The air was cold and wet that night. Little drops of moisture were collecting, and running down the brick walls of the buildings as I passed. The fog danced around the street lanterns and made the noises of the crowed street, ring out. The rolling coach wheels, behind the clinking of iron horse shoes, echoed up and down the cobble stone street alarmingly. I could hear the band playing in the tavern far ahead, clearly. The banjo, accordion, and fiddle players yielded an off tune, as they played a loud rousing chorus lead by inebriated patrons. Over all this noise however I was still afraid I would be heard, the sound of my footsteps. I tried still to make them slow and quiet, as I pursued her along the sidewalk.
In and among the everyday people of London, it reeked of manure, ale and sweaty brows, but I dared not get in a carriage and run the risk of loosing her; and I wanted to go undetected. I didn't think she had seen me since I had taken after her, as she had come out, on foot, from the hotel. A lady by herself in such a part of the city was an invitation to danger, or perhaps, a warning.
The streets of stone sweated under my feet as I passed. A storm was coming, I could feel it through my thick black overcoat and I wrapped the gray scarf tighter around my neck. Slowly I adjusted my hat and the leather of my gloves rubbed together and squeaked in response. Up ahead she slowed her pace, and so did I. Quickly I stepped under the awning of Brothel, it was dark, the woman was well past the street lantern and the crowd buzzed about her, but I knew she'd stopped. My breath became shallow and it's heat floated up in the form of a mist. I couldn't help feeling guilty; I had not yet done such a thing as this. I covered my mouth and stood totally still, with a silent dread welling up inside of me. I waited for a good while and slowly peaked out onto the street. Was I going to do this?
The woman had gone on ahead, and was stopped, about to cross the street. She tucked her hood tighter around her head, and gathered up her soft black skirts with a gentle movement, before she stepped down off the curb. It was almost like hearing music, watching her graceful gestures. Her steps were a quiet symphony as she floated across the street, a lively music, wild and windy like Vivaldi. I followed her and watched her sweep along the opposite side of the street, cloak fluttering behind. She was herself a frantic instrument, not like a flute or a violin, more like a cello or a bassoon, with notes deep and soft.
My wife has no music in her. She often sat next to me in the concert hall playing the part of the proper, modest, respected wife of an English Physician. She did listen and often times I would look for signs of an emotional reaction, something stirring in her heart, but it never came.
"What in God's name are you doing?" I hissed at myself, even though I knew perfectly well. I followed her across the street, dogging a carriage. As it passed I saw that the woman in the black cloak was gone. Feeling nervous all of a sudden I looked up and down the line of shops, until a blacksmith on horse back shouted at me to get out of the street. I tipped my hat at the large, burly man and went quickly to the other side. I rounded the corner, still no sight of her. An old woman with a basket came towards me, crooning at me in a thick cockney accent.
"Hallo Gov-na. What an' ansom gent we got' ere ladies. Cam on love – won't yer bye a flawer for Granny, go some right pre-y posies..."
"No, thank you madam," I winced at the volume of her shill voice, like an old instrument badly out of tune. "Not today," I whispered and went to go around her. She stepped in front of me and we did a little dance right there on the sidewalk.
"Ohhhhh." Her companions came closer. "We got a right gen-tle-man ere. And what's a gent-le-man like you to do wiv out a beautyful flawer for is lady friend?"
"What lady friend, don't be impertinent..."
"Well yur not dressed up fa me!"
"Oh all right" I plucked the least shabby of the red roses, feeling suddenly shaken.
"Oh fan-cy! Three P govna." I pushed it at her and hurried on. "Ah, thank-ye sir, cum a-gain."
I continued on trying to drown out their laughter and it faded as the wind picked up, and then vanished all together, as if they had gone into the Pub; it was no use, she was gone.
"Damn it," I swore and turned around to go back, immediately I jumped as I caught a still, dark blur out of the corner of my eye. The woman was one the stairs above sidewalk, not 3 feet away. "Oh, excuse me madam! I did not realize..." I could not continue but remained staring at her, even now she did not look the least bit concerned about my attention. This troubled me for some reason. Totally unnerved I just stood there, looking at her. I felt as if was gasping for air.
The woman stood still - possessively unalarmed at my frightfulness. I must not have heard her as she went up the stairs, and stood in the doorway of the Opera House watching me. There was an intense silence about her now. A noiseless wind circled round her body, even though the breeze had quite died. She seemed to sway without moving, without making a sound, like an apparition. It seemed be emanating from her.
Her complexion was pale against the dark cloak and her eyes were positively black, with bright gray rims that looked golden in the lamplight and I felt that if I were to look into them any longer they would swallow me. Her eyes flickered and it was as if her gaze had imprisoned me; I was helpless to do anything but continue to stare at her in the street. Her full pink lips moved slightly taking slow, calculated breaths shoulders bare under the cloak and the fullness of her bosom overflowing the restriction of the black bodice.
I was spell bound in my rapture and I was sure that I had never seen someone more simply, but exquisitely beautiful in all my life; the more I looked at her, the more so she became. Shaking myself I realized that my behavior would soon be construed as improper, if it had not already become come so, and I cleared my throat to speak. Words flew from her lips like foreign birds, seeming to take flight even before her lips had opened. Her voice rapped itself around me, like the wind itself, like the gray sea, tossing me about mercilessly.
"You ave been vating for me, in de shadows."
"Why, whatever do you..."
"I vas vatching you."
Not knowing whether to feel like the mouse or the cat I offered her the rose. Her eyes dropped to it and I watched the thick fringe of her black lashes come down. Slowly she produced her hand from beneath her cloak like she was casting a spell and reached for the flower as if it did not exist until she touched it. Her long black satin gloves went up almost the full length of her arm, shining in the streetlight. Her finger brushed mine slightly in the passing. As my hand felt hers, it was as if my breath was constricted for a moment in my throat and instead my whole body breathed in and out, one solitary plus. My body had become alive with sensation, more than I can ever remember, and I wondered deeply at this new existence of ecstasy.
The woman took the rose like she was going to smell it but then touched it too the tip of her nose and closed her eyes. She then proceeded to guide its velvet petals down over her parted lips, over her chin, down her neck and in between her breasts to her bodice. Then she lifted the flower again and brushed it across the top of her bosom, like a sensual, sacrilegious signing of the cross. I stared in shock, not knowing what to say or do, whether I should be enraged or intoxicated.
