled. As he let the mild groan escape his lips, Marian reached his suite, paying no mind to Francis in the door. Without taking more than four steps into his room, she pulled her hands out of her muff and set it on the chair with a violent pitch.
"May I venture to ask with what incorrigible gall you had in having me leave my children, risk my husbands reputation and life if you are concerned, and summon me here with little to no reason, disrupting my life when I thought I had made it very clear years ago never to speak or see your contemptible corpulence again?" Marian said firmly, keeping her hands momentarily engaged by holding the fabric of her coat closure; looking even more delectable to his eyes garbed in a green skirt with a white floral coat.
"You are not a fool, Marian." Fosco replied gently. "I know truly that your decision to come here was born out of a sleepless night, a weighing of options, estimations of my actions in either affirmative or negative in whether I would pursue you further, or if I merely meant to threaten you-
"If that is your case, you can be assured I take no hesitation, I have come as prepared as you." She said, motioning curiously over the left pocket of her rinzu coat. No, he thought, even his bold Marian would not be bold enough to bear arms.
"There will be no need of that…" He said half hearted, still shocked at the very idea, shock mixed with a carnal excitement which at his age proved a shock to his system. "Besides, do not take me for a fool in the defense of my impenetrable calm, Miss Halcombe-
"Mrs. Gabriel to you!" She shouted, losing her temper partially.
"It is early, Miss Marian" He continued, hearing her scowl at his non compliance. "Wherever your husband is stationed he is watched, I have two men who if at any sight of authority presence or attempted arrest will fire at will."
Marian's stance broke, her eyes deceived him, and momentarily she turned to face the door, shifting her weight on her hips and placing her hands on them. A short intake a breath, almost a laugh, escaped her lips. She matched eyes with him again, the Count now knowing what kings in chess exemplify when stalemated.
"So take a seat, Miss- Mrs. Gabriel." He said, albeit against his desire, "There is no rush." The Count rose from his seat on the window and with the aid of his cane, crossed past the table before him, decked with his finery. Marian turned to him, keeping her stance firm as he approached. He extended his hand, again delighted to glance and admire his beautiful tigress in her cage.
"May I take your hat?" He said, only then noticing the fox trim and black ostrich plumes. Not to his taste, but fine nevertheless. With a jerking of the ribbon, Marian took the hat off of her head, but instead of placing it in the Count's hand, tossed it aside to the chair where her muff resided. Then keeping her eyes on him, Marian pulled each finger to pry the black leather gloves from her hands.
"Can you imagine the number of times I've fancied killing you?" She whispered. The Count paused, his temperature rising, wanting more and more to possess her.
"And I…" He paused, searching Marian's gaze for any shred of fear. Instead she stepped closer to him, so close her breath stroked his face and his blood rushed. It took everything he could fathom to control himself.
"You see I have no fear of that." She paused. "I know, deep in your pestilential soul the only shroud of good you have left is your love of me."
Now the Count could only pause. Only hold his breath and hope for no more. But again his combatant thoughts survived, and he whispered:
"And I know the only reason you do not shoot me dead is not only the loss of your husband, but the protector of yours and a certain drawing master's weakness."
In a flash, the Count's breath was stopped, and an intense pain unlike any he had felt before from any woman crossed his face. It took him a moment to see the source, Marian's left hand cradled in her right and pressed into her waist. A sound escaped her lips, seeming to be shocked by her own action. But in the same moment, she righted herself. Fosco, for the second time in his life, was stunned. Not from any of the words, but of the incredible strength of her strike. Collecting himself after a moment, the Count uttered gently:
"I see no reason for such an unreserved reaction. My letter implied my inquiry."
"I don't know how you could have…" Marian's voice tapered off as she began to pace between him and the door.
"Only those who knew yourself and Mr. Hartright would ever have suspected."
"Why do you want to uncover this?" Marian said, a hesitation creeping into her tones. "Of what importance is it to you to know of my daughter's life? I'll tell you nothing if your purpose is malicious." She stopped, brushing the back of her hand briefly across her forehead.
"Is that to imply intent to tell me?" The Count added quickly. Marian paused, only then allowing the Count to observe her quietly again. He noticed the details of her green skirting and of a beautiful gold watch and fob on the belt of her coat. Despite her pacing and quick motions, her hair remained neatly twisted behind her neck, a becoming coiffure appropriate to her new role. Though the Count preferred the long, unbounded hair she had fashioned all the time at Blackwater Park. Marian breathed deeply, the Count watched with surprise to see her body deceiving her resolve to remain controlled. She seemed on the brink of illness, and not by her own choice.
"You have no way of victory." She said, matter-of-factly. "We neither of us will strike the other-
"Then why not take advantage?" The Count said, jovially as he moved away from the center of the room back to his seat by the window. "Allow me the pleasure of speaking to you on equal terms, with no opposing interests, even if it is the last time-
"It will be the last time, if that is your condition." Marian said, placing her hands back at her waist.
"Condition? Why use a word like 'condition', I am making no contract of war with you. Is it so impossible to think that I have no other interest, in this autumn of my life, of your concern than to merely be in your presence? Our times of such belligerent nature are through. I took what I wanted and desire nothing more material from you."
"You bastard." Marian whispered. Again, the Count noticed, her body was acting on its own, and for a moment Marian leaned forward slightly; seeming to alleviate a discomfort in her stomach. Ignoring it, Marian continued "How do you expect me to be cordial with the man who single-handedly changed all of our lives, not merely my sister's."
"What have I done?" The Count said after a pause. "Not to you. Your conclusion, as I have witnessed yesterday, seems not to be of my doing-
"I assure you, it is." She paused. "Partly."
"Partially? And you wonder why I inquired so just now?" The Count quipped, pushing aside a pillow from his seat to the opposite corner. "I implore you, sit, you seem ill."
"This has nothing to do with you." Marian said, moving towards the table with deliberate steps. She pulled from the display one of the short water goblets and hastily reached for the pitcher hosting the water. She poured herself a glass, and impatiently put the goblet to her lips. Pausing, Marian held it there, looking into the clear liquid. She set it back down onto the table.
"I'll have you know you shall not take advantage of me." And with that, Marian poured the water from the goblet back into the pitcher. The Count stared with curiosity. In addition, Marian took the pitcher within her hands and walked over towards the door. Noticing the decorative porcelain umbrella stand on the left, she took the water and poured it into the holder. The Count, delighted with such an image, allowed laughter to roll through his body. Marian firmly placed the pitcher back onto the table.
"Have you not heard a word I said? You English are insufferably suspicious. Do you think I would mean to eliminate you, when I've stated that your presence is all I require?" The Count said, confident she truly had no other reasons to suspect him of any trickery. "Sit, please, Mrs. Gabriel."
Marian paused, breathing slowly. She crossed the room, the Count listening to the sweet rustlings of her skirts, and pulled the chair away from the table. Marian took the chair in front of Fosco's window seat. Turning out the chair to the right, she could sit in perfect view of Fosco. Slowly, Marian lowered into the chair, looking across the table at the splendor laid out before her. Next she moved to open her coat, but paused when her hand touched her left pocket. Marian removed her coat and the Count's eyes followed the delicate pin tucks across her bosom, again accentuating her exquisite form and her ivory neck framed with white lace. He watched as Marian folded the coat in her lap, keeping the left pocket exposed.
"Show me." The Count said gently.
Marian, without hesitation, sank her right hand into the pocket and pulled out a small, gleaming silver pistol no larger than her own palm. Fosco whispered beneath his breath as he stared at the pistol framed by the delicate floral motifs of her rinzu coat.
"Beautiful." The Count was overwhelmed by how attractive she looked in that moment. Visions of swelling tableaus, of lovers taking their lives in swirling colors and music entered his mind, Lady Macbeth with the dagger, crimes of passion. He compared such moments to the one he lived in. When he blinked and looked on her again, the Count felt a strong air of protection around her, a vicious heightened awareness he could only relate to the glare of a lioness protecting a cub from a rapacious alpha male. He felt, intuitively, that Marian was protecting something more than merely her husband or immediate interests, perhaps even more than her own life. Finding the silence dangerous to Fosco's contemplations, he ventured to continue:
"I meant what I said yesterday about your husband. I send the utmost respect." He gestured to the plates of fruits, marmalade and pastry. "Do treat yourself." The Count said, thinking perhaps he too would enjoy testing one of them. Marian made no move to any of the delicacies; instead she placed her pistol back into the pocket and kept her left hand over the coat. Yet when she looked next, her eyes caught the smaller plate of strawberries accompanied by other berries. Marian reached across the table for one of the strawberries. Finally, Fosco observed, whatever ailed her before seemed to depart her now.
"How is it that I, aside from the immediate consequences involving your sister, contributed to your life as it is now?" The Count said, with genuine interest.
"It began when you left for London." Marian said gently. "I followed you, and sought Walter in the city."
The Count took notice of Marian referring to Mr. Hartright so informally. Fosco could hear any claims or denials Marian could have offered, but nothing in her voice at the moment made him doubt that she had not loved him at a time. A love which, looking at her present situation, had perhaps been as unrequited and unfulfilled as his. Recoiling with his earlier discovery, his vision of Walter Hartright in the eyes of the little girl, surmised that it had been, in one way or another.
"Since that time?" The Count concluded. "Tell me." He said gently, looking into Marian's eyes.
"Three days after the funeral, I found Walter."