Distant Choices (28 page)

Her husband had given her work to do, after all, and she planned to begin it in the only way which seemed fair and honourable to her: as she meant to go on. But there was the night to be got through, or over with, first. She was, and from the start had been, deeply aware of that.

The bedroom was high and ornate, chilly with new plaster, the huge bay windows slightly open because of the new paint, a heavily gilded ceiling bearing down upon her, the damask-covered walls closing in as she sat, rather more bolt-upright than seemed appropriate, in what she had claimed as
her
side of the bed, her territory, her long hair brushed loose and flowing, her pin-tucked, cambric nightgown fastened in a high frill around her neck, waiting for the completion of the ceremony at which, despite all the promptings of commonsense and caution, her role – it seemed to her – might well have been the sacrificial victim.

With more tact than she had expected, he had allowed her to undress alone, and even then did not touch her at once, although the mere sliding of his quite naked body between the same sheets which covered hers, its weight on the same mattress, was something from which she needed a moment – even two, if he would permit it – to recover.

‘Don't think,' he said, ‘that I don't know how innocent you are. Did your mother tell you nothing – about this?'

Evangeline, in fact, had said: ‘I dare say you will find it unpleasant. Perhaps one is even meant to. But what matters, dearest, is that
he
will like it. And when you see how much, then you will understand the power it can give you over him. Which seems only right and proper when one considers the power the law gives
him
over you. So make your own laws, my darling, when it comes to this little matter of – well, is there a decent name for it? Lust? And guard against too much generosity. Remember – in fact, never forget – that what a man gets easily he does not appreciate. Ideally you should make him beg for his privileges but – at the very least – you must see to it that he earns them.

‘No,' she said quickly. ‘My mother told me nothing.'

She heard him sigh, although not, she thought, with impatience. ‘And you've asked no questions?'

‘Of course not.' He could not know, she realized, that this whole matter of ‘intimate relations'could not be considered fit, in polite circles, for any kind of direct discussion. And as for questions, to whom could they reasonably be asked? Certainly not to Evangeline who, in common with every other woman Oriel had ever met, upheld with a religious fervour the creed that a sin had not really been committed unless one talked about it. How else, after all, could one contrive to lose one's virtue and, at the same time, keep one's reputation? A feat which Evangeline had performed so brilliantly for over twenty years while managing, nevertheless, to raise her daughter in the state of total innocence so essential to the correct marketing of any young lady.

Innocence. Or was it ignorance? Not entirely. Yet, although Oriel knew and accepted with a sophistication far in advance of that magical status of ‘young lady', that her own, always strict mother had been the mistress of Matthew Stangway, and some others, she did
not
know, and, having never seen a nude, male body, could not altogether imagine the exact mechanics of the act of love. She knew that it would give her certain pain and possible power. Her own, short-lived response to Francis Ashington had caused her to suspect that it might even, in certain circumstances, be pleasurable. But
these
– this marriage, this bed. this husband, this stranger – were surely not the circumstances for joy. She felt no such response to this man. Nothing but a sudden rush of panic, telling her very plainly that the eggshells on which she had walked so delicately all her life were finally cracking; and her nerve with them.

She had closed her mind to the details of this act in order to live with her fear of it, as one closed one's mind to death. She had promised to perform it calmly enough in the church, not only tonight but whenever, and just as often, as her husband should require it. And if now his hands upon her seemed truly an invasion not only of the very parts of her body she had been taught to keep covered and secret, but of her whole nature, she knew she had no choice but to keep her word.

Sliding down on her back she lay completely still, her body cold as marble and clammy, she thought, where he touched it, her breathing shallow with the effort to stem the apprehension she knew she must not allow to become disgust.

Once again she heard him sigh. ‘I could leave you alone tonight, I suppose. Maybe that's what I ought to do. I know you're tired and scared – and no wonder. I understand that. But its not my fault, bonny lass, that they've kept you so ignorant. If you'd been brought up in a two-roomed house with half a dozen brothers and a stepfather or two – like some of us were – then at least ignorance wouldn't have been a problem. I see it is, with you. But, with me away in the morning, unless I enlighten you now you'll get to dreading the thought of it – and the thought of me coming back. So I'm going to do it now, Oriel, as carefully as I can. Then you'll know the worst – eh – and not make more of it, in your head, than need be. All right?'

Slowly – her tongue frozen, it seemed, far beyond the possibility of speech, as her limbs were frozen equally beyond pleasure – she nodded her head.

‘There'll be pain to begin with. It doesn't last.'

She nodded again.

Again he sighed.

‘I reckon you're telling me to get it over and done with. And be quick about it. Come then …'

And so it was done, a physical joining together she had half-suspected but had not really believed until her bare legs were parted by a hot, male hand, hard fingers preparing a passage for that other male member for which she knew no name; his body pressing hard upon hers and then shaking suddenly in what looked like a fit but which she knew must be pleasure, ending in a long groan – of agony? did it hurt him too? – as he withdrew from her.

‘I feel I should apologize,' he said, ‘though I'm damned if I will.'

Perspiration, she noticed, stood in large drops along his forehead, his mouth tightening, at the corners, with strain as if this equally famous and infamous act had cost him great effort, and some regret. Yet, at least, it
had been done
. It was over. She had submitted to it without crying out, without recoiling, without nausea, and genuinely believing submission to be all any man could require, to be as much, in fact, as any woman could give, she was unprepared for the faintly mocking air of dissatisfaction she could sense in him.

Was there something more? Something of which she honestly and truly had no notion? It must be shocking indeed. But even as the dread of it threaded uneasily through her limbs, still aching and throbbing from the use – she could only think of it as that – he had made of them, he fell asleep, leaving her alone in the dark, to think of Letty and Constantia and the stickiness now oozing from her body which may already have done its work and made her pregnant like them. How many times? She was twenty-one, like Constantia. Letty was forty-seven. How long did it go on? As long, she supposed, as he desired it, which, now that she had witnessed his explosive pleasure, she supposed would be very long indeed.

And to escape the disgrace of being an ‘old maid', to escape the ambitions her mother had for her, and her own fears, she had consented to it. To escape from Francis too, although she could not afford just now – she firmly decided – to think of that. She slept very little, disturbed at a very profound level by the bulk, the body heat, the deep breathing of the man beside her, although when he woke with the dawn and took her in his arms again, she summoned every last drop of her not inconsiderable resolution to fight off the taut protest of her nerves and muscles, to make her body as soft and supple as she possibly could so that she might appear, this time, to yield rather than submit.

‘That's better,' he said. And so it was. Better, surely – or so she had decided during the long night – not merely to endure what could not be avoided but to do her best to understand it. Better to
adapt
herself to his desire so that she might satisfy it fully, recognizing it as a vital part of the task she had undertaken and therefore – since it
had
to be performed – performing it well.

Better for herself too, although in fact she had felt nothing more pleasurable, this second time, than an absence of pain, a lessening of shock, an encouragement to believe that hopefully, quite soon, she would at least get used to it. And if not, then, in the interests of domestic harmony, for
his
peace of mind which must from now on be her greatest care, she would have to pretend.

‘You made me feel a mite rough and ready last night, girl.'

‘I didn't mean to.'

Leaning over her, supporting his weight on one elbow, he grinned. ‘I know that very well. And lucky for you I did, or else I may not have been so well-mannered. Because I was well-mannered, believe it or not. I had a little scared bird in my hands – which makes a change, I'm bound to admit – and I didn't mean to break its wings. Did I break them?'

Conscious of the sting of tears behind her eyes, she shook her head.

‘Of course I didn't. You're a fine, strong woman, when you want to be. I've told you that. You won't break now.'

‘No.' For who would trouble to mend her if she did? Not Garron Keith, she suspected, who, despite what she recognized as his present consideration, had chosen her nevertheless, for specific qualities which did not include frailty, either of mind or body, among their number.

He smiled again, his broad fingertips brushing a moment against her breasts, his skin very dark and rough – they both noticed it – against hers.

‘Good. So get up now and see your man on his way to work – as a woman should. It's half past four and I've ordered the carriage for five o'clock. I'll be dressed in ten minutes and then you'll walk to the gate with me – surely? Leave your hair loose, as it is, and put a shawl over your nightgown.'

She was half-amused, half-shocked, not knowing quite what to make of a request she would have suspected, in any other man, to be romantic. ‘I can't go outside like this.'

‘If I say so then you can.'

‘Garron – it's not decent.'

‘Oriel – it's what I want.'

‘Oh Lord …'

‘Precisely. Down the garden path and to the gate. No one will see.'

The garden was full of shadows and silence, the house not yet stirring, the path bordered by chestnut trees so wide and standing so close together that it was still midnight beneath them. The air was cold and sharp, her shawl comfortably large, covering her from shoulder to ankle until he took her in a sudden embrace to which she responded bravely, her arms around his neck, her mouth opening to his kiss as he had taught her, her body making not the slightest movement of recoil when he pushed her shawl further aside and pressed her body, in only its thin covering of frilled cambric, against him.

‘Be here when I come back,' he said into her ear.

‘When will that be?' And because he was crushing her so hard she sounded breathless and, quite possibly, eager.

‘How can I know? When the job's done. I won't stay longer than I have to. And when I come …' He too sounded suddenly out of breath, his teeth biting sharply into her ear-lobe, startling her, making him laugh. ‘When I come make sure you have your hair down. I'll let you know.' She heard the gate clang shut behind him, his sharp command to the coachman, the sounds of hooves and wheels diminishing with distance. He had not said how far, nor how long. A week? A month? Three months? He would let her know. And then, whenever his business demanded it, he would leave in this same headlong rush, over and over again. Would the years teach her to be sorry to see him go, or glad?

She turned to walk back over the ground he had led her, her eyes, the very pores of her skin, still full of him, his heavy, high-coloured presence still there, dominating the path between the trees, until the shadows parted and she found herself abruptly, alarmingly face to face with another presence, a tall, silver-haired, cold-eyed girl staring not merely with hostility but with disdain at the loose frill at Oriel's neck, the thin cambric clinging to her damp body, the shawl which, having been thrown so lecherously aside, barely covered it. The shawl which
he
had disarranged with a desire no daughter ought surely to witness in a father. Particularly if the woman so desired was not her mother.

‘Morag. What are you doing here at this hour?'

She knew it to be a foolish question yet could think of no other.

The girl, fully dressed to the neatly tied ribbons in her ringlets lifted thin shoulders in a shrug, her smile bitter with a love and hate and jealousy which were all too big for her, too much, too terrible.

Dear child, don't suffer like this. I won't take him away from you. I'm not your enemy, whatever you might do. And, if you'll let me, I'll be a friend.

Yet even had she dared to speak the words she knew the girl would not listen. Not yet.

‘Morag …?'

‘I knew he was away early. I came to see him off.'

‘Is that what you usually do? Would he have been expecting you?'
And has he forgotten you already, neglected you for the fancy new wife?

Once again the childish shoulders moved in their thin shrug, the mouth into its bitter smile.

‘Well, he didn't see me, at any rate.'

And Oriel was in no doubt that Morag was really telling her, warning her perhaps ‘He didn't see me, because he was looking at you.

It was the end of June before the young squire of Dessborough brought his lady home to her manor, her village, her parish, the many and various and no doubt in her view trifling duties which accompanied her position. The wedding journey, which had taken them from the old, elegant civilizations of Paris and Monte Carlo to the eternal Maytime of Madeira and the wilder shores of Lanzarote, had lasted ten months, as was quite normal among the leisured, landed classes to which they both belonged, although on their return they were both equally aware – Francis with deep sadness, Kate with a dumb bewilderment she carried like a weight of lead against her chest – that not only the honeymoon but the marriage itself was effectively over. Or that part of it, at least, which had seemed valid to them, the wild fires of honeymoon nights which had burned and bound them together, the languorous, amorous days when love, to Kate, had seemed glorious, all-consuming, eternal, and to Francis at least
possible
, sometimes barely a step away.