From the road it looked far more substantial than it really was, and since I was jealous of his attention I made an attempt to impress by telling him the place was haunted by a white lady, thought to be the Lady Hilda, a Northumbrian princess who had founded the abbey. ‘You see, it wasn’t just for men,’ I informed him. ‘In those days everybody lived together – men, women and children – and Lady Hilda ruled over them all. They do say she can be seen sometimes, looking out of one of the windows...’
‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ he asked, giving my shoulders an affectionate squeeze.
I took a moment to reply. ‘Maybe not during the day – I’m not so sure in the dark.’
‘Nor me,’ he agreed, glancing up at the great Gothic arches. ‘Can we go in?’
‘No, the gate’s bound to be locked by now. Anyway, there’s nothing much to see,’ I said, a shade desperately, since I could tell he’d made up his mind to find some means of entry. ‘This is practically all there is. The rest fell down years ago.’
‘But I want to go in.’
‘Tomorrow...’
‘It won’t be the same tomorrow,’ he said implacably. ‘Come on now, Damaris, you live here, surely you know how to get in.’ He kissed my forehead, but it was more in coercion than blessing.
He was right, I did know, and my heart quickened as I studied the best approach. The gate was high and the wall too smooth to climb; but back along the road, by the pool which had once been the abbey’s fish-pond, there was a place where it was possible to gain access to a meadow, and from there to climb a much lower post-and-rail fence into the abbey grounds.
‘You know, this is private property,’ I whispered. ‘If we get caught, we could be prosecuted!’
‘That’s a fallacy, Damaris. We could only be prosecuted for criminal damage, and as we’re merely looking . . .’
‘But what if we get caught?’
‘We won’t,’ he said confidently. ‘Trust me.’
Oddly enough, I did, even though it was more along the lines of trusting him to get us out of trouble once we were in it. His grey linen jacket was dark enough to blend into the landscape, while my pale dress made me feel extremely vulnerable. With anxious giggles as we squeezed through the hedge, I worried about being seen by some curious farm worker or vigilant night-watchman. Bram’s lighthearted suggestion that I could pretend to be the Lady Hilda had me smothering horrified laughter. In the next moment I was smothering curses too, as the hawthorn caught first my sleeve and then my finger as I struggled to be free.
‘Be still now,’ Bram said softly, working carefully to release the material without tearing it. There – I think the sleeve’s all right. How about you?’
‘Fine – I just stabbed myself, that’s all. It’s nothing, just bleeding a bit – only I don’t want it to spoil my dress.’
‘Here...’ But even as he produced a handkerchief, he raised my hand to his mouth and sucked the blood away. The feel of his tongue against my index finger was another shock, astonishingly intimate, as though he were touching me in secret places, exploring and caressing like a lover. I felt myself blushing and pulled back, but he kept hold of my wrist and neatly wrapped the clean handkerchief around the offending finger. ‘There,’ he murmured, ‘your dress saved and not a drop spilled.’
Did he know? The way he looked, I thought he must; thought he would surely kiss me again, and was disappointed when he did not. Instead he took my hand and helped me over the next fence before striding purposefully across the open stretch of grass before the abbey. Admiring his nerve but fearful of it, I clung to his side for safety.
He gazed up at those towering walls, stark against the starlit sky, entered the roofless choir and paced its length like an archbishop; he ran his hands around vast sandstone piers, pulling me with him to investigate the darker arcades of the north aisle and transept. The southern side of the abbey church was completely open – cloisters, aisles and towers long gone, ruined by wind and weather, then stolen piecemeal over the centuries for building work elsewhere.
Remains of more recent falls were still in evidence here and there, blurred by the silhouettes of shrubs and stunted trees; in sheltered corners, clumps of scented pinks had found a home. Following their elusive fragrance down the nave, I stood beneath the carved arch of the old west doorway, and found tiny flowers nodding in profusion all around. Below lay the parish church and below that, unseen from here, the harbour. Through a faint haze I could see the glow of lights over on the west cliff, the outline of the Crescent where Bram was staying and, nearby, the Cragg.
He came up behind me, breathing deeply, to lay an unexpectedly gentle hand on my shoulder. As his arms enfolded me, I sighed and leaned against him, and we stood there for some time, looking out across the town and cliffs. I found I liked that sense of strength and protection, the feeling that he cared; it was almost fatherly, and I’d missed that. Having it now made me want to hold on at any price. And I liked his smell, a reassuring blend of soap and cigars and maleness, which after a while made me turn to bury my face against his shirt front and rub my cheek against his beard.
All at once I was shivery with anticipation, and so was he. His masculinity excited me, the firmness of his lips, the rough texture of his beard against my skin, the strong fingers holding and exploring my body with wonderful unfamiliarity. His touch could not have been less like a woman’s, and that sharpened my desire even more. I even encouraged him with caresses of my own, sighing with pleasure as he unfastened my bodice, and making no objection when he raised me a little to sit on a smooth stone ledge. Above the knee my thighs were bare, and on pushing back my petticoats he seemed astonished to discover no further impediments. I gasped at his touch, even parted my legs obligingly, so he must have thought me well experienced in such adventures. But if he was suddenly hasty, I was lamentably ignorant, so it was disconcerting then to discover awkwardness where I’d expected an easy end to my virginity.
Clinging to his shoulders, I gritted my teeth. The pain and difficulty were more than I’d bargained for; I cried out sharply and with a smothered exclamation he held me tight, breathing hard against my neck. As we kissed I felt his eagerness and rejoiced in it, surprised by a rapidly mounting pleasure that went far beyond anything I’d experienced before. But at the last moment, just as I was learning the rhythm, he moaned and shuddered and quickly withdrew. The act was over, the union broken. I couldn’t help myself; I clung to him and burst into tears.
Gasping, sweating, swallowing hard, he held me close, then turned and drew me across his lap, holding me like a child. He patted my shoulder and kissed my wet cheek, thankfully saying nothing until I was calmer. But once he’d recovered himself I think he hardly knew what to make of me. The apparently innocent girl had turned into a woman of some experience, offering eager encouragement; then, unexpectedly, she’d revealed herself as a virgin, complete with blood and pain and tears. The handkerchief that had staunched my torn finger was used again to wipe the streaks from my thighs. At his exclamations of dismay I wanted to say I’d suffered worse, but it was seductive, being fussed over, so I hid my face instead.
‘If I’d known...’ he declared, then shook his head in bemusement. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
For answer I reached up and pressed my cheek to his. ‘I wanted you to love me,’ I whispered, and the truth of it astonished me. I had no regrets, no sense of betrayal, only a sense of having made a decision, and taken something for myself. Nevertheless, there was a lump in my throat as I added: ‘I wanted you to be the first.’
Something between a sigh and a groan escaped him as he hugged me tight. ‘Oh, Damaris, my dear – I don’t deserve gifts like that...’
~~~
Desire had been enhanced by more than one forbidden thrill as we explored the ruins together, but at the height of passion I’d forgotten where we were. Afterwards, seized by sudden dread, I feared God and the Lady Hilda would strike us down for desecrating holy ground. And Bram was equally anxiou
s to leave, even though he assured me that such ruins were no longer part of the Church, and hadn’t been for several hundred years.
When I returned to the Cragg it was well after midnight and the house was quiet. I crept up the stairs in stockinged feet, dreading the appearance of Bella, who would have sensed the change in me and demanded to know everything at once. What’s more, she would have cast contempt on it, and I couldn’t have borne that. I felt grown-up at last, and immensely superior, as though I’d been let into an enormous secret, vouchsafed to only a few.
I thought I wouldn’t sleep, but I did, like a babe, and woke feeling cheerful and gloriously alive. I did my work at the studio, picked up Jack’s note, and returned to the Cragg to wash and change and eat a breakfast of fried bread and bacon. Only a sliver of bacon, mind, and that done to a crisp, but I cared not a jot. For once, food was not important.
Minutes later I was hurrying to meet my lover. He was waiting for me in the gardens on the west cliff, clear grey eyes sparkling as they lit upon me, hands crushing my fingers for a long moment as we met. I felt breathless with joy.
‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Oh, yes . . .’
‘Me too.’ His smile broadened into a conspiratorial grin, and he turned to indicate a neatly wrapped parcel on the seat behind him. ‘I happened to mention that I was going out walking for the day, so the lady at the hotel insisted on making up some sandwiches for me. Enough to sink the fleet! I thought we could share them, and maybe buy a bottle of ginger beer somewhere along the way?’
Touched by his enthusiasm, I nodded eagerly. ‘Of course – where do you want to start?’ I showed him Jack’s note, which named half a dozen cottages, most of them a little way out of town.
‘The sea,’ he said longingly. ‘If just one of them has a view of the sea, then that’s the one I want.’
‘In that case,’ I said, ‘we’ll start at Dunsley and work back.’
It was about three miles, a pleasant walk along the beach towards Sandsend, then under the new railway and inland via a steep cart-track to a group of farms and cottages. They overlooked the densely-wooded Mulgrave estate which stretched deep inland along a narrow valley. When we found the first cottage, it turned out to be one of a row of three and had no view to speak of, so we shook our heads and moved on. With Mulgrave Castle behind us we kept roughly parallel to the cliffs until we came to Newholm, which was a little more substantial and had the advantage of being a mile closer to Whitby.
Although less high than Dunsley, there were some excellent views, and I found myself hoping that Bram would find what he wanted here. But we had such difficulty finding the cottage, being directed down every road but the right one, we nearly gave up, thinking Jack Louvain must have made some mistake. Then we found it, some distance from the village, a low, solitary little place built into the hillside, with limewashed walls and a pantiled roof, and, at the bottom of the garden, a leaning, windblown hedge.
My eyes took in the sheltered hollow with its view of the sea beyond. It certainly looked pleasing; I hoped the interior was as good. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘this might do.’
‘It might indeed,’ he agreed softly. ‘I wonder who has the key?’
We made enquiries at the farm we’d passed earlier, but as the farmer’s wife came down to open up for us, I kept my interest discreet. There were only two rooms, stone-flagged, with a scullery attached and a privy outside. The place had been decently furnished with a high brass bed, chest of drawers and wash-stand in the far room, while in the other stood a scrubbed kitchen table with benches and a high-backed oak settle. Folding screens pushed back to disclose a narrow, old-fashioned box-bed set into an alcove by the chimney, and a side table, which looked as though it might do duty as a desk, stood under the window. There was even pair of wheel-back chairs beside the range, and a row of utensils hanging from the high mantelpiece. Everything was neat and clean, if smelling noticeably of damp.
The place had been empty all winter, the woman said; there was less work to be had on the land these days, people were leaving, setting up in town, working in manufactories and shipyards, and there was nothing to be done with these old properties but let them out to visitors. She sniffed disapprovingly – clearly not the owner – while Bram raised an eyebrow and suddenly became very much the London gentleman instead of the easygoing character he’d been only minutes ago.
He turned to me. ‘Hm, well, I’m not so sure after all, my dear. Did you say your uncle has a property to let at Robin Hood’s Bay?’
‘He has several,’ I said drily, fixing my eyes on the distant horizon; ‘all with fine sea views.’
‘Oh, this is a good cottage here, sir,’ the woman interjected, ‘very sheltered from the worst weather, as you’d know if you were here in the wintertime. I can have milk delivered for you every day – and fresh bread. Meals too, sir, if you’re on your own.’
He pulled at his beard and seemed to be considering, while I wanted to laugh for I knew his mind was made up. Eventually, he said: ‘That depends – I’m a writer, so I’d prefer not to be disturbed.’
‘Whatever you say, sir – it’s entirely up to you. The service is there if you want it.’
‘Good. Well, I rather think I’ll take the place. I must confess it’s the view that’s decided me.’ He turned from the window and smiled. ‘So how do we settle the arrangements?’
She directed him to the agency in town, and while Bram gave her his card and said he would take the cottage for a month, the woman – who introduced herself as Mrs Newbold – agreed to air the rooms, light a fire in the range, and have everything ready for him to move in by noon the next day.
There was something ordained about it, I thought as we went outside. As though contracts had been signed and possession taken already; and as though something personal and more profound was about to be settled between the two of us.
When Mrs Newbold had gone we didn’t hurry away but sat on a bench by the wall in order to congratulate ourselves. It seemed right to celebrate with our picnic lunch, so we opened the bottles of ginger beer and laughingly toasted each other as though with champagne. I shivered pleasurably as bubbles ran down my chin and Bram wiped them away, his touch intensifying memories of the night before. I loved his hands. To me they were beautiful, clean and well-shaped, with long fingers and rounded nails. The only noticeable blemish was a dark-stained callus on his middle finger where he held his pen, and I was fascinated even by that. I remember watching him unwrap the parcel, and wishing he were unwrapping me.
He caught my eye and grinned as he handed me a sandwich of ham and mustard in crusty white bread; it was delicious, but I was so aware of him it was difficult to eat. I tried to study the distant horizon, but then he studied me until we both began to laugh.
The food was barely half eaten when he took my hand and led me through the hollow of the garden to a spot beyond the hedge. Well hidden from any prying eyes, we fell back into long, dry grass that was more like a hayfield, scented with meadow flowers and the salty tang of the sea. It was then that he touched me, stroking my face and throat like a blind man, and running his hands – those beautiful hands – over my arms and shoulders as though needing to assure himself that I was real. It was as if the night before had been no more than a taste, a sample of what pleasures we might enjoy, should we be given time and opportunity to proceed.
Beneath the disguise of his beard and moustache, he had a full, rather sensual mouth and strong white teeth that fascinated me. I bent to kiss him and the light teasing was abandoned for a grip which brought me down on top of him, for a playful exchange of lovebites and kisses which soon demanded satisfaction. We were hampered by layers of clothing, yet nothing was removed; consumed by inner fires, we managed to perform the most intimate of acts out there on that grassy slope, too satisfied afterwards to feel any kind of shame.
That neglected spot was too removed to be seen from either beach or railway, and the chance of human eyes peering down on us in sh
ocked surprise was negligible; at least, that’s what we told each other afterwards. And afterwards, when he was calm and relaxed and almost asleep, he sighed deeply and told me with a smile in his voice it was the best picnic he’d ever had.
Fifteen
Nothing was said that day about my moving into the cottage, yet I had an instinct about it, strong enough to prompt me to sort out my belongings when I returned to the Cragg. The books, I think, were what brought Jonathan to the forefront of my mind. Ever since my argument with Bella I’d been pushing him away, refusing to entertain the possibility that I was betraying anything. After all, what was there to betray? Attraction, liking, minutes of tongue-tied conversation on largely neutral subjects – shipping, trade, weather, books, the finer points of seamanship and navigation – and a kiss, of course, which I knew full well was rather more than casual.
But I didn’t want it to be important. I didn’t want Jonathan to be important, I’d never wanted that. I didn’t want him, no matter how good-looking he was. He was nineteen, or perhaps twenty, with years to serve before he could call himself Master, before he could afford to marry and settle down. Always provided he wanted to marry me. Always provided he survived and his mother didn’t make his life a misery for even thinking of marrying someone like me. Well, I’d settled the matter now, once and for all. He wouldn’t want to marry another man’s mistress, which saved me from torturing myself on the subject.
All the same, beneath my sense of satisfaction, I had a bad conscience.
Early next morning I washed a few things, put them out in the yard to dry, then went upstairs to pack all but immediate necessities. Bella came up to my room in the midst of it and knew at once what I was doing.
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