When Shadows Call (2 page)

* * *

“Will there be anything else, mum?” Mary, our head housekeeper, laid a comforting hand on my shoulder. Pity saturated her tone and I hated it. It only reminded me of how weak and pathetic I was.

The table had been set for dinner and awaited Henry’s arrival. He came home at precisely seven o’clock every evening and he expected to walk through the door, sit down, and be served. He ran a tight ship, and the staff made sure to keep the household in tip-top shape. They’d seen my bruises, after all. None of them would dare to displease their employer.

Our home was the epitome of Queen Anne Victorian architecture and picture perfect, just the way Henry wanted it to be. With wide, sweeping porches and hand-carved spindle work on the railings, robust archways, and brick chimneys, the house was a testament to my husband’s success. Status meant everything to Henry, and he made sure that his house spoke volumes about his place in the community. Even the roof was immaculate with not a shingle out of place. The grounds were well tended and the gardens a sweet medley of scents: roses, lilacs, peonies, and mums, not to mention several species of lilies and poppies. Cobbled sidewalks wound from the front porch to the street, and from our parlor throughout the gardens.

I took a seat at the foot of our long, cherry wood table and straightened my fork for the tenth time. I couldn’t manage to stop fiddling with it. My gaze wandered around the room as I waited, and I couldn’t help but feel like a guest in my own home. The burden of formality weighed me down until I felt my shoulders slump. The crystal in the chandeliers twinkled in the artificial light, reflecting off the glossy polish of the table. A fire roared in the wide fireplace at the far end of the formal dining room, crackling cheerfully as if my subjugation were merely a figment of my imagination. Surrounded by Henry’s fine things—expensive armoires and hutches, silk covered settees, and hand-blown hurricane lamps—I felt out of place. A broken, neglected thing in a world of high expectations and perfection.

I checked the grandfather clock that sat at the foot of the staircase—a wedding gift from my parents. Fifteen minutes past seven and Henry still wasn’t home. I’m sure for any other spouse it wouldn’t have been cause for worry, but in my case Henry might as well have been fifteen weeks late. I continued to stew, shifting my soup bowl so that it sat precisely in the center of my salad plate and likewise scooting the salad plate to rest in the middle of the dinner plate. I adjusted my water goblet a quarter turn so that the light from the candles reflected off the crystal just so, and I smoothed my dress one last time.

At half-past seven, the front door creaked open. My stomach involuntarily clenched, as it did every night when he came home. Would he be drunk? Angry? Did his day go amiss? Any one of these things could result in his fist smashing into me. I said a silent prayer that his day went well. That, perhaps, he’d met someone and was late because of a passionate tryst. God, let him be exhausted from love-making and too tired to bother with me. Please, please,
please
let that be the case. . . .

Henry strolled through the French doors into the formal dining room. I tried to appear at ease, but my heart all but leapt into my throat. He cocked his head to the side as he regarded me, and I wondered if he was admiring his handiwork, the yellowing bruises that had finally begun to heal. It had been a week since I’d tried to drown myself in the copper bathtub, a week since he’d hit me in one of his rages. As his dark gray eyes took me in, I wondered what it would feel like to be regarded with something other than disinterest.

He took his seat at the head of the table, and right on cue, Mary emerged from the kitchen to begin serving the evening meal. From beneath lowered lashes, I studied my husband, from his sandy brown hair, cut short and sleek, to his high cheekbones and the straight line of his nose. His lips were a little on the thin side, and his chin sharp, but it didn’t detract from his good looks. Henry Charles had been considered one of the city’s most eligible bachelors, and he had chosen me. At the time, I hadn’t known what kind of man he was, and I’d been thrilled at the prospect of becoming his wife.

“How was your day?” I asked. I wasn’t able to gauge his mood, so I drew him into cautious conversation.

His eyes drifted toward the ceiling and his expression became wistful. “My day was . . . pleasantly surprising.”

He didn’t bother to ask about my day, which didn’t surprise or bother me. I’d become used to his apathy toward me. Like the lamps and the furniture, I was simply another fixture in his home. I fiddled with the silk bunched at the front of my gown. What must it feel like to be treasured? To have a loving husband ask about my day, how I felt, if I was happy. . . .

Mary bent in front of me to empty a ladleful of soup into my bowl, and our already dwindling conversation died. She met my eyes—concern etched on her aging face—before she straightened her cap and apron, took the tureen, and left the room. Henry smiled to himself as he draped a linen napkin over his lap. I could only assume that he had met a man who caught his fancy today. It would explain the dreamy look in his eyes. Sometimes, I wondered how Henry’s lovers felt. If they were excited by his touch. If he was gentle with them and made love at a leisurely pace. I imagined what it might feel like to have his lips on mine . . . soft, and if his fingers would be feather light on my skin . . . or urgent in the heat of passion. Of course, I had no idea what it felt like to be made love to by anyone. I was a virgin when my father married me off to Henry. And even on our wedding night, he refused to consummate our marriage. So I was left with only my girlish fantasies.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Henry’s tone was laced with suspicion and I directed my eyes toward my soup.

I racked my brain, trying to come up with a decent response. I didn’t want to give him a glimpse of my imaginings. God must have heard the frantic rhythm of my heart, however, and I was saved from any response when a knock came at our door. Henry eyed me with suspicion, and a scowl curved his lip. Without waiting for Mary to answer the door, he pushed his chair out from the table and marched out of the dining room. I couldn’t help but follow. My curiosity piqued, I came around the corner into the foyer, my husband using a hushed but urgent tone with whoever was on the other side of the door.

“Darling,” He spun to face me as if startled. “I want you to meet a friend of mine.” I was just as shaken as Henry was by the stranger at our door. But he had years of practice in hiding his true emotions and could put up a façade of grace and charm when the situation demanded it. And his new friend’s unexpected visit required all of that and more. “Azriel,”––he cleared his throat as if preparing to force the next words from his mouth––“my wife, Darian Charles.”

I’d been right about my husband’s mood. No doubt Henry fell instantly in love with this man. Azriel was something to behold; dark hair that brushed his forehead, dark brown eyes, almost black—beautiful, despite their cruel edge. I could easily picture his russet skin glowing in the firelight. My breath caught at the sight of him. He reminded me of a Roman god, a statue of male perfection carved from the hardest, smoothest marble. I blinked once, twice, and again as I took him in. The light in the room seemed to bend around him, blurring at the edges as if he were less than solid. But just as soon as I noticed the illusion, it slipped away and I wondered if my brain had at last become addled from the constant blows I took to the head.

“Mrs. Charles,” he said, bending over my hand. “I’m so
very
pleased to meet you.”

The touch of his lips on my skin sent a river of chills flowing across the landscape of my body. My pulse thundered in my ears and my entire body tingled at the sound of his rich voice. “Will you join us for dinner?” I asked. He was a godsend. Henry would be so pleased to have him join us, and so distracted, he would have no need to bother with me.

Azriel stood, his eyes roaming over what I hoped he couldn’t see: traces of yellowing bruises that had not quite healed. I didn’t want him to see the physical proof of my weakness. But I could tell from the shrewd look in his black eyes that he saw the truth of my life, and his pained expression instantly tore at my heart. “I’d love to join you for dinner,” he said. His fingers lingered on my palm as he pulled away and my heart beat triple time with excitement. “Henry, let’s sit with your beautiful wife and enjoy her company while we eat.”

A feeling of elation bubbled up through my chest and I spun on a heel, the silk whispering as my long skirt swirled around me. “Mary!” I called out. “Mary, can you set another place at the table please?”

As I walked toward the dining room, my skin prickled with anticipation. Azriel trailed behind with Henry, but I knew with certainty that his gaze was focused on me. I could feel the weight of his stare in every nerve ending. My cheeks warmed at the thought and I almost faltered in my step as a similar heat spread from my belly, lower.

Men had looked at me with interest before. I’d been courted by others before Henry, and though most of the matches never worked out—that being, my sharp tongue seemed to get in the way—I wasn’t naïve to the heat in a man’s eyes when he sees something he likes. But I’d never
felt
that heat like I did now. It had never reached out to caress me in such a way. Henry had curbed the sharpness of my tongue with the back of his hand. And he’d broken my spirited nature with every swing of his fist. But as I thought of this man—Azriel—observing the sway of my hips as I walked in front of him, I felt some of that long-lost spirit return.

We entered the dining room and Azriel hastened his step to catch me before I took my seat. “Allow me,” he said, and pulled out my chair.

A riot of butterflies swirled in my stomach as if taking to flight. His arm grazed my shoulder as he pushed in my chair, and I had to suppress the contented sigh that threatened to pass my lips. I could see how Henry would become instantly infatuated with him. In fact, I was afraid that finally, my husband and I had something in common.

Chapter 2

Dinner ended too soon. Much too soon.

The conversation had been stimulating and the company, divine. Azriel hung on my every word, treating me as though there was no single person in the world more important to him than me. Henry interjected to the point of rudeness, vying for our guest’s attention like a spoiled child. Azriel humored him now and again, but I must admit, I wondered at his attentiveness. After all, he was Henry’s friend, not mine. And from the way his dark eyes drank me in, I knew that their relationship had not been a romantic one. When he kissed my hand one last time and took his leave, I felt as if a piece of my soul left with him.

“You’re awfully smug this evening,” Henry grumbled from his wingchair. He was working on his fifth Brandy of the night and staring pensively at the fire burning in the brick fireplace.

“I’m sorry, Henry,” I said, glancing up from the book I’d been pretending to read, “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“You know damn well what I mean,” he scoffed. “Your brazen behavior was shameful this evening. What would people say if they knew how you’d practically thrown yourself at our guest?”

So, my husband was jealous. I buried my face in the pages of my book and smiled secretly to myself. As I replayed the evening over and again in my mind, I could hardly blame him; my own affection for our guest had blossomed, and the emotions hit me hard and fast.

“Azriel wasn’t truly interested in you, you know.” Henry tossed back his drink and rose to pour another. He leaned his elbow against the mantle and kicked a polished shoe at the hearth before downing his fresh drink in a single swallow. “He was simply playing a game, keeping up appearances for the benefit of our staff.”

I supposed if that’s what Henry wanted to believe, who was I to contradict him? But obviously Henry had failed to gaze into Azriel’s fathomless black eyes. One look would have told him the truth, and perhaps Henry didn’t dare to look because he couldn’t handle the reality: Azriel had no interest in him. “Yes, Henry,” I said. Unless I wanted to end the evening on a violent note, I couldn’t argue with him.

“You’re disgusted by me, aren’t you?” The question startled me and I dropped the book in my lap to stare at him. Henry marched to the bar and poured himself another drink, the dark amber liquid sloshing over the rim of the glass as he poured. “You consider me a sinner, and you think I’m going to burn in the eternal fires of hell, don’t you?”

Brandy dripped from his chin and ran in rivulets from either side of his mouth as he drank. My heart began to pound in my chest, and my stomach tightened into a knot. Rather than drink himself into a stupor, the liquor was only helping to fan the flames of his anger. In the five years we’d been married, Henry never mentioned his choice in lovers to me, nor his supposition of my opinion on the matter. “You do not know my mind, Henry,” I softened my tone so as to soothe his temper. I had no reason to lie to him, and though I knew that compassion on my part would earn no kindness from him in return, I felt that I needed to tell him how I felt. “There is certainly not enough love in this cruel world,” I said. “I don’t begrudge you nor would I condemn you for the choices you make. And neither do I believe that God would damn you for it.” There were members of the Ladies’ Auxiliary who’d faint dead away at my words, but they were spoken with nothing but truth. It mattered little to me if Henry loved women or men. It only saddened me that I took the brunt of his anger at the people in our world who did not share my opinion on the matter.

Henry drained the decanter of brandy into his glass. He swirled the liquid, gazing over the rim as if reading tea leaves at the bottom of a cup. He pulled back his arm and, with a shout, hurled the glass into the fire. An explosion of flame burst out from the brick, catapulting shards of glass into the parlor. I shielded my face with my arms and stood, prepared to run at any moment. My husband’s chest heaved, and with each of his labored breaths, the fire dwindled until naught was left but smoldering embers.