"All of us who are worth anything, spend our manhood in unlearning the follies, or expiating the mistakes of our youth." Percy Bysshe Shelley
CHAPTER ONE: Rain.
Of all the complexities that had met them on this, their honeymoon, the one most frustrating and yet somehow also beguiling was that of the rain. They must've come to Italy during the wettest March on record: rain slashing against the train windows on their way down; rain poxing the web of canals in Venice; rain washing every old stone in Rome. Even now, tonight in Florence, he listened to it pitter cheerfully—mockingly—against the glass opposite the bed, and he groaned quietly.
The rain had made everything that much more difficult to navigate. Had it been inconsiderate of him to take her out hither and thither sightseeing? He'd learned so much about the way she held an umbrella and about the way she side-stepped puddles without interrupting her confident gait. And he had also learned much about the way he worried over her, too. It was not warm in March, even in Italy. She'd often come back into the adjoining sitting room of their hotel suite rubbing her gloved hands together or going directly to stand before the fire to "dry out," as she had teased. Just yesterday, their last full day in Rome, he'd taken her out to explore the ruins of the Roman Forum in spite of the weather. He couldn't allow himself to leave Rome without seeing the arches and temples and forums he'd read about at Eton. And, for her part, she had seemed eager to do so as their maid and valet had tried their best to dress them for the chill of the damp weather. Of course it had begun to rain—if one could call it that—just as they'd reached the Arch of Septimius Severus, rain which accomplished little more than misting everything around them in the thinnest layer of wet. Upon their arrival back at their hotel at the end of what wound up to be a very long day, he'd noticed that the bottom hem of her coat and skirts were sodden, three inches deep. And his brow felt heavier in concern for her.
"You're practically soaked through."
But she hadn't minded. He did, of course, but she hadn't. She'd simply looked down at her dress and then back up at him with a small lopsided smile. "Aren't you?"
He supposed he was.
And she really had been eager, eager to do everything with him. In Scotland, where they'd stayed a fortnight after the wedding, she'd been eager to ask him questions about what he liked, sometimes finishing his sentences as if she were answering an oral examination at school. On the long journey to Italy, she'd memorized the stops they'd make, the relations and friends of his they'd meet with, sometimes furrowing her brow when she couldn't place a name. On their first day in Venice, she'd been eager to marvel at St Mark's Square, the place he wanted to see most, her eyes catching every sharp line of the architecture, every identical arch, that nested the bustle of the soft curves of people around them.
And she'd been eager tonight, too.
Robert drew the blanket more over his arms and to his chin, exhaling in the quiet against the sound of the rain. It embarrassed him to think she should be the one to suggest it, to suggest they should resume the physical aspect of marriage after their week of abstinence to allow for her … that is, she'd been unwell. (Or at least that's how he knew best to say such a thing.) Robert had silently reprimanded himself when his first feeling when she'd told him was a strange disappointment—-he'd thought pregnancy was much easier to achieve; James was so often trying to avoid it. And now he reprimanded himself again that several days had passed since Cora assured him that it had come and gone and he'd not made an effort to rejoin her in her room.
It had been her. She'd suggested it quietly after luncheon today, whilst on the train. She hadn't looked at him, thank God. She'd only lifted her chin and remarked, very easily, that all was perfectly well, "should you like to visit me this evening."
Robert had nearly forgotten to breathe.
Oh. He wanted to. Yes, he had stayed away, but he did want to visit her.
They hadn't performed the act more than four times the entire month they'd been married—in the three weeks they'd been able to—and Robert felt ashamed, and surprised, at how much he looked forward to it now. But it wasn't honorable, he thought, to lust after his new wife when he suspected her affection for him was genuine while his for her was … well, if not ingenuine, it did not match what he knew she felt. There was some admiration for her, gratitude, too, and some amount of friendship, certainly. There was also, however, a more present sexual attraction to her than any of the other feelings. The week before in Rome, during her period of unwellness, he found himself curiously wanting to be with her more than he had in the weeks since they'd married. It confused and rattled him to feel this. He even went so far as to pray about it, kneeling beside her in a Roman Catholic Mass, her dark head covered in a white lace mantilla, her little voice whispering, "in nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sanсti" just loud enough so he could hear her. The guilt ate him up inside.
Lust was a deadly sin, wasn't it? Did it apply to one's own wife? Well, it may if one did not love his own wife. And Robert had dipped his head lower as the congregation, and Cora, murmured on.
He wasn't sure if Cora felt the same lust for him, though lying beside her and cocooned by the quiet tit-tit-tit of the gentle rainfall against the window panes, he wondered if she perhaps did.
It was eagerness, the way she'd lifted her chin to grant him better access to her mouth, and then her throat. It was eagerness at the way she'd taken off her nightdress, completely, something that had not happened since the first consummation of their marriage.
It was eagerness, unmistakable eagerness indeed, the way she'd hummed that deep purr in the bottom of her throat when he moved more quickly, spurring him on in a way he hadn't expected. Again, it was most assuredly eagerness, at her high gasp and whimper when he … finished.
He kept turning this over in his mind again and again as he laid beside her now, her sleeping face at peace.
It was a while before he caught himself as he stared, his thoughts spacing out, drifting further apart as he looked at her.
Tonight had marked five times they'd done it, been dutiful. It had only been five times, but somehow a small routine had emerged from the clumsy and awkward tumbling about.
He'd spill inside her, catch his breath, roll away. They'd grab at the blankets, smile at one another amicably. She'd push down her dress. He'd find his pajama bottoms. And she'd roll on her side toward him, a finger touching at the fabric of his nightshirt's sleeve before she closed her eyes and forced herself to sleep. Forced, he knew, so that it would make his awkward departure easier for the both of them. And so he'd wait until her breathing was measured and easy, until the warm presence of her consciousness had departed. And then he'd roll out of the comfort of her bed and leave her room, going into the hotel room assigned to him—the groom.
So now, upon collecting himself and realizing he'd stared at her face for far longer than what seemed normal, Robert exhaled and began to move to follow their month-long routine, when to his surprise he felt the small tug of fabric against his arm; her fingers that had remained there pulled at the sleeve.
"I don't mind."
Her voice was quiet, but he'd heard her. "What's that?"
The shifting of the coverlet and pillow against her gentle movements momentarily drowned out the sound of the rain.
"I said I don't mind. If you stay."
He blinked. "You would be more comfortable—"
"-No." He felt her move closer to him, slightly, and he peered down at her. "I'm warmer with you here."
He had to smile at that, and he found himself lying down again beside her. "It is colder than we thought it'd be, isn't it?"
"And I'm sure that this rain isn't helping matters."
He laughed, once. "No."
And then they both laid together in the quiet. But it wasn't a difficult one. Ironically, he thought that the rain did help in that way, filling their new shared silences—silences he was sure they'd have many more of in the future decades of their life together. Perhaps the rain on this, their honeymoon, was in fact a Godsend; Fate reaching out a soft and warm hand, like Nanny, helping them to learn to walk.
"I'm sorry for yesterday." He startled himself at his admission, the thoughts of rain gathering like little puddles in his head, forming the picture of her wet skirts in Rome. He saw no way back from it now, so he continued. "I shouldn't have forced you out to the Forum ruins. Not in the weather."
"Oh?" Her voice was half-muffled by her pillow and half-muffled by a sort of surprised gruffness. "There's no need to apologize. It would've been a shame to leave Rome without seeing them."
"Yes," he hummed. "Although I'm sure you're likely on your way to a cold, I have to admit I'm glad we went. May have been my favorite thing we've seen."
"Your favorite?"
And in the gently echoing sound of the rain falling harder, he heard the rustle of the change in her position. He looked over at his new wife in the darkness, at the way her brushed out curls fluffed over her shoulder. She'd rolled to her stomach closer to him and her head was lifted, looking back at him. The dim light in her hotel room, from where it came he wasn't sure for the fire was only embers now, played at new angles of her features, angles he hadn't ever seen before. She looked different.
"I should've thought you liked the Grand Canal by gondola."
He laughed, for it was a joke, and they both knew it.
They'd had an overindulgent dinner with some friends of friends of his father's in Venice, Robert particularly enjoying an Italian vintage being poured out again and again. After dinner, just as they passed under the arched signage for 'SERVIZIO GONDOLE,' he'd haughtily refused her offer of a peppermint candy she carried with her in her purse. He soon regretted it—oh, the hubris—as he suffered the slow rocking and the soft slapping and lapping noise of the murky, dark water of the canal against the black of the gondola under the cloudy, moonless night sky. It had churned into seasickness. Cora, who looked quite like she belonged in an Italian oil painting with her red dress and cloak and black beading and lace trimmings, had eyed him with such narrowed concern he felt embarrassed. It wasn't until, after their gondola nudged gently against another in a small canal between lantern-lit Renaissance-constructed blocks of buildings, and their gondolier shouted and laughed amicably at the other gondolier, that Robert felt embarrassment was entirely useless and asked, quietly, if Cora had that peppermint in the embroidered purse she carried with her, please.
"Just about as much as you liked the Mercati di Rialto."
She laughed, and he smiled at the way her face grew rounder and unguarded; there was nothing pretend in this, no conscious effort to be charming or to flirt. He was grateful for that.
"You should've warned me!" she huffed good-naturedly.
"I didn't think I would need to warn you against fish."
She shook her head. "I'm not a country woman, as I keep telling you."
"You're a country woman through marriage, Cora. Or at least you'll need to become one soon enough; I expect you to chum me on shoots and all sorts of things."
"If you insist," her laughter died down, and as it did so, she rested her head against the softness of the pillow, and again Robert could hear the rain smoothing out their quiet pauses of conversation.
Again his mind lingered around the rain-misted ruins of giant columns, wet arches, and slick broken-stoned paths of the Roman Forum. He thought of her twisting and looking upward, her long, thin fingers shielding her eyes from the gray glare of the drizzling sky. And he thought of her lying beside him now, and for not the first time on their honeymoon, he wished to feel something for her beyond gratitude. And lust.
But he did appreciate the ease between them. Was this the answer to his prayer? That after the week of necessary abstinence and that strange yearning for her body the coupling would be more natural and that they'd emerge as friends?
Perhaps it was the trick of honeymoons.
"Well then?"
It was another moment before she lifted her head again at his voice, and Robert looked at all the new angles the light played at her jaw and eyes and nose—still learning the look of her, his wife.
"I've told you my favorite," he mumbled on. "What's been yours?"
"My favorite thing we've done? Sight we've seen?"
He nodded.
She looked even more different when she pouted thoughtfully, her mouth puckering out. "I'm not sure. Venice and Rome were so different. It's like comparing apples and oranges."
"Then your favorite in each?"
Her eyes opened wider. "Oh." And she cocked her jaw to one side, thinking. "Well, I guess in Venice it was the cathedral, St Mark's Basilica. Even if that is rather obvious."
He chuckled. "It's a landmark for a reason."
"And then Rome," she paused here, and she let her teeth sink into the swell of her bottom lip. He watched her, noticing an unnecessary stirring between his hips. "Hmm. I suppose the Sistine Chapel. Or rather, the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. It really was incredible, wasn't it?" They smiled at one another. And then he watched her brows bob up, quickly. "Oh! And going to the Mass at Santa Maria del Popolo."
"Really?" Had she truly been enjoying it all? As Robert had knelt beside her and asked for the Lord's forgiveness? Forgiveness for a sin that had, indeed, involved her.
"Yes!" she laughed. "Why does it surprise you?"
He felt uncomfortable. "Because it was a Catholic Mass. In Latin. With bobbing and kneeling and all the rest." And he didn't quite understand her laughter at him.
"But why should that matter? You learned Latin at school, didn't you?"
"Yes, but —"
"And there wasn't that much kneeling. Just during the Transubstantiation."
"And that's another thing." He lifted a hand from the blankets. "How could the entire Eucharist be transformed into the Body and Blood of Christ? Surely the bread and wine remain. It looked no different."
She shook her head, her smile unwavering. "I thought 'we walked by faith, not by sight.' I'm fairly certain the Bible says that somewhere."
"In Corinthians, but that's not the point."
"Oh?"
"The point is there's something strange and foreign about it."
"Well, seeing as though we were in Rome—"
"—You really enjoyed it?"
"Yes," she shook her head and shrugged. "I did. I thought it was beautiful."
"Ah." He drew out the word, at last finding something he could understand; it was also something that made him feel less guilty that he'd spent the Mass ridding himself of his sinful thoughts of her. "Yes. I can agree there. The art, yes, was beautiful."
"And the rest, too," she smirked. "Robert? I'm intrigued! Do you think He prefers one religion over the others? Truly?"
"Who?" Robert blinked. The conversation had taken such a turn. "God?"
She began to chuckle. "Yes. God. I should think it's people, not God, who prefer one way to worship, or what they want to believe in."
He watched her blink at him, all open and smooth-faced and sincere. He'd never known any other woman like her. Really.
She continued, "I suppose I would think that, though, seeing as though I practice an entirely different religion than my own father, never mind denomination."
When he didn't respond, because how could he possibly, she tipped her head. "It's all right, Robert. I'm not trying to stir. Just find it fascinating, discovering our differences."
"Fascinating? When there are so many?" He pulled again at the bedsheets. "I should think it more fascinating to discover our similarities."
The next silence was not easy like the ones before, and Robert felt his face burn at his careless words. Immediate remorse.
Oh, this silence.
It was thicker. Harder to breathe through. Neither moved for fear it would tip the whole evening off the edge of the cliff that Robert had flung them to.
And it drug on and on until, at last, Robert swallowed to move the muscle stiff in his throat.
"Do you want me to stay here? I could go."
"Yes. I do."
He exhaled something that felt like relief. And he made himself nestle further down into the bed. "If you're sure."
"I am." Her voice was so much quieter now. "The fire's gone."
It was. The last embers sputtering their last pulse of orange life.
"Robert," he heard her say softly, and he listened to her. "It's stopped raining."
