Or perhaps, she thinks, listening to Lionel’s reassuring heart beat into her ear through the stiffness of his shirtfront, this is not terror but anticipation.
“Shh,” he says again, and his fingers rise from her neck into the tiny strands of hair that have escaped from the careful knot at her nape. The action is soothing, a gesture not of sexual suggestion but of reassurance, of acceptance, and Violet closes her eyes, which are useless anyway in the darkness. Lionel’s body seeps warmth into hers, filling the void around her heart and lungs, and the shock under her skin smooths away into quietude.
He speaks into her hair. “Violet. Is it really you?”
“Yes.”
“My Violet.”
From any other man, those words would sound possessive, but in Lionel’s voice they lack the necessary dominion. He is neither stern nor fierce. He’s stating a fact, that Violet and Lionel are one, that they have been held together by invisible sutures since he walked into her laboratory room and sat sharing her burden in the darkness; or perhaps even before, in some unseen laboratory of fate. He might as well say Your Lionel. His other arm wraps around her waist, fastening her against him. She can’t escape now, even if she wanted to.
“Isn’t it a joke,” he says. “The greatest damned joke in the world. Why you, Violet? Of all women. I don’t understand it.”
“It had to be someone.”
“No. It could only be you.”
Violet’s blood is stirring now, propelled by the solid promise of Lionel’s body against hers, by the precious architecture of his bone and sinew beneath her arms and cheek and breast. Beneath the smooth black wool of his formal tailcoat, beneath his white shirtfront and sharp bowtie, lies Lionel. She listens to his heart beating, the proof of him, and tilts her face upward.
“You’ll kill me,” he whispers, but he kisses her anyway, less gently than before, cupping the curve of her skull with his hand. He leans back against the trellis, bringing her with him, mindless of thorns, still kissing her, and Violet is gone, gone. Above them, dislodged by the weight of Lionel’s body, a ripened rose scatters its petals into her hair.
“Let’s go,” she says, between damp kisses. “Let’s go tonight. We’ll go back to Berlin in your motor.”
Lionel lifts his mouth away. “Go?”
“Yes, go. How can I stay, after this?”
Lionel is still, except for the heavy rise and fall of his chest. “Tonight,” he says at last.
“Yes, tonight. I can’t sleep another night next to him, not now.”
“I thought he slept with Jane.”
Violet’s face grows warm. “No, he . . . he usually comes in around midnight.”
Lionel doesn’t move, but Violet can feel the hardening of his limbs around hers. “I see.”
“It isn’t like that. He hasn’t touched me, Lionel. Not since Berlin. He’s in love with her.”
“Christ.”
“That’s what I meant. Let’s go tonight, there’s nothing to stop us, you have your motor. I’ll pack a few things, I’ll leave a note.” She presses her mouth into his, mad urgent kisses. “Let’s go.”
“Violet.” His hands close around her upper arms. He sets her back. “Wait. I can’t, not tonight. I’ve got . . . There’s a matter or two.”
“I don’t understand.”
He pushes her away and takes a few long strides down the arbor.
“What do you mean, Lionel?” Her voice is rising in pitch; she pushes it down. “How can we stay? How can you make love to me and then send me back to his room, to his bed—”
“I haven’t made love to you, have I? We’ve kissed, that’s all.”
That’s all. The warm evening air ripples around Violet’s ears. She feels as if she’s falling, except that the beaten path remains solid beneath her feet, the roses hang motionless next to her cheek. She longs to reach out and grasp the wooden slats of the trellis. Instead she says, coldly: “I see. Then I suppose I should thank you for your time and wish you a pleasant evening.”
“Violet.”
She smoothes the floating chiffon layers of her dress. “It’s good of you, of course, to be strong for the both of us—”
“Stop it, Violet.” He turns. “I’m thinking, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting this, not tonight. I’ve got to think.”
“Think, by all means.”
He steps back and pulls her against him. “Violet, for God’s sake. It isn’t as simple as you imagine. You’re talking about leaving your husband, you’re talking about . . . What, exactly? Leaving your place at the institute? What will you do?”
“I’ll find a place elsewhere. I’ll find something. The point is to leave. The point is to get away from him.”
“And me?”
“You can do what you like,” she says defiantly.
He breathes into her hair, her forehead. “No, I can’t. Where you go, I’ll follow, I’ve got no choice anymore. But for God’s sake, Violet . . .”