Dark Angel

by Sally Beauman

  “The words are moving—even if you don’t believe. They have a power of their own.” Acland walked into the Stone House. He looked at his mother’s bookshelves. He sat down.

  “They make you believe, I think. While they’re being said.” Constance gave a small shiver. “They make you believe in impossible things. Redemption, change … I don’t know. I did mean it, you know, when I made all those promises this morning. Such solemn ones! I know no one else will think that I could—but I did mean them. I want you to know that.” She shivered again. “It’s cold here, Acland.”

  “Shall we go back?”

  “No, not yet. I want to stay—just a while longer. It’s only my hands that are cold. Will you hold them, Acland? Yes, like that. Rub them a little bit. The fingertips; Oh, that’s better. They felt freezing. I think the circulation had stopped.”

  Acland held her hands. He chafed them between his own, as she asked, until they felt warmed. Then, since there seemed no reason to release them, he continued to hold them. He looked down at them; he rested her right hand, then her left, across his palm.

  “So many rings. You always wear so many rings.”

  “I know. I don’t know why. I like them. I’m greedy for rings. Just little ones. They remind me of people. You see that one there, with the blue stone—Boy gave me that, when I was fourteen. Montague bought that one. The opal came from Maud—before I fell out of favor.”

  “You cried today, in the church. I saw you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I thought no one had seen.”

  “You were very discreet. Just two tears, then two more.”

  “Crocodile tears, Maud would say.” Constance smiled. “That’s not true either. I don’t cry very often. Not like Steenie. I save the tears up, perhaps. No, that’s not true. They have a will of their own. I cried when my dog Floss died—but I couldn’t cry when I lost my father. Isn’t that strange?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Acland, may I ask you something? Something I’ve always wanted to ask you—and never have?”

  “If you want.”

  Constance hesitated. “You won’t be angry? It’s about my father.”

  Acland released her hand. He drew back a little. Constance looked at him in an anxious way. He, too, seemed to hesitate, perhaps be about to refuse. Then he shrugged.

  “Ask away. I expected you to ask—one day.”

  “The night of the accident”—Constance fixed her eyes upon his—“did you think it was an accident—as everyone said?”

  “It’s twenty years ago, Constance.”

  “Not to me. To me it is yesterday. Please, Acland. Tell me.”

  Acland sighed. He leaned back against the bench. He turned away. He looked out across the grass toward the lake and the woods beyond. He rested his eyes upon the trees and the deepening gray of the sky. After a silence he said, “No. At the time—I didn’t think of it as an accident.”

  “And now?”

  “Now?” He frowned. “Now—I’m not sure. Time changes things. It alters the memory. It makes some things stand out and others recede. Sometimes … I try not to remember, perhaps. In any case, my ability to concentrate—on anything—is not as good as it used to be.”

  “Because of the war?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Do you think that, because of the war, you erase certain things?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Acland.” Constance stole out one small hand. She rested that hand over his, in his lap. As she did so, her coat fell open once more. Again Acland glimpsed the curve of her breast, taut under the silk of the blouse. He looked away. The sky on the horizon was turning mauve, streaked with pewter. He thought: It will grow dark soon.

  “Acland. Answer me truthfully now. I think I know the answer anyway, and I promise you that nothing you say will distress me. But I want to hear the truth, from you.” She paused. “Did you take those guns, Acland?”

  “The guns?”

  “Yes. Boy’s guns.”

  “The Purdeys.” Acland turned back to look at her. His gaze, distant, calm, composed, rested upon her face. He showed no sign of emotion.

  “Yes.” He sighed, as if suddenly realizing he was tired. “Yes. I took them. The day of the party, we had tea outside on the terrace—do you remember? Your father was angry with you. He sent you inside to wash and change. Jane went with you.”

  “I remember.”

  “After that”—Acland hesitated—“I walked down to the lake with Boy. He was very distressed. He’d just seen them, you see—your father and my mother—for the first time. He saw her go into your father’s room—” He paused. “Boy was a strange person. He always seemed so quiet—but underneath … His reaction was very violent. He had a very simple view of the world, and it had suddenly been overturned. I listened to him for a long time. Then he went back to the house. I went into the gun room. I told Boy what I was going to do.”

  “You took his guns?”

  “Yes. I don’t know why. They were the best guns in the house—my father’s pride and joy. I think that was the reason. Anyway, I took them. I hid them in the cloakroom—the one by the side door, you remember? The one we used to call the hellhole? I’d been in there that afternoon, to fetch some galoshes for Jane. The place was always such a mess. It made a good hiding place. I put them under a pile of coats. I thought they would be easy to fetch—later.”

  “Tell me what you meant to do with them.”

  “Something harmful, obviously. To your father, of course.”

  “Because you hated him?”

  “Yes. I hated him.” Acland paused. “I was seventeen then. I think I’ve never felt such pure hatred for anyone, before or since. I loathed him for what he was, and for what he did. For what he’d done to my father—and my mother. For what he’d done to Boy. I thought …”

  “Tell me, Acland.”

  “I thought the world would be a better place with him dead.”

  There was a silence. Constance rested her hands on her lap. She looked at her rings. She counted them.

  “Tell me what you did, Acland,” she said at last. “I have to know. With the guns. Tell me what you did—later.”

  She leaned forward as she said this. Acland heard her voice falter, felt her breath against his cheek. He could smell spring, and earth, in the scent she used. Her proximity distracted him. He looked at the curve of her throat, the line of her chin. Her lips, scarlet as always, were slightly parted. Her eyes rested anxiously upon his face.

  “Constance—I’m not sure I want to go on. I’m not sure it’s right to go on. It was so long ago. Can’t we both forget?”

  “I can never forget. And I must know. I’ve waited so long to know.” She shook her head. “Please, Acland. Tell me. I guessed some of this. When did you go back for the guns? You did go back, didn’t you? Was it after you went to the stables, after you left Jenna?”

  “Some while after that. Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Very well. It was eleven—about then—when I left the stables. I didn’t want to return to the party. So many people. I wanted to stay outside, in the gardens in the dark. I wanted to think. How could I do it—when I could do it. Then, when I was standing there, I saw your father come out. I saw him take the path to the woods. I knew he would be going to meet my mother. One of their assignations. I knew that.”

  “Did you follow him?”

  “No. Not at once. I waited. I heard the guests leave. I might have left, myself, gone to bed, given up the whole idea—I was almost ready to do that. Jenna had calmed me, a little. But then … my mother came out. She saw me on the terrace. She called to me. She touched my coat, I remember, and said it was damp. She told me to go inside. She sounded so insistent. I knew why. She had been delayed. She was about to leave, herself, to meet Shawcross. She didn’t want her son to see her leave. He might have asked her … why she went for a walk in the woods at one o’clock in the morning.”

  “Oh,
Acland.” Constance gave a small sigh. “It was just as I thought. Were you very angry—did you hate him then, very much?”

  “I suppose I must have.” Acland frowned. “I went back for the guns. I selected one of them. I set off down the path to the woods. Halfway down the path, I loaded the gun. Both barrels.”

  “Both barrels?” Constance shivered.

  “I wanted to be sure. One shot might have missed him. I was clear what I would do. I thought: I will walk down this path, and when I find Shawcross, I’ll fire the gun. In the head. In the heart. At close range. I wanted him to be dead—instantly.”

  “That gun would kill him—at close range?”

  “Oh, yes. Have you never seen the results of a shooting accident?”

  “No. I never have. Please hold my hand, Acland. Don’t let it go. I do want to know. I want to understand. But it frightens me. Look. Put your arm around me—yes, like that. Now you can tell me, very quietly and very simply. You see how close I am? We never had secrets between us—except this one. You are my brother—no, closer than a brother. You saved my life once. Please, Acland, tell me. You loaded the gun. Both barrels. You walked on down the path….”

  Constance rested her head against his shoulder. She had drawn Acland’s arm around her. He could feel the tension in her back. Her soft coat seemed very thin. Where his hand rested upon her upper arm, he could feel—brushing against his fingers as she moved—the curve of her breast. A woman’s breast: Acland found this strange, unaccountable; Constance was so like a child: as small as a child, as breathless and agitated as a child. He thought of her as a child still, and yet this child possessed breasts. He shifted his hand higher, so it rested upon her shoulder. He turned his gaze to the lake outside, and to the failing light. Two evenings in succession, he thought, in which twilight summoned the past.

  “Constance. This is difficult to say….”

  “Say it nonetheless.”

  “You want to hear this?”

  “I want to hear this.”

  “Very well. I loaded the gun. I walked on down the path to the woods.”

  “Did you know about the trap? Oh, God, Acland—did you?” She pressed closer to him. She had begun to tremble. She shivered inside her thin coat. Acland stroked her arm. He continued to gaze at the lake.

  “No. I didn’t know about the trap. Mantraps were illegal. My father might rant about using them, but I didn’t take that seriously. I had no idea it was there. In any case it makes no difference, because I stopped.”

  “You stopped?”

  “Just stopped. In the middle of the path. I came to my senses—I suppose that’s what people would say. I looked at myself, walking along a path, carrying a gun, intending to kill someone. I saw … how ridiculous it was, I suppose. Not wrong—it didn’t feel wrong. Just ridiculous.”

  “Killing someone you hated? That seemed ridiculous?”

  “Constance, is it so hard to understand? I looked at my actions from the outside—and they seemed absurd. A seventeen-year-old boy’s idea of melodrama. Avenging his mother’s honor. And I was right. It was absurd. So—I went back. I put the gun back under the coats. I went into the house and played billiards.” He paused.

  “But the next day—after the accident—when they brought your father back to the house. Something happened then.”

  He turned to look at her. “It was you, I think, Constance. The way you cried out. The way you looked at me. I felt as if you read my mind. I felt you knew—what I’d intended to do. I felt like a murderer then. It was just as if I had killed him. You … shamed me.”

  Acland sighed. “There’s nothing more really. The next day, I went to my father. I wanted to confess to him. Surprisingly enough, he was very good to me. He was understanding, even strong. I never told him why I wanted to kill Shawcross. I never mentioned my mother. He knew, of course. I could tell from his face. He had dignity, you know—in his way. He wasn’t as stupid as he could seem. I showed him where I had left the guns. He returned them, I think. That day. Or the day after.”

  There was a silence. Constance gave a small convulsive shudder. She drew back. She pressed her hands tight against her forehead. She stared out in a blind way at the trees, the lake, the gathering twilight.

  “I thought you had killed him.” She spoke with a tone of regret. “I did see it in your face when they brought him back. I looked at my father lying there on that stretcher, with those horrible tartan rugs. Then I looked at you. It was as if I recognized you. I was sure—so sure! It was like an arrow in my mind. I’ve believed it ever since. I never told anyone. Twenty years. You see, if it was you—it all made sense.”

  She reached for his hands, then clasped them between hers. “Acland—you wouldn’t lie to me? You promise you wouldn’t lie? Will you look me in the eyes, and say it—just once. Say: ‘I didn’t kill him.’”

  “I didn’t kill him, Constance. I wanted to kill him. I even meant to kill him, for … what? Six hours? Eight hours? But I didn’t do it. I had to be trained by the army to kill—and even then I was never very good at it. To be good at killing, it has to give you pleasure, I think. Or you have to be very afraid. One or the other.”

  Acland said this in a quiet voice. Constance cried out. She pressed her hands against his face. She covered up his eyes.

  “Oh, don’t look like that, Acland—don’t speak like that. I hate to see you like this. You look so tired—and older, a little bitter. You look so very different—”

  “I am different.”

  “I do believe you.” She stood up and began to move back and forth in an agitated manner. “I believe you. You can’t lie to me. But I don’t understand. Someone else must have killed him then—they must have. It was not an accident, Acland. I know it was not. Pleasure? You say people have to feel pleasure, to kill well? Or, what was the other thing? Fear. Yes, that’s it. Fear. But who could have felt that, Acland? To do such a horrible thing. Not your father, not Boy, not you—there’s no one. Oh, I wish I’d never asked. I felt so sure, and now I’m back again, with all the questions, all the questions! They rush about so in my head. They make me ache, all those questions. Twenty years, Acland—and they won’t go away. They rush, and they … bite. It feels as if they bite. They make everything so black. It must have been an accident then—just as everyone said. I wish I could believe that. If I could, I could rest. I could. I think then that I could—”

  “Constance, don’t do this to yourself. We shouldn’t have come here. We shouldn’t have begun on all this. Wait—Constance …”

  Acland had risen. Her distress, the distracted way in which she spoke, the fact that she was still shaking—these things alarmed him. He took her arm, and when Constance attempted to push him away, he drew her gently toward him. He could feel the agitation in her body. She was jerky, angular with distress.

  “Constance, I’m sorry. Leave it—can’t you leave it?” he began. He pitied her, and because he pitied her he drew her closer, then began to stroke her hair. Her hair was springy, resilient to his touch. He had forgotten the feel of that hair, yet the moment he touched it, it was familiar to him. He rested his hand against her skull. He stroked downward, gently, feeling the curvature of bone beneath the hair’s vitality. This seemed to quiet Constance. She made a small sound, part gasp, part sob.

  “How kind you are, Acland,” she said in a low voice. “I never thought of you as that. I used to think of you as angry, scathing—hard, perhaps. But you can be kind. You have changed. Oh, I’m so cold. I can’t stop shivering. Hold me close—please, warm me. I’ll be all right in a moment, and then we can go.”

  She gave another shiver as she said this. She burrowed against him for reassurance. As she did this, her coat slipped farther back from her shoulders. Somehow—Acland was not sure how—he found that his arm now encircled her waist beneath the coat. Her waist was tiny. He could have spanned it with his hands.

  This made him feel awkward, even compromised. He stopped stroking her hair. When he attempt
ed to move back, Constance clung to him.

  “Please hold me. Just a while longer. I’m so unhappy. Look, I’m crying. I’m making your jacket all wet. I hate that jacket. So thick and scratchy—like a horrible hair shirt. Tweeds—why do Englishmen always wear tweeds? There, that’s better.”

  Acland found that his jacket was undone. Constance nestled against him. She gave a small, contented sigh. The scent of ferns and damp earth rose from her skin. He felt the dampness of tears against his shirt. The scent of her hair slowed his mind; it was acrid and hypnotic. One of Constance’s small jeweled hands rested above his heart. Her breasts pressed against him in an insistent way. He felt her nipples harden.

  Years of marriage to a very different kind of woman had perhaps slowed his instincts. One part of his mind was still arguing that this insistent pressure was an accidental eroticism, when Constance moved. She touched him in a way he could not misinterpret.

  Acland at once released her and stepped back.

  Constance regarded him with an air of patient, almost sad tolerance. She shook her head in a reproachful way. She bit her lips so that they reddened. “Such a very married face.” She smiled. “How silly. Oh, Acland.”

  “It’s no use running away,” Constance said as Acland moved toward the doorway. “You cannot run away from me. I am not in the least taken in by demonstrations of marital devotion.”

  “I’m not running away. I am going back to the house, and back to my wife. I prefer her company.”

  “Her company?” Constance followed him to the door. “How very dull. I could make you forget the pleasures of companionship in five minutes. Less. Kiss me, Acland—and then tell me how valuable companionship is. I think you might find it became less valuable then. Not negligible—I would never say that—but not something you need too urgently.”