Inherit the Skies

by Janet Tanner

  ‘Stay still!’ he ordered. ‘I won’t hurt you.’

  She continued to wriggle.

  ‘Hugh, don’t, please! Stop it!’

  He ignored her. Her face was close to his; suddenly feeling her breasts was not enough. He wanted to kiss her. His fingers tightened on the nape of her neck, spreading out to immobilise her twisting head and his lips found hers. They were sweet, tasting faintly of the dandelion wine. He kissed her hard and felt them move, unwillingly returning the pressure. For a moment he drank her in then he could no longer endure the throbbing demands of his body. He pushed her back so that she was lying half on the rug and half on the grass, kneeling astride her and fumbling at her skirts.

  She began to flail then, half sobbing. ‘Hugh stop it! Hugh please stop it!’

  He ignored her pleas. The firm flesh of her long legs felt too good. His seeking hand found the vee between her thighs, the warmth emanating through the thin cotton drawers inflamed him still further.

  ‘Lie still!’ he ordered her, covering her mouth with his again. This time there was no answering response from her lips, her head twisted and her body writhed as she tried to escape. Keeping her shoulders pinned to the ground he fumbled with his clothing and tore at her drawers. A madness seemed to have taken control of him now; he had never intended that the encounter should go this far but now her very resistance was driving him on. With his knee he wedged her legs apart and began to thrust and plunge between them. He heard her sob and scream softly then her back arched towards him and the madness was all-consuming so that his body seemed almost not to belong to him and hers was no longer that of little Sarah but simply an object of his crazed delight. At the end it was all he could do to keep from crying out as she had done for the shock waves seemed to reverberate to the very core of him and he covered her face with kisses. She lay beneath him like a trapped butterfly and it was only when he tasted the salt of her tears that he realised she was crying.

  He felt a moment’s horror at what he had done but the exhilaration and the feeling of power and ascendancy was too great for it to last.

  ‘Sarah?’ he said raggedly.

  She did not move, lying there with the sun on her face and her hair tumbled in the grass. He sat up, looking down at her, and felt the strength regenerating in him.

  ‘Why are you crying?’

  She opened her eyes and looked up at him. She did not speak. He reached out and pulled her blood-flecked skirt down over her splayed legs.

  ‘You’re mine now, Sarah,’ he said and there was a note of triumph in his voice. ‘You’re mine and don’t you forget it.’

  Her eyes held his. He could not read the expression in them. After a few moments she sat up. He half-expected her to run but she did not. Instead without a word she resumed packing the remains of the picnic basket.

  Puzzled he watched her. She stood up, tidying her hair with her fingers and smoothing her crumpled skirt.

  ‘It’s time we were getting back,’ she said.

  Her calm almost unnerved him and as an unwelcome new thought struck him he turned cold.

  ‘You won’t tell my father?’

  An expression close to scorn twisted her features.

  ‘Of course not!’ she said. ‘But don’t try anything like that again, Hugh. Not ever again.’

  A slow smile crossed his face. The sight of her was stirring him again, his body was remembering the delights of a few moments ago. He felt young and strong and invincible. She was better than Alicia. Much better.

  They carried the picnic things back to the motor without speaking. The brightness was dying out of the day now, the sun sinking towards the horizon in a ball of deep orange fire.

  It was only as they were driving home that he remembered he had still not seen Sarah’s breasts though he had had more, much more, than he had expected. But he would. Oh yes, he would. The whole summer stretched invitingly before them and in spite of Sarah’s warnings he knew there would be other times. As he had said, she was his now. And he had not the slightest intention of letting her go.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sarah walked across the yard at Chewton Leigh House towards the stables. In her hand she carried a paper bag filled with sugar lumps. Sweet Lass, the mare Gilbert had bought for her when she had learned to ride, was in foal and her time was near. Sarah visited her whenever she could, bringing her little treats such as the sugar lumps which she bought from the village shop since Bertha had complained about her helping herself to the ones she kept in the kitchen.

  As she passed the windows of the house she looked in nervously but saw no-one and the quick beat of her heart steadied a little. No sign of Alicia or Leo, and more importantly no sign of Hugh. Since that afternoon, three weeks ago now, when she and Hugh had taken the Rolls to Bury Woods she had avoided him whenever she could but still he sought her out and the confusion in her emotions was such that she both dreaded the encounters and yet was strangely disappointed when they did not occur.

  Why she should feel this disappointment Sarah could not imagine. After what had happened she had thought she would never want to see him again and the prospect of facing him, particularly in the presence of other members of the family, had made her feel physically sick. But after a few days when she had hidden herself away at Home Farm, her attitude towards the events of that afternoon had begun to undergo a strange metamorphosis. She recalled them now not so much with horror as with a creeping fascination, pondering on the way that Hugh had changed from the merry boy who had brightened her days at Chewton Leigh House and whom she had sometimes thought of as her only friend to something approaching a wild beast and marvelled that in some way it had been her body which had caused that change.

  The knowledge was frightening and yet at the same time oddly exciting. She had taken off all her clothes and looked at herself in the slightly mottled mirror on her dressing table, noting with a critical eye the swell of her young breasts and the trimness of her waist, and remembering how she had once heard one of the ‘big girls’ at school complaining in the seclusion of the privy block that her chest was sprouting and she did not want it to. ‘I don’t want those ugly things’ the big girl had said, almost weeping, but Sarah had been unable to understand her attitude then and she could not understand it now. For as long as she could remember she had admired her mother’s breasts and hoped that when she grew up she would look just like Rachel; now, examining her reflection in the mirror, she knew her ambition had been realised. She ran her hands over them and felt prickling sensations trickle like silken cords from them to the very core of her being, the same sensation she encountered whenever she remembered Hugh and what he had done to her. She let her hands run on, across the flatness of her stomach to the firm columns of her thighs, then to the soft insides and up to the tuft of baby fine hair which grew there, and was aware of a strange feeling of power, unidentifiable yet very real.

  This feeling puzzled her; Hugh had been the aggressor, she had been quite unable to prevent him from doing as he willed. So why should she now feel, even for a moment, that it was she who was the powerful one?

  These secret thoughts did nothing to lessen the mortifying embarrassment she had felt on seeing him again, however. Her whole body had seemed to blush, her heart had pounded painfully against her ribs and she wished she could die. Alicia and James had also been in the room and with a tremendous effort she had behaved normally, desperate not to let them gain any inkling that things between her and Hugh were any different than they had ever been. Then Hugh had looked at her and she was sure the game was up. It was all there in his knowing narrowed eyes and the slight triumphant curve of his mouth, a look which made her blush all over again and started her heart beating so fast she could scarcely breathe, a look which sent the tiny shivers flickering through the deepest parts of her body and made her want to run and hide, and also to feel his hands on her again, both at the same time. So obvious was the look to her that she could not believe the alert Alicia had not noticed it. Bu
t it seemed she did not. When she left Hugh had come with Sarah to the door and his hand had rested for a moment on her back before slipping around and giving her breast a quick squeeze. Again her heart had lurched and he whispered, his breath hot on her ear: ‘Tomorrow in the copse by the lake. Ten o’clock.’

  Of course she had not kept the appointment though at ten o’clock she was looking out of her bedroom window, her emotions swinging between the wistful and the tumultuous as she imagined him by the lake waiting for her.

  The following afternoon he had come to the farm. She had seen him coming and run up to her room but Bertha had called her down.

  ‘Here’s Master Hugh come to see you.’

  ‘I don’t want to see him. I’ve got a headache.’

  ‘Don’t be so rude, my girl. Come down this minute!’

  She had come down, meeting his eyes defiantly, and again been aware of the sensation of power when she realised he was slightly non-plussed.

  ‘I came to see if you’d like to go for a walk, Sarah,’ he said.

  ‘No thank you. I don’t feel very well.’

  ‘It’s this heat, I expect,’ Bertha said, making excuses for her, and Sarah was for once grateful for the older woman’s presence.

  Hugh had left and as Bertha scolded her, saying she did not know what was wrong with her, Sarah had experienced that strange contrary little feeling of disappointment. She did not want to be alone with Hugh, did not want to place herself in circumstances when a repeat performance of the other afternoon would be possible, yet was aware of a restlessness yawning in her almost like hunger.

  Since then he had sought her out whenever possible and although they were not alone for long enough for any serious developments yet he managed to touch her sometimes on her breasts or bottom or between her legs, starting the quivers of prickling excitement inside her at the same time as arousing embarrassment and panic and afterwards she experienced again the peculiar sense of anti-climax and a perverse longing for more.

  Her greatest regret was the loss of their former easy friendship. In many ways the years had exacerbated Sarah’s isolation for her continued absorption into life at the big house had meant she no longer had any friends among the village children. The girls she had known had all left school now and had positions of one kind and another in service but even before they had gone away the gap between their world and Sarah’s had grown for they looked on her as someone who had got ‘above herself.’ She had tried to rekindle at least some of the relationships, particularly with Phyllis, who had grown into a plump pretty girl with an enviable carefree attitude to life, but they no longer had anything in common and imperceptibly Sarah was beginning to grow impatient with her old friends even while longing to share their secrets and their celebrations. The comprehensive education she was receiving and her taste of life at Chewton Leigh House was changing her, setting her sights higher than theirs and making her search for something more than they could give her, yet she was not a part of the ‘gentry’ either. They were kind enough to her, her every need was catered for, and yet she was not one of them.

  Sometimes Sarah felt she belonged nowhere.

  Only Hugh had treated her as a person in her own right, a girl he teased as he teased his sister, made a fuss of and actually liked. Only with Hugh had she felt neither ashamed of the remnants of her Somerset burr nor embarrassed by the more genteel tones she had unconsciously adopted. Only with Hugh could she relax and be herself. And now that ease had gone forever, lost in a sunny field along with her innocence.

  Still there was always Sweet Lass, Sarah comforted herself as she left the cobbled yard and slipped in at the open door of the stables. Though she had never completely overcome her nervousness of some of the big powerful hunters in the stables she loved the little mare dearly. Sweet Lass was a strawberry roan, game and willing yet as gentle as her name implied and from the moment Gilbert had introduced them Sarah had known she could never be afraid of Sweet Lass. Now as she entered the stable the mare heard her and whinnied softly, pawing the floor gracefully in greeting.

  Sarah crossed to her stall and the big nose came out to nuzzle her. Sarah stroked it gently.

  ‘Hello, my love! And how are you today? I expect you wish you could be out in the meadow with the other horses. Never mind it won’t be long now and you will be. Tom says you’ll have your foal before the week is out.’

  Sweet Lass prodded at Sarah gently but insistently. Sarah laughed.

  ‘I know what you are looking for. It’s cupboard love, isn’t it? Just cupboard love!’

  She opened the paper bag and took out a sugar lump, offering it to Sweet Lass on the palm of her hand. The mare took it, crunching delicately, and Sarah gave her another.

  Dim as it was in the stable she did not notice the shadow as someone entered and with the straw underfoot his boots made no sound.

  ‘Well hello there, Sarah! What are you doing inside on such a fine day?’

  She swung round, her hand still outstretched to Sweet Lass with yet another sugar lump. Hugh was standing in the doorway leaning nonchalantly against the wooden post.

  ‘You made me jump!’ she said accusingly but her heart had begun to pound and her voice was not quite level.

  ‘You haven’t got another headache, I hope,’ Hugh said. The mock solicitude was not lost on her.

  ‘I came to see Sweet Lass,’ she said defensively. ‘ She’s due to foal any day now.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ he said. ‘You came to see me.’

  ‘I did not!’

  She could not see his face because of the shadow but she knew from his voice that he was smiling.

  ‘Of course you did. At least – I hope so! Though I must confess I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.’

  ‘I told you I came to see Sweet Lass!’ she snapped. ‘But now I have to get back. Mrs Pugh will be expecting me.’ She thrust another sugar lump at the mare and started towards the door. He did not move. His tall frame half filled the doorway. ‘Please let me pass.’

  ‘You are not in such a hurry, surely,’ he drawled. ‘You’ve only just come.’

  Unable to leave without brushing past him she turned back to the horse, rubbing the nose that was still resting over the top of the stall.

  ‘When is your father coming back?’ she asked, trying to change the subject and defuse the situation though knowing she was effectively trapped.

  ‘Oh, he’ll be away for a couple of weeks yet,’ Hugh replied. ‘Blanche received a letter from him this morning. He is very impressed with Santos Dumont’s work and he has been invited to stay on a little longer. Santos Dumont thinks his flying machine will be ready for a test flight very soon.’

  ‘It must be very exciting for him.’ The breath was tight in her throat; she could scarcely breathe.

  ‘Yes. But we don’t want to talk about Santos Dumont, do we? We’ve got better things to do.’ His tone was overlaid with meaning. In the humid atmosphere of the stable she could almost smell the desire on him. Panic, pure and simple, swept over her. How could she have wished even for a moment to be alone with him again after that afternoon at Bury Woods? It had been wrong, really wrong. She must ensure it did not happen again.

  She made a determined effort to get to the door.

  ‘I really have to go, Hugh.’

  His hand shot out, imprisoning her wrist.

  ‘Not until you tell me when you are going to come out with me again.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  He pulled her close, so close she could feel his breath on her face and the heat emanating from his body.

  ‘Oh yes you are. I told you, Sarah – you’re mine!’

  His lips found hers and his hand took her breast squeezing roughly. For just a moment the dangerous dark excitement rose in her and against her will she found herself wanting him to handle not just one breast but both, not just her breasts but her whole body. The pressure of his lips was brutal yet exhilarating; she felt herself draining into him. Then as his
hand moved down between her legs the panic returned, contradictory yet undeniable and all-consuming.

  ‘No!’ With one hand she tried to stop his exploring fingers, with the other she pushed at his chest, trying to thrust him away. ‘Will you stop, please! We mustn’t!’

  ‘Why not?’ His breath was ragged; she could feel the tension mounting in him.

  ‘Because it’s wrong. Because I don’t like it!’

  ‘Oh yes you do,’ he contradicted her. He had her blouse open now though she had not been aware of him undoing the buttons. His hand crept inside her camisole and the palm, hard against the rose pink tip of her erect nipple made the weakness flood through her again. ‘You do like it, Sarah!’

  ‘I don’t! I don’t! You’re bad, Hugh!’

  ‘No worse than you. You could have stopped me if you had wanted to. But you didn’t.’ He was kissing her again, speaking disjointedly between those kisses, his lips moving down her throat towards the breast which he had now freed from the covering of her camisole. ‘Oh Sarah … Sarah …’

  He was drinking her in now, the feel of her, the taste of her, the sight of her, beautiful, just as he had known she would be, even here in the dim stable. She struggled in spasms as the conflicting emotions swayed her, for in spite of the growing eagerness of her body she knew it was wrong … wrong …

  ‘You’re mine.’ His lips tugged at her nipple and he hoisted up her skirt; to Sarah it seemed he had become an octopus with hands everywhere.

  ‘Hugh, stop!’ she screamed. ‘Leave me alone!’

  ‘You’re mine!’ he grated. His arm slid down behind her knees and he lifted her bodily, carrying her as easily as if she had been a child, back into the stable. There at the far end a few bales of hay formed a low ledge. He put her down on it, holding her down with one hand and tearing at her dress.

  ‘Hugh – my frock!’ she protested, almost weeping.

  ‘Take it off!’ he ordered, towering over her.