The Velvet Glove

by Mary Williams

  ‘Oh. You always take the easy way out,’ his wife complained irritably. ‘What help is that?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s the only course left. Try and get things in proportion. She didn’t do anything wrong, did she? Not as if she behaved objectionably, or drank too much. The dress was a bit gloomy-looking, I grant you. But some women think black’s smart these days—’

  ‘She wasn’t thinking of smartness. It would be a lot better if she did. Sometimes I really believe she’s not quite all there. And with Jon for a husband. My only son.’

  ‘Hm! Yes! I’ll have a word with him tomorrow. Maybe he should take a stronger line with her in some way – wake her up a bit and give her an idea of what being a Wentworth means. I thought in the beginning she’d take to horse riding. But the first fall ended it. Well, you either like horses or you don’t. The point is, Olivia, she’s Jon’s wife, and somehow we’ve got to come to terms. Don’t worry, my dear. I’ve a shrewd idea he may be having a word with her tonight. He’d a firm set to his face when he left. He no more liked her dreary get-up than we did. Don’t know why he allowed it.’

  ‘I’m sure he didn’t. If you remember Jon came first tonight. She’d been at the Barringtons for the afternoon and arrived with them. I should have thought that woman – Barrington’s wife – would have used what influence she had to stop such a charade. That’s what it was you know, just a charade with that silent, silly little creature apeing a Spanish duenna or some foreign nun. I really am upset. I feel quite ill in fact—’

  Sir William sighed. ‘Oh, come now, Olivia. Enough’s enough. Damned if I’m going to waste any more breath over a black dress. Pull yourself together. Take a pill or something or a hot toddy and get to bed. I’m having a last smoke then I’ll join you.’

  At the time William was having his smoke, Jon was confronting Cassandra in their bedroom at the Dower House.

  She had removed the veiling from her hair and was sitting before the dressing-table mirror regarding herself solemnly through the glass. The shadowed lamplight made the reflection of her eyes enormous in her pale face, but Jon steeled himself for what he was about to say and do. ‘Come here, Cass. Get up. Look at me.’

  She turned her head questioningly. ‘What is it? What do you want? I’m tired.’

  ‘I said get up.’

  She sighed, and got to her feet. ‘Jon, I—’

  He came forward and put one hand on a shoulder and with the other clutched the fastening of her bodice, took the chain from her neck and threw it across the room. She pulled back, but lips were warm against her throat, his voice was already husky, when he said, ‘I’m going to love you tonight, Cass – properly, not like it’s been before – but sweet and deep. Deep, darling, as a man should love a wife. We’ll have a baby, Cass—’

  ‘No, no.’ Her resistance held the frail high cry of some delicate captured bird. ‘Jon, please—’ but it only inflamed his desire and determination.

  ‘It’s all right, darling. Trust me.’ As she struggled his mouth crushed hers; she fell back in his arms, and forcefully but gentle still, he removed the black gown, lifted and carried her to the large canopied bed and laid her down. She lay like some defenceless doll, with her pale hair spilling over the pillow as though all life had been drained from her. Rigidly she watched him disappear into the dressing-room and return only moments later in the paisley dressing-gown he’d worn on their honeymoon. His face was flushed. There was an eager look on it that made her cringe. Instinctively she crossed her arms over the white bodice of her underskirt.

  He moved forward, tentatively at first, brilliant-eyed, and stood looking down on her for a moment.

  ‘This is our marriage night, Cass,’ he said. Then he opened the gown, and she saw him for a second, naked, upright and strong as a young tree reaching to the sunlight.

  Something quivered to life in her, struggled, then darkened into a spreading cloud of terror as his maleness registered. There was nothing there anymore but fear – the sick engulfing thing from the past blotting out all else except a wild panic that froze the blood in her veins, leaving her rigid and powerless against a lusting tide of need that had been frustrated for too long. He became in her, and of her, and all the time little moans of endearment mingled with the thrust of desire, rising and falling in a weird cacophony of sound that with each sigh brought fresh terror, until, suddenly, all was over. He rolled away from her, leaving her free.

  And then suddenly she screamed.

  Screamed and screamed.

  There was a brief pause while he regained his breath and sat up, exhausted and alarmed.

  She was already at the door of their room, less than half clad in a torn petticoat and bodice. He stumbled from the bed, pulled on his wrap and went after her, but it was too late. She’d reached the landing and stairs, and was still screaming.

  ‘Come back,’ Jon shouted, ‘for God’s sake – you little idiot Cass—’

  But there was no pause in her wild flight; out she raced into the misty cold night – a zig-zag of blurred shape and whiteness that faded into a pin-point of thin cloud, then disappeared altogether.

  Bemused and shocked Jon put a hand to his forehead and stood there briefly before turning to get a coat. At the same moment there was the sound of movement from the back of the building, and the housemaid appeared above on the landing.

  ‘Mr Jon, sir, is anything the matter? Are you all right? We—’

  Something in Jon’s face silenced her.

  He managed to control himself and say in rather harsh high tones, ‘Your mistress has had a nightmare – we must – I must go after her – have hot drinks ready.’

  Whether the girl did as he said he didn’t know. Minutes later he’d pulled on boots and a mackintosh and with a torch was covering the grounds of Charnbrook following the direction of Cassie’s disappearance. The Dower House stood not more than a quarter of a mile below the Hall practically on a level with the Lodge. The surrounding country was mostly parkland dotted with trees above a winding lane overlooking the forest.

  The light was poor that night with a mere sliver of moon behind the thickening veil of cloud. Jon walked, head thrust forward, eyes scanning with difficulty every occasional lump of rock and tree trunk, calling at intervals, ‘Cass – Cass’ through a funnel formed by his hands. There was no response but the mournful distant crying of a night owl.

  At last, just as he was about to cut down to the lane he glimpsed movement ahead and saw a humped shape gradually emerging from the distorted shadows – not a poacher which could have been expected – although poaching could have been his original mission at such an hour – but obviously some night wanderer who’d come across Cass. Her pale hair and white skirt trailed limply over his arms. Jon thought at first with a wild jerk of his heart she might be dead. The man was panting as he faced him. Black hair straggled round his face which at close range could be seen to be dark, hawk-nosed and long, with the glint of gold in his ears.

  A gypsy.

  ‘This your lady, sir?’ he asked, glancing down at his forlorn bundle. ‘Lying there by that old stump she was.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Had a fall. Glad to see you I am. Was wondering where to take her. Camping we are – near Fallow Wood. Then I thought of the big house. This is a fine Gorgio lady, I said to myself, like as not she belongs there.’

  ‘Yes, yes—’ Jon broke in. ‘It’s my wife. She’d had a shock – here let me take her.’ He pulled Cassie to him and stared into her face. She moved slightly and opened her eyes, but there was no recognition in them, no response at all.

  ‘I must get her back quickly,’ he said, ‘she’s cold. I’m grateful to you. If you’d like to call tomorrow, at the Dower House – you may know it, the place below the Hall – I’ll see you have something for your trouble.’

  ‘No, sir. We Gagos – true Romanies – take no benefit for giving a helping hand to a defenceless creature whether Gorgio, or our own kin. But take care, sir, she’s not the kind to let wande
r the forest at night without reason or will.’

  He touched his cap, turned and strode back into the mist.

  Heavy-hearted, Jon carrying Cassandra, returned home, although he sensed it might not be his home for much longer.

  *

  Cassandra was lying on a couch by a fire in the lounge. She’d cringed and whimpered when Jon reached the foot of the stairs, still carrying her, so rugs and coverings had been fetched and an improvised bed arranged, with hot water bottles and a small table nearby holding a glass and decanter of brandy.

  She let the spirit trickle through her lips down her throat, and a tinge of faint colour stained her white face. She appeared to be in no pain. There were no swollen ankles or apparent injury except a scratch on one wrist.

  ‘In the morning,’ Jon told the housekeeper and maid, ‘I shall call the doctor if necessary. I shan’t require you any more tonight. So go and get your rest. And I’d be obliged if you kept quiet about this – this incident. Say nothing to anyone unless I give you leave.’

  They agreed and returned to their own quarters.

  For what seemed hours Cass lay with closed eyes seemingly unaware or uncaring of where she was or the abnormal circumstances of her being there.

  Jon sat in a chair facing her on the opposite side of the fireplace, watching for any sign of recovery. But she remained static and expressionless as an effigy in marble lit at moments to fleeting pink when red and yellow flames leaped from the logs.

  At intervals he got up and restlessly walked to the window, alternately blaming then justifying himself.

  I didn’t harm her, his mind insisted logically. It was only love. She knew that. She must have done. She didn’t fight. Oh, God, Cass – what’ve we done to each other?

  Sweat, mingled with unshed tears, trickled from his forehead and eyes down the haggard creases of his face. As well as shocked he felt bewildered and angry at the same time. He was unable to envisage what the outcome might be. He’d thought at the beginning of their marriage that Cassie loved him. But if so it must have been a thin negative kind of emotion. Perhaps if she’d not read so many legends and got embroiled so deeply painting that nun she talked of – if she really existed – they could have got things right between them. They had certain interests in common, he appreciated decent art, and he still cared about her, but he knew he couldn’t go on forever with her as she was.

  Once during the night as he sat broodingly watching her, she opened her eyes and glanced at him through the firelight. He went to the sofa and bent down.

  ‘Hullo, Cassie,’ he said.

  She stared at him, with a strange sweet smile on her lips, then lifted a hand. ‘Do I know you?’ she enquired.

  Sick at heart, he answered, ‘Of course, I’m your husband – Jon.’

  She frowned faintly and echoed, ‘Jon. Is that right? — Jon.’

  ‘Yes. You had a shock. A nightmare. But it’s over now. Don’t worry. Go back to sleep. In the morning you’ll remember.’

  But if she did she didn’t say so. She accepted him as her husband, but her manner was remote; it was rather as though they were meeting for the first time.

  Once, when the pale morning sunlight caught his hair in a quivering ray from the window, she said, ‘Your hair is so gold – like Launcelot’s,’ and he thought sadly, there seems nothing real about her any more. She’s obsessed with her dreams. Heaven help us. How’s it going to end?

  When she’d had breakfast on a tray, however, she gradually changed and appeared more normal, although any reference to the evening’s events was disregarded. Her only sign of distress appeared when Jon suggested she might like to go upstairs and have a wash and get dressed.

  ‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘Not up there. I don’t like this house. It has something sinister about it. Can’t we go somewhere else to live – Jon? Somewhere new. I think there are – ghosts here, or something.’

  Jon forced a laugh. ‘Oh, rubbish. You’ve been listening to old stories. I know in the past superstitious people believed it was haunted. But that was simply because of its age. It’s like a new home altogether now. Didn’t you choose the decorations yourself? Remember? You wanted blue and gold with just a touch of crimson, and all white in the kitchen and upstairs. And you got what you wanted—’

  She pressed her lips together in a small tight line. ‘I don’t like it any more. You say I had a nightmare. Nightmares aren’t nice. I can’t live here – I can’t—’

  The result was that after consultations with the doctor, the Wentworths and Emily and Walter Barrington, it was decided that it would be better for all concerned if Cassandra went to Beechlands immediately for a week or two to recover from whatever shock she’d had, while Jon somehow solved the problem of finding somewhere else to live.

  No one except Jon knew the true reason of Cassandra’s threatened breakdown. If she had recalled it, she never said.

  Meanwhile Jon stayed temporarily at Charnbrook acting as bailiff, fulfilling many of the necessary duties concerning tenants’ farms, and certain practical responsibilities at the stables.

  Secretly Olivia was gratified to have her son under the same roof at Charnbrook, although she worried about the eventual outcome. She made an effort not to despise Cassandra; she was not entirely without feeling, and obviously Jon was still fond of his wife, but she found it hard to see any happy future for them.

  ‘She’s neurotic,’ she insisted to her husband. ‘Or perhaps it’s just poor health, although the doctor didn’t find anything wrong with her except a touch of anaemia. I suppose coming from her background made adjustment into a family like ours a strain sometimes. I know you think I could have behaved more kindly to her – but look how she behaved that night of the dinner party. Really, William!’

  ‘I know. I know. We’ve got to wait, that’s all. Don’t want a scandal in the family if it can be helped. Maybe when the pair of them have had a bit of respite they’ll get things into perspective and with luck have an heir! That’s what’s needed, y’know – a youngster to knock the stuffing out of all her airy-fairy painting business. But where are they going to live, eh?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Lady Wentworth said slowly, pondering, ‘it would be possible surely to have a portion – one floor perhaps, of Charnbrook converted for their own living-quarters. We could then let the Dower House, furnished, for quite a large rent, to the right people of course. On a yearly lease, perhaps? We always seem to be short of funds these days, and this country’s getting more and more popular with rich Americans, I’m told. In Boston especially they go for anything British.’

  ‘You may have something there,’ William agreed. ‘It’s quite an idea. Rick could be useful in getting contacts. He’s embroiled at the moment with this wild project the Yanks have of putting moving picture stories on a screen. Can’t believe it myself. But he’s nobody’s fool. Says it’ll be a thriving industry in a few years.’

  ‘He may well be right.’

  ‘Could be – could be. Progress is a funny thing. You can never tell what’s going to turn up next. Like the flying machine. There was talk, and experimenting, but very few people took the idea seriously. Then look what happened –The Wright Brothers did it for the States in 1903. Oh, they’re a go-ahead lot, the Americans.’

  There was a pause then he added thoughtfully, ‘We’ll go into this business of letting the Dower House, Olivia. And I’ll have a talk with Ferris about his newspaper – what’s it called – Pictorial something? – maybe it would be worth taking up a few shares.’

  ‘William, we’ve debts to pay first. I pray you’ll be wise and think twice before you buy anything.’

  Her husband gave a quirky smile. ‘Sometimes it’s only by buying that you can pay off what you owe, my dear.’

  She sighed. ‘Oh. If only life was not so worrying. My first concern, and it should be yours, William, is somehow to see our son more happily settled.’

  ‘It is, it is, and you needn’t worry too much. There’s one th
ing certain, whatever difficulties the boy has to face he’ll come through all right in the end. He’s a Wentworth.’

  ‘How nice to be an optimist,’ Olivia said a trifle sourly.

  William gave her a shrewd look, and after a pause said, ‘I’m going to have a talk with that man you took on to help in the greenhouse. It’s my belief he hasn’t a clue about tomatoes.’

  Lady Wentworth opened her mouth to give a sharp retort, thought better of it, and the next moment her husband had left for the gardens.

  *

  Undue gossip between the domestic staff of the Dower House and Charnbrook Hall was avoided by retaining fees being paid to the former for a limited period, with the explanation that Mrs Wentworth junior had suffered a minor nervous breakdown which meant a temporary change of scene was necessary away from any domestic responsibilities.

  Certain rumours, of course, were put about, but the nightmare theory seemed the most feasible, since Jon made almost daily visits to Beechlands, and appeared on friendly terms, and sincerely concerned about his wife.

  Walter and Emily were naturally worried, though Cassandra herself, after the first few days, appeared content, and gradually settled into her former routine. She was always pleased to see Jon, and more than once told him it was like being engaged all over again. As the days passed faint wild-rose colour tinged her delicate face. From being over-thin, she put on a little weight, and when she smiled it was as though no dark memories lingered.

  ‘I do love you so much, Jon,’ she said, as she walked with him to the gate of the drive one evening. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  He studied her for a moment longing to take her in his arms, but not daring to. ‘If you say so, Cass,’ he said. ‘One day—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she interrupted, ‘one day we’ll be together for good – it’s so romantic.’

  His heart sank; it was like a cloud blotting out the sunlight. She was such a child. Either she didn’t remember a thing or she was determined to live a fairytale existence of unreality, and he wondered how long he would be able to stand it, because her physical fascination for him remained. He still wanted her, but as a woman of flesh and blood. How could any man go on forever hungering after a dream when his body ached with normal physical desires?