John enters the house from the back-door. He doesn't know the hour but he spent a long-time outside, wandering the vineyard and the surrounding area, which, after the festival, he will never visit again. It was some relief to be alone. He is comfortable with Hero, but he is not used to interacting with as many people as he has in the past week. He needed the space to compose his thoughts.
He slinks down the hall to the antechamber with the telephone. He knows Hero was planning on baking with the other women and doubts she is missing him. He dials the number and leans against the wall, twirling the telephone cord between his fingers.
"Hello?"
"Hey Peg."
"Fuck you! What's going on, John? Tell me right now."
"I'm going to be a couple days longer in Napa Valley."
"Dammit, what's keeping you there? You'll lose your job."
He hunches into the phone. "Just a couple more days. I can find a new job if need be."
"Oh can you? Well isn't that fine! I guess I'm worrying for no reason!"
"Margaret—"
"Cut the bullshit! What's her name?"
He freezes. "Who?"
"Don't play dumb. She must be something special to keep you there for so long."
He groans, pressing his forehead into the wall. "I don't want to have this conversation over the phone."
"Then you better come back to San Francisco. Or should I catch the train to Napa?"
"NO." He grimaces at the loudness of his voice and the prim hmph Margaret gives in response. "Look… I'm sorry, just a couple more days and I'll call you to explain. Just… trust me."
He hears her exhale. "I know… it's your own life and you can do what you like, but… this isn't like before is it?"
He expels a sigh, cursing his past self for the quaver he hears in her voice. "I promise this is nothing like that. You're… you're right… she is special.
Margaret is silent and he only knows they are still connected because of her breathing. When she speaks her voice is soft, the line crackling with the tenderness. "Johnny… are you in love?"
He goes rigid, clenching the phone so tight the case makes a noise of protest.
"John…?"
He realises he has been holding his breath and lets it go, the tension in his chest abating. "It's just a couple more days… just until the festival… I'll call you then."
Margaret makes a thoughtful hum. "You'd better."There's a crackle of movement. "Oh, Borachio wants to talk to you."
John would be more exasperated about Borachio being at his sister's flat again, but he wants to talk to him too.
"If your flat has that many plumbing issues maybe you should move."
Margaret laughs, it's nice to hear. "It was the cooker this time."
"You're a mechanic."
He hears her blow a kiss to the receiver. "Love you, Johnny."
John pulls his ear back as the phone makes a noise like scrunched up newspaper and then Borachio's voice comes through."Hello, lover."
"You want me to punch you?"
"Tsk, is that how you greet a friend doing you a favour."
John grabs the telephone cord. "You have something?"
"Eh, I'm working on it. Roussillon's a sleaze to be sure, but besides from philandering, he's too moderate in his other vices to be used against him."
"Tell me about the philandering."
"The bloke's a womaniser. He's involved with at least one of his students, if not two. If that came to light it might be enough to get him fired, but these sorts are slippery. It'll more likely be a slap on the wrist and the girls' expulsion."
"You've seen him with other women?" His voice is tight as his fists, speaking through his teeth. The creep has moved on from Hero fast; perhaps he had been cheating on her while they were still together.
"He's discreet but not enough. He must have been doing this for years and gotten arrogant. I can gather evidence, which, if it doesn't get him suspended, should allow his wife to divorce him on grounds of adultery. That should put a dent in his finances."
The blood thrumming in John's skull turns cold. "He's married?"
"You didn't know?"
He swallows, tongue uncurling from between his teeth, tasting of iron. "How… how long has he been married?"
"About twenty odd years. Her name's Helena. They have a son."
Bile rises in John's throat. "Right. Anything else I should know?"
"That's the meat of it… for now."
"Right."
"Everything fine, John?"
"Peachy," he spits. "Any chance he could trip and break both his legs?"
His answer is a chuckle. "Accidents do happen. That something you want?"
The edges of the phone bite into his palm, knuckles white. "I'll get back to you on that. For now, see what other ways you can make him bleed."
"Sure thing."
"I need to go." John wavers then mutters, "Thank you."
"Don't pain yourself. Call again soon, Margie worries."
"I worry too, if she's resorting to you for maintenance support."
"Hey, I'm a highly recommended handyman."
John sets the receiver down on Borachio's chuckling. He stares at it, pulse twitching as he envisions the smug face of Professor Roussillon. He hates him for what he has done to Hero, but to learn he is married...
Does she know? He can't imagine Hero would knowingly participate in adultery. Then this is another way in which the scumbag has deceived her. John considers marching to San Francisco, then and there. He will track Roussillon down himself and break every finger on his undeserving hands which dared defile the woman he betrayed.
His blood spits and boils, forming blisters beneath his skin. The calm he found during his walk now corroded by sulfuric fumes. How dare he. How dare he. He thought to find Hero after his call, but he can't go to her now with a beast clawing under his skin, shredding his self-control. He knows when he sees her he will have to reveal what he has learned and add to her burdens.
What will she think of him, prying into her affairs, investigating her ex-lover?
These thoughts buzz in his head like a nest of angry hornets as he plunges back outside, staggering through the courtyard. He is revved up, rearing for a fight, to land his fist into Roussillon's lying face. But the professor isn't here.
As if summoned by his worst instincts, Claudio stalks from a shed. John stiffens like a wolf scenting prey. There is his fight. The other man has wanted to take a swing at him since he arrived; it will only take a few goading words. He starts towards Claudio, who hasn't noticed him yet, fumbling with a stack of crates.
Before he can open his mouth, Hero's voice calls out, "John!"
Her footsteps hurry across the courtyard, reaching him before he has finished turning. She throws her arms around him.
"You weren't at lunch. No one knew where you were." She looks into his face and her own tightens with concern. "My father said something, didn't he? What did he say?"
Gazing on her lovely features tensed with worry douses his rage. His body sags, feeling water-logged and rotting. "I'm sorry to have alarmed you. I didn't realise the time. I called my sister."
"I hope everything is alright?"
Her concern is so sincere that it gives him a bittersweet pang, conscious of the blow he must deliver. "She… is fine. Hero… I… ah… can we talk?" He grimaces at his own awkward phrasing. "In private."
Her eyes widen a fraction. "Um… alright."
She glances around, notices Claudio who has spotted them and guides John to the walled garden. They enter through the gate, closing it behind them.
"I'm sorry if my father was rude."
"It's not him."
He pulls out of her touch, withdrawing several paces as he summons his nerve. He has charged through battle, bombs falling around him, but that didn't shake him like she does. He takes a breath. "When I called my sister… I also spoke to a fr—acquaintance of mine. He's been… doing me… a favour." His gaze darts to the fountain behind her. "I asked him to look into your Professor Roussillon."
She draws in a sharp breath. "What? W-wh-why would you-you ask him that?"
His jaw sets, hands curling into fist as he looks anywhere but at her. "Because… I wanted to make him pay for how he's treated you."
"John," his name is strangled in her throat. "I never asked you to do that. I don't want — I don't want to cause anyone trouble."
"He doesn't deserve your kindness." His eyes flash to her, indignation flaring inside him. "He shouldn't get away with this. He is taking advantage of his position to seduce his students. The man's a creep, a scumbag!"
"His… students?"
He sees the heartache in her eyes, the words burn like ash is his throat. "My contact tells me he is involved with another of his students."
Her face collapses, squeezing her eyes shut as she turns away. Her voice quavers, "Did… did he say… wh-who?"
"He didn't."
She nods, hand rising to wipe something from her face. "I'm… s-s-sorry for her… who-whoever she is. He truly is a sc-sc-scumbag."
He watches her, wondering if he should reveal the extent of Roussillon's deceit. If she doesn't know, it will only wound her more. But to lie to her, even by omission, after the trust she has put in him feels like its own betrayal, as if he has a share in Roussillon's crime. She is not glass, he reminds himself. She deserves the truth, however cruel.
"There's more."
She looks at him, her shoulders sunken, the whites of her eyes shimmering pink. "What?"
He hesitates, trying to soften the edges of what he is to reveal and finding no way to remove their cut. "He is married."
She inhales, the breath shuddering through her lips. She looks as if she has been slapped, but then she hunches in on herself, arms folding around her abdomen.
"I know."
Now it is John who reacts in surprise.
"He—He told me. When I — when I informed him I was pregnant. He said — he said he couldn't be the baby's father because…" her voice hitches on a sob, "...because he already had a wife and son. I-I didn't understand. I… he told me before that he was a widower. Or, that's what we all thought. I'm sure he told me she had died but…" her bottom lips trembles, "B-But she was alive, his wife was alive and—and I… I was the other woman." She fixes John with a desperate, pleading look. "I never would have become involved with him if I'd known he was married. I'd never — I'd never hurt someone like that or-or violate the vows of marriage. I know — I know I'm wicked but please believe me, I didn't know."
"You're not wicked, Hero." He steps towards her, placing his hand on her shoulder. She flinches first, then relaxes, meeting his gaze. "He lied to you, betrayed your trust and hers."
She balls her fists pressing them to her eyes. "I should have known. I'm so stupid!"
His hand slides to her back, guiding her to him. "You're not. You expect people to be honest because you are honest."
She shakes her head. "I'm not, I'm not. I'm lying to my family. They think we're married!" She stares at him, tears trickling from her eyes. "They don't realise I'm just a stupid slut who got herself pregnant with her professor's child!"
"You're not a slut and you're not stupid."
"I am. I am." She sobs, throwing her head back and scrunching up her eyes. "Everyone will think so."
"They won't find out."
"I must seem like such a whore to you, climbing on your cock while I'm pregnant with another man's child."
Her words are like a scythe through his stomach, he lurches forward. "NO. Hero. No."
He tries to hold her, tries to make her understand through words and touch, but she is frantic, blind with tears. "Is that why you disappeared? You couldn't face me knowing what I am? A cheating whore!"
"NO. I — I didn't want to hurt you." Seeing her anguish feels like shrapnel lodged in his side, poisoning his kidneys. "I was wrong to go after Roussillon without speaking to you first. I… I'm sorry."
Her face fractures in a watery smile. "You don't need to be sorry, John. You've been good to me. You've been so kind. I had almost given up on good men."
His heart batters on a blade, because he has never considered himself good. "I'm nothing — I'm not —"
She sniffs, her brow puckering, and her fingers rise to his cheek. "Please don't call yourself nothing. You are far better than you believe."
He draws her into his arms, leaning his head upon hers. "And you… you are not a slut, nor a whore, nor any other ugly name you call yourself." He wipes aside a tear as it slips from her eye. "You are lovely, Hero. Clever and lovely."
Her lips quiver, a whimper escaping her. "You don't… hate me?"
"Never." He kisses her temple. "You don't hate me for having Roussillon tailed?
"No," her thumb brushes the hair around his ear, "But I would prefer you to stop. I don't want you to get in any trouble."
He crooks a smile. "Haven't you noticed? I like trouble."
He catches her lips between his own, kissing her with care as she softens against him.
She sighs. "I can't decide if it makes it better or worse…"
"What?"
She leans into him, hiding her face in his shoulder. "I didn't love him. I… I thought I did… at the time, but… now… I know, I didn't."
A fragile cobweb of hope strings itself in John's heart and he dares not breathe for fear of snapping it. Instead, his fingers sink into her curls and he holds her to him, for as long as time allows.
:-x-:
After the revelations in the walled garden, Hero is in no hurry to return to her family; her mother and Beatrice are bound to perceive something has upset her, if the others don't guess themselves. Her eyes are still sore from crying, her breathing not quite steady. John suggests a walk in the woods and she is quick to agree. The forest twitters as birds relay messages back to each other, squirrels bound from branch-to-branch, and rabbits rustle in the undergrowth. She loves her family and everyone at Le Nuvole but it is nice to have some space from the natter and commotion, to walk amongst the trees with John.
"I'm jealous of you, growing up in a place like this." He gestures to their surroundings. "It beats concrete and clotheslines."
"That just means you used your imagination all the more."
"Got into plenty of scrapes, that's for sure."
She smiles, envisioning a young rapscallion with skinned knees and wild raven locks. Her hand rises to her stomach and she quickly drops it, screwing it into a fist. "I'm glad my child will have all this space to run around in and explore. But I will miss the city; it offered a different sort of freedom."
"What were your favourite parts?"
She tells him about the bars and the clubs she and her friends visited, the park where she would sit and read, and the Italian bakery she called in whenever she was homesick whose staff she knew by name. As she tells him about her favourite restaurants, walks along the beach, and viewing movies at the little cinema down the street, she imagines what it would have been like in all those memories to have him beside her. The sudden longing these fantasies produce knocks the air out of her, throbbing like a splinter burrowed into her sinew, and she trails off.
He mistakes her silence for a different kind of yearning. "You'll see it again. The city's not far."
Hero catches a crumpled leaf as it falls from its branch. "Will you return to San Francisco after this?"
She doesn't notice how the lines of his body stiffen. "Sacramento first, to see if I still have a job. Then, wherever. It's a big country and I'll need to put some distance between myself and the angry mob of Italians after me."
He winks at the joke, but Hero's heart squeezes like an orange turned to pulp. "I don't want to drive you from your home."
"I've never thought of San Francisco as home."
"What about your sister?"
"It's not like I won't visit. But she has her own life, she doesn't need me hanging around."
"That doesn't mean… she wouldn't want you."
He hums a neutral sound.
An idea comes to Hero and she speaks fast, before she can second-guess herself. "Maybe you can introduce us and she can — can keep me updated on — on how you are. I — I…" she tucks a curl behind her ear, "...would like to know you are well, even if… we can't meet."
He stares at her, consideringly, and her own gaze wavers. As the silence is bordering on awkward, he speaks. "I can't decide if the two of you meeting would be good or terrifying."
She wrings her hands together. "After all the trouble I've caused you, she'll probably hate me."
"She'll love you."
Hero looks into his eyes, the colour of warm chocolate and honeycomb. Her pulse skips.
Around them the trees begin to rustle and then comes the pitter-patter of raindrops striking on leaves. It quickens into a deluge, pouring through the gaps in the branches and drenching them. John grabs her hand and they run for shelter where the canopy is thickest, the evergreens retaining their leaves. They huddle together, John in his shirt sleeves and Hero in her summer dress, the wet fabric clinging to their skin.
"So much for a nice day for a picnic," she splutters, hugging her bare arms as she shivers.
John folds her in his arms, rubbing warmth into her skin. "Tomorrow will be better."
As with most sudden showers, this one eases after fifteen minutes, passing through, and Hero and John sprint through the woods, laughing and shrieking as their shoes squelch in the mud and water-droplets trickle off the trees splashing onto their necks. Le Nuvole is fresh with the smell of damp soil and petrichor. The hills and the forest shine on the horizon with the misty aura of the rain.
They stagger inside the house, removing their muddied shoes and sliding over the wooden floorboards in their damp socks. The family have gathered in the sitting room where a fire has been started, but when Innogen glances up from her book and spies them there, she orders them to change out of their wet clothes before they catch a chill.
The pair ascends the stairs, almost trampling one of the maids and apologising as they race to the bedroom. Giggling as she dashes inside, Hero begins to unpeel her clothes, stripping off her dress and undershift, leaving it wrinkled on the ground. John struggles with the buttons of his shirt and only has half undone when she hauls him by the collar into a kiss, her lips tingling as they meet his own.
She stands on her tiptoes, kissing him feverishly, pricks of heat skittering through her. He goes slack under the coaxing of her tongue as she manoeuvres him backwards until he hits the bed and then she shoves him backwards.
Landing flat on his back, he stares up at her, lips swollen and wide open. She gives him her sweetest smile, removing the last of her undergarments, then perches on the bed beside him. "We need to get you out of those wet clothes and warmed up."
He snorts. "I don't think it'll do me good if all the blood is rushing to one place."
She tilts her head, slipping the last of his shirt buttons through their holes. "I should stop then?"
Her palm settles below his navel, heat blossoming from her touch.
"No," he wheezes. "Don't stop."
Her smile grows and her hand glides to his belt buckle, undoing the clasp and sliding the leather from around his waist, dropping it to the floor. Next she unbuttons his trousers, pulling down the zipper. A moan escapes him as she brushes his burgeoning hard-on. Her fingers hook under the elastic of his briefs, gripping them and the waist of his trousers as she drags them down his legs, leaving them pooling around his ankles, his half-hard cock springing free. She wraps her hands around him, stroking him to full size until he is straining for her attention.
"H-Hero," he gurgles her name.
She collects the weeping pearls from his flushed head and coats shimmering trails over the length of him as her fingers explore. Bending down, she peppers kisses along his cock, tongue flicking out, tasting the salt of him.
"Fuck. Fuck."
"You like that?" She mews, rolling his balls between her fingers, giving them a gentle squeeze. She deviates between a light, teasing touch and sudden pressure.
"Harder, please."
She obliges him, taking him firmly in hand and pumping fast, her palm growing sticky with precome. She laps it up with her tongue, wrapping her lips around her teeth and taking the head of his cock into her mouth. John swears, a shiver running through him.
She keeps a steady hold on his length as she takes him deeper, relaxing her jaw and hollowing her cheeks — just like Bertram taught her. She knows how to suck a cock without gagging but John is a different size and she needs to adjust, drawing back.
"He-Hero — you don't have to — you don't —ack—"
He cuts off with a groan as she swirls her tongue around his leaking slit, bobbing back down until he hits the back of her throat. She takes him as deep as she can, determined to make this good. He has done so much for her. She wants him to feel good.
She manages to swallow more than half his length, massaging his base with her hands. With practice, she is sure she can take him all.
"Hero," he chants like a prayer, fingers sinking into her hair, "He-Hero—I can't—fuck—Hero—please—!"
He pulls on her curls, the motion stuttered like he wants to be gentle but can't control himself. She flicks her tongue along him in assurance, bringing him closer to that edge.
"HeroHeroGod!"
She smiles around him.
He tugs on her hair in warning. "Hero — stop — I'll—I'll cum."
She knows. She can taste his desperation. She quickens her pace, urging him on. It doesn't take long until he is crying out, filling her mouth. She tries to swallow it but has to pull-off him, spluttering. A curious part of her brain compares the taste of him with Bertram. She doesn't dislike it as she used to, but this is about his pleasure, not her own.
She wipes her mouth and chin, gazing down at John who lies limp and sated upon the mattress, chest rising as he pants, his spent cock dribbling the last of his seed onto the sheets. His pupils are blown wide, his hair in chaos, looking like a wild thing.
She smiles, stretching out on the bed and resting her head next to his own. "Was that good?"
His hand rises to her cheek, bringing her mouth to his. "You are magnificent."
Her pulse flutters as he kisses her, slow and savouring. He must taste himself on her but it doesn't deter his tongue from perusing her mouth as if desirous to go as deep as his cock has just gone.
He withdraws, gasping for breath. "Let me return the favour."
"You don't need to." She brushes his fringe from his brow, stomach swooping. She wanted to do this for him, after everything he has done for her. She wanted him to feel good. As nice as his fingers would be, she doesn't require reciprocation, his pleasure is her own. "We will be expected downstairs for dinner soon and we need to clean ourselves up."
He groans, mouthing wet kisses along her throat. "Not yet. I'm not done with you yet."
She giggles, fingers threading in his hair. "Mmm… perhaps we have a little time left…"
His hand closes around her breast and she loses track of the ticking clock. The room grows dark as the last vestiges of sunlight trickle behind the horizon. The lovers on the bed don't notice, too wrapped up in each other, making the most of their touches and the time they have left.
