A Song Twice Over (58 page)

For her own, perhaps.

‘Christie.'
And she had never pronounced his name so fervently. ‘Why hurt a woman like Gemma Gage? She's done nothing to you, has she? Unless – is it because she lives in your manor?'

‘Good God.' This time his laughter was neither mocking nor maddening but quite genuine. Almost hearty. ‘Most certainly not. What use have I for the place now they have surrounded it with their factories? I have nothing against Mrs Gage whatsoever. Does that make me better or worse?'

‘Worse.'

‘Yes. I imagined you would think so. You will simply have to put it down to my meddlesome nature. There are theories which it pleases me, from time to time, to test. And certain demonstrations I like to make. As I demonstrated to you, a moment ago, just how fragile is your affection for the excellent Mr Thackray when set beside the so much greater love you bear to Miss Cara Adeane and her thriving little establishment in Market Square. Time well spent, I feel, although it went much as I had expected.
I
knew all along that you and he could have no real future together. Didn't you?'

She knew now.

One day he would go too far. Strip somebody too bare. She had to get away quickly, this minute, before it happened. Before she was the one.

Turning from him the fire struck her a scorching blow, a log erupting into hot, fierce sparks as she felt herself to be erupting, only barely holding herself in check as she hurried from the room and then no longer in check at all as she came upon Oliver Rattrie crouching half-way up the stairs, perhaps only stooping to pick something up or to fasten a boot-lace, although – at that volcanic moment – she had no doubt that he could only be listening, spying.

‘Little toad – get out of my way.'

Perhaps she only meant to push him aside.

She pushed him. Hard.

‘Little rat.'

He retreated before her, backwards down the narrow stairs his pale eyes bulging and watering, she thought, not defending himself, a rodent indeed – as she had always known him – hypnotized by her towering rage, her wild beauty – as he had always been hypnotized – so that when she pushed him again he fell, head over heels down the few remaining stairs, landing in a limp sprawl, his head striking the banister with a crack which, while muddling
his
senses, should have restored her to her own.

It did not.

He got up, rubbing his eyes like a child about to cry and she went on pushing him, spitting abuse at him all the way through the back door and into the stable yard, still sane enough to wonder if she had gone mad, although the suspicion did not trouble her – she didn't care – her heart thudding again, too large for her chest, a drum-beat in her head, her pulses throbbing and racing, all pity and common sense burned out of her by the violence that
had
to be released, one way or another, before it split her apart.

‘Rat. Toad. Little weasel.' She went on slapping him, pushing him, cuffing him, everything she had been feeling throughout the terrible morning, everything she had lost or seen besmirched, everything she had been made to fear and suffer crystallizing into hatred for Oliver Rattrie, who was not worth it, who was not even to blame for it, but who was
here
, squirming in her hands as she had been made to squirm, cringing as she had had to do. And now she was a dozen feet tall in her anger. Impossibly strong. Her body hard as iron and invincible, enraged far beyond the capacity to feel pain.

‘I'll kill you, Oliver.'

She had snarled the words at him several times before she realized she meant them. She was going to kill him. Stamp on him. Squash him flat like the vermin he was. She could taste his murder in her mind and on her tongue, feel it in her savage hands which had grown so powerful that he could not escape her, could do nothing but gibber like the idiot he had always been and let her drag him about, shaking him, kicking him, butting him with her knees until the horse trough blocked her way.

Good. She would drown him. Why not? It was what one did with rats, after all. Although, of course, now, when he could surely sense her madness, he would begin to fight back?

Surely?

He did not. Or not enough to stop her from getting his head into the shallow water and holding it there.

Two voices spoke to her, in her head. ‘Kill him,' said the loudest, the strongest. And then a second voice, pleading, ‘Stop me. Please stop me. Somebody – please.'

He struggled free choking and retching and she ducked him again.

Kill him. Get on with it. Do it and good riddance. As he's killed you a dozen times over. But who was she thinking of?

Stop me. Stop me.

For God's sake.

‘Let him go, Cara.'

The voice alone, speaking behind her, was enough, although the man who stood there did not touch her, the odour of musk, the sudden heat, identifying him plainly.

‘That's enough. Let him go.'

Thank God. Truly – from the depths of her heart – thank God.

Her hands dropped to her sides and she turned to face him, as limp and helpless now as a marionette, water all over her dress, her hair coming down. The whole of her body throbbing like an aching tooth.

Somewhere, just behind her, she sensed that Oliver had shaken himself like a dog and scurried away.

‘Have I hurt him?' Nothing in the world could have forced her to look.

‘Not much. He'll recover.'

‘Why didn't he fight me back – the little idiot.'

‘Oh – because he's been trying to attract your attention all his life, I suppose. And now, at least – he has had it.'

She shook her head, very much as Oliver had done, but failed to clear it.

‘Why did I do that? Oh God – how
could
I …?' She could feel her mouth trembling, tears gushing from her eyes. ‘How could I?' And then, with horror, her eyes tight shut again, she whispered ‘I wanted to kill him.'

‘No – no. No, you didn't.'

But she shook her head, her whole body and soul aflame now with the single urge to confess, to lay herself down as a penitent, heap ashes upon her guilty brow and seek atonement.

‘Yes I did.'

‘No. You were trying to kill me, through him. That's all.'

‘All?' She collapsed against him surprised that he even took the trouble to hold her up.

‘All? Don't you mind?'

‘No – since you didn't succeed. Don't worry, Adeane. I know something of these killing rages. Has it never happened to you before?'

Hiding her face against his chest, shuddering and shaking her head, recognizing not kindness in his voice but something she had never heard there before, a deep seriousness, a note almost of solemnity with which she was too dazed to grapple.

‘Well then – take my word for it – it passes. The restriction in the chest, the pounding in the head. The choking fear that one's breathing will stop. Is that what you felt?'

‘Yes.'

‘So I imagined. And now there will be exhaustion. Perhaps a little sickness. And then, in your case I suppose, anxiety about who saw it and who has heard about it and what they might be saying. Brandy helps. Shall I give you some?'

Raising her head she looked up at him, her chin still trembling, seeing at least no laughter in him, no mockery, his face intent and still. Watching her.

‘You drove me to this,' she said.

‘Yes. I know.'

‘Are you sorry?'

He smiled, very slightly. ‘Go home now. In my carriage, if you like. I'll have somebody drive you.'

Home? To Odette. But she could tell her mother none of this. To Luke? She had no mind to increase
his
burdens. To Daniel, who seemed to be in love with another woman. To Sairellen?

‘Your carriage! Oh – thank you very much, sir. How kind.' She was reviving.

For who had there ever been to look after her but herself? Cara Adeane from the back streets of Dublin and Edinburgh and Manchester and Paris. Miss Adeane of Market Square. Not everything she had hoped to be, but good enough.

She stood away from him drying her cheeks with the palms of her hands, raking through her dishevelled hair with hard, clever fingers, plaiting the length of it rapidly into a skilfully improvised chignon and then covering it Spanish-fashion, gipsy-fashion, with a fold of her expensive cashmere shawl. And if anyone noticed the stains and splashes or the traces of manure on the skirt of her dress then there were enough puddles and gutters and fractious horses in Frizingley to account for that.

‘Oh – I wouldn't want to trouble you, Christie. I'll walk,' she said.

She did not expect any further blows to fall. This, surely, was enough. She had been almost happy. Had almost dared to think that she could have, not everything, of course, but more than she had dreamed of possessing. Her work. Her measure of comfort and success. Money in the bank and – in case the bank should fail – money in the tin box she kept hidden under the floorboards where her dog slept. All that
and
loving friends. Both. Not one or the other.

But now, once again – now, when there was not a pawnticket in the house and she could pay her grocer and her butcher and her coal merchant no longer with a pang of pride but as a matter of course.
Now
, when her mind, freed from the basic anxieties of survival, had space and leisure to think of other things –
now
, at this vulnerable moment, she had been forced to make a brutal choice. And had chosen not to rely on the love of another frail human being, but only on herself.

She could trust no one else. She dare not take the appalling risk of giving herself. Christie had shown her that. She accepted it. Two men had loved her and she had turned away from both of them, knowing it to be for the best. Yet, just the same, she envied Gemma Gage with a heavy, gnawing agony which would not leave her. Plain, awkward, passionate Gemma and another woman, unknown to her as yet,
any
woman who might walk through the world, if only for a step or two, with Luke.

She was, therefore, taken unawares, that same evening of her attack on Oliver Rattrie, when her mother, waiting until the shop was empty, came into her office and said gently, ‘Cara, we have something to talk of, I think –'

‘Well, of course, mother. It's understood, isn't it, that you're to be calling and seeing Sairellen on your way home. I thought you'd have gone by now. Find out what she needs, since she won't tell me. Train tickets. A baggage cart. See if there's anything she wants to leave behind that I can store for her. Any messages I can forward or deliver. There must be something.'

There would have to be. Hopefully something difficult that would cost her time and energy and money, if she were ever to have her peace of mind again.

But Odette did not appear to be listening.

‘No, Cara – not the Thackrays.'

What else could it be then? For Heaven's sake, what else mattered? Unless Odette had heard something of Gemma Gage and Daniel? Some rumours that she would do her level best to quash. Was he in danger now from the Dallams? Did he need a warning? Cara's eyes, and her voice, instantly sharpened.

‘What is it, mother?' But her mind was racing ahead, plotting a refuge for Daniel if harm threatened. A place to hide. A covered cart to escape in. With herself at the reins, if need be. And money for his journey. How much did she have, tonight, in her cash-box underneath the dog's basket? Enough she supposed. And if not, there was always the gold bracelet Christie had tossed at her last Christmas and her stock of coral and jet.

‘Mother –?' It would be as well to know the worst so that she could act accordingly, for it might not be easy, at this late hour, to hire a cart.

Odette gave a quick, nervous sigh.

‘I find this so very difficult. And, yes – that grieves me. Really grieves me. For what I have to tell you should not be difficult, Cara. It should be joyful. Joyful.'

She saw that her mother's softly rounded chin was trembling and that she had tears in her eyes. Yet Odette cried so easily, overflowed so often with tenderness for the sorrows of near-strangers that Cara sighed too. Impatiently.

‘What do you want, mother?' And the tone of her voice so plainly said ‘Tell me, for God's sake, and have done,' that Odette shuddered.

‘Good Heavens, mother – what is it?'

Could she be over-tired, or even unwell? She was at an age, after all, when women suffered the exclusive female maladies about which Cara had heard whispers, but without much interest. Did Odette need a doctor? Once again her mind flew to the cash-box in its cavity beneath the sleeping dog. She should have the very best.

‘Don't worry, mother,' she wanted to say. ‘I'll look after you. No dirty hospitals where you go in with measles and come out with cholera or the pox. A decent nurse to look after you at home, like a lady, and then I'll send you to the seaside for as long as you like, with Liam. I'll see to everything, mother. There'll be no problem about the doctor's bills. Don't fret.'

‘Cara – it's your father. He's here,' said Odette.

She turned ice-cold and horribly still.

‘Here?'

‘In Leeds.'

‘I see.'

She saw nothing, in fact, but resentment, bitterness, the sickening memory of his betrayal which always inclined her to cruelty. He was to blame for all of this. And she had loved him far too much to forgive.

Her mind went to her cash-box again.

‘And how much is that going to cost me, mother? To get rid of him, I mean.'

‘Cara – oh my dear –'

‘Don't be shy of naming his price, mother. I'll consider it money well spent.'

‘Yes.' And there was a world of sorrow in Odette's voice. ‘He told me you would probably say that.'

How dare he? Her hands clenching into fists she rose to her feet and glared at her mother. How dare he pass his clever, cocksure opinions as to what she might be feeling? She would let him know
that
all right, soon enough, if she ever set eyes on him. And in the meantime,
how dare he
? How dare he make assignations with Odette behind her back? How dare he come within a hundred miles of either of them, even if his life depended on it? As it probably did. Well, she would pay off his creditors – once – and send him on his way. Once. No more. For Odette.