Page 53 of The Work of Art

Arthur’s arm was still around her, his hand resting on her hip with a strangely possessive heaviness. Philly sighed. She felt safe where she was, but soon the sun would rise, and no matter how intimate she’d been with Arthur in the dark, she was far too shy to wake up next to him in the bright light of day without any clothes on.

With that in mind, she carefully extricated herself from his embrace and quietly rose from his bed to look for her chemise. She found it lying on the floor, not far from her mangled stays and Arthur’s discarded shirt and waistcoat. She slipped the thin linen garment back on over her head, and after raking her fingers through her tangled hair to put it in some semblance of order, climbed back into bed.

As she knelt on the mattress, preparing to lie back down in the crook of Arthur’s arm, she heard a deep, unintelligible murmur emanate from his side of the bed.

She went still, listening. Had he said something? If he had, she couldn’t make out the words. She leaned a little closer in the darkness just as he turned his head fitfully against the pillows.

A surge of compassion rose in her breast. He was having a nightmare, poor dear. She placed her hand on his chest so that she might gently wake him up.

It was the last movement she was capable of making.

There was no warning at all. No chance to cry out or to pull away. Arthur came awake in a rush of savage power, and in one incredibly violent movement, seized her by the throat.

Philly gasped, her eyes widening in shock and confusion. Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs, and her pulse roared to life in her ears. Instinctively, she began to struggle, but in response his fingers only tightened around her. Panic threatened.

And then it was over.

Whatever dark nightmare had engulfed Arthur was lifted, and just as suddenly as he’d taken hold of her, he let her go.

Philly fell back from her knees onto her hip, fighting for breath. An uncontrollable shudder ran through her body, and the sting of tears blurred her vision. Even so, she could make out the look of dawning horror on Arthur’s face.

“Philly. My God, what have I done to you?”

His ragged, anguished voice was unrecognizable in the darkness. He moved toward her, reaching out as if to help or offer comfort, only to stop short of touching her. He was afraid to touch her, Philly realized. Perhaps she should have been afraid, too. Afraid of him and what he might do to her. But she wasn’t afraid. She went into his arms without hesitation.

“You were dreaming,” she said through her tears. “You didn’t know me.”

At her words, every last vestige of color drained from Arthur’s face. “Are you all right?” he asked roughly. “Please, Philly, tell me that you’re all right.”

She took a deep breath. “I’m all right.” She drew back from him to wipe her face. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”

“I’ve hurt you.” He groped for the tinderbox on the bedside table, his shaking hands somehow managing to strike a spark to light a taper. “Here, love. Let me look at it.”

From the flickering light of the candle Philly could see for the first time how pale and stricken Arthur was. Whatever brief distress he’d caused her bore not even the slightest comparison to the torments he was putting himself through now.

“I’m truly all right,” she protested as he lifted her hair away from her neck. “You let go of me right away. You couldn’t possibly have harmed me.”

Arthur was deaf to reason. He seemed determined to view his actions in the worst possible light. He looked at her throat, seeing the impressions of his fingers on her skin, and his expression became a mask of self-loathing. “I’ve hurt you,” he repeated. There was a raw and helpless despair in his words.

“No. You merely startled me. That’s why I was crying. I was a little scared. But I’m all right now. Perfectly all right.”

“How can you ever forgive me for this?”

Not wanting him to look at the evidence of what he’d done any longer, Philly put her arms back around him and buried her face against his shoulder. There were no assurances she could give him that would make the situation any less terrible than it was. She gave them anyway. “There’s nothing to forgive. It was only a dream. A terrible dream.”

Arthur wrapped her close to him. His embrace wasn’t as strong as it had been before. He held her as if she were made of fine porcelain. As if, at any moment, she might shatter into a million little pieces.

Philly said nothing else. Her frightened tears had run their course, and now she imagined she was comforting him more than he was comforting her. She stroked the nape of his neck, soothing him. She didn’t know if he was even aware of her touch. He was still and quiet, sunk into some brooding thought of his own. She had a sense he was coming to a decision, and wasn’t surprised when, after a while longer, he pulled away from her.

She expected he’d say something more about what had happened, apologize again or even confide in her about his nightmare, but Arthur only touched a lock of her hair, just as he’d done after cutting her out of her stays.

“It’s nearly morning,” he said, his voice strangely flat. “It would be better if you went back to your own bed.”

Philly stared at him. “What?”

“But if you prefer to remain here, then I must go.”

She blinked away the threat of more tears. “You don’t want to stay with me anymore?”