by Luccia Gray
“I love you, Jane. There’s no reason why I can’t make love to you. I think about you every minute of the day.”
“You heard what he did to me. He’s ruined me. That dragon, it’s why I can hardly sleep or eat without feeling afraid or disgusted or both. It’s why I wake up in the middle of the night, or remember during the day, and I tremble and can’t breathe. It’s why I’m soiled. I can’t make love to you. I’m not good enough for you anymore.”
I couldn’t tell Jane, but tomorrow Poole would die a slow and dreadful death, but not slow or dreadful enough.
“Don’t ever say that, Jane. You’re the most precious person in the world to me. I’d never hurt you, or do anything you don’t want me to do. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for as long as you need, but don’t lock me out, don’t keep me away from you, Jane.”
“You don’t understand. I can’t…”
“Tell me. Make me understand.”
“You heard me. He forced me to do things, disgusting things.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over and you’ll never see him again.”
She covered her face with her hands and cried. “I’ll never forget the tattoo, the smell, the pain, or the humiliation.”
I put my arms around her. “It’s over now, Jane.”
She pushed me away. “Don’t touch me.”
“Don’t ask me not to touch you. I don’t care what he made you do.”
She took a step backwards. “But I do, Michael. I care and I can’t forget it. You can’t love me. Nobody can. I hate myself.”
“I love you, Jane. You are not something that happened to you in the asylum. I can’t live without you. Let me kiss you, Jane, let me prove that I don’t care.”
She turned away to face the wall. “I can’t,” she said.
I put my hands on her hunched shoulders. “Do you still love me, Jane?”
“Yes, of course I love you, Michael.”
I turned her round gently. “Then look into my eyes, nowhere else, just my eyes, and say my name.”
She said my name, and I told her to look in my eyes and say it again and again, until I noticed her expression was softer, and her breathing calmer.
“Now say, ‘Michael, kiss me’. Say it.”
She said the words, and I asked her to repeat them too, until the words made us drunk with desire, and I kissed her and felt her resistance melt.
I held her waist against the wall, in case she fell. “Now look at my eyes again and say, ‘Michael, make love to me’.”
She repeated the words several times looking into my eyes, until her lids were heavy, but I wouldn’t let her stop.
“Don’t close your eyes, Jane. Look at me. Look into my eyes, nowhere else. Say it again. Say, ‘Make love to me Michael’. Keep saying it, Jane.”
Soon her breath became shallow, her eyes glazed and I felt her melt into my desire. I carried her to our bedroom, took off her clothes and whispered, “Don’t close your eyes, Jane. Say ‘I love you, Michael’ and don’t stop saying it.”
She complied. She repeated the words like a chant, looking into my eyes, and let me make her mine for the first time in months.
It was still daylight when she fell asleep in my arms. I left the following morning at dawn, when Shirley arrived. I left a note on her pillow, For this is the golden morning of love, and you are my morning star. Have a hearty breakfast and lunch. When I come back this afternoon, we are going to a very special place.
When I returned she was waiting impatiently, wearing her coat and bonnet. When she asked where we were going, I told her it was a surprise. It was a short carriage ride away towards the northeast.
Less than an hour later, we stood on a grassy slope scattered with tall-stemmed thistles crowned with spiny purple flowers, and dark green heath with plentiful tiny white blossoms. Jane rushed out of the carriage, pulled off her bonnet and breathed deeply.
“Michael, it smells delicious, like honey.”
I tied the horse to a tree and took her hand. “I want to show you something.”
We walked further down the slope where the grass was shorter and there were no flowers. There was a large granite stone with a round hole in the centre and two other smaller stones on either side. I stood behind the circular stone, placing my hand on top. Jane watched from the other side.
“Do you see these stones, Jane? They were used by the Celts centuries before the Romans arrived in Britain. There’s a legend that if you go through the hole, the past is cleansed and you can start a new beginning. Last night was a new beginning for us, Jane. Let’s both crawl through this megalith as a symbol that we are starting a new life together, here in Cornwall.”
I beckoned her to crawl through and I followed. Then we lay on the grass, holding hands by the longer stones, looking up to the sky.
“Michael, have you noticed how the colour of the sea and the sky is so much brighter in Cornwall? And how the grass is glossier, and the days longer, and the weather milder than in Yorkshire?”
“Yes, I have. It’s the most beautiful place in the world.”
“Listen, can you smell the sea or hear the sound of the grass tickling my ear?”
I rolled her on top of me. “Now what do you hear?”
“Your heart.” She lowered her lips and kissed me. “This sound, this place, this minute, this smell, it’s all I ever want, Michael. I have everything I need here and now. This is us, just us. Nowhere else and nobody else matters.”
I rolled her back to my side and we curled up together.
“What did you do to me yesterday?” she asked. “I felt more than mesmerised, I felt hypnotised. Isn’t that what they call it?”
“I wanted you to forget everyone and everything else and become one with me. I wanted to make you mine again.”
“Well, it worked. I feel like another person now. I feel uncluttered, lighter, and freer, like I’ve been reborn.”
“I’m glad you’re happy again at last, Jane.”
“I am. I missed you too. Kiss me Michael,” she whispered breathlessly, and I brushed her lips softly.
She smiled and pulled me closer. “Michael, don’t tease me. Kiss me until I forget who I am.”
We lay on the grass until the day slowly merged into night. The sun had not set, but it had sunk behind the slope. The full moon rose on the horizon in the cloudless sky on the first day of the spring equinox. Before we left, I persuaded Jane to pass through the holed stone again backwards, seven times, for good luck. She laughed at the superstition, but she obliged. I had heard a local legend about the ancient and mysterious powers of the stones that increased a woman’s fertility. I never lost hope that one day I would hold our child in my arms.
On our way back, I took Jane to a cliff overlooking a hidden cove near Saint Ives.
“Can you see that boat there?” She nodded. “Poole’s on it. He has some bread and water. Whenever he wants, he can try to swim to the shore. He’ll never make it and nobody will help him.”
I didn’t tell her I had taken great pleasure in breaking every bone in his fingers and his arms. Neither did I tell her I’d carved out the tattoo with a knife and flung it on the deck for the sea gulls.
“And if he doesn’t swim? If he stays on the boat?”
“He’ll die of dehydration. He has a day or two left. He’ll probably start drinking sea water soon.”
I didn’t tell her about the sea gulls that would start feasting on him, pecking at his injured body, long before he died. It was going to be hell.
“Won’t anyone look for him?”
“Nobody’s going to miss him, but if anyone asks, all the villagers will say he came and left.”
Poole’s body would disappear forever. We would make sure the fish ate what the sea gulls left, but I didn’t want Jane to have any more foul images in her mind.
****
Chapter XVII Manderley
The following two weeks flew by. The weather improved, flowers started blooming and I realised S
t. Ives was a wondrous place. The morning sun flooded through the windows like stardust, the evening sky reminded me of fresh peaches, and the night stars were like sequins on a velvet evening dress. If I were a painter, I should be inspired to paint beautiful pictures of the sea and the sky, which were never the same colour for more than an hour. Nevertheless, today I was worried about an invitation. Michael and I needed to mix with the local people, but there were still so many lies. It did not seem right to be deceitful to people who offered their friendship, but at the moment we had no choice.
“What’s wrong, Jane?”
I slipped my lips along his jaw, kissed the side of his mouth and smiled. “How do you know something’s wrong?”
He ran his finger down my cheek. “I’ll tell you how.” He brushed his lips across mine. “In a moment.” He deepened the kiss and nothing else mattered as I slipped into a dream world.
He broke the kiss. “Because of the way you said ‘Michael’.”
“Really?” I pushed my fingers through his hair. “How did I say, ‘Michael’?”
“Just now the ‘i’ was almost a whisper, so you wanted me to kiss you.”
“Did I?”
“Yes, you did. That’s why I kissed you, and I will, again, when I answer your question.”
“What question?”
“When you’re worried, the ‘i’ is high and long, so I rush to your side and ask you what you need.”
“Do you?”
“Always. And when it’s quick and the ‘k’ is louder than the ‘i’, you’re angry.”
“Never with you.”
“With someone else, and you need me to do something about it.”
“You know all that just by listening to me say your name?”
I nodded. “I’ve been listening to you say my name dozens of times every day for seven years.”
“Michael,” I said softly and he kissed me.
“In fact, I don’t even need to hear you speak. I can tell how you’re feeling by listening to you move.”
I took a step back and twirled like a ballerina. “Like this?”
“Come here,” he said and pulled me into his arms. “When you’re worried you take small steps to the fireplace and back, when you’re distressed I can hear your palm smooth your dress. When you’re angry your dress rustles past the legs of the chairs and tables on your way to the window, and when you’re very upset, your palms press on the panes.”
“And when I want you to hold me?”
“Then there’s silence. You’re sitting dreamily, but I can hear your breathing quicken when I approach.”
“Can you?”
“Yes, and I can hear your smile as I walk in the room.”
“Since when?”
“Since I first saw you, by the window in Diana’s house. I swear I could hear the sun’s rays bouncing on your hair.” He strummed his fingers through my almost shoulder-length tresses, as he liked to do. “Do you remember I couldn’t speak when I met you?”
“Of course I remember. How could I forget? You stared at me with your big amber eyes. You were so shy.”
“I wasn’t only shy, I was speechless. I could hardly breathe when you approached us. I smelt the rose perfume you used to use, until you changed to lavender, when Adele brought you a bottle from Paris.”
“You remember?”
“Jane, I remember every brooch, every hairpin, every dress, and every shawl you wore. I remember every tear you shed while you pretended to read by the fireplace.”
“Every tear?”
“When your husband left to visit Ferndean or London. When you read the schoolteachers’ reports regarding the orphans who had disappeared, or died. When Adele’s suitors asked you for loans, or when your cousins complained about their health…”
“How did you know? I never told you. I hardly spoke to you. You were always so quiet.”
“Jane, you have been my obsession since I was sixteen.”
“Michael, you were a child.”
“And you were an angel who saved my life.”
“Michael.”
“You need a kiss, and so do I, but not yet. First tell me why you are worried.”
I pulled him to the couch and took his hand in mine.
“Mr. de Winter, the owner of Manderley, visited the school again this morning.”
“What did he want?”
“He asked me if we would like to visit Manderley.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said I’d have to ask my husband.”
He pursed his lips and sighed. “I wish I were your husband.”
“Michael, you are more than my husband; you are my life.”
He kissed me again before asking, “Do you want to go?”
“Well, he might suspect if we didn’t. I’d like him to invest some more money in the school. It seems rude to decline, don’t you think?”
“When are we expected?”
“Tomorrow, for tea at five.”
He shrugged. “Very well. Let’s go.”
I put my arms around him and listened to his heartbeat. It made me feel safe. “Michael,” I whispered. “Was the ‘i’ soft enough?”
“I think I’d like to hear it one more time, please,” he teased.
I started to say his name, but his lips devoured the last syllable. We slipped down to the rug as we whispered each other’s names, and our bodies danced like the flames around the log fire.
***
Manderley was not easily visible from the road, as it lay in a sloping valley behind a thick belt of trees on the brow of the hill. We eventually reached a spoked iron gate leading to a winding drive twisting and turning below a tunnel of arched birch tree branches entwined above our heads. Suddenly there appeared a clearing and we saw the grand house, at last. It was a graceful and exquisite building with small, latticed windows, much lovelier than I had imagined.
“It’s so good of you to come.” Our host held out his hand.
“What a beautiful house you have, Mr. de Winter,” I said.
He led us inside the great stone hall with its wide doors opening to the richly furnished rooms. I recognised some exquisite portraits by Peter Lely and van Dyck on the walls, and a carved staircase leading to the upper gallery. Two cocker spaniels came to greet us. I bent to stroke their long silken ears as they sniffed my boots and thumped their tails on my dress.
“Would you like tea inside or outside?” he asked us.
Michael looked at me and I answered. “It’s such a lovely day, Mr. de Winter. I’d love to sit in the garden.”
So he took us out towards a rose garden. I looked east towards the horizon, searching for the sea. “I thought Manderley was near the beach.”
He pointed in the other direction. “The woods and the rose garden are to the east, Mrs. Stewart. The sea is over there, to the west. Would you like to see the cove?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Then let’s walk around to the western terrace and gardens first. Come, we’ll cross the lawn towards the slope.”
There were no rugged cliffs or furious waves as we had seen in Ilfracombe. The terrace sloped to the lawns, and the lawns stretched to the sea. Giant rhododendrons, with colossal cherry coloured leaves, lined the walk down to the beach. Later, nameless shrubs and wild bracken grew on the slopes leading to the shingled beach.
We walked back for tea under the chestnut tree on the terrace, where we could hear the murmur of the sea drifting up from the lawns. There was an intense aroma of sweet lilacs mingled with the salty breeze.
Mr. de Winter must have noticed how I observed Fritz, the footman, a thin young lad, who looked little older than fourteen, as he served the tea.
“Fritz’s father worked for my family until he died three years ago. His mother died when he was a child, so we offered him a job at Manderley. He lives here with Mrs. Benson, the lady who looks after Cove Cottage. We used to have a large staff. Mrs. de Winter, my mother, insisted on having all the roo
ms cleaned and aired regularly, fresh flowers, and food enough to feed a regiment, although there were just the three of us, the two of us and my son, Max. I’ve closed the west wing. When my mother died, the furniture was draped, the curtains were drawn and the rooms were locked. I couldn’t sleep with the sound of the sea at night. So, we only use the east wing of the building, although during the day I prefer the west terrace, where we are now, overlooking the beach.”
“It is the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen, Mr. de Winter. You are very fortunate to live here.”
“You exaggerate, Mrs. Stewart. Surely there are grander houses in London, where you lived.”
“Yes, there are grander houses in London, but not more beautiful.”
“Did you enjoy living in London?”
I looked at Michael, afraid to give too much away, so he replied.
“We lived in a town house in Camberwell, near the countryside. It was far from the centre of town and the river, although we enjoyed occasional trips to the theatre and exhibitions. Our doctor recommended sea air for Jane to recover from her melancholy after we lost our child.”
“I never liked London. I hardly go there myself. It’s too big, too noisy, and too malodourous. How are you finding Cornwall, Mrs. Stewart?”
“I’ve never been anywhere more beautiful than here.” I held Michael’s hand. “This moment, this place, is magical.” I looked to the sky. “No clouds obscure the pale blue sky.” I waved at the roses. “It smells like paradise.” I pointed towards the sea. “And no waves ruffle the water. The sea looks like a mirror reflecting heaven.”
They were both watching me. I smiled at Michael. “Primrose Cottage is beautiful, too.” Then I turned to our host. “A sea view would be ideal, but we have a beautiful pond nearby with tiny yellow flowers, I think they’re called water primrose, and wild bracken, gorse and hawthorn. In the afternoons, we often take long walks to the beach to watch the sunset.” I turned back to Michael, who was looking very grave, and squeezed his hand. “We are very happy here.”
The sun was shining on Michael’s clear amber eyes, and I saw the vision I had seen before. Michael was holding a child in his arms. I wished the child were mine, but I knew that was impossible. A sudden stitch stabbed my abdomen, causing me to bend over and grimace.
