"Fuck you, Freddie."
He laughed. "Exactly."
He ground into her. Slowly at first, then faster, until he felt her move with him, heard her moan and swear. And then he suddenly stopped. Her eyes, pleasure-dazed, half-closed, opened wide.
"Tell me," he said, an edge of menace to his voice. When she would not, he bit her shoulder, breaking the skin.
"Ouch! You little shit!" she cried.
She struggled, got one hand loose, and slapped him. He grabbed her by the throat and squeezed, just slightly. He kissed her again, but she bit his lip, drawing blood.
"Bitch," he whispered, squeezing harder. Tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes. He kissed them away, savoring their bitterness, then he moved inside her again, slowly, deeply.
"Tell me..."
He felt a shudder go through her. And then another. "Yes," she finally gasped. "I do. I do want you, Freddie... now. Oh, God... now ..."
She drowsed in his arms afterward. He stroked her hair, twining his fingers in the long brown tresses. He felt sated, exhausted, relieved.
He'd come to her flat to plead with her to take him back. They'd argued a few weeks ago. She'd found out about India, that he was engaged. She was furious and said she never wanted to see him again.
He'd brought flowers and chocolates, a bottle of champagne, and a little present.
"I miss you, Gem," he'd told her, standing in her doorway. "Don't you miss me, too? Just a bit?"
"Not at all," she'd said, trying to shut the door on him. "Leave, please."
But he hadn't. He'd handed her the roses instead. Yellow for forgiveness. And then he'd sweet-talked her into letting him come inside, just for a minute, to share some champagne. For old times' sake. He'd poured her a glass and then another, and then he'd moved close to her on the settee where they were sitting and slipped a gold ring on her pinkie. It was a twining serpent with an emerald eye.
"A snake," she said. "How appropriate."
It didn't take much after that to get her into bed. Jewelry always soft-ened her. He was glad she hadn't refused him. He wanted her back. He would have her, too. Soon. He would find her a nicer flat than this one and fill it with pretty things--furniture and flowers, paintings, a Victrola. He would buy her jewels, one bigger than the next, and she would fuck him silly. As soon as he was married.
He thought of India, his future wife. He hadn't seen her for days, but would in a week's time at Longmarsh. And he would get a wedding date out of her there, too. One way or another.
Gemma stirred in his arms, nestling in closer to him. He kissed the top of her head. He was happy here, in her rumpled bed. Drinking champagne in the twilight.
He would never be like this with India. He would never show her his heart. He knew that. He could only ever show that to Gemma. For hers was even darker.
Do you love her, Freddie? Gemma had asked.
He had told her no, but long ago, had he been asked the same question, he would have answered yes. He had loved India. Once upon a time. When they were children and innocent. Before they had changed. Before everything had changed.
She was beautiful as a child. And good, so good. He remembered now how she was forever rescuing injured animals. Birds with broken wings. Or-phaned squirrels. Tiny, blind moles. Keeping them in a makeshift animal hospital in the stables. She'd had an enormous heart. He knew she did. She'd shown it to him one summer at Blackwood. The summer before he killed his father.
He was twelve then, and India ten. They'd all been catching frogs by the edge of the pond with their butterfly nets, all of them except Daphne, who was in the nursery because she was little, and India, who refused to catch anything because she thought it was mean. Wish, tiring of frogs, suggested they go in the water and catch minnows instead. He, Bingham, and Hugh quickly rolled up their trouser legs and chucked their shirts. Maud and Bea knotted their skirts and waded in holding hands. The pond was shallow and they were all soon far from the bank.
Freddie sat down to roll up his trousers, too. He started to unbutton his shirt, forgetting for a minute that he mustn't. By the time he remembered, it was too late. India, who'd decided to sit on the bank in protest, was looking at him. He looked away, unable to meet her eyes. He tried to button his shirt up again, but she wouldn't let him. She opened it and peered at his body, at the ugly bruises staining his chest. She touched her fingers to them--with infinite gentleness--but he still winced. It was the shame of it that hurt most.
"Freddie, how did this happen?"
"My father," he said tersely.
"He...he beats you?" she whispered.
"Why do you think we always come here for the summer? And you never come to Longmarsh? Our mother sends us to keep us out of his way. If we're not there, he can't beat us. Only his horses. And her."
He had looked at her then. Her eyes were full of tears. For him.
"Don't, India, please," he said. "I can't bear it, your pity."
"It's not pity, Freddie," she said in a broken voice. "It's grief."
She'd wiped her tears away and said no more, but she'd taken his hand in hers and held it and they'd sat that way for quite some time. Together on the river bank in the quiet of a summer evening. It was the only time in his entire life he had not felt alone.
He had loved her then as a child loves, but as he grew older his love had changed. During the summer of his nineteenth year, and her seventeenth, he had loved her as a man loves, and had come to Blackwood in the hopes of making her his wife.
Things had changed by then, of course. Their group no longer played as children do. They'd grown, and this was to be their last summer together. Maud and India had made their debuts into society, and Maud was being courted by half a dozen titled men. Bea was working in the house as a par-lor maid. Hugh was a groom. Wish would start at Barings in the autumn. Bingham was doing his best to manage Longmarsh.
Maud and India had greeted them all with warmth, and had been eager to spend time with them, but Freddie had sensed a distance in India right from the start. She seemed distracted, her thoughts forever somewhere else.
He was in his room one night, sitting by the window and brooding over her strangeness, when he suddenly saw a slender figure, a woman, dart across the lawn below. The moon was full and it shone on her, illuminating her pale face, her blond hair. It was India. She was heading in the direction of the stables.
Surprised and worried--for it was past midnight--he left the house and followed her. By the time he reached the stables, she was already on her way into the wood, and she had company--Hugh Mullins, one of the grooms.
Freddie could not believe what he was seeing. Determined to find out what was between them, he followed them in the darkness, careful to hang back and walk quietly. India and Hugh walked hand-in-hand through the woods to Dyffyd's Rock, India's favorite place. Hugh climbed up the huge boulder and pulled India up after him. When they were both seated, he kissed her. He pulled her close and kissed her, and Freddie felt his world fall apart. He crept closer, desperate to hear what they were saying.
"I'm so glad you were able to come. I wasn't sure if you would. I have competition now, don't I?" Hugh said.
"Competition? Who?"
"Freddie. I've seen how he looks at you. He's in love with you."
India had laughed at that. "Don't be ridiculous!" she'd said. "Freddie's not in love with me. If he feels anything for me at all, it's the love one feels for a sister."
"He's the one you should marry, India."
India shook her head. "Freddie will marry someone as golden and daz-zling as he is. Not me. I'm far too plain for him. And anyway, I've set my heart on someone else."
She had taken his face in her hands then and kissed him, tenderly, pas-sionately. "Make love to me, Hugh. Here. Now," she said.
"On this bloody hard rock? Are you barmy?"
"In the woods then, under the trees."
"Not until we're married. It's not right."
"Prude!" she teased, giggling.<
br />
"Hussy."
Watching her, Freddie had realized that he no longer recognized her. She had never been like this with him, with any of them. She wasn't the quiet, stified girl that she was inside the house. She was laughing and happy. She was free. Hugh made her this way.
She leaned against Hugh, lifting her face to the stars. "Oh, I can't wait until we're married! We'll live in a cottage like your mother and father. With a fire in the grate. And a kettle on the hob. And stories and songs in the evenings. And our lovely children all around us."
"India," Hugh said, his voice solemn, "you know that if we do marry, we'll never be allowed to come back here. To Blackwood. Your father will probably disown you."
"Do you think for a second that I'd want to come back here? To this un-happy house? I want to leave. I want us to go far away. I would go anywhere with you."
"You don't know what you're saying. You're too young to see the conse-quences."
"I'll be eighteen soon. Old enough to decide for myself what I want. In two months' time. We'll go then. On my birthday. Promise me, Hugh."
"No, I won't. Because if I do, you'll hate me someday. When you're missing your home and wishing for things I can't give you. Wishing you'd never met me, much less married me."
"Don't talk that way. I'll never hate you, Hugh. Never. Now promise me we'll go away together. Promise me, Hugh Mullins."
"India, you have everything to lose."
She touched a finger to his lips. "I have everything to gain," she said. "I have you."
Hugh had taken her in his arms then. "I love you, India," he said.
"Promise me."
"I promise, you stupid, stupid girl. ...I promise."
Freddie had turned away then. He'd heard enough, seen enough. The Red Earl's words came back to him. Would'st be king? First, rip out thine own heart....He thought he had, the day he'd walked down the stairs at Longmarsh to view his father's broken body. But he was wrong. A small piece of it was still there, still alive. He knew because he'd just felt it shatter.
He walked back through the woods, to Blackwood, the love he'd felt for India turning into something else now. Something black and hateful. Rage and jealousy whirled about madly inside of him. The pain was staggering. He thought that night that he would not survive it, but he had. And only a week later, the pain had served him well. It had made it easy to do what he'd done. Easy to hand Hugh Mullins the hair comb. Easy to hurt India as badly as she had hurt him.
Gemma stirred again now. "What time is it?" she asked.
Freddie squinted at the clock on her bureau. "Half seven," he said. He would have to get moving. He was due at a dinner at half eight. Another political dinner. This time with the local leadership of the dockers' union where he would have to practice the politician's art of offering much, but promising nothing. They were a tedious lot, union types, with all their damned questions on strikes and wages and shortened working days, and he was not looking forward to it.
Thank God the Stronghold debacle had been contained. That, at least, would be one less thing they could grill him over. The robbery had made all the papers, but happily, so had the arrests of Sid Malone and two of his men. Donaldson had taken them in. True, they'd hardly spent any time in jail at all, and Malone, ill in the hospital under India's care--India, of all people!--didn't spend any time in a cell, but Freddie had glossed over that unfortunate fact by saying that the investigations were continuing, evidence was being gathered, and justice would shortly be done. Not a perfect outcome, but at least he'd limited the damage. All things considered, he thought he'd come out of it looking rather good--swift, tough, in control.
He extricated himself from Gemma's embrace now. "Must be off, old girl. I've a dreary dinner to attend," he said, getting out of bed. He ducked into the loo to wash his face and comb his hair, then he gathered his clothes off the floor and quickly dressed. Before he left, he bent over the bed and kissed Gemma, still drowsing, goodbye.
"I'm awfully glad we're back together," he said.
Gemma opened her languid cat's eyes. "Who said we were? We're not, Freddie. I'm with someone else now. I told you that."
Freddie sat down. He took her hand in his. "As soon as I'm married, things will be different. I promise you."
"I need something more than promises, Freddie. Promises don't pay my dressmaker's bills."
"Gemma--"
"Goodbye, Freddie. Come back after your wedding... or not at all." She closed her eyes and rolled over, her back to him.
Freddie wanted to argue with her, but he had no time. If he didn't leave, he'd be late. He hurried out of her flat and trotted down the stairs to the street. She lived on a quiet street in Stepney. He knew he would never find a cab on it, so he hurried south toward the Commercial Road.
A week's time till we're all at Longmarsh, he thought. Only seven days. No matter what it took, he would pin India down to a date then. He would pull out all the stops--declare his undying love, say he couldn't go on living without her, tell her how much he longed for children, and all that rubbish--and if that didn't work... well, there was always another way. A way that would all but guarantee a wedding.
As Freddie turned the corner onto the Commercial Road, his hand raised to flag a hackney, he smiled grimly, more determined than ever to marry as quickly as he could, for he desperately needed to gain a wife-- and keep a mistress.
Chapter 15
"Jesus Christ!" Joe shouted. "Jesus bloody Christ!"
"The whole damn thing's going up!" his driver cried.
But Joe barely heard him. He was out of his carriage and running down Wapping High Street before Myles had even stopped the horses.
Morocco Wharf was burning. Angry, roiling flames were shooting out of loopholes and windows. Thick, black smoke was billowing into the midnight sky. A police constable had come to 94 Grosvenor Square an hour ago to tell Joe his wharf was on fire. He'd woken the entire household. Foster had called for the carriage. Joe had thrown some clothes on and run out the door.
He was trying to get into the burning wharf now, but was being held back by a burly fireman.
"Let go of me!" he shouted, shaking the man off. "Where is he? Where the hell is he?"
"Who?" the fireman yelled.
"The foreman. Alf Stevens. Have you seen him?"
Another fireman took Joe's elbow. "Sir, if you'd just--"
"Touch me again, mate, and I'll break your fucking head. Where's Alf?"
A scream rose on the night air. A jagged, tearing sound of a human being in agony. It came from up the street. From the neighboring Eagle Wharf.
"Oh, God. Oh, no..." Joe said.
"Don't go over there," the first man said. "It is nothing you want to see."
But Joe was already gone, running as fast as he could. A group of men was clustered in front of the wharf, looking at something on the ground.
"Can't anyone do anything?" one of them said.
"Where's the bloody doctor?" another shouted.
Joe pushed his way through them. Alf Stevens, his foreman and his friend, was writhing on the ground. He'd been horribly burned. The left side of his face looked as if it had melted. The skin on his arms and chest was charred black. It had split in places, revealing streaks of raw, red fiesh. The eyes were the same, though. Wild, frantic, they were still Alf's eyes. He saw Joe and reached his hand out to him. Joe knelt beside him, afraid to take his hand, afraid to hurt him.
"Bets bets bets," Alf rasped. "No chance bets I says I hit him he swung lamp fell bets bets did for me bets..."
Alf was making no sense. He was delirious.
"Hang on, Alf," Joe said. "Don't talk. Help's coming. Just hang on...."
Another man pushed through the crowd as Joe was speaking. His frock coat and leather bag told Joe that he was a doctor. He looked down at Alf and shook his head. "How did this happen?" he asked.
"I don't know. He must have been inside the wharf when the fire started. Knowing him, he tried to put it out."
Joe watched him fill the syringe. He'd had morphine once for a broken leg. His doctor had given him a fraction of what this man was giving Alf. He knew it was a lethal dose. The doctor looked up; his eyes met Joe's.
"It's all I can do," he said.
"Then do it," Joe said.
The doctor searched for a vein in Alf's leg. His arms were too far gone. Alf began to convulse. It took the doctor three tries before he could get the needle in. He emptied the syringe and the spasms subsided.
Winter Rose, The Page 19
