Connubial Bliss
Palazzo Littora, Ancestral home of the Scarpelli Family
Grand Canal of Venice
Thursday, Feb 27, 1868
10:56 pm
The winter breeze had freshened slightly but despite the chill Bertie had thrown open the glass and shutters on all of windows even as he had a roaring fire in the fireplace. Fresh air helped move out the underlying smell of sewage that he never seemed to shed of he was in the city.
“Just as well”, he mused to himself, brushing another long stroke through Flora’s hair. “Better morning sunlight than the ginger doxies.”
Bertie didn’t consider himself prudish, especially when it came to artistic endeavors. He didn’t at all mind a good literary romp and certainly didn’t turn his nose up at prurient paintings, naked statues or a well phrased naughty limerick. All that said, and as much as he didn’t mind waking in bed with 6 redheaded prostitutes he certainly didn’t want their images beamed into his into his eyes by dawn’s first light.
Moving the strokes towards the centre. The dark glossy strands slipped softly through his hands. It was beautiful hair. The waviness did tend to cause tangles though.
Two nights ago Countess Johanna had explained that the bedroom’s eastern facing windows depicted the adventures and conquests of Veronica Franco who had been a famous Venetian courtesan back in the 17th century or somesuch. At the time Bertie had elbowed Flora and whispered that if history had been more like this when he was in school he’d have been a top student.
Despite their introduction to Miss Franco both Bertie and Flora had been ill prepared for the magic lantern show that came with the dawn. They woke to a half dozen copies of the voluptuous Madame Franco dancing across the bedsheets with a veritable “Who’s who” of 16th century Venetian hoi polloi and ne’er do wells, including apparently a King of France.
Bertie moved back to the right side of Flora’s hair and began a series of long strokes slowly toward the intractable mass that remained in the middle, about half way down her back.
To add insult to injury the glass had either been engineered or magiked or both to cause the figures to actually move. Lowering the bed curtains had only made matters worse. The room had a cleverly lain out pattern of mirrors that caused whole bed to become a magic lantern show with each of the curtains performing its own little show.
The entirety of the third and fourth floor had been done up in likewise, “Neoclassical Naughty” was Bertie’s best fit for a style. Apparently, Johanna’s parents (now that pairs’ a bit of work) had given her the entire third floor to decorate to her whim on her 15th birthday. The result was akin to her library in Nuremburg writ large.
Even the couch they were sitting on, a well-built Knole settee, was not immune. The brocade covering featured nymphs and unicorns frolicking in a manner anatomically uncomfortable, at best. The couch’s back was particularly tall and possessed extra hinges which Bertie suspected would allow whole thing to fold up in a manner not unlike a coffin. As he sat on the armrest and continued brushing, he briefly considered that this might be the least lewd act to be performed in this room in quite a while.
Another flight of fancy took him and he re-wrote Johanna’s life story as a penny-dreadful. He imagined foul play in the whole decoration scheme. Instead of parent’s, penny-dreadful Johanna had only a sole living uncle, The Baron Scarpelli, who’d given her the whole floor to decorate as part of a calculated plan. Uncle Luigi wants the title, the house and the whole ball of wax, but because of the laws in “The New Republic” Johanna had inherited everything when her Father died. Luigi figured to give the girl some time and rope and she’d fashion a noose to hang herself with; either have her sent away as a nymphomaniac nutter or imprisoned on some morals charge little realizing that while that might well have worked in Rome or Verona or whatever one-horse greaser borgo Luigi hailed from (even England if you’d bribed the right judges or had the right doctors in your pocket) but never here. In Venice they spread this stuff like jam on their toast and ate it for every meal. The locals would be erecting statues of her exploits long before too much longer. Various vaguely naughty adventures ensue. The story practically tells itself, Bertie thought. Perhaps this writing business isn’t so hard after all, just need the right muse.
The brush hit a snag and Bertie tugged just a bit too hard pulling Flora’s head back. He marveled at her eyes momentarily and then kissed her forehead. “Sorry about that,” he murmured pushing her head forward again so he could continue brushing. Best to stop metaphoric wool gathering lest actual wool gathering occur, he chuckled to himself. Bertie rubbed his lips together briefly. The fur still took some getting used to. He’d need a stiffer brush for that later. She seemed to enjoy that.
He switched to short strokes starting at the bottom and slowly moving further up with each stroke. The centre remained a near solid mat but with each stroke it relaxed slightly, loosening more of the individual strands. To Bertie, Flora’s ability to remain calm through it all this was nothing short of astounding. Not just the somewhat clumsy attempt at brushing, but everything that had happened to her since he’d first found her all those months ago.
Feeling the brush pull though her hair; felt good and Flora understood completely now why dogs and cats so loved to be brushed; it seemed.
A cat; one of the many who seemed to follow the woman endlessly jumped on her lap and curled up. The two seemed to purr very quietly but in unison; even though the cat like woman no longer realized when she was purring; it had become more of a reflect than something done intentionally.
The décor wasn’t something that Flora would put in her own home; well not in a room that anyone else would have access too, anyway. However, the woman seemed unfazed by most things and that wasn’t any different. Flora’s attitude seemed to either be of the logical; there is no use getting upset over something we can do nothing about or the opposite at running away from the cold or small enclosed places.
Flora was also pretty good and smiling slightly and laughing internally to Bertie’s comments. She found the man’s sense of humor; possibly surprising to some, actually quite humorous. Flora could act like a rather proper woman but those that knew her should be well aware by now that she wasn’t. She saw no need to be overly proper when it wasn’t called for but her etiquette skills were very refined. It often made her wonder what her past could have been to have such an odd combination for a lady. Then again, it was maybe the absence of the knowledge of her past that had freed her to be herself.
It was true however that this room did have a certain amount of décor that lent itself to an amount of shock value, no matter how unshakeable a person might be. There were things here that even Flora could not have possibly prepared herself for.
The strokes continued to feel rather enjoyable; it was impossible for Flora to brush all the fur herself; there were places she simply could not reach. The mass that had tangled, which Bertie, was slowly working towards was one of those places. What she really probably needed was a servant to help her; only though for the times that Bertie couldn’t as she preferred his brushing to others.
Bertie had managed to surprise his wife beyond what she could reason. He had stayed with her; of course, if he left her or let it be known that she had the curse upon her the whole inheritance would be gone. It was to his advantage to keep her around. Yet, the man didn’t seem to find her less attractive due to her appearance. Flora seemed to have a certain amount of pride in what she looked like; turning cat like had never been something she strived for and she was still having a rather difficult time getting used to it but it seemed as if the other’s around her; Bertie included had less of a problem with it than she did. At least that was what she could figure by what she had witnessed.
Her head suddenly bend back and the snag was pulled at; it didn’t hurt too badly and she just took the kiss in and thoughts entered her mind about a stiffer brush as well but maybe later. “It’s quite all right.” The woman said softly; no harm done, really.
Feeling her hair relax a little more with each stroke; if anyone had told her when she first met Bertie this was how things would end up; she would have told that person they probably needed a long trip to the country. Polite for telling someone that they are crazy. It had turned out so odd and she even considered the group her friends, something she never expected and thought she didn’t need.
A quiet seemed to settle in the room and Flora decided to speak, a question that had been bothering her for a while now. “Bertie? I was wondering; if you had known all this would have happened would still have taken me in that night you found me on Cleveland Street?" Maybe, she shouldn’t have asked it but she had to know.
What a demmed odd question, Bertie thought. He paused for a moment left hand just above her head, brush still slightly snarled on the bottom of the tangle. There is almost certainly some deeper concern that I am equally certain I don’t want to know about. Bertie smiled his little boy smile. Still, no sense in letting a gambit like that go entirely to waste.
Bertie caressed the velvet curve of her ear between his thumb and forefinger, starting at above the base and slowly, softly moving up and then around in slow circles. It rarely failed to get an . . . interesting reaction from her. “So, let’s see . . . you’re asking if had I known 6 months ago that getting rooked into going to a loathsome little photography show would lead to my becoming rich, ennobled and married to a cat?”
Bertie paused just for a moment before resuming brushing with his right hand, his left never straying from her ear. “You’re right. That is a bit of a puzzler. I am afraid I shall have to get back to you in another 20 years or so on it.”
The thought of leaving had honestly crossed Flora’s mind more than once. It had little to do with Bertie or the rest of their little group of adventurers really, it was actually a little nice having people such as this to be around. However, she did not like it when the cold or the small places would make her terrified and she would run in fear; she felt it a burden to others. The cat like woman did not like that she was changing in the way she was and so Bertie’s answer might have been more important than even Flora knew. Maybe, not to leave but calling the inheritance off so she might get away from this curse had been even more of an temptation.
He did answer; it would seem after a time. There was no thought beyond; she had given him an question perhaps there is no good answer to. Purring gently and moving her ear slightly closer to his fingers. Her cat like moves and gestures were becoming more a part of her, even if she would rather it not be that way. Satisfied, not really but Flora was smart enough to know it was the best answer she would get, she gave back into the brushing and went back to being quiet.
Bertie noticed his wife relaxing and enjoying herself a bit more and decided to take advantage of the situation. He continued caressing her ear with his left hand even as he swapped from hair to fur on the flank with his right. The question really was puzzler, I suppose, but the what was odder was that it came from her, the one person who seemed to take everything in stride and always seemed better off for it.
Bertie gazed down at his wife and smiled warmly as he continued caressing. Perhaps there is something in the water here, but the situation does not lend itself to philosophical musings beyond contemplation of the perfection of the female form and the physics of two people reclining on such a small couch. Actions do speak louder than words, after all.
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