“Has it?”
“Yes, it has.” She didn’t say so, but as a matter of fact she could name the constellations, although not in alphabetical order.
A burst of the bracing wind pushed at her, stinging her cheeks and making her eyes water; she grabbed her hat to keep it from blowing off. Gulls swooped, screaming, for the bits of bread an elderly couple nearby was tossing over the low stone wall. Beyond the ships, beyond the green slopes of Mt. Edgcumbe, a cloudless sky met the endless blue line of the Channel at the knife-edge of the horizon. It was a perfect day, the kind Rachel had often dreamt of in prison, a day so achingly beautiful it gave her a hurtful, too-full feeling in the chest, and had her more than once on the brink of tears.
Sebastian turned back toward the Sound, shading his eyes with his hand. The sea breeze blew his hair straight back from his forehead and whipped the two ends of his wine-colored necktie over his shoulder. His profile against the stark azure sky was sharp, hard, and indescribably handsome. She loved the haughty angle of his aristocratic nose, the clean line of his jaw, the way his voluptuous mouth could curve in a smile of unbearable sweetness just for her. He turned his head and looked at her then, and for the instant their gazes held, she saw softness in his sea-colored eyes, then awareness, then a flare of pure sensual anticipation.
She looked away first, flushing. He slipped his hand under her arm and pressed her to his side, oblivious to bystanders. She felt the back of his hand against her breast for a half second before he let her go. “Shall we find a place to have lunch?” he asked lightly. In a softer voice he added, “Or shall we go back to the Octagon?”
“Lunch,” she answered, but not very forcefully. Returning to their hotel room at one o’clock in the afternoon would be for only one purpose. Tempting as it was, she couldn’t get past a notion that she ought to be opposed to such daytime dalliances. She was a fallen woman with that most onerous of burdens, at least according to her lover: a middle-class conscience.
“Lunch,” he said, with mock wistfulness, and they began to amble up the grassy hill, away from the sea. The Hoe was Plymouth’s finest amenity, a spacious promontory overlooking the Sound, with flower-lined walks and delightful gardens, and views of the estuary reaching from Mill Bay to Sutton Pool. To see the sky and the ocean like this, great gulps of the wide world in vistas that stretched literally for miles—it was almost too much. It was another of Sebastian’s gifts, this clandestine three-day escape from Lynton and everyone who knew them, but sometimes Rachel felt she needed his hand to anchor her to the ground. The opportunity to stare at dozens, hundreds of people was wonderful, too, but even more dizzying. She’d been doing it for the better part of two days, and the novelty hadn’t worn off. Children in particular fascinated her; for nearly an hour this morning she’d watched, engrossed, while a ragtag group of boys sailed toy boats and played fox-and-geese around a fish pond in the Hoe. What Sebastian thought of her preoccupation she couldn’t tell, but he’d indulged her in it without impatience or complaint. A most generous gift.
They found a pretty eating house in Alfred Street, from whose second-story window they could see the people on the promenade and smell the sea. Sebastian ordered prawns and mussels with lemon and butter, a creamy chowder made with clams and succulent oysters, two salads, one with tomatoes and the other with watercress and endive, a whole loaf of bread and a crock of Devon butter, fresh blueberry tarts still hot from the oven, a platter of cut melons and fruit with a dish of whipped cream in the center—
“Stop!” Rachel protested. “There’s no more room on the table.” Much less in her stomach.
Unperturbed, Sebastian refilled her glass from a bottle of Bordeaux wine and clinked glasses in a silent toast. “We might be hungry again later. We’re not in a hurry, are we? Unless you want to go now—there’s a band concert in the Esplanade at three o’clock; we could go and hear it if you like.”
“I might have said yes half an hour ago, but now I can’t move. Anyway, this is lovely, isn’t it?” She gestured toward their open window, and the dim, cool, nearly empty restaurant at their backs. “I think I could sit here all day.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.”
“No, they close at two-thirty,” she reminded him.
He sent her a bland look. “We won’t worry about that.”
“Oh.” He must have given money to the proprietor. It was something she’d expect of Lord D’Aubrey, but for the last two days he’d been Mr. James Hammond, and she was Mrs. Hammond. “Why Hammond?” she’d whispered when he’d registered at the Octagon. Because his name was Sebastian James Ostley Selborne-Hammond Verlaine. Did she like any of those better? Hammond was fine, she’d said from the corner of her mouth, and he’d smiled back conspiratorially.
But privately, the need to lie distressed her, even though she knew the subterfuge was for her protection, not his. And although it was foolish, she couldn’t help wondering how many times, in how many other hotels, he’d signed the registry for “Mr. and Mrs. Hammond.”
“Would you like to go on a picnic tomorrow?” he asked, interrupting her reverie. “There’s a beach at Stonehouse Pool. Or we could take the ferry to Cremill. We might even go for a swim if it’s fair.”
“But we have no bathing costumes.”
“We’ll buy them.”
“Not on Sunday.
“Ah, Sunday. Well, then, we’ll go tonight. In the nude.”
She laughed at him—although she considered it highly likely that he wasn’t joking. “I’ve never swum in the sea before. Once when I was a child my family went to Lyme on a holiday, but it rained every day and we never bathed. It was a bitter disappointment.” He touched her hand in sympathy. “Tell me about your travels,” she urged, gazing out at the ships in the bay. “I’ve been to London once, but I was twelve and my memories are very childish. Have you been everywhere?”
“Not everywhere.”
“To Europe, though.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’ll take you there.”
She only smiled.
He leaned back in his chair, holding his wineglass to the light and squinting at it, and began to speak of the places he’d been and the sights he’d seen. As he talked, she had the sense that he was answering just to please her, not because the subject held any interest for him at this moment. And when, after a few minutes, he tapered off and stared rather distractedly out at the gulls wheeling in the blue over the headland, she didn’t prompt him with more questions. She let the silence lengthen until he noticed it, sent her a wry look, and began to speak of what they would do tonight.
Last night they’d gone to the Royal Theater to see a play called Petticoats, a silly, mildly risqué revue, very tame for him but deliciously shocking to her. She’d never dreamed women were allowed to appear in public with so little on—outside Paris, that is, or possibly Bora Bora. Which showed what she knew, and how provincial she truly was for all her encyclopedic knowledge.
When Sebastian trailed off again and frowned down abstractedly at a spoon he was turning over and over on the tablecloth, she had to ask, “Is something wrong?”
“No.”
“Would you like to go home today instead of tomorrow? This is the day they’re delivering your new horse,” she remembered suddenly. “If you want to—”
“No, I don’t want to go home. Do you?” She shook her head. “I wasn’t thinking about the mare.”
“What, then?”
He looked at her speculatively. She began to think he wouldn’t answer when he said, “I’m thirty years old, Rachel. As of yesterday.”
“Yesterday was your birthday? I didn’t know—I’m sorry. Happy birthday, Sebastian.” She touched his sleeve, trying to gauge his mood; he patted her hand absently. “I wish I’d known.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Does
it make you sad?”
“No, not sad. Thoughtful. It’s a time to be thoughtful, don’t you think? Especially if one hasn’t been particularly reflective before. Some would say thirty’s a little late to begin, but better late than never, I suppose.” He sipped his wine. “Needless to say, I haven’t come to any conclusions yet about my life. Except that I’m not very proud of it—but that’s hardly a new insight.”
She stared at his stern profile, feeling close to him and shut out at the same time. “I believe self-discovery is a process,” she said slowly. “It has no end.”
“Yes.” He looked up. “But I think you’re a bit ahead of me in the process.”
“It’s possible. Certainly I’ve had more opportunities.” She knew they were both thinking that being locked up alone in a small room left opportunities for little else. “Do you know, its not as painful for me to think about prison as it used to be. Or even to speak of it. At least to you.”
“I’m glad.” He sat back in his chair, taking her hand and lacing their fingers together.
“You’ve helped me to heal. Thank you,” she said simply. It seemed strange that she’d never said it to him before.
He gave a quick, dismissive shake of his head. “But you’re still sad sometimes. I can see it in your eyes.”
“Oh, no. I’m not, truly, I’m happy, I promise you.” To the extent that it was true, it was because of him. Freedom, employment, friends—of course they had all contributed to her metamorphosis from the wan, speechless ghost behind the prisoner’s bar, but the primary agent of the change was Sebastian. She’d stopped asking herself if he could have been any man, if she’d been so needy and helpless that anyone who held her future in his hands could have made her love him. It wasn’t true. She loved him, Sebastian Verlaine, because there was a softness in him he couldn’t even see himself, and a decency, and a clean, hard-edged integrity that was no less real for being, until lately, somewhat . . . underutilized. He was on a journey of his own, his life riddled with questions and dilemmas he’d never faced before. It was himself he was testing, his philosophy he was trying to understand when he pushed against the boundaries of convention and morality. She loved his energy and tirelessness, his constancy. How different they were: her answer to the catastrophe that had wrecked her life had been to withdraw from life; to die, in effect, in every way she could while her heart still beat and her blood still circulated. Their plights were nothing alike, although something had scarred him, too—the coldness of his family, the absolute lovelessness of his childhood—but he’d confronted his handicap by embracing life in all its uncouth, sensuous, too-human varieties.
But that was all in the head, her intellectual motives for loving him. Just as deeply, she was simply infatuated. Everything about him was beautiful to her. Her body reacted to the sight of him before her mind had time to register his presence. She was like a compass, always turning back to him as her focal point, her body’s natural center. She loved his hands, the set of his shoulders, the deep timbre of his voice. He liked to tease her, and that was such a sweet, rare treat. He talked to her, listened intently to everything she said. They lay in bed at night for hours, sometimes until dawn, talking, talking, talking. And laughing. And making love.
“I’m restless,” he said suddenly. “Do you mind if we go?”
“No, I don’t mind.” She studied him surreptitiously while he paid the bill. He looked preoccupied again.
But he smiled when he caught her eye. “It’s nothing—I just feel like walking.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I’m still a beginner, you know; a little self-discovery goes a long way with me.”
They left the restaurant holding hands.
They strolled along the shady streets of the town, looking in shop windows, watching the other pedestrians. By mutual agreement, they decided against visiting the Maritime Museum, and browsed for an hour instead in a musty old bookstore called The Silverfish. Rachel had a pound and four shillings in her purse, and castigated herself for leaving the rest of her fortune—two pounds, four pence—in her case at the Octagon. Wandering away from Sebastian, she found the section, very small, where the proprietor kept books about music. There were biographies of composers, volumes on music theory, dozens of old hymnals, a few collections of sheet music. Nothing struck her particularly until she came upon a libretto for the opera La Traviata, new-looking and in perfect condition. Tamping down her excitement, she carried it to the tiny counter, behind which the shopkeeper sat on a high stool, making marks in a notebook with a pencil.
They had a whispered consultation. He wanted two pounds for the libretto. The art of bargaining was one Rachel knew, like so many other things, only from books. With manufactured indifference, she offered him a pound. “One and six,” he countered. “Twenty-two shillings,” she said—carelessly, almost wearily. The bookseller looked disgusted. “One and four,” he snapped, “and that’s as low as I’ll go.” Her heart was pounding. She waited one more second, said, “Oh, very well,” with great nonchalance, and gave him all her money.
That night, in a crowded, lamplit eating house called Selby’s, she gave Sebastian his birthday present. She’d known he would like it, but she wasn’t prepared for his unqualified delight. “Rachel, this is wonderful,” he exclaimed, avidly riffling the pages, as thrilled as a boy on Christmas morning. “When did you buy it? How did you know I wanted it?”
“You told—”
“Did you know I saw Traviata performed in Venice in fifty-three? And again in Covent Garden just last spring?”
“Yes, you told—”
“It’s magnificent, I wish you could hear it. Verdi’s a genius. Traviata’s from Dumas’s story of The Lady of the Camellias, you know. Look, here’s the finale to Act Two—‘Alfredo, di questo core.’ I’ll play it for you when we get home. Try to, anyway. What a perfect gift, darling. Thank you.” And in front of all the diners at Selby’s, he leaned over and kissed her on the mouth.
She blushed furiously, not from embarrassment but from feeling. The depth of her pleasure because she’d pleased him with her simple gift was profound, and anything but simple. Her emotions were raw; she’d been teary off and on all day. An hour ago, when they’d stood on the headland to watch the sun drop through bands of orchid and gold clouds and sink into the sea, such a storm of melancholy had seized her, she couldn’t keep from weeping. “It’s so beautiful,” she’d explained when Sebastian had asked, with tender amusement, what ailed her. But that wasn’t it. The hours they spent together were too perfect—she loved him too much. It couldn’t last, and she couldn’t bear it.
Sebastian ordered more wine. The waiter made small talk while he poured it, referring to Rachel as “your wife, sir.” Their eyes met, Sebastian’s amused, hers sheepish. After the waiter left, he leaned toward her and murmured, “The man needs glasses. We don’t look anything like a married couple.”
“We don’t?”
“Not in the least. We’re talking, for one thing. Enjoying each other’s company. We look as though we like each other.”
She smiled, but his facile cynicism oppressed her. She tried to echo his light tone. “Do we look like lovers?”
“Definitely.”
“Then I suppose I’ll have to give up my hopes of tricking anyone in Wyckerly into thinking I’m a lady. Perhaps I would do better as your London mistress. There at least I’d have a chance at anonymity, if not respectability.”
“Oh, no,” he said easily, “then I’d have to spend all my time in the city, and I much prefer it here.”
She couldn’t look at him. She made a business of breaking off a piece of bread and spreading it with butter. But when she tried to eat it, it stuck in her throat like sand.
***
That night, she told him about Randolph.
She hadn’t meant to, hadn’t thought she could. But Sebastian made love to her w
ith such gentleness, such soft, deliberate tenderness, that when it was over she found herself in tears again. This time he wouldn’t accept her inarticulate explanation. While he held her close, caressed her, and murmured to her, the terrible confession came out. It shocked both of them; she was as dismayed as he was to hear herself speaking the unspeakable, telling, in jerky, whispered rushes, the awful things Randolph had done. Once she started, she couldn’t stop; she was compelled to describe the very worst, every lewd, despicable act. She knew she was horrifying him, but she couldn’t stop. In the back of her mind, she had a sick certainty that time was running out—that if she didn’t tell him now, she never would. Would never tell anyone. This was her last chance.
When she finished, they tried to console each other. “My dear,” he called her. “Oh, my dear.”
“But I’m all right now,” she said urgently when he cursed Wade and admitted the violence he’d have done to him if he could.
They held each other for a long time, and slowly, surely, the bittersweet knowledge came to Rachel that the worst had happened: she had opened herself up completely, and Sebastian was going to hurt her. They had never spoken of it, but she thought he must know it, too. How could he not? She’d come to him with her eyes open, had never asked for promises, never hoped for a future. He couldn’t help being who he was; she couldn’t claim she didn’t understand him. Today she’d lied and told him she was happy. But for all that her life had turned into a spectacular dream, she couldn’t be content, not in any deep, true way, any more than an actress could be truly, deeply happy because her play was a great success. One day the play would close—and one day Rachel’s time with Sebastian would end.
But she had him now. The things she’d told him were ugly, and she could feel the lingering distress in his body where it touched hers in the bed. The candle burned low, casting slow-dancing shadows on the dark walls and the pale ceiling. It was very late; the city slept without a sound, and the thick silence deepened and sharpened the intimacy between them in their rented room. She stroked his arm, the smooth curve of his shoulder; she put her lips on his chest where his heart beat. In the garden at Lynton he’d taught her passion’s rise and fall, its question and the sweet, explosive answer. Another gift, another addiction she would have to overcome.
To Haveand To Hold Page 27
