Part I
NEITHER EASE NOR HONOUR
by
Elaine
Michael Richmond moved into the apartment Brayfield College had helped him locate, and Catherine found that, far from rejoicing in the restoration of her privacy, she missed him. Her apartment seemed lonelier than usual tonight. In the few short days he'd spent with her, she'd grown used to his presence and had looked forward to his company in the evenings.
It had been nice to have a man around. A friend.
Even the awkward constraint that had fallen between them since he'd kissed her the night before had been surmounted. He had apologized, chalking it up to the upset of being disowned by his father, and she had pretended to believe him. Both of them worked hard not to let it mar their last few hours together, and they succeeded in achieving at least a surface calm. Michael himself seemed to have wrestled with his demons and was more concerned with treating her with a scrupulous politeness than with taking advantage of the close quarters of her apartment. He made no more overtures that could be construed as romantic in any way at all. How much of that was due to fear of her rejection and how much to fear of Vincent's jealous rage was anybody's guess.
In truth, she was feeling more than a little guilty for not recognizing the signs earlier. If she hadn't been so blind, she might have been able to dampen Michael's ardor in a less hurtful and catastrophic way.
I didn't use to be this dense, she thought. What in the world is happening to me?
The answer wasn't really that hard to find.
It was love.
She was so much in love with Vincent that she had stopped noticing other men.
Her friend Jenny--outside of the secret in spite of her disconcerting psychic gifts--was in despair about it frequently. All Jenny's recent matchmaking attempts had fallen flat, the most gorgeous, elegant and amusing men having no more effect on Catherine's pulse rate than lunch with the Radcliffe gang. Less, in fact, since blind dates--when she couldn't get out of them--weren't likely to try to wheedle secrets from her. Her friends, on the other hand, definitely caused her heart to skip a beat now and then with their well-meaning but persistent interrogations. Jenny's curiosity over Michael had rivaled Joe's--and Catherine knew she was in for a cross-examination when next they met that would, if nothing else, improve her own courtroom technique.
Ah, well. Jen would just have to swallow the cover story like everyone else.
Michael was far too young for her, anyway, and Jenny would know that. They'd been friends for much too long for either of them to think the other would stoop to cradle-snatching.
But even as those thoughts went flickering through her mind, Catherine knew she wasn't being entirely truthful with herself.
It wasn't that she had been attracted to Michael.
She had not.
Not in any real way--but she was far too self-aware not to recognize that he had served, on some level, to fill an empty space.
It wasn't that she wanted him to kiss her. To hold her. To touch her.
A faint shudder went through her at the thought of any hands but Vincent's. . . .
However, she had enjoyed the companionship, the warmth and affection, she'd felt flowing out of him so freely.
He was like Vincent in so many ways.
It was not surprising, really, that a sensitive young boy, encountering Vincent at an age when he was ripe for hero-worship, should model himself on the older man, absorbing his teaching, falling into his patterns of thought, even adopting some of his habitual behaviors.
There was a certain close-lipped smile--so like Vincent's that it caught at her heart.
And Michael's admiration of her, the barely concealed adoration of a young man in the throes of a crush--that had been attractive, too. Not that she had been aware of it on a conscious level but, looking back, she realized she must have known, down deep, that he was drawn to her. And some part of her had wanted that, needed that reassurance. Needed to know that a man could want her. Needed, specifically, to know that a man with a heart so much like Vincent's could want her.
In spite of all they'd been through, in spite of the certainty she'd achieved a few months ago about her own feelings, she sometimes had misgivings about his.
Damn! she thought. He does want me. I know it. I couldn't feel this way if he didn't feel it too.
She wanted to believe that. She wanted to believe that the powerful attraction was mutual, that it was their connection working, pulling them together. Yet she knew that it was easy to believe what you wanted to believe. If nothing else, poor Michael's misguided, mistaken overtures proved that. He'd made himself believe that the friendship and camaraderie she'd offered was something more. Like most people, he didn't want to believe that where he loved, love would not be forthcoming in return.
As badly as she felt for having inadvertently led Michael on, however, she couldn't regret it entirely.
I know what it is to love you, Catherine.
The memory of those words burned even now, almost twenty-four hours later, with a white-hot flame at the very center of her being.
It was the closest he had ever come to making the declaration she so wanted to hear. All the nagging little doubts, the uncertainties and the creeping, crawling fears that slithered around in the far corners of her mind when he was far from her and the night was cold and lonely--all of that was gone now.
She felt released.
And yet she knew that she had lost ground, too.
He would be uneasy around her when next they met. Ashamed of revealing so much of his heart.
She shook her head in loving exasperation.
Men!
Here she was, totally exposed at every turn by the strength of the bond between them, rarely able to hide her feelings--and he was so embarrassed by his brief show of emotion that he still had not come to the balcony although the sun had set hours ago.
Unless. . . .
Could he be having second thoughts? Could he, even now, be wondering if she'd wanted Michael's kiss? If she'd enjoyed it in any way? Was he angry and jealous still? Or--worse--was he going to be noble and obtuse and step aside for a boy who would never be half the man he was?
She would just have to kill him, she thought, on a ripple of humor--which vanished in the next aching reflection.
Unless. . . .
Unless she died of old age waiting for him to show up and be with her.
O most fair and perfect knight, the best that ever was in any time of battle, or in any company of ladies, and the most courteous man, have pity on me, most sorrowful woman and handmaid.
As Swinburne's words crossed her mind, there was a shiver through the bond and she knew instantly that Vincent was on the balcony. She rose quickly from the sofa and only then noticed a small suitcase sitting on the floor at the other end. Michael must have forgotten it! She would have to get it back to him.
Tomorrow, she thought firmly. Tonight was Vincent's.
When she opened the French doors, he was standing with his back to her, looking out across the Park at the city lights beyond.
He didn't turn.
He didn't offer to hold her.
So.
It was anger, then.
Or shame.
She crossed to stand beside him and, for a moment, she was at a loss.
She had been as honest with him as she knew how to be, matching confession with confession. She had fought for her love with everything in her, vehemently declaring, "There is no life without limits!" when he had, once again, tried to tell her she deserved a life unfettered by his limitations. She had insisted that she accepted the limits of his love--and she had been lying.
They both knew that.
. . .and I am not worthy that you should so much as kiss me on my sad lips. . .
That was how the passage went.
But she didn't feel unworthy.
She had made mistakes with Michael. And she had lied to Vincent but it had been a necessary lie and she would do it again and again if she had to, until he was able to accept the destiny she saw shining beyond the limits.
She didn't feel unworthy. Sad, yes, that he was not yet ready to acknowledge the truth that lay behind and beneath the lie.
And hopeful.
Because as they stood there, she could feel a current of desire thrumming through the bond--and suddenly she knew that his delay in coming to her was not the result of anger or embarrassment.
One more barrier had crumbled and he wasn't sure how to be with her now--but he had come!
Unsettled, uneasy, undefended--and, yet, unable to stay away.
She searched desperately for something to carry them over these first awkward moments.
"The lights are so beautiful tonight."
There.
That was trite enough to be non-threatening.
Wasn't it?
At first, she thought he wasn't going to respond but, finally, softly, he said, "Yes."
She turned to look at him then--his beautiful rugged face, the stern mouth guarding the 'I love yous' he wanted to speak and couldn't. . .yet. . .his blue eyes filled with sadness and longing as they met hers. There was a sudden extra stillness in him as if he were listening to something--their connection, maybe, or. . .no. It was the stillness that sometimes came over him when he was struggling for control.
Her arms ached to hold him but she would not, could not make the first move.
She turned away again, her heart's voice crying out to him, words from the dismal quotation that wouldn't leave her alone tonight.
. . .but I have neither ease nor honour. . .
And on that despairing thought, his arm crept around her and pulled her against his side in an embrace that was no less protective and loving for being so gentle. For the first time, there was something almost possessive in his action.
Catherine felt the tension drain away at his first touch. She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. His hold was cautious but not unsure and she knew he felt joy rising in her like the dawn.
The final bit of the passage sang in her veins--
. . .and yet I am your true maiden and servant. (1)
They'd come so far, she thought. . . . So far. They would make it the rest of the way.
There would be ease and honour.
And love.
It would all come right in the end.
~*~
1. The entire passage quoted is from Dead Love and Other Inedited Pieces by Algernon Charles Swinburne and is found in The Bibelot, A Reprint of Poetry and Prose for Book Lovers, chosen in part from scarce editions and sources not generally known, Volume VII, Testimonial Edition, Edited and Originally Published by Thomas B. Mosher, Portland, Maine; Wm. Wise & Co.; New York; 1904; pp. 189-198.