“Oh, God!”
Katerina froze, backed up and read again. “He killed her? Dear Lord.” She shook her head as her cheerful mood shattered. “He's a madman.”
A sob crept up from her belly, choking her. “Not now!” she ordered herself
sternly. Defiant tears welled up and streamed down her cheeks.
“Quickly. Something different.” She flipped the poem over and examined the
next one. “‘My Last Duchess.' Sounds harmless enough,” she thought, her
stomach jumping, and sure enough, the first few lines, with their description of
the speaker's wealth, were almost boring. “‘I gave commands and all smiles stopped together.’” She closed the folio, so her tears would not stain the paper,
and set it aside.
I came so close to being the subject of a story just like these. The onlydifference is that my lover saved me. If Christopher and his mother hadn'tintervened, would I still be alive now to read poems and cry over them? Likely
not.
Her tea forgotten, she buried her face in her arm on the table and gave vent to
her emotions again. That was where Christopher found her when he returned from work a few minutes later.
Oh, my poor darling, he thought, his mind still on the conversation he'd had with his father earlier. He was right. We should get away. Go somewhere filled with sunshine and spend our days as newlyweds.
Without saying a word, he approached her from behind and wrapped his
arms around her, intending to comfort her.
It was a terrible mistake.
She started violently, pulling away with a cry of terror and curling into a ball,
protecting her head and belly from a perceived attack.
What's wrong with me? Cursing himself, he laid his hand on her shoulder.
“Kat,” he said softly, “I'm sorry I startled you.”
“Christopher?” Her rigid body began to relax, and she straightened. They
stared at one another for a breathless, unguarded moment, and then she launched
herself into his arms. “I'm sorry,” she murmured, her face hidden against his shoulder.
“You have nothing to apologize for, my love. It was my fault. Anyone would
have been surprised to be grabbed from behind. I'm sorry.” He slid his hand under her chin and raised her face. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes.”
He regarded her in silence, waiting for the reason behind the tear stains on her cheeks.
At last, she added, “I read your poems.”
“What, the Browning?” He squeezed her tighter.
She nodded.
“Oh, Lord. Terrible, aren't they? I should have put them away. They're the last thing you need to read.”
“They're real,” she replied, and now that her fright had passed, the
determination in her voice made him reconsider. “They had to be terrible or they
wouldn't be convincing. Isn't it interesting how both men blamed the women for
their attacks on them?"
Might it be good for her to read them? They do show the evil of situationsjust like hers, and they show her she's not alone. “Yes, that is interesting. But neither woman was at fault,” Christopher pointed out, pulling back and looking
down into her face. With his thumb, he wiped a tear from her cheek. “They didn't even know there was a problem. It wasn't your fault either.”
“I know,” she replied automatically.
“But do you believe it?” he asked.
