Before she realised what had happened she was perched astride the horse and her lace-edged drawers were showing at her ankles. She gave a cry of distress and struggled to tug her skirts down despite the wind fighting to whip them up even higher.
‘For God’s sake,’ Luther shouted, ‘what’s the use of bothering about that at a time like this? Do you think I’ve never seen a woman’s drawers before? Just concentrate on hanging on and follow close behind me.’
He left her sobbing in confusion and set off on another horse. A few minutes later he turned, and when he saw her still helplessly sitting where he’d left her he slowed his horse and angrily returned.
‘Did you not hear what I said?’ he bawled as close to her face as he could reach. ‘Hang on and follow me.’ With that he made a loud, snarling noise and aimed a blow at her horse’s rump, sending the beast suddenly galloping away.
Then his horse sped in front of hers, but before long both animals were slowed to trotting pace then to a stumbling walk by the blizzard conditions and the state of the ground. The road had disappeared and the whole countryside was hushed by a thick carpet of white.
Looking back, Augusta could no longer see the coach. She wondered how long they had been travelling. Exhaustion and cold were making her feel dizzy. She longed to ease her aching body, thaw her frozen limbs at a fire, give herself up to the bliss of a feather bed.
Several times she had been tempted to ask Gunnet if he knew where they were and if he thought shelter was near at hand. But when she caught glimpses through the speckling snow of his broad back, so alien and uncaring, she felt frightened and couldn’t make a sound. Drifts deepened until the horses began to flounder and throw up their heads and whinny in protest, nostrils flaring and eyes red.
She began to cry again when the animals refused to breast an icy wall.
‘A lot of good that’ll do you,’ said Gunnet.
She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘It’s no use. It’s too deep for them. What are we going to do?’
‘Just be quiet and keep trying.’
Weeping bitterly she struggled with the horse, kicking it as hard as she could to force it forward until at last Gunnet said,
‘There’s nothing else for it. We’ll just have to get off and walk.’
‘Walk?’ She watched incredulously as he dismounted, came towards her, his cape flapping noisily in the wind, and lifted her down.
‘Have you any better suggestions?’
Her eyes widened with apprehension and appeal. ‘But I can’t.’
‘If we stay here we die. I don’t choose to die. You please yourself.’
With that he left her. She stood motionless for a time, small and helpless in her blue bell-shaped coat and bonnet with the large bow under her chin and fair curls escaping and tumbling over her forehead. A dusting of snow whitened her as she stood gazing in disbelief at Gunnet’s retreating figure.
Then panic jerked her into action and she ran, stumbling, falling, getting to her feet, struggling forward again and shouting.
‘Gunnet, wait! Don’t leave me. Gunnet, do you hear? Don’t you dare leave me alone.’
He stopped and turned a sardonic gaze on her as, forgetting modesty in the anxiety of the moment, she lifted her skirt and struggled towards him with ungainly, plunging steps.
‘It’s up to you,’ he said. ‘I told you we’ve got to keep going.’
‘There’s surely no need to go at such a pace.’
‘Once we slow down, the next stage is stopping to rest.’
‘Well, what would be wrong with that?’
‘Before we would realise what was happening we would be overcome by sleep, a sleep we would never awaken from. I’ve seen it happen. Come on. We mustn’t weaken.’
She followed him as best as she could, keeping her skirts hitched up because otherwise she couldn’t walk without tripping and falling. When she had fallen her cries of distress did not bring Gunnet to her assistance and she had been forced to struggle to her feet by herself, her clothes becoming wetter each time.
Sometimes the wind dropped and the air cleared of snow and she could at least breathe easier and see where she was going. But her leg muscles felt as if they were being torn apart. Each heavy, dragging step had become agony. Pain was now twisting up her back, and her whole body felt strained beyond endurance.
Sobbing burst out like anger. Her clothes, especially her drawers, were soaked and turning to ice against her skin. She was wet, cold, miserable and absolutely exhausted. It was impossible to go on like this. They had reached a hillock on which bent a few trees as if ready to snap with the weight of snow on their branches. Leaning against one she found its support an exquisite relief.
‘Gunnet,’ she called. ‘Wait. I can’t go on any further. I just haven’t the strength.’
‘You can do anything if you’ve a will to. Will yourself.’
‘How can I?’ she said brokenly. ‘That takes strength as well.’
‘Even you can find that kind of strength.’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘The alternative is to give up and die.’
‘No, it is not. You have strength. You can help me.’
‘I am helping you.’
‘You are not helping me.’ She raised her voice in anger despite tears of weakness. ‘You are no use at all. You ignorant brute of a man. It is well seen that you are a common servant and not a gentleman.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he gave a burst of derisive laughter. ‘I know what you expected, you spoiled, pampered little brat. You’re a fine one to talk about being useless. You’ve never done a day’s work in your foolish, shallow life. Well, you’re not getting what you expected from me, not here, not now. So, come on.’
He strode away beyond the trees and disappeared down the other side of the hillock.
Fury as well as fear spurred her on. Ignoring the agony it caused, she forced her body to propel itself after him.
‘How dare you speak to me like that! My father shall hear of this.’
‘Your equally pampered and stupid mother has probably signed your father’s death warrant by keeping him back there,’ he shouted without turning round.
‘You wicked cruel man. How could you say such a thing?’
‘Because it’s the truth.’
‘I do not believe you. Papa knows what he is doing. He would not endanger Mama’s life. They will be sheltered there, warm and safe under the fur rug. Oh, how I wish I was with them!’
‘Make no mistake about it, I wish you were there too!’
The sky had become heavy and metallic and was glowering down at them as if it too was black-hearted and angry.
‘It’ll be dark soon,’ she accused. ‘And then what’ll we do?’
He did not reply and she shouted again:
‘Gunnet, answer me!’
‘Give your tongue a rest.’
‘How dare you! How dare you!’
Her words feebled as her strength was taken up in concentrating on withstanding the bluster of wind that tugged at her clothes, and the new biting strength of snow that attacked her.
The blizzard grew to furious proportions. She could no longer see Gunnet. Like a blind woman she stumbled along with no idea in which direction she was going. The wind tore at her coat, ripping it open, snapping it behind her like a flag and leaving her vulnerable to icy wetness. With strength she never knew she possessed she fought against the elements. She fought beyond her strength until she seemed to become mad—not insane with reckless fury like the storm but buffeted and bewildered into a kind of airy-headed idiocy. Even the pain left her. A numbness crept over her limbs.
The numbness was a blessing, a sweet relief. It brought with it soothing drowsiness, a warm blanket of sleep into which she gratefully sank. Then through the heavy black velvet under which she sheltered, she did not know nor care for how long, she began to feel ripples of disturbance and unwelcome pain. From far-off a voice penetrated her sleep.
‘Wake up! Come on!’
She was being shaken. Head lolling about, she groaned in protest.
‘I’ll carry you, but you mustn’t sleep. Fight it, do you hear?’
A particularly vicious shake brought a glimpse of Gunnet’s face close to hers. Yet she could do nothing to protect herself. She was only vaguely aware of being swung into the air and tossed across his shoulder. Her head and arms dangled down and for a few minutes she remained dazedly conscious before succumbing to sleep again. A cry from Gunnet pierced the woolliness of her mind. She thought he said something about a shepherd’s bothy or a hut for storing hay, but his voice was a long, long way off and she no longer cared about it.
Some time later, annoyance dragged her unwillingly back to consciousness and pain. She was lying on a bed of straw and Gunnet, on his knees beside her, was rubbing her bare feet with snow. Her skin had the sickly white colour of death. She shivered with distaste.
‘I’ll have to get these wet clothes off,’ she heard him say.
Her eyelids were heavy and she kept drifting far away, yet his voice kept reaching her, goading her to make the effort to open her eyes. It was during one of these moments of muzzy consciousness that she saw him pull off her undergarments and then start to unfasten her dress. A sense of outrage struggled to reach the surface. She made an attempt to move, to push him away, moaning in rising alarm and distress.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Come on. Fight me. Anger will help to get your blood circulating again.’
Now he had her in his arms and was peeling off her icicle of a coat and dress.
‘How dare you,’ she managed. ‘Take your hands off me.’
‘If these wet clothes are left on, you’ll freeze. I’ll wrap you in my cape.’
Tears trickled down her cheeks and she closed her eyes, surrendering to oblivion, unable to face the shame of his gaze on her nakedness. Cleaving to the darkness, despite the fact that he was shaking her again, she withdrew far away from him in her mind. Then gradually she became alive to a strange excitement. The enormity of realising that Gunnet was wrapped close to her inside the cape, his skin hot against hers, was confused by a tingling ecstasy as his fingers explored her most secret places.
Gasping, and in a frenzy of will, she fought to push him back. His creased eyes with their mocking smile remained close, came closer, his voice softly intimate.
‘I thought that would waken you up.’
She meant to cry out in protest but his mouth silenced her. Astonished at the delight his kiss brought, she did not struggle against it at first but became, for a few minutes, completely absorbed. Even the sounds of the storm outside were erased. Until suddenly out of the sweet silence came a welter of emotions that she had never experienced before. Like a delirium their strangeness agitated her and frightened her and she felt compelled to protect herself against them. Once more she began to fight him. Ignoring the pain in her limbs she lashed out with them and struggled to toss her head from side to side. He laughed quietly, not breaking the intimacy, the secret world they were cocooned in.
Then as his mouth found hers she melted, and his hand cupped her breast and gently kneaded it and plucked and pulled at its nipple. A vein of heat stretched down from her breasts and spread over her lower abdomen like a pain. She moaned with the ecstasy of it and spread her thighs wide, desperate for relief; and it came when something plunged hard inside her. At the same time the ecstasy increased like waves of madness, forcing little breathless screams from her, high-pitched with astonishment and delight, completely scattering thought. And eventually she collapsed, loose with exhaustion.
She must have slept, for the next thing she knew was the sun streaming into the hut. Gunnet was nowhere to be seen and the door was lying open. A piece of paper rustled inside the cape when she moved and finding it she read: ‘I’ve hung your clothes on the side of the hut. The sun will soon dry them. This hut suggests there’s a farm nearby. I’ve gone to look over the other side of the hill.’
She dressed automatically, her mind still submerged in physical gratification. The warm sun seemed to expand through her like joy and she gave herself up to the thoughtless, sensual moment, her face raised and eyes closed.
When she opened her eyes again she observed an unusual sight. A strange contraption was being pushed towards her by two horses. What looked like two broad pieces of wood, standing on end and joined at the front in a pointed nose, were cutting through the snow. The horses were dragging behind them an enormous block of wood that was flattening the snow. On top of the wood and holding the reins a ruddy-faced man was perched on a chair. Following the whole contraption rode several horsemen. As they came nearer Augusta recognised one of them as Gunnet. He spurred his horse ahead and when he reached her he said:
‘I’ll get one of the others to take you to the farmhouse. I must find your father and mother.’
Chapter Five
Although cramped and stiff, Mr and Mrs Cameron had survived the ordeal remarkably well. The snow had drifted up around the coach but had not completely covered it; in fact it had protected them from the bitterly cold wind and insulated them from the worst of the storm.
The coach, righted with the help of the farmer and a couple of his workers, and supplied with a fresh team of horses from the same source, had not suffered any serious damage so after a period of rest and refreshment they were able to continue on their journey. Eventually, without further mishap, they arrived on the outskirts of London and were soon entering a district of very elegant houses. Turning into one of the most impressive driveways, they pulled up in front of the Fitzjames residence.
Augusta had sat for the remainder of the journey without saying a word, not moving a muscle. She had not yet recovered from the shock of all that had happened, and still quickened in terror when thoughts of the blizzard penetrated her defences. She had to keep assuring herself that it was in the past and that she was perfectly safe now. What had taken place with the coachman during the night was too shocking to contemplate. She erased it, pretended it had not occurred at all. Gunnet had never looked at her since the journey was resumed, nor at any of the inns on the way had she allowed her eyes to stray in his direction.
Now, as the coach and four entered the gates and cantered along the drive towards Fitzjames Hall, she forced her head up and the sight that met her eyes helped divert her mind from its turmoil.
Mrs Cameron, despite her fatigue, was also rallied to attention by the grandeur of the place with its east and west wings and pillared frontage. She exclaimed to her husband in delight at the lines of footmen in powdered wigs and white gloves who were waiting to receive them as the horses came to a halt in front of the entrance.
They were helped to alight and led into the house. Still half-dazed but somehow managing to retain a stiff, dignified composure, Augusta followed her mother into an assembly hall ornamented with a wrought-iron staircase, oil paintings in gilt frames and statues draped in white. The stairs led up to the right then strung across the hall to the left, parallel with a landing fronted by pillars which soared upwards to a curved ceiling painted in delicate shades of pink, green and blue.
Eventually she reached a bedroom dominated by an exotic bed with a gilt canopy hung with drapes of deep peach and green. A maid provided water to wash away the dust of the journey, and also unpacked her clothes and helped Augusta to do her hair and change into a fresh gown. Then she rejoined her parents on the landing and they were all escorted to a lofty room that sent Mrs Cameron into a paroxysm of excitement. The footman had barely finished announcing their names when she hastened forward, eyes darting appreciatively about and crying:
‘Delightful! Delightful!’
Mr Cameron went booming across, hand outstretched, to meet his host and hostess, ruddy face bursting with enthusiasm.
‘A grand place you have here. To be frank and honest I’ve never seen such a grand place in my life, and we have some fine houses in Glasgow. I’ve a fine house myself.’
Lieutenant Fitzjames wandered forward to breach the second in which his parents gazed down at Cameron’s hand as if it was vaguely revolting.
‘Allow me to present my mother and father . . . .’
Mrs Fitzjames offered limp fingers. She was a tall woman who looked as if she refused to acknowledge the existence of anyone below the level of her nose. Her husband had a long face like a horse. They both had a weary, disinterested appearance as if, beneath an all-too-thin veneer of polite attention, they were miles away across a vast no-man’s land.
Augusta perceived, however, an occasional glimmer of interest in her direction, and once Mr Fitzjames had murmured to his son:
‘A fine beauty. Ought to carry on the family name with some pride.’
She felt some relief that she seemed to have gained acceptance. But a worrying tenseness remained on her parents’ behalf. The Fitzjameses seemed to be treating them with almost insulting coolness. Not that Felicity, fussing and plucking at her skirts, patting her ringlets and fluttering her eyelashes, seemed to have noticed. Her father also seemed completely oblivious to anything being amiss as he relaxed back on the sofa puffing at his cigar.
Augusta’s concern only pricked the surface of her mind, however. Her recent experience had distanced her from herself. On the outside a beautiful mask managed occasionally to smile and murmur polite answers if anyone spoke to her. This outside self sat straight-backed at the piano in the noble drawing-room, fingers caressing the keys as she sang and Lieutenant Fitzjames turned the pages of her music.
Inside, far away in darkness, there wandered an unrelated, bewildered creature. She ignored it. She listened to the wedding plans being discussed. She learned with wonder that as well as a town establishment she and the lieutenant were to be given the Fitzjameses’ country seat when the lieutenant resigned his commission. Yet still the animal creature wandered like a lost soul.
A ball had been arranged the next evening to officially celebrate the couple’s engagement.
‘Mercy,’ cried Felicity, as later in her bedroom deliberations were held about which gown would be most appropriate to wear, ‘there will even be lords and ladies there. Oh, isn’t it exciting? Oh, Augusta, aren’t you absolutely thrilled.’
The Dark Side of Pleasure Page 4
