BYRON'S MISTRESS
By Maril
maril.swan@sympatico.ca

~~~~~

DISCLAIMERS: Fireworks owns 'em, let's hope for another season at least.

RATING: G

~~~~~

Tessa just stood in the doorway and watched as the doctor paced back and forth, muttering something under his breath in a language she assumed was English. The rustle of her silk skirt alerted him to a visitor and he turned with an exclamation of surprise. His face closed for a second in annoyance, and Tessa's spirits plummeted. She gripped her basket more tightly and drew herself up, fixing on her lips what she hoped was a friendly, non-committal smile.

"Oh, Señorita Alvarado. I didn't hear you knock," he said acerbically.

"That's because your door was already open, and I just walked in," she replied as evenly as possible, though her temper was beginning to rise. "Did I interrupt your prayers, Doctor?"

"What? Oh, you mean the line I was saying to myself. It's part of a poem I learned as a boy. It was practically beaten into my head so naturally I forgot it as soon as I could. Now, it's driving me mad to remember the rest of it. I only have the first line."

"What is it? Maybe I could help," she said as she ventured further into the office, setting her basket on the table.

Helm laughed. "It's an English poem so you're hardly likely to know it."

"Tell me the first line anyway."

He repeated the line in English, and Tessa gave him an impatient glare. "En Español, por favor. No habla Inglés."

"It probably doesn't' translate well. But here is the first line, ""She walks in beauty like the night," he said in Spanish, "and that's all I can remember of the damned poem."

Tessa brightened and replied, in Spanish,
"of cloudless climes and starry skies
And all that's best of dark and bright
meets in her aspect and her eyes
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
which heaven to gaudy day denies."

Helm's mouth gaped open, then he shook his head, laughing, "I am truly astonished that you would know that poem, and in Spanish too."

Tessa felt her face warming at his spontaneous praise and decided it was time to leave. "Here are the salves that Marta prepared for you. I should be going now. Marta is waiting at the wagon."

"Wait, please. Could you teach the whole poem again? It's very important." Helm reached a restraining hand on her arm, then removed it quickly when he realized what he had done. "Excuse me, señorita. I would consider it a great favour if you could spare me just a few more minutes of your time to teach me the poem." His earnest face leaned near her, a pleading look in his green eyes.

"Of course, doctor. Why do you wish to learn this poem?" Tessa saw him withdraw slightly and look away evasively.

"I just need to remember it, that's all."

For the next half hour, Tessa coached the doctor with the expressive love poem until she was sure he had it perfectly. After his profuse exclamations of gratitude which made her flustered and not a little angry, she took her leave and joined Marta at the wagon.

Marta had been sitting on the bench, fanning herself, and looked very warm and a little put out at the long wait. "It doesn't usually take so long to deliver a few jars of ointment, " she said tersely. "I could have done it myself if I had known you would be in there forever. What took you so long?" Seeing the aggrieved look on Tessa's face, she asked, " Is there something I should know?"

"I was teaching him a poem," Tessa said disconsolately.

"A poem? What poem?"

Tessa repeated the verses to Marta whereupon the older woman fell back against the wagon seat and laughed heartily. Tessa regarded her with an annoyed pout. "I don't see anything funny about it!" she said sharply. "I teach him a love poem so he can say it to another woman? That isn't funny. It's ridiculous!"

Marta sobered for a second, wiping her eyes. "Especially when that other woman is you." Marta chuckled involuntarily, unable to contain herself in spite of the dark looks she was getting from Tessa. "Well, you'll soon hear that poem again, and then you'll know if it was time well spent teaching it to him." Marta gave her a sly wink and a playful nudge.

--Maril

TRIO - Spanish flag, boat & glass of wine

DISCLAIMERS: Fireworks owns them.
RATING: G

~~~~~

"I sense your presence immediately as I watch your shadow cross the floor toward me. As I look up at you, those bewitching dark eyes mock my efforts at pretended indifference. My heart begins to race as if with tachycardia, and the floor boards beneath my feet rock as if I'm on a boat on the water. The vision of you, standing outlined against the harsh sunlight in the doorway, races through my veins like wine. In the sudden stillness, all I can hear is the rushing of the wind across the dusty plaza and the snapping of the Spanish flag atop Montoya's residence.

In your eyes, I see a playful curiosity. Why am I reciting a line of poetry, over and over? I'll use that curiosity to lure you inside, like dangling a string in front of a cat. Will your inquisitiveness lead you further, or like a cat, will you remain aloof to all my efforts?

I jibe at your lack of manners in not knocking on my door, and I watch with amusement as you bristle like a cat whose fur is rubbed the wrong way. You want to know about the line of poetry I've been repeating and I tell you in English. Another rub of the fur, but at least, I have your attention. And then to my surprise, you actually knew the poem by Byron, and in Spanish. I watch the rose colour your cheeks at my unfeigned praise. As you turn to leave, I touch your arm and that touch ignites a fire within me. And in you, though you pretend as I do. As I'm pretending that I don't remember the poem in order to detain you longer. It's all I can think of, and for a very short while, it's enough. I've dangled the string and the cat reaches for it, a feint with her deadly claws sheathed.

You find me a rather dense pupil, it takes so long to learn the lines. And I can see in your eyes, that I've wounded you. You know the poem is intended for another woman, the dark side of the woman now seated at my table, patiently teaching me the verses. Whose pain is the greater, I wonder -- yours, because you think you are not loved -- or mine, because I cannot admit it until you trust me with your dark secret.

Finally, I must let you go. Your friend is waiting in the hot sun, and I've kept you as long as I could. I watch from my window as you cross the square toward your Gypsy companion. I see you speak to her and see her laugh, but I know there is also compassion in that laugh. She would never hurt you, or let harm come to you if she could prevent it. Like a mother cat, so fiercely protective of you is she."

Helm lifted the glass chimney from his lamp, and moved the page he had just written into the flame. As his words began to burn and char, he sensed the presence of another. Behind the mask, she watched curiously as the last of the paper was burned and gone. The cat had taken the string into her unsheathed claws and was drawing it and its holder inexorably toward her.

-Maril