A Song Twice Over (25 page)

‘Hate me,' he invited, his eyes on those breasts. ‘You might even earn your satin with it. That's what a
clever
girl would do.'

The surface of her mind rejected his meaning. At that level it was still murder she desired. But beneath it she understood, accepted, found it far easier to hate him, when he fought her back to the bed, than to ignore him; the bitings and scratchings of anger coming near enough to passion so that when he entered her again she found it possible, in her loathing, her detestation, her bitter resentment, to wrap her own strong, hard limbs about him in a grip designed to wound and crush him but which could also excite.

‘Dear Miss Adeane – that is really much improved.'

And when something odd began to happen in her own body, a sensation she wished to call ugly because she had never felt it before and did not wish to feel it now with him, she released her temper again, thrashing about quite wildly beneath him to hurt herself and make the treacherous feeling go away.

It went. Thank God, at least, for that. She would never have forgiven herself for feeling it, nor him for becoming aware of it. He might work off his lust on her body and she could despise him for that. But if any part of any one of those female organs hidden away inside her dared to enjoy it then she would have to despise herself.

Fortunately it had not come to that. And now what she had to do was maintain her temper at white heat until he had pumped his pleasure into her so that she would not lose her nerve – and possibly her satin – by cringing away from him at that vital last moment – vital for him, fatal perhaps for her – and pleading with him not to make her pregnant.

Better not even to think of it. Just go on hating him, ill-wishing him until his body reached its natural conclusion. On a groan and a sigh as men are supposed to attain their pleasure and then – as she remembered from her one other experience – there came his reluctance to move away from her, her panic urgency to be free of him while there might still be a chance that no damage had been done. And the anger which had sustained her now evaporated, slipped out of her and away, leaving her defeated, used, worn out, unutterably forlorn. As ready to lie down and die as she had ever been.

So that was that. He had had what all men wanted, exactly as he had wanted it. And she would be pregnant now, of course, no doubt about it, which was better than being in a convict ship bound for Australia, where somebody would have made her pregnant in any case. Better than that. So she would tell herself when she was sick and retching and dizzy, in a week or two, as she'd been with Liam. Except that this man, unlike Liam's young father, could afford to give her the money for a clean abortion. Surely he'd be willing to do that much for her? And what choice would she have? What had choice to do with women, anyway? Men chose. Women simply did the best they could. Men took – whatever there was to be taken.
This
was what happened to women.

‘The satin,' she said.

He got up, flung the strange, savage robe around his shoulders again and went into the other room where she heard him shouting through the door ‘Is that little matter sorted out yet, at the Dog and Gun?' She was aware of Ned O'Mara on the landing, mumbling a reply, probably hating them both, and then her carpet-bag landing heavily, miraculously, on the bed beside her, thrown by an arm in a garish, foreign sleeve.

‘Your property, madam. All present and correct, with not a stain on it anywhere. Although no doubt you'll want to check.'

Indeed she did, for having sacrificed herself for this damnable dress material it was no more than commonsense to make certain that no part of it had been damaged or soiled, that she could go to Miss Dallam presently, when she found the strength to get up out of this bed and tidy her hair and her cuts and bruises, as if absolutely nothing had occurred.

Yes. The satin was perfect, had not even been removed from its muslin wrappers. Perfect. She could go now about her business. The clock had been turned back. She could be as she had been before.

So she told herself. Although only a damned fool would believe it. And she had never been that.

Closing her bag with a defiant snap she lay down again, very suddenly, against the disordered pillows, a heavy odour of musk and cigar smoke in her nostrils, a great weight of weariness coming near to sweeping her away. Had she ever been so tired in her life before? She doubted it. Had she ever felt so brittle and so cold? Or so terrified of what she knew she could no longer hold back?

She had just given her body – so long and so carefully guarded – for a length of brown satin. Three days ago she had refused her final chance of giving it for love. And now, before she had to get up again, to go downstairs and face the mockery and malice which awaited her, before she had to compose herself and complete her walk up the hill to see bridal, virginal Miss Dallam, she closed her eyes and thought, with pure agony in her mind, and in her heart, and in her soul, of Daniel.

Gemma Dallam was married on a perfect December morning of silver frost and bright, crystal-clear sunshine. The bride herself remaining calm throughout, her mother, who had prayed so ardently for this day, finding herself utterly over-come by it; having slept not a wink, of course, the night before and melting into tears – of anxiety, of joy, of overwrought nerves – the moment she got out of bed; unable, no matter how hard she tried, to do her own soft, fair hair to her satisfaction and suffering a sudden and quite dreadful conviction that the powder-blue taffeta she had ordered from Miss Ernestine Baker was somehow not right.

‘There
is
something the matter with it,' she told her maid, her eyes swimming with tears again. Was the dress too plain? But when she quickly added a white lace fichu and a long, lacy shawl, the effect reminded her of nothing so much as the icing on her daughter's wedding cake.

Panic overcame her. What could she do? Her wardrobes of course, were bulging with dresses but, apart from the evening gowns she had had made especially for Christmas, they had all been worn at least once before. And how could she go to her only daughter's wedding in an outfit that
somebody
in that church would surely recognize?

All too clearly she could not.

‘Please fetch Miss Gage,' she whispered, her lower lip trembling. ‘Or Mrs Drubb.' But Linnet Gage, as chief bridesmaid, was already much occupied. Mrs Drubb with a wedding-breakfast for a hundred guests to organize had more than enough to do. Even Amabel could not go so far as to trouble Gemma.

John-William?

He came, amiable, assured, and planted himself in her doorway to enquire what all the fuss was about.

‘John-William, I look a frump.'

‘What –
you
, Amabel? Never. Put your bonnet on.'

She did so. Very pretty. The same blue as her taffeta gown, the deep brim lined with tiny, ruched frills on the underside, a huge bow at the back with waist-length streamers stitched with tiny blue and white beads. And then there was the blue velvet pelisse to go over the dress, with its white fur lining and deep fur hem, and a glorious white fur muff on which that clever Miss Adeane had stitched, at the last moment and quite behind Miss Baker's back, a truly enormous blue velvet bow.

‘Amabel, there'll be nobody in Frizingley to touch you,' said John-William Dallam, sitting down rather heavily since he had run upstairs a little too quickly at her call and did not want her to see how easily, these days, he could lose his breath.

But she was examining her own reflection far too anxiously to notice.

‘Oh John-William dear, do you really think so?'

She brightened. Glowed. Even simpered, thought her exasperated maid. And indeed when she reached the parish church she received a moment of instant gratification at the sight of her dear friend Lizzie Braithwaite looking far from her best in a regal but positively strident magenta. But then, dear Lizzie, for all the money – and it was reputed to be in millions – that her late husband had left her, had never known how to dress; nor did any of the tribe of Braithwaites sitting around her, who had clearly chosen whatever had turned out to be the most expensive and put it on their large, angular bodies just anyhow. The Braithwaites were like that. Except for Ben, of course, the eldest son, who had acquired a little polish somewhere and was even quite stylish today, Amabel thought, in his brocade waistcoat with a rather splendid diamond pin in his cravat.

Which was more than she could say for Uriah Colclough, a spare, already balding man in his mid-thirties who, having been torn all his life between a religious vocation and a natural Colclough desire to make money, lived like an industrialist but dressed like a vicar.

Yet Amabel said a very pleasant good morning to his mother, her dear friend Maria, who had been most gratifyingly keen to marry this ecclesiastical son of hers to Gemma. And if Gemma had chosen, at the end of the day, to bestow her well-dowered hand upon a penniless stranger then Amabel had no apologies to make for it, since the Queen had done the very same; her German Albert, although a prince and full of education and charm, not having two farthings to call his own.

And the Dallams were not expecting the Nation to pay for Tristan.

The church was very full and although Amabel could not speak to everyone on her progress to the front pew she paused before taking her seat and smiled sweetly, generally, at the congregation, hoping that no one would feel left out. Particularly those dear, good people at the back who, although asked to attend the service, could not be invited to the reception.

People she had known forever, many of them, and had not seen for ages. How very touching. Gemma's first nanny. Various music masters and dancing-teachers. Miss Ernestine Baker and Miss Cara Adeane, who had managed to sit well away from each other, she noticed. Senior clerks from the mill and their wives, looking very self-conscious. Had it been a mistake to include them? Anxiously she hoped not, although she had had one or two uneasy moments about certain other guests who were not simply here to witness the ceremony like the gentlemen from the mill and the dressmakers, but would have to be entertained to champagne and bride-cake and all the other delicacies Mrs Drubb had prepared for them afterwards, at Frizingley Hall.

Naturally one had wished to invite Mr Adolphus Moon who had just purchased a delightful house with extensive grounds near the village of Far Flatley, where Amabel herself would dearly love to build. Thereby making Mr Moon her neighbour. A gentleman of wealth and distinction, most anxious to be agreeable, and forever entertaining large parties of distinguished friends from London. A highly desirable acquaintance, in fact. Yet how could one possibly become acquainted with his wife, Marie, a woman who had been on the stage and who, it was known, had lived with him in adultery
while waiting to be divorced
!

Horror upon horrors. Amabel had never exchanged a word with an actress in her life and had never even set eyes before on a divorced woman. And although the adultery had taken place abroad and several years ago, the Moons having hidden themselves away in Martinique – Amabel was not quite sure where that was – to give the scandal a chance to die down, what
was
one to do?

John-William had come across Mr Moon several times in Leeds and Manchester, had found him to be a decent fellow, and received a strong impression that for the sake of his children – offspring of his first wife long deceased – he would be glad to get back into society again.

One could not fail to understand that. One would even be delighted to give him a helping hand.

But Mrs Moon, with those taints of actress, adulteress, divorcée branded so plainly upon her, could not be received by anyone. Nor could visits be paid to her. And should Mr Moon ever be encountered by chance in his wife's company then he could not be acknowledged either, other than by a glance of mild regret when no one was looking.

A procedure which anyone with any pretensions to correct behaviour would perfectly understand.

Could Mr Moon, then, be invited to the wedding without his wife, Amabel had wondered? Certainly. Linnet had been most positive about it. Such things were often done, as a woman of Mrs Moon's experience would know very well, being altogether
au fait
with the social niceties. She would even be glad – thought Linnet – for her husband's sake and for his children, a woman's love containing, after all, so strong an element of self-sacrifice. Surely dear Aunt Amabel must agree with that?

Well, yes. She supposed she must. But would Mr Moon consent to come alone? Would she – in Mrs Moon's place – be just a little saddened if he did? Yet she was pleased, nevertheless, to see him sitting half way down the church, resplendent in silver grey and the very fanciest of brocade waistcoats imaginable. And more pleased than ever when Captain Goldsborough, arriving rather late as somehow one had expected, went to sit beside him and keep him company.
So
kind.

There had been no hesitation of course with regard to the captain who, despite
rumours
and only rumours about his taste for low company – which she supposed any military man might possess – was a Goldsborough of Frizingley with nothing really known against him but his preference for living in a tavern. That too, perhaps, a throw-back from his regimental days. And when Amabel had discovered his close relationship to such ancient and noble families as the Larks of Moorby Hall and the Covington-Pyms, she had written out his invitation card at once.

The gentry were allowed to be a little eccentric. Everybody knew that. It was because they had been rich and important for so long, generation after generation, rather than just since the invention of the power loom and the spinning frame, like her John-William. And although some of them were a lot less well-off than they had been, they still seemed to get away with most things, feeling not the least need to prove themselves, she supposed, like herself and Lizzie Braithwaite, and Maria Colclough, and Ethel Lord.