‘Gilbert, I cannot marry.’ She put down the jar with unsteady hands.
His brows drew together. ‘You are a widow. Was your passion for your husband so great that you cannot replace him?’
Jane thought of Robert and suppressed a shudder. That, she could not pretend. ‘No, it was not that.’
‘Then what?’
What could she tell him? Jane twisted her hands together in her apron. That was the terrible thing about lying. One lie begot another and before you knew it, you were lost in a thicket of them.
‘I made a vow,’ she said after a moment. That at least was true. She had promised Juliana that she would care for Geoffrey, and this was the only way she had known how to do that. ‘I promised I would not marry again for my son’s sake.’
The thought of Geoffrey made Gilbert pause. She could see it in his eyes, but he recovered quickly. ‘I will take the boy and raise him, for you, Jane.’
He didn’t like Geoffrey, Jane knew, and in spite of herself, her heart swelled at the thought that he would do so much to wed her, plain Jane, a butcher’s brat.
If only she could say yes! To have found a love so strong, and a good man who wanted her for his wife was bitter indeed when she could not seize the chance of such happiness with both hands. If only . . .
Ah, but what was the use in if onlys? Jane asked herself. There was no end to them. If only Juliana had not succumbed to John Harper, if only she had not died, if only the Holmwoods had had some care for Geoffrey, Jane would never have come to London. She would never have come to the house at the sign of the golden lily or found Gilbert. She might never have known what happiness could be.
Now the thought of losing that happiness clutched at her entrails. The temptation to say that she would marry Gilbert was great indeed, but Jane couldn’t do it. Robert might have married again, but he at least did not know whether she was dead or alive. Jane had no such excuse. She knew. Her conscience would not let her betray her vow before God, no matter how much she longed for it.
‘I promised,’ she said again, miserably.
‘Some promises are made to be broken.’ Gilbert’s voice was gentle.
Jane thought about Ellen, swinging from the end of a rope. ‘I broke a promise once,’ she said. ‘I will not do it again.’
‘Then there is no hope for me,’ said Gilbert heavily.
‘I did not say that,’ said Jane, suddenly sure. There were so few chances at happiness. Wrong or not, she would not let this one go.
Crossing to the chair, she laid her hand in Gilbert’s and felt his fingers close around hers, warm, strong, certain. ‘I will not marry you,’ she told him, ‘but I will share your bed.’
His brows knit and he studied her with a perplexed smile. ‘Most women would be eager for marriage.’
‘Well,’ said Jane serenely, ‘I am not most women.’
‘No, indeed you are not.’ His smile warmed. ‘You are unique, my Jane.’
She drew a breath, giddy with exhilaration at the prospect. ‘Then are we agreed? I will be your housekeeper by day and your lover by night?’
‘If that is the only way I can have you.’ He drew her down onto his lap and she spread her hand over his bare chest, marvelling at the smooth warmth of his skin, thrilling at the knowledge that she could touch him at last. She ached with a need she couldn’t name, and when Gilbert drew her closer and pressed a smile to her throat she arched with an inarticulate cry and her mind went dark with desire.
‘What about your arm?’ she said with difficulty as his mouth drifted down to her shoulder and he tugged at the laces of her bodice.
‘What arm?’ said Gilbert, his voice thick, and she laughed unsteadily as she wound her arms around his neck. ‘How I have longed for you, Jane,’ he whispered against her skin.
‘And I for you,’ she sighed, blizzarding kisses along his jaw, over his face, wherever she could reach. The fire spat sparks, the wind knocked impatiently at the window, the candles guttered, but when Gilbert laid Jane down on the cushions there was only the ragged sound of their breathing, only touch and taste and a gathering of feeling, of senses, of sheer pleasure, rising higher and higher with every caress, every kiss, until Jane felt as if she were standing atop a world spinning too fast to think, to breathe, and she clung to Gilbert as she flew off at last with a shout that was part triumph, part terror.
She was an adulteress. She was lewd. She was a liar. Perhaps it was wrong, but for Jane nothing had ever felt as right.
Chapter Seventeen
‘What’s got into you?’ Nick held Roz away from him, a question in his eyes.
Roz let out a puff of frustration. ‘God, Nick, you don’t have to make it sound as if we only ever have sex on every third Sunday in the month!’
‘We don’t do it like this either,’ he said, his face set in grim lines, and she pulled sulkily out of his grasp.
‘Like what?’
‘Like you’re . . . desperate.’
‘Oh, so I’m not allowed to initiate sex now, is that right?’ Churning with frustrated desire, Roz flounced to the other end of the sofa. ‘I’m supposed to be a good little wifey, lying back and waiting for my hubby to feel like it? Someone should have told me that we’d changed the rules!’
‘You know that’s not what I mean,’ said Nick with a sigh. ‘It’s just . . . you’re not usually so frenzied. It was like we hadn’t had sex for years.’
‘Perhaps I’ve been missing you in York,’ she said, but he shook his head.
‘I don’t think it’s me you’ve been missing.’
She went very still. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I think it’s Gilbert you really want,’ he said deliberately. Shifting down the sofa so that he could reach her, he took her chin in one hand and turned her to face him. ‘When we were kissing just now . . . I can’t explain it, but it didn’t feel like you,’ he said, ignoring the way her eyes were skittering around in an attempt to avoid his gaze. ‘It looked like you and it tasted like you, but there was something not quite right . . . like I was kissing someone else. Was I kissing Jane, Roz?’
She flinched as if he had slapped her, but the jolt unclicked something in her head and her vision cleared. One moment she had been wild with frustration and fear, and the next she was looking at her hard-eyed husband, feeling queasy and disorientated.
‘Nick?’ she recognized him shakily, and he dropped her chin to gather both her hands in his.
‘Shit, I don’t like this, Roz. Whatever’s going on, it’s getting out of hand. You’ve got to get some help.’
‘I know.’ Roz swallowed and looked down at her hands encased in Nick’s warm clasp. All the time she thought she had been acting as herself, had Jane been stealing further and further into her mind, taking over her thoughts without her realizing? Roz’s expression was stark as she lifted her eyes to Nick’s. ‘What am I going to do?’
‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but perhaps it’s time for a priest. It sounds crazy, I know,’ he admitted when she laughed a little wildly. ‘But you haven’t been yourself ever since you went to York, Roz. I thought it was, you know, the whole business with Daniel, and then all the stuff about your family and being in York . . . I was so sure it had to be some kind of psychological issue,’ he said, ‘but now . . . I don’t know.’
Roz didn’t know either. All she knew was that for the first time she was frightened of Jane’s hold on her. ‘Where do I find a priest?’
‘Go to church, I suppose,’ Nick guessed, mouth turned down. ‘Tomorrow’s Sunday. There ought to be some vicars around.’
‘Daniel’s coming for lunch tomorrow,’ she reminded him and he swore and released her hands to rub his hair in frustration.
‘I’ll ring Ruth. We can fix another weekend.’
He was patting his pockets for his phone when Roz laid a hand on his arm. ‘Wait. Don’t do that, Nick. You can’t start your relationship with Daniel by chopping and changing arrangements when they’re inconvenient. T
hat’ll only make him feel like he’s a nuisance. We said we’d have him to lunch so let’s do that,’ she said. ‘We’re both aware of Jane now, and it’s not like she’s hurting me or anything. You can bring me round if I slip back.’ She told him about Charles Denton. ‘He’s not a priest, but he seemed to understand what was happening, and he talked about a cleansing ritual. I’ll contact him when I’m back in York. He’ll know what to do.’
Charles Denton didn’t sound surprised to hear from Roz when she rang. ‘I was afraid Jane wouldn’t let go that easily.’
Roz drew a breath. ‘You talked before about some kind of cleansing ritual to get any spirits to depart. Can you come and do that?’
‘What does your director say? He seemed pretty adamant that he didn’t want me back before.’
‘I haven’t said anything to him,’ she confessed. ‘I don’t want to tell him that I’m . . .’
‘Possessed?’
‘Yes.’ Roz moistened her lips. ‘Yes, possessed.’ Charles made it sound as if possession was something that came up in everyday conversation. She didn’t know if that was reassuring or not. ‘But I’m afraid Jane may be growing stronger. I’m starting to wonder how much of what I’m saying is what I really think or what she wants me to do.’
‘Do you sense that she wants you to lay her to rest?’
‘No. She doesn’t want me to do that. It’s like an insistent no, no, no at the back of my mind. It was hard for me to pick up the phone and call you,’ she told Charles. ‘I had to force myself, like picking up a slug.’ She grimaced at the memory.
‘You’re a strong person, Roz.’
‘I don’t feel very strong,’ she admitted. ‘And I don’t know how much longer I can hold out against her. That’s why I think you should come anyway, even if I don’t have Adrian’s permission. He won’t know, will he?’
‘Very well,’ said Charles. ‘Find a time when you can have the house to yourself, but I think you should ask at least one other person to be there to get help if necessary. Jane’s is not the only spirit associated with that house. I sensed much violence and hatred there. You must be careful.’
Roz put down the phone slowly. Charles hadn’t sounded as confident as she had expected. She had better not tell Nick that. It had taken some time to persuade him that she would be better off back in York. The truth was that Roz was shocked by how easily Jane had taken her over. She still felt a bit sick when she remembered Nick’s expression on the sofa.
It didn’t feel like you.
She could so easily have lost him. Only now did Roz realize how close their marriage had come to breaking down. How much she wanted to save it.
‘Who am I?’ he had said that night, braced above her, inside her, he had looked into her eyes. ‘Who am I, Roz?’
‘You’re Nick.’ She breathed in the familiar smell of his skin and ran her hands over his back, feeling the familiar flex of his muscles, the lovely lean length of him. Her memories of Gilbert fluttered and faded until he was no more than a long-lost obsession. Nick was here, now. He was real and solid and she held on to him tightly. ‘You’re Nick.’
It had been strange going back to York. Roz had only been away for the weekend, but after living through the changes in Jane’s life it felt like forever. At least four and a half centuries, she thought with grim humour.
Fortunately there was plenty to do in the run-up to the launch. The furniture and fittings Lucy had sourced were arriving even as the workmen frantically tried to finish the snagging. Mark was organizing a team of volunteer guides, and as they familiarized themselves with the rooms, the house rang with voices and footsteps. Roz listened to everyone moving around and felt less isolated in her attic office. The atmosphere was so different that week that she nearly rang Charles Denton to cancel, but the lingering smell of smoke in her office stayed her hand even as she reached for the phone.
There were other signs, too, that reminded her that it would be foolish to think Jane had gone. If Lucy called her to admire a tapestry they had hung in the great chamber, it was all Roz could do not to say that it was all wrong, and that there hadn’t been a hanging there at all. She had to stop herself from moving the furniture around and several times turned to go into a room that she remembered being there only to find herself about to bump into a wall. No, it would be a mistake to think that Jane had gone for good, however normal the house felt.
With so many people around, it was hard to find a time when Charles could come without Adrian finding out about it. Helen always seemed to be around, officiously checking things off some list on her clipboard, while Adrian himself bustled happily from room to room, delighted to see his pet project coming together at last. He was full of last-minute ideas for the launch and kept popping up to see Roz in her office, wanting her approval for his plans.
At first Roz thought about asking Lucy if she would come to another séance, but the curator was so busy with finalizing the displays that they barely had a chance to talk. Besides, she wasn’t sure how Lucy would feel about a cleansing ritual. Mark was busy promoting the ‘haunted house’ side of things, and she certainly couldn’t ask Helen, who still regarded her with a dislike that reminded Roz uneasily of Geoffrey. Helen would go straight to Adrian, anyway.
The more Roz thought about it, the more obvious it seemed that Jeff would be the person to approach. He had said little at the original séance but he would be a steadying presence, she couldn’t help feeling. And as caretaker, he knew all about the newly installed burglar and fire alarms.
Her chance came when she found Jeff in the parlour one day. He was sweeping up the debris left behind by the workmen, mostly curls of wood shavings and plaster dust.
‘Jeff, have you got a minute?’ she asked awkwardly and he looked up from the floor. Roz always forgot how disconcerting his gaze was.
‘Aye.’
She always forgot how taciturn he was too.
Roz cleared her throat. ‘I was wondering if we could have a word?’ She looked around the parlour. Anyone passing would be able to overhear their conversation. ‘Maybe outside?’
Jeff’s brows rose slightly. ‘If you like.’ He rested his broom against the wall and nodded towards a line of black sacks full of rubbish. ‘I’ve got to take them down t’bin anyway.’
‘I’ll give you a hand.’
The sacks were light, and Roz carried two as she followed Jeff down the stairs and across the great hall. The sound of their footsteps nearly drowned out the faint whispery whirr and rattle of the toy train. Almost, but not quite.
‘It’s good to get out,’ she said as Jeff shouldered open the door and let her past into the yard.
Swirling leaves chased each other around the yard, rising and falling in eddies as the wind gusted and banged at the windows. It reminded Roz of the time Jane and Gilbert had first made love. The brightness was welcome after the dark hall, and it felt good to be outside, even if only in the dingy yard.
‘The air smells good, doesn’t it?’ she said.
Jeff had hoisted up the lid of the commercial waste bin and was chucking in the black sacks two at a time but he paused at her question, looking from her to the bin and back again. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Can’t you smell the grass growing?’ she said.
‘Grass?’
‘I love this time of year.’ Her lips curved as she closed her eyes and tilted her face up to the sun.
‘October?’
‘Spring,’ she said lazily without opening her eyes as she leant back, propped on her hands in the grass. ‘Every year I think, this is the most beautiful spring I have ever seen, and then the next year I say exactly the same thing; but this year, I am sure of it: there will never be a spring more fair than this one. The birds will never sing as sweetly, the air will never be as soft, the blossom will never be as . . . as blossomy.’
Gilbert chuckled. ‘That means you are happy, Jane.’
‘I am.’ She opened her eyes to look down at him with a smile. He was str
etched out on the grass beside her, careless of the stains on his doublet. The dog, Poppet, rested against his side. Gilbert still pretended to despise him, but Jane knew the little spaniel had waged a subtle and successful campaign to win him round. Sometimes when he thought no one was looking, Gilbert would feed him titbits from the table, and once or twice Jane had found him in his closet looking sheepish with Poppet on his lap.
It was May Day, and the sun was shining. It felt as if all of London had poured out of the city gates and onto the open land to enjoy the sweet and wholesome air. Gilbert had a garden with a little house out past the Spittle Field, and like everyone else they had all come to enjoy the sunshine, the girls and Geoffrey on their ponies, and Jane perched up behind Gilbert on the rump of his horse.
‘I am happy,’ she said again, plucking a blade of grass and tickling Gilbert’s nose with it.
Mary, Catherine and Cecily were making daisy chains to crown each other, but of Geoffrey there was no sign. He had an extraordinary ability to vanish into the shadows, only to reappear suddenly and silently when you least expected him. He was eight now, and Gilbert talked of sending him into service, but Jane resisted. Geoffrey was too secretive, too sullen. She feared a master would dislike him and beat him, and that Geoffrey would exact his own revenge. She had never forgotten how he had spat out Bess’s name. She’ll be sorry, he had said, and that night Bess’s house had burned. Jane had no proof, but whenever the alarm for fire was raised there would she find Geoffrey at the front of the crowd of onlookers, his face alight as if the flames had lit a fire inside him too.
She could speak of her fears to no one, for how could she believe such a thing of her own son without proof? And if she did speak, there might be an inquest, and Geoffrey might be taken away on suspicion, whether he was innocent or not. Jane could not do it; she had promised.
‘Then let us send him to school instead,’ Gilbert had said. ‘He can learn to read and figure, and I will find him a place when he is older. He is a clever boy. He will do better at school than tied to your apron strings.’
The Edge of Dark Page 29
