Slave to Love

by Rebecca Campbell

  Only then, as Lynden’s eyes widened in amazement and his mouth began to work at framing a reply, did Alice realize she was going to be sick. Her mouth had filled with a thin, sweet saliva and she was peculiarly aware of the disposition of her internal organs. She thought she might have thirty seconds before it happened, but it could be as few as fifteen. She knew where the loo was, but she had no intention of rejoining the party after vomiting. She just wasn’t that kind of girl.

  “Edward,” she said, “I need to lie down now. Where can I go?”

  “Your . . . usual room is made up for you on the first floor,” he said, with a carefully wrought civility. “You remember, the corridor directly above this one, third door on the left, the room facing—” But Alice had already turned to go.

  SHE FELT BETTER with the cool porcelain of the lavatory bowl against her head. She’d had to make loud, piggy snorting and coughing noises to clear the last nuggets of sick from the awkward space between her nose and her throat, and she hoped, without really caring, that no one had heard. She took some comfort from the fact that only the most muffled and intermittent sounds reached her from the party.

  When had she last been sick like that? It must have been at the leaving-sixth-form disco. They’d gone to the pub first and she’d drunk five sweet martinis with lemonade, and then a gin and tonic to show the boy who’d bought it for her how sophisticated she was. What was his name? Benedict. He’d always liked her from the moment she joined the school in the third form. When the other kids teased her about having come from a private school she could sense he didn’t like it and was embarrassed for her. She could see him very clearly now, as he was then, with his sandy hair that didn’t seem to have a natural grain but grew in all directions at once; his blazer always too small, showing four inches of dirty cuff or bare skinny arm. He was the only boy to wear a suit to the disco. Pale gray, cheap. Funny how she should remember him and not the cool boys, the ones all the girls fancied: Gavin Paulie, James Whiteoak, Dave Land. Benedict had asked her to dance at the end to the Louis Armstrong “(What a) Wonderful World,” and she was too nice to say no. He’d clung to her, his knuckles white with fear and desire, as she looked over his shoulder at the other dancers. She didn’t feel at all embarrassed at dancing with the second biggest nerd in the sixth form (she might even have danced with Richard Crawshaw himself, who looked like he was pulling a face even when he wasn’t). In fact she felt a little thrill at being so ostentatiously and publicly nice. Was that bad? She hadn’t thought about it then and she didn’t know now. Andrew would know. Or that little friend of his, whom Odette might have liked. Must call Odette. Back then there was so much to look forward to: There’d be nice boys, cool boys, boys who’d love her more than she loved them, and boys who’d break her heart. How easy things were. Kitty was Alice’s only problem, her father the only sacred dead.

  The dead. How could she have forgotten so soon her own beautiful Dead Boy? She had betrayed him by following this pointless dream here in the Cave of Ice, with her ridiculous baron. What was it Andrew’s friend . . . Leo . . . had said? Andrew was real, Lynden was trashy fantasy, and the Dead Boy was art. Surely, art was better than reality, better than fantasy. In art the fantastic was made real, the real fantastic. Had Leo understood that as he said it, and was that why he felt the need to drag in Plato to prove that art was deception?

  Alice hauled herself up from the bathroom floor, suddenly so tired she thought she might fall asleep where she was on the thick white carpet. She splashed some water on her face and brushed her teeth with her finger—she knew her overnight bag would be waiting in the bedroom, but she couldn’t face going all the way there and all the way back for her toothbrush.

  The room was as comfortable as she remembered. It occurred to her that the incongruity of the furnishings in some of the rooms must be to do with old furniture kept from the earlier house on the site. How old would that have been? Victorian? Elizabethan? Medieval? She must have read it somewhere, but it wouldn’t come back.

  She slipped between the sheets wearing nothing but her underwear. There was a weirdly shaped pot in the room, which Alice knew had some particular purpose, not a tulip pot, but something like that in specificity. Specificity . . . what a strange word. Must ask someone tomorrow about the pot. Grace might know. Grace. Who was Grace? Who was Grace?

  IN THE NIGHT the old house came back. Its walls of crumbling brick and sandstone soft as velvet, held together with moss and lichen and ivy, reasserted their rights to this space. Timbers and whitewashed plaster grew like crystals around the panels of glass and steel, around the concrete pillars. Flying buttresses and high vaults were cast across space like spiderwebs. Subterranean workings carved themselves again through the rubble of their own collapse. Priests’ holes and back stairs and secret places opened like cavities in a rotten tooth. Gargoyles pulled themselves from the earth and scaled the walls to take up their old places, to summon up or warn away or guard against the evil spirits, the ancient ones.

  She felt her father come to her through the old house. He held a lantern high, and wherever its light fell, the old decayed again briefly into the new. Some niches illumined by the lamp were filled with stuffed birds, the ones she knew and loved, although their names were all wrong: the gyre and the gimble, the petulant, the cave swoft, and the gaily colored parasol. When he came into her room, the light was so bright she could not see his face. He was wearing the white coat she knew he must have worn on his rounds, although she had no memory of ever seeing him in it. Of course, he would never bring something that might be contaminated back into the house, back to her. It was Kitty who had brought contagion. No, this wasn’t about that. Her father was telling her . . . telling her the thing he always told her. It was his message. She knew what his message was. It was what he had taught her. The things he had shown her. The message was . . . the message was . . .

  “What is it?” Alice had come awake speaking the words. “Who’s there?”

  The door closed, cutting out the arc of light that had shown her, for a moment, the figure coming toward her. She heard the man breathing. He was panting, not gasps from exertion but the labored sound of someone who has been holding his breath involuntarily, from fear or stealth.

  “Who is it?” said Alice, loudly this time. Her own heart was racing and she was about to launch into a horror-film scream. Only the thought that it might be Edward—for whatever reason—had stopped her from screaming already.

  “Oh, crikey, is this where you are, Alice?”

  “Johnny? Is that you? What the hell are you doing here? Don’t answer, just get out!”

  “Oh, gosh, look, I really didn’t mean to startle you. Had no idea you were in here. Just wandering around looking for a place to kip. Went for a stroll on my own outside, came back, found all the others had gone off to bed or driven home or what-have-you.”

  Alice was no longer remotely alarmed. Even an innocent such as she could deal with a chump like Johnny, she reasoned.

  “Well, there must be twenty bedrooms in this house. I’m sure you’ll stumble into an unoccupied one if you keep going.”

  “Oh, yes, well, doubtless. Only thing is,” he said, suddenly rather closer than he had been, “I thought that, as I’m here, I might just sort of pop up on the bed for a while.”

  Alice laughed. “Sorry, Johnny, it’s been a long day. I’ve been drunk, been sick, and now I’m sober, with the beginnings of the kind of hangover you don’t want to be around. And I’m really not in the mood to debate the merits of spring versus winter barley with you. Please just go.”

  “I’m afraid,” said Johnny, climbing clumsily onto the bed, “that I just need a minute or two’s rest. Recharge my batteries. No need to alarm yourself. I’m up here on top of the duvet, completely out of harm’s way.”

  Until he was on the bed with her, Alice hadn’t realized how large Johnny Twogood was. She was still half amused by his antics, and the part that wasn’t amused wasn’t yet concerned: just ang
ry and hung over.

  “That’s enough, Johnny. I’d like you to leave, now.”

  “Not very friendly, after giving me the come-on all day. Someone might say you’re a bit of a prick tease.” He moved closer and touched her hair. “Unless you’re just playing a little hard to get. Don’t mind that at all. Like that, in fact.”

  Alice now felt horribly trapped. She couldn’t spring out of bed in her underpants and bra, and besides, his weight on the duvet had trapped her arms. With one great effort she wrenched her right arm free and shoved as hard as she could, at the same time yelling, “Get off!” Luckily, he was in the process of shifting his position to enable further and fuller access, and Alice’s push succeeded in shunting him off the bed and onto the floor, where he landed with a clump.

  A second after he landed, and before he’d had time to renew his assault, the door burst open. The effort to push Johnny off the bed had displaced the duvet, exposing Alice from the waist up. She felt the skin around her nipples pucker slightly with the cold air. Before she had time to pull the duvet back into shape, her eyes met Lynden’s as he paused by the doorway. He was wearing a long, dark, heavy dressing gown, lined with white silk. She saw him look down toward Twogood, who was struggling to get back on his feet. Instantly his face took on the look of sublime rage she had seen twice before. Three strides took him towering over Johnny. Without speaking, he clasped hold of his shirt collar, taking with it, to judge by the yelps of pain Johnny was emitting (interspersed with muddled explanations about why he was there), a good clutch of the hairs from the nape of his neck, and marched him out of the door. Alice heard the squeals and whining apologies recede down the corridor, reaching a new crescendo as Lynden dragged Johnny down the stairs. Five minutes later he was back.

  “I heard a noise,” said Lynden. “Are you . . . hurt?”

  “Hurt? No. Johnny . . . he came in while I was sleeping. He startled me, that’s all.”

  “Look, if he laid a finger on you, or threatened to, it’s a matter for the police. I can have them here in twenty minutes. They deal . . . sympathetically with these things now.”

  Alice thought for a minute. She couldn’t be sure in her own mind if the incident had been more than an inept pass.

  “No, I don’t think there’s a need. He would probably have gone away even if you hadn’t . . . What did you do with him?”

  “I just threw him out the door. But I’ll tell you one thing. He’ll never work in this county again.”

  Alice found this rather amusing.

  “What are you laughing at?” said Lynden, beginning to smile.

  “Oh, just you, grand-seigneuring it. He’ll never work in this county again,” she mimicked, not accurately but to good comic effect.

  “Yes, I suppose that was a bit pompous.” He paused for a moment before going on. “The reason I was able to hear that you were . . . distressed was that I was coming to this room myself.”

  Alice had thought it odd that Lynden had appeared so quickly. But what did this mean? What had he come for?

  “The thing is,” he said, “I wanted to apologize properly for everything that’s happened today. I really didn’t mean to leave you alone with these . . . people. But whenever I tried to come to you, I found I was corraled either by the Beaumont heavy squad or Siân Ellis, out for a story for that ridiculous column of hers. She seems to want to see me as an archetypal country squire, holding the land in trust for everyone. . . . Anyway, you seemed to be keeping yourself amused with your courtiers. Peter Conradian was certainly much taken with your charms.”

  “Oh, please, he’s old enough to be my—” Alice stopped, remembering too late that Peter and Edward were contemporaries.

  Lynden stiffened slightly and carried on more formally.

  “I also wanted to explain about the Audubon. Ophelia kept saying that you were so busy at work, that the Audubon was taking over your life in an unhealthy way. She said she thought it was selfish of me to insist that you carry it all on your own shoulders, that you’d done enough and someone else ought to help with the tidying up. I was hardly listening. I certainly didn’t see it as any kind of plot. And I thought that with less of a workload, you might be able to see . . . to come here . . . more often. In the end I just vaguely agreed with Ophelia that it didn’t seem fair that you had to do so much of the work. I’m sorry if I caused any . . . confusion.”

  It was too much to think about. Waves of exhaustion were passing over Alice again.

  “Please, please, let’s talk about it in the morning. I’m so . . .” and then she yawned as widely and innocently as a child, which made them both laugh.

  “Of course. My manners. Good night, Alice.”

  He bent over her and kissed her very gently on the cheek. His lips lingered there for a second longer than was strictly necessary. As a way of drawing it to a close, but also to indicate that she was no longer angry with him, she turned her face to bring their lips together in a brief, chaste contact, before turning fully onto her side and burying down in the soft pillow. She pulled up the duvet, leaving space enough for one eye to peep out.

  “Good night, Edward,” she said, and he left the room.

  SUNDAY WAS SUNNY, and after breakfast it was decided that they should all go for a nice long walk. Johnny, of course, had left, along with several others. Ophelia and Mrs. Beaumont were still there, Alice was disappointed to note, as was Siân Ellis, Jeremy, and Peter Conradian. Semele joined them, looking grumpy and shaking off Grace’s attempt to tie on a hat.

  At least Edward was by her side as they set off down into the valley below the house. Together they led the straggling group and were soon amid trees, with the sound of water not very far away.

  “This is lovely,” said Alice, just to get things going. She looked up at him and smiled, which took quite a lot of effort, given the hangover from which she was suffering She felt as though the fine old country pastime of badger baiting was being revived in her brain pan.

  Lynden, however, looked distracted, and took several heartbeats to reply, heartbeats that felt like the pounding of the timpani at the climax of some monumental discordant tone poem.

  “Mmmm? Yes. I don’t come down this way very much anymore.”

  He didn’t meet her smile but looked up into the branches of the trees, which held on feebly to the last few leaves.

  The tenderness and sympathy of the night before had disappeared as completely as the old house, with its vaults and buttresses and ghosts, had vanished. Alice, annoyed and disappointed, allowed Lynden to stride ahead. She found herself next to Ophelia’s mother, who, from the effortful grunts and general air of bustle, had been trying to catch up with her, just as she was falling back toward the pack. She was wearing her usual armor-plating of tweed and had donned a head scarf. The model may have been the Queen at Balmoral, but the reality was more Romanian beggar woman. Her face, thickly fleshed, its folds and planes never quite where one would expect, was as implacable and unreadable as ever.

  “Ah, Alice,” she said, panting with exertion. Alice was tempted to increase her pace to further discommode the unpleasant old woman. But such pleasures were, sadly, not in her nature to grasp. “I’ve wanted to talk to you since yesterday. You are a cleverly elusive young lady.”

  The phrase, with its subtle suggestion of slyness and cowardice, irritated Alice beyond forbearance.

  “Mrs. Beaumont—”

  “Please, please, Volumnia. There is no need for formality in the country.”

  “Volumnia, I find it surprising that you were unaware of my presence, when I was so conscious of yours. You are fortunate, I suppose, in having such a penetrating voice. It must come in handy for training dogs.”

  “Yes, well, I do have my spaniels, which are a great distraction. But I wanted to talk about you, child. Don’t intend to beat about the bush. My concern is with family. It has come to my attention that you may have interests here beyond those appropriate to your position at Enderby’s. I would have to have
been deaf—and I promise you, Alice, I am not deaf—not to have heard the various to-ings and fro-ings of last night, not to mention the bangs and crashes. And I was so sorry not to have seen young Johnny Twogood over the kedgeree this morning. Quite inexplicable. Unless you would care to explain?”

  “Yes, I shall explain,” said Alice, after considering saying nothing at all. “He barged into my room last night and tried to get into bed with me, despite my urgent and loud requests that he go away. Edward heard my complaints and threw him out of the house.”

  “Well!” said Volumnia Beaumont, filling the word with distaste, as though a stray mongrel had tried to get at one of her spaniel bitches. Evidently, whatever exactly had gone on, it must all be Alice’s fault. “I really can’t believe that one of the Twogoods would . . . that Edward would become embroiled . . . Oh, dear, oh, dear, I do hope that Miss Ellis won’t be using any of this in one of her columns.”

  Was that a threat? wondered Alice. Bed-hopping antics of metropolitan elite brought to rural idyll? If it was, it had no purchase on her. Conversation stopped for a while as the party picked its way through a boggy bit that required careful foot-eye coordination. Alice noticed for the first time how unsuitable her shoes were for this type of expedition: too sensible for town, too flash for the country. Not for the first time, she wished that Andrew was around to give it a proper paradoxical form. Or perhaps Leo could work it up into some huge baroque structure. Alice smiled at the thought of Leo and his stiletto. It must, she thought, come somewhere under the big pink tent of campness.

  “What a terrible mess the mud has made of your sweet little shoes,” said Volumnia, marching along in her 1930s first-white-man-to-reach-the-mountain-kingdom-of-Upper-Bhtwalladah boots. “I was saying, about your romantic intentions vis-à-vis Edward—”

  “I haven’t got any romantic intentions vis-à-vis anyone,” spluttered Alice. “And frankly I don’t see that it’s—”

  “Alice, I am speaking openly and honestly. It may not be the way of the young, but it’s my way. Please do me the courtesy of listening. I am told that you value being responsible for organizing the sale of this book of Edward’s. And I know that Edward has agreed to recommend that Ophelia be handed the project, and I can quite see that this might be a disappointment to you. But a promise is a promise. I’m sure you wouldn’t want Edward to break his word.”