Trembling, I turn and dart back into the house, run up the stairs and throw myself into my room. I listen for the sound of his footsteps but hear nothing. My heart is racing, my blood boiling, but I am too scared to try anything.
Climbing onto my bed I crane my neck to look out of my tiny bedroom window and see Bethan running away, her cream dress fading into the darkness.
Emotions war within me; fear, anger, disappointment. One second I am crying, the next I am bashing my fists against my pillow.
Eventually, I grow weary.
Dragging myself to my desk, I ink my quill and begin to write.
*
Dear Diary,
I have done something of which I am not proud. I have set a sequence of events in motion.
I wrote Jean-Bernard. Begged him to come. As expected, he responded immediately, eagerly, and now it is too late to change my mind; he comes tonight. I wonder how Lisbeth will react to seeing him again.
But I cannot rest easy. I am plagued by uncertainty; is this decision wise? I know Jean-Bernard will want to take her off my hands...but is that really what I want?
On the one hand, I cannot trust myself around her – my recent actions demonstrate that much. On the other hand, do I genuinely believe that Jean-Bernard’s actions are motivated by pure intentions? He seems almost too eager to help – his letter dripped with enthusiasm which I found rather strange. But he is my only ally. Surely I can trust him more than I trust myself.
I must go and prepare his bed. He arrives by carriage in under the hour.
C.C
*
Dear Mama,
Father has locked me in my room and will not let me out. This is the sixth day of my imprisonment.
I do not hear Eddie any longer. I think Father has sent him to a boarding school, which perhaps is a blessing for my dear little brother. Being far away from Father is something I crave and something that will, I hope, do Eddie the world of good. Of course, my heart aches to stroke his floppy hair, listen to his voice, but I must content myself with the notion that he is happier away from Blackened Cottage.
Father unlocks the door and slides in plates of food for meal times. He allows me to visit the water closet three times daily, but refuses to glance my way or utter a word. His silence is not the peaceful kind, but the threatening kind – the kind that conceals immoral thoughts. He has not touched me. Indeed, he gives me such a wide berth that one would think me infected with smallpox. However, that is how I prefer it. If he were to touch me I do not know how I would respond.
One hope remains. Bethan. I know you do not approve of her, but I must have her in my life. Indeed, my waking dreams are full of dancing figurines in long black cloaks with sweeping ebony hair and tinkling laughs.
Somehow she will find a way to reach me. I am certain of it.
If it were not for Bethan, I would be huddled in a corner weeping. Instead I am sitting at my desk writing this letter, every now and then climbing onto the bed to peek out of the window. I know she will come sooner or later. Sooner or later she will come and her smile will melt this bitter frost. Her merry spirit will warm me, ferry me through this dark hour, bestow upon me the courage not to use the bread knife that Father has mindlessly left.
Father is coming. Someone else too! There is no time .
L.C
CHAPTER 7
JEAN-BERNARD
Father enters and leaves without a word, his face a mask.
I sit on the bed mutely staring at the stranger before me.
“Lisbeth, I am Jean-Bernard, an old friend of Charles. You may recollect me?”
I shake my head. Neither the look of this man nor his lilting French purr are recognisable. However, one aspect is curiously familiar: his smell – cinnamon...Indian spice...burnt smoke. I am taken back to soft baby fingers clasping mine, a Grandfather clock ding-donging the hour, a framed photograph of my Father and Mother on their wedding day. A warm feeling floats on the cusp of my mind.
Jean-Bernard steps closer. A floorboard creaks, breaking the spell. I tensely watch him approach.
He resembles a giant cricket. Limbs like wire. Sunken chest, stooped shoulders. Aged skin the colour of dead grass. At any moment I half expect him to crrr crrr at me.
Atop spiking shoulders he wears a port-coloured topcoat. Clasped between his thin fingers rests an uncut cigar, rust-coloured, thicker in the middle, tapered at the ends.
“May I?” he says, indicating my desk chair.
I nod. My body is a taut wire, my stomach a churning mill.
Jean-Bernard arranges his topcoat before sitting. He relaxes into the chair, crosses his spindly legs, holds the cigar in both hands absent-mindedly smoothing both ends.
“Charles has decided that you may benefit from a little of my company,” he pauses, searches my eyes, “I am glad to be of service. Indeed, often has my mind wondered to you these last few years.”
I cannot relax. My throat is constricted. I can think of nothing to contribute.
“You look well,” he murmurs, “the years have been difficult for you, but your beauty has flowered.”
His pale, watery eyes drift down my body. His gaze lingers on my bare feet then travels upwards, hovers on my breasts before settling on my eyes. His tongue slides across his upper lip.
My cheeks grow hot. I want to escape his unsettling closeness.
“I am to sleep in the big room for the time being and shall visit you twice daily. I hope that we will, in time, establish a special bond of trust. I leave you now, beautiful Lisbeth. Until tomorrow.”
He stands, dusts down his trouser. A wedge of breath catches in my throat as he steps forward, lifts my hand and raises it to his lips. His eyes never leave mine as he presses his lips sensually to the top of my hand. He holds them there for two whole seconds; a seeming eternity. Gently, he places my hand onto my lap and strokes it lightly with his index finger. His finger is hot and clammy. I squirm with revulsion and my forearm reacts; little black hairs shivering to attention.
I have an urge to slap his hand away but do not. Something restrains me. Perhaps it is the idea that if I play Jean-Bernard correctly he may be the key to my freedom. Perhaps it is the niggling worry that he and Father are in this together. If I were to upset Jean-Bernard, who knows what Father might do?
I look up at him. His expression is unreadable, his pale, watery eyes fixed unblinkingly on mine. He does not smile. Grease shines his forehead. Cinnamon, spice and musky body odour enter my mouth.
I cannot help but wonder of what he is thinking.
He nods politely, “Bon nuit, Lisbeth.”
He glides out of the room, gently closes the door. The key grinds in the lock.
I breathe again.
I do not want the company of this man. This strange, tactile, over-friendly man. I want the company of Bethan. If it is company that Father desires for me, then why does he shut me away from the outside world? Perhaps if I make Jean-Bernard aware of my need he will make Father understand. Perhaps I can make Jean-Bernard see the senselessness of Father's actions.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps! My stomach clinches. There are no certainties any more. I am plunged into an iron maze with nothing to guide me but the self-interested hands of others.
I go to the window and try to see Bethan, but she is not there. All I see is a starless night.
Sinking beneath the covers, a tear slides down my cheek.
*
A creak of floorboard. Light footsteps rushing away from my bedroom door. I sit up. Strain my ears. Nothing. The room is pitch black but I know it so well that I feel my way to the locked door, crouch down, feel around on the cold wood. The crisp edge of parchment. It is a sheet folded neatly in half. I pluck it up, hold it to my breast, get back in bed and try to sleep, but I am too excited. I know this is a letter and I know it is from Bethan.
*
Finally morning comes. Soft yellow light seeps through the window. I unfold the letter. Although I have never seen Bethan's
handwriting it seems as if I have known it all my life.
*
Dear Lissie,
I cannot believe what your Father is doing! I am sorry to speak ill of him, but I now believe him to be a despicable, heartless, beast of a man! He is a varlet. A rapscallion possessed by the devil. The worst of all villains. How dare he lock you indoors like you are some kind of demoniacal psychopath? It is he who ought to be locked up, not you!
Truly, my dear, sweet, kind Lissie, my heart is with you – I know you told me his ways were strange but this is utterly preposterous. You poor, poor darling! You must be suffocating.
But do not fear. I am concocting a marvellous plan to get the key to your room and get you out of that hideous black cottage. We will run away together. We will adventure north. Eddie is gone so you no longer have any reason to stay. I will free you of all of this. I will make you remember the person you are supposed to be.
Be brave. Strengthen your mind against your Father's. He is clearly disturbed so you must trust your own instincts. Never let him defeat you!
I will deliver you another letter the first chance I get. I love you Lissie. Never forget that.
Your truest friend,
Bethan
*
I am crying when I finish reading, but they are happy tears. They are tears of hope, friendship. They splash onto the parchment, blurring Bethan's name. I mop them with my sleeve, carefully fold the letter, hide it in the drawer of my desk along with my letters from Mama.
No longer am I able to send letters or receive Mama's kind words but I continue to write her nonetheless, intending to send them when I am free of this cell.
I am caught up in fantasies of freedom when there is a gentle knock of three. Already can I smell spice, burnt smoke, cinnamon. The potent fragrance floats into the room through imperceptible openings. Jean-Bernard is here.
“Give me a few moments,” I call.
I whip off my nightclothes and throw on a fresh dress. It is my least admired; dull brown with frills of lace along the collar. I dash to the mirror above my desk. I scream. It is not me who is reflected in the glass, but Mama – her eyes, her nose, her lines, her mouth.
Rattling at the door. Jean-Bernard bursts in.
“Lisbeth, what is the matter?”
I glance at him. Glance back at my reflection. I am me again. I exhale unstably.
Rigidly I turn and go to sit on the bed.
“Nothing is the matter – I thought I saw a spider is all.”
He settles himself in my desk chair. Nervously, I think how close he is to my hidden letters. There is little chance that he will open the drawer, but his long fingers rest upon the desk mere inches from where my secrets lie.
In his other hand he holds the same uncut cigar. He wears the same attire as last night.
“May I say you look remarkably well this morning,” he purrs.
He stares openly at my hair, my lips, my breasts.
I nod politely, but an unpleasant, hot sensation grinds against my chest bone. He is being kind, perhaps too kind, and I do not like the way he gazes at me as though he is exploring and savouring each part.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks, his pale eyes searching mine. Intense. Unblinking.
I avoid his gaze, “I believe I slept well, yes.”
“Good. That is very good. I myself did not get much rest. I often find my first night in a new bed leaves me with a feeling of unrest.”
He yawns languidly as if to punctuate his point.
“And did you dream last night? I think dreams are fascinating.”
He waits, all the while smoothing the tapered ends of the cigar between his fingertips.
I do not want to talk to this man, but if I am going to get him to convince Father to let me out, then I need to play the game.
Did I dream? A face flinches across my mind's eye. The face is followed by a scene playing out in slow motion, each image knocking into the next, unveiling the stages of the dream piece by piece until they resemble a short story. Feelings rise through my core as the story unfolds; I am in the dream again, momentarily feeling, seeing, knowing what I endured and enduring it again but in less vulnerable way. Mama's face, Father's, Eddie's, mine all breaking into shards of scarlet glass, fading into darkness: the searing agony of unrequited loss...
The memory fades as quickly as it came. I blink and look at Jean-Bernard's pale eyes.
“Yes. I did dream last night. Or rather, I nightmared, if that makes any sense.”
His eyebrows lift slightly.
“Well,” he says, smoothing the ends of the cigar a little faster, “let us not dwell on dark things. Let us talk of comfortable things. Your Father said you have been enjoying walks in the back garden?”
I nod uncertainly – to where is this line of questioning leading?
Jean-Bernard's eyes brighten momentarily, “Personally, I adore a good stroll in the country air. Perhaps you will join me one day?”
Taken aback by his suggestion, I simply stare.
“What do you admire about this garden in particular?”
I speak before I can stop myself, “Bethan.”
“Pardon?”
I bite my lip; I should not have mentioned her name, but it is too late.
“Bethan? Who is this?” he asks.
I shrug, “Just a girl. A friend.”
“And she resides in the garden?”
His eyes are serious, darting from my right eye to my left, down to my lips.
I laugh sharply, “No, of course she does not live in the garden!”
Jean-Bernard stands abruptly. The movement makes me jump. Slowly, as if approaching an injured sparrow, he moves to stand directly in front of me.
“You know Lisbeth, you can trust me. You must. You must learn to trust me if you are ever to get out of this place.”
With a lover's touch, he wraps his fingers around my wrists and pulls me to my feet. I am trembling, but do not pull away. Such is my uncertainty that I stand there staring into his chest. I can feel the rise and fall of his breath, taste his smoky warmth.
“Relax,” he purrs into my ear.
Tenderly, he releases my wrists and cups my face in his hands.
“Open your eyes, Lisbeth. Look at me.”
I obey. His pale eyes stare consumingly into mine.
“Repeat after me: I trust you Jean-Bernard.”
I hesitate. What is this madness? But I find myself going along with it. His voice is mellifluent, mesmerising.
“I trust you Jean-Bernard.”
“Say it again.”
“I trust you Jean-Bernard.”
“Once more please.”
“I trust you Jean-Bernard.”
His lips twitch. He removes his hands from my face and steps back. His eyes roam the contours of my body and he exhales shakily.
I stand there shivering, trying to remain composed when all I want to do is tell him to get out and leave me alone. Though he was gentle, I feel tainted by his touch. I have never been touched by a man and I do not wish to be touched by this man. I can feel the clamminess of his mark on my wrists. I can smell his smell all over me.
He smiles for the first time, appearing younger by a decade, but no more appealing. In actuality, his smile seems fake, smacked on like that of a painted clown. Carefully contrived for reasons unknown.
He leaves. The key crunches in the lock.
I crawl under the blanket in an attempt to eradicate the chill in my bones, but several hours later I am still quivering.
*
“Good evening Lisbeth. I have brought you a small gift.”
I look up from my book to see Jean-Bernard placing a pot of charcoal sticks and a piece of parchment on my desk. Closing Charlotte Bronte's Villette, reluctant to escape the world of Lucy Snow whose intelligent, calm manner I rather envy, I purposely conceal a tremor of excitement at seeing my drawing things. I do want Jean-Bernard to think he has pleased me.
“Why have you bro
ught my drawing equipment?” I murmur.
“I have brought your treasures to help you pass the time. Charles and I are well aware that it cannot be easy being confined to your room morning, noon and night.”
“Then why does he keep me in here?” I demand.
Jean-Bernard shrugs, “He believes it is for the best.”
He perches on the bed beside me, pulls out a cut cigar from his coat pocket, lights it, inhales lustily. Holds for a count of five.
Smoke curls into the air like a writhing cobra, and suddenly the room is more his than my own, invaded by his smell, his passion. He offers the cigar to me, his pale eyes drifting down. I shake my head and move to sit at the desk, calmer with my back to him where I cannot notice the path of his eyes.
“What will you draw?” he asks.
He gets up from the bed and moves to stand behind me. His breath is warm and spicy on my neck. He places one hand on the back of the chair so that it brushes my shoulder. Smoke clouds above the parchment.
I try to ignore his presence, but my hand shakes as I begin to draw.
“Please do not watch me,” I mutter, “I cannot concentrate.”
“Of course.”
He moves away and paces the small room enjoying his cigar.
Only one image comes to my mind; a dead rat.
I draw and drift, draw and drift until Jean-Bernard becomes a ghost in the room. A mere shadow. Filled with a different kind of tension, I explore the soft curves of the unloved rodent. With sensitivity I sketch the tiny little hands and feet.
I sit back and hold up the drawing.
Jean-Bernard jerks to his feet and places both hands on my shoulders, “Marvellous! Simply extraordinary! You have a gift Lisbeth. A real gift.”
Blackened Cottage Page 5
