Page 52 of Fragile Wicked Things
Exhaustion overcame me, and I closed my eyes. The next time I opened them was hours later, in the middle of the night. Edward didn't leave my side. He returned to his human form, kneeling near where I lay and stroking my hand.
"A wife with integrity and intelligence is what I have longed for, unlike the fury I abandoned long ago. I have no right to ask this of you. Catherine, I know what I am, that my sins have damned my soul, yet, I plead for your mercy—will you stay?"
What unutterable pathos in his voice, yet it was not enough to sway me and I reiterated firmly, "I am going."
"Withdraw, then. I consent, but remember you leave me here in torment. You are free from the misery that holds me captive."
Edward turned away. I forced myself to sit up and with all the energy I had, walked to the door and to my freedom. Although I walked with determination, I couldn't help but look back again at Edward, his head hung low. My feet carried me to him and I placed a farewell kiss on his cheek.
"God keep you from harm—and reward you well for your past kindness to me."
He grabbed my hand and held it to his chest where the sound of thumping lay absent. "Your love would have been my best reward," he answered.
Blood rushed to his face; fire flashed in his eyes and he sprang at me, arms held out. I evaded his embrace and left Thornfield behind.
Sixteen
One week after leaving Thornfield, James and I set out for South Carolina, where we would be married. James noticed my quietness, how I had reverted somehow into a cocoon, and barely listened to him, wrapped up in solitude, but he mistook it all for nerves over our upcoming nuptials. I said nothing of what had transpired between Edward and myself. Even when James reassured me Edward would one day accept the marriage, I nodded in agreement, pretending that was what preoccupied my mind. Edward's secret remained hidden, and I never revealed to James that the bond between Edward and myself had shattered.
The wedding was held in a small chapel in Charleston where James had family. No one came to the wedding, and the church caretaker, an elderly man who reminded me of Giovanni, acted as a witness. James wiped the sweat from his brow. His voice cracked when he spoke his vows. His hand shook when he placed the ring, scratched from wear, on my wedding finger. I became enthralled with the fact he was nervous. Afterwards, when he caught me examining the ring, I knew he worried what I thought of it.
"It was my mother's," he said and held his breath. How terrible for me to think he had bought a pre-owned ring. His mother had been the most important person to him, and he'd been carrying her ring all those years after her death. Now, I was the most important person, and I threw my arms around him. He let out his breath.
The next day, a congratulatory letter arrived from his aunt with no explanation given for the family’s absence. While I initially thought there was reason for concern, I pushed it aside at the delight of her gift of an apartment and expenses paid for six months—a whole six months! I was flabbergasted. James said she was the kindest of his aunts and knew she would care for her late sister's son.
The apartment was small, in a building over Sam's Butcher Shop just off Oak Avenue, and somewhat rundown. Still, we decorated it with the few things we could afford: a used table and chairs bought from the local church, a set of drawers purchased on credit from a store a block away, and we were fortunate that the previous tenants left behind a bed. We created a happy home. James apologized that he couldn't give me what I was accustomed to at Thornfield but promised one day he would. For the first time in thirteen years, I didn't need riches.
When we left New Orleans, I walked away with some savings—an accumulation of birthday and Christmas money over the years—a small amount compared to what Edward had set aside for me. Although we needed it, I refused to take Edward’s money, which sat in my New Orleans bank account. The Kilbarrys were wealthy, and James would provide for us and our future children.
"My darling, Mrs. Kilbarry," James said one day when he came home and found me in our kitchen. He took out a package wrapped in paper and presented a fresh piece of meat from the butcher shop below.
"James, that's the second time this week. We need to watch our spending." That was the extent of my management over our finances, something I never had to think about when Edward cared for me and, now that I was a wife, any thought of money lay in my husband's hands.
James showered me with small gifts, nothing extravagant, but the words he wrote for me in love letters found hidden in the apartment were far greater than gold. I piled them into a wooden box I kept atop the dresser, rereading them, often kissing them before placing them back in. The box sat half full, and after a few months, the letters grew harder to find until, eventually, there were none.
The gifts of meat dwindled until James stopped bringing them home altogether. There was no more chicken or fish. At the market, I had to sort through the rotten fruits and vegetables, bargaining down old Mrs. Janey until she finally let me have them for almost nothing. I added potatoes to every meal for substance, learned to bake bread, and thinned out soup to make it last longer.
"There's just potato in this stew," said James, dropping his spoon into his bowl, remnants of soup splashing.
"I've added carrots and tomatoes." Although there had been less than half a carrot, I was sure to give it all in his portion. Yet, James remained unsatisfied.
Someone knocked, then an envelope slipped under our door, and footsteps led away. James stared at the envelope, then turned back to his stew, slurping. When he was almost done, I percolated his coffee, searching among chipped mugs for a decent one. The aroma of coffee penetrated the stale apartment air, smelling better than I knew it would taste. Now ready, I poured the coffee into a bluish-grey cup, placed it beside his bowl, picked up the envelope, and put it on the table between us. James stared at a spot on the table. The letter had come from the landlord, the address written in his wife's handwriting slanted backwards to spell Mr. James Kilbarry. We sat there like that for a long time until his daze broke, and James opened the envelope, read the letter and calmly folded it up, tucking it back in. His demeanor didn't reveal the letter's contents, but by then, we had been there eight months, and I knew the rent was overdue. The savings James said he had was enough to cover the two months' rent and carry us for the next while, so I couldn't fathom why James hadn't paid. He took a sip of his coffee, spat it out and flung the mug across the room, shattering the cup. I shuddered from the violence.
"Tastes like mud," he said and left.
Five days later, a second letter came from the landlord. And four days after that, a third letter. Each one changed James’s demeanor; he appeared more agitated and worried about the finances. At the beginning of our marriage, he would go out once a week. "Business meeting," he would tell me, but soon, the frequency doubled and tripled. He came home later each time, most times not until the early hours of the morning. There were nights when he passed out drunk on top of me. Other nights, he raged in a drunken stupor, a coiled threat I knew would explode. There were signs. I shut my eyes to all of them.
With an eviction notice posted on our door and threats of physical violence uttered by James towards the landlord and his family, I went to the bank. He was terrible with money I had come to realize. Moreover, his pride would prevent him from asking me to dip into my savings. Of my own accord, I decided to pay the outstanding bills.
The chair in the bank manager's office was hard and uncomfortable; I fidgeted with my wedding band as the manager looked over papers. The dark panels on the wall reminded me of Edward's library and the clock on the bookshelf was identical to one back home. Rarely did I think about Thornfield when I had first arrived, but as time went on, memories of my former home were more pressing on my mind. I would yearn for Thornfield, for my life there, for my Edward and then an image of the monster would awaken me from my delusion.
"Mrs. Kilbarry," the bank manager said, interrupting my thoughts. "You can see from these banknotes that each week, a withdrawal had been made from your account." He handed me the notes, some with inked thumbprints, and James’s signature was at the bottom of each. "The withdrawals increased, as did the amounts," he said.
"I see. How much is…" I had no breath left to continue, closed my eyes and inhaled. "…left?"
"I'm afraid nothing. The account was closed by your husband several weeks ago. At that point, there was a nominal amount left. Are you all right, Mrs. Kilbarry? You look ill."
"I'm feeling rather hot. Please open a window."
