Household

by Stevenson, Florence

  Richard knelt by her sidle. “Catlin...”

  “Keep away from me!” she cried. “How dare you touch me in such a way? Oh, may the Blessed Mother protect me, for sure I’ve fallen amongst thieves and ravishers.”

  He had been on the verge of anger at the untoward response of this little whore. However, on hearing her wild words, his mood changed to one of amusement. She was a clever bit o’muslin, staging a tragedy for him, by way of punishing him and at the same time doing her best to increase her worth in his eyes. While he did admire her acting ability, he was weary of waiting for her promised favors.

  “Come, my dear,” he said impatiently. “I am sorry for the way you were brought here, but your servant cheated me, as you well know, and ’twas only right I should retaliate. Still, I bear you no ill will for my tumble in the muck and should have pursued you in the proper way had I not been informed that you were off to Ireland in the morning. I promise you that now we’re together, I’ll be kind to you and, as for ravishing you, I should like to know how one may steal what has already been lost?”

  “Lost?” she cried furiously. “You are speaking about my... my...”

  “Maidenhead, my darling. And may I compliment you upon your dramatics. I vow they’re worthy of a Clive or a Prichard.”

  “Dramatics?” She regarded him with a mixture of anger and fright. “I am not acting. I am a virgin, and but for you, I’d have been in Ireland with my brother, who is... is the O’Neill—Mahon O’Neill, Lord of Munster, descended from the Kings of Ireland!”

  “Better and better,” Richard approved, smiting his hands together in teasing applause. “And are not all the Irish descended from such dubious royalty?”

  “You may laugh, curse you!” she cried. “But ’tis the truth. I am Lady Catlin O’Neill and...”

  “And what is such an exalted personage doing upon our humble English boards?” Richard demanded between chuckles which were, if the truth be told, becoming rather forced. Judging from his recollections of her in The Lover’s Stratagem, she had been lovely, charming and beautiful to look upon, but he could have sworn she had not the ability to simulate such sincerity as she was now displaying.

  Tears were rolling down her cheeks. Her whole body was wracked by sobs which certainly seemed genuine as she moaned, “My brother lost heavily at... at the tables and I... I thought I might earn the money to stake him again. And I... I did and he won back the whole of what we’d lost and more. And today I’d have been on my way back to our castle instead of being here in this horrid place amongst these devils, who make a mockery of all that’s pure and holy. You think I do not know you for what you are, but I do, and oh, may Christ and all his saints have mercy on me!” Disappointment and chagrin warred with a deep sense of shame. Richard knew she had to be telling the truth. Much as he wanted her, he could never take her under these conditions. He had to save some of the shreds of his honor. Striding to the door of the cell, he called loudly, “Let us out. I beg you’ll let us out!”

  Laughter greeted his cry—laughter from the other cells—but there were also footsteps in the hall, swift footsteps that brought the young servant to stare wide-eyed through the grill.

  “What do you wish, my Lord?”

  “I wish to be taken to Sir Francis,” Richard told him curtly.

  ❖

  Still in his monk’s robes, Sir Francis joined Richard in a small octagonal chamber furnished with an octagonal table flanked by eight chairs. Pushed against one wall was a long graceful sofa, carved with gryphons and unicorns and covered with his favorite green damask to match green walls, ornamented with genuine Persian miniatures. Through tall French windows, Richard could see a portion of the garden. A wind had risen and the swaying shadows of the tree branches were moon-projected upon the floor.

  “Well,” Sir Francis said, eying Richard with some surprise, “you seem to be in a sad taking, my friend. Did my servant inform me correctly? Is your Catlin actually a virgin?”

  “Indeed, she is, damn it,” Richard muttered resentfully. “I know truth when I hear it. She’s a virgin and a lady.”

  “Both conditions are subject to change,” Sir Francis murmured.

  “Not through me,” Richard snapped.

  “A man of honor, I see.”

  “I wish that were true,” Richard said heavily, “but I fear you’ll not get her to agree. I acted impulsively, foolishly. I thought... but no matter. I pray you’ll send her home.”

  “If that is you wish...”

  “It is what she wishes,” Richard stressed.

  “Very well. I’ll have her removed from the... Corridor of Delights. As a virgin, I am sure she’s of no mind to be stimulated by what she hears.” Moving to a silken tassel hanging on the wall near the door, Sir Francis pulled it twice. In a few seconds, the boy returned. “Bring me Miss O’Neill,” Sir Francis ordered.

  In a short time, Catlin came in. Evidently, she had been weeping bitterly, and though she was now making an effort to subdue her sobs, she was not successful. Her face was suffused with blushes, and she clutched her transparent robe about her with hands and arms employed to hide as much as possible.

  “Obviously, a virgin,” Sir Francis commented. He gave her a reassuring smile. “My dear child, a great effort has been made and I, a party to it. My sincere apologies. I pray you’ll sit down.” He waved at the sofa. “You see there are pillows. I beg you’ll make use of ’em until I send for your garments.”

  She nodded miserably, and sitting down, she clutched the proffered protections tight against her, looking at neither man and keeping her shamed gaze seemingly upon a bouquet of golden flowers embroidered on a green satin pillow.

  Moving swiftly to a decanter standing on a side table, Sir Francis poured wine into three goblets, handing one to Catlin, who shook her head, evidently still unable to speak for the sobs that wracked her slender body.

  “Come,” Sir Francis said softly. “’Twill calm your nerves, and you need not fear it. I, too, am drinking from that same bottle, and I hope Richard will join us. Poor lady, as you can see he’s much cast down for sure. As I think you must agree, virgins are at a premium upon our English stages.” Sir Francis held out the third goblet. “Richard?”

  Richard accepted the drink. “I thank you,” he responded dully, wishing he could throw that same wine in his host’s smiling face, but that would serve neither himself nor poor Catlin O’Neill, whom he belatedly recognized as one he would be proud to have as his wife. Unfortunately, in lending himself to this scheme, he had lost her forever!

  “To Ireland and its green hills! You must drink to that, my poor child,” Sir Francis addressed Catlin. “Twill make you feel more the thing.” Taking a sip from his own glass, he added, “I, at least, will drink to Eire. And will not you, Richard?”

  “I will.” Richard sipped his wine, thinking it tasted more pungent than before and finding it more to his liking. Catlin, he noticed, had stooped weeping and was watching them narrowly. She was still suspicious, not that he blamed her, he thought resignedly.

  “You’ll not drink to Ireland?” Sir Francis visited a gentle smile upon Catlin. “And to your safe journey back to its shores?”

  “I... I will drink to that,” she said on a note of relief. “You will take me home?”

  “You’ll leave by dawning. My own yacht will bear you back to Ireland. You have my word on it.”

  Catlin visibly relaxed. She took a sip of the wine. “’Tis delicious,” she admitted almost reluctantly and took another.

  “From Italy’s finest vineyard,” Sir Francis repeated, moving toward the door. “I’ll see why they’ve not brought your gown, my dear. Also I must make plans for your departure.”

  Catlin sipped her wine. “I wish I might go now.”

  “Alas, ’tis not possible... the roads at night. I’d not send my worst enemy out upon ’em. Never fear. You’ll be waked in good time.” With a bow, he left, closing the door softly behind him.

  An uncomfortabl
e silence fell. Richard could not bring himself to look at the girl he had wronged so grievously. And she, he knew, must be hating him. He drained his glass and summoning his courage looked at Catlin, finding to his surprise that she was clutching an empty goblet. She stared back at him, and it seemed to Richard that there was much less animosity in her attitude. He said tentatively, “I hope you are feeling better?”

  “I am that,” she murmured with a slight smile, eyeing him. Could it be appreciatively? Richard wondered with some amazement and decided he must be three-parts drunk if he thought that.

  “Should... should you care for another glass of wine?” he asked hesitantly.

  “I think I should.” She nodded. “’Twas mighty calming.”

  Richard rose immediately. For a moment, the room spun about him, which annoyed him. Generally he had a hard head, but he had not supped since early afternoon, he remembered. He walked carefully across the room and brought the decanter to a table near the sofa. Setting it down, he poured a full goblet for Catlin and one for himself.

  “I hope that’s not too much,” he said, sitting down gingerly at the far end of the sofa and half expecting her to either order him away or jump to her feet. She did neither. She merely took the glass and tilted it to her lips, not sipping it this time but drinking deeply, something Richard, himself, was quite unable to keep from doing. They finished at the same time, setting down their goblets in unison, their laughter also mingling.

  Catlin put out her little tongue and ran it slowly around her lips. “That was delicious.” She stretched out so that the tips of her bare toes were touching Richard’s thigh. Her pillow had dropped to the floor, but she did not seem to notice it.

  “Delicious,” Richard agreed. His heart was beating faster, and he was as sure of that as his desire for her was mounting. “More wine?” he asked.

  “Is there more?” She glanced at the decanter.

  “Enough,” he assured her huskily. Again he tipped the decanter, filling her glass a trifle fuller than his own and praying she would not notice it. She did not, but he noticed that she did not drink the wine as quickly as she had before. She sipped it slowly, eyeing him over the rim of the glass and smiling at him with so heady a mixture of innocence and sensuality that he could not refrain from caressing her delicate little foot. It was beautifully shaped. Almost without volition his hand was moving slowly up her ankle. He expected that at any moment she would pull away, but she did not. Looking up, he met her eyes again and caught his breath as he read excitement in them, an excitement that matched his own. Her mouth was slightly parted, and he could see her breasts rising and falling. She was breathing quickly, almost as if she had been suddenly robbed of breath, and she was gazing him as if she expected... wanted... as if, indeed, her desire matched his own! Then, incredibly, amazingly, she reached out her hand and lightly caressed his hair.

  “Catlin,” he whispered and knew somewhere in the depths of his numbing brain that they had been given a stimulant—an aphrodisiac, perhaps. He must warn her, apologize, explain... but these scruples dissolved even as they formed, flitting out of his mind, leaving only desire behind.

  Outside, a wind was blowing and tree shadows danced on her face. He must brush them off. He shifted his position. He was lying against her now, his lips on her throat, and beneath his hands he felt her hardening nipples. He tore at her gossamer garment and it yielded easily; soon that flimsy barrier lay in shreds. Her body was very white where the shadows did not darken it, the tree shadows flicking against her belly and her thighs and against the soft golden fleece that bloomed between them. He had stopped trying to brush the shadows away. He would kiss them away, instead. And that was when the men came, the men in the dark robes, wrenching the two of them apart and bearing Catlin away, her sudden screaming echoing in his ears.

  Four

  “Catlin... Catlin...” Richard cried in fear and agony, then found Sir Francis at his side, soft-voiced and reassuring. “You’ll see her soon again, lad.”

  He spoke as if he were addressing a boy of 12 rather than a man of 22, Richard thought resentfully. But why did he, himself, feel so dull and dizzy, and what had happened to Catlin? He caught Sir Francis’ sleeve. “Where is she?” he demanded furiously. “Why did they take her away from me, and who was it? Tell me so that I can carve his guts out!”

  “Lord, you are a firebrand, dear Richard, but you must release me. There are matters to which I must attend—immediately.” Sir Francis made an effort to pull himself out of Richard’s frenzied grasp.

  “I’ll release you,” Richard said between his teeth, “when I know where you’ve taken Catlin. She must be allowed to go home. She’s no wanton. She’s a virgin!”

  “I quite understand.” Sir Francis still spoke gently. “And you, dear boy, were bent on relieving her of that particular asset, were you not? Well, I promise you, your thirst will not go unslaked, but meanwhile you must be patient.”

  “Damn you!” Richard tightened his grasp on Sir Francis’ sleeve. “I do not...” Whatever else he would have said died in his throat as he felt himself grabbed from behind, his arms pinioned by a huge man in a monk’s habit. Cursing and struggling he tried to free himself but to no avail. The hands that clutched him were iron to his wood.

  Moving back, Sir Francis shot Richard a commiserating look. “Sorry, dear boy, but you’ll see her again and very soon.” He glanced at Richard’s silent captor. “I suggest you bring him with us.”

  Though Richard struggled fiercely, he was no match for the man who held him. He was forced to follow Sir Francis, for his captor fell into step behind him and there were others in back of them, a procession. Down the stairs they went, and as they reached the ground floor, they were joined by dancers in motley, leaping in front of them through the open door and out into the windy darkness, where in the shadows a violin screeched, a fife squealed and someone beat a drum. Someone also was singing incomprehensible words in a loud ugly voice, yet there was an odd rhythm behind this deliberate cacophony. Richard could actually feel the strange strident music coursing through his veins. His ears were ringing, and oddly he found himself moving in time to it. He cast a glance over his shoulder and found that the whole procession was infected by that shrilling, pounding noise.

  The wind had risen. The sawing tree branches were silhouetted against a huge round moon and shards of clouds skittered across its white face. Some of his dizziness had left him, and Richard realized that the drug from the wine was wearing off. Concurrent with that realization, his captor’s arms fell away but he was borne onwards by the surging crowd behind him—the roistering monks and the giggling nuns.

  “To the caverns... the caverns,” someone yelled.

  “The caverns... the caverns,” other voices echoed shrilly, eagerly.

  Richard was being pushed down. He tried to fight against the pressure but fell on his knees, feeling sharp jagged rocks through the silk of his cassock. He was being urged to crawl over this sharpness through a narrow opening that he could barely see in the darkness. He tried to rise but stumbled and fell against a boulder. He was yanked to his feet and saw moonlight through a hole in a rocky wall. Just as he realized he was in some sort of a cavern, he was urged forward again by those behind him. He stumbled and fell down again, swallowing a groan as he scraped hands and knees together on crusty protuberances rising from the floor, little stalagmites gleaming orange under the light from torches stuck in brackets along the craggy walls, throwing a lurid glow on the faces of the assembly as well.

  “Catlin... Catlin... Catlin...” Richard roared and thought he heard a faint reply coming from a cavity in the wall, a few feet away. Staggering to his feet, he took a tentative step in that direction only to be pulled back by a small, strong hand on his arm.

  “Richard Veringer, stay here with me,” a low, insistent feminine voice urged.

  He turned and looked down, finding one of the so-called nuns beside him. She was short and dark and her eyes seemed filled with fire,
but that, of course, was only the reflection from the torches. Her body was slender and shapely but failed to stir his senses. He thought of Catlin’s small, round breasts, those beautiful fruits from the trees of Paradise! Where had they taken her? Was she lost to him? He groaned deep in his throat, needing the relief, the release of his passions so summarily denied him. His head was spinning again, and he coughed as perfumed smoke entered his nostrils. Incense! They were burning incense in the cavern. He had heard that the stuff was used in Papist ceremonies. And now he saw little prie-dieus, prayer benches, lined up across the cavern. Was he in some manner of church? Sir Francis had said he was a nonbeliever, but if one recognized the existence of Satan, conversely one also believed in God. He moved forward again and almost bumped into a statue of the Virgin. Staring angrily at it, he noted something wrong with its profile and coming around the front saw that the face beneath the traditional blue veil was that of a hog with a tremendous snout and small red eyes! Laughter bust out of him. Even in the midst of his worry over Catlin, he had to appreciate the impudence of that unknown artist.

  The small nun stepped to his side, whispering that a ceremony was about to begin and that he must come back to the others.

  “What others?” he whispered, wondering at her evident nervousness.

  “Come!” She grasped his hand, pulling him toward the back of the cavern. “You must not be conspicuous,” she warned. “You’ll anger them and they are already angry.”

  “Who are they, and why are they angry?” he asked. “They are always angry on these nights—angry and dangerous. They’re frightened, you see.”

  “Of what?”

  “You’ll understand presently.”

  A bell rang.

  All the company sought out the prie-dieus and knelt. Richard had no such intention, but the girl at his side yanked at his hand and upset his precarious balance. As he fell, she pushed a bench in front of him, saying at the same time, “Don’t be a damned fool.”

  He clutched it. “Are they not all damned fools here?” he whispered, appreciating his own jest and beginning to laugh.