Beneath the Porcelain Mask

34. We Actors Will Play

I'm so incredibly late uploading this, but I wanted to do it before the final episode of ITV's Victoria and before I find myself with the pre-Monday exhaustion that always seems to creep up on me after 9pm. Happy reading!

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True to his word, Jeremy presented me, exactly one week later, with a pair of train tickets. I didn't see Erik as I rose early on the following Monday morning, or as I dressed, packed a lunch and pulled my best mask on - a delicately designed cream one, patterned with red roses along the cheeks and jaw. I hoped beyond hope that it would make some sort of good impression on a family who was quite literally named after the rosebushes of Toulouse.

Erik had expressed nothing but disgust when I'd told him on Friday that I'd be travelling by train.

What's the problem with taking a carriage and team of horses? he'd scoffed. I'd ignored him, an endeavour which only led to not seeing him for the rest of the weekend.

Now, I was here at last. The train carriage was packed, and if it hadn't been for my insistence on getting to the station as early as possible, I was almost certain we wouldn't have a seat. The place was alive with noise: couples chattering, babies crying, women laughing, and the smell of tobacco from the gentleman reading a newspaper in the seat across the aisle had become almost normal by now.

I smiled at Jeremy from across the table. He was gazing out of the dirty window at the landscapes we passed through, eyes glazed over in thought, and his old and worn hat was beginning to fall forwards over his forehead. I stifled my giggles and looked back at my book, smoothing out my travel dress.

Erik had fallen in love with Blake's poetry almost immediately. Perhaps if Jeremy read one... they were brothers after all.

"Jeremy?" I reached over and tapped his elbow. His head snapped towards me, the glassiness in his eyes vanishing. The hat fell into his lap.

"Is everything alright, my dear?" he asked, picking it back up and replacing it. "How long have you been calling me for?"

"Not long at all. I was just wondering whether you'd like to read some poetry."

His face drained of colour and he looked back out of the window. I frowned.

"Jeremy? Don't you like poetry?"

"On the contrary," he said after clearing his throat and smiling back at me, "I actually enjoy quality art. Who is it by?"

"My favourite poet," I smiled, touching the cover gently and then sliding it across the table towards him. "William Blake. Have you heard of him?"

"I haven't," he said, shaking his head softly. He picked up the book and opened it to the first page, eyes scanning the words. But then he swallowed and closed it, handing it back. "Beautiful, Nikki. I'm still quite tired; will you read it to me, chérie?"

I sat like a stunned rabbit, staring at the book like it was a hound on my scent. With a slow hand, I took it back and opened it once more to the first page. "If you wish...."

"Oh, yes!" Jeremy exclaimed, smiling. He sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. "Very much."

I knew the words by heart, yet I looked from my fiancé to the first poem with a blank mind. Jeremy peered at me from behind his eyelashes curiously.

"I'm sorry, is something wrong?"

My breath caught. I'd never heard him read anything aloud, had I? No, I was sure I hadn't! Even the menu at the café.