Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  Heat seared Beatrice’s cheeks. She glanced at Jean, certain she would find the maid smirking, but the woman was as pale and as miserable as ever.

  ‘You can go now, Jean.’

  Jean dipped into a curtsey and fled. After the slamming of the door, silence reverberated in the room.

  Beatrice pulled her eyes away from Clementine to look outside at the rain now driving across the land and battering the windowpanes. She needed time to calm herself before she spoke.

  ‘We are leaving.’

  Silence again. For a moment, Beatrice thought Clementine had not heard her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dougal and I are going home.’

  Clementine stopped stroking the dogs. ‘I don’t understand. You are happy here.’

  ‘I am happy here. Dougal is not.’

  Clementine stood. The dogs fell off her lap, then scrambled to get comfortable again.

  ‘You are leaving because he has thrown a tantrum?’

  ‘I would hardly call it a tantrum.’

  ‘What would you call it, then?’

  She faced Clementine. ‘He is traumatised.’

  ‘He does not know the meaning! You are following him as you have always followed him.’

  ‘He is my husband.’

  ‘But what do you want, Beatrice?’

  ‘It does not matter what I want. I am his wife. I made a promise to him –’

  ‘That did not stop you fucking me.’

  The words were like a physical arrow. They cut into Beatrice and made her stagger back. Clementine glared at her from the other side of the room, and it was as if she was a stranger.

  ‘I still love you, Clementine,’ Beatrice whispered. Her confession was met with a sneer. ‘I am trying to do what is best. What is right.’

  ‘You think Dougal has always done what is right?’ Clementine turned her back to Beatrice. She retrieved something from the side of the bed, and as she lifted it up, Beatrice could see it was a canvas. Clementine held it out before her, cocked her head as she looked at it, then showed Beatrice.

  Beatrice’s pale face stared back at her, open and bare. There was too much of herself in those strokes of the paintbrush. Her body was too languid, too sensual, even in the confines of a dress. Her eyes were too glassy, too pained, too ready for a saviour. Too beautiful.

  In that painting, she was everything she kept hidden and everything she wished to be. Everything she could become. She could look at it no longer.

  Clementine’s voice when she next spoke was soft. ‘You were almost perfect.’

  The rain lashed against her skin as she ran. The cottage blurred as her feet pounded the earth, splashing mud up her legs. Her cloak billowed out behind her, and the wind snagged her hair. Never had it taken so long to get back to the cottage!

  ‘Beatrice!’ The sound came from miles away. She did not search for its owner but continued to run.

  Movement to her left caught her eye. Through the grey blanket of rain she could make out the silhouette of a man in the stable door, backlit by a candle. Alfred, she guessed, watching her. She drove her heels down faster.

  She crashed through the door. Doubling over, she held her knees as she sobbed and watched the rain pour off her cloak and form a puddle by her feet. It was all she could do to remain standing as Clementine’s words echoed in her mind.

  Almost perfect.

  ‘Beatrice!’ The voice again, closer now. Footsteps splattering along the path, the doorknob twisting.

  Clementine tumbled inside the cottage. Her hair stuck to her face as if an ink pot had been dropped on her head. In her haste, it seemed she had thrown on a gown; the thin material clung to her body, showing her to be without a corset or petticoats. She had not taken the time to find her cloak. Every inch of her was wet, and as she stood, unmoving, she began to shiver.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Clementine whispered, drawing her arms around herself, her teeth beginning to chatter.

  Beatrice stumbled into the kitchen to the range. Both of them held their hands out to the heat, silent for a minute. Clementine’s little finger stretched towards Beatrice’s tentatively. At the touch of her, Beatrice’s tears returned.

  ‘I do not want you to go.’ Clementine’s voice broke.

  ‘I don’t want to go.’

  Clementine turned to her and clutched her hands. ‘Then don’t.’

  ‘I have to.’

  Clementine’s eyes were wide, darting. ‘Take a house in the village. Dougal need never step foot in Dhuloch again. I can have all the work transported to him.’

  ‘And us?’

  ‘You will continue to visit. I will give you a pony, a carriage. We can continue as we are.’

  Hope sparked inside her. Could she convince Dougal that such a life would be possible, enjoyable? She fooled herself for only a second. ‘He cannot stand it here.’

  ‘I cannot stand to be without you.’

  Clementine held Beatrice’s face. Without her fine gowns and gold jewellery, without her hair styled, without the mask of a smile, Clementine was laid bare. Fear was etched on her face.

  ‘I cannot lose you.’ She pulled Beatrice against her and held her tight against her chest. ‘Do not leave me again.’

  Clementine’s heart beat fast against Beatrice’s ear. She reached around Clementine’s waist, clinging to her tightly, letting their breathing synchronise. She imagined them as two thin tree trunks twisting around each other, bound together.

  ‘Come away with us,’ Beatrice said. The words pulsated between them as if alive.

  ‘Leave Dhuloch?’

  ‘What is keeping you here?’

  ‘It is my home. I can never leave.’

  ‘You are all alone, Clementine.’

  ‘Not if you stay.’ Clementine brushed her lips against Beatrice’s. ‘Stay, my love.’

  She kissed her again, and this time Beatrice tasted the salt of fresh tears, though she did not know to whom they belonged.

  The table was behind Beatrice, and Clementine nudged between her legs. Their kisses were softer than usual, slower, as if both of them were trying to stain the memory of the other in their minds.

  Beatrice undid Clementine’s buttons, peeled the wet crepe off her skin, and threw it beside the range. The skirt was next. She hugged Clementine’s damp body to hers and enveloped her, hoping to warm her, consume her.

  Beatrice kicked her boots off, hitched herself further up on the table, laid herself down, and pulled Clementine over her.

  With Clementine’s hair like a curtain concealing them, it was as if no one else existed in the world.

  ‘I love you.’ Clementine’s grey eyes shone with tears.

  ‘I love you too.’

  Beatrice smiled. She would not think of leaving; she would think only of Clementine – the smell of her, the taste of her, the softness of her skin. She would be grateful that she had ever known such a woman. She ran her fingers through Clementine’s hair and brought their lips together.

  ‘Beatrice?’

  For the briefest of moments, Clementine stared at Beatrice in confusion until horror bleached her features. She pulled away, vanishing from Beatrice’s sight.

  Dragging herself upright, Beatrice first saw Clementine reaching for the clothes on the floor. Then she saw her husband standing in the kitchen doorway.

  Beatrice could do nothing except watch the water drip from his jacket. She could neither move nor speak.

  To her right, there was the damp slide of clothes on skin and the slap of a skirt on the flagstones as Clementine struggled to dress herself.

  As if he had been punched in the stomach, Dougal fell against the wall and gripped his sides.

  ‘Mr Brown, it is not Beatrice –’

  ‘Get out,’ Dougal hissed through pinched lips.

  Beatrice forced herself off the table. Her legs wobbled and threatened to buckle, but she steadied herself. ‘Dougal, please.’

  ‘You have brought evil into this house,’ he whis
pered. His fingers scraped down his jacket and dug into the tops of his legs. He gasped – with the pain of opening his wounds, Beatrice imagined – as tears filled his eyes. ‘You have brought sin.’

  She stepped towards him. ‘Dougal, it is not –’

  ‘Not what?’ He turned on her, his teeth bared.

  ‘Mr Brown, please calm down.’

  Shoving Beatrice to one side, he lunged at Clementine, stopping himself before the table, his fists balled. ‘Curse you, woman! You have let the devil into my house!’

  Clementine raised her chin and met his gaze, her face smooth. ‘The devil was already here.’

  The air rushed from Dougal’s mouth. ‘Get out of my house.’

  Clementine nodded and made for the door.

  In that instant, Beatrice stepped forward and reached for her. ‘This is not your house, Dougal. You cannot tell your mistress what she must do.’

  But Clementine only patted Beatrice’s hand before serenely walking out of the kitchen. Beatrice followed.

  ‘Take my cloak, at least?’

  Clementine shook her head. ‘I will be fine.’ She opened the door, then hesitated. ‘Remember what I said.’

  She watched Clementine vanish into the grey wall of rain, then reluctantly closed the door, shutting herself inside with her husband. She did not want to turn around. She knew Dougal was behind her.

  ‘What did she say?’ he said.

  ‘That she loves me.’

  Everywhere was still, then his fist crashed into the wall. The bones splintered and cracked. The flesh of his knuckles tore; she saw the blood come thickly as he cradled his hand.

  She did not try to help him.

  ‘You are a sinner,’ he said, weeping now.

  ‘Love is not a sin.’

  He glared at her, and she edged back from the hatred in his eyes.

  ‘This place is a pit. It is cursed.’ He sniffed, rubbed his good hand over his face, and straightened. ‘We are all cursed.’

  He strode out of the door into the rain. She watched him go, watched his silhouette blur and fade as the sky darkened with the dusk. She did not call after him. She did not ask him where he was going. She did not beg him to stay or to forgive her. She did not want forgiveness.

  She shut the door. She shut the cold and the rain out. She shut him out.

  She wished he would never return.

  Chapter 12

  Upstairs, on the edge of the bed, Beatrice listened to the clock strike midnight. Her candle was almost out; its flame spluttered in the bottom of the holder, throwing odd shadows against the walls. She saw herself reflected against the blackness of the windowpane: the whiteness of her nightgown, the rats’ tails of her hair hanging limply around her face, the glimmer of the pearl in the hollow of her neck.

  She undid Effie’s necklace. It coiled like a snake in her palm, the gold holding on to her heat.

  So you will always remember me.

  I could never forget you.

  She kissed the pearl now, opened the red velvet box, and carefully slipped it inside. She put it on her bedside table ready to wear in the morning for the journey to England.

  She stood up and cupped her hands against the window so she could see into the night.

  ‘Come on,’ she whispered, her breath fogging the glass.

  Rain bored into the earth. Then, through the blackness, a light flared as if a match had just been struck. Two windows glowed golden at the top right-hand side of the castle.

  Beatrice held her breath. Her toes scrunched impatiently. Then a figure came to one of the windows. Beatrice could make out the distant silhouette of Clementine.

  Clementine raised a hand. Beatrice returned the gesture, her fingertips brushing the glass, and in that moment it was as if the space between them did not exist.

  ‘I love you,’ Beatrice whispered, enjoying the sensation of the words on her lips, the sound of them in the room. She imagined Clementine saying it too, imagined their whispers fluttering across the darkness like fairies to meet each other amongst the raindrops.

  The candle choked behind her. She turned to it just as it expired, its wick burning orange and amber, emitting a curl of grey smoke as it died. When she looked to the castle again, Clementine was turning away from the window, her head bowed.

  Beatrice would have shouted out, but there was little use; the sound would have been lost on the wind. She could do nothing but watch as Clementine bent to stroke one of the dogs, looked one last time into the night, then disappeared from view. Seconds later, the candle was extinguished.

  Beatrice cursed as she slipped between her bed sheets, but the anger twisting inside her came out only as tears. Slow, resigned tears. She pushed her face into the pillow, noting the sharpness of the cotton case and the bristle of the feathers within, and she thought how this would be the last time her head would ever rest on it. She stretched her fingers to the wall to feel the scratch of the bare stonework; at home, there would be smooth plaster and paper.

  She had become used to the roughness of this place. She had become part of the land’s harshness. Somehow, the jagged, iced mountains and the vast black lake made her more comfortable than the rolling green hills of home. She did not need to be beautiful here. She was so small in this world that her inconsequence gave her a sense of freedom. The only person she mattered to was Clementine, and that was all that mattered to her.

  The thought of returning home to the sparkling high street and pretty terraced houses all so tightly packed, where curtains twitched as much as they were drawn, where everyone knew everything but nothing at all, made her sick. The thought of returning to her father’s house to endure the questions regarding their trip, to live in fear of what Dougal might say, might give away, might plant … she could not bear it.

  Everything had gone wrong.

  She cursed Dougal, but she cursed herself more – her foolishness, carelessness, weakness. But even now, she longed for him to return so she would know he was safe. Perhaps if she could explain, he might understand.

  She laughed at her naivety.

  The dawn woke her. Sitting up, a twinge tugged at her shoulders. She rolled her head back and forth, and her bones crunched and popped. She picked the crusts of sleep out of the corners of her eyes and yawned.

  The night had been awful. She had heard the clock strike one, then two, then three, then four. Between the chimes she had dozed, tossing and turning, waking suddenly, her chest tight, her skin sticky with sweat and terror until she did not know what time it was. When she had searched the space beside her, she had found it empty.

  Now, with the clock striking eight, she rallied herself for the day ahead. The exhaustion made her dizzy, and her legs felt like lead as she swung them out from between the sheets.

  She neatened the bed, then used the pot. Outside, the rain had finally abated, but the clouds were thick and a white blanket of light bathed the room. Looking down from the window, she saw that the track was dark brown and slick, the puddles were silvered over, and the high grass had wilted under the force of the rain.

  ‘Dougal?’ Her voice was too loud in the silence of the house.

  Tying her robe about her, she tiptoed down the stairs.

  Bracing herself, she entered the kitchen. Nothing much had changed except that the fire in the range had died, and the room was unusually chill. As she looked about, she imagined what Dougal must have seen yesterday – her and Clementine on the table, wet and naked …

  She turned away.

  At the study door, she hesitated, then knocked. ‘Dougal, are you in there?’

  Nothing. She twisted the handle and stepped inside.

  The room was icy and immaculate. The desk was bare, the chair pushed neatly underneath it. Dougal’s leather case sat on top of the desk, filled and ready to go.

  She pulled out the chair and sat. She tested the comfort of the seat – rested her elbows on the wooden arms, wiggled back and forth on the thin cushion, sat as if she was holding a pen
and was about to write something very important. It made her think of the times with her governess, practising her handwriting in the room which had once been her nursery – how she had laboured so her governess would smile and kiss her cheeks!

  Leaning back, her eyes lifted to the window. Dhuloch loomed above. How often had Dougal glanced up from his work to see the castle that he could not bear? A constant reminder, a constant fear. She could not understand why he had set his desk at this side of the room; on the opposite side, the window looked out towards the mountains, towards the way home.

  She went to that window now, wondering if she might see him returning to the cottage. The landscape stretched wide, the grass on this side of the cottage so high that its tips tapped the bottom of the glass. There was no one nearby, but in the distance, at the far edge of the castle parkland, there was a tree, black against the white mountains, its branches stripped bare for winter. What was just below the lowest branch? She squinted and rubbed her eyes. She could not quite make sense of what she was seeing …

  Her stomach clenched.

  No. She could not be sure. A trick of the light, perhaps?

  Cold scraped over her skin as she made for the back door. She had to shove it open, for it stuck on the flagstones, and the path outside had grown wild with lack of use; they ventured out here only to use the privy.

  Weeds struck her feet as she crept outside, the wet grass soaking her nightgown all the way up to her thighs, but she did not stop. She did not return for her shoes or her cloak; she was transfixed by the shape in the distance.

  Slashing the grass away from her, she walked more quickly, wincing as debris cut into her skin, until she was on the track. Mud slopped between her toes. Deftly, she avoided the potholes as she ran along the track towards the tree. She was blinking hard, beginning to shake, beginning to wail. She dropped to her knees, unable to go any further.

  Fifty feet ahead of her, Dougal swayed from one thick branch. His head was bent to one side, his feet were curled inwards, and his face was bloated and purple.

  She screamed into the mud.

  ‘Come away.’ Strong arms bound her waist. The ground receded. She hung limply, her legs dangling freely, as Alfred lifted her over his shoulder. The world turned upside down.