‘Oh come now, don’t tell me you don’t like it. That’s not what Perry told me.’
‘I don’t – I didn’t – we – he –’ The words spattered helplessly.
‘I’m not sure that I understand you. What are you saying?’
‘He didn’t – t-touch –’
‘Not at all? I do find that rather difficult to believe.’
‘Not – not like –’ Not like her brother-in-law had tried to do.
‘Not like this?’
He cupped her breast again, running his thumb over the soft, vulnerable part above the armour of her corset. Her fragile control snapped. It was happening all over again. There was no escape.
‘Please, please don’t,’ she sobbed, looking desperately towards the door. ‘Please, let me go –’
‘Don’t worry, we shan’t be interrupted. My secretary will be away for some time yet. Now stop crying and listen.’
Isobel shook her head. ‘I can’t –’
‘You can. I am not dismissing you.’
The words broke through her panic, calming her a little. She listened.
‘Rather, I am offering you the possibility of something far better. You will go back to Trent Street now. At half-past seven this evening I shall send a cab for you. Do you understand?’
Helplessly, Isobel nodded. Anything, just to get out of this room.
‘And of course, you will not tell anyone about this interview.’
‘No, no –’
As if she could even begin to speak of it. And then, unbelievably, it was over. She was outside in the corridor, and footsteps – the secretary’s? – could be heard approaching. Swallowing tears, she started walking.
Somehow, she got herself to Trent Street. Her first instinct was to pack her belongings and go. She even started to take things out of drawers. But when she thought about what she would do when she went out of the door, she stopped. It would be worse than last time. She had come to London knowing nothing, and had met with stupendous luck. Now she had learnt something of the ways of the world, she knew that no other shop would employ her. She would get no reference from Packards and she could not hope for another Miss Packard to take her on on the strength of her knowledge of tennis. Once her money ran out, she would be destitute. She sank onto the bed and curled into a ball of despair, unable to think of anything beyond the horror of her situation.
When Daisy came in, Isobel pleaded illness. She managed to convince her that she did not need sitting with and that Daisy should go and meet Johnny for their regular evening out. The moment Daisy had gone she regretted not telling her, though she could not think how her friend could have helped. The nearby church clock chimed the quarter. She had to make her mind up. She got up and looked at her bag. She could still leave. But in the end she did what she knew all along she was going to do. She splashed some cold water over her face, tried to get her hair into some kind of order, and went down to meet the cab exactly as it arrived at half-past.
She sat right in the corner of the seat, rigid with dread, noticing nothing of the streets through which she was taken. All too soon, the cab stopped and the driver opened the door. She found herself at the foot of a flight of steps leading up to an impressive pillared porch and the green front door of what looked like a standard Mayfair house. She looked at the cabby for reassurance.
‘That’s it, miss. Just knock on the door.’
On legs that had lost all their strength, she tottered up the steps and did as she was told. Immediately, she was let into a gilded and carpeted hall by a footman in full livery and wig. If she had not been so utterly miserable already, she would have been embarrassed by her rather dishevelled appearance in such opulent surroundings.
‘Miss Brand?’ he enquired.
She nodded. She was led up the stairs to a first-floor room and shown in. The rococo elegance of its decoration was lost on her, for all she could see was Mr Edward, in full evening dress, seated in a chair by the tall windows. The door closed behind her.
‘Ah, Isobel the Innocent – or is it the not-so-innocent? We shall soon see. Come here. Let me look at you properly.’
With the sick feeling of dread mounting by the moment, she went forward. The windows were open to the sweet summer air. Through them she vaguely comprehended a pretty garden, as remote and unattainable as the sky outside a prison. Mr Edward slowly surveyed her, his eyes lazily travelling over her body until Isobel felt as horribly exposed as if he could see through her crumpled working clothes. Instinctively, she folded her arms across herself, a feeble protection. He smiled.
‘If you’re not genuine, you’re certainly a consummate actress. I think this is going to be a very enjoyable evening. So much better in a place like this, don’t you think? Now we have all the time we could wish for with absolutely no danger of unwanted interruptions. But first we shall dine. You must be hungry after your day’s work. I know I am. Ring the bell, will you, and then sit down.’
Almost relieved by the straightforward orders after the rest of what he had said, Isobel located the bellpull and sat at the round table, elegantly set for two. Mr Edward sauntered over to sit opposite her just as the door opened to the footman with a trolley of food. There followed a dinner the like of which her dearest mama had often aspired to but never achieved. It ran the full eight courses expected for such a meal; soup, fish, entrées, removes, game, sweets, ices and fruit, and all cooked to a perfection such as could only be reached by a French chef of the first order. Ordered to by Mr Edward, Isobel tried to eat the salmon, the sweetbreads and mushrooms, the iced asparagus, the quail, but every morsel she swallowed threatened to come straight up again.
Worse, he expected her to talk.
‘I’m sure there is a fascinating little tale behind your change of name. Tell me who Miss Norton is, or rather was. Why did she have to leave Tillchester?’
Isobel shook her head in horror. ‘I couldn’t – really –’
‘Oh but you could. Come along. Who were Mr and Mrs Norton? You did have parents, I take it?’
‘Oh yes, of course.’
The words were torn from her. How could he think otherwise?
‘Then tell me. What line of business does your father follow?’
It hurt so much to speak of her parents. To do so to him was a hundred times worse.
‘He was a solicitor,’ she admitted in a hoarse whisper.
‘A solicitor! How perfect. But no longer with us, I presume, since you use the past tense?’
Bit by bit, like pulling teeth, he dragged the story from her. But only part of it. She did manage to avoid admitting to a sister or to the reason for leaving her old life, thanks to the lie she first made up for his sister and now repeated. It was like keeping a last piece of clothing about her to cover her nakedness.
The light was beginning to fade from the sky as they sat over dishes of early strawberries, Isobel tense and upright, her back not touching that of the chair, Mr Edward leaning back, relaxed, savouring the perfect lushness of each fruit, watching her every move with eyes that were a dark glitter in the shadows of his handsome face. It was then that Isobel realised that terrible though it had been to have to expose her family to him, it had at least postponed the horror beyond. As the last strawberry disappeared she began to talk, chattering about Packards, the department, the people, the dining room, Trent Street, anything and everything, desperately hoping that the torrent of words would keep the inevitable at bay. It did not.
‘I don’t think I want to hear about Packards now. I like to leave it behind me in the evenings,’ he told her. ‘Draw the curtains and light the lamps. It’s getting too dark to see in here.’
She did as she was bid, blinking as the electric lights sprang into life.
‘Those curtains as well. Draw them back.’
She had not noticed the curtains where usually the double doors through to the adjoining room would be found. When she drew them back she revealed a large alcove containing a huge double bed, the corn
er of the frilled covers turned down to reveal satin sheets. Gasping, she turned to face him and found that he had taken off his jacket and undone his bow tie and stiff collar.
‘Now – come here.’
She shrunk away from him with an inarticulate cry, but he caught her arm and pulled her close, forcing her mouth open with his, running one hand down her back to clamp on her buttocks, pushing her hips towards his. Suffocating under the attack of his tongue, she then became aware of something hard and demanding through the layers of clothing that still separated them. Memories of her brother-in-law came flooding back. She tried to twist free, choking sobs rising in her throat. He released her mouth, only to press her more closely against him.
‘Please –’ she sobbed. ‘Please don’t.’
He laughed quietly, his mouth close to her ear.
‘I wanted you this afternoon, right there on my desk. But this is going to be better.’
He let go of her, took her by the wrist and pulled her through to the inner alcove. Then to her confusion, he let go of her and sprawled back on the bed.
‘Take my shoes off.’
She stared at him.
He repeated the order. With shaking fingers, she obeyed.
‘Now undo your blouse.’
The tears were running uncontrolled down her face now. She fumbled at the buttons. They slid out of her grasp, refused to go through the holes.
‘Hurry up.’
His impatience only made it worse, but somehow she managed it, and the hooks of her skirt. Shaking with humiliation, she stood before him in her corset and cheap cotton underclothes.
‘Come here.’
He was sitting on the edge of the high bed. He pulled her between his thighs and undid the laces of her corset, threw it aside and fondled her breasts, commenting greedily on their shape and size and colour. Isobel closed her eyes against the avid expression in his, but she could not avoid the sound of his voice.
‘Look at me.’
She kept her eyes firmly shut. He slapped her cheek, just hard enough to shock her.
‘I said look at me.’
He stood up and took off his trousers and underpants. The panic that had been steadily mounting in her erupted at the sight of his erect member. She screamed and backed away, sobbing and pleading, to find the controlled tormentor transformed. He caught her arms, forced her to the floor and held her down, pulling and ripping at what was left of her clothing. His hands were at her bare flesh, kneading, probing, penetrating her most private places until she cried out in humiliation, but it served only to increase his harsh breathing, his disjointed remarks. And then her legs were forced apart and his body was heavy on hers. Something hot and hard was poking at her, was inside her, tearing her apart with a piercing pain that drew a scream from her. It went on and on, thrusting and jarring until she was nothing but a nightmare pulp of terror. And then there were hoarse shouts of triumph, thrusts that she knew must surely kill her – and unbelievably, the worst was over. He was laughing and gasping, slumped on her with all his considerable weight. He was still moving spasmodically, and every time was an agony, but finally he stopped, and was still, and seemed even to sleep. Isobel wept uncontrollably.
He rolled off and sat, looking at her.
‘Christ, that was good. You’re so tight, like a vice. You’ve bruised me.’
Released, Isobel curled into a defensive ball, but still she could not shut out his voice.
‘You weren’t acting, then. It really was the first time. Perry must be even more of a fool than I took him for.’
She sensed rather than saw him get up and move away. There was the pop of a cork. Then he was back again.
‘Come on, get up, it isn’t the end of the world.’
She stayed silent and still. He reached down and pulled her to her feet.
‘Lie on the bed. Champagne?’
She shook her head and crawled into the slippery womb of the bed, every movement making her whimper with pain. Her whole body felt bruised and torn. He sat up beside her, leaning against the pillows and drinking champagne, while she lay still as a stone, just hoping and hoping that it was all over and now she could die. But it was not all over, for now he put down his glass and turned his attention to her again, exploring every crevice of her violated body, probing and sucking and biting, and finally entering her again in a slicing agony.
Some time in the first grey glimmer before dawn, she became aware of him leaving the bed and moving into the main part of the room. A door opened and there were voices, his and another man’s. The door closed. For a long time she lay with every nerve strained, listening, expecting him to return and the nightmare to start all over again, but there was silence. He was gone. She should have felt relief, but she did not. For there was hardly anything of her left. She was nothing, nobody. She was worthless, just a torn and broken body on a satin-covered bed.
29
THE LINE OF guests stretched ahead of them up the elegant curve of the staircase. Amelie felt as if she were going to burst with impatience.
‘Oh come on,’ she muttered under her breath.
Through the open double doors she could hear the band playing a merry polka. Inside her satin shoes, her toes danced.
‘This is the second time this evening we’ve had to wait just to be received. Why on earth did we have to go to that boring old drum when we could have been here all the while?’
‘Nobody refuses an invitation to one of the Duchess’s drums,’ her mother replied, with great satisfaction in her voice.
Amelie knew just why. It had been the first time they had been invited, and a coup for her mother, who had wanted to get inside the doors of that particular house for years. She suspected that the invitation had something to do with the rumours that her grandfather was about to get a knighthood.
‘It was one of the most tedious things I’ve ever been to,’ she complained.
‘Ah well, it’s only natural that young people should want to dance,’ her mother replied, in such an indulgent tone that Amelie sent a sharp look at her. Winifred was smiling. ‘And shall a certain person be here?’
To her chagrin, Amelie felt a blush sweep over her.
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she snapped.
‘It does no harm to have them wait for you,’ her mother told her. If anything, she sounded even more satisfied than when talking of the Duchess’s reception.
At last they got to the head of the queue and were greeted by their hosts. This was no run-of-the-mill ball cramped into the inadequate rooms of an ordinary Mayfair house, but a grand affair in one of the great houses on Berkeley Square with a proper ballroom. A rush of heat and music enveloped them as they entered, spiced with perfume, the scent of flowers and sweating bodies. Amelie searched the dancers, her eyes raking methodically over the pairs as they revolved round the floor. Anticipation collapsed into sick disappointment. He wasn’t there. Blindly she followed her mother as she steered through the crowds to a couple of empty seats.
A young man, one of Perry’s many friends, appeared and asked her to dance. She drew breath to refuse, but her mother answered for her.
‘How kind. Yes, she would be pleased to.’
Amelie glared at her and got up. She knew very well that she was lucky to find a partner so quickly. There always seemed to be more girls than men at dances, and the men that were there seemed to spend their time drinking, gossiping and watching rather than taking part. Plenty of girls around her would be envious. She was just annoyed that she would now be distracted from her anxious scanning of each new arrival. She went through the motions of the dance automatically, answering her partner’s remarks at random. Over his shoulder she kept looking at the crowds of people round the edge of the floor in case she had missed seeing him there.
The music came to an end. There was a spatter of polite gloved applause. Amelie’s partner started to escort her back to her seat. They passed one of the pairs of French windows that stood
open to the lantern-hung garden, through which couples were drifting back in from sitting out the dance in the inviting darkness, some of the girls surreptitiously patting hair and gowns back into place.
‘. . . seen the new dancer at the Palace?’ her partner was saying.
Amelie opened her mouth to answer, but instead uttered a small cry. There, coming in from the garden was Hugo, his beautiful blond head inclined to listen to the lovely girl who was holding on his arm and talking to him with great animation. Amelie stood, paralysed with pain, envy and anger, just containing the urge to confront the pair of them.
‘. . . unwell?’
A persistent voice penetrated the poisonous surge.
‘Yes – no – I mean –’
Unsuspecting, Hugo and the girl passed into the jumble of people crossing the dance floor. Amelie tried to pull herself together. Never show anything, that was the greatest and most sacred rule of Society. Put on a face, keep the glittering surface intact. To let anyone guess that things were less than perfect was bad form in the extreme, and bad form led to exclusion. She let herself be steered back to her mother, who nodded pleasantly to her and carried on the conversation she was having with a friend. She sat with the approved expression of light interest on her face while inside battle raged. What was he doing out there with That Woman? It was obvious what he was doing, everyone knew what sitting out was for. How dare he? But then again why shouldn’t he? There was no understanding between them, nothing but a handful of meetings in company and some snatches of conversation. He was Hugo Rutherford, feted and admired. He could sit out with whom he chose. No he couldn’t, not with That Woman, not with anyone. He had specifically asked her if she was going to be at this ball, had said he would see her here. She hated That Woman, she hated him.
Another dance, another partner. Still she kept watch. She couldn’t stop herself. There he was, there, at the back of the room. She could hardly breathe. He wasn’t with Her, he was talking to a middle-aged man. As she gazed at him, their eyes met. Instantly she looked away, a hot flush racing over her. He knew she was here. She deliberately avoided looking at that part of the room, started to chatter to her partner. The music seemed to go on for ever.
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