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Something has changed over the last few days. I learn that the nanny took Emiliana to school this morning, and Caterina still hasn’t left her bedroom. I go to her room to check on her. I knock, no response.
I open the door gently and find her breathing slow and even, still asleep. I study her face in the low light, noting the dark circles under her eyes, the tightness around her mouth even as she sleeps. She has seemed weary these past days, a melancholy weighing on her that I cannot ease.
A plan forms in my mind—one last effort to bring a smile to her lovely face. I know her passion for design, remember vividly the sketches that used to fill her notebooks. How she used to dream of studying fashion design. She has spoken before of transforming the unused parlor on the east wing into a studio, a private space to rekindle her creativity.
I set the staff to work, instructing them to ready the room and gather any supplies Caterina may need. Bolts of lush fabrics, reams of tissue paper, an array of buttons and beads. Mannequins, a dress form, a drafting table. I oversee each detail, envisioning the joy this surprise will spark in her eyes. She has sacrificed much for her family and mine. She deserves a refuge, a place to rediscover who she was always meant to be.
It’s midafternoon when the final touches are put in place. I stand in the doorway, picturing her delight at what I’ve built for her. This gift cannot make up for all she’s endured, but I pray it will help ease her burden, even if just for a moment. She stirssuch fierce love in me, this fascinating woman. I would move mountains to see her spirits lifted. I only hope this is enough.
I ask my housekeeper to escort her here but reveal nothing.
***
Caterina’s footsteps echo down the hall as she approaches. I stand outside the door and she looks surprised at the sight of me. I steel my nerves and gesture for her to enter the transformed room. She gasps, hands flying to her mouth in astonishment.
“Mikhail, what…what is all this?” Her voice trembles as she takes in the space.
I smile gently. “A place for you to design, a gift. I know how much you loved sketching dresses, bringing your visions to life. I thought perhaps it could bring you some joy.”
Tears glisten in her eyes. She turns and embraces me fiercely.
“You did this for me? I can’t believe it. It’s wonderful, perfect!”
I wrap my arms around her, breathing in her floral scent. “Anything for you, my love.”
She pulls back, gazing up at me. “Please, sit. I want to make something for you.”
I settle into a chair as she gathers supplies, visibly energized. Her deft fingers work quickly, pinning and cutting. I’m content just to watch her create.
“Do you remember when we first met?” she asks. “How I spilled cola all over your shirt at that charity auction our fathers were at? Little did I know our families hated one another.”
I chuckle at the memory. “You were mortified. But I barely noticed the stain, I was so captivated by you.”
We reminisce about our whirlwind courtship, the exhilaration of our secret nights together. She tells me of her lonely childhood, the isolation she felt even among family.
I listen intently as Caterina shares more of her upbringing, her voice tinged with old grief. She remembers her mother, a warm and artistic woman who nurtured Caterina’s passion for fashion design.
“She would have adored this room,” Caterina says wistfully. “We used to sketch dress designs together at the kitchen table. She encouraged me to dream big.”
Her expression darkens as she recounts her mother’s sudden death from suicide when she was a teenager. I remember how years ago, during our secret relationship, Caterina still hadn’t come to terms with it. Today, she sounds braver.
“After she was gone, the light left our home. My father is now cold and controlling. He said I didn’t need an education, only a good marriage.”
She balls up a scrap of fabric, her frustration palpable. “I wanted to go to design school, to make my own way. But he refused, said it wasn’t proper for a woman. I felt so powerless and alone.”
I take her hand, stroking it gently. “You have such talent, such vision. You deserved that chance to thrive, not just survive.”
She smiles sadly. “At least I can create in this room now. It’s like you’ve given me back a piece of myself I thought was lost forever.”
“You deserve it,” I whisper.
She looks up at me. “Why, Mikhail? Why did you do this?”
“You’ve been looking upset, and I just wanted to help you feel better.”
She nods and goes back to setting the cutout of my tie under the sewing machine.
“Caterina…” I begin. “You do know you can discuss everything with me, don’t you? Is there something that’s happened? You haven’t been the same since your visit with your father.”
