A Song Twice Over (57 page)

Indeed he had. Yet, just the same, she found it hard to believe that the Thackray house, at the very top of St Jude's Street, would be needed, in the foreseeable future, for any kind of redevelopment plan. Broad thoroughfares there would doubtless be, but hardly yet, hardly reaching so far from the centre of town.

She shook her head.

‘Do you think I am lying to you, Adeane?'

Playing with her more likely.

‘You are not telling me the truth.'

He laughed. ‘A fine point. But we are not really concerned about
Mrs
Thackray, are we, Cara? Which means you have not been telling me the truth either. I do think you should begin.'

She swallowed, her throat still painfully dry.

‘Luke?'

‘Yes?' His voice was as soft and coaxing as a priest in the confessional, forever pushing and persuading her to reveal more than she had intended.

‘Don't draw that man's attention to my son,' Sairellen had warned her, and she had paid no attention, thinking the warning unnecessary, naïve. ‘For all I know he may be the same mad devil as his father.' She had not heeded that either. Devil possibly. But too self-contained and self-indulgent for madness. Too proud to stoop to jealousy. Too uncaring. So had she judged him. So, indeed, she judged him still.

‘Christie.' And once again she swallowed, speaking slowly and carefully, weighing every word. ‘Luke Thackray is a millworker. An ordinary man with no money and no position, without education or breeding or anything else that could possibly matter to you.'

‘Have I said he does matter to me?'

He got up and came around the desk, smiling at her, his approach disconcerting her so badly that she would have taken a step away from him had she not realized the folly, standing her ground instead while he lounged against the leather desk-top, perfectly at
his
ease, it seemed, but stifling her.

‘But then, Cara, you have very little education yourself and certainly no breeding. Not that you matter to me either. Do you?'

‘I suppose not.'

‘Perhaps you hope not. But talk to me a little of Luke Thackray.'

‘What –?'

‘Tell me, for instance, why you have come to me with this tale of Mrs Thackray being kind to you when it is, in fact, her son for whom your heart is bleeding?'

‘I …' Of course it was true. How could she best conceal it? ‘But she
has
been kind to me, Christie, she took me in – and my mother – and helped with the cottage …'

‘He is your lover, of course.'

‘No.'

‘My information leads me to think otherwise.'

His voice still had that soft, coaxing quality, that invitation to ease one's burdens by confession, to tell and be forgiven, be set free, although his mouth looked hard, his eyes so black she could hardly see them. She was in deep and very murky water, she knew that much, and once again – instead of struggling to keep afloat – she felt the draining of her energy as she had done with Sairellen, that frantic thudding of her heart, the racing pulse-beat, the rapid alternation of sickening heat and damp-palmed cold, leading on to nausea.

‘What information?' It was necessary to say something and it seemed to be the question he wanted in any case.

‘Why – my dear – information that this millworker – this ordinary man – cannot keep his hands away from you – greatly, it seems, to your satisfaction. That you can neither one of you control your passion even on the most public of occasions …'

‘Oliver Rattrie,' she said.

‘Of course. An observant lad, Oliver. A sensitive lad, even. It shocked him deeply, it seems, seeing you in Mrs Thackray's passage, pressing yourself against that ordinary man – her son –'

‘Christie.'

‘Letting him have his way with you, says Oliver.'

‘Stop it.'

It seemed there had been a flash in her head, evaporating her fear, freeing her tongue. For this had been one of the tenderest moments of her life, one of the most precious of her memories, and she would not have him soil it.
Him
, and Oliver Rattrie.

‘Stop it, Christie.'

He smiled at her. And then reproachfully clicked his tongue. ‘Opening your cloak for him, I hear, and more besides, so he could get his workaday hands on your skin …'

‘I told you to
stop it
.'

‘And really, my dear, crushing yourself against him so lewdly, Oliver thought – gorging your little self by the sound of it, up against that wall –'

She began to shriek ‘Stop it'she didn't know how many times, the thudding in her chest creating its echo inside her head, muffling her own voice like something heard through a sea-shell, her own violence frightening her badly.

‘And with your skirts up around your middle …'

‘No they were not –
never
–'

Never, never, would Luke have offered her such an insult. He had been comforting her,
loving
her, not treating her as a toy for his own perverse pleasure. A slattern. As this man often did.

She struck out at him wildly, not expecting to hit him, not even seeing him very clearly, locating him mainly and inaccurately by his hot odour of musk and tobacco, her hysteria soon melting, in that thick air, to a fresh nausea so that she was not even sorry when he caught her wrists and held her steady.

‘So he does mean something to you – this working man?'

‘Yes. He does.' And, her mouth very close to his face, she threw each word against it, feeling as if she were spitting venom, wishing that she could. ‘He's the best man I've ever known. The very best. A
good
man. Worth a thousand of you. I'd trust him with my life.'

To her astonishment he laughed and let her go.

‘So that's it.' Evidently he had discovered whatever it was that he wished to know. ‘Trust. And goodness.' He sounded highly diverted, although not greatly impressed. ‘Really, Cara, it is just as well that I have sent him away. You could never have lived up to all that excellence, you know.'

Perhaps she
did
know.

Standing away from him she pressed her hands against her temples, trying to shut off the beating sea-sounds that were making her so dizzy, her vitality ebbing fast, a great weary wave of futility and defeat – not quite of resignation – washing over her in its place.

But at least on the surface, it restored her calm.

‘Christie, if you wanted to know what I felt for Luke Thackray why didn't you just
ask
me?'

‘My dear,' he sounded almost shocked. ‘What a tame little notion. And would you have told me? Did you even know yourself? Or perhaps you didn't really
want
to know. In which case – well – now you do. The poor fellow. You esteem him. You trust him. Perhaps he would have preferred a little honest passion.'

She clasped her hands very tight together, amazed, in this inferno, to feel them so cold.

‘Perhaps he would.'

‘But you had none to give him, had you, Cara? Not really. Not the kind that launches ships and moves mountains. Not the kind one couldn't live without?'

‘I dare say.'

‘Then say a little more. Be honest with yourself, my darling. Could you really be his wife and bear his children in poverty – with no hope, ever, of any silk dresses to wear …?'

‘No. I couldn't.'

‘I think you are even a little sorry about that.'

‘Yes. I am. It means I know he is too good for me.'

He threw back his head and laughed, most heartily.

‘Oh dear – oh dear – poor Cara. You will learn to accept your own nature one of these days.'

‘And play games with other people's lives – like you?'

‘Have I hurt you, Cara?'

‘Yes.'

He had done more than that. Chastened her, it seemed, torn out of her so much that had been precious and fragile and exposed it to this scorching, acrid air, ridiculed it, soiled it, and then invited her to watch it wither. While he – for his diversion – had watched her suffer.

‘Have you finished with me now? Can I go?'

‘Of course. And don't feel too badly. There
is
a new move afoot for a Ten Hours' Bill. Oastler
has
been making trouble. Ben Braithwaite is not the only millmaster to start weeding the Oastlerites out. What has happened to the Thackrays would probably have happened in any case.'

‘But you could have stopped it?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘Why?
Really
why?'

‘Because I am, by nature, possessive. I was an only child, you see. I never learned to share. What was mine
was
mine and mine only – whether I really wanted it or not. And even when I had lost interest entirely, what had been mine tended to stay mine, if only so that no one else could have it. An unpleasant trait, I admit. I have never outgrown it.'

‘You were never so possessive with Marie Moon or Audrey Covington-Pym.'

‘Of course not.' He seemed surprised. ‘They are married women, the property of their husbands.
I
was the poacher of other men's preserves, which is an entirely different matter from having someone – however upright and worthy – poach on me.'

A moment passed, prolonged and uncomfortable, in which nothing seemed able to match the astonishment and unease she was feeling. And when she could speak it was only to produce a trite little remark which rang in her own ears as totally inadequate. A foolish, childish thing to say.

‘So I am to have no friends.'

He smiled a cordial agreement. ‘Not if they happen to be personable young men who lead you to misbehave in public. You should not have done that, you know, Cara. Fortunately you managed to restrain yourself rather better with your Chartist candidate. Although it makes no difference now, of course, in his present circumstances …'

‘What circumstances?' And, the hairs rising on the back of her neck, her spine tingling a warning, she felt the trap snap shut around her even as she spoke the words. What had he done to Daniel? What was he leading her to now? Another place of chastisement? Another whipping post? Another opportunity for him to watch her bleed?

What had he done to Daniel?

‘What circumstances?'

‘Well – I hardly like to mention them …'

‘Oh yes you do.'

‘Particularly when it concerns a lady …'

‘What have you done to him?'

She was playing into his hands and knew it. But what did she care for that? Because if he had hurt Daniel she would … She didn't know.

One day he would go too far. She had told him that. One day he would hurt somebody too much, strip somebody too bare. Had the day come now?

‘I have done nothing to him, Cara – nothing at all. In fact, what could any man do but wish him well. She is a charming woman.'

She had no voice to ask the name. She looked at him. Stared her question. And he answered crisply.

‘Gemma Gage. They have been enjoying a most passionate, most voluptuous idyll together since August of last year. Why else did you think she braved social ostracism by employing him in her school if she was not in love with him?'

She didn't know what she felt. She held her breath and let it take her, wondering, as the first shock receded, what else he meant to take away from her. And then, surprised by her own strange calm, she said, ‘How do you know that, Christie?' For had there been the faintest whisper of speculation about Gemma Gage – dear God, how plain she was; how serious – then it would have reached the shop. And Cara had heard nothing, noticed nothing except, just occasionally, that dreaming smile which had been put down to anything but a lover. Gemma Gage was simply not that kind of woman.

‘How do I know?' he said airily. ‘Oh – in the dirtiest and most underhand way possible. I do assure you. And quite easily. Women like Gemma Gage – who are basically honourable and decent – are never much good at the mechanies of adultery. Passion they understand but deceit is always a little beyond them. They never seem to carry it far enough. So – while dear Gemma has obviously remembered to deceive her husband and the rest of her family and purchased her housekeeper's silence, I suppose, with suitable presents, she appears to have forgotten the lesser members of her staff. Ladies tend to do that, I find. A little kitchen skivvy, in fact. Mrs Gage may not even have known the girl was there. But my boy Oliver knew. He is really a most useful little beast.'

‘Useful?' Once again the hairs had risen on her neck. ‘What use could this be to you?'

‘Who knows? One tends to store these things in the memory. To be used – or not – as seems appropriate. It is always of great interest, you know, to see what happens when one opens a cupboard door and all the skeletons come tumbling out.'

‘You mean you'd tell her husband?'

She heard the harsh note of disgust in her own voice. So did he. It made him smile.

‘I doubt it. Such a dull fellow. Entirely predictable. He would take it like a gentleman. But he has a sister …'

‘I know.'

‘An exquisite woman of very precise ambitions and no scruples to speak of. In fact no scruples at all, I rather believe. A cousin of the Bartram-Hyndes who really should not be living on Amabel Dallam's good will like a paid companion. This little snippet of information about her brother's wife could be of assistance to her. Interesting – at any rate – to see just what she might do with it.'

Cara was appalled. So horrified, indeed, that for the first time since the distant convent schools of her childhood she felt a compelling urge to cross herself.

‘Christie, you mustn't do that.'

‘Why? Do tell me.'

‘Because you mustn't, that's all – or anything like it. Can't you see that it's … It's
evil
. The devil's work.' He laughed at her. ‘Cara, my lamb, I do believe you are afraid for my soul.'