Saddle the Wind (36 page)

Gazing at her, so close, his dark eyes burning into her own, his smile faded as he said:

‘There
is
something wrong, isn’t there?’

‘Wrong? No, of course not.’

She shook her head and attempted a small laugh, which didn’t quite work. He continued to look at her, his own mouth unsmiling. ‘Yes, there is,’ he said; and then: ‘Is it me? Have I said something else to upset you? I seem to have a talent for it.’

‘No. No, Gentry, it’s not you. Please – it’s nothing.’

‘It’s something. And you’re on the verge of tears because of it.’

‘Please. I told you – it’s nothing.’

He shrugged, then: ‘What were you doing here, anyway?’

‘I’d been to see my mother.’

‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘And is she well?’

‘Quite well.’

‘Good. And pleased to see you, I imagine.’

Blanche nodded. After a few seconds Gentry said:

‘I think this is the first time you and I have ever really been alone, isn’t it? At other times there have always been others about, somewhere or other.’

Blanche said nothing. He went on:

‘It gives me the chance – which you’ve never allowed me before – to say to you that – well, that I’m so sorry
we got off on the wrong foot when we met again last Christmas.’

Blanche shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ It didn’t. Somehow her antipathy for him seemed very unimportant and unreal. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said again.

‘Well, it did at the time,’ he said. ‘And very much. Of course afterwards I thought about it and I could see why. I realized then how it must have sounded to you – as if I was – making some kind of
comment
on your still living at Hallowford House. Almost as if you – you had no right to be there.’ He shook his head. ‘God, how crass I was. How insensitive I must have sounded – not to mention
cruel
.’ He paused, then added earnestly, ‘But, Blanche – I meant nothing by it. Please believe me. They were just – empty words.’

He stood waiting for her response, then she said softly, a little note of bitterness in her voice:

‘Perhaps you were right.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Perhaps I
do
have no right to be there – at Hallowford House.’

He stared at her blankly. ‘What do you mean?’

And suddenly the tears she had kept back were springing to her eyes, overflowing and running down her cheeks. Letting fall her basket she lifted her hands to her face.

‘Don’t. Oh, Blanche, don’t.’ Gentry stepped towards her and she saw him, his form distorted by her tears, as he reached out to her. Briefly she held out her hands, as if she would ward him off, but then let them fall to her sides. The next moment she was held in the circle of his arms.

For a little while she stood there with his arms around her while she wept against his neck. Afterwards, when her tears had stopped she told him, haltingly and with
prompting, something of the scene that had ensued between herself and her mother. He listened in silence. Afterwards Blanche said:

‘I don’t know why I’m telling you. And I’ll get over it in time, I don’t doubt. And if I don’t the world won’t stop turning.’

Standing there in silence, held in his arms, she suddenly became aware of the situation. Quickly she broke free and stepped away from him. ‘God, what am I doing?’ she breathed. ‘I must be mad.’

He moved to her side again, once more reaching out to hold her, but she thrust his arms away, avoiding his grasp and, bending, took up the basket where it lay in the grass. Straightening, she raised the basket before her, as if it were a shield against his nearness. He stood looking at her, a slight frown on his brow, his dark eyes troubled as if by some sudden awareness that had found him unprepared. After a moment she turned away and started off through the trees, only to find that she had lost her direction. She came to a stop on the edge of a clearing where a grassy slope, dotted with clumps of primroses, rose steeply to join the denser woodland above. As she stood there Gentry came to stand beside her again.

‘Blanche …’ He reached out, took the basket from her hand and placed it in the grass. Then his arms were rising again, encircling her, drawing her to him. As he gazed into her eyes she said hoarsely:

‘Gentry – no. There’s Marianne. You have Marianne.’

She became suddenly aware that her whole body was trembling, just as she was aware that nothing in her life had prepared her for the sensation she knew in those moments as Gentry bent his head and kissed her on the mouth. Any feelings of guilt, of shame, fled almost before they had even registered in her spinning brain.
She was only aware of Gentry’s nearness, of the scent of him, the feel of his mouth on hers, the ungiving strength of his arms that held her to him. For some moments, under the frantic urging of her mind, she resisted him, trying to draw back out of his embrace, but she had not the power or the will, and after a few seconds of ineffectual struggle, she gave up.

Eyes closed, and held fast in the circle of his left arm, she felt his free hand move to her face; felt the touch of his fingers on her skin – trembling against her cheek, her chin, then moving lower to her throat – his touch so soft, so gentle, but so insistent and not to be denied. His hand gently brushed the swell of her breast, moved back, rested there, feather-light, and her breath caught in her throat as she tried to summon some movement, some word of protest. But no protest came and the moment passed and his hand was cupping her breast and she gave herself up, willingly, to his greater power. When she felt his fingers releasing the clasp of her cape she made no effort at all to stop him. Moments later she lay in the grass, Gentry beside her, bending over her, kissing her mouth, her throat, her breast.

Soon afterwards, following the feverish, hurried movements of fingers on buttons she felt the freshness of the evening air against her naked skin, and opened her eyes to see him gazing down at her nakedness. Then, moments later, she felt his hardness against her naked thigh, and she reached down her trembling fingers and, guided by his own hand, touched him, held him. Then he was moving above her, lifting her knees, and slowly, slowly entering her. And from first to last there had been no moment when she could have stopped him, when she had desired, truly desired, to stop him. In those long, everlasting, brief moments as they lay together in the grass, their bodies crushing the primroses,
Blanche felt that the whole of her life so far had been leading to this event. She would never, she knew, be the same again.

Afterwards Gentry held her in his arms and they sat side by side in the falling dusk. For a long time neither spoke, but then he moved his head and looked down at her.

‘Blanche …?’

‘Yes?’ She lifted her head slightly. His dark eyes were all a shadow in the fading light.

‘You’re not sorry, are you?’

‘Sorry? About what happened?’

He nodded.

She gave a slow little shake of her head. ‘I shall never be sorry about it,’ she said. ‘I’m glad. I always shall be.’

‘And I.’

There was a little silence, then she said, ‘This time will stay with me – forever. It must – for it can never happen again.’

‘But Blanche …’ There was a note of protest in Gentry’s voice. She broke in quickly:

‘It can’t. You belong to Marianne. You know that as well as I do.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t belong to anyone. I belong to whoever I choose to belong to.’

She took his hand, pressed it between her own. ‘Oh, Gentry, no matter what you might feel right now – no matter what I might feel, we both know that nothing can come of it. You know very well that one day you and Marianne will marry. It’s what your father wants for you – and what Mr Savill wants for Marianne.’

‘I’m not a puppet,’ Gentry said. ‘What others want of me is no concern of mine. I’m my own master.’

‘Are you?’

She gazed up at him. Raising his hand to her mouth, she kissed his fingers. Then, lifting her face to his, she kissed him softly on the mouth. Their immediate passion spent, she felt a great tenderness for him. It was an emotion as powerful in its way as that of that all-consuming ecstasy that, minutes before, had brooked no hesitation and had swept her up like some great ocean wave. Now one part of her was all happiness at what had happened between them, while another part of her threatened to bring tears springing to her eyes as she suddenly became aware of the gulf that separated them.

And as if Gentry had somehow been able to read her thoughts he said:

‘You said you didn’t know where you belonged, Blanche. I know where you belong. You belong with me.’

She gave a little groan. She pressed his large hand between her fingers. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t make it more difficult.’ She released him, got up, adjusting her skirt, brushing down her clothes. ‘We must get back,’ she said. ‘It’s getting late.’

Fortunately for Blanche, with less than three days remaining of the Easter holidays the time that had to be spent in Gentry’s company was limited and she was able to get through the time without giving herself away, without giving out any clue as to their meeting and what had passed between them. For the little time that remained there were no outward signs of anything untoward; on the contrary, on the surface – and much to Marianne’s pleasure – Blanche warmed to Gentry a little, giving the impression that some kind of truce had been called, that they had buried their differences. In reality the new colour of their relationship, seemingly quite friendly and easy-going, hid in Blanche an unease and lack of understanding that left her bewildered and confused. In one way she was glad when the vacation was over and it was time for Gentry to return to Oxford, and for Marianne and herself to return to Clifton; at least then she would not have to see him.

Gentry left Hallowford first, and Blanche and Marianne stood on the forecourt while his box was placed in the carriage. Gentry had said goodbye to Savill earlier that day. Now he kissed each of the girls lightly on the cheek, and, after saying that he would see them in the summer when he would come to escort them to Sicily, he wished them goodbye and got into the carriage.

As the carriage moved out of the gates Blanche turned and moved back towards the house. Marianne remained
there, watching as the carriage rolled out of sight. Only then did she turn and follow Blanche. As she came to stand at Blanche’s side on the step she sighed, and Blanche looked questioningly at her. Marianne gave an embarrassed little laugh.

‘I can’t wait for summer,’ she said. Then, reaching out, pressing Blanche’s hand, she added, ‘Blanche, I’m so pleased that you and Gentry are seeing eye to eye a little better. Can you imagine – Sicily would be wretched if you and he were warring all the time.’

Upstairs they got on with packing their boxes ready for their own departure in the morning. Blanche had just finished when the maid came to her door saying that her brother was there and wished to see her. He would not come in, the maid added, but was waiting for her in the yard. At once Blanche went downstairs and out of the house by the rear door.

As she appeared Ernest came towards her, smiling gravely, Jacko at his heels. She saw that he had ridden over on one of his employer’s ponies, which was now tethered at the side of the yard by the stables. After they had greeted one another she asked if he would come inside. He shook his head. ‘I just wanted to see you for a minute or two,’ he said.

Side by side they walked from the yard into the rear garden. For a while neither spoke, then Ernest said:

‘You’ll be going back to school soon, won’t you?’

‘Tomorrow morning. I’ve just finished packing my things.’

‘Are you looking forward to it?’

She shrugged. ‘In a way, I suppose. I enjoy it.’ Looking at Ernest she could see that he was ill-at-ease.

‘Have you come about Mama?’ she said.

‘Yes. She told me a little of what happened between you.’

Blanche nodded, silent.

‘Will you come and see her before you go?’ Ernest said. ‘To say goodbye?’

A little pause, then Blanche shook her head. ‘I – I’m sorry – I can’t.’

‘You mean you won’t.’

‘She told me not to bother coming back, so –’ Blanche shrugged, ‘so I shan’t.’

‘And that’s how you’re going to leave it, is it?’

‘She said it, Ernest; I didn’t.’

He sighed, shook his head. ‘She’s proud, Blanche. You know that.’

Blanche said nothing. Ernest gave a nod. ‘And you are too.’ After a moment he added:

‘But she can’t come here to see you, can she?’

Not answering his question, Blanche said: ‘Does she know you’ve come here today?’

‘Yes. I’ve got some errands to do for Palmer, my guv’nor. I told her I’d call on my way.’

‘And she sent no message – no word with you?’

‘– No.’

Blanche shrugged. ‘Then I have no word for her, either.’

‘Blanche, please … just for a few minutes.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re as stubborn as she is.’

Blanche gave a little shrug. After a moment Ernest sighed and said:

‘Well, I must go. I’ve got things to do.’ He put out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Blanche.’

She put her hand in his and for a moment she thought he would draw her to him and kiss her on the cheek. But he did not. Their touch was awkward and the distance between them remained, much greater than the little patch of gravel between their two sets of feet. Then
he was turning, moving across the yard to the pony. Moments later, with Jacko loping along at the pony’s side, Ernest had ridden through the side gate and was out of sight.

The estrangement from her mother had stayed at the forefront of Blanche’s mind for the rest of that day, and was still there the next morning when she and Marianne were in the carriage driving to Trowbridge. The situation could not, Blanche knew, continue, and as they drew near to Colford she suddenly said:

‘Marianne – may we go near Hummock Lane? I want to see my mother for a moment. Have we got time?’

James, questioned, said they could spare a few minutes, and at the next junction he turned the horse’s head. On reaching Hummock Lane Blanche got out and hurried along to the cottage. Entering through the back door she found her mother scrubbing the kitchen table. Sarah looked up as she entered and the two of them stood there, facing one another.