“So, you slipped away here behind her back?” the reverend said, and Leo pretended to look ashamed.
“I didn’t like to do so. In fact, I examined my conscience for some considerable time before I did. But now? Well, I’m glad I did, sir. I’m glad I came.”
The reverend was almost smiling. “Are you?”
Leo nodded. “Yes, sir, I am. Though I feel there may be more for me to discover.”
Now the reverend was definitely smiling. “Oh, there is, my boy. There is. So, go on, ask your questions now that you’re here.”
“All right. Why is Eleanor so afraid of you?” he asked.
“Straight to the point.” The reverend nodded his approval. “Good. Eleanor is afraid of me because she knows I won’t allow her to hide from the truth any longer.”
At last, here it was—the nitty gritty. “The truth?”
“Yes, the truth of what happened here when she was sixteen years old.”
“And…what did happen?”
The reverend paused for dramatic effect. “When she was just turned sixteen, Eleanor seduced her stepbrother.”
“I must say, old chap, you’re a different man altogether since your spot of leave.”
Dirk smiled at Beacham, not bothering to deny it. “It was good to have a break,” he agreed easily.
“It was only two days,” Beacham persisted. “Why did it make so much difference, I wonder?”
Dirk shrugged. There was no way on earth he was going to dilute his memories of the precious time spent with Eleanor by telling Beacham about it. “I don’t know,” he lied. “But don’t you think there’s a general air of optimism at the moment anyway?”
“All this talk about a big push, you mean?”
Dirk nodded. “Yes. I know we’ve heard the saying about it all being over by Christmas before, but this time they really do seem to believe it.”
“The optimism’s contagious, I must admit,” Beacham agreed. “Not that anyone thinks it’s going to be easy. Though I must say, it has crossed my mind that we could be feeling optimistic purely because we want to believe it so much. We want this to be the battle to end all battles because to think of the alternative makes us so damn weary.”
“You mean the prospect of the war going on?”
Beacham nodded, and Dirk looked at him with a new feeling of admiration. Perhaps the man wasn’t quite as frivolous as he liked to make out.
“I do,” Beacham said, and sighed. “D’you know it’s six months since I saw my wife and children? Got a letter from her this morning; maybe that’s why I’m feeling a bit maudlin.”
“Six months is a long time,” Dirk agreed sympathetically. It was days, not months, since he’d seen Eleanor, but already he missed her.
Beacham sighed again, but when Dirk looked at him, he saw he was smiling. “Go on, write to her, man! There’s time before dinner.”
Dirk opened his mouth to deny there was anyone in particular for him to write to, but he ended up grinning like an idiot. “Is it that obvious?”
“I should say so,” Beacham said. “And it isn’t helping my homesickness one iota seeing you like a lovesick calf. I’ll leave you to it.”
Dirk went right to his desk and picked up his pen. He then proceeded to daydream about Eleanor and how he wanted to marry her and take her back to America with him. There he would help her to train for a career in medicine. And he would be patient and loving until he’d succeeded in coaxing her to express the passion he knew existed within her.
But all that was in the future. As difficult as it was going to be, he knew he had to court Eleanor gently and slowly, not doing anything to frighten her. She was infinitely precious to him, and, as such, she was worth waiting for.
Her stepbrother. It was practically incest. On the journey back to London, Leo sat in a crowded compartment, oblivious to its other occupants. After her baffling reaction to Pryce, Leo had suspected Eleanor must have some kind of secret, but never could he have imagined it was something on this scale. Every word of his conversation with Reverend Martin was fixed into his mind, every nuance of expression in both face and voice. The blood was surging around his veins with excitement, demanding the release of canvas and paint. Far from making Eleanor abhorrent to him, it had made him desire her still more.
“The apple of his mother’s eye,” the reverend had described his stepson. “Intelligent, good at games, most promising all round. There’s no question that he wouldn’t have done such a thing of his own free will, not without the most extreme provocation and encouragement. No question at all.” The reverend had stopped for a moment. “However, the incident did take place. I know, because my wife discovered them together.”
When the reverend paused again, Leo had grown impatient. “What happened?”
“Oh, I knew the matter couldn’t be ignored, given my position. But of course I had to be careful not to promote gossip. Clearly the two had to be parted to prevent any reoccurrence. I decided it would be best if my stepson spent a period of time abroad, but unfortunately I failed to take into account how this might affect my wife. She adored him, as I’ve told you, and in the end she decided to accompany him. I have not seen either of them since.”
The reverend had spoken calmly, almost as if the whole sorry series of events had happened to some other family.
“And how long ago was this?”
“Just over eight years. Eleanor was sixteen years old, as I said. I had always thought her immature for her age, but afterward, I began to think she might be a little…subnormal. After all, what normal girl wouldn’t only assist in her stepbrother’s fall from grace but stay practically silent for almost two years after the event? And when she did finally begin to communicate again, she had managed to convince herself that not only had none of it ever happened, but that both her stepbrother and her stepmother were dead. Yes, that was what she believed. I thought a few times of sending her to an asylum, if I am honest, but the prospect of the talk this would inspire in the parish held me back.”
Astounding, utterly astounding.
“Recently, on the anniversary of their departure, I tried to force Eleanor to face up to the truth of what happened,” the reverend had continued. “I simply could not tolerate her avoidance of the subject any longer, her pretense that they were both dead. Of course, she did not want to listen. She stood by that door with a frozen expression on her face, and then she fled upstairs to her room. Shortly afterward, she went away to serve in France.” He’d paused to look at Leo. “So,” he’d said, “this is the woman you’re contemplating marriage with. That is, if you haven’t changed your mind?”
When Leo said nothing, the reverend laughed. “Well, my boy, you said you came to find out about Eleanor’s background. I think you have discovered far more than you ever bargained for, have you not?”
Leo had indeed. He had indeed.
Chapter Nineteen
ARRIVING IN LONDON, Leo went to the home of an artist friend who he knew was at the Front. The artist’s lonely wife was pleased to see him, welcoming him into her home, cooking a meal for him, and asking him for news. When Leo had to admit he’d had no contact with her husband in France, she was disappointed. But when, very soon after finishing his excellent meal, he asked if he could make use of his friend’s studio, she was resigned and accommodating. After all, she knew what artists were like.
Leo shut himself away in his friend’s studio for three days and three nights, snatching a brief period of sleep on the battered old sofa every now and then, and eating meals prepared by his friend’s wife when they were brought to him. The rest of the time he painted. And painted. And painted.
Eventually it was enough.
With four days growth of beard and black smudges beneath his eyes, Leo wrote a note thanking his friend’s wife for her hospitality and saying that he would collect his paintings when he was next in London. Then he left the house. It wasn’t quite dawn, and the streets were deserted.
Exhausted as he wa
s, Leo still didn’t feel ready for sleep. His paintings had mostly been about sex rather than war, though sometimes they’d been a combination of the two. These were the ones he was most pleased with. But thinking about sex constantly for three days solid had given him a hunger that wouldn’t be denied. Had he been in France, he would have gone to Eleanor—after all, she was the inspiration for his paintings.
Eleanor, with her pretty, innocent looks, coupled with that startling revelation from her father about her behavior with her stepbrother. God, how he longed to see her again. Not only did he want to draw her, but he longed to hold her, to kiss her. But Eleanor was in France, so for now, it would have to be Edie. Good old faithful Edie.
As Leo neared Edie’s house, he almost expected the sky to be lit up by Verey lights the way it was back on the front. His mind and his body were filled with the same adrenaline charge he’d experienced in France, before the whistle blew for them to go over the top. He’d never expected to return here again, knew it was foolish for him to have done so, but he was unable to help himself. He craved the comfort of Edie’s body almost as much as three days earlier he’d craved canvas and paints.
It was still early, but she ought to be up by now. Edie had never been a late riser. Creeping round the side of her house as he’d done many, many times before in the past, he tapped lightly on the kitchen window and stood waiting in pleasurable anticipation.
The back door opened, just as it had always done. Edie’s head popped out just the same. She saw him. But then the similarities to the past stopped, for Edie didn’t smile.
“Edie?” He stepped forward, and she slipped quickly outside to join him, pulling the door to behind her and placing a warning finger over her lips.
“What are you doing here, Leo?” Her tone was quiet and barely friendly, and this was such a complete departure from what Leo was used to; the shock of it literally rocked him on his feet. Edie had always been there for him. Always. Grateful to grab every scrap of his company, and meekly accepting that this would never be as much as she wanted.
Leo tried to smile, his cold lips wavering. This must be some kind of a joke. It wasn’t much more than two months since he’d seen her. She couldn’t have changed that much in such a short space of time.
Edie sighed, seeming to relent a little. “I’m sorry, Leo,” she whispered. “I can see you’re injured. I hope it isn’t too bad.”
He opened his mouth to speak, to tell her all about his moment of glory, but she carried quickly on, not giving him the chance to speak.
“But last time you were here I explained, didn’t I? I thought I had, anyway. Leo, I’m married to Charlie now. He’s inside, in bed.”
The invalid. He’d forgotten. Relief sent a little blood flowing about his veins again. Edie and her misplaced sense of loyalty, prepared to sacrifice herself to something that probably wasn’t even a proper marriage. He moved a step forward, confident he could talk her round. Edie was his. She’d always been his.
“It isn’t like I thought it would be,” she was saying, and he smiled.
“No, I’m sure it’s not.” Hadn’t she begged him to let her think of him when she made love to her husband? That was, if they made love. He doubted it.
But she was shaking her head. “You don’t understand, Leo. I’m really happy with Charlie. I never expected to be, but I am. Funny, isn’t it? You see, he really cares for me, and I…” Edie lifted her chin. “I really care for him too. In fact, I think…Well, I hope I’m expecting his child.”
As soon as the pubs opened, Leo went into one and, choosing a dark corner, set about getting drunk.
The few times anybody approached him, once to ask about the progress at the Front and another time to commiserate about his wound, Leo gave the intruder a look that had him scurrying off straight away.
It took quite a few beers for him to feel anything approaching warm again. Over and over again in his mind, he replayed the scene in Edie’s back yard—the very same back yard they had screwed in on many a summer night. The hostility of her expression, her total rejection of him…Leo hadn’t realized just how dependent he was on her always being there for him. And now she wasn’t any longer, and that was very difficult to accept.
As the day wore on, Leo’s hurt turned into brooding anger—anger with Edie for being so fickle and treacherous, and anger with himself for becoming dependent on her in the first place. It was Rose who’d driven him to it, Rose with her unpredictable moods and her brooding silences. Rose, with hands that were ever ready to slap him. Belittling, scornful, constantly changing her mind so as to keep him always slightly on edge.
Edie had heard it all through the thin walls of the terraced house. There’d been no need to explain to her, no need to talk about it at all, in fact. They’d gone for walks by the canal, played ducks and drakes. When they got older, she’d hugged him. Later still, there was the healing sex—ducks and drakes in a different form. Companionship to comfort him and to drive out the horrors.
Suddenly, all Leo’s anger was focused on Rose. For Edie to turn against him like this, it had to be Rose’s fault. Everything had always been Rose’s fault, so she must be responsible now. She must have bad-mouthed him to Edie, because he knew there was no way Edie would have made this decision on her own.
Yes, it was Rose’s fault, and gradually, as Leo sat and brooded and drank the day away, he knew what he was going to do about it.
She was asleep in her chair with her mouth open, just like the last time. Snail trails of saliva making their way down the folds of her neck. Snorts. Gin breath.
Leo moved soundlessly across the stained rug and stood by her side for a moment, taking in the grey, greasy mess of her. How was it possible that he was her flesh and blood? That she, a drunken, ugly, bullying slut, had given birth to him? He should have done what he was about to do a very long time ago.
Slowly, Leo pulled the knife from inside his coat. The blade caught the light. Murder. It had to be one of the ultimate experiences. The death of the Hun had been inspiring, but it had also been partly accidental. But to deliberately take a life, to plunge the knife into the folds of her flesh…Oh, yes. That would be everything.
Leo shivered, his flesh sensitized with something akin to sexual desire. It would be best of all if she were awake, if he could witness in her face the growing realization of her fate…But he couldn’t afford to risk it. Rose knew his weak spots so very well. If he subjected himself for one moment to the paralyzing effect of her eyes, he knew he might not be able to go through with it.
And he had to go through with it.
Slowly, Leo lifted the knife above his head, his breathing quickening. She’d failed him; she’d always failed him. If just once, she’d spoken to him in a kindly, loving voice, just once. Even now, if he could believe that there would ever be a chance of her doing so…
They could have been a team, she and him. He could have looked after her, been the man of the house in the absence of his father. But no, she hadn’t wanted that.
She hadn’t wanted him.
His eyes filled with tears of self-pity, Leo moved quickly before he could betray his presence with a sob, plunging the knife down hard into Rose’s chest, grunting with the effort of it as he did so.
The eyes opened on a harsh intake of breath. Glittering black eyes…
Sweating, Leo pushed the knife all the way home until his fist was pressed against her bosom. Then they were connected by the knife—her face close to his, almost as if she were bending to kiss him goodnight.
“Mother?”
There was a rattle in her throat; then he felt her last breath feather his cheek. No kiss came. It was over.
Shaking, Leo turned away from the sight of the blood frothing from between her lifeless lips and vomited onto the floor, retching over and over again until his guts threatened to spew up. Even after he’d finished, he stayed bent over the hissing stench of his vomit, his clothing soaked through with chill sweat. It was silent in the room, an
unnatural silence that hadn’t existed in all the time Rose had lived there. Then suddenly, he heard something and stood there, frozen to the spot, listening.
Slap, slap, slap. Very slowly, Leo turned, preparing himself for the horror of those dark eyes being open, for Rose to have somehow come back to life. But all was the same as before, except for the fact that the blood that could no longer be absorbed by the shiny, grease-encrusted arm of the sofa was now dripping onto the threadbare rug below. The floral pattern of the front of her dress had already been obliterated by the flow of red, and now Leo watched the pattern of the rug go the same way.
Slap, slap, slap. The sound was almost hypnotic.
Leaning back against the cold porcelain of the sink, Leo was suddenly overcome by exhaustion. He closed his eyes. They felt so very heavy, as if they’d been smeared with glue. His head toppled forward, waking him with a start, and as he looked up, he looked straight into Rose’s eyes. Eyes that still seemed to glitter. Eyes belonging to someone who might banish him to the coal cellar at any time…
The coal cellar.
Fully awake once again, Leo stirred himself into action, stumbling toward the corpse, his body frail with exhaustion and sickness. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he reached out and pulled the eyelids down, covering the awful blackness of her eyes. Instantly her power diminished, and Leo took hold of her legs, hauling her off the chair. Her slippers fell to the floor and were kicked viciously out of the way. He pulled again, and her head thumped gratifyingly onto the floor, spurting more blood.
Leo reached behind him for the handle to the cellar door, and a cool draft of air hit the back of his neck as the door opened. Trying not to think about that last breath of hers feathering across his face, he bundled her body through the doorway and onto the top steps. A shove, and she began to move slowly down the steps. Too slowly. He kicked her as hard as he could. Again and again. Until her body was bumping gruesomely to the bottom of the steps and he was left kicking air.
A Nightingale in Winter Page 19
