11 Harrowhouse

by Gerald A. Browne

  “Last night I gave it considerable thought. There I was in my bed, and, only steps away, there were you and Maren. My fantasies put me between the two of you. However, the more I thought of that, of sharing both you and Maren, the more I realized I was merely compromising, trying to camouflage my ulterior motive. You see …” She hesitated, out of diffidence or perhaps to add emphasis, and then said, “… actually, I only wanted to be with you.”

  That sent Chesser off-balance. Suddenly, marvelous possibilities. He said, “I’m flattered.”

  She didn’t tell him not to be. “As long as I’m being so candid you might as well know I followed you out tonight. Purposely.”

  Chesser’s ego was expanding. “I had no idea. Actually …”

  “I know, I know what you thought. All along I was intentionally misleading you, as well as myself.”

  “You gave me no indication.”

  “As I told you, I couldn’t. I felt the attraction from the first, but you were a man and I wasn’t supposed to be susceptible, not at all. I honestly tried to block the compulsion, the chemistry, whatever it is. However, it increased.”

  They had been walking slowly all the while. He stopped them. He held her. She held. Against one another with a gentle full-length pressure.

  Chesser was immediately aroused. She had to know it, perhaps acknowledged it when she drew her cheek across his and offered her mouth up. He kissed her very tenderly.

  “Was your destination tonight also a lie?” he asked.

  “No. We’re almost there.”

  The North Gate Cottage. It was two stories and, in keeping with the main house, authentic Georgian. In daylight one would be able to see that its exterior of old brick was almost entirely covered with ivy. But now in the dark that growth, having eliminated all angles, made the cottage appear hulking, heavy set, and ominous.

  Lady Bolding went in, preceding Chesser. She snapped a light on and immediately closed the drapes, an act that seemed to go with the clandestine circumstances. He remembered having told Massey he’d never stolen anything and thought this was a sort of stealing. Taking the forbidden …

  “Would you like a drink?” asked Lady Bolding.

  “Would you?”

  “No.”

  She was across the room. The space between them created awkwardness. Their eyes met. She looked away. Before he could start toward her, she quickly excused herself and went upstairs.

  He looked about the room. It was elegantly done in browns and creams, black, tortoise, leather, and valuable animal pelts. On the top of a desk he noticed a letter addressed to her in a strong, evidently feminine hand. He was tempted to read it. There also was some of her personal stationery, tastefully engraved, next to a simple sterling upright frame holding an enlarged snapshot of her, younger, flanked by two pretty dark-haired girls—leggy girls in short skirts. Their pose was arms around. Their expressions were identical, rather insolent. Chesser wondered. He heard her barefoot steps above.

  For no particular reason he pulled open one of the desk’s small upper drawers and was surprised to find a tiny nickel-plated revolver lying on some postage stamps. At first he thought the revolver was a toy replica, perhaps one of the novelty cigarette lighters, but when he took it out and felt its weight he knew it was real. He examined it, curious. As he replaced it in the drawer he saw a plain, wide, platinum wedding band. He closed the drawer carefully.

  His eyes then came on another smaller framed photograph, propped up. This one of a slender young man, fair haired, fixed smile. Symmetrically featured, a bit too good-looking. Alexander. Chesser was sure.

  He turned and was startled as a large tiger tabby came out from around a chair. It stopped, stretched, blinked, and spread its front toes, exposing its claws. The cat regarded Chesser with a disapproving stare, then sat and began licking itself.

  Chesser heard Lady Bolding’s movements above. He thought she might be coming down then, so he assumed what he considered an appropriately casual stance, turned partly away from the stairs. While waiting he noticed a clear, crystal humidor of cigars. Massey’s. And an arrangement of fresh flowers—white daisies and cornflowers mixed with small pink roses in their prime. Saw, also, a glass paperweight with an iridescent blue dragonfly preserved forever at its center. Saw a portrait sketch of Lady Bolding, well done. He went closer to study the portrait. Lady in repose. Her breasts insinuated by the swift, intermittent pen strokes. Her perfect, langorous yet imperious face done in the same technique. Even in mere outline her fascinating blends and contrasts showed clearly.

  Looking at her portrait, Chesser recalled with unease her saying that no man had ever pleased her. What made him so sure he would be the exception? How much of his past confidence with women had come from the knowledge of their ability to respond? Knowing they had previously experienced pleasure had always been a reassuring starting point. Usually, once desire was established, response was assumed. But not this time. This time he could assume nothing.

  He heard her calling his name, the last syllable of it with a rising inflection; a request. Again she called. This time the last syllable was inflected down, softly but unmistakably demanding. He turned from the portrait and climbed the stairs.

  The second floor was completely dark. Chesser put out his hands, felt walls left and right, and deduced he was in a narrow hallway. He edged his way along and collided with a table. She called again. He was headed the wrong way.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Here.”

  “Something wrong with the lights?”

  She didn’t answer that, so he proceeded down the hall in the direction of her voice. His hands found the doorway to a room. “I can’t see a thing,” he said, a bit embarrassed. He expected her to say something then from inside that room, to guide him to her. But again her voice was coming from behind him, calling his name, this time with some impatience.

  He turned and crossed the hall, got the opposite wall with his touch, felt along it until he located another doorway. He had the sensation that he’d gone blind.

  “Where are you?” he asked again.

  “Right here,” she said.

  At least he’d found the right room.

  “Snap on a light,” he said, and felt without success for a switch on the wall near the door frame.

  “I’m waiting for you,” she said.

  That encouraged him to take some further steps. His legs came in contact with what had to be the side of a bed. He reached down and found the surface of a silk sheet, leaned over and moved his hand, patted until he came in touch with her skin, her bare hip.

  She said nothing.

  Chesser undressed. He wondered how large the bed was. When he lay down on it he decided it was king size. He rolled toward her and his forearm brushed her face. He apologized. He made out her position. She was on her back. He put his hand beneath her head so he could estimate where his mouth would find hers. He was slightly off the mark but immediately corrected that. He kissed her. He didn’t bring her against him, although his chest and her left breast were lightly pressed. His free hand explored only the skin of her opposite shoulder where it made a soft transitional curve to her neck. She reciprocated in the kiss with an authority unfamiliar to him.

  “Can’t we have a light on?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “I like to see what I’m doing.”

  “No.” Definitely.

  “Are there windows in this room?”

  “I drew the drapes.”

  “Let’s open them. There’s a full moon.”

  “I prefer not.”

  She took the initiative, shifted onto her side and pulled him to her so they were front to front, pressed. Chesser was not entirely aroused, not nearly as much as before. He felt cheated. He was too accustomed to loving with his eyes as well.

  They kissed again, and began their explorations. She gave his breasts important attention, applied her mouth, caused some well gauged apparently intentional pain. But h
er fingers handled him as though he were an unfamiliar object, either too fragile or dangerous.

  Chesser traced his fingers over her, with long, slow-traveling touches, yet he felt the insufficiency of touch alone, wishing he could see all of her at once. He was forced to piece her together, using his memory for reference—her in the bikini at the swimming pool. He wished she would say something now to help verify her identity. He had to keep reminding himself it was she he was experiencing. He hated the blackness that added to the impression it was mere fantasy. The blackness was a handicap, and he wanted very much to be effective. He was tempted to get up, find the drapery pull, and get the help of moonlight, but he remembered how much she’d been opposed to that.

  He resigned himself to it, resorted to technique. Reminded himself to be particularly tender, as he assumed her experience had been. Used his mouth delicately, his tongue, and wondered about the possible abrasive effect of his chin and cheeks.

  He was encouraged when she sounded as though he were pleasing her. And when she tightened as though it were true. When he hesitated she lifted to him for him to continue. And when he thought he’d done enough of that she held him there, her fingers reining his hair so harshly his scalp burned.

  And apparently, after a long while, that was how she achieved. From the throaty animal sounds that came from her and the increase in her tensions, he was sure she had.

  Finally her legs relaxed, left and right apart. He kneeled up. She must have sensed his intention to enter her then, because she quickly drew her legs up together and rolled onto her side.

  Chesser crawled up and lay beside her again. He touched himself to assess the degree of his want. Her hand covered his hand. He quickly took his away.

  She kneeled up close and he thought she might be about to return the pleasure. Expecting that, he concentrated to visualize her exquisite face. But then she pivoted on one knee and swung her other leg over, so he was beneath and between her. She found herself with him, exactly, and regulated the entering, gradually. Until he was entirely included and her weight sealed them. She remained motionless for a long moment. He heard her breathe in and out, shallow, as she waited to adjust herself to him. She was extraordinarily firm around him, clutching moist. He put his hands to her breasts, stroked them to their tips.

  She began. Riding him.

  Chesser thought of Dover Mist.

  All the way to the finish, which for Chesser was not all that sensational.

  Afterward he came down quickly, lay there in the dark with his right arm touching her. He reminded himself that he’d just fucked an authentic Lady. But he knew he hadn’t really fucked her. She had literally been ascendant throughout. Not very D. H. Lawrence, he thought. He reached to his trousers on the floor, got cigarettes and the lighter. To be chivalrous, he also lighted one for her. “Careful,” he cautioned as he offered it to her.

  “No, thank you,” she said, sounding distant.

  He didn’t have an ashtray, so he lay there and smoked both. “I’ve got to be getting back,” he told her.

  “You can’t stay here, of course,” she said as though he’d already left.

  He got up, with the two cigarettes between his lips. His eyes smarted from unseen smoke. He grabbed up his trousers and shirt. He was fairly sure she didn’t resent it when he didn’t kiss her good night, merely said it. He groped his way downstairs, where he tossed the burning cigarettes into a huge, clean ashtray. The cat didn’t look at him, only snaked her tail across the carpet twice. He dressed hurriedly and went out.

  The moon was low now, going. What time was it? He hadn’t worn his watch. He had only a vague idea of the direction back to the main house. He started off at a brisk clip, the cold, wet grass now not so pleasant under his feet.

  As he walked he tried not to think of what he’d just done. And, of course, trying not to do that brought on Maren. Was she still sleeping? Sure she was. But perhaps not. If not, was she all right? Certainly. She wasn’t alone. She was safe. There were others in the house. Massey was there. She wasn’t alone.

  Suddenly a despicable conclusion: Massey with Maren.

  Chesser began to run. A race with his imagination, which said Massey had planned the entire thing. Lady Bolding had faked it. Under instructions from Massey to get him away so Massey could force himself on Maren. The lecherous old bastard.

  Chesser didn’t listen to the more rational thought that Massey with his years would hardly be even physically capable of raping an agile, violently resisting Maren. Nor did Chesser consider that his thoughts were at least partly a ricochet from his own guilt.

  Chesser just ran.

  To the rescue. Or, if too late for rescue, at least revenge.

  He saw a distant light that he believed was the house. His legs ached and his breathing burned when he was close enough for the barking of many dogs to tell him it was only the kennels. He stopped, gasped for breath, and tried to figure which was the right direction. He guessed and ran on.

  Finally he came to a continuous hedge, too high to go over and too dense to go through. He ran parallel to it, hoping it would lead to something. It did. An incline that reduced his run to a climb. By now his fears had transformed themselves into a sort of conclusive hysteria, which increased when he looked up and found himself at the rear of the main house.

  He controlled his panic, decided against rushing in. Better to rest a moment, regain his strength so he’d be ready for anything. He sat on the terrace steps and let his head lie back to ease his breathing. The muscles of his legs were twitching. Sweat trickled down his temples and neck; his shirt was soaked with it. He advised himself that a forty-year-old man ought not to be out fucking and running around all night.

  His breathing finally returned to almost normal. He got up and tried rear doors. All were locked. He went around to the front door he had unlatched earlier, but now it was locked and he took this as an indication of the plot against him. Determined, he backed off and braced himself in position to kick in one of the door’s side windows. But he realized, just in time, that he was barefoot. While he tried to think of another way in, the front door was opened by Massey’s number-one mute servant, Hickey, who smilingly motioned Chesser in. Chesser hesitated. Much of his resolve gave way to Hickey’s size. With a false nonchalence, he stepped by Hickey and into the foyer.

  He took the main stairs two at a time, hurried down the hall to their room. He had imagined crashing in, but now he carefully turned the knob, opened the door, and entered.

  She wasn’t in the bed. Despite his panic, he had held to the possibility she would still be sleeping. The bed was disheveled, but she wasn’t in it. The bedside light was on. She wasn’t in the bathroom. She wasn’t in the adjoining room. She wasn’t there. Her I Ching book and three half-crown pieces were on the floor. He got his watch from the dresser, saw it was four forty-five. At this hour she couldn’t be anywhere else but with Massey. Against her will, of course.

  He rushed out, along the landing. He didn’t know which was Massey’s room. Perhaps, thought Chesser, the old bastard sleeps the same as he eats, wherever, according to his mood. Or maybe he had a secret room especially equipped for such affairs. Chesser went down the corridor and around to a wing of the mansion. He tried doors, listened at doors, called her name but got no reply. He went back to the landing, intending to search the opposite wing. It was then he saw her.

  She was coming up the stairs in a long, sheer silk Dior dressing gown, semitransparent. A palest blue color. Her long Viking hair was slightly mussed. She was carrying a glass of milk with a thick slice of well-buttered bread balanced on it.

  Chesser was so relieved to see her that he couldn’t speak.

  “I woke up starved,” she said. She hesitated when she came to him, extended her lips for a little kiss, and then proceeded to their room, sure that he was following.

  She took a large bite of the bread. Chesser took her in his arms.

  “I love you,” he said with less intensity than he f
elt.

  “I know,” she said, chewing.

  He had to wait for her to swallow. Then he kissed her. There was butter on her lips. She felt so good to him, so marvelously familiar.

  “I was worried about you,” he told her. He thought she might say the same.

  “I did your I Ching for you,” she said. “You got the Cauldron and Inner Truth.” She broke from him so she could take another bite and a sip. She glanced down at his bare feet. His trouser cuffs were wet. Some blades of grass were stuck to his skin.

  “I took a long walk,” he explained.

  “I thought maybe you were out playing cricket or something.” She grinned.

  “As a matter of fact, I got lost.” A true lie. He hoped she wouldn’t pursue the subject. He was so full of love and guilt he was afraid he would spill everything. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “About before, losing my temper.”

  She didn’t pardon him, except with her eyes. She sat on the bed, preoccupied with the slice of bread. She ate around the crust and drained the glass of milk. Then she looked thoughtful.

  Chesser felt horrible. Foolish, tired, and dirty. Maybe if he took a shower he’d feel better. Wash the guilt away. He wondered if Lady Bolding would tell Maren what had happened. Undoubtedly she would. Beautiful women always inflict such things on other beautiful women. Chesser realized that his best chance was now, before tomorrow, to put so much of his love into and around Maren that Lady Bolding’s words, no matter what, would seem ridiculous.

  “I love you more than anything,” he said.

  “Why don’t you take a shower,” she suggested.

  Chesser went into the bathroom. He hated himself in the mirror while he undressed, kicked his soiled shirt and trousers into a corner, got into the shower stall and turned on the cold for a momentary punishment. He adjusted the spray to a more benevolent temperature, lathered and rinsed and did feel better, cleaner.