Comtesse De Havana: Where Angels Tread – Book III

By R. Cane

Renna Scot does not suffer fools, gallantly manages her Victorian estate outside of New York City, as well as many successful business concerns. Among her world are sidekick Gabriel, young, and as sweet as he is mischievous. Seth, her right hand, silent but intentional, grounding, but with his own past. Bella, Bella, Bella, beautiful actress, long time love – a bond sealed by many years of friendship, their shared past, passion. Wild Dove, her childhood friend, guide, and so much more. Renna, however, is an unconventional woman of many tastes, tends to juggle infatuations as a means of balancing her dedication, hard work, intensity – luckily her charm, or if it comes down to it, fierce independence, keep her a step ahead of most trifles. Enter Comtesse de Havana, a dark, mysterious traveler who instantly gets under skin, is not conditioned to the other’s carefully constructed world, or likely to bow to it the way others do. Their impossible attraction is immediate, though neither has any intention of admitting, or accepting it - as if they have a choice.

Book I – How Things Begin: can even Renna Scot’s calm cool hold out against a mysterious world traveller?

Book II – In For A Penny: is there safe ground between attraction and surrender?

Book III – Where Angels Tread: continues the tumultuous story of Renna Scot and the Comtesse de Havana past initial surrender into the calamity beyond. Can Renna settle into a new, much less ordered life with the fiery, still mysterious, still travelling Comtesse? And even if she does, will secrets revealed collapse their tenuous house of cards?

Note: Not for the faint of heart - delves into a dark, intense attraction, push/pull romance, wanders through unconventional predilections, occupations, in the challenging, sometimes harsh days of mid-1800s Victorian America.

Sample from Comtesse de Havana, Where Angels Tread, Book III:

I reminisce how Bella was there through the early days of Gabriel, him coming to live with me, helped smooth our way. But then my mind pivots. She seems to know of the recent rift, and the larger story as well - but does not seem shocked! I lurch to my feet, turn on her, “you knew?”

Moving eyes away, exhaling, “not the whole of it. Surely not the absolutes regarding that woman – ”

Will these betrayals never end? “But you know about him? His strangeness? His, his – habits?”

Her eyes are firm, strong, and as thoughtful sea-green as ever when they find me, “I had heard some things. And what with the rumors about your ‘guest’ – ” she says this last with more than a little disdain.

Right. An equation I might have calculated for myself, but chose to look past. “I suppose I have made something of a mess of my life.”

“I think trying to be happy shouldn’t be disregarded, even if there are pot-holes in the path.”

“Ah,” sharing what comes to mind, “as Pope might say - ‘fools rush in where angels fear to tread’.”

A tired Bella watches, “I prefer Mr. Tennyson, ‘tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all’ .”

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. Cane
• Release date: Mar 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005539498

R. Cane

Finding the human condition and our antics endlessly fascinating, I tend to write ‘slice of life’ pieces about moments, situations, interactions, personalities – most often with some amount of humor or irony, always with wonder. The subject or subjects are frequently lgbtq, w/w, to the degree it matters, since people are people, stories are stories.

Book preview

Day 292

My dear friend Gabriel saunters into the kitchen. You look far from cheery. Getting a twinkle in his eye, missing someone maybe?

It’s true, I return, Bella’s recent visit was quite nice. But alas, she was off again to tread the boards!

Hah! he laughs, aren’t we clever. Eyes wandering, what does she think of your complex little life?

Even though Cook is many steps away, keep my voice low, she is aware it’s complicated. Just not by whom, precisely.

Good lord, the young man whistles, don’t you like to live dangerously!

Blanca the cat twitches her ears at the sound as she lies in a patch of sun. I have given up trying to keep the thing out of the house, when it bothers to be around. She in her long very white fur comes and goes almost as much as the dark one.

As for his comment, I do feel a bit unattractive about it at times. She has her own complications on the road, it is hardly only me, trying to soothe myself.

But she would drop them in a heartbeat if you asked it, he concludes, in a tone implying the opposite is not as true.

Her career is the center of her life now. And of course she deserves comfort, companionship while travelling.

Hm, Gabriel sniffs, taking up a biscuit. You do like your women on the road.

Coincidence, I defend.

Hardly. But thank the stars. How on earth would you juggle if they were all close by?

I see now he simply wants to play with me. Are you saying my life is better suited to Brown’s circus? Should I put up a tent?

Might not hurt, he laughs. Glancing over, but seriously. Can’t you admit you miss her?

You can’t keep fish out of water, birds from the sky. Glancing toward the thing all stretched out, quite comfortable, cats from chasing mice. Things have their proper order. There’s no sense trying to change what won’t.

But you would want to? a detective on the hunt.

This youth is exhausting. Gabriel, it has been some time! Whatever moment did, or did not occur, is past. It is not in her to stay in one place. And it is not in me to want one person always under foot. We are both better off!

If you say so! he sighs, not sounding convinced as he gets to foot, leaves me be.

When alone I gaze out the window at my world. Did I, for one brief moment after our encounter, wonder what it might be like to stay in that dark, swirling pocket we made? Lucky for me, the Comtesse was gone before I could think too much on it, and reason was restored. However close I may have brushed to considering something impossible, does not matter, I understand fully how things must be.

I feel the cat’s eyes on me, but refuse to look at it.

I go on about my days focusing away from what anyone else might be doing, or where.

Day 305

Two weeks later I hear heels outside my studio, think my ears must deceive.

Unfurling a dark blue wrap, the Comtesse is lovely as ever, bangles singing from her wrist. Buongiorno - accompanied by radiant smile.

Now I guess she has been to Italy these several weeks. Her ‘work’ takes her many places. It’s funny we do not communicate directly about her comings, goings - perhaps because we were at odds for a good while. Even stranger is that it remains so, even after our night together. Buongiorno, I echo.

It was bellissima! Comes round to pull me into an embrace, but I have missed you even more this time!

She stands back to look at my painting, as is her habit when about. It is a deep crimson pomegranate against a dark swirling background, sliced neatly in half, knife resting beside with dark red drops of juice along the blade, or blood, possibly. Not quite my typical. Her eyebrows arch upward. I think you invade my work, I shrug.

Contemplating the painting, she turns me toward her and lifts up my shirt. The marks are slightly raised white lines now, still a little pink for the deeper ones. Only in certain light can you see that the scratches form letters, or what it spells – and then only if you would dare to think it to begin with. They are mostly anonymous, and none have guessed at their reality yet, though I fear what will happen if I ever expose same to the sun. She runs her fingers over them. Ay, dios mio, that was so strange I scared even myself!

We never talked of that night past the next morning. I am not sure I want to now. Hm.

Drawing the back of her hand down my face she kisses me. That was such an amazing night I don’t dare try to repeat it. Lashes low, I have retired the knife, of course, it can never be used again. Looking at her feet, she begins to laugh. I wait for an explanation. The heels - , pointing.

Her feet are clad in stylish, probably new, probably Italian, heeled shoes. A deep marine blue like her dress, suede I think - but not funny?

When she can stop laughing, explains, they say heels originated in Egypt. Partly to distinguish class. But also as a practical matter, butchers wore them to step through the carcasses and work easily. Ah. I’m not sure what I think about that. She is looking at me now, and at my painting. I have stayed away too long. Touching my arms and then my face, it hurts to see you. There is hesitation and then a blush. Even I am surprised by how I feel being here! Stepping closer she whispers in my ear, amore mio, ti amo. Maybe she doesn’t think I know enough Italian to understand what she says? Kissing me, adds with what looks to be a tear in her eye, I won’t ever stay away so long again. I don’t like this pain in my heart, tapping same.

She holds my eyes expectantly but I can’t process any of this. I am still adjusting to her sweeping in, let alone saying such things without warning. Dropping my hand, her head tilts. My mind is blank, or worse, possibly shut, lungs clutched. The Comtesse gives me one more look that I fail to interpret, stomps a foot, then with a final raise of perfect brows, turns out of the room when I make no response.

Day 308

I am doing numbers in my office, late morning, when the Comtesse appears.

Here you are, smiling.

You expected someone else in my office?

Pausing, are you in ill temper?

Tapping the pages strewn over my desk, busy.

Ah, glancing around the room, not at all convinced, as you say. A term I have come to dislike, as it often punctuates disbelief for her.

Is there something specific? briefly wondering how and why these exchanges so often go off the tracks.

Yes, eyes calling in the thought. I was wondering how things are.

Glancing up, in what way?

Of us.

She returned, made reckless declarations, I froze, she stomped. I did not then see her for two days even as we were both here. While I do feel something that she is here, I do not cotton games. You are there, I am here.

Indeed, eyes clouding, as usual.

Holding back a surge of temper, as you will do what you do, meaning everything from her leaving after our night, to her whirlwind return after much time, casual assumptions, and possibly our entire history, I must do what I do. Turning my view to the window, away from her lovely self, while the past can’t be changed, prudence is still a goal. I think a measure of restraint serves us both best.

Not entirely hidden shock, you would change our past?

Would I? No matter, the way to look is forward, and in that direction, I seek a restoration of predictability, order. Now more than ever, after her disquieting return, I crave moderation, remembering how the heights I once met with her leave a long way to tumble when the shift inevitably arrives.

Despite arched brow, her expression is one of amusement. Time will tell, is all she says, looking as if to know a secret she is not going to let out just yet before drifting out.

When she is gone, I wonder briefly after her comment, then force myself to move on.

After a quiet dinner she appears in the library, pours a drink to match mine, sits in the chair opposite. Are we always to be at odds? Not hot, not cool.

Without looking up from my book, we have always been quite different.

I can think of times, one in particular, where we seemed quite the same.

I can only imagine to which she refers, will not give her the satisfaction of inquiring. Brief moments of similarity, even if they exist, might be only that.

Feeling a shift, note the head tilt opposite. So no matter what I do or say, you prefer differences to likenesses.

Mostly I prefer the days when my world made more sense. There is a gravity to who and how she is, but also something meteoric, perhaps that is what disturbs my peace. I do not mean to sound disapproving, but how do you imagine, describe yourself to others?

You mean to those who do not know me, ask after my work, or profession? Sitting up more straight, she continues. I generally say that I travel extensively, to experience and study art. For most that is more than enough. They assume wealth, don’t ask much more.

Deceptively simple. Where I see chaos, she is none but smooth, cool story. And to those you grow closer to, but don’t care to provide much detail?

Clean, clear, but also a tinge of sadness, I do not get close to anyone I cannot share, or who does not already know at least something of my details. There is no point.

Sounds lonely, I hear myself say.

The Comtesse tilts her head the opposite way, studies the other a minute. This from one who almost always prefers to be alone, it seems? I would think you of all, would understand that ‘lone’ does not always mean lonely. Distracted by the fire reflecting in the facets of her carved glass, of course I sometimes wonder what it’s like to have roots, eyes the overly rooted one. Perhaps you could tell me.

Avoiding the potential reference to our situation, I speak to a larger scale, they can be a burden. Taking a sip of pleasing sweet warmth, considering before I speak. Seems we all have our crosses to bear, and there is no nirvana on one side or the other.

Are we saying someone else’s harvest is not always more fruitful? clever smile playing at the corners of her lips.

My eyebrows slide up, you know Ovid. We have the arts and knowledge, interest in history, in common then, there is something of similarity.

At least those, flirtatious.

Ignoring the warmer tone, as well as the charm of her intellect, intent on keeping my word to myself, I still ask. So if you are not lonely, what are you?

Tired, usually. Curious, always. Amazed, endlessly.

Choosing against myself, I can’t help but ask, tell me a recent observation.

Deep brown eyes twinkle, assess. But is this conversation not a little dangerous? Aren’t we meant to keep our distance, a moderated air between us?

Oh how this one will never let even a little thing slip past. Life gets complicated when things are not orderly. Then to put a fine point on it, we can talk about anything we like, stressing the word talk.

I see, lowering her eyes. You don’t think talk is a first, valid step? First break down barriers, then curiosity leads to more questions, more answers, and perhaps, even more curiosity? A revolving, deepening cycle?

I see your point, it is possible to play with someone, even if words are the only tool, amused, but cautious. I have trapped myself, I venture, tempted into the challenge. If I don’t answer, I am not brave, yet if I do, may fall into a death trap of curiosity? The Comtesse nods slightly, enjoying herself. I will be brave, go ahead and answer the original question.

A radiant smile, pleased with the exchange. Thinks, rolling things in her mind. Ah! finger in the air. Recently I have learned that what I was told is not entirely true. My work is not based so much on trust, but is rather about need. These people allow me, even compensate me, for what I do with no real idea of whether I can be trusted – or I might kill them through ignorance, or worse. But they will have me do it anyway. They need the outlet, punishment, reward, balance, whatever it is for them, because they can’t function without it. Need is not trust. It might be the opposite.

Oh. I contemplate this from several levels. The first and more obvious is regret. Beyond idle curiosity, this is far more than I may want to know. The second is interest, this woman’s mind is so very sharp, more complex than I let myself remember. The third borders on fascination, despite hints, and one night of overt awareness of the possible depths of her excursions, what fills this beautiful woman’s time, and what on earth those ‘people’ need, want, require of her, is a thing I most times avoid thoughts of, but does pique the mind.

I stop myself, stamp out this last thing as if a flicker of flame which could rise up and burn me – becoming enamored of this woman is not a wise choice. Of course I am far past that point, but to indulge, not resist, is surely at my peril. Flipping a switch to a much cooler self, you are certainly complex. I must go, moving hands to the arms of the chair.

Go? Run? Like a startled bunny? eyebrow arched.

A small smile, and clever, I allow. But I take my leave, senses intact, none the less.

The Comtesse watches, disappointed, and relieved. Step as you will, but something is happening here Renna Scot, and I am not sure either of us can stop it. Not entirely certain how alarmed to be herself.

Day 309

Sitting back at my desk next morning, I still don’t know what to think. Is this how it will be? She will sweep in and out, I am expected to adjust, or not, to the moving tide?

Forcing myself to get to it, stop day dreaming, my eyes fall on an entry from February the 14th, St. Valentine’s Day. Recall the early days after her initial return, the one following the arrival of her trunks, when she smoothly delivered a long string of names, Elania Valentine Rojas Rodrigo De Baptiste, explaining the French name was last despite tradition, because that side insisted - and had the money, I would guess. How her mother added the Valentine hoping she would find love. A soft thing to share. Then learning the term mestizo, mixed.

Such a complex being, it is impossible not to wonder how she got that way, though I always and immediately stop myself. Some things are better left alone.

I take myself to the veranda, think how beautiful she was, that smile – her humor about Lupercalia and blood-soaked goat hide. Leave it to the Catholic church to try to repurpose a popular ritual by associating it with a saint of their own!

Looking on the leafing roses, think of our mutual appreciation, pleasant conversations about same.

Now I wonder if I have been too harsh. Even as I feel to protect myself, was surprised when she simply appeared, talking as if weeks had not passed, could I do it in a milder way?

Distracted by the budding green things, I think how spring always feels like a savior as the flora wake up to a new year, even more so than what the calendar date tells us. Every year the garden begins to rebuild itself, a thing I enjoy watching, as the plants rise and unfurl, more tones appear, slowly at first, and then one day pop into a riot of color.

When Cook appears I say, if you have the time, do let the Comtesse know she might join me for a coffee, the garden is waking up.

Hesitating, er, she is gone, travelling, my dear Cook shares, looking uncomfortable.

Why is it I bother? I ask myself.

Day 317

When next I see her, several days hence, it is as she enters my studio in a dress wrapped three quarters round, tied with a matching belt, in large flower print, mostly pink with some blues, made of silk. And boots - pink suede boots.

After the last visit, contemplating our backs, forths, the impossibility of a sensible middle ground, and briefly, what on earth she may be doing on her trips, topped only by her slipping silently away once again, I decided that if she is going to live her life, so shall I.

With that, am on the floor with the wife of the local vicar, we are both covered in paint, on top of a large piece of canvas, kissing. I have heard the heels and roll over, sit up, then stretch to get my companion a robe, which she slips into and sits behind me.

The visitor looks down at us with an odd expression. It can’t be jealousy given her travels and work, but I’m not sure what else it is. I will be back in half of an hour, we speak! she commands, spins on faint pink heels, marches out.

By this I assume she means I am to be cleaned up and back here to my studio in that time.

I return 45 minutes later to find her sitting in a chair, the dress falling away to her knee. I can see that the boot continues up, fits her leg like a second skin.

She thinks she can do these things? Wander in as though I have nothing else to do but wait for her? Even as I have no idea when or where she might appear. I do no such thing, clearly. Further, however we may once have been, or whatever unexpected declarations she might make, there are no claims on me – her attitude today is out of place!

Running a hand slowly along the boot, rings flashing, bracelets chiming, she checks to see if I am watching. I am. As annoyed as I may be, at the very same moment she is a vision, and I can’t but wonder how soft those boots are to the touch.

Damn me! Why would I think such things in the middle of this!

Ah, but these days find me frequently unable to settle on a mood, a thing I am hardly fond of.

Following that strange, vibrant night with the Comtesse I thought briefly of things I rarely do – perhaps taking up a more settled approach to life. What I might tolerate consistently. Then she flitted away and I felt stupid for my thoughts. And guilty, about Bella, Wild Dove, and more. I have had a rich life, many have afforded much consideration, attention, pleasure – surely more than I generally deserved. My feelings had restored to balance, tolerance, a return to my strengths – and a resolution to not let one woman draw me off course. Now this one enters as if she has been gone but on a short errand, expecting to pick up the cooled thread, when that is quite far from the case.

Boots or no, I determine I will not be ruled by my loins. I have dinner in an hour, cool delivery.

With a sigh, half shake of head, no darling, I was hoping to spend some time. She flicks the dress back a little more to show that the boot goes well past the curve of her knee.

Looking over the top of the art book I picked up to appear nonchalant, do you consider making an appointment? Then we might be more on the same page.

No, no, no! shaking a finger at me, you know this! Planning like a diplomat is not fun!

She has explained before that those with tedious jobs, however important, are the ones who make plans and appointments, ‘those like diplomats – not artists or lovers’.

Gabriel appears, walks directly to me. It is unusual, the way he moves, his silence. Yes?

"Elania has asked me to speak with you. To explain that she