Here Comes a Candle (26 page)

Too late, he was aware, himself, of his befuddled state.
“
But Kate—
”
he had to have it all clear now.
“
You as good as admitted it.
”

“
I?
”
And then she remembered.
“
Yes, I see. You could have thought that.
”
She moved toward the door.
“
Well, it
’
s all over now. Good night, Mr. Penrose. We will discuss, in the morning, who is to take care of Sarah when I am gone.
”

“
No!
”
He moved forward to catch her hand and stop her.
“
We can
’
t leave it like this. You must explain. What then, was there between Manningham and you? What did you mean, when you seemed to admit it all?
”

She withdrew her hand with a firmness there was no gainsaying.
“
He raped me,
”
she said, and left him.

TWELVE

Impossible to imagine sleeping, or even to face the narrow confines of her room. Kate opened the back door to go very quietly, a ghost walking in moonlight, across the lawn and lean her elbows on the wall by the river. Gazing down into the shadowed, hurrying water, she made herself face it all, the bitter past, the intolerable future. What good had ever come of her running away? And yet—must she run away again?

She had been crazy not to realize how Charles Manningham would twist the story to his advantage. After all, she had known Charles Manningham. And yet—hard to remember now—she had been delighted when he first began to visit them. He had come home to their village on leave from his regiment to recover from a wound he had got at Ciudad Rodrigo. Too weak at first to go far for company, he had soon found his way to the vicarage where her father was entering the third lonely year since his wife
’
s death.

Yes. She bit her lower lip angrily. She had been pleased when Manningham took to coming in every evening, had even—she could hardly bear to think of it now—woven a series of daydreams around his handsome figure. But not for long. And yet—should she blame Manningham entirely? After all, her father had been the older man, the clergyman: why could he not have persuaded Manningham to drink less, instead of d
rinkin
g glass for glass with him?

Their evenings together had grown longer and longer, and her housekeeping money had dwindled as the empty bottles mounted-up. And again, in fairness, she had to admit that Manningham was only doing to them what he had already done to himself. Everyone in the village knew how he had run through his own fortune. He had even, in his sober moments, given her father good advice, had warned him not to leave his tiny remaining nest egg of capital in the local bank.

Father had taken no notice, had been beyond taking much notice. And that had been what began it all. Manningham had been very drunk already when he arrived that disastrous night. Looking back now, with the bitter wisdom of hindsight, Kate thought he had been nerving himself to break the bad news to his friend. And in a way, everything that had followed had been her fault. Seeing him arrive bright-eyed and flushed of cheek, she had made the earliest possible excuse to leave them. Manningham sober, with his roving restless eye, was painful enough contrast by now to the imagined figure of her dreams, but when he was drunk it was his roving hands she had learned to fear.

That was what had started it. Face it, since after so long, she was making herself face, waking, the nightmare that had haunted her. She had brought her disaster on herself. Almost, she had killed her father. If only she had not made Man
nin
gham angry
...

When she rose to leave them he had jumped to his feet and caught her hand to stop her.
“
Best be good to me,
Kate, my dear. Now you
’
re a pauper, I
’
m about the only friend you have.
”

“
A pauper?
”
Father had not been too drunk to take that in.

“
You
’
ve not heard then? This war against the Americans is hitting the banks hard. There have been several failures today. Our local bank among them. I told you Ffynch, it was rash to put all your eggs in that basket. Now, I
’
m afraid it
’
s a case of
‘
all my pretty ones.
’
We must just hope your devoted parishioners will see fit to increase your stipend—such as it is.
”
His voice was mocking. He knew as well as they how little chance there was of this.

The old man had raised his head to meet that bright and mocking eye,
“
And you
’
re glad,
”
he said.
“
Why did I never see it before? You
’
re not my friend. Never have been.
”
He had risen to an odd, heart-catching moment of dignity.
“
I think you must be the devil himself. Kate!
”
And, on the appeal to her, he had fallen forward among the glasses and bottles; dead. Kate shivered, there in the balmy moonlight, reliving the scene. It had been too bad to be true. But it had been true. And so had what followed. No nightmare, though she had often enough waked, sweating, from it since. No servant slept in. She had been alone in the house with her father
’
s dead body—and Charles Manningham.

And even then, if she had kept her head, she might have avoided the final disaster. Manningham had been sobered a little by the suddenness of it.
“
He
’
s dead.
”
He let the thin wrist fall again to the table.
“
The poor old fool. Believe me, Kate, I never meant—
”

But those words of casual contempt had been too much for her. Forgetting everything else, she turned on him, a fury, and told him what she thought of him. Remembering this shamed her now almost as much as what had followed. She had screamed at him there like a fishwife across her father
’
s dead body.

Something she said had got him on the raw. She did not remember—did not want to remember what. In fact,
she had shocked him, brought herself down to his level.
He
had taken her hand, to drag her from the room.
“
Shame on you!
In
front of that.
”

“
That! You mean my father. Whom you
’
ve killed!
”
She had tried to pull away from him, but he held her with a grip of iron, his eyes bright, dangerous.

“
That
’
s not true. And you know it.
”
He had her by the shoulders now.
“
Take it back.
”
And then, as he looked down at her, struggling under his hands, she had seen anger give way in his face to something infinitely more frightening. One hand still held her shoulder, the other moved slowly, thoughtfully, down across her breast.
“
Well, Kate?
”
The drink had him again now; he had forgotten the body in the next room; forgotten everything but her.
“
Well, my beautiful Kate?
”

She had fought; she had bitten him; she had scratched his face. It had merely enraged him. Perhaps he had meant only—as he said afterward—to snatch a couple of kisses:
“
To make up for all your past disdain.
”
But when she had fought, he had fought back, not a man, not recognizable any more, but an animal that tore off her clothes and took her savagely, brutally, forced back across the desk where her father used to work.

Afterward, he had cried, and promised to
“
make it up to her,
”
and fallen asleep. Now, looking back, she blamed herself bitterly for what she had done next. At the time, she had not thought at all. A warm dress. Ironic, surely, to put on a warm dress to kill oneself? And then the half
mile, part running, part walking, sobbing all the way, the pain in her body inextricably confused with that in her heart
...
and, at last, the quarry
’
s edge, dimly seen in the light of a waning moon; the pause to gather strength for the leap; and strong arms around her.
“
What
’
s all this?
”
Sergeant Croston had asked.

He and his men had been camped on the downs, on their way to Portsmouth. He had been kind, wonderfully kind, holding her gently, getting the story out of her, little by little, swearing to himself. Friends? No, she had told him, she had no friends. Nor would she go back to that house for anything. Of course, now, looking back with the harsh wisdom of experience on a seventeen-year-old
’
s despair, she knew this for lunacy. She should have gone to her mother
’
s family in Ireland
.
But at the time, when Sergeant Croston had said, with the dim streaks of dawn like hope on the horizon,
“
Then marry me, child, and I
’
ll take care of you,
”
it had seemed the answer to everything. Brought up on a mixed diet of hell fire and Mrs. Radcliffe, she had known that marriage or death were her alternatives. Well, she had failed to kill herself, and this man had saved her. He was kind; he was old (thirty-five, she had discovered later); surely he would be gentle. What more could she ask?

When she said yes, he had been taken, suddenly, with a paroxysm of coughing. In a way, it. had made the strange moment easier. It was only later that she understood that this spelled for her not only wife but widowhood. At the time, there was so much to do. His regiment was due to sail for Canada in a week. Somehow, he had managed a special license, found the money for her outfit, got permission for her to accompany him. It had all been such a whirl that she had hardly come to herself till she was married and on board the crowded transport.

It had been a clean break, she did not even know who had buried her father, what Captain Manningham had said or done
...
she did not want to know. That was the past, dead and done with; even the tears were dry now that she had shed, during the nightmare voyage, for her father, for herself. At least her terror, during the first weeks in the unspeakable between-decks of the transport, that she might bear Manningham
’
s child, had proved groundless.

Savagely comic, now, to think that her one comfort had been the knowledge that each day was taking her further away from him. In a way, illogical, crazy, she had been running away from him ever since. She remembered how she had begged Jonathan to take her home with him after hearing that Manningham
’
s regiment—the 98th—was on its way to Canada. And yet, now he had caught up with her at last, how strangely different her disaster was from anything she had feared.

Nothing Charles Manningham did could hurt her any more. It was not from him now that she must flee, but from herself and Jonathan. I ought to go now, she told herself; at once, without seeing him again. Not even Sarah could hold her now. Not after what had happened between them tonight. For a moment, she actually thought about rousing Job, making him drive her into Boston ... But where to?

Besides, she could not leave Sarah like that, without a word, without a good-by. Sarah was convalescent, beginning to run and laugh again, but tiring still so easily, needing to be coaxed to rest, to eat
...
And, in another sense, Sarah was so much better that any moment she expected words to come tumbling out with her laughter. To disappear without a word might easily destroy everything Kate had done for her.

So this time she would not run away. It would be horribly painful, for both of them, to meet Jonathan in the, morning, but it must be done. They must work out between them a way of making the parting less painful for Sarah.

The air was getting cold. It must be very late; too late to decide anything. Morning would be time enough. She turned and moved wearily toward the house, hoping passionately as she went that Jonathan would be safe in bed by now. But peering cautiously in at the study window, she saw him still sitting where she had left him, head in his arms, fast asleep.

Don
’
t think about the exhausting day he must have had. Don
’
t make excuses for him. It
’
s bad enough without that. Very quietly she tiptoed in, turned out the lamp which was flaring dangerously, resisted the temptation to try and settle him more comfortably in his chair—did she want him to wake? And, yes; this was her night for being honest with herself; part of her did; part of her wanted him to wake, to pick up the scene where they had left off, to apologize, to make it all possible somehow.

It was not possible. Very quietly she closed the door
behind her, looked in on Sarah, deep in a convalescent
’
s peaceful sleep, and put herself to bed, where, surprisingly, she slept the deep dreamless sleep of total exhaustion.

She was roused by an agitated knocking on her door. It was Prue:
“
Miss! Miss Kate, is Sarah in with you?
”

“
Sarah? No. Why—
”
She was out of bed already, pulling on her dressing gown.

“
She
’
s not in her room. Mr. Penrose ain
’
t seen her. And, miss, the clothes she had on yesterday are gone too.
”

“
She must have dressed and run out early to play.
”
Kate knew, as she tried to keep her voice calm, how unlikely this was. All the outside doors of the house were double
-
locked at night to prevent just this.

But Prue jumped at it.
“
Yes, that must be it, miss. I
’
ll run down and check the doors.
”

“
I
’
ll be down in a minute.
”
Kate huddled on her clothes, condemning herself, as she did so, for her fright. There would be some simple explanation, of course. Indeed, she had thought of one already. In the state he was in last night, Jonathan might easily have forgotten to lock up. She should have seen to it herself.