The village was pitch dark, empty, its single street awash. Could anyone be found who might drive her at least part way to the farm? The publican could give her little information beyond his opinion that no sane person would be out on a night like this; an attitude she fully shared. And since it was not his custom to serve alcohol to unaccompanied women she thanked him kindly and went out again into the night. Was there a vicarage, she wondered, and a clergyman to take pity on her? But clergymen, she reminded herself, had a tendency to ask questions, draw conclusions, and to be acquainted with other clergymen who might, in their turn, be acquainted with Miriam. Better not. The blacksmith then? There was a light in the forge, used nowadays as much for the repair of motor vehicles as for the shoeing of horses, and picking her way through the litter of scrap metal in the yard, an old wagon wheel, a tangle of rusty harness, a brand-new petrol pump, she walked in and managed – as she had often done in France – to beg a mug of hot tea in this predominantly male atmosphere and eventually to come to an arrangement with a farmer who, when the sleet had somewhat abated, would be travelling roughly in her direction, leaving her with only the walled track to negotiate on foot.
The farm cart was unsteady, open to every gust of wind, every stinging handful of rain the night saw fit to fling against it, the farmer a dour, dispirited man who, throughout the three jolting miles she rode beside him, spoke not a word.
He halted at the beginning of the track and, fearful for the lily bowl, she threw her bag to the ground and jumped down after it. ‘Thank you.’ He drove on. Ah well. The last lap. And there had been no point in dwelling on how much she had dreaded it until now. But here it was, perhaps a mile of rough going, the ground iron hard with winter, treacherous with a frost so bitter now that it froze the sleet as it fell, the narrow path set between high stone walls which, rather than giving shelter, became a wind trap, a sinister, shrieking tunnel where dire things – to anyone of a nervous disposition – might spring out of the dark. Was she afraid? It occurred to her that she ought to be. There might well be a madman – and only a madman – at large in this desolation, with rape or murder on his mind. Yet the possibility alarmed her rather less than the certain menace of the cold, the molestation of the sleet as it inserted icy fingers down her back, the absolute necessity of holding onto the lily bowl so that even if she turned her ankle on one of these damnable stones or fell into a bog, as seemed quite likely, she might salvage it. She was no longer quite certain whether she would give it to Benedict or not. That – like much else – would depend. But unless she should succumb to the growing impulse to throw it at his head – very unlike her – she did not want it to break. And if it turned out that she felt unable to make him the gift, or he did not want it, then she would just take it away and give it – to whom? Not to Euan, who would stuff it in his kitbag, or leave it somewhere on his way. Not to Kit nor to her mother, who would think it bizarre. To Nola. How very apt. The thought enlivened the last scramble to the gate, the scraping back of the bolt with fingers she could hardly feel, the rather terrible moment of realizing that the quite stimulating ordeal was over and what she now had to do was face the awkwardness of her arrival.
His car was in the yard. Good. Naturally she no longer had the least wish to see him. Probably never again. But, having a fairly accurate knowledge of how much exposure her body might be likely to withstand, she knew she required a warm towel, a brandy, a lift into town which she preferred to take from him rather than throw herself on the mercy of Mrs Mayhew and Miss Todd. But – oh dear – how very embarrassing. Ah, well –! She found the door unlocked, pushed it open and walked in. ‘Happy birthday, Benedict,’ she said.
He was standing by the fire, his back to her, about to put on a log which, at the sound of her voice, fell heavily from his hand straight into the blaze so that he seemed to spin round towards her in a shower of sparks.
And for a moment, while the fire behind him, unsettled by the falling log, exploded unevenly into flame, he stared at her without a word.
Then, curtly she thought, which was much as she had expected, ‘How did you get here?’
Was he angry? A little stricken in his conscience? Glad? But she was sick and tired of guessing games. Life was too short, too precarious, quite complicated enough without that.
‘Magic bloody carpet,’ she said. ‘What else?’
‘You walked up from the village!’
‘Yes.’
It did no harm to let him think so.
‘Why?’
‘Oh – I’m just delivering a parcel.’ She put the lily bowl down on a table, a disreputable, dripping bundle now but still apparently intact. ‘Don’t look at it now. I think you’d better wait – probably until I’m gone.’
And when he gave no answer, when the silence lengthened and thickened and he seemed to her, once again, so wrapped in shadow that she could see no more of him than a dim outline – had she ever seen more than that? – she rapped out ‘You saw me running up Mannheim Crescent, I damn well know you did. Well – didn’t you?’
‘Never mind that.’
‘I do mind.’
He made an exclamation of impatience with his tongue and, striding to the inner doorway, called down the corridor ‘Mrs Mayhew, would you run a hot bath please.’ And turning back to her he made a gesture of pure authority, his manner not even taking into account the possibility of being disobeyed.
‘Get into the bath and soak. Then come back here.’
The water was deep and fragrant, and losing herself completely in the luxury of warmth after cold, the body’s ease after hardship, she was content just to bask, to float; grateful to be no longer in that acrid smelling little train, on that hard road; to be comfortable while Mrs Mayhew made discreet murmurings from behind the door about her bag and her clothes. It was now half past six o’clock. She had been three hours on her way. Dinner would not be ready until nine. Would she like a snack? Thank you Mrs Mayhew. She ducked her head under the water, washed her hair, wrapped herself in a warm towel and wondered vaguely what to do next. He had said ‘Come back here.’ Very well. Mrs Mayhew had whisked away her jumper suit, her wet shoes and stockings, her coat which, for all Mrs Mayhew’s domestic magic, would probably never be the same again. Could she afford a new coat? Remembering the lily bowl she thought not. But now all she had to wear was her evening dress, her gold sandals, or her night things. And because it suited her mood of resigned defiance, her conviction that since she seemed unlikely to please anyone else that night she might just as well please herself, she slipped on her old scarlet kimono with its threadbare gold dragons and went barefoot into the living room.
Her chair and its footstool were drawn up to the fire, a tray beside it holding sandwiches, a coffee pot, a glass of brandy. She sat down, stretched out her bare legs to the stool, and lay at ease, or apparently so, in the lamplight.
‘Coffee?’ He filled her cup, placed it so that she had only to reach out a hand, and sat down on the stool at her feet, one hand on her ankle, a contact which, half-closing her eyes, employing fatigue as a convenient device, she chose to ignore.
‘Thank you, Claire.’
She had been a long time in the bath and whatever he had felt or would have preferred not to feel was perfectly controlled now, his voice even and neutral, only his hand on her ankle a shade less than calm.
‘For what?’
‘Several things. The bowl, for one.’
‘Oh – you like it then?’
‘Yes, I like it. Enormously. I also know how hard it must have been to find.’
‘Well, that’s all right then.’
‘Is it?’
She had kept her eyes half-closed, filling her obscured vision with the glow of the fire, the emerald and sapphire reflections of the Tiffany lamp. But now she opened them and looked at him, finding his expression grave but as unfathomable as it had ever been.
‘You did see me in Mannheim Crescent, didn’t you?’
He nodded.
&
nbsp; ‘Then why did you drive away?’
‘Would it be enough to tell you how much I regret it?’
‘No. Tell me why.’
‘I am not given to explanations, Claire.’
‘Very convenient for you. I shall just go on asking, you know …’
‘I know.’
And closing her eyes again, feeling the pressure of his hand around her bare foot, she was aware of a tightening in the air between them, of strain emanating from his body to pluck, quite painfully, at her already overwrought and therefore unsteady nerves; a moment laden not only with stress but with hard-dragging, bone-wearying effort. His effort. His struggle to force something from himself, or to hold it down.
‘I saw you coming,’ he said slowly, ‘I may have been rather too glad of it. That is all I can say to you.’
What he had said – if she had understood it rightly – was amazing, tremendous, more than she had ever hoped to hear. She sat up to think about it, her kimono falling open a little, disarranged by her own movement and by his hand, travelling now from her ankle to her knee.
‘I never expected, Claire, for one moment, that you would come here alone.’
‘What did you expect?’
‘Annoyance. Indifference. It would have been appropriate – wiser. It never entered my head that you would put yourself in danger.’
He was concerned for her. He was even attempting to apologize. She heard it in his voice, loved it, ardently desired it to continue. But she answered him airily, knowing from some deep instinct, that it was essential to make light of it; knowing for certain, without knowing how she knew it, that he could not cope for much longer with even this small and only partially revealed degree of emotion.
‘What danger? They’re not much given to rape, are they, in Thornwick?’
Instantly, and with relief, he gave her his dry smile. ‘Silly child. You might find pneumonia rather more fatal.’
‘More run of the mill, I suppose.’
‘Quite. What an odd little garment you are wearing.’
‘Yes. I put it on when I am in a dangerous humour. But the point is, Benedict – are you glad I came?’
Leaning over her he undid the sash which only loosely held the scarlet silk together, drew it apart so that she lay naked in the firelight, and put his mouth to her shoulders and to her breasts, to every line and hollow of her outstretched body, long, deeply considered kisses of possession to which on an impulse of absolute yielding, she responded by pressing his face against her stomach and holding him there in the shielding, nurturing embrace of a woman to whom love came easily, generously, as naturally as the breathing of air.
‘It never occurred to me that you would do this,’ he said again, pulling her forward and lifting her from the chair.
‘Oh, Benedict –’ And she was sighing and smiling. ‘Are you going to carry me to bed? I do hope so.’
He carried her from the room and down the passage as carefully as if she had been an invalid or a child, and then dropped her from a height onto the bed, himself on top of her, so that she shrieked and giggled; sounds, she thought, which may not have been heard in that house before.
‘That was savage of you, Benedict.’
‘Yes. Wasn’t it? A side to my nature, perhaps, that you didn’t expect.’
She reached out slender arms with finely turned wrists and capable, gentle hands and he came to her, allowing her for the first time, she thought, to enfold him with her own lovemaking, to give pleasure in her own way rather than as the vessel in which he manufactured it for them both, so that when it was over, her body still vibrating like an over strung harp, her senses still afloat, and he turned away from her as always with what had often seemed to her a shudder of disdain, she dared to invade the shadow which had fallen around him, the feather-light pressure of her fingertips on his chest and his back turning him towards her until her head was in the hollow of his shoulder, their bodies clasped in the loose, friendly embrace which she had always believed to be the right thing, the only thing to do after making love. So far their affaire had proceeded entirely at his direction. She supposed all his affaires had done so. She wondered why it meant so much to her to show him that there was another way. An ‘impermanent’way, of course, but one which had meaning as well as sensation, a way in which they might learn from each other as she believed lovers ought to do.
Life so far had taught her to snatch at whatever might turn out to be happiness without asking too many questions; simply to be grateful. And, therefore, for the rest of that evening she was happy, wearing her crushed velvet dress and her antique earrings, drinking Vouvray and champagne, saying whatever came into her head to a man who responded with charm and wit, who did not tell her she was beautiful but looked at her as if he thought so, who touched her, from time to time, as he filled her glass or lit her cigarette, with the same appreciation of her value and her rarity, the same instinct to cherish and possess which he accorded to the lily bowl and to his cameo glass. She was happy sleeping beside him that night in the wide deep bed, happy the next morning when he brought her toast and marmalade, new-laid eggs and home-cured bacon, on a tray.
‘Benedict, you are spoiling me.’
‘Yes. But my purposes are entirely sinister.’
‘Oh – you are going to seduce me afterwards, I suppose. Please do.’
He clicked his tongue in mock reproach. ‘My dear young lady, have you no shame?’
‘None.’
‘And no fear?’
‘Very little. Not much sense either.’
He smiled. ‘But a great deal of-’
‘Don’t stop. That sounds like a compliment.’
‘Yes. It might have been. Don’t let me exploit you, Claire.’
‘That is not what you started to say.’
‘No – simply what I ought to be saying.’
‘This is very good coffee, Benedict.’
She was still happy.
There had been a light snowfall in the night, pure white fields and a pale grey sky, cold, quiet air streaked by their breath as they strolled as far as her shoes could manage along the road and stood for a while looking across the steeply sloping land which led eventually – inevitably perhaps, she thought with a shiver – to High Meadows.
‘Where do they think you are today, Benedict?’
‘London.’
‘Do they believe you?’
‘My dear – they don’t care.’ It was a statement of fact, spoken without rancour, which seemed quite natural to him. Why should they care? It suited him far better that they did not. Yet it hurt her. Did he care for them? It seemed unlikely.
‘Were you born at High Meadows, Benedict?’
‘Yes. My father built the house for my mother – with her money, of course, since he had none until he married her.’
‘So that is why it belongs to you now instead of the others?’
He smiled down at her, delighting her with a rare moment of confidence, ‘I believe my father saw “the others”, as a kind of diversion, a pleasant little fantasy. Whereas I, of course, was the not quite pleasant reality.’
‘Were you fond of him?’
Rather desperately she wanted him to be fond of somebody.
‘No. Not at all. I worked for him. I made sure he paid me.’ He smiled again. ‘I was the poor little orphan, you see, sent to work in the mill while “the others” stayed at home eating strawberries and cream. And now I have the house and the mill and all the money – and the woman I want. Do I have her?’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘Then let me take you out to lunch, since Mrs Mayhew has worked such wonders with your coat and shoes.’
She was happy now.
And afterwards, no matter how carefully she looked for it, she could never quite place the exact moment that she lost him.
The drive across the Pennines to the moorland heights of Lancashire was pleasant enough. The inn, set in apparent and very lofty isolation, although it was reasona
bly accessible from several large towns, was famous both for its wine cellar and its history, and every bit as luxurious in its dark oak and tobacco-brown leather fashion as she had expected. Bandits and smugglers had done dark deeds here in bygone days. A highwayman of great local repute had been shot from his saddle in the stableyard. There had been elopements or abductions, according to taste, of high-born women and the last act of a tragic love-story played out in the barn when a local Romeo and a Juliet from the Colne Valley had chosen to die in each other’s arms. There had been the whispering of conspirators, Cavaliers and Roundheads, hiding from one another, both finding friends among the hard-headed, fiercely independent moorlanders. There had been supporters of catholic royalty hiding, in protestant England, from the protestant English, since the landlord of the day had been willing to give shelter to anybody of any persuasion who could pay his price. There were ghosts, of course: young Juliet in a white nightgown wringing her hands, a murdered man – a supporter of Bonnie Prince Charlie it was said – looking for revenge on Christmas or on Midsummer’s Eve, no one was absolutely certain. But on most days of the week the present landlord – aware of the commercial value of ghosts and legends – was pleased to serve ample luncheons of roast beef or game or venison in season in a low-beamed room full of horse brasses and weaponry, pikes and muskets and broadswords in gleaming, good-as-new condition, the food so exquisite and the light so dim that it had become fashionable and convenient for gentlemen who could afford it to lunch here with women who were not their wives.
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