by Sarah Rayne
On that final, fateful, afternoon, she had been lying beneath the panting, thrusting Chimaera, staring up at the ceiling, and wishing he had not once again drenched himself in lavender hair oil because the smell was making her feel slightly sick. She had also been hoping that he would hurry up and give the sudden cry of triumph that signified that the bouncing and writhing and gasping were over.
He had already cried out, ‘Dio mio, I am to die, oh, I am to die,’ and Gina had been feeling rather guiltily grateful to hear this, when the bedroom door banged open and her father stood there. It was the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened, because Gina and Chimaera were intertwined in a way that could not possibly be misinterpreted. Chimaera was wearing only the skimpiest of shirts, and Gina was wearing nothing at all. Father took all this in instantly, and Gina flinched, waiting for the explosion of anger.
But for a strange, never-to-be-forgotten moment, there was no anger. Instead, Father looked at her, and Gina saw something in his face she had never seen before. Sadness?
Then he clenched his fists, and shouted that Chimaera was a black-hearted whoremonger, and that he would deprive him of his manhood there and then. He plunged across the room to where Chimaera had half fallen out of bed, and was scrabbling across the floor, in an ungainly attempt to escape.
Gina huddled against the pillows, trying to pull the sheets around her, waiting for Chimaera to stand up and courageously defy Father – to fling back his head and declare that he loved Gina and he was prepared to take the consequences of loving her. But he did not. He stood against the wall, clasping his hands in an attitude of prayer, and casting his eyes to the ceiling, either in entreaty for divine intervention or from a wish that the ceiling might collapse and put an end to his plight.
Mother came into the room with a quick, impatient tread, demanding to know what was going on – did John not realize all the servants could hear him? And Father Joachim was in the house, conducting some scholarly research in the library, and what on earth must he be thinking at hearing the noise …? Then she saw Chimaera, let out a horrified cry, turned scarlet with embarrassment, and ordered Gina to put on some clothes.
Father was still shouting that he would mete out to Chimaera a fate that would render him entirely useless in any woman’s bed, and he had seized Chimaera’s arms and was dragging him away from the wall, to the centre of the room.
Mother sat down on the nearest chair, talking about mortal sin and virginity lost for ever. ‘And in the middle of the afternoon, in broad daylight; oh, Gina, how could you? Disgusting. I feel sick to even think about it. What will people say if it ever becomes known.’
It was a relief to hear footsteps running towards the room at that point, but it was disconcerting to realize that the person who had answered the shouts for help was the gardener who had almost kissed Gina in the orchard. He was wearing moleskin breeches with a leather belt, and a thin shirt open at the neck. He brought into the room the scents of grass and apples and fresh masculine sweat, and he paused in the doorway, looking towards the bed where Gina was trying to scramble back into her nightgown. There was a moment when the entire wild scene seemed to stand absolutely still, and the gardener stood there, staring at her. Gina stared back. His eyes were green, flecked with gold – she had not noticed that in the orchard that day. In that unreal moment, she had the impression that he might be wishing he had been the culprit in her bed, and she also had a brief conviction that he would have been equal to any number of punishments from an outraged father. For a really shocking moment, she wondered what the bed bouncing and writhing would be like with him. No, it would be just as tedious.
Father was still fighting with Chimaera, and Mother said very sharply that somebody had better do something about it or murder would be committed here, at which the gardener seized father by both arms and dragged him away from Chimaera. Father cursed the gardener, who listened politely. His name turned out to be Dan and, despite the outward show of humility, Gina thought there was a glint of amusement in his eyes at the sight of Chimaera, who was still trying to tug down his shirt over his upper thighs.
Father, regaining his temper, brushed back his hair, which had flopped over his forehead, and said in his sternest voice that Chimaera was to leave the house at once – now, was that understood? – and to think himself lucky he would be escaping with his cock robin intact.
He instantly apologized to Gina’s mother for this last remark, which Gina did not think mother had entirely understood anyway, but said he could not have Gina at the mercy of whoremongers and unprincipled seducers.
‘There’s only one thing to be done,’ said Mother. ‘The girl must be sent to Cresacre Convent.’ Gina was used to Mother effectively disowning her as a daughter when she was annoyed, but this afternoon it stung.
She said, ‘I don’t want to go into the convent.’
‘You will not have any choice, madam,’ said her mother. ‘You will go to the nuns, and they will help to absolve your sin. To drive out the … the lust.’ She could scarcely bring herself to say the word.
‘We don’t need to go as far as that.’ Gina had never heard her father use such placatory tones before.
‘I insist,’ said Gina’s mother, her lips a thin line. ‘She must be cleansed of the mortal sin – the revolting, sickening sin she committed in this very room. She can stay in the convent’s retreat house. Father Joachim can see to it, I should think.’ She looked at Dan. ‘Fetch Father Joachim here.’
Gina said, pleadingly, ‘I don’t think I was very lustful, Mamma.’ She wondered whether to say she had not actually found it especially enjoyable, but this would be hurtful to Chimaera, who had subsided in anxious silence against a wall.
Father Joachim, ushered up the stairs and into the room by Dan moments later, was deeply shocked to hear what had happened. He looked with distaste at Chimaera, but said eagerly that most certainly he could arrange for Gina to go to Cresacre Convent.
‘This very night, if you wish it, Lady Chandos.’
‘I do wish it. I can’t even look at her. She has behaved like a slut.’
‘The mother superior will help,’ said Father Joachim. ‘You are right, of course, Lady Chandos, that this sin must be cast out. The Bible tells us that a harlot is an abomination to the Lord.’
‘My daughter is not a harlot,’ said father coldly. ‘Or,’ he said, looking at his wife, ‘a slut.’ He turned back to Dan. ‘Why are you still here? Your place is outside. You will not, of course, speak of what you saw here today. You understand me?’
Dan said, gravely, ‘I shall say nothing. You have the word of a gentleman on that, Sir John.’ He went swiftly out of the room without looking at Gina again.
‘Insolence,’ said mother. ‘“Word of a gentleman” indeed. You had better turn him off tomorrow, John.’
‘So that he can talk spitefully about us in the village?’ said Father, crossly.
‘Perhaps that’s true. I suppose it would be charitable to allow him to stay.’
Father Joachim observed that the Bible taught that all people should be trusted.
Mother said charity was all very well in its place, and went out.
Father said, a bit helplessly, ‘Gina … your mother—’
‘It doesn’t matter. I understand. Don’t let’s talk about it.’
Gina’s mother made preparations to visit her cousins. She said this would seem a perfectly natural thing for her to do. Also, if they were both away at the same time, it might prevent gossip. She did not look at Gina while she said this, and she did not address her directly. She still seemed to think the worst part of Gina’s sin was that it had been committed in the middle of the afternoon.
Father Joachim sat next to Gina in the carriage on the journey to St Cecilia’s. Gina tried not to notice that he smelt musty. When he turned to speak to her, she tried not to flinch from his breath, which was sour.
‘It is hard for you to leave your home, Gina,’ he said. ‘But remember it’s fo
r your soul’s sake.’
Gina thought: please don’t let him say he fought for my soul the night I was born. But he did say it, of course.
‘I fought to save your soul the night you were born,’ he said, as solemnly as if he had not said it at least a hundred times before. ‘I wrestled with heaven to keep you in the world, Gina. So tiny and helpless and fragile you were that night. But God heard my pleas. He let you stay. And we were so glad I succeeded, weren’t we, Sir John? So very glad.’
Gina’s father looked at Joachim for a moment as if he did not much like him, then gave a brief, impatient nod. Father Joachim smiled and leaned his head back on the padded squab of the carriage, and Gina went back to looking out of the window. Here was the Black Boar, where the men of the village congregated in the taproom, and where some of the livelier village girls went to eye the men. It had recently become one of the new coaching inns, and Alberic Firkin, who obliged in the way of small building jobs, had had to create a large yard to allow the stage coaches and mail coaches to come in. Dan, the gardener at Chandos House, had been called in to help with some of the work. Lights burned in the window of the Black Boar and, at the sight of them, Father Joachim sat up straighter.
‘A place of sin,’ he said.
‘The local people like to relax a little after the day’s work,’ said Gina’s father, tolerantly. ‘They enjoy the company.’
‘Sir John, the Bible tells us how gluttony will be punished with the force-feeding of rats, toads and snakes, and as for the sin of lust—’
‘It’s hardly gluttony to down a few tankards of ale and one of Mistress Firkin’s steak pies,’ said Father.
‘Well, perhaps not.’
They went past the straggle of cottages in the little square, and past the blacksmith’s forge at the far end. It was strange to be seeing these familiar places by night; Gina had hardly ever been out after dark. They turned off the main road, and started along the narrower, tree-lined track that led to the convent. Here and there were massive old stones, which were all that was left of the priory that had once stood here. Finally, the driver reined in the horses, and there ahead of them was the convent.
‘This is the convent’s retreat house where you will sleep, and this is your room,’ said the nun who had opened the door to them. She was rather tall, with strongly marked cheekbones, and she looked at Gina very closely.
The room was small, but there was a narrow bed with a crucifix hanging above it, a small writing desk and a chair. There was a small window with lead strips.
‘We lock all the rooms each night after the Great Silence begins,’ said the nun, indicating the lock on the outside of the door. ‘It started an hour ago, but I am allowed to break it for long enough to welcome you, and make sure you have all you need. I am Sister Cecilia. Have you had supper?’
Gina said she did not think so. She could not remember when she had last eaten.
‘Fasting has its purposes, but this will not be a good time for you to fast,’ said Sister Cecilia. ‘Your father would wish you to have proper sustenance – of the body as well as the soul.’ She spoke as if she knew Gina’s father, and Gina remembered that he had some sort of involvement with the convent – something to do with helping to administer their money.
Sister Cecilia went out, reappearing a few moments later with a tray, on which was a wing of chicken, together with a twist of fresh bread and a pat of butter. There was also an apple, a sliver of cheese, and a small flagon of milk. It was hardly a feast, but it was perfectly adequate, and at least it did not seem as if they were going to give her bread and water, or starve her into penitence.
Sister Cecilia went out, and Gina heard a key turn in the door, then the sound of footsteps going away. She suddenly felt very lonely and dismal, but she sat down to eat the food, then wrapped herself in her cloak and lay down on the bed.
She did not really think that what she had done with Chimaera could have imperilled her soul very much, but she understood that her parents wanted her to find repentance and be given forgiveness. Her last thought before falling asleep was to wonder if her mother had left Cresacre as she had said, and gone to stay with her prim, humourless cousins. She usually fled to them to avoid facing any unpleasantness.
Chimaera had been cross about being caught with the bella Gina, and being ordered to leave Chandos House.
He had only gone as far as the local inn, which the English, with their curious way with a name, called the Black Boar. It was all he could afford until he saw where his fortunes might next lie, and a man could not spend the night sleeping in a ditch.
In the attic room assigned to him, he contemplated his situation. He considered it all very unfair. He was a man of many passions. When he performed on a stage, his singing was infused with such ardour that ladies swooned, and members of ancient royal houses flocked to his dressing room to beg he would come to their palaces. It was inevitable that such ardour should also inform and infuse his private life, which was why there had been so many affairs of the heart, and also, of course, of the loins, because the two usually went together.
The afternoon with Gina should have been a charming, sweetly satisfying interlude – one of a series of such interludes. Chimaera had set the scene as he always did, doing so as carefully as if it were a stage being dressed for a public performance – not that he had ever given this kind of intimate performance before an audience, of course, although it had occasionally been suggested. Juliette, that naughty girl, had once proposed it as a very amusing diversion, even offering to bring along a friend to form a trio – even two friends, if Chimaera felt inclined towards a quartet? Chimaera would, of course, have been more than equal to satisfying two women in the same bed, or even three, but he was very glad he had declined, because if Juliette’s brother, Fredo, had heard about it, he would have scoured the world and trawled the oceans to mete out revenge.
This afternoon, Chimaera had described to Gina how he would one day return to the theatres where he had been so adored, and how Gina would go with him.
‘It will happen, my bella signora. But until then, we shall do this – oh, and this – and you will do this to me – I guide your hand down, you see … Ah, yes … Yes …’
It was very unfortunate indeed that the series of caresses had progressed to the ultimate intimacy when Gina’s father burst into the room. He was furious. He threatened Chimaera with a castrato’s fate, and called him a common deceiver and a vulgar, lowborn debaucher. These were great insults. Chimaera’s admirers, of whom there had been many, said he was undoubtedly of the nobility. People writing of his triumphs hinted that he was a visconte, perhaps even a marchese – a renegade from his class, a rogue member of the aristocracy who had turned vagabond, strolling player, for the love of music.
And now he had been called lowborn and vulgar by a provincial English squire, and he had been glared at by a fish-eyed English lady and regarded with cold disapproval by a jowly, pig-eyed priest.
Still, there were not many gentlemen who could have made such a sweeping and impressive exit from such a chaotic situation, clad only in a silk shirt and one stocking. Chimaera was glad to remember that he had managed it with considerable dignity. He could don any role.
Any role … An idea that had been germinating in a corner of his mind took on a little more substance. Could he now don the role of the heroic lover, and rescue his beloved from her convent prison? It was an entrancing prospect. Gina – so lovely, so tremblingly innocent and so grateful to be shown real love: surely he owed it to her to try to reach her. He also owed it to his own current impoverished state to try to ally himself with a wealthy family, although this was not the main point.
He remembered he had a velvet jerkin in his carpetbag (a maroon colour and extremely dashing), and a lawn shirt with wide, full sleeves, in which he had played the womanizing Macheath in The Beggar’s Opera. The garments would be exactly right for the rescue of Gina, and Chimaera would add leather boots and a swaggering walk.
The more he considered this, the better he liked it. He would be the hero, the princely lover bracing all dangers for his lady and finally galloping away with her. The fact that he did not have a horse did not matter. He would borrow the cloak of night so richly described by one of the poets (he thought it would be Shakespeare, because it usually was), and he would carry his Gina away to the glittering life he had enjoyed – providing access could be gained to her father’s money. Then Chimaera would again perform to adoring audiences, and Gina would be in the stage box each night, swooning with admiration.
TEN
Cresacre, 1794 (cont’d)
On Gina’s first morning in Cresacre Convent, she was sent to the refectory to help the kitchen nuns with the peeling of potatoes and the chopping of onions. Sister Agnes, who was in charge of the kitchens, was shocked to find that Gina had no idea how to peel a potato, and that she had not previously realized that potatoes needed peeling anyway. She had thought they were just part of a dish that appeared on the table, she said, and Sister Agnes pursed her lips and did not know what the world was coming to when young girls were so ignorant. She furnished Gina with a selection of knives and gave severe instructions that everything was to be ready for the cooking pot in an hour.
If potato peeling and onion chopping were the nuns’ method of driving out the sin of lust, it was likely to be effective. Gina thought you would not have much opportunity of being lustful with anyone when your hair and your hands smelled of onions, and your entire body was wrapped in a sackcloth apron.
But Sister Agnes, questioned as to whether Gina could take a bath and wash her hair, said, tartly, that she supposed Gina could rinse her hair tomorrow or the next day under the pump outside the kitchen. Washing took place at a deep stone sink, where there was only cold water and what appeared to be a communal bar of lye soap. Gina reminded herself that she would not be here for ever, and that once she was at Chandos House again she would bathe in blissful hot water every day with scented soap, and sinfully vain and expensive oils and creams to rub into her skin.