‘Ralph,’ I said again, and then he entered me and it was like the stab of the knife in the dream and when I looked up, I could see him smiling as he smiled in the dream. And when he looked down with eyes so dark and so loving, he could see that I was smiling too.
‘Miss Lacey,’ he said gently, and he kissed my eyelids and the hollows of my temples and the delicate skin beneath my eyes, and he licked one tear from the corner of my eye, and then he moved in me.
He was gentle, as if he were afraid of hurting me. And indeed there were little times when he did hurt me. But each sharp pain was such pleasure, and each dizzying moment was such delight that I clung to him and arched my back to greet his body with mine, like a chevalier’s lady welcoming her lost lord home. Then the pleasure grew more intense and his movements were faster and faster until there was just a blur of pleasure in my mind and I had no knowledge of where I was or who I was or what I was doing. There was just Ralph.
We lay in silence.
After a few moments he sat up and reached for his jacket and my shawl and pulled them over us like a blanket, for the breeze which had blown me up the steps and into his arms was getting stronger.
Ralph leaned on one arm and held me as if I were some precious rare object which had been entrusted to his care. My head leaned against his shoulder, my face to his neck, and I could smell with every indrawn breath the clean animal smell of his skin and a deeper sweeter smell like musk.
I existed nowhere but here. There was no time but this second. There was no sensation but that of the warm well-touched delighted body. All I could see was his profile as he looked away from me out of the open door. All I could feel was his warmth where he had lain on me, and the soreness where he had been, and the strange peace which seemed to go from the centre of my body up to my head and behind my eyes so all I wanted to do was go to sleep in his arms and wake when he wakened me. I closed my eyes and half dozed, his arm around my bare shoulders, his coat covering me, rough and smelling of heather and wood-smoke.
‘Here’s the rain,’ Ralph said softly. ‘I thought those clouds were building up.’
I opened my eyes. Through the ruined walls of the house we could see the rain coming like a great wall of water across the common. The wind preceded the rain, beating the light birches down, and their leaves turned over like my hand smoothing the top of Ralph’s cropped head. We felt the coldness of it when it reached the summer-house, and the roof creaked as the draught got in underneath it. Then the rain followed in shafts of silver with drops as long as stair-rods lancing down at the ground.
The storm hammered on the roof like hands on a drum and the summer-house creaked like a barge at sea. We were swept in a curtain of water, at once utterly shielded, utterly private.
‘Come on,’ said Ralph. ‘You’ll take cold.’
He tossed my dress to me and pulled on his own shirt. I dressed myself by guess and then I turned back to him. He was sitting with his back to the wall of the summer-house and his legs spread wide.
‘Would you like to sit with me for a while?’ he invited gently.
I went to him in a little rush and sat beside him, leaning back against him, his arm carelessly holding me. We watched the rain in silence.
We sat for long minutes. The clouds over the common were massed very thick and very dark now, almost violet. But as we watched, the wind which had blown the storm towards us blew it onwards over the hall, over the summer-house, towards Acre and onwards to the sea where the rain could fall on the churning waves, sweet water on salt. The wind tore little gaps in the cloud-cover and then there were patches of blue sky. The hammering on the roof eased and grew softer, and the rain no longer blurred our view, so we could see the dripping garden. The leaves were shiny, brilliant with wetness, and when the sun came out the raindrops on every leaf sparkled like precious stones. There was a wonderful smell on the air of Wideacre: new-washed soaking wetness, drying and growing. In the distance I could hear the Fenny bubbling a little louder, as all the drainage ditches and little streams poured into it, adding to the flow.
My hair had tumbled down and I took one thick ringlet and absently curled it around my finger. Then I paused. The humming in my head was very loud. The lock of hair around my index finger was as red as a fox. As red as a vixen. It was Beatrice’s red hair.
And the hall was not ruined, there was no smell of old smoke. The rose garden was perfect, blushing with new roses. The stones of the terrace were smooth and even. The hall was a yellow pearl, with dark curtains at the windows, a great wooden door hospitably open, the wind blowing a plume of smoke away from the chimneys.
I stared, and I blinked. I put my hands to the floor in bewilderment and terror. I had a feeling like falling, as if the very ground beneath my feet had opened up and I was tumbling downwards into a madness where I could dream the dream in real life, where Beatrice could enter my head at any moment, where I could no longer tell the difference between the dream and reality.
The floor was solid, of well-laid new pale planks. The windows were whole, of sparkling clean glass, the white trellis work freshly painted.
Staring disbelievingly out of the door, I turned back to say, ‘Ralph! Help me! Whether I am Beatrice or Julia, I know you would not hurt me. Help me! For I am lost and I don’t know who I am!’
There was no one there.
There was a pile of dust and leaves in the corner and they stirred as the wind blew through the broken panes. I was fully dressed, leaning against the ramshackle door-frame. I put my hand to my head and pulled at one of my ringlets. It was fair.
I gave a great shuddering sigh and looked out at the wet garden. It was the familiar wilderness of my childhood, the overgrown sprawling rose garden, with the suckers thrusting up, and smoke-stained walls, and the tumbling masonry. I was Julia.
My knees buckled beneath me and I put my face into my hands.
I felt I had to think. I had to understand what was happening to me. I thought of the blow to my head on the stone doorstep, which seemed to have happened years ago – but it was just last night. Perhaps that had injured my mind? But then I thought of the dream, and of the humming noise when I first saw Ralph in the village street. And my body – more certain and more confident than my puzzled worried head – felt as sleek and as comfortable as a well-stroked cat’s. I knew I should have been afraid or worried. But I could not feel that there was anything very badly wrong.
And I could not help but feel glad.
I had seen the hall in its prime. I had seen the beauty of the garden and the warmth of the walls. I had seen the terrace whole, I had seen the chimneys smoking as fires were lit in morning-rooms and the kitchen fire was lit ready for cooking.
And I had lain with Ralph as I knew Beatrice had done. And I had been beloved. And he had called me – in a little loving parody of respect – Miss Lacey. That was her name.
And it was also mine.
That was her lover, and her land and her home. And also mine.
I glanced up at the sun; it was time I went home for breakfast. I got to my feet and went lightly, easily down the steps to the rose garden. The buds themselves were starting to smell sweet in the wetness, and the weeds glowed green. I felt as if nothing could touch me. Nothing could threaten me. I was Beatrice’s heir, and there were times when I was Beatrice herself. I might be going home to try to lead the life of a good girl – of Mama’s indoor girl – but I had a secret strength inside me which came from Beatrice, my aunt, my other self. I knew I was on my way to loving the land, to understanding the land, as Beatrice had done. And I should work on it with her lover, whom I knew and loved as she had once done, long ago.
I walked home in a daze and I did not think. The breeze which had blown me up the drive to the hall had died down and caressed my face with a damp sweet breath. I smelled the wet earth and the good things growing, and my warm young body floated up the drive as if I were still dreaming. I had no thoughts. There could be no thoughts. It was easy. There were no t
houghts which could encompass what had happened. I felt I just had to flow with this madness, with this joy, like a trout on the floodtide of the Fenny. And hope that what I felt was right. And the best thing was not to think at all.
7
I ran up the steps to the front door in a rush and found the door on the latch and the hall deserted. I peeped into the dining-room and saw the table set. I was not late. I had not missed breakfast. The parlour door was firmly shut, and I guessed Richard was still hard at work.
The hem of my dress was muddy from walking in the lane, and the back all dusty. I hurried to my room to change it. One of the new gowns Mama had ordered from the Chichester sempstress had arrived, and I took it from its box.
It was a wonderful colour, the palest green, almost silver, the colour of new corn before it grows tall and strong. In my haste, tumbling into fresh petticoats and the new gown, I glimpsed myself in the mirror and it made me pause.
It was an old mirror, speckled and shadowy, but the reflection of myself that it showed me – my shift cut square across my growing breasts, the line of my cheek-bones, the shadow of my hair tumbling down over my shoulders, the tilt of my head and the haziness of my eyes, which gleamed like grey slates in rain-drew me across the room to look at myself more closely. The reflected eyes gazed back into mine. If only I could learn who I was by staring. Mama had been right to scold me for not wearing a hat every day – I had a speckle of freckles across my nose like the pinpricks of colour you see on a hen’s egg. My skin was hen’s-egg cream, and as smooth. My face seemed to have lost, in this one morning, my rounded girlish prettiness, and become finer, clearer.
I gazed at myself as though I had never seen myself before.
‘I have taken Beatrice’s lover,’ I said in an awestruck whisper. ‘She has possessed me utterly. I went up the drive to her home and met her lover in the very place where she met him. And we lay together as if I were her. I was full of the longing that she felt for him, and I could not bear the longing until she possessed me and I did what she used to do.’
My eyes dropped from the mirror and I turned away. I had to hide this secret joy, and I had to hide this secret strength. This morning I had to make my peace with the two men who ruled this household – Uncle John and Richard – and I would not be able to do it with that sated look in my eyes and that secret smile on my lips.
The gong for breakfast sounded and I shook my head, clearing it of magic, and turned and ran downstairs, pushing one final pin into the ringlets on the top of my head as I ran.
The newly drawn plans for the hall had arrived, and we hurried breakfast so that we might look at them before Richard went down the lane to his lessons in Acre. The architect had drawn a fascinating house, very much in the modern style, a fine plain building with a delightful rounded tower at one corner and a square frontage with the familiar great doorway and high clear windows. It was three storeys high.
‘A palace!’ Mama said.
‘The old hall was as big,’ Uncle John reminded her. ‘You have been living in Lilliput-land for so long you have forgotten how to live in a proper-sized house.’
‘Gracious,’ I said, awed. ‘It does look very fine, Uncle John.’
‘We shall be very fine to match it,’ he said firmly. ‘How will you like to be Miss Lacey of Wideacre Hall, Julia?
‘Very much,’ I said. Then I remembered what Richard wanted of me. ‘But more than anything I am looking forward to seeing Richard as squire in a proper hall.’
‘And speaking of fresh starts and new plans,’ Uncle John said, smiling, ‘I think it is time the pair of you started learning to ride in earnest. It is Chichester horse fair today, and I am going with the hope of buying a useful hunter for myself, and I have a mind to buy a horse each for you. If I can find something suitable.’
I did not say a word, I could not speak. I realized my hands were clasped under my chin and I had half risen from my seat, but I said nothing.
Richard was oddly silent too.
‘I will assume that silence betokens consent,’ Uncle John said teasingly.
Oh, yes!’ I said longingly. Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes!’
Uncle John laughed, his eyes on Mama. ‘They really are delightful, Celia,’ he said, speaking over our heads as if we were very small children. ‘They truly are delightfully unspoiled, I agree. But Wideacre or no, they must go to town and university and have a little polish rubbed on them.’
‘Dreadful!’ Mama said. ‘Julia, you put me utterly to the blush! Stop saying, “Oh, yes” like that and say, “Thank you,” as though you had a ha’p’orth of wit. And, Richard, it’s not like you to have nothing to say for yourself.’
Richard cleared his throat. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said politely. I think only I could hear the lack of enthusiasm in his voice, and I had a twinge of remorse and sympathy for Richard. I guessed he was thinking of Scheherazade.
‘Thank you, Uncle John,’ I said softly. ‘Mama is right and I have no manners at all. I was just so…so…so…’
Uncle John smiled at Mama as I ran out of words.
‘Boarding-school?’ he suggested.
‘Bedlam!’ Mama replied. ‘Julia, if you have nothing to say, you can go and fetch some writing-paper and ink for me, instead of kneeling there on the floor with your mouth open. Richard, it must be time for you to go to Dr Pearce.’
Richard bowed to her and bid us a general farewell and then took one last lingering look at the exquisite drawing, like a hungry man looking at a meal which might be taken from him. ‘Yes,’ he said unwillingly, and went to the door.
I waited for a smile from him, but I had none. He went from the house with his head down and not even a glance towards me, though I stood in the hall as he shrugged on his greatcoat and was at the front door when he went out. He went without a look at me. He went without a word to me, though he knew I was waiting patiently for either. I stood at the parlour window and watched him stride down the drive, watched in case he relented and waved to me, but he did not. Mama saw my stillness and my eyes upon his vanishing figure when she came into the parlour.
‘Will you write some letters for me, my dear?’ she said invitingly.
‘Yes, I will,’ I said without hesitation.
She looked at me closely. ‘Is Richard still angry with you about John Dench?’ she asked softly.
I did not have tears in my eyes. I did not feel an ache in my heart. I did not feel the sense of dread which I learned in childhood when I thought of Richard’s rage. I gave a little impatient grimace. ‘He’s in the sullens,’ I said, unimpressed. ‘He’ll get out of them.’
And ignoring Mama’s look of surprise, I sat up at the table, collected some notepaper, dipped the pen in the standish and set to writing to her dictation as if I had never cried for Richard’s approval in my life.
Uncle John was lucky at the horse sales; but Richard and I were not.
‘I could see nothing which would suit either of you,’ he said. ‘I am sorry to disappoint you, and I am disappointed too. I had promised myself the pleasure of coming home in the carriage with three horses trotting behind me. I found this grand old hunter for me, but nothing suitable for the two of you.’
‘What was the problem, sir?’ Richard asked courteously.
We were sitting down to a late dinner, and Uncle John smiled down the table at Richard as he carved a plump goose into wafer-thin slices and Stride passed them around.
‘Bad breeding,’ he said briefly. ‘I wanted something steady and sound for both of you, but something with a bit of breeding so that you could have more fun when you were used to riding. I’d have looked for something fairly lively for you, Richard, don’t fret! And something slow and steady for Julia. But there was nothing except some broken-winded hunters who would never get out of a trot without gasping like a landed fish.’
Richard laughed heartily. I watched him closely. He was out of his ill humour with me, and he seemed relaxed, even pleased. I could not understand it. I was tryi
ng very hard not to seem sulky, but I was so disappointed at Uncle John’s bad luck at the horse fair that I could have wept.
‘Perhaps you have saved your money, sir,’ Richard said. ‘I was thinking that, as I am going to Oxford, you would have bought a horse for me for nothing. I could not ride one there, I suppose?’
‘No,’ Uncle John agreed, carving the last slices of goose and sitting down to his own place. Stride served him with crunchy roasted potatoes, some succulent carrots from the Havering kitchen garden and roasted parsnip. Uncle John waved away the gravy, but took a liberal helping of Mrs Gough’s smooth lemon sauce. ‘But I had thought, Richard, to keep your horse here for you to use in the holidays. That is no great burden on the stables, you know.’
Richard smiled sweetly. ‘You’re kind to me, sir!’ he said. ‘But since you have had such trouble in finding a suitable horse at this fair, I do beg you not to trouble yourself any further. I have walked around Wideacre all my life, and am well able to continue to do so in the meantime. I am sure Julia feels the same.’
I opened my mouth to disagree, but a sharp blue look from Richard silenced me.
‘At any rate, there is no need for a horse this summer,’ Richard said smoothly. ‘I know Julia’s grandmama does not approve of ladies riding in summertime, and I am happy to go horseless to keep my cousin company.’
Mama smiled. ‘That is sweet of you, Richard!’ she said approvingly, and Uncle John nodded. ‘And he is quite right,’ she said to John. ‘It is not really the season to start to learn to ride. If there are no good horses available, perhaps the two of them can wait until the Christmas holidays.’
Uncle John shrugged. ‘As you wish,’ he said. ‘I should have liked to have produced two horses for the pair of you without further ado, but there is certainly nothing suitable in the neighbourhood for sale at the moment. I shall keep my eyes open for you both, you may be sure. If we cannot find suitable riding horses, then you will have to drive around and I shall get a cob or something to pull the gig.’
The Favoured Child Page 19