“Are you truly married then?” their hostess asked, wide-eyed.
“Yes.” Katerina leaned against Christopher in a gesture of pure affection.
Mrs. Wilder nodded. “Do you honestly want that thing back? If not, I can dispose of it.”
Ugh. A memento of my last beating? I think not. “I would be very grateful if you would burn it.”
Mrs. Wilder dipped her chin in acknowledgment of Katerina's request. “And
your shawl?”
“Now that I would not mind having again,” Katerina said. “It will be cold for
many months to come.”
“Indeed. Now then, Mrs. Bennett, do you think you might be prevailed upon
to play for these gatherings from time to time?”
“Certainly, if everyone wishes it,” Katerina agreed.
“Excellent. I think we may have begun a new tradition. We can meet in
celebration of the arts, not just poetry.” Mrs. Wilder beamed, tiny crinkles appearing around her eyes.
Katerina smiled shyly. “I shall have to begin researching and rehearsing new
pieces, so I have something fresh to contribute as well.”
“Friends, I have news.” Mrs. Wilder addressed the room in a carrying voice,
and all conversations ceased. “Our own Christopher Bennett has wisely not
allowed his lovely pianist to escape but made her a permanent member of the group. From now on, Mrs. Bennett—and any other musician who has the skill—
can aid with the before-dinner entertainment.”
The words 'Mrs. Bennett' caused a shocked murmur to ripple through the
group. Katerina, uncomfortable with all the stunned stares, clung to her
husband's arm. He patted her fingers gently as she tried to make herself relax and
smile.
“Excellent.” The gentleman who had been so tipsy the last time, tonight sat
sober on the settee with a lovely brown-haired woman of about thirty years. “My
dear, you can't imagine the glorious concert we had last week. Well done, Bennett.”
“Thank you, Reardon.” Christopher gave his wife a subtle squeeze.
“Dinner!” a servant announced.
“No time to play tonight, I see,” Christopher quipped. “Well, love, are you hungry?”
“Yes, very,” she replied. No point in denying the rumbling of my tummy.
Sated and comfortably warm with dinner and wine in her stomach, Katerina
reclined against the velvet arm of the sofa in the Wilders' parlor, the friendly piano at her back, her fingers laced through her husband's once again.
Christopher opened the folio in his lap and lifted the less controversial and far subtler of the two poems, “My Last Duchess.”
He reads so skillfully, Katerina thought, uncomfortable with the content of the poem. His voice sounded rigidly controlled but occasionally tinged with rage
as he attempted to portray the mad Duke of Ferrara. Katerina shivered. I hope I
never know what it is to receive such cold anger from my precious husband.
“‘Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me,’” he declared, finishing the poem with a manic flourish. Then, he closed the folio and set it on the table,
laying his and Katerina's hands on his knee.
She looked at him silently, ignoring the puzzled conversation and focusing solely on Christopher. Tomorrow we leave for our wedding tour, and I cannot wait. We depart by train for Southampton first thing in the morning, and then board a ship for Livorno. From there another train will take us to Florence, where Nonno will send a carriage to retrieve us.
