Anew: Book One: Awakened (19 page)

Amelia

R
eturning
from the opera, I’m overcome by weariness. Adele sees that and sends me off to
bed with words of praise for how well it all went and a gentle kiss. I’m glad
that my grandmother is happy. I just can’t imagine ever feeling that way
myself.

When it comes to Ian, I truly
don’t seem to have a will of my own. That terrifies me. But I’m also puzzled by
it. More than a few of the people I was introduced to at the opera were
attractive young men. I can see myself enjoying becoming better acquainted with
some of them. That suggests I’m capable of making a choice at least up to a
point. But beyond that? Could I actually give myself to another man? Would I
want to? The mere idea feels me with unease.

At least I’m reassured that I’m
not likely to see Ian again anytime soon. According to Adele, his presence at
the opera was a rare concession to the social niceties. No doubt he has far
better things to do.

I sleep poorly and rise too few
hours later. Heading directly into the shower, I stand under the hot water
until my muscles unclench and I finally feel ready to face the day. As I dry
myself, I can’t help but notice the marks on my body. Touching the faint but
unmistakable signs of Ian’s possession, I wonder why their presence doesn’t
disturb me more. They are, after all, a reminder of just how eager I was to
succumb to him.

And of how desolate I felt when
he raised the specter of my greatest fear, that whatever else I may aspire to
be, I am still a vessel for his pleasure.

My mouth tightens as I brush my
hair and loosely braid it. There is still so much that I don’t know about
myself but beyond the shadow of a doubt I know I am vastly more than that. I
don’t need Ian or any other man to confirm it for me. I just need to be sure
that I never let myself forget it again.

Feeling somewhat better, I make
my way downstairs. Edward has already left for work and Adele isn’t up yet. I
have the small dining room to myself. Small in the sense that the oblong
mahogany table seats twelve. By contrast, the formal dining room on the other
side of the house can host many times that.

A young footman pours coffee for
me from a silver service. I murmur my thanks and request a simple breakfast--yogurt
and fruit, all I think my stomach can handle. As he departs, I recall what
Adele has told me about the residence’s staff.

With jobs so scarce, ambitious
young people vie for entry level servant positions in the hope of attracting a
mentor or patron who will help them advance. Several of the men and women
working for Edward at the family firm started that way. I wonder why they had
to go to such lengths to win the right to make use of their intelligence and
skills. And how much longer the frustration of others not so fortunate can be
contained.

Despite my thoughts, I’m
enjoying the yogurt accompanied by fresh raspberries when a young maid appears
at the dining room door. She looks a little flustered.

“Flowers have arrived for you,
Miss Amelia.”

I can’t help but be excited.
I’ve never received flowers before. “Bring them in, please.”

She hesitates before turning
away to retrieve something from the table in the hall. Keeping her eyes
carefully averted, she carries a lovely porcelain bowl filled with flowers into
the dining room and sets it in front of me.

At a quick glance, the
arrangement is exquisite. The bowl itself is unmistakably Chinese; I cannot
imagine its age but its blue-green celadon glaze suggests that it is centuries
old. Inside is a loamy soil covered by pale green moss from which vines sprout,
filling
the bowl with delicate blue flowers the
same shade as my eyes. Not cut flowers then but a plant intended to endure.
Whoever has sent this gift knows me well enough to give me something truly
special.

My hand trembles slightly as I
reach for the card. In all likelihood, the gift is from Adele and Edward in
recognition of my entry into society. But something about the flowers--

I look a little closer and in
that moment the reason for the young maid’s hesitation becomes clear. The
flowers--the exquisitely beautiful flowers that match my eyes--are a velvety
soft representation of what lies between my legs, fragrant lips framing a
swollen bud that peeks up between them just asking to be stroked.

From the treasure trove of
knowledge with which I have been imprinted, a tidbit surfaces. These are
clitoria, named in recognition of their resemblance to the obvious. They are
not, as would have been my first guess, a product of genetic engineering.
Nature herself created them and more over gave them various medicinal uses
including to ease stress. Clearly, Nature has a naughty streak.

The maid clears her throat.
“Where shall I put them, miss?”

As calmly as I can manage, I
say, “In my room, please.”

She nods with relief and departs
quickly, taking the bowl with her. I retain the card. Slowly, I draw it from
the small white envelope and scan the words written in black ink in a firm
hand.

“Thank you for making an evening
at the opera so memorable. Ian.”

My breath catches. I am at once
shocked by his audacity and all too tempted by the suggestion that our
encounter meant more to him than he revealed at the time. Still, he has gone
much too far in sending me such a blatantly erotic gift.

What if Adele had been there to
see it or, worse yet, Edward? While both may suspect what happened between Ian
and me in those first few days, neither has been so indecorous as to bring it
up. I really do not want that to change.

By the time Adele comes down,
I’ve slipped the card away in the pocket of my linen slacks and regained my
composure, at least on the surface. My grandmother looks well rested and eager
to tackle the day.

Before she takes a sip of her
breakfast tea, she says, “Now that your wardrobe is in hand and you’ve made
your first appearance, we need to decide what you’d like to be doing between
social engagements. There will be a great many of those. Invitations are
already pouring in. But still, there is so much else to avail yourself of in
the city.”

I imagine that there is although
I haven’t had an opportunity to give it much thought. Slowly, I say, “I’d like
to take dance class. I enjoy ballet but my body needs to be better conditioned
for it.”

Adele nods. “That’s an excellent
idea. Is there anything else?”

I hesitate. Just as with the
piano, I’d like to find something that’s compatible with my interest in
movement and agility but is my own. A thought forms that I almost dismiss
before deciding that it has merit.

“This may seem unusual,” I say.
“But I’d also like to take some form of physical defense training.”

My grandmother raises an
eyebrow. She looks concerned. Gently, she asks, “My dear, is there any
particular reason why you feel the need for that?”

This is the closest she has come
to asking me what happened in the days I was with Ian.

Quickly, wanting to eliminate
any shadow of worry that she may have, I say, “I just think it would give me
more confidence in myself and my ability to deal with challenges. After all,
I’ve had very little opportunity to develop that.”

Adele is clearly hesitant but
she suggests that I speak with Edward who, she says, is knowledgeable about
such matters. I feel guilty about not telling her that my true reason for
wanting such training is in the hope that it will alleviate the sense of
helplessness that haunts me whenever I think of the gestation chamber.

When we have finished breakfast,
my well-connected and ever-efficient grandmother makes a call. Suddenly I have
an appointment at a premier ballet studio where, after a short but grueling try
out, I’m accepted as an advanced student.

“You will have to work,” warns
Sergei Zharkov, the young, intense Russian dance master. He’s almost too good
looking with a long, sinewy body packed with muscle. His dark golden hair tied
at the back of his neck in a small ponytail only serves to emphasize his
harshly beautiful features.

“You have had training,
obviously, and you possess skill and grace. But your stamina--” He makes a
dismissive gesture. “People think ballet is for delicate fairy creatures but we
must be strong and tough to create such an illusion.”

Without warning, he taps the
center of my back with the tip of the long staff used to beat out time and,
when necessary, correct an errant dancer. Automatically, I straighten, one hand
resting on the barre.

“Better.” He eyes me critically,
his gaze running up and down my body that is clad in a practice leotard and
tights.

I expect nothing less than his
thorough scrutiny. In taking me on as a student, Sergei is agreeing to help me
hone my body as an instrument of beauty and art. Of necessity, he will want to
know what he has to work with.

“Yes,” he says finally, “I see
the possibilities.” After a moment, he smiles. “Very well then, Amelia. Let us
begin.”

Two hours later, I emerge from
the studio limp from my exertions but feeling considerably more at peace with
myself. Sergei
is merciless but already I know
that I’m in good hands. Besides his obvious talent and dedication, he is very
clear in his requirements and he has an innate sense of my limits.

When I confessed to him that I’d
attempted a grand jeté without being in condition to perform it, he was
horrified. He made me promise that I wouldn’t do anything so rash ever again
but instead would wait until he judged that I was ready.

The car Adele sent speeds me
back to the house where I have only a short time to shower and dress before
we’re due to leave for a soirée at the home of family friends. Edward and my
grandmother are waiting in the parlor when I hurry down the steps still tucking
myself together.

“I’m sorry to have taken so
long,” I say, grimacing. “I’m afraid that I’m moving a little more slowly than
usual.”

“Sergei is quite the task
master,” Adele says with a smile. “But never mind, dear, you look ravishing.”

I’m wearing the first outfit I
put my hand on that seemed appropriate for a soirée. It’s another of Zosimo’s
creations, sleeveless with a bodice of pale ecru silk above a short pleated
skirt. Both are interlaced with thin crystal filaments that change color as I
move, subtly shifting from gold to violet and back again. While it’s nowhere
near as grand as the gown I wore the previous evening, I love it.

In the car on the way, I turn to
Edward. I don’t want to press the matter of what Adele and I witnessed two days
before but I am anxious for news.

“Do you know what happened to
the young man who was beaten?” I ask softly. “Is he all right?”

My brother frowns. Reluctantly,
he says, “He received medical treatment and was released outside the city. You
needn’t trouble yourself any further.”

By which I gather that he does
not want me to bring it up again. Even so, I persevere. “I don’t understand why
the men who assaulted him aren’t being held to account. What they did was wrong.”

“You may think so,” Edward says
quietly. “But there are a great many who disagree with you. As I am sure you
have no wish to draw unwelcome attention to yourself, you should forget what
you saw.”

I understand his concern for my
sake but his seeming callousness disappoints and worries me. Softly, I say, “I
can’t forget it and not withstanding my respect for your advice, I won’t. I am
not a child to be shielded from unpleasant realities. Nor am I willing to
ignore rank injustice.”

“Then you will place yourself in
danger,” Edward says. I have never heard him speak so coldly. “And others with
you. Is that what you wish?”

“Of course it isn’t but--”

He holds up a hand, cutting me
off. “Enough. This is neither the time nor the place for any such discussion.”

Reluctantly, I have to admit
that he has a point. We are arriving at our destination. Getting out of the
car, I am still dwelling on his uncharacteristic behavior when I notice a
nearby building of such extraordinary size and beauty that it eclipses
everything else around it.

Constructed of black steel and
silvered glass, it is far taller than any other in the city. There is no
indication of what goes on inside but I can’t help wondering what the view from
the topmost floors is like. There must be days when the inhabitants are far
above the clouds, unfettered by the world. I envy their freedom, however
illusionary it may be.

A few minutes later, I step off
an elevator in the smaller building where the soirée is being held. The elegant
apartment looks as though it was taken directly from an English country manor.
Tufted sofas and wingchairs are upholstered in chintz and strewn with
needlepoint pillows. Marble-topped tables hold crystal vases overflowing with
flowers. The paintings are old, heavily framed, and mostly of horses and dogs.
The effect is warm and gracious even if I can’t imagine myself ever living with
it.