A Pair of Brown Eyes: Chapter 30 (the Last but One)

Take Claire to the clinic or to his own room? By this hour, the fireplace would already be lit upstairs, so the latter seemed like the obvious choice, proper manners notwithstanding: this was no time to be worrying about as petty a thing as delicacy.

Once in the bedchamber, Andrew laid Claire on his bed, softly, face down, head tilted to her left. Then, he went downstairs to retrieve his medical instruments, and quickly back to her side. With trembling hands —which in vain he tried to steady— he took a pair of scissors out of his bag. "I'm sorry for what I'm about to do," he said, as her back began to get exposed following the blade's movement.

The spectacle that opened up was too much for him to endure, and yet— endure it he must! Endure the view of her swollen skin and horrid wounds! Some of them were old, some newly inflicted; some of them healed, some infected; some were the obvious result of kicking, others revealed the use of more sophisticated weapons... Andrew gasped, imagining fists, boots, belts, rods... He had to stop there, he needed to regain his composure.

Unfortunately, his shock wasn't over yet. Turning her around, he discovered another heartbreaking evidence of the dreadful life she must have led: a section in her lower abdomen disclosed an alarming story: while a number of reasons could have induced a doctor —and, judging by the exactness of the cut, one had been summoned to do the job: was it comforting or was it not?— to take such an extreme measure as to remove her ovaries, the most likely presented itself as the consequence of a miscarriage gone horribly bad. The circumstances of said miscarriage, Andrew didn't dare to guess, and, leaving all other implications aside, it must have caused her a great deal of pain. His Claire! His poor Claire!

With the utmost care, Andrew set to the task of applying all necessary cures to her wounds —at least to the ones that could still be benefited from them. He was relieved to ascertain that her ribs were not so severely fractured as he had previously thought and that no real damage was done to her internal organs: she would recover in no time! After he was done, he put his jacket back on her, her own clothes no longer fit for use.

Just as he was leaving the room, intent to letting Claire rest as peacefully as possible, Andrew heard his housekeeper's voice downstairs, as she talked to someone on the front door. Ethel! He must have left her worried after their earlier conversation. What was he going to tell her now? Wavering, he went to meet her.

"Did you find her?", were the first words she addressed him. "Is she fine?"

Instead of answering, Andrew stepped closer to her sister and pulled her into a tight embrace.

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When Ethel left a while later, with the promise to be back in the morning with a change of clothes for Claire, Andrew climbed the stairs once again, unable as he was to leave her side even for a second.

He sat by Claire's side. He took her hand. He felt relieved.

Her pulse was steadier, her breathing deeper. Some colour had returned to her cheeks, and she looked relaxed. Relaxed..., and so dazzling..., and captivating...., dressed in his jacket —which had never looked so good. If only circumstances had been happier... No, that wasn't the path to tread at the moment. All the sufferings she must have undergone... first with her husband, then in her fleeing scheme; she had built a whole new life..., from scratch..., while keeping that monstrous secret all to herself. His brave Claire! Andrew saw her in a new light, and he was utterly impressed with this exceptional lady. A gush of the most profound love filled his heart... But that wasn't the right path, either. Would she be warm enough? Andrew secured the blanket around her.

After that, he just remained where he was, his hand fastly clasped around hers, his mind lost in some far-away place, terrifying time... He felt appalled.

The place was London. The time, that period in Claire's life when she was still living with her husband. How must her days have passed by, in the frightful company of such bastard? Andrew could picture her, failing to accommodate his taste in whatever preposterous whim he might have set his mind to, and receiving one of those treatments he had but seen a sample of. His stomach revolted. And for how long had she been married to him? Some of the wounds looked very old: those hideous wounds covering up her entire body!

That a man —any man— should be able to inflict such pain on the one person they were bound to protect was beyond himself; and that such a person happened to be Claire was..., was...; words— failed— him.

He sat back. He set his eyes on Claire. The marks on her face were darkening. He felt ashamed.

What fraud of a medical man was he, not to have understood sooner? He should have recognised those symptoms with no need of physical reminders. He, who had been the unwilling witness to dozens of cases like Claire's, had failed to recognise those signs in the woman he loved. Stupid, stupid man! Merely because those things never happened to people one knows? Such a silly, puerile delusion! Was that his best excuse? He could have spared her, at least this once. He should have spared her, had he not been so blind.

He stood up. He went to the other end of the room. Then back. Pacing the floor. Over and over. He took another look at Claire.

He clenched his fist. He slammed the wall. He felt mortified.

Thoughts of guilt ran freely, accusing him. Tormenting him. Eating him inside. Guilt for what he had done —or not done— to Claire.

Not only was he a bluff as a doctor, but also as a gentleman. What had he done to her? He was almost as guilty as Richardson himself. He, too, had mistreated her; he, too, had been cruel to her; he, too, had given her lots of pain. She had given him plenty of clues about the truth hidden behind her secretive behaviour, and what had he done about them? Nothing. Nothing at all. He had failed to read them properly, busy as he was feeling jealous, and irritable, and exasperated.

He almost wished himself back to that time when he was unaware of her terrible predicament, to the time when those self-absorbed feelings were his main concern, and he could feel as dejected as he chose. Almost. No, that was not true! He needed to know, and it served him right to have learned about it in such a horrendous way: that was his punishment; hopefully, it would be her relief. Would she ever forgive him?

He sat back. He hid his head in his hands. Mostly, he felt scared.

Scared, imagining her many frights over the years —the agonizing anticipation of yet another outburst, the excruciating aftermath of it; the perpetual anxiety, her spirit being crashed by degrees... He would gladly have taken her place each and every of those occasions.

He approached Claire's bed once more. He stroked her hair. He planted a kiss on her cheek.

The bed looked so huge, with her lying in it. Oh, Lord, how scared he was! Scared, and desperate, and desperately eager for her to wake up, so he could tell her she needn't be scared any longer.

She was safe now; he would make sure of it. Of course she wanted herself away from that odious man! Just as she should be, as she needed, as he wanted her to. Her well-being was all that mattered. And Andrew would help her; he wouldn't fail her again. Ever again.

So many more things he would wish to tell her...

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Author's note.- I didn't anticipate that this chapter would be such a hassle, but that's what it's been —a true nightmare, actually—, and I must excuse myself once again for my tardiness; I'd better not look back at the date for my last entry, I get the shivers and develop a cold sweat just to think about it. Believe it or not, I've been working on it all throughout the summer, but it never seemed to get right, besides a family tragedy dried me up for a while. Hope it was worth the waiting.

Unos Ojos marrones: Capítulo 29

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*ADVERTENCIA: Palabrotas y algo de violencia —aunque de una clase que quizá no os ofenda ;-).
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¡Maldita sea! ¿Pero cuántos hoteles había en la ciudad? Andrew había perdido la cuenta. ¿Y cuántos le faltaban aún por comprobar? Iba a volverse loco. ¿Y si no encontraba a Claire en ninguno de ellos? No, no estaba dispuesto a contemplar esa posibilidad: iba a encontrarla. Claire y su marido debían de estar en alguna parte, ¡tenían que estar! ¿Sería posible que ya estuvieran de camino a Inglaterra? Andrew rezó para que no fuera así.

Suspiró al acercarse a otro más: ¡ojalá éste fuera el correcto!

Lo vio nada más entrar a la recepción. Saliendo por una puerta, ¿el bar, tal vez?, al otro lado del recibidor. El Sr. Richardson, en persona.

Andrew lo esperó hasta que estuvo a su altura. —¿Dónde está Claire? Tengo que hablar con ella.

Por unos instantes, el hombre no contestó ni dio señales de recordarle. Pero finalmente le reconoció; esa ceja arqueada no dejaba lugar a dudas. —Creo, Dr. Stuart que debería abstenerse de dirigirse a mi esposa por su nombre de pila.— Ésas fueron sus primeras palabras. —¿Acaso no sabe mostrar respeto?

Andrew ignoró la advertencia del hombre. —¿Dónde está?—, repitió. Ambos se observaron fijamente, fría la mirada que le lanzaron a Andrew, y sin duda fría la que él lanzó. —No pienso moverme de aquí hasta que la vea.

—Bueno, eso es imposible.— La voz de Richardson tembló ligeramente. —Se encuentra... descansando en este momento.

Esas palabras hicieron que la habitación (o el corazón de Andrew) se helara. ¿Sería eso verdad, o sería mentira? Iba a descubrirlo como fuera. —¿A estas horas? ¿Por qué? ¿Es que está enferma?— Andrew hizo una pausa, esperando alguna reacción: no obtuvo ninguna, excepto una gota de sudor que se le empezó a formar a Richardson en la frente. —Porque si lo está, entonces sí que insisto en verla.

El hombre palideció. —No será nada... estoy seguro...—, titubeó. ¿Nada? A Andrew no le gustó como sonaba ese nada. ¿Y a qué venía tanto tartamudeo?

Sin hacerle caso, Andrew se dirigió al recepcionista. —Rápido. Deme el número de la habitación del Sr. y la Sra. Richardson.— Éste dudó. —¡Vamos! ¿Es que no lo ha oído? ¡Una dama podría necesitar asistencia médica, y no puedo hacer nada para ayudarla porque su marido se niega a darme el puñetero número de habitación!

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Finalmente, los tres subieron y abrieron la puerta. Andrew decidió que tenía derecho a entrar primero, y fue rápido en acceder a la habitación antes que los otros dos hombres. Pero la escena que se le presentó bien hubiera deseado no verla nunca. El corazón se le rompió. Una parte de él murió. Delante de él, una alfombra verde; sobre ésta, Claire, tendida; al lado de su brazo, la botella desaparecida..., intacta; a sus pies, un poco más alejado, un atizador para el fuego.

Observó más detenidamente las facciones maltrechas de Claire: por las mejillas le resbalaban lágrimas resecas, y en su cara se le empezaban a formar unas marcas espantosas. Dirigió entonces la mirada hacia el pecho: se movía arriba y abajo, si bien levemente. ¡Estaba viva! No vio nada más.

No vio nada más, pero sí que escuchó algo. —Se pondrá... bien..., ¿verdad?—, habló una odiosa voz masculina detrás de él. —Tiende a... exagerar... a veces.

¿Era esa la mejor excusa de aquel hijo de puta? ¿Se creería sus propias mentiras? ¡Así que Claire exageraba! Andrew ni siquiera se molestó en replicarle. Sus puños hablarían por él con mucha más elocuencia.

—Eh, ¿qué está usted haciendo?—, dijo Richardson tras recibir un golpe en la mandíbula. — ¡Déjeme!

Andrew le pidió al recepcionista que llamara a la policía, y después le dió al Sr. Richardson la única respuesta que merecía: otro golpe, esta vez en la nariz. Ese hombre iba a aprender enseguida lo que les hacía a los maltratadores: ¡una acusación por asalto con agravantes seguro que se lo enseñaría!

—¡Déjeme!—, repitió Richardson. ¿Es que no iba a callarse nunca? —Es usted soltero, doctor, no cabe ninguna duda.— Y encima mantenía ese tono desafiante. —De lo contrario sabría que a las esposas hay que... disciplinarlas de vez en cuando...

¿Disciplinar? ¿Disciplinar a Claire? ¡Incluso el término era abominable! ¿El hombre que le había hecho un daño tan atroz a Claire tenía la insolencia de afirmar que había que disciplinarla? ¿Y esto era lo que entendía por disciplina? ¡Andrew iba a matar a ese bastardo!

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Una vez que la policía se hizo cargo del Sr. Richardson, Andrew se quedó a solas en la habitación con el cuerpo inconsciente de Claire como única compañía. Fue entonces cuando encontró el valor para acercarse a ella.

Temblando, se arrodilló junto a ella, le tomó el pulso, le acarició suavemente la cara y, tras asegurarse de que su vida no estaba en peligro, Andrew la atrajo hacia su pecho. Trató de moverla con sumo cuidado, pero, una vez que la tuvo entre sus brazos, se olvidó de toda precaución: la abrazó con todas sus fuerzas. —¿Qué te ha hecho?—, le susurró al oído; el sonido de la respiración casi imperceptible de Claire fue lo único que ésta pudo dar por respuesta.

Tras unos minutos, Andrew recuperó la compostura, y la voz del médico reemplazó a la del amante afligido. A pesar de que hubiera deseado no soltarla nunca, era poco aconsejable (e imprudente, y egoísta) dejarla sin atender por más tiempo: no iba a fallarle cuando más le necesitaba.

La separó de sus brazos lo justo como para tener una mejor perspectiva de ella, y le acomodó la cabeza sobre su regazo. Respiraba de forma leve pero con regularidad: buena señal. Había sangre que le resbalaba de la boca: mala señal. La cantidad de sangre era muy poca: de nuevo buena señal. Claire ni se había movido: otra mala señal. Todo apuntaba a una costilla rota, tal vez más de una. Una inspección más detallada confirmó sus sospechas, y no pudo evitar acordarse del atizador que seguía tirado a sus pies: Andrew se estremeció.

Por desgracia, no podía hacer mucho sin su instrumental médico; tenía que llevarla a la clínica, de inmediato. Andrew le apretó el corsé un poco más fuerte para mantener las costillas en su sitio. Después, le echó un vistazo a la habitación buscando ropa de abrigo para Claire, pero no había nada a mano excepto su abrigo, que estaba tirado en un rincón, hecho jirones: a Andrew se le vino de nuevo a la mente el atizador, y de nuevo se estremeció. Sin pensarlo mucho, se quitó la chaqueta, envolvió a Claire con ella, y la tomó en brazos. Confiaba en que el movimiento brusco no le haría más daño, y que el vendaje improvisado aguantaría hasta que estuvieran en casa, a salvo.

A Pair of Brown Eyes: Chapter 29

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*WARNING: Some bad language and violence —although of a kind you are likely to condone ;-P.

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Damn it! How many hotels were there in town? Andrew had lost the count. And how many were left for him to check? He was growing frantic. What if he couldn't find Claire in any of them? No, that was not a possibility to contemplate: he would find her. She and her husband must be somewhere, they must! They couldn't possibly be sailing towards England so soon, could they? Andrew prayed they weren't.

He sighed as he approached another entrance: let this be the one!

He saw him as soon as he entered the reception area. Mr. Richardson himself, in flesh and blood. Coming from a door on the other side of the hall. The bar, perhaps?

Andrew waited for him until he was within earshot. "Where's Claire? I need to speak to her."

The man didn't answer for a while, not giving out any external sign of remembering who he was. But recognition did dawn on him eventually, as Andrew was made acquainted with by a raised eyebrow. "I think you should refrain, Dr. Stuart, from addressing my wife by her Christian name." Those were his very first words. "Can you show no respect?"

Andrew paid no attention to the man's warning. "Where is she?", he repeated. Both men exchanged a glance, the coldness of the one Andrew gave no doubt mirroring the one he received. "I won't go from here until I see her."

"Well, you can't." Richardson's voice trembled slightly. "She's— resting at the moment."

Those words caused the room —or Andrew's heart— to become suddenly chilly. Was it a lie, or was it the truth? He would find out, no matter what. "At this hour of the day? Why? Is she sick?" Andrew then paused, waiting for a reaction: he got none, except for a single drop of sweat forming on Richardson's forehead. "Because if she is, then I insist on seeing her."

The man got pale. "It's nothing— I'm sure...", he wavered. Nothing? Andrew didn't like the sound of that nothing. And where did all that stammering come from?

Disregarding him, Andrew turned to the hotel clerk. "Quick. Give me Mr. and Mrs. Richardson's room number." The latter hesitated. "Come on! Haven't you heard that? A lady might be in need of a doctor, and I can do nothing to help her because her husband here won't give me her blasted room number!

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Finally, all three went upstairs and opened the door. Andrew decided he had the right to enter first, and was quick in gaining access to the room before the other two men. But the sight that opened up before him upon doing so was one which he wished would have been spared to him. His heart broke. A part of him died. In front of him, a green carpet; on top of it, Claire, motionless; beside her left arm, the missing bottle..., unopened; a little far off her feet, a fireplace poker.

He took a closer look at her bludgeoned features: dried up tears trailing down her cheeks, a number of hideous marks starting to form on her face. Then he turned to her chest: it moved up and down, if ever so slightly. She was alive! He saw nothing more.

He saw nothing more, but he did hear something. "She will be— all right—, won't she?", a hateful male voice spoke behind him. "She's prone to— exaggerating— sometimes—."

Was that the son a bitch's best excuse? Did he believe his own lies? Now Claire was exaggerating! Andrew didn't even bother to reply to the man. His fists would speak for him with much more eloquence.

"Hey, what are you doing?", Richardson said after receiving a blow to the jaw. "Leave me!"

Andrew asked the clerk to summon the police, then gave Mr. Richardson the only answer he deserved: another punch, this time to the nose. The man would soon learn what he did to women beaters: a charge for aggravated assault would surely be illustrative enough!

"Leave me!", Richardson repeated. Would he never get quiet? "You are a bachelor, no doubt, doctor." And still keeping that bravado in his voice. "Or else you'd be aware that wives need to be— disciplined from time to time..."

Disciplined? Claire, disciplined? The mere abomination of a word! The man who had harmed Claire so hideously had the nerve to claim she needed to be disciplined? And was this what he meant by discipline? Andrew would kill the bastard!

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Once Mr. Richardson was duly disposed of by the police, Andrew was left alone in the room with Claire's unconscious body for only company. Only then did he find the courage to approach her.

Shaking, he knelt beside her, felt for a pulse, brushed her face with the tip of a finger and, having ascertained her life was not in danger, Andrew pulled her to his chest. He tried to move her with the utmost regard, but, once he had her secured in his arms, all care was forgotten: he held her with all his might. "What has he done to you?", he whispered in her ear, the sound of her almost imperceptible breathing being the only thing she could give in the form of an answer.

After a while, Andrew came back to his senses, the voice of the medical man taking the place of that of the afflicted lover. Much as he would have wished to hold her like that forever, it was unwise —and reckless, and self-centered— to leave her unattended any longer: he wouldn't fail her when she needed him the most.

He released her just enough to have a better view of her frame, and rested her head on his lap. Her breathing was slight but steady: that was a good sign. Some blood was dripping down her mouth: that was a bad sign. The blood amounted to very little: again a good sign. She hadn't even stirred: another bad sign. It all spoke of a fractured rib, perhaps more than one. A closer inspection confirmed his suspicions, and he couldn't help but remember the discarded poker still resting at her feet: Andrew shuddered.

Unfortunately, there was not much he could do without his medical instruments; he needed to take her to the clinic, at once. Andrew fastened her corset a little tighter so as to keep her ribs in place. Then, he scanned the room in search of some warm clothes to put around her, but there was nothing to be found except for her coat, which laid in a corner, torn to shreds: Andrew was once again reminded of that poker, and once again he shuddered. Not giving it much thought, he grabbed his own jacket, wrapped her up in it, and took her in his arms. He just hoped not to distress her body by the sudden movement, and that the makeshift bandage would last until they were home, safe.

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Author's note.- At first I was loath to go to that "knight in shining armour/damsel in distress" routine —no, scratch that, it's a lie, LOL: all along I've known it would end like this!—, but this is how the story makes sense to me, and, while I know I don't need to justify myself, I just want to clarify a few things, because...

Because this is Andrew's story almost as much as it is Claire's, and he deserved to be given the chance to act chivalric; because Claire needed it, and she had already done everything in her power to help herself; because, by who the characters are, I didn't see it happening any other way; because real strength sometimes implies accepting the help of others; because I don't see it as a man helping out a woman, but as a human being helping another who happens to be in need; and because I'm sure there were many men just like Andrew, who believed that their women shouldn't, under any circumstances, be "disciplined". Just saying!

On a different note, I know may have seemed a little... aloof lately, and there is an "explanation" for it: we're approaching the ending of this story (only two more chapters to go, if everything goes according to plan), which means that I'm struggling more than my usual share, then straining a little, then procrastinating a little, then feeling horribly sad for a little, and in general not feeling like blogging. I'm sure you'll understand how I'm feeling, so I won't go into any boring detail: JUST A REALLY HUGE THANK YOU FOR ALWAYS BEING THERE AND BEARING WITH ME!

A Pair of Brown Eyes: Chapter 28

One year ago on Moonlight and Sims...

Author's note: I would normally put the A/N last of all, but this time I'm going to do it the other way around, so as not to spoil your reading. This is a very, very special chapter --all happy and sweet-- for a very special day because... IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!!! (and, since I live like 6+ hours ahead of many of you, I mean the 14th) :-D.

Do you remember Chapter 18 of A Pair of Brown Eyes? The one with the festival, Claire playing "Dawn in the Mist", the paper lanterns...? I'm sure you do. Well, so... we're back in that time of the year ;-), and, while I can't, unfortunately, promise you this chapter will be as happy as last year's, I hope you'll like it anyway :-).

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"Andrew, this is a charming surprise!" Ethel's heartfelt welcome soothed Andrew's spirits, if partially, but he had not a mind to respond to her pleasantries with some of his own. "Are you wearing no coat?", she went on. "You must be freezing. Please, do come in and sit by the fire." He, obediently, followed his sister to her sitting room, still lost in his silence.

In fact, it wasn't until they were comfortably seated in the sofa that he uttered a word. "Ethel, what reasons could bring a woman– to leave her– husband, would you say?"

"Seriously, Andrew, don't tell me that's the best conversation starter you have at hand. What happened with good old 'Hello, dear, how are Jack and the children doing lately?'"

Ethel's teasing would usually have met with his amusement, and he would have responded to it with that mocking condescension only elder brothers know how to master. But not today. Today it was unendurable for him to speak in terms of fun. "You're right, I'm sorry. But, please, humour me this once. It's about a business of the utmost importance, and I can't figure it out on my own. Will you just answer my question?"

Ethel sniffed him. "Have you been drinking? Is it something the matter?" Her voice had lost its previous brightness, and sounded worried. Andrew, unfortunately, had nothing to offer in the way of an answer; he was too busy trying to keep the room from moving all around him.

She didn't mind his silence, lost in her own thoughts as she looked. "About your question...", she said, after a while. "Why would a woman leave her husband... Let's see, several things come to mind... Perhaps she's ceased to love him, or they've had an argument gone horribly wrong..." Ethel made a pause in her speech. "Oh, I know!", she added all of a sudden, and pointed at some invisible point in space. "Picture this! She, whoever she might be, has fallen in love with another man and has arranged for a secret elopement with him." Ethel seemed well-pleased with her inventiveness, but Andrew was not. Plausible as those explanations were, they lacked something. None of them could be easily applied to Claire's case; even he, in his inebriated state, could see that!

However, Ethel had already helped him: ruling out all impossible scenarios would bring them closer to the truth. The truth, the truth... For the first time ever, he was beginning to see the truth behind Claire's –frequently awkward and exaggerated– reactions... Besides, she had resorted to every imaginable means to ensure her estrangement from her husband: one wouldn't do that over a mere trifle.

Andrew was arriving somewhere.

When his sister, obviously sensing his turmoil, put a comforting hand on his knee, he found the leverage he needed to ask her directly what was on his mind. "Ethel," he should have looked her in the eye as he spoke, but his muscles didn't allow for such a movement. His voice, for its part, betrayed a deep emotion. "Ethel, and what reasons could a woman have to– to leave her husband, change her name, cross an entire ocean and make everyone believe she is a widow?"

"Wait a minute! Oh, my! Claire? Are you talking about– about Claire?" Ethel's eyes searched his, but he kept them fixed to the floor. He merely nodded.

At last, he found the words to accompany his previous nod. "Did you know her husband is still alive?"

"Alive?" Andrew would never forget the change in Ethel's tone, the quivering in her voice, the trembling of the hand still resting on his knee. "I had not the slightest idea. If I had known that, I would have told you straight away."

"What would you have told me?" Andrew was confused.

"Well, she refused to give me the details but..., she once intimated that her marriage had been far from– happy. She made me promise not to tell you."

A frightful piece of information, yet not altogether shocking! Not shocking at all to a man used to see... certain things in his line of work. Images of a number of his patients began to fill his mind. Images of those women who wouldn't consent to have their bodies examined, a limping here, a black eye there. All of them married, all of them failing to give an adequate answer as to the cause of their injuries, all of them showing a most peculiar mixture of emotions...

It was too late for Andrew to keep to his happy world of ignorance any longer; another door was now opened up, and he needed to know for sure. He took Ethel's hand, trying to keep his own steady. He made the effort to look up at her, and upon doing it he noticed her parched lips and intense stare. He swallowed hard. "When Claire told you about it, how would you describe her feelings, her attitude...?"

"Well, she looked sad, of course, but, now that you mention it, there was something more, something strange, as if she were..."

"Ashamed? Guilty? Afraid?", interrupted Andrew. When Ethel, frowning, nodded, he decided to pressure on. "And have you noticed any other puzzling things in her behaviour?" She nodded again, but didn't say a word. "For example, have you ever seen her body?"

"No." Ethel didn't elaborate her answer any further, but that one syllable was all it took. The silence that followed told Andrew what he needed to know: that they were both thinking along the same lines. A couple of minutes afterwards, Ethel spoke again. "If it's true Claire has done everything you claim she has, that's not what I'd call leaving a husband."

"It's... fleeing from him!" Andrew finished her remark, a knot in his stomach. They both jumped up from the sofa. "Oh, my God! What have I done? I put her right into his hands!" He reached for the entrance. "I must find her." And that said, he went out of Ethel's home, and he was faced once again with the black cold of the night.

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No! It must not be! No, he would find her, and then he would discover there was another –happier– explanation for it. Surely it was just his dejection playing odd tricks upon his mind.

As he went on, however, Andrew came to a distressing realisation: that, much as he would have loved to be mistaken, deep down he knew he was right. For the first time in their acquaintance, he felt he could explain even Claire's most awkward of reactions. In the light of this new idea –and to his extreme vexation– her erratic behaviour made... sense: how she always seemed to be apologising for all sorts of things, most of which weren't even her fault to begin with; or how she, when in the company of male, would invariably keep to herself, her eyes cast upon the floor, as a child ready to be reprimanded.

But it was the remembrance of two particular events that triggered the most intense emotions. One of them concerned his dislike for sugar in his tea: they were at a coffee-house, she was serving their drinks, and he had failed to inform her of his particular taste. Oh, the look upon her face when she discovered their misunderstanding...! Trivial and easy to fix as the mistake was, Claire had acted as if it was the worst crime in the world. And it wasn't the first nor the last time he had seen her frightened. Because...

Because the other event playing out before him was that of their first kiss: how her body had reacted in various puzzling ways, all of them happening in quick succession; how her lips had responded as those of a woman who's never been kissed before... And, yes, that look again; one that spoke of shock as well as fear.

Fear, always fear, driving her whole life! It was now clear to Andrew. She was scared when she had thought her shy; scared when he had thought her grieving; and scared when he had thought her fickle. But that was about to change: he must, and he would, find her. Hopefully before it was too late...

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Author's note.- As I already said, I've been sick for the better part of February (I'm completely recovered by now, in case anyone is interested), so it was impossible for me to publish this chapter on time. It may not seem much after the massive delay, but I wouldn't call it a filler either: after all, Andrew had been asking me for an "epiphany", and I simply couldn't deny him ;-).

Anyway, "stuff" will happen in the next one, that I can promise you. And if you don't believe me :-P, here's a little teaser for you ;-).

Unos Ojos marrones: Capítulo 27

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*ADVERTENCIA: No apto para cardíacos ni aprensivos.

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–¿Su mujer, señor?– Aquel extraño y su aún más extraña pregunta sorprendieron a Andrew, que no estaba en absoluto de humor para adivinanzas, con Claire recogiendo sus pertenencias en la habitación de al lado. –Debe de estar equivocado–, dijo tras unos momentos, para no permitir que sus pensamientos se dispersaran. –No hay ninguna Sra. Richardson trabajando aquí.– De hecho, ¡ninguna mujer trabajaba ahí, ahora que lo pensaba! Claire iba a comenzar a trabajar para Williams en unos días.

–Eso es porque, hmmm, según parece, no utiliza su verdadero nombre–, fue la misteriosa respuesta del desconocido. Andrew se percató entonces de que éste tenía un acento extranjero que le resultaba vagamente familiar.

Y, cuando la puerta se abrió detrás de ellos, recordó, en circunstancias que ojalá nunca se hubieran dado, cuándo había oído antes esa manera de hablar. –¡Claire!– Bien podría haber sido su imaginación la que pronunciara ese nombre, pero descubrió enseguida que era el extranjero quien había hablado así. La confusión y el enojo se apoderaron de Andrew.

Pero esos sentimientos no fueron nada comparados con lo que sintió un instante más tarde, cuando el hombre se abalanzó hacia Claire, y la tomó entre sus brazos, susurrando, –¡Queridísima Claire! Por fin te he encontrado.– La confianza con la que éste la abrazó desagradó sobremanera a Andrew. La furia y los celos le quemaron las entrañas.

–¿Es eso cierto?– le preguntó a Claire. Como ella estaba de espaldas, tan solo su silencio le indicó que reconocía a aquel hombre de pelo oscuro. –¿Es eso cierto?–, repitió, gritando esta vez. Pero Claire seguía sin contestar, sin mover ni un solo músculo. –Dios sabe lo frustrado que me he sentido con tus constantes cambios de actitud hacia mi, pero lo que nunca había pensado es que fueras una coqueta. Has debido de reírte mucho a mi costa, viéndome hacer el ridículo.

Se arrepintió de aquellas palabras en el mismo instante en que salieron de su boca; ¿por qué se había expresado de esa forma tan cruel y desagradable? ¡Debería avergonzarse! No obstante, el daño ya estaba hecho. Y no tuvo ocasión de disculparse porque, en un instante, tanto Claire como su (aún vivo) marido habían desaparecido; se habían desvanecido, y no solo de la habitación, sino de la vida de Andrew. Para siempre.

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Claire no se sintió sorprendida, ni asombrada. Ni siquiera podía decir que estuviera asustada. Y eso era porque tenía toda la atención centrada en su nuca, escuchando lo que Andrew le gritaba. Iba a separarse de él para siempre y lo último que escucharía de sus labios iba a ser ese comentario tan despectivo; claro que, de todas maneras, no podía echárselo en cara.

Todo lo demás sucedió rápidamente: que él la abrazara, que la arrastrara por la calle, que la hiciera recoger sus pertenencias para llevarlas al hotel en el que se alojaba, que la obligara a firmar allí con un nombre que, ingenuamente, había pensado que jamás volvería a utilizar... No cabía duda de que tenía prisa por llegar a la habitación, y Claire entendió perfectamente el motivo; su cuerpo tembló por primera vez.

Él no perdió ni un minuto. Tan pronto hubieron entrado, la arrinconó y comenzó a besuquearle el cuello. Y allí estaba ella, de nuevo, como tantas otras veces antes. De nuevo escuchando esa voz, oliendo esa respiración, viendo esa cara... A Claire le entraron náuseas.

–¡He estado tan desesperado! Pensaba que no volvería a acariciar este cuerpo divino que tienes–, dijo él con calma. Con demasiada calma. –No estés tan asustada, querida; por fin he comprendido por qué lo hiciste, y te aseguro que, de ahora en adelante, seré para ti un marido mucho más amable–. Pero ya no podía engañar a Claire con sus palabras vacías, las había escuchado muchas veces.

–Te deseo tanto–, le susurró a continuación, de un modo lascivo que se correspondía más con la del hombre que conocía tan bien. En un momento se deshizo del abrigo de Claire y la empujó sobre una mesa que había cerca, sujetándole la cintura de manera posesiva. Su siguiente movimiento fue acariciarle la espalda y los muslos, y Claire recordó rápidamente lo que había que hacer en estas situaciones: nada. Nada en absoluto. Por eso se quedó inmóvil. –Nadie puede amarte como yo, mi dulce florecilla.

Al minuto siguiente, Claire estaba tendida en el suelo, tan solo vestida con su ropa interior, y todo el peso de él contra su cuerpo. El abultamiento de la entrepierna era inconfundible.

Una oleada de recuerdos se agolparon en su mente. Le vinieron imágenes de la primera vez en que abusó de ella en su propia habitación, del día en que su padre le dijo que iba a casarse con él, del día de su boda... Le vinieron imágenes de todas sus contusiones, del arrebato de celos que provocó la muerte de su hijo aún no nacido, de su intento de suicidio, de todos los concursos de música en los que había participado para ahorrar dinero para el billete, de Canadá...

Él le dibujó el contorno de la cara con un dedo. –Casi habia olvidado estas facciones tan encantadoras, y tu piel tan suave. Dios, ¡te necesito tanto!– Estaba babeando. –Tienes un cuerpo demasiado tentador como para resistirse por más tiempo...– Le agarró la enagua intentando acceder a sus muslos.

¡Canadá! Otra oleada de recuerdos la acercó a un hombre completamente distinto. Se acordó de la buena disposición de Andrew para darle una oportunidad a una extraña, de su paciencia, de su amabilidad... Se acordó de la manera en que la miraba, del impresionante beso que habían compartido en una noche mágica, del profundo amor que sentía por él, de las últimas palabras de desprecio que éste le había dirigido... ¡Andrew!

¡Andrew! A pesar de lo mucho que sabía que la odiaba, no podía traicionarlo, no podía rendirse ahora. ¡Estaba cansada! No le permitiría poseer su cuerpo. Él no poseería su cuerpo. Así no. Nunca más. Claire sabía lo que sucedería si se atrevía a oponerse a sus deseos, pero, a pesar del terror que le producía, peor sería traicionar de algún modo a Andrew.

–¡Aléjate de mi!–. Consiguió liberarse durante un segundo y empujarlo con todas sus fuerzas, haciendo que ambos se incorporaran.

–¿Cómo te atreves? ¿Ahora te niegas a complacer mis deseos? ¿Es lo que has aprendido de estos salvajes? ¿A desafiarme? Ha sido ese doctor tuyo, ¿verdad?

–Ni siquiera menciones su nombre–, dijo Claire. Su voz sonaba desafiante; su apariencia era de calma. Su fuerza de espíritu, sin embargo, tembló.

–Ah, así es como están las cosas, ¿verdad?– Le sujetó las muñecas, zarandeándola con saña. –¿Crees que siente algo por ti? Ya lo escuchaste, ¡cree que eres una fresca! Y eso que sigues siendo esa niña crédula que has sido siempre. ¡Mira que pensar que podía quererte!

–Ya sé que no me quiere. ¡Sé que me odia! Sin embargo, prefiero sufrir su odio diez veces antes que tu amor.

La primera bofetada no sorprendió para nada a Claire. Sabía que era su tratamiento especial de cuando estaba celoso. –¡Que te sirva de lección! Y ahora, vas a ser una buena chica.

–No.– No, Claire no iba a ser una buena chica. No iba a permitírselo; le sería fiel a Andrew. –No volveré a ser tuya. Preferiría estar muerta.

–A juzgar por cómo te vistes en la actualidad, cualquiera diría que soy yo el que está muerto–, dijo él, con una voz tan contenida que incluso otro arrebato de furia hubiera sido preferible. –¿Qué es eso de hacerte pasar por viuda?

–¡Una viuda es lo que he sido desde el día en que me casé contigo!

Ese último comentario desató de nuevo la ira de él. La segunda bofetada empujó a Claire hacia atrás, que volvió a desplomarse sobre el suelo.

–¿Acaso vas a faltarme al respeto?– gritó, a la vez que cogió un atizador de la chimenea. –¿Y justo después de haberte dicho que te trataría con más amabilidad? ¡Desde luego, uno no se puede fiar de ti!

–Pero te rendirás ante mi.– Él levantó el brazo sobre su hombro. –Como mi mujer que eres, me lo debes.

Vino el primer golpe, y Claire descubrió que su antiguo truco ya no funcionaba. Ya no podía fingir que no era ella la que estaba tendida en el suelo, mirando hacia esa alfombra verde, siendo golpeada sin descanso; porque si no era ella, tampoco era la mujer enamorada de un hombre maravilloso al que había hecho tanto daño. Vino el segundo golpe, y se acordó de una joven perdida en su reino de fantasía, esperando a que un principe viniera a rescatarla; no, no de una joven, sino de ella misma, destrozada y sola en el mundo. Vino el tercer golpe, e imaginó lo maravilloso que sería estar entre los brazos de Andrew de nuevo. Vino el cuarto golpe, y se prometió a si misma que atesoraría para siempre toda la dulzura que éste le había mostrado; los recuerdos eran, después de todo, lo único a lo que podía aferrarse. Después, perdió la cuenta...

Más tarde, cuando todo hubo acabado, él salió precipitadamente de la habitación, como si nunca hubiera estado allí. Claire permaneció tendida en el suelo, retorciéndose de dolor, durante unos minutos (o unas horas, no estaba segura). Cuando, tras un rato, intentó ponerse en pie, sus piernas apenas la sostenían.

Por una vez había triunfado, pero le sirvió de poco consuelo; el castigo por haberle rechazado fue ese dolor en el estómago, tan agudo y penetrante que prácticamente le impedía respirar. Tambaleándose, se dirigió hacia donde se encontraba su abrigo y cogió la botella de sedantes que guardaba escondida allí. No sabía qué hacer, pero sí estaba segura de lo que no haría: no permitiría que nadie la tratara así nunca jamás. Podría, quizás, volver a escaparse (su dinero seguía a salvo), y si todo lo demás fallaba, los calmantes le proporcionarían la respuesta final.

Pero su reflexión se interrumpió bruscamente cuando, al acercarse a la mesa, un mareo le nubló los sentidos, y un acceso de tos le hizo escupir sangre...

Fue entonces cuando...,

la habitación...,

y el mundo entero...,

se volvieron negros.

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Por fortuna, ninguna visita urgente había requerido la atención de Andrew a lo largo de la jornada; no hubiera sido de mucha ayuda para sus pacientes. Y como ya era tarde, podía pasar el tiempo que le quedaba sentado a la mesa y bebiendo. Su corazón roto le pedía que lo ahogara en un vaso de whisky, solo que hasta ahora su petición había sido en vano: ya llevaba cuatro tragos, y ese puñetero músculo seguía latiendo igual que siempre.

Nunca podría quererlo, eso es lo que le habia dicho: ¡Claro que no podía si tenía un marido que la estaba esperando en Inglaterra! ¡Todo había sido una pelea de enamorados! Andrew no hizo ningún esfuerzo por reprimir el gesto de desprecio que se dibujó en sus labios. ¡El modo en que Claire le había engañado y atormentado, y sabiendo todo el tiempo que su marido seguía vivo! No era de extrañar que mostrara tanta reserva en ofrecerle sus besos. Sin embargo, sin embargo... ¡Se los ofrecía! Con ternura, con pasión. Negó con la cabeza... ¡Casada! ¡Seguía casada! ¡Seguía ca...!

Un objeto de la estantería que estaba al otro lado de la estancia capturó su atención; o, más bien un objeto que no estaba donde debiera. Y, al acercarse al armario, su mente comenzó a abrigar una sospecha, un presentimiento de saber la identidad de la persona que había robado el frasco desaparecido. Pero, ¿con qué propósito? ¿y cómo no se había percatado antes? ¡Si no hubiera bebido tanto! Por el momento le resultaba imposible hilar ningún pensamiento coherente.

¡Ethel! Sí, quizás ella arrojara algo de luz sobre el asunto. Definitivamente tenia que hablar con su hermana, de inmediato.