She should be happy, but all she felt was guilty and trapped. But with Karl… with Karl it was worse.
When he and Henry stood together in the laboratory, heads bent as they puzzled over some problem, Henry's mundanity only served to make the contrast between the two men more poignant.
Karl possessed a quality that she could only call presence. It was beauty and personality combined with an inexplicable aura, a luminosity that drew the attention and held it—almost like an actor on film, silver light and shadowy darkness, hypnotic. His charisma intimidated her, confused her, terrified her. While Henry was all life and activity, it was Karl's dark, still grace that seemed to fill the room.
Charlotte had decided in advance how she would behave towards Karl. She was distant, polite and completely professional; it was the only way she could cope. She had hoped she would get used to him, but the feelings grew worse each day. Small consolation that her father had secured him lodgings in the town rather than offering him a room—possibly with Madeleine's virtue in mind.
Yet Karl could really do no wrong for her father. He was delighted with the way Karl worked; his intense concentration, faultless observation, his swift absorption of everything he was told. But to Charlotte there was something unnatural about it. Sometimes Karl and her father had long philosophical discussions in which Karl said the strangest things, probing, it seemed, for some kind of arcane and sinister revelation that would unleash a nightmare if it were ever spoken.
Yet Madeleine didn't seem to see anything threatening about Karl. Every day they took a break for tea in the drawing room at four and Madeleine would bounce in as sweet and fresh as spring, talking about everything under the sun except science. How could Karl not be enchanted by her? He was different with her, no longer serious but light-hearted and charming. Madeleine was so happy. Charlotte was pleased for her, ashamed of herself for being unable to accept Karl… but every day she woke up dreading the day ahead.
She sat, head bowed, twisting her gloves between her fingers. I could leave… but where would I go? I can never leave Father. Dear Lord… As she looked up, the grandeur of the chapel flooded her with guilt. How dare I pray? If I do go mad, it serves me right. There's something bad in me… whatever it is that draws me to these dark ideas of the dead. Wickedness. Is it really other people I want to run away from, or myself?
Again she thought of the man who was a figment of her deranged mind, and she shuddered. I must see Anne. She will make me feel sane again.
***
"I saw someone who was there one moment and vanished the next. Do you think I'm going mad, Anne?"
"I think you might be making yourself ill. I wish I could shake you up so you didn't take everything so seriously!"
They were sitting on a long smooth bank beside the Cam, watching punts slide by through long curtains of willow that kissed their own reflections in the water. The college buildings rose golden-grey on the far side, visible through the veils of foliage. The sun's warmth had a clarity and softness that it only possessed in October, but the trees were taking on a bare, combed look and leaves lay scattered yellow and silver on the grass.
Leaning back on her elbows, Anne went on, "If you'd come riding with me instead of spending so much time cooped up in the lab, it would help you get things in proportion."
"I have to work," said Charlotte.
"You talk as if you have no control over your life at all, as if your father, Henry, Karl, everyone rules you and you have no say about anything! Why can't you take matters into your own hands?"
"It's not that easy."
Anne touched Charlotte's arm. "I don't mean to sound unsympathetic. It's just that I've never suffered from this helpless feeling you seem to have. No one controls me. "
"I wish I was like you," Charlotte said wistfully. "Sympathy's the last thing I want. I need someone to tell me to pull myself together."
"Well, I try," said Anne. "It doesn't seem to have much effect, does it?" She started laughing. "I have this habit of seeing the funny side of awful things. What with you and Edward, I think the whole world is going crazy."
Charlotte smiled, despite herself. Anne's bright candour always helped to cheer her up. Anne went on, "Talking of Edward, apparently he is still insisting there is something dangerous about Karl. I don't believe in the supernatural—I think the craze for mediums and séances is absolute nonsense—but David has too much respect for Edward to dismiss his bad feelings. Did David tell you that he's been trying to find out something about Karl?"
David had been dividing his time between London, Cambridge and Parkland Hall, so Charlotte had seen little of him. "No, he never mentioned it."
"He's trying to be discreet, for obvious reasons. Still, I think you ought to know this. It's rather odd; he couldn't find out anything about Karl at all. Fleur didn't remember who brought him to the party, all the guests denied knowing him. He couldn't find anyone who's even heard of Karl."
Charlotte suddenly felt annoyed. "It's too bad of David to snoop around like that—as if Father's own judgement isn't sound!"
"But look at it from David's point of view. His sister's fallen for a total stranger. What if they got married, and Karl turns out to be a cocaine pedlar or a bigamist? And all David can say is, 'Edward tried to warn me and I didn't listen!' Mind you, I wouldn't envy Maddy being married to a man who has women falling in love with him whenever he turns round. I wonder how often he takes advantage?"
She spoke flippantly but Charlotte felt a physical jolt that seemed to drain all the blood out of her head. "Oh, don't! I can't bear to think about it."
Anne sat up, looking curiously at her. "Not jealous of Maddy, are you?"
"Jealous?"
"You say you don't like Karl, but perhaps you are protesting too much. Would he be on your mind all the time if you weren't attracted to him?"
"That's preposterous!" Charlotte was dizzy with indignation.
Anne shrugged, grinning. "Why? Because the Prof's daughter isn't supposed to have such base urges? But it's perfectly normal to have feelings. Perhaps if you started admitting it to yourself, you wouldn't be so unhappy and you wouldn't be seeing people who weren't there."
***
"We usually spend a few days at Parkland at the end of October," said Madeleine, one evening when the day's work in the laboratory was over. "I wish you would come with us, Karl. There's lots to do, riding and shooting and so forth, and Aunt Elizabeth's I holding a musical evening. It would be so lovely if you would play a duet with me, piano and cello."
Karl said, "I don't know if your father can spare me."
"I'm not a slave driver," Dr Neville responded with mock gruffness. "I intend to shut the lab and have a few days' rest m'self."
"Oh, please come, Karl," said Madeleine. Charlotte wondered why she was having to try so hard. "The musical evening's for charity. Everyone who can do a turn simply must join in."
"In that case, I should be delighted," Karl said graciously. Then he looked at Charlotte. "And will you take part as well?"
Charlotte felt her face turn hot, but Madeleine said, "Oh, don't ask for miracles. Actually, she has a lovely voice, but ask her to sing in front of an audience and she would run a mile. She's only happy hiding with her books—aren't you, Charli?"
Charlotte hated their attention, hated the unthinking cruelty of Madeleine's words. As soon as she could make an excuse, she went to her room. I'm still hiding, regardless of anything Anne said.
She went to bed early that night, but she couldn't sleep. Her father was dining in college, Madeleine had gone to a dance and the servants to the music hall, and none of them would be home until late. She was alone. The house was shrouded in rain and she felt eerily isolated within it, as if it were an island with nothing outside but an eternity of grey shimmering veils of water. She felt like a dream figure, a formless ghost. Only the rain was real.
It helped to talk to Anne but there was only so far she could presume on friendship; the worst of it lay i
nside her and no amount of talking would exorcise it. Like twin spectres they waited in the shadows of her room; unwanted marriage, unattainable freedom.
The thought of kissing Henry actually repulsed her. The idea of lying in the same bed, of his hands on her body—she cringed and curled up under the bedclothes. Did other women have these fears? Not Fleur, who had returned from her honeymoon with a smug and knowing air. The difference was, apparently, that she and Clive adored one another.
I ought to love Henry but I feel nothing. It's not fair to him.
Then, unbidden, an image slid into her mind of herself with Karl. Kissing, lying together… The shock of it took her breath away. Dark excitement, blackened with terror… She pushed the image away, denied it, but it kept creeping back. Almost in panic she sat up, turned on the bedside light, and saw her mother's face looking at her from the photograph. Shame suffused her. God, how can I even think of such a thing?
She sighed. It was hopeless trying to sleep. Rising, she slipped a beige woollen dressing gown over her nightdress and made her way downstairs to the study, shaking her hair loose and tying the cord as she went.
The house was quiet, bathed in a steady rush of rain. Strange, the door to the study was open; her father usually left it closed. She crossed to the desk and switched on the desk light. The warm radiance fanned across the book-lined wall and the heavy oak desk, where her typewriter stood between two neat piles of paper.
She sat down, stifling a yawn. Her father was writing a book based on his lectures, and the typing of it occupied much of her spare time. It was a soothing occupation, even wrestling with his illegible amendments; it kept her thoughts from the dark landscape where they strayed too often. She inserted a fresh sheet of paper into the machine and looked over the notes to find her place.
As she set her fingertips to the keys, she knew with a sensation of paralysing terror that she was not alone in the room.
Clasping the back of the chair as if it were a shield, she turned round very slowly and stared at the sofa that stood across the corner to the left of the door. The shock of seeing a figure sitting there almost stopped her heart. When she realised it was Karl, she found it completely beyond her power to move or speak.
He was regarding her with surprise, as if he thought this wide-eyed, pale-robed apparition might be a ghost. Remaining seated—as though the courtesy of standing up would frighten the spirit away—he said gently, "Charlotte, I seem to make a habit of startling you. Forgive me. I thought if I spoke it would alarm you even more."
Her tongue and lips worked, but no sound emerged. She was acutely aware that she was in her nightclothes, and her pulse was thundering. He indicated a book that lay open beside him and added, "There were some scientific books of your father's that I wanted to consult, and he was kind enough to suggest I come this evening to read them at my leisure."
"But you were sitting in the dark," Charlotte managed to say.
"I was thinking more than reading," said Karl.
"Er—Father should be home at any moment," she said, looking desperately at the door. "He's rather late."
Karl's eyebrows lifted. "Please don't let me interrupt you. Do you always work so late?"
"No, I—I couldn't sleep, that's all." She glanced at the typewriter and knew she stood no chance of concentrating with Karl in the room. She gave a quick shake of her head. "It doesn't matter."
"In that case, won't you come and sit beside me?"
He extended a hand towards her. She froze, caught between the urge to run out of the room, and the requirements of good manners. One awkward encounter, and the barrier of professional distance she had cultivated was ripped away like rotten silk. It horrified her to discover just how fragile those painfully-built defences had been.
Yet his hand—luminous and rimmed with red light—was compelling. Somehow she found herself taking a breath, pushing back the chair and walking towards him. As his pale, slender fingers touched hers a shockwave went right through her body; yet strangely it was a wave of coolness, soothing. She sat down, suspended like dew on a web.
"I think I was as surprised as you when you came in," he said. "I am sorry I gave you such a shock."
"It—it doesn't matter, truly," she said, trying to moisten her dry mouth. "I didn't think there was anyone in the house—obviously… "
"Your appearance is perfectly modest and charming," he said with a slight smile. His fingers were still entwined with hers, and she didn't know how to pull away. On his right hand he wore a gold ring with a blood-dark, polished stone. He was looking at her, but she could not meet his eyes. She just stared at the ring.
"Charlotte, are you afraid of me?"
The question was a shock. So direct. It hung in the air between them, unanswerable yet demanding a reply.
"Er—I—of course not." She sounded brusque. "What makes you think that?"
"Well, we have worked together for several weeks now, yet it seems that I know you no better now than the first time we met. You never look at me, never speak to me unless you have to. Is there a reason?"
"No, really—if I've seemed unfriendly to you, I apologise, I never intended that."
"Won't you tell me what you did intend?" he said softly. She was so aware of his gaze that she was compelled to look up; and the radiance of his eyes, close to hers, instantly swallowed her. Irises of deep amber sparkling with gold and red fire, the pupils large and depthless… Dear God, this can't be happening… "I don't know. I don't know that I should."
"Charlotte." The sheer beauty of his voice was like a kiss. "There is nothing you can say that could possibly offend me, as long as it is the truth. Even if you told me that you hate me."
"Of course I don't hate you!" Whatever she felt for him, it was not hatred. Why not tell him the truth? "If you really want to know—yes, I am afraid of you."
"Why?"
Her lips parted. She shook her head slightly. So many reasons. "I know it's foolish, but I am one of life's cowards, that's all. I'm afraid of so many things."
He lowered his eyelids; she noticed how very long his eyelashes were, curved darkly against his cheek. "I think you do yourself an injustice. I know that you are shy, and not very happy; anyone can see that. Do you think I am being cruel in making you admit it?"
"It's difficult for me," she whispered.
"I know. I don't wish to distress you, but the only way you will lose this fear is to speak about it. I give you my word now that you have no cause to fear me, that I will never give you cause. Can you believe me?"
He met her eyes again and she felt her tension bleeding away in the warmth of his gaze; melting. "Yes," she said sincerely. "Yes."
"Don't say it unless you mean it. I am serious, Charlotte; I wish you to be at ease with me, to think of me as a friend. To feel that you can say anything you like; simply to be yourself."
"I wish I could." To be like Madeleine and Fleur! "It would be so wonderful."
"I am telling you that you can."
He means it, she realised, and it was a revelation, like bursting out of a chrysalis. Almost physically she felt a great burden of anxiety sliding away. She had tried to tell herself that her fears were imaginary, but only now, for the first time, could she believe it.
There was such kindness in Karl's expression, a warm reflection of the light that had come to her face. There was no need to say anything. They both laughed; she was not sure why, but the moment was magical. His eyes instilled her with tranquillity, the feeling that it would be heaven simply to sit here forever, while outside the rain fell soothingly, unceasingly.
Karl was not the cold-hearted charmer against whom Anne had warned her. He actually cared for her… and that knowledge dismantled all her armour, left her basking in the warmth of the moment without realising how vulnerable she had become. The touch of his fingers felt so sweet. She had never before been so conscious of him physically. Their thighs were touching, but she had no wish to move away from the firmness of his long, slender leg.
He had a very faint, enticing scent of clean hair. So perfectly graceful his slim body, everything about him…
Then he lifted her hand, and said, "You are not wearing your engagement ring."
Ice-cold reality hit her. "I—I take it off at night. It catches in my nightdress."
"You don't imagine," he said, "that if you are unhappy, a loveless marriage will make you any happier?"
She pulled herself free and sat forward, hands pressed between her knees. "That's nothing to do with you." To her dismay, she felt tears winding round her throat, betraying her.
Karl was silent for a moment. "Ah. I did not realise it was so painful. Forgive me."
"No, I—I didn't mean to be so abrupt." She took a deep breath, mastering herself. "Henry and I are well-suited. I don't expect marriage to make me ecstatically happy. People who do are fools."
"It is a good thing to be realistic, but not to be bitter. Do you love someone else?"
Again a wave of pain caught her throat. His words were so gentle, yet like knives they slid through all her defences. Does he want blood? she thought wildly.
"No," she said at last. "There is no one else."
"There should be." He took her wrist, and stroked the fine skin with his thumb. The sensations aroused by the touch went right through the centre of her stomach; she longed to clasp her fingers over his hand, but dared not, and the very act of resisting was an unbearable ache. If he had kissed her then she would have submitted, allowed anything.
But he was not looking at her. His eyes had an absent look, and the stroking of her wrist was almost unconscious. "You should live your life, Charlotte. Think what is best for yourself, not for others. You deserve better."
Then she realised. He was being kind to her. Yet with her disappointment came a rush of relief. In reality, a declaration of love or an attempt at seduction would have terrified her. This, at least, meant she really was safe with him, that he truly was a friend. "I don't need and I don't want pity," she said quietly.
A Taste of Blood Wine Page 11
