Wickedness (12 page)

I confess, in believing that, I was stupid and naive. I ought to have observed him more carefully. Then I would have seen that he never forgot the smallest thing nor was ever reconciled to anything, not even the loss of a waistcoat button. But he seemed a quite different man
then; more vibrant, more alive. It made me think of my mother. How, as the great feast day of Christmas approached, her mood always lightened. She sang and laughed and danced about the house and my father said she became again, just for that short while, the girl he had married.

I was gulled by him. Utterly taken in. Seduced. The powerful attraction I felt for him, but which had till then been tempered by fear, now began to consume me. I took his name, Nicholas, and wrote it out endlessly. Whispered it to myself over and over. When he was away from me, I felt as if I was a fire struggling to stay alight. When he was there, the sight, the sound, the smell and touch of him, fanned that fire into an inferno. In the evenings, before the light had faded, he would read aloud to me. The poetry of Shakespeare, Herrick, Milton. Tales from Ancient Greece and Egypt and his own translations. Magical stories, brilliantly told.

Then with all the candles lit, though there was no one to play for us and no others to make up the set, he would ask me to dance. I could not refuse him. And so, anyone looking in on us, would have seen a strange sight. A tall, dark-haired man and a small,
flame-haired
young woman circling solemnly about each
other. No sound except the slip and click of our shoes on the polished floor.

How beautiful he seemed to me then as he began slowly to bind me to him; with ropes as fine but as strong as gossamer. If I had once thought of running from him, I no longer saw the need to do so. If I was held prisoner, then I could not see it. If the door to my cell had been left open wide, I should have stayed inside and thrown away the key. I have heard since that this sometimes happens: the prisoner comes to love his prison and his gaoler.

So one day rolled into the next, with little variation. Except… one morning I was woken with a griping pain in my belly. Getting out of bed to use the chamber pot and lifting my nightshirt, I saw blood trickling down between my legs. I stopped a droplet with my finger and looked at it in shock. I knew what it was, for my mother had told me about it. A monthly show of blood signifying that I was now a grown woman and ready to conceive and bear a child.

I sat down heavily on the bed, my legs trembling. I was careless of the blood seeping through my nightshirt and onto the coverlet. I felt a tear run hot down my cheek and then another and then another. I felt a great sob rise up and break free. Soon my whole body was
wracked with them. And that was how Martha found me and she said nothing, but her eyes took in the red stains on the nightshirt and the coverlet. She came and put her arms around me. Tentatively at first, but then as I clung to her, she stroked my hair and whispered soft words and rocked me like the child a part of me still wished to be. Once I was calmer, she went and put the wash basin on the floor and fetched hot water and poured it in. She held out the cake of soap and I took it and, crouching over the basin, started to wash the blood away. It swirled in the water like red smoke and soon the water was the colour of a brilliant sunset. I wiped myself with a linen cloth and, though I had washed carefully, blood still stained it. Then she showed me how to take a strip of linen, fold it and fasten it with pins to the gusset of my drawers.

Nicholas came to my bedchamber later that morning. But I would not open the door to him, though he spoke softly to me. For I was both proud that I was now a grown woman and yet ashamed. “I will leave some laudanum for you. It will ease the discomfort and do you no harm.
”

When I was sure he had gone, I opened the door and took in the medicine. Laudanum. My mother had given it to me when I had the toothache. It had taken away the pain and made me sleep. I could still remember its taste. Bitter and sweet together. Opium and sherry wine. I unstopped the blue glass bottle and poured out a spoonful. I hesitated for a moment, then putting the spoon to my lips, let the sticky liquid trickle down my throat. I felt its warmth spreading out through my body. Just one spoonful could do no harm. I would take no more until I could see what its effects might be.

Soon I began to feel peaceful and at ease. I lay down on the bed and with the griping in my belly soothed, I fell asleep.

When I woke up again, night was falling. One spoonful of laudanum and I had lost the whole of a day. But the pain had gone and I felt calmer than I had felt for a very long time. Yet when Nicholas came to my door that evening and asked if I would come down to supper, I still refused him. “I cannot,” I said, remembering what my mother had said. “For I will turn the wine sour.”

“And will you turn the pickled meat rancid and curdle the milk too? Old wives’ tales, Margrat. You should not heed them!”

But I did and it was four days before the flow of blood stopped and I could allow myself to get up and get dressed and go downstairs again.

And when I first sat down again to supper with Nicholas, I knew something had subtly changed between us. That night, when I went to my bed, I did not lock the bedchamber door. I fell into a feverish sleep. And when I awoke and found him standing over me, I felt no surprise or fear. There was just an agony of longing, which only increased when he lay down beside me, but not at first touching. I could feel his breath, hear my own heartbeat loud in my ears. He said nothing and there was nothing to say.

His fingers undoing the ribbon at the neck of my nightgown, brushed against my collarbone. His hand, slipping around my waist, found the hollow of my back and pressed me in close. The heat of our bodies; the sweet musky smell of mine and the sharp smell of his. And I thought: this is what it must be like to die a little death and then to come back to life again and fly out in a thousand tiny pieces. The shape of his hands, the
curve of his mouth, the way his skin felt like silk and his hair fell and curled against his shoulder. All those things drew me in, but it was his mind that held me. The naked power of it. And all the while I told myself I would not be utterly lost to him. That I would keep some part of myself safe and hidden from him. But it was like a drug. An addiction. There was always the need for more. And with each night, the recklessness increased. Now he would come and stay just a little while. He lay close to me, whispering my name and stroking my hair. Nothing more. After he left my mind would be in such disorder that I could not sleep. And I grew so desperate to find some peace that I fell to taking laudanum each evening.

Then, one night in early December, when the fire was lit in the grate and the frost was thick on the windowpane, he came and did not leave. And for a few sweet hours before dawn, I learned how it was possible to exist outside of time and in a place that is all pleasure and sensation.

When I awoke, just before first light, he was there still, lying beside me. How peaceful he looked. How vulnerable he seemed as he slept. But as I watched, his eyes flew open and widened for a second, as if in fear. But then he blinked and the fear was gone and he was
wholly himself again. I reached out and touched his mouth. He took my hand and kissed its palm, then folded my fingers over and held it in his. He told me that I would soon be his for ever. And I felt weak at the thought of it. We were together every night after that, though he was always gone before sunrise. Even on the morning of the 23rd day of December… my 14th birthday.

Martha came with a present, a cake she had made herself and with my name pricked out in currants on the top. I washed and dressed hurriedly and went down to breakfast, but I ate alone. I asked Martha where he had gone, but she did not know.

I was almost asleep by the fire in the parlour when he appeared. He was carrying something wrapped in a gold brocade cloth. He placed the parcel in my lap. It felt very light.

I looked up at him. Though he looked calm, I felt excitement burning inside him, as clearly as I felt the heat from the fire on my cheek. Whatever it was he had brought for me must be very special. I unwrapped the parcel quickly. The brocade fell back and there was a casket. An emerald-green casket. I knew at once what it
must be. My hands trembled, my mind was like snow.

Now he was kneeling beside me. His hands reached around my neck and he undid the silver necklace. Slipped off the ring and began to push it onto the third finger of my right hand. I was afraid, confused, for hadn’t he told me not to wear it on pain of death? And worse, when the ring would not even squeeze past the first joint, he grew very angry. His eyes glittered like jet. I could see the muscles around his jaw tighten and the veins in his neck stand out. “It will not matter,” he said fiercely, “the little finger will do…”

“Look, look!” I said. “It will fit. I know it… there… it is loose and I will have to take care not to lose it, but it will fit. See how easily it does…” Now the fire of his anger grew white hot and fear of what he might do – a desperate need to dampen down his anger – was making me gabble.

His hand was against my mouth and with the other, he pressed the ring on my little finger into the cartouche on the box. I sat stock-still, rigid with fear and hardly daring to breathe. His hand was crushing mine. Tighter and tighter until I could hear the bones crack. Rage, sorrow, bewilderment; all these emotions passing across his face as quick as the blink of an eye. He seemed to have forgotten that I was there. He was
muttering to himself, repeating words over and over, as if by saying them out loud he might come to some better understanding of them. Which all at once he seemed to do, for he grew calmer. He loosened his grip on me and his eyes focused in on my face. His hand reached up and stroked my cheek. He smiled, saying, “The one true daughter. Now I see what it means…”

I did not. But at least whatever was in the casket was safe. The ring was not the key to opening it. Nicholas and Christophe were both mistaken.