BLOOD HONEY
by
Elle Hawken
© 2015 Elle Hawken
All rights reserved
Gas lamps burned beneath a buttermilk sky. Mist lingered in the park and made golden halos of their light. Clara huddled against James as they walked past a long line of rowhouses, grateful for every bit of warmth that seeped into her. A tickle crept into the back of her throat and she coughed.
“You shouldn't be out in this cold air,” said James.
Clara agreed, to be polite. But she knew the weather didn't affect the sickness that had come over her in July. “I shouldn't be out this late.”
Something dark stirred on one of the covered porches ahead. Clara tensed.
A long, low growl rumbled as they approached.
It's just Old Jenkins, she realized with relief. Mrs. Thomason hadn't let the big mastiff into the house for the night yet.
Clara felt foolish for jumping at shadows. Like most contemporary gentlemen, James carried a pistol. And even though he was drunk he knew how to use it. His wasn't the typical Derringer that lurked in so many Baltimorean vest pockets, but a double-barreled howdah that he'd brought back from his expedition to India last year. Its walnut grip dug into Clara's ribs when his uneven gait pressed them closer together. Clara ignored the discomfort and sighed, wishing she could be this close to him every night. Closer, even.
But she knew that could never be.
Near the street corner loomed the Haddings residence, its curved dormers and triple chimney limned in silver by the weak half moon. The house belonged to Professor Haddings. Clara called him uncle, though he was her grandfather's cousin. The professor traveled because of his research, seldom lecturing at the nearby university anymore, leaving Clara the house's sole occupant for weeks at a time.
“Why must you always leave early?” James teased, slurring a little.
The Gazing Club attended Madame Croisset's séance parties each Wednesday night, but Clara bid her goodbyes before ten-thirty no matter what feats of mesmerism and palmistry had been promised for the witching hour. Usually when James offered to walk her home he'd had his fill of entertainment. But tonight had been different. The candles had wavered and sparked during a brief thunderstorm, and even James had been drawn into Madame's occult theatrics. “I like being alone with you,” she whispered.
“Clara . . . you know it isn't proper for you to say that to me.” His brow creased and he looked a little confused.
“Even if it's true?” She hugged his arm and he laughed.
“Especially if it's true.”
James Alistair Reynolds sometimes assisted Professor Haddings with ancient documents and Latin texts, but his true realm of interest centered around entomology. He was also smitten by any sort of puzzle. He had spent a good deal of the summer in the Haddings' parlor, hunched over a metal box the professor had unearthed from a ruined abbey near Brussels, bandying theories back and forth as to how it might be opened. It was a conundrum – the timeworn strongbox bore no keyhole. Most of its rivets were cast in the shape of bees, each unique, and James and the professor believed their pattern to be a cipher. The secret proved to be as alluring as it was elusive, and it was during those long summer evenings that Clara had fallen for him.
They climbed the marble steps to the Haddings house as Clara fished in her pocket for the key. James peered through the window into darkness. “Where's Mrs. Potiers?” he asked, referring to the professor's housekeeper.
“She spends the night with her daughter, to help with the baby.”
James knew that, but Madame Croisset's strong burgundy had helped him forget. Clara opened the door. She entered, and to her surprise, he followed. For a few moments the two of them stood silent in the shadowy hall. Light filtering through the window made tiny stars of the droplets covering his hat and coat. Clara resisted the urge to reach out to him. In her mind she recited the reasons that kept her affections bottled. It was a short list.
It started with sickness and secrets and ended with Mattie O'Donnell.
James stepped past her.
“I'll light this for you.” He removed the globe from an oil lamp and dug around in the hall console's top drawer. His nimble fingers were fuddled by drink as he tried to pry open a small match safe. “At least I think I will.” He grinned, amused by his lack of coordination.
The catch popped open and James shook out a single stick. The match refused his first attempts. When it caught, Clara leaned in and blew it out.
She put her arms around him. Then, knowing it was the worst thing she could possibly do, she pressed her lips against his in a soft kiss.
Matches spilled across the floor, followed by the plunk of the match safe.
Clara fled up the two flights of stairs to her bedroom.
The exertion doubled her over in a fit of wheezing. Resisting the sharp prickle at the back of her throat, she took measured breaths to regain control. Clara shut the door and pulled open the drapes at the bay window. Regretting what she's done, she let her head tip forward against the cold pane. The street below was empty. He's probably running all the way home. Clara sat down on her bed and put her head in her hands. The embers in the corner grate cast an orange glow over the room, softening the heavy lines of the furniture. Her throat itched again and she tried to clear it. Her lungs ached.
A glance at the mantle clock told her it was almost eleven. She'd played it too close this evening, stayed out too late, all because she'd wanted James to walk her home. James . . . who would forever remain a daydream. The feel of her first kiss ebbed too quickly as she sat in the dark, quiet house, and loneliness settled in its place. Sleep crowded in on her thoughts as they drifted. But she couldn't slip into bed before visiting the basement.
Clara stripped out of her evening finery and pulled on a robe.
The stairs were dark, but a familiarity borne of living on the top floor for twelve years lent speed to her feet. When she whipped around the second landing, she ran smack into James and yelped with fright.
“Oh, thank God!” she said. “I thought you were a ghos—”
James eased her against the wall. His lips found hers. Fire swept through her body and she welcomed him into her arms. I shouldn't do this. I shouldn't . . . But she couldn't stop. He'd removed his coat and hat and Clara ran her fingers through his dark hair. Even after the long evening at Madame's, he still smelled of the graphite and Canada balsam used in his work. His hands moved over her arms and hips and found the tie to her robe. He stopped and looked down, confused by her change in dress. Then it registered and he pulled the ribbon. The silk knot fell apart.
“James—”
“I love you, Clara.”
Clara winced as the words needled their way into her heart. They sounded so sincere. “No, you don't. You're drunk.”
He opened her robe and slid his fingertips over her skin.
Clara gasped. “Stop.” He kissed her again and she turned away. “Stop it, James! You're engaged to Mattie.”
The name sobered him like a slap. “You're in love with me.”
A denial formed on her lips, but it wouldn't come out.
“You love me, even though the professor denied it.”
“What?”
“I asked him for you at the end of August. He refused me, and he wouldn't give a reason . . . beyond your lack of interest.”
Clara closed her eyes and fumbled for words. The attraction hadn't been her imagination after all. “Is that why you stopped coming to the house?”
“He didn't even tell you, did he?”
Not a word . . . but I know why he told you no.
James rubbed his hand over his face. “I don't believe it. Why would he – no, it doesn't matter. For God's
sake, you're barely related to him. I don't need his consent. Look, Clara—”
She pulled her robe closed and forced her feelings back into a bottle. “I'm sick.”
There was something he wanted to say, but didn't. He touched her sleeve and his manner softened. “I know you're sick. And I don't care. Besides, the professor said it isn't catching.”
Not in the way you'd think. “You don't understand. I'm sick and I'm never going to get better. My uncle's right – I couldn't have accepted your offer.”
“Why?”
“I'll never marry anyone.”
The grandfather clock in the parlor tolled the hour. One. Two.
Oh, no.
“But, Clara—”
“Please leave.”
The words stung and his jaw flexed.
Clara followed him downstairs. The spilled matches had been gathered up and returned to the console drawer. Five. Six. He shrugged into his coat and she handed him his hat. Cold air rushed in when he opened the door. He turned and looked at her. Nine. Ten.
“Goodbye, James.” She hoped he was drunk enough to forget what had just happened, but she doubted it.
Eleven.
James walked out into the night and Clara locked the door. Then she sprinted down the last flight of stairs to the basement.