Eliza Doolittle: The Life and Times of a Good Girl
Chapter Seventeen: Catherine's Legacy or Après Moi le Deluge
Author's Note: Please forgive the melodrama; I think I must have been thinking about 'The Forsyte Saga' when I wrote this.
My Dearest Cathy,
Try as I might, I cannot ignore the rather warm regard I feel for you. Your face has haunted me these past years, stunning me into a heavy, debilitating silence. No more. I cannot keep my heart closed to you any longer, because you are my heart. Please excuse the unpolished sentimentality of my words, I am not accustomed to making known my inner most desires.
It would be my fondest wish for you to end my suffering and consent to be my wife. I know you will naturally raise concerns about out different positions in life. Let me assure you, I do not care about such things. Society can go to the devil for all I care, as long as I have my Catherine beside me. I will take care of you. We can move your things into 27A as soon as you give me word; Mother will simply have to find a different house-keeper. Perhaps she can keep Mrs. Pearce; I don't believe that old bat likes me anyway, and she is used to taking care of Mother's household, after all.
I feel as though I am digressing in order to make this letter a lengthy one. Forgive me, I do not what to write that hasn't already been written by minds far greater than my own. I am no poet, although I do admire them. In place of a long, flowery verse, I shall write it down in plain English : I love you.
Please, do not disappoint me.
Yours ever,
Henry Higgins
Henry groaned in disgust at the words he read. Throughout the years, he had forgotten the contents of the infamous letter, and for good reason. If his signature hadn't been scrawled so proudly towards the bottom, Henry would've sworn Freddy Hill or some other imbecilic swain had penned it. Surely there was a vast difference between Henry the Man and Henry the Love struck boy. There had to be! Henry couldn't recall, or understand the feelings this young man held.
For the eleventh time since he received the damning parcel, Henry's eyes fell upon the framed photo. Catherine was sitting primly in a gown that Henry recognized from the last time he had ever seen her alive. Her eyes no longer held that special, condescending sparkle. Indeed, they seemed haunted and slightly sunken in. The material evidence of his actions immortalized in sepia hues. Of course, most importantly, there was Eliza. The letter his brother had written along with the parcel explicitly told Henry that the toddler Catherine was holding was, indeed, Eliza. Upon reading that little revelation, Henry had torn the photo from its' frame, and turned it over. Sure enough, Eliza and Catherine's names were scrawled about the back with the date included. The markings were starting to fade, attesting to the authenticity. It was all too cruel a coincidence.
Henry quickly stashed both the letter and the photograph into the nightstand drawer when he noticed Eliza beginning to stir. She blinked sleepily, and gave him a lazy smile that he did not return. "Why are you not in bed?" She asked in a husky voice that was meant to entice. Ordinarily, it would have worked on Henry like a charm.
"I am not in bed, because, I do not wish to waste my day with idleness for once." He inwardly winced at the coldness in his voice.
"It is our honeymoon, Henry. It's an entire occasion dedicated to idle behavior," Eliza replied, undeterred. She scooted closer to the edge of the bed, so that she could reach out a hand and gently rest it on his knee. He sat up abruptly, as though her touch had branded him, upending his chair in the process.
"Henry?"
Henry wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with her, and kiss away the hurt and confusion in her voice. His heart was willing, but his brain cried, 'Wrong!'. Eliza was Catherine's daughter. More than likely she had been conceived the very night Catherine had ran off to the arms of Alfred Doolittle. The dates matched up.
Good lord, he had ruined her life; robbed her of a comfortable childhood. The image of Eliza, dirty, thin and shivering in Covent Garden haunted him. How he had mocked her dirt, grime and lack of education, when it had been he who had put her in that situation.
Henry had married Catherine's daughter. Made love to Catherine's daughter. His eyes settled on her face, and the resemblance between the two women was enough to stagger him utterly.
"Henry, are you unwell?" He was positively poisoned.
"I am going for a walk, don't you dare follow me," he replied, hoarsely, before beating a hasty retreat.
Eliza stared at the empty entryway for what felt like an eternity. She was utterly stunned at what she had just witnessed. Silently, she got out of bed and dressed for the day. Eliza's mind flew in a million different directions as she brushed through her hair. Had she done something wrong to make him behave thusly? Her eyes were fixed on the reflection of the entryway, mentally willing him to come back and explain. Eliza did the same thing when she was in the kitchen, assisting the housekeeper with breakfast; her ears straining for the sound of the front door opening and his familiar footsteps.
Henry did not show up until after breakfast, and Eliza was beside herself by then. Her stunned silence had transposed into full-blown wracking sobs, as she sat outside near the sea, willing it to swallow her up and drag her away from all the hurt and confusion.
Henry had not noticed her on the beach at first, and was quite alarmed to find her not in the cottage. The weather was turning foul, and the darkening sky had prompted him to return from his wanderings. Henry rushed from room to room, calling out for Eliza. He even flung open her armoire to make sure her clothes were still there, part of him terrified that she had fled at his bizarre behavior.
Finally, he spotted her from the window; a forlorn figure in white chiffon and hair that was being loosened from it's chignon by the wind. Even from a distance he could see that she was sobbing, heedless to the rain that had begun to fall. He cursed under his breath and hurried outside, running to her. Not effortlessly, he managed to gather her into his arms. Eliza had fought him, initially, trying to land a blow with her closed fists. Henry ignored the desperate violence, and tried soothing her temper with apologies and endearments. Finally she quieted in his arms, her sobs calming into hiccups, her head relaxing against his shoulder.
When Henry reached the bedroom, he set Eliza down on her feet, and dutifully began to unbutton her wet clothing. She stood there, silent and shivering for a moment, before turning to face him and bringing her lips to his in a desperate kiss. He had not wanted it to happen thusly, he wanted to calm her down and explain his actions, but in that one bold move, all his plans fell to dust for the moment.
They made love with an intensity that had been unknown to Henry until that point. Eliza clung to him as though he was going to disappear in a puff of smoke at any given moment, and he unleashed his pent-up emotions with a force that was surely hurting her. Had Henry been in a right frame of mind, he would have been conscious of the fact.
Afterwards, when they were panting and silent, Henry turned to Eliza. At that moment, nearby lightening caused the room to be illuminated in platinum, and Henry gave a start when for a split second, Eliza's hair appeared fair, her face glowed white like a spirit. It was as if Catherine were staring lovingly at him.
Henry felt a sickening need to distance himself from all of this. Maybe had been a fool to think that Eliza would understand the truth when he couldn't wrap his mind around it himself. He needed time to separate the two women, and he couldn't do that with her around as a constant reminder.
"Eliza, I am going away."
Eliza narrowed her eyes. "I beg your pardon?"
"I've done some thinking the past few days about Anson Webster's proposal. I believe I am going to book a rail so that I can meet him at the Sorbonne, where the tour is to start."
"Whatever for? I heard you tell him that the idea was completely unappealing to you. It will take you away for at least a year." Eliza's eyes searched his face, trying to seek out the reason for this shocking bit of news. "Will you not take me with you?"
Henry shook his head. "It's no place for you, Eliza. You would be bored to tears by all of us overbearing intellectuals. I think it's better that you enjoy as much of the cottage as you can, and then return to 27A. The household is more than likely in shambles without your touch."
Realization dawned on Eliza. "Jillian Webster is going to be there."
"Well, of course. Anson is so besotted with that ridiculous woman that he can scarcely pick out his ties without her blessing." Her dangerous glare caused him to move away towards the edge of the bed.
"I see." She sat up suddenly, clutching the sheets against her form. "She was so right. You are fleeing to her side."
"What?"
Eliza smiled bitterly. "My unpolished attempts at pleasing you are nothing, stacked up to her considerable wealth of experience. I was a fool to think I had any sway over you." She got out of bed, and donned a robe. She crossed the room and sat down at the vanity, twisting up her hair. "You had better dress quickly to catch that rail. You wouldn't want to keep your lover waiting."
"I was going to wait until tomorrow, once the weather was fair… and I don't care for your accusations!"
"I've no idea why you would possibly want to leave, if not for a lover," Eliza retorted calmly. She turned to him. "I am sorry I was so lacking, but I did remind you time and time again that I was a good girl before I married you. "
Although the reasons that Henry had for leaving were, in fact, reprehensible, the accusation that Eliza was none-too-subtly throwing at him stung with an unbelievable fire.
"I am leaving because I need something to occupy my time!" Henry cried. He stood and grabbed his own robe, pacing the room furiously. "I cannot persist in being idle anymore, I told you as much earlier this morning. I need something to keep my mind occupied, Eliza, I need to work!"
"You would be separated from me for a year, because you need to 'work'? Could you not continue giving lessons out of our home?" Damn her. He knew she was not going to accept this humbly, and quietly, as most wives were expected to.
"This is something that will pay so much more than giving lessons to common rabble," he explained. He regretted his choice of words the moment they left his mouth. He looked away as Eliza's face went from flush to pale in an instant.
"I would like for you to leave," she whispered, hoarsely.
"I did not mean you, Eliza, please-"
"Get out of here!" She cried.
He ducked a hairbrush. "Eliza, the weather…"
"You can wait until doomsday to get on that rail, but you had better do it out of my presence, Henry Higgins!" She was standing now, fists clenched, nostrils flaring. Henry thought it better to retreat as quietly as possible.
"I just need time to gather my belongings, and I will go to a hotel for the night. I am so sorry, Eliza."
She stormed from the door, slamming the door as loudly as she could. Henry found himself pondering how things could have gone so spectacularly wrong without him even revealing the true nature of his behavior.