Wicked Pleasures

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Here, try this. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. I’m fine. How kind of you.’

  ‘Not really. I think it was my fault.’

  ‘Not at all. Serves me right for pigging out.’

  ‘Well you do look half starved.’

  ‘Oh I’m not really,’ said Charles. ‘It’s just a device to win sympathy for myself at cocktail parties.’ He held out his hand. ‘Charles St Mullin.’

  She took it. ‘Virginia Caterham.’ She was American; the accent was quite gentle, but distinct.

  ‘You’re not from these parts then?’

  ‘No, I’m from New York.’

  ‘And your husband also?’

  ‘No, he’s very English, very much from these parts. Name of Alexander Caterham.’

  ‘Not the Earl of Caterham? Owner of Hartest House?’

  ‘The very one. You’re extremely well informed.’

  ‘Well, you see, I am employed, if that it could be termed, by our host. Your husband once retained him.’

  ‘He did? How exciting!’

  ‘Not really, I’m afraid. It was to do with some land law and a rapacious neighbour. Rapacious in the land law sense, that is to say.’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember Alexander telling me. We had a neighbour who objected to our hunting across his land. Apparently. It was before my term as chatelaine at Hartest. He – and Lionel – won, of course. The poor man moved away.’ She sounded amused; Charles smiled at her.

  ‘Of course. Do you enjoy being chatelaine of Hartest?’

  ‘Oh yes, naturally I do.’ She spoke quickly, smiled brilliantly. ‘It’s a beautiful house. And estate. A wonderful place to live.’

  ‘Did you know it before your marriage?’

  ‘No, I was raised in New York, as they say. Never even been to England.’

  ‘It must have been something of a culture shock.’

  ‘Well it was, but I am something of a survivor. I have learnt to speak English. If you know what I mean.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Charles.

  ‘And what about you, Mr St Mullin?’

  ‘Please call me Charles. Oh, I’m Irish. A broth of a boy. We too have a rather nice house. Not as fine as Hartest, but extremely pretty. In West Cork.’

  ‘I’ve never been to Ireland,’ she said, ‘I understand it’s very beautiful. What does “we” mean? Are you married?’

  ‘Oh my goodness no,’ said Charles. ‘Can’t afford such luxuries.’

  ‘Really? I thought barristers were very rich people. Lionel seems to be.’

  ‘Barristers are. I am a pupil barrister. An apprentice. Last year I earned twenty pounds, fourteen shillings and sixpence.’

  ‘Well, I can see not many wives could be kept on that. So who is this “we” you speak of ?’

  ‘My family. My father. He is a gentleman farmer, and runs the house and the estate. Rather like your husband, I imagine. And occasionally he throws a few shillings at me, and says, “Here, cur, take this for yourself,” and I eat for a few weeks longer.’

  ‘What a sad story. And will you inherit this house, this beautiful house, in the fullness of time?’

  ‘Sadly not. I have an elder brother. But actually, much as I love Ireland, I prefer London. I plan to settle here. At the moment of course I am forced to live on a bench on the Embankment. But in time I may graduate to something a little better.’

  ‘I hope so.’ She smiled at him, and there was an odd quality to that smile, it was warm and amused and very friendly, but there was a sadness behind it that Charles found intriguing.

  ‘You must come and meet my husband. He’s over there, rather unusually being the centre of attention. He’s actually rather shy. He’d like you.’ She took him by the hand, a warm, surprisingly firm grasp, and led him across the room; a tall, outstandingly good-looking man with blond hair and blue eyes stood telling what was obviously a very funny story to a circle of people all laughing extremely loudly.

  The joke finished, Virginia smiled indulgently at her husband and ushered Charles forwards.

  ‘Alexander, darling. This is Charles St Mullin. He works for Lionel. I thought you should meet him. He remembers the case, over the right of way, you remember, and the hunting.’

  ‘Oh yes of course.’ Alexander Caterham took Charles’s hand, shook it hard. ‘How do you do. How clever of you to remember it.’

  ‘Well, I’m interested in land law,’ said Charles. ‘It fascinates me. My father has land in Ireland, and we have had a couple of disputes with our neighbours. Particularly intriguing as the neighbour is the Mother Church.’

  ‘Indeed? What a very formidable adversary she must be.’

  ‘She is. But we won,’ said Charles with a modest pride.

  ‘Then you must have very fine lawyers. Are you really interested in land law?’

  ‘Yes I am. In fact I’m working on a thesis on the subject, eighteenth-century land law.’

  ‘The land laws for Hartest are classically complex. If it would amuse you, I could let you loose in the library there for a while. You could come down one Saturday.’

  Charles said it would amuse him very much and that he would be delighted to accept. As he caught Virginia Caterham’s golden eyes, her warm, oddly sad smile, he thought that it would be amusing to spend a day in her house as well.

  ‘I’ll phone you then, shall I?’ he said, and ‘Oh yes, please do,’ she said, ‘I can’t think of anything I’d like more.’

  ‘So, Charles. Has the morning been useful?’ Alexander gestured to a place at the table; they were eating in the small dining room at the front of the house. Charles looked out of the window; the stretch of parkland, studded with sheep and deer, unrolled gently away from the house; the winding languor of the River Hart shone in the mist-strewn autumn sunshine.

  ‘Useful and very pleasant. What a beautiful place this is. How fortunate you are, Lord Caterham.’

  ‘I know it. Very fortunate. I count this as the greatest possible blessing, to live here. To own Hartest. To have it to pass on to my children. It is part of my very self. If that does not sound too pompous.’

  ‘Alexander, yes it does,’ said Virginia, ‘do stop. You really are a bore about Hartest at times. Not everyone can quite see its immense charm, you know. Sometimes I get quite jealous,’ she said to Charles. ‘He loves this house far more than he loves me. It is his mistress. He is always leaving me for it.’

  ‘Oh nonsense, Virginia,’ said Alexander lightly; but Charles heard a more serious note in his voice. ‘There is no comparison between how I feel for you and how I feel for Hartest. I much prefer Hartest.’

  He smiled at her, brilliantly; but she did not smile back. Her eyes were hard and dark, and the fingers she was holding round her glass were tightly clenched.

  ‘I know it,’ she said, ‘I just said that. Perhaps you could stop talking this nonsense, Alexander, and give me some more wine. My glass is empty, as you might have noticed, had you not had your mind so very firmly on your house. And so is Charles’s.’

  ‘I’m sorry. How stupid of me.’ He got up and refilled their glasses; Charles noticed that Virginia’s emptied very fast, three more times. She had recovered herself and was laughing again by the end of the first course; but Alexander was awkward suddenly too, just slightly ill at ease, they both talked too much and too intently. All was clearly not quite well in the Garden of Eden.

  After lunch Virginia said she was going to walk her dog.

  ‘If you’ve had enough of land law for a while, come with me.’

  They walked down to the lake; there was a path round it, carved out of the long reeds; she walked ahead, and the dog, not the classic labrador he had expected, but an exquisitely elegant afghan hound with long, silken beige hair, loped beside her. She was wearing a trenchcoat and wellington boots over her slacks; she looked very English, very at home in the country and the mud.

  ‘What an enchanted life you lead,’ said Charles carefully, curious for some clue
as to her unhappiness.

  ‘Indeed,’ she said, her slightly throaty voice calm and almost complacent. ‘Enchanted.’

  ‘Do you miss the States?’

  ‘A lot. Sometimes. Not so much the States, but my family. My brother most of all.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Works in a bank.’

  ‘Ah. And your father?’

  ‘Owns the bank.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I’m quite a family person,’ she said suddenly. ‘I like to have my own people around me. Alexander doesn’t have any family. Only a mother who refuses to meet me.’

  ‘Oh dear. Why?’

  ‘Because I’m an American. Sullying the family name, I think. I have tried very hard, written to her several times, even sent her flowers when she gave me the Caterham tiara to wear on my wedding day, but all to no avail.’

  ‘Silly old lady. Well, never mind, no doubt soon you will have your own dynasty, and then you can make the rules. And you won’t be lonely.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, no doubt. Quite soon.’

  He sensed a tension and changed the subject.

  ‘What bank does your father own?’

  ‘It’s called Praegers. It’s an investment bank. It doesn’t have an office over here, so you won’t have heard of it.’

  ‘No. No, I haven’t. He must be a very powerful man, your father.’

  ‘Yes, he is. Too powerful for his own good.’ She turned and smiled at him suddenly, and said, ‘We’re giving a ball at Christmas. Why don’t you come?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  Looking back on that moment, remembering her standing there in the reeds, her dark hair wild with the damp air, her pale face at once thoughtful and pleased at his reply, he knew that was the moment it really began.

  The ball was held on the Saturday before Christmas; Hartest was in festive mood. There was a most thoughtfully provided full moon, flooding the parkland silver, the trees lining the Great Drive were all studded with fairy lights and in the centre of the Rotunda stood a vast Christmas tree, twenty feet tall, dressed in turquoise and silver. There was a dinner for two hundred chosen guests before dinner and three hundred more arrived at ten; Virginia and Alexander stood on the front steps receiving them. Charles, who was in the second contingent, thought he had never seen a woman look more classically resplendent as she did, standing there in a black velvet dress with a great sweeping train, and with a drop pearl tiara in her hair. She wore no other jewellery apart from a pearl bracelet; her face, pale and beautiful in the moonlight, with its great tawny eyes, looked exotic, strange, almost unreal.

  Alexander in white tie and tails, handsome, charming, laughing, stood by her, showing them both off, his two loves, his wife and his house; Charles was struck by his patent childlike pleasure.

  He shook Charles by the hand, said, ‘Charles! How nice. How is the thesis?’ and then turned to the people behind him; Virginia took his hand in both hers and said, ‘It was lovely of you to come. I do hope you can find a friend. If not, come and find me.’

  He had been asked to bring a partner, but hadn’t wanted to; he was too intrigued by the whole event to be hampered by some half-known girl. He wanted to be free, to explore, both the party and his hostess’s motives in asking him; he was happy to be alone, he said, when he wrote to accept, he had no particular partner to bring and if that would not foul up numbers too much, then he preferred not to. It was a very grand occasion; there were two discotheques, a live band and a jazz band, there was dancing in the ballroom and in the Rotunda and a cabaret at midnight, supplied by a young man who sang charmingly, and then suddenly switched to brilliant impersonations by request; Charles, intrigued, asked him to do the Queen Mother, and there she stood, quite unmistakable, plump, gracious, smiling, waving, asking banal questions, dressed in a dinner jacket, and looking more herself than in her Hartnell gowns.

  At the end, Father Christmas suddenly appeared with a sackful of presents; one for everyone. The men got silk handkerchiefs, the women slim, gilt-edged leather-bound diaries. ‘And what a status symbol they will be,’ Charles heard one girl murmur to another. ‘People will be very sure to let everyone know where they got them, won’t they?’

  As Father Christmas disappeared, the jazz band started; the younger guests began to dance. Charles, who had been quite happy until then, felt suddenly a little bereft; he found himself a glass of champagne and went in search (rather hopelessly) of Virginia.

  In the event he found her quite easily, sitting on the stairs with a crowd of people; she saw him and stood up, holding out her hand.

  ‘Charles! How nice. Have you come to ask me to dance? I was hoping you would.’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ he said, and she led him onto the floor.

  She was a superb dancer; she made him feel helpless and hopeless.

  ‘You’re wonderful,’ he said, standing still, watching her, laughing, ‘you should be on the stage.’

  ‘Well, I did think of it. But my mother said it was common. I dance with my dad. I taught him to dance, actually. We do a number together. Song and dance.’

  ‘I’d love to see you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. It’s really flash and showy. It would never happen here. It’s very New York.’ The music changed, grew slow; she relaxed against him suddenly, he could feel the length of her body, warm, friendly. She put her arms round his neck, looked into his eyes, and smiled.

  ‘You have such a nice face, Charles St Mullin. Not exactly handsome –’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t be uppity. I was going to say, but very very sexy. There’s something about that Irish colouring, the blue eyes and the dark hair, that – oh, I like it very much.’

  She was quite drunk; she had had a lot of champagne.

  ‘Yours is quite sexy too,’ he said suddenly, risking it, risking a rebuff.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you very much. Do you think the rest of me is sexy?’

  ‘Oh no,’ he said gravely. ‘Dead dull.’

  She laughed, and dropped her head onto his shoulder. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m very forward.’

  ‘Well I do, rather,’ he said. He had meant it as a joke, but he realized, appalled, that she had taken it seriously; she drew back as if he had hit her, looked at him and then turned and fled along the corridor, disappearing into one of the rooms.

  Charles followed her, trying all the doors; most of them were locked, and the ones that weren’t seemed to be cupboards; but right at the end was a small sitting room; he thought at first she wasn’t there, but then he saw her, hunched into a chair, by the window, looking out onto the parkland. She heard him come in. ‘Please go away,’ she said, without even turning round.

  ‘Virginia, you’re crazy. Of course I was joking. Of course I didn’t mean it. It’s – well, it’s –’

  ‘It’s what?’ she said.

  ‘It’s just that the biggest division the Atlantic makes between your country and mine is in our senses of humour. Your lot isn’t very good at the flippant remark. You take them too seriously. I should have known. I’m sorry. Of course I don’t think you’re forward, I think you’re beautiful and very sexy. And charming. Please don’t be upset.’

  She turned to him then, and he could see, in the moonlight, that she had been crying; great tears still rolled down her face. He was puzzled.

  ‘Virginia, don’t cry. Please. I meant nothing. Really. You have no reason to be upset.’

  ‘Oh, but I do,’ she said, and there was a great shuddering sigh, right through her body. ‘I have every reason. But none of them to do with you. I’m sorry. I’m a fool.’

  ‘You’re not,’ he said, and went and knelt by the chair, taking her hand. ‘You’re not a fool. Foolish, perhaps, but not a fool.’ He reached out and touched her face, brushing the tears away with his fingers; suddenly she took his hand, and kissed the fingertips. ‘Salty,’ she said. ‘It’s always surprising, isn’t it, that tears are
salty.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes, I suppose it is,’ and then he leant forward and kissed her very gently, on her wet cheeks, and said, ‘I’m so sorry, so very sorry I upset you.’

  ‘Do you think,’ she said idly, looking down, fiddling with her dress, her lovely head drooping suddenly, ‘do you think we could have lunch one day? In London? I would so like that.’

  ‘I would like it too,’ he said, ‘I’ll ring you, straight after Christmas, if I may.’

  He left soon after that; and all the way back to London, driving his battered, noisy Mini, he wondered why women with everything, and moreover with everything to lose, newly married to one of the wealthiest, most famously charming men in England, should be instigating an affair with a penniless barrister.

  They had lunch twice before he took her to bed, in his small flat in Fulham; two lunches, exquisitely arousing affairs, where she sat and looked at him, and listened to him, and talked most politely, of legal matters and his career and his childhood and her own, and the shared interest they discovered in Impressionist paintings, and the comparable delights of Ireland and England and America, and all the while gazing into his eyes with an expression in her own that told of an acute physical hunger.

  Charles knew what she wanted, and he wanted it too; it would have been a man of some madness, he said to himself, who would not. But he was terribly afraid. He was afraid of appearing foolish and presumptuous (even while his every instinct told him he was neither); of rebuff (although the same instincts told him that was unlikely too); of having to take her in all her exquisite, expensive beauty to his shabby flat, with the creaky bed and the worn, darned sheets, presented to him by his mother when he moved to London; of the wrath that might be visited upon him, and the retribution extracted from him by the Earl of Caterham, should he come to hear of the turn events had taken; and most of all, perhaps, of not performing in bed as well as the Countess must surely be expecting. Charles had been to bed with a few girls, and indeed considered himself a modestly good performer, but the girls had either been young and naïve, or prostitutes; none of them with remotely the kind of experience that a married woman, who before she had been a married woman had been an American heiress of clearly considerable sophistication, would be bringing to his bed. And yet, and yet, clearly he was what the Countess wanted; and she was equally clearly what he wanted; and so it was, at the end of the second lunch, as she sat, gently massaging his palm with her thumb, snaking one of her long legs around his under the table, her tawny eyes molten with tenderness, that he said, ‘Would you – would you care to progress this thing a little further?’