A/N: Thanks so much to Wee Boat, aka Gondolier. She kicks it— funny style!
1870, March 2.
Divine Angelina,
After the meeting ended, Marcus put me into the hansom with a kiss on the cheek and a swat to my rear.
"I'll send for you…"
The scuffling of floppy soled shoes on pavement caused Marcus to jerk away, his eyes wild. Eloise rounded around the corner, breathless and bloody.
"Move over," yelled Marcus, jumping into the handsome with me. "Driver! To the Opera Populaire-Garnier, now!"
The cab lurched and teetered; I held onto the seat and Marcus kept his gaze behind us out the window. "She is tenacious," he muttered.
"Is she in love with you?"
Marcus turned back to me and rolled his eyes. "No. She's in love with my brash and youthful idealism. That, and my impetuous, cocky air. And I have nice hair. Surely," he said, lowering his voice a notch, "you must understand how it is to be devoured by the gaze of the opposite sex?"
I shook my head. "Oh no, Monsieur. I would never let a man eat me."
Marcus smiled softly. "Are you so certain, Mademoiselle? I suppose in your line of work, the opportunity does not present itself often, but a girl of your beauty and veritable cleanliness could surely attract a spot of attention."
"I do receive a great deal of attention, Monsieur, that is true; though I do not go looking for it, I assure you!"
Marcus patted my hand. "You simply radiate 'talent,' my dear. Men can spot this easily."
I nodded. "Yes. My father spoke of my talent from the time I was a child. He said I was much better than my sister. My twin Angelina says the same."
How curious, Angelina, that Marcus said no more on the subject; he was content instead to chafe my hand and mutter, "damn vile aristocracy, see what they do to us! Turn fathers against daughters….sisters onto sisters…" At this he stopped. "Twin, did you say? Identical? Same measurements? Willingness to explore physical boundaries?"
Before I had a chance to answer, we arrived at the opera house.
"Thank you Marcus," I said, gathering my party favors from the club meeting.
"Good night, Catherine. Good luck to you. We'll contact you shortly to give you your assignment." Marcus closed the door and carriage sped off.
I looked up at the massive structure. It was late; all the petit rats were tucked away in their dormitory, the company members were at their flats, and M. Reyer was most likely passed out at his desk, perhaps with Madame Giry's feet on his lap.
I twisted the little red cap in my hands as I crept up to the massive door; impossibly, they were unlocked, as if someone was expecting me! I entered the grand foyer and tiptoed across the marble towards my dressing room. Slipping in, I crossed the room to light my lamp.
"And just where the hell have you been?"
I jumped and whirled about. "Cecil!"
"You have a momentary flash of courage, which, though irritating, was also unbelievably attractive. You storm off to wander the streets alone, and you return home in the company of a strange…"
The voice grew closer.
"…young…"
Cecil was practically on top of me now.
"MAN!"
I tried to step back, but a cold hand pressed firmly on my upper arm. "Tell me, my dear, did my paltry attempt at foreplay merely whet your appetite? Did I prime you for a midnight rendezvous? Did you play with my cucumber only to go have a tossed salad SOMEWHERE ELSE?"
Oh, Angelina, I tried to respond, by my voice caught in my throat!
In the darkness, I felt him back away, and he let loose a cry of rage from the bowels of Hell as I heard him pace around the room. I fled to my nightstand and fumbled for a match. As I ignited the wick, I saw Cecil, his arm raised above his head with my Compact Oxford English Dictionary in his grasp.
He pitched the book against the wall, then reached for a candlestick and hurled it at the ceiling. It "thunked" and fell to the ground. I submitted a small scream and began to plead with him. He did not even acknowledge me as he made his way to my sewing station.
"I HAVE GIVEN YOU EVERYTHING AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME! DENIED ME AND BET—" he kicked my sewing basket into the air, safety pins flying everywhere,"—RAYED MEEEE!"
"Oh Cecil, you are mistaken! I have done no—"
"I GAVE YOU MY MUSIC! WELL, I GAVE YOU SOME MUSIC AND SOME SINGING LESSONS AND I DEMANDED THINGS ON YOUR BEHALF! DOESN'T THAT EARN ME A 'FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS' OR SOMETHING DAMMIT?"
He threw my atomizer across the room. My hairbrush followed. Then a barrette, two croissants and a coffee mug that said "#1 Soprano."
But when he reached for my Precious Moments Unicorn figurine, I had had enough!
I grabbed my red handkerchief and waved it about his face.
"You stop this right now! I've done absolutely nothing whatsoever and you are just very, very grumpy at me for no reason!"
He did as I commanded! His eyes trained on the red bit of cloth, and a sinful grin emerged. "Red. You are wearing…Red. At last. So, is that the case?" he said, a new husky tone overwhelming his previously bitter carping.
I lowered my hand and looked at the cloth thoughtfully. "Well, yes, I suppose. I mean, I never thought I was really that sort, you know, but I just… well it feels right to be agreeable."
Without a word, he whisked around me to extinguish the light. Grasping my hand, he led me through the mirror and into the darkness, down towards the lake. We said nothing to each other, our gasps and breathy moaning the soundtrack to our descent. I felt that something was going to happen: something wild and mysterious, something frightening and yet pleasurable, something perfectly natural and yet mildly perverse.
Perhaps he wished for me to sing for him! I know how Cecil does adore my voice. And he is very conscientious about correcting my breathing… perhaps it is time for another lesson in the usefulness of breasts!
My suspicions were indeed confirmed, Angelina. As Cecil helped me into the boat, the vessel curiously gave way and I pitched forward. Thankfully, Cecil caught me by the chest, smiling as he righted me into the gondola. "Careful, my dear," he said softly.
"You are such a consummate teacher; no time wasted with you!" I chirped.
"You have so very much to learn…" he murmured, as he stepped in behind me and steered us towards his home.
He docked the gondola and stepped off to the shore. "Catherine," he said as he extended his hand to me, which I was delighted to accept.
Cecil led me into a small part of the alcove that I had not seen on my last venture down. It was a den of sorts, with an enormous bookshelf that spanned an entire wall, a chess set fashioned of what looked like ivory and ebony, and one oversized dark leather chair with a small pillow on the floor beside it.
"Shall we? It has occurred to me that overtures made to you must be rather… plain, or they simply do not register. You are preciously oblivious, and in part, I find that charming. I am also growing frustrated. Forty-some-odd years later, this is becoming something of a biological necessity, and given your overt sign to me tonight, I feel that we are moving along quite nicely."
Cecil let go of my hand and went to select a book.
"I also know that my voice has a peculiar quality on the female sex. The male sex too, but let's just let bygones be bygones, shall we? Instead, let us appreciate how your very body relaxes to the glittering timbre of my angelic voice."
"Oh, yes," I whispered, "like an angel. A rather naughty angel."
Cecil chuckled. "You are learning. Slowly. Tediously. But learning all the same. Come, sit and let me read to you. I think you shall find this endeavor to your liking."
He removed his coat and folded it precisely over the back of the divan; he sat in the great chair and beckoned me to come to him. I knelt by him quietly and waited for him to speak.
"This, my dear," he said grandly, opening the book, "is a very entertaining read."
"OH!" I exclaimed, "It's a picture book! I can follow along as you read! My dear Cecil, you are so wonderfully thoughtful!"
"You are the thoughtful one, darling," he said as I rested my chin on his thigh to get a better view.
"Chapter three of the 'Kama Sutra,' by Vatsyayana," he read melodiously. "'It is said by some that there is no fixed time or order between the embrace, the kiss, and the pressing or scratching with the nails or fingers…'—Bully for us, I dare say!— 'but that all these things should be done generally before se—'"
Cecil skimmed forward anxiously. "Aha! 'Vatsyayana, however, thinks that anything may take place at any time, for love does not care for time or order.' Brilliant!"
I let myself be carried away by his voice, hardly listening to the words themselves, but more delighting in the rise and fall of symphonic sound, and the rise of his—.
"Cecil," I whispered.
"Catherine," he echoed.
He stood.
I stood.
We both stepped forward, but I stepped on the hem of my dress (dazed as I was) and toppled into him.
"Yes!" he cheered, and lifted my chin up with one long hot finger.
"My dear, are you certain?"
"Yes Cecil. Teach me!"
He bent down, lowering his lips to mine, and I pulled back.
"You can give the power of your perfect voice to me by breathing into my mouth? Oh why haven't we done this before?" I cried joyously.
Cecil looked stunned. "I… I can't do that, Catherine. I thought you… you seemed to … you waved that red thing in front of my face and…"
I placed my hands on his shoulders, feeling the fine thread count of expensive cotton. His black wool dress pants, tented now at the midsection, were expertly tailored, falling perfectly over the instep of his fashionably outfitted foot.
I was, as always, resplendent; no worse for wear after the evening's adventure. I actually looked more beautiful than ever, as I could see my reflection in Cecil's adoring blue-green-gold-silver-flecked eyes.
He inhaled.
I twitched my lips.
He put his long-fingered hand on my waist.
I tilted my head back. My plump lips beckoned to his, saying, "Come down here and kiss me please."
Cecil reacted to that. "Did you just throw your voice?"
"No," I said, frowning.
"Okay then."
Over the span of approximately five minutes, our mouths grew closer. Hungry and yearning. Vibrant and fully puffed. Ready. Waiting. Growing impatient. Patient again. Irritated.
Our lips crashed together in a swell of passion, much like the swell of the sea in a storm, which is coincidentally what my eyes looked like at that very moment, though my lids were closed, of course.
A woman simply knows these things.
Neither of us moved for a moment. The tip of his tongue darted out to trace the seam of my lips. Confused, I returned the gesture. Cecil pulled away slightly, arching his eyebrow.
His hand snaked around my back and pulled me to him sharply. I gasped, and he pressed his open mouth to mine.
Angelina, all the stories Father used to tell us could never have prepared me for this! Heaven is not singing— heaven is kissing! With tongues!
Tongues met each other in a silent duet. Then a noisy pas de deux. Then a bombastic match between sumo wrestlers, each vying for control, but neither one ready to concede defeat!
I explored his mouth, and he mine. I felt his uvula, and he felt mine. I thought I might gag at one point, but Cecil cupped my bottom and pulled me closer: suddenly, I was right as rain.
My knees weakened, and I felt my head grow hazy. Cecil noticed this, and gently released my mouth from his delicious assault.
"You… you…" I gasped for air. "You taste like…"
"Heaven?"
"No. Like rum. And clove cigarettes."
Cecil blanched. "We all have our vices."
"I like your vices."
"You do?"
"Yes, I think I do."
Cradling me in his arms, Cecil picked me up and took me to the swan bed. Setting me down, he gestured to the armoire. "There is a selection of nightclothes in there. Choose whatever pleases you. Not what you think would please me. There will be time for that later."
He turned to leave, then stopped abruptly.
"Oh, by the by… the Bal Masque is tomorrow night. The managers decided to throw one again; testing their luck, I suppose. I took the liberty of procuring you a costume complementary to mine, so that everyone will know implicitly that we are in fact a couple, though we shall not overtly advertise such scandal. I'll be sure to arrive late, catch you unawares—as if you doubted I'd be there! —and then we can play a spot of 'lyrical sexual tension' before taking a turn around the dance floor."
He studied me for a second. "I know this seems sudden, but you must remember that at the Opera Populaire-Garnier, the most minute details take days to explain away while cataclysmic events and character-building plot sequences get lost in the mire.
"And with that, I bid you good night. I'm going to go… finish my reading…"
I changed into a lovely silk nightgown and flopped myself onto the bed. A kiss… a Ball…Cecil.
Oh what shall I ever do with Patrick and Marcus?
Your ever-bewildered sister,
Catherine