Part Six

*****

What had become of Daisy Threale, pretty and golden, clever and sweet? He had not thought of her in years. A part of him had known, even then, what it was she might have given him and he had dismissed her, pushed her aside as a man dying shoves away the laudanum bottle, desiring, more than peace from pain, to know his last moments in full.

Wasn't it true? In spite of the whisky and the rum, for all of his running and his fear, had he not always, in his perversity, and in his disease, always cherished the pain? After all, it had been with him nearly all his life, as much a part of him as guts and bones. And hadn't he always known that he was dying of it?

"I will say one…two…three…fire," intoned Doctor Hepplewhite, his fat face pale beneath its wash of freckling, his childish upturned nose slightly reddened with the cold. Standing behind him, Kennedy stood perfectly still but for his eyes, which moved with apprehension first to Adam, and then to Simpson and then closed for a moment, as if invoking a silent prayer. But for whom?

"On the last word, gentlemen, you can fire as you will." Hepplewhite turned his head and looked at Adam.

Fancy, he had loved. But in the end, had he not loved the thing inside him most? That jealous thing, that needful thing, the thing to which he desired to surrender above all else, and yet had tried for all his life to turn away---with whiskey, with rum, with foolish hope? He had left his one love, finally, for the other, and even then he had proved cowardly and inconstant, for the years had come and gone and still he lived; tormented, promised, and yet somehow still unwilling---or unable---to consummate his troth.

Until now.

"Are you ready?"

He fixed his eyes on Simpson, who stood in his shirtsleeves, spraddle-legged and bold, his handsome arrogant face a mask of evil confidence and perfect disdain.

"Yes." His own voice was strange in his ears, strong and deep, the single word, the final word, spoken with a clear conviction that was such as he had never known but for when he had said to *her* at the very last, "I love you."

And as Hepplewhite counted, and as he raised the pistol at arm's length and took his careful aim, and as he heard the word to fire, and he saw Jack Simpson clutch his breast and fall, and as he watched the bright blood spreading on the white and he sank to his knees in the snow, only with the joy of it, yes, it was only the relief!---it was her face that he saw, smiling, no, laughing, as she came into his arms.


***

"Listen to this!"

In a blur of motion and a blaze of shining dragon-green silk she whirled away from the dressing table and spun towards him as he entered the little room, closing the door softly behind him. He took a step back and caught her in his arms as she flew. She was laughing, breathless; her body beneath the thin silk of her dressing gown was both soft and strangely hot, and the scent of perfume, wax cosmetic, and smoke rose from the confusion of her unbound hair. Overcome, he fell back against the door and let her surround him, if only for a moment.

"Listen to what that fat old goat, Glover, has to say of me!" she giggled, turning slightly in his arms and waving a crumpled bit of newsprint under his nose. "It's ever so good. Look!"

Adam attempted to take hold of the paper as she danced it in front of his face, but then she wriggled out of his arms again and took a few more spinning steps away, halfway across the width of the tiny room. The little space was well-lit by candles in mirrored sconces that flanked a large dressing mirror over a table littered with glass pots and ceramic jars, pincushions, brushes and ribbons. Jewels spilled from a wooden box inlaid with silver and ivory, and everywhere there were flowers. Roses. Expensive white lilies. Where they had come from, he wished he could not guess.

He watched her as she walked back and forth in front of him, turning on her heel every few steps, unable to conceal the merriment in her voice as she read aloud from the paper.

"In the role of Sesto," she began lightly, "son of Cornelia, wife of Pompey---which the informed will know was conceived by Herr Handel in the voice of the castrato--- Mr. Harris has seen fit to place his very pretty protege, one Signorina Anna Francesca Gabrieli. Yes, that very she of whom ---it would seem to them what could not help but hear it---we could not hear enough this season past.

"This lark, this Sirene, is of that rare breed as is referred to as the coloratura, nay, more to it, the acuto sfogato, and 'tis said this remarkable creature has a range which may be heard to reach (if one may only bear it!) a full three octaves above middle C. To which your humble servant will only sigh and ask, 'To what purpose?'

"The feat, when it is done, is worth little and it may be counterfeited by adroit trickery. And when yet genuine, and no matter how elegantly mastered, the effect is still more than worthless, and may at last only bring the sentient and artistic soul to recall the pain of a surgical operation, howsoever it may strike the vulgar with surprise."

She giggled again. "Oh, it's terrible, isn't it? I shouldn't laugh! I should think he hates me!"

Adam was confused. "Fancy…" he said, not knowing whether he was meant to share in the apparent joy, or offer to run the man through.

"Only he doesn't, you see!" she laughed. "It was he who sent me those!" she waved her hand in the direction of a massive display of deep pink roses laced with ivy and silver ribbons. She let the paper fall from her hands and it fluttered insignificantly to the floor as she came to him again, wrapping her arms around him and turning up her face, her dark eyes glinting with amusement.

"I don't understand," he said finally.

"It's the Zamperini!" she cried happily, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet as she reached up, her fingers tugging at the ribbon that tied his hair.

He shook his head, smiling at her, but still unenlightened. Signora Zamperini was a splendid, celebrated, and notoriously temperamental soprano, magnificent in the role of Cleopatra in tonight's performance of Handel's "Giulio Cesare"

"Everyone knows he is sleeping with her---or at least, that he very much wants to," Fancy said matter-of-factly, and Adam supposed, really, that he had no business to be shocked by her frankness, nor by the way her hot, wet little tongue snaked out and licked at his earlobe as she pressed herself against him and whispered, "I think she must be very afraid of me, don't you?"

"Very likely," he said a little dryly, and swallowed, summoning the will to take her by the arms and put her away from him a little. "Come, I've come to fetch you to supper, and you aren't even dressed. Where is your girl? Your papa, Mr. Thom, everyone is waiting."

"And I have been waiting for you." She crossed her arms and looked at him with a slightly hurt expression. "What is it, Adam? Why do you always push me away?"

"I do not, Fancy," he said gently.

"You do. Ever since you have come back. Have you not forgiven me? Please, what more can I say? I am sorry! I love you." She lifted her chin. " I need you."

He thought her lower lip barely trembled. He smiled and tried to tease her. "You don't need anyone, Fancy. Not even the kind words of the great Mr. Glover. What possible use could you have for me?"

"I think you're cruel to say that," she said, coming closer. "Because you know!"

 Her eyes were filling, and his heart sank. He had come back. He had tried, he had hoped, but he knew it could not be. He did push her away. And now it hurt too much to think, to know. She said she loved him, but he knew---

"I need you to love me, Adam!" she whispered tearfully. "The way you do. They way you always have." She came into his arms, and he could not help but hold her anymore than he could help his body's inevitable response to her nearness. The softness and heat of her, the scent of her hair was as intoxicating as rum, and the pain in her voice pierced his soul and sealed his fate.

"I need…I need…" she murmured, and her hand ran up the inside of his thigh. She raised her face to him, and with a groan of surrender, he bent and kissed her wet, salty mouth.

Oh, God, only to kiss her was to die a little, to lose a little more of his soul and he knew that the moment of his death, when it came, would be just like this: fearful and sweet, a dear and desperate abandonment to a last mortal kiss. Fancy! Fire-spice and sweet honey was her flavor, cold water and bitter wine; she was all and none of them. She was his love and she tasted like nothing else, like no one else on earth.

He allowed her to slide his coat from his shoulders, and when his arms were free, he embraced her fiercely, deepening the kiss. With her arms about his neck, she sagged against him as if she would sink to the floor, and he caught her up and bore her the few steps to the little yellow sofa that was crammed against the wall of the tiny dressing room. It was covered by bits and pieces of cast off clothing, and too short to lay her down full length upon it. With her wrapped in his arms, he sat down heavily, bringing her onto his lap.

She pulled herself up to sit astride him, the bright green gown bunched in shining folds above the tops of her thighs, the sleeves slithering down her arms, revealing her smooth, golden shoulders and the tops of her perfect breasts. For the stage, she'd been dressed as a boy, and all that remained of this costume beneath the gown was a rather incongruous looking pair of brownish stockings. When the mere brush of his hands banished the last of the green silk, she was left naked but for these, tied with garters just above her knees and it was here that he placed his hands as she bent forward to kiss him again, his fingers sliding over the warm, firm flesh, his thumbs caressing the delicate creases at her hips, his heart racing, his mind reeling with the acute awareness of the shadowy place between from which rose already the maddening scent of her own unmistakable musk.

She drew away from him a bit, and a triumphant little smile seemed to play at the corners of her mouth, soft and wet, glistening in the light of the candles. Her eyelids were slightly lowered, but her eyes held his as she began, slowly, purposefully, to work at his buttons. He smiled back at her, relaxing, making whatever small movements were required to accommodate her, continuing to caress her thighs as she removed his waistcoat, his neck cloth, his shirt.

"Fancy," he said, distracted for a moment by a thought. "The girl…?"

"No, no," she whispered as her fingers slid through his hair, loosening the fine, fair strands and spreading them over his bare shoulders. "She won't come back. I sent her away." She smiled at him. Her eyes were large and dark, her hair a smoky, floating fall of loose black curls. He raised his hands to push it back, and he marveled at the difference between them. His flesh was milk pale, cool and marble smooth; she was the golden one, radiant, sun-warmed. Beautiful.

She turned her head to kiss his hand, looking at him sidelong as she arched her back a little in invitation. In response, he took her breasts in both his hands and she now leaned slightly towards him, her hands on his shoulders, sighing with pleasure as he began to caress her slowly, moving as gently, as reverently as a sculptor molding clay. Her eyes closed, and she turned her head a little to one side, as if she were listening to what his hands were telling her, as if the touch of his fingers were describing her beauty, and the movement of his hands had the power to delineate the way she looked and felt to him.

As he continued to stroke and caress her, she slowly moved closer and closer, until she lay lightly against his chest, her face in the crook of his neck, nuzzling and whispering, cooing her pleasure in his ear. His hands left her breasts, finally, and traced her ribs, stroking slowly down along her flanks and the smooth, curving length of her back to cup her soft bottom. He pulled her against him, his hips rising, allowing her to feel his urgency even as her hand was sliding over the taut muscle of his abdomen, reaching for him. Then, wordlessly she slid down to kneel on the floor, and having loosened his buttons, eased the trousers down over his hips and off.

He remembered their first time, when he had thought she would find his nakedness frightening and ugly, and the way he had tried to protect her from the sight of him. Now, she knelt between his thighs, taking him in her hands as if this was some miraculous object, his love and desire for her made flesh.

She ran her fingers lightly along the underside, tracing its slight curve. He shivered and shifted his hips a little, thrusting himself upward, encouraging her. She looked up at him, her eyes dark and wide. Her lips parted, and suddenly his blood surged. He gasped, unbelieving, overwhelmed as she bent forward and took him into her mouth.

***

This he had not expected. His body jerked slightly, and he gave a little cry, his face and chest suddenly burning with a flush of heat. He felt shock, shame, and wild excitement. Her fingers encircled him lightly, her lips and tongue tickled as she seemed to explore, tentatively, with gentle licks and little kisses. The sensation she was creating was both incredible and next to unbearable. In her inexperience she did not know enough to take him in fully, to close her lips around him and stroke him firmly with her tongue, and so instead she tantalized and tormented him unwittingly, and yet he could not deny the exquisite pleasure of it. The sight of her crouching there, the black hair spilling over her naked shoulders, her eyes closed in reverent concentration as she tasted him so delicately, so prettily; the way her soft, red lips opened and closed on him was at once sweetly ingenuous and wickedly sensual, and in spite of his shame---or perhaps in part because of it---he felt his belly tighten, and the needful, aching contraction in his balls that always came a moment before the moment when he could no longer deny his release.

He caught his breath sharply as her tongue roughly grazed the tender underside of him and for an instant he feared that all was lost; he felt the first pulse, the powerful bloodbeat of the inevitable. But at the sound of his intake of breath, she raised her head suddenly and looked at him in alarm.

"What is it?" she asked in an urgent whisper. "Have I hurt you? I'm sorry! I thought you would like it!"

"No…no," he let out a shuddering breath and laughed a little weakly. He looked down at himself and flushed again. His cock appeared huge and obscene, quivering, tipped livid purple-red, glistening with her saliva. Mortified, he reached for her, pulling her up by the arms and bringing her back into his lap.

"No…" he said again, pulling her close against him, nuzzling her neck, her ear. "It was…you're just too far away, sweetheart. I want you here," his hand slid down over her belly and slipped between her thighs. "I want to be here."

"Mmm," she sighed, twining her arms around his neck, rising a little on her knees, spreading her legs for him, allowing him to part the soft, swollen lips of her sex with his fingers. She kissed him, and he could taste the traces of his own musk on her mouth, and he groaned as his fingers slid over the slippery, dainty inner silk, delicately oiled, opening her to him. In a single motion, he thrust up, and she came down, her body welcoming him as miraculously as ever, sheathing him in comfortable, receiving warmth.

She was pressed full against him, embracing him, and for the moment, he simply held her, his hands on her buttocks, snug to his hips. He had always loved this moment above all, this instant of joining that felt so complete, and so eternal. Only in this sweet, ephemeral moment could he almost believe that all was right and good, and that they could never be torn apart.

It came to him, not for the first time, that if there was nothing else that mattered, if there was nothing else to do in the world but make love, he and Fancy were perfectly matched. As when they played together on the harpsichord, their bodies were in perfect concert, always graceful, intertwining, like their fingers on the keys, never interfering, never striking a wrong note. Their rhythm could not falter, and their harmonies were glorious. He knew, had always known in his heart that he could not be the one, that he was not, after all, what she needed. But he was as certain as he had ever been of anything in the great and mysterious world, that he knew her, that he pleased her. Pleased her as perhaps no one else might ever please her again.

She was moving now, slowly rising and falling on him, turning, grinding her hips only as much as the closeness of his embrace would allow. Her upper body arched away from him, while her hands still encircled his neck. "Mmmm…" Her head fell back as her eyes closed. "Mmm," she moaned again as she ground herself against him.

She looked so beautiful, so abandoned. A terrible grief assailed him then, and from nowhere, a sudden and desperate white-hot anger that made him want to cry out with the unbearable pain of it. As if he would throw her off of him he suddenly seized her and turned her quickly aside, separating their bodies. She made no sound, only looked up with him with eyes that were a little startled and questioning as he pushed her down onto her back on the sofa.

Breathing hard, he got to his knees. Possessively, he grasped her by the hips, lifting her, and bringing her astride him, he was swiftly inside her again. Her mouth flew open and she gave a soft cry as he thrust himself into her with a force that nearly matched the violence of the emotion that gripped him. She raised her arms, reaching for him, pulling him down to her.

"Adam! Adam!" she whispered hotly as he came hard into her again and again. He was wild, at the very edge of his control, but in the back of his mind he could still tell himself that he would stop before he would hurt her. But she never protested. No, she seemed to answer the desperation of his assault with her own savage need, wrapping her long, strong legs tightly around his hips, her nails raking his back, her teeth pressing into his shoulder as each powerful thrust jolted her body.

Her hands clutched at him, her fingers tangling painfully in his hair as she spasmed against him finally, the power of her climax sending him nearly over the edge. Trembling, he held himself above her, not moving, not breathing while she bucked and twisted beneath him. She cried his name again, and her voice broke pathetically. "I love you!" she sobbed. "I love you, oh God, don't leave me!"

***

She didn't know; she could not know, he told himself. She meant only to keep him inside her, for him not to pull away, as he always did, as he always must, to keep her safe. And afterwards, she did not say it again, neither did either of them speak of those brief moments of strange, angry passion, although as they lay together at the last, holding each other as the sweat cooled and their breathing slowed, the mad blood ebbing to a slow, sultry pulse, his mouth touched hers in a kiss which asked forgiveness for whatever madness might have taken him, and she held him, kissing his shoulder where she could see the marks her teeth had made, surprised and ashamed they were so deep. Her hands stroked his back, streaked with her scratches.

He looked down on her lovely body, sleek and golden, with its satiny curves that made him think of the violin. He had thought to sell the violin, or to burn it because he didn't know if he could bear to keep it, much less ever wish to play again. But he would keep it, he had decided, because in the end, it was all he had left of his father, and its music, very soon, would be all he had left of this life. In two days time it would be carried, in a chest along with what little else in the world belonged only to him, aboard a ship of the line called Justinian where he had taken a position as schoolmaster. In the way of the service, there seemed not many questions that needed to be answered or asked. His letter of introduction from his cousin Hazlitt had been sufficient to secure his place.

"Say you love me." She raised a hand, languidly, to stroke his cheek. She smiled, and her dark eyes tilted in their beguiling way.

"I love you," he whispered fiercely, and held her to his beating heart. "As God is my witness. Upon my soul and for all of my life---Anna Francesca, I do."


The End

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