Blackened (7 page)

But do not fear. I am concocting a marvellous plan to get the key to your room and get you out of that hideous black cottage. We will run away together. We will adventure north. Eddie is gone so you no longer have any reason to stay. I will free you of all of this. I will make you remember the person you are supposed to be. 

Be brave. Strengthen your mind against your Father's. He is clearly disturbed so you must trust your own instincts. Never let him defeat you!

I will deliver you another letter the first chance I get. I love you Lissie. Never forget that.

Your truest friend,

Bethan

*

I am crying when I finish reading, but they are happy tears. They are tears of hope, friendship. They splash onto the parchment, blurring Bethan's name. I mop them with my sleeve, carefully fold the letter, hide it in the drawer of my desk along with my letters from Mama.

No longer am I able to send letters or receive Mama's kind words but I continue to write her nonetheless, intending to send them when I am free of this cell.

I am caught up in fantasies of freedom when there is a gentle knock of three. Already can I smell spice, burnt smoke, cinnamon. The potent fragrance floats into the room through imperceptible openings. Jean-Bernard is here.

“Give me a few moments,” I call.

I whip off my nightclothes and throw on a fresh dress. It is my least admired; dull brown with frills of lace along the collar. I dash to the mirror above my desk. I scream. It is not me who is reflected in the glass, but Mama – her eyes, her nose, her lines, her mouth.

Rattling at the door. Jean-Bernard bursts in.

“Lisbeth, what is the matter?”

I glance at him. Glance back at my reflection. I am me again. I exhale unstably.

Rigidly I turn and go to sit on the bed.

“Nothing is the matter – I thought I saw a spider is all.”

He settles himself in my desk chair. Nervously, I think how close he is to my hidden letters. There is little chance that he will open the drawer, but his long fingers rest upon the desk mere inches from where my secrets lie.

In his other hand he holds the same uncut cigar. He wears the same attire as last night.

“May I say you look remarkably well this morning,” he purrs.

He stares openly at my hair, my lips, my breasts.

I nod politely, but an unpleasant, hot sensation grinds against my chest bone. He is being kind, perhaps too kind, and I do not like the way he gazes at me as though he is exploring and savouring each part.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks, his pale eyes searching mine. Intense. Unblinking.

I avoid his gaze, “I believe I slept well, yes.”

“Good. That is very good. I myself did not get much rest. I often find my first night in a new bed leaves me with a feeling of unrest.”

He yawns languidly as if to punctuate his point.

“And did you dream last night? I think dreams are fascinating.”

He waits, all the while smoothing the tapered ends of the cigar between his fingertips.   

I do not want to talk to this man, but if I am going to get him to convince Father  to let me out, then I need to play the game.

Did I dream? A face flinches across my mind's eye. The face is followed by a scene playing out in slow motion, each image knocking into the next, unveiling the stages of the dream piece by piece until they resemble a short story. Feelings rise through my core as the story unfolds; I am in the dream again, momentarily feeling, seeing, knowing what I endured and enduring it again but in less vulnerable way. Mama's face, Father's, Eddie's, mine all breaking into shards of scarlet glass, fading into darkness: the searing agony of unrequited loss...

The memory fades as quickly as it came. I blink and look at Jean-Bernard's pale eyes.

“Yes. I did dream last night. Or rather, I nightmared, if that makes any sense.”

His eyebrows lift slightly.

“Well,” he says, smoothing the ends of the cigar a little faster, “let us not dwell on dark things. Let us talk of comfortable things. Your Father said you have been enjoying walks in the back garden?”

I nod uncertainly – to where is this line of questioning leading?

Jean-Bernard's eyes brighten momentarily, “Personally, I adore a good stroll in the country air. Perhaps you will join me one day?”

Taken aback by his suggestion, I simply stare.

“What do you admire about this garden in particular?”

I speak before I can stop myself, “Bethan.”

“Pardon?”

I bite my lip; I should not have mentioned her name, but it is too late.

“Bethan? Who is this?” he asks.

I shrug, “Just a girl. A friend.”

“And she resides in the garden?”

His eyes are serious, darting from my right eye to my left, down to my lips.

I laugh sharply, “No, of course she does not live in the garden!”

Jean-Bernard stands abruptly. The movement makes me jump. Slowly, as if approaching an injured sparrow, he moves to stand directly in front of me.

“You know  Lisbeth, you can trust me. You must. You must learn to trust me if you are ever to get out of this place.”

With a lover's touch, he wraps his fingers around my wrists and pulls me to my feet. I am trembling, but do not pull away. Such is my uncertainty that I stand there staring into his chest. I can feel the rise and fall of his breath, taste his smoky warmth.

“Relax,” he purrs into my ear.

Tenderly, he releases my wrists and cups my face in his hands.

“Open your eyes, Lisbeth. Look at me.”

I obey. His pale eyes stare consumingly into mine.

“Repeat after me: I trust you Jean-Bernard.”

I hesitate. What is this madness? But I find myself going along with it. His voice is mellifluent, mesmerising.

“I trust you Jean-Bernard.”

“Say it again.”

“I trust you Jean-Bernard.”

“Once more please.”

“I trust you Jean-Bernard.”

His lips twitch. He removes his hands from my face and steps back. His eyes roam the contours of my body and he exhales shakily.

I stand there shivering, trying to remain composed when all I want to do is tell him to get out and leave me alone. Though he was gentle, I feel tainted by his touch. I have never been touched by a man and I do not wish to be touched by this man. I can feel the clamminess of his mark on my wrists. I can smell his smell all over me.

He smiles for the first time, appearing younger by a decade, but no more appealing. In actuality, his smile seems fake, smacked on like that of a painted clown. Carefully contrived for reasons unknown.

He leaves. The key crunches in the lock.

I crawl under the blanket in an attempt to eradicate the chill in my bones, but several hours later I am still quivering.

*

“Good evening Lisbeth. I have brought you a small gift.”

I look up from my book to see Jean-Bernard placing a pot of charcoal sticks and a piece of parchment on my desk. Closing Charlotte Bronte's Villette, reluctant to escape the world of Lucy Snow whose intelligent, calm manner I rather envy, I purposely conceal a tremor of excitement at seeing my drawing things. I do want Jean-Bernard to think he has pleased me.

“Why have you brought my drawing equipment?” I murmur.

“I have brought your treasures to help you pass the time. Charles and I are well aware that it cannot be easy being confined to your room morning, noon and night.”

“Then why does he keep me in here?” I demand.

Jean-Bernard shrugs, “He believes it is for the best.”

He perches on the bed beside me, pulls out a cut cigar from his coat pocket, lights it, inhales lustily. Holds for a count of five.

Smoke curls into the air like a writhing cobra, and suddenly the room is more his than my own, invaded by his smell, his passion. He offers the cigar to me, his pale eyes drifting down. I shake my head and move to sit at the desk, calmer with my back to him where I cannot notice the path of his eyes.

“What will you draw?” he asks.

He gets up from the bed and moves to stand behind me. His breath is warm and spicy on my neck. He places one hand on the back of the chair so that it brushes my shoulder. Smoke clouds above the parchment.

I try to ignore his presence, but my hand shakes as I begin to draw.

“Please do not watch me,” I mutter, “I cannot concentrate.”

“Of course.”

He moves away and paces the small room enjoying his cigar.

Only one image comes to my mind; a dead rat.

I draw and drift, draw and drift until Jean-Bernard becomes a ghost in the room. A mere shadow. Filled with a different kind of tension, I explore the soft curves of the unloved rodent. With sensitivity I sketch the tiny little hands and feet.

I sit back and hold up the drawing.

Jean-Bernard jerks to his feet and places both hands on my shoulders, “Marvellous! Simply extraordinary! You have a gift  Lisbeth. A real gift.”

My gut clenches at his touch. I place the drawing on the desk and wait, hoping he will leave.

Jean-Bernard reaches across me and plucks the drawing off the desk.

“Wondrous,” he coos, “may I keep it?”

“Yes,” I say. Anything to be rid of him.

“Thank you my darling,” he says lightly squeezing the back of my neck.

I flinch, frozen to the spot.

The door creaks, closes, locks. He is gone.

I dart to the door and listen. Footsteps creak away.

Grabbing the unfinished letter from beneath my pillow, I write.

*

Dear Mama,

Father has packed Eddie off to boarding school and I am worried that he intends to pack me off with a strange French man called Jean-Bernard who is thirty years my elder with creeping eyes and haptic hands.

Jean-Bernard visits every day, morn and night, claiming that it is to offer company. But his eyes go to unmentionable places and I dare not consider the path his mind travels. He is kind in certain ways I suppose, but suspicion nags like a buzzing fly around a proud mare. Does Father intend to marry me to this old man? The very thought of lying beside his wrinkled body is unbearable; shivers of revulsion course through me, my heart races...ugh! Surely Father cannot think this a plausible choice. No – I must be dreaming the worst. Perhaps Father has my best interests in sight and simply feels that Jean-Bernard can be the Father he cannot. But then, you said never to trust Father.

Oh that you were here Mama. Oh that you were here to stroke away the tension and tell me everything will be all right.

One small hope remains: that Bethan will come. I cannot fathom how she might acquire the key to my room and free me, but she did manage to enter the house and deliver a letter undetected so perhaps there is a chance she will succeed. Last time we spoke she talked of trouble at home. She wished to show me so that I could understand, but now she wishes to travel north. This perplexes me. One moment she wishes to show me, the next she wishes to leave. Perhaps the situation at home has changed irrevocably and she feels now is the right time to flee.

I hope that you are safe and happy.

Yours always,

Lisbeth

C
HAPTER 8
V
ILLETTE

Jean-Bernard enters, softly places something upon my desk. The dull clunk of glass against wood.

I lie still as possible, slowing my breathing, relaxing my eyelids, focussing on pretending.

Fortunately Jean-Bernard falls for my trick and leaves as quietly as he came.

I wait until the floorboards lie silent then push off the blanket and swivel so that I can inspect his gift.

A transparent vase half-empty of water shaped like a sliced bud. Within the bud, erect and alert, a group of twigs stiffly rising out of the cropped carcass like arthritic fingers. At first glance, there seems no reason for water, but upon moving to view the other side there lives one delicate green bud, its lips pursing white. Its chance of survival is poor; amongst the lifeless limbs this bud alone lives and breathes and hopes that water and light will be enough. I decide to capture her before she diminishes and dies, as I am almost certain she shall.

Carefully, so as not to alert Father or Jean-Bernard to my wakened state, I slide into my chair and pick up a stick of charcoal.

An hour later there is a sudden thump on the door. My hand jumps, creasing the parchment.

Heart hammering, I listen.

Another thump; louder, angrier.

My throat tightens.

The key clangs, rattles, grinds in the lock. The door swings inward and a dark figure hulks in the doorway.

Dressed in mourning black, it is Father, his eyes dark, his face shadowed.

I jerk up, making sure to keep the chair between us.

“What is this?” he blurts.

His voice slaps me across the face.

He throws a ball of parchment at me and it hits my cheek.

I bend down, pick it up and slowly unravel the paper. It is my drawing of Bethan. Her queer, distorted face. Sad eyebrows. Twisted lips. I meet his eyes, but cannot bring forth words.

He steps into the room. Anger burns in his eyes and cheeks. With a shudder I notice the hard line of his jaw as his teeth grind together.

“Why Lisbeth?
Why
?”

His voice is raw with rage; hateful, rising, crushing, oppressive rage aimed solely at me.

I step backwards and bump into the bed. Cornered, I stare up into his narrowed eyes and urge my body to stop shaking. He runs a hand aggressively through his hair then smashes his fist into his thigh. I grasp the bed frame and stare helplessly into his eyes.

He moves so suddenly that I scream.

Tossing the chair aside, he lunges forward and grabs hold of my upper arms. I cry out and struggle, but Father digs his nails into my skin and begins to shake me. Fervently I pull away, but he will not let go and tightens his grip. Beads of blood form on my skin beneath his nails. Tears of terror and pain roll down my cheeks.