I stood there for some moments and then, softly closing the door, moved over to the courtyard window. The night seemed darker now. Through the parted curtains I gazed out at the wing opposite, focusing on the window of Catherine’s room. I waited. And then at last a light came on in the room and a shadow was thrown on the curtains.
It was a man’s shadow. It came into view and then vanished, then came into view again. And again it went, and a third time appeared. This last time, though, it was not alone; it was joined by the shadow of a woman; I could see clearly the billowing shape of her nightdress.
As if looking at some theatrical shadow play, I watched as the man’s hand reached out, grasped Catherine’s hair and pulled her towards him. At the same moment there came a faint, far-off scream of pain. The next second her shadow had broken from the man’s and disappeared from view.
After putting on my slippers I opened the door again and let myself out into the corridor. Only the light from the night sky lit my way along to the landing, but once there I found a small lamp glowing and in its shine I turned and went down the stairs to the floor below.
I had just reached the lower landing when from the direction of the west wing the figure of a man came out of the shadows. It was Hathaway.
‘Mr. Rigby, sir,’ he said, coming to a halt, ‘you gave me a bit of a start.—Is there something I can get you?’
I couldn’t see his expression in the dimness. ‘I—I heard a noise,’ I said. ‘—Miss Catherine—is she in any kind of—trouble?’
‘Trouble?’ He shook his head. ‘Not that I know of, sir.’ He glanced over his shoulder, then, turning back to me added: ‘Well—I think she has been a bit upset, sir—but it’s nothing to worry about.’
Before I could think of anything else to say he quickly went on:
‘You can find your own way back, can you, sir?’
‘What? Oh, yes . . . yes . . .’ I felt like some uncoordinated schoolboy. As I hesitated he pressed his advantage:
‘You don’t want to catch cold, do you, sir . . .’
I looked at him for a second longer then turned away and headed up to my room.
Chapter Ten
I was squeezing fresh paint onto the palette when Catherine, wearing her white dress, came into the room the next morning. As we exchanged hellos I looked into her face for some sign of what had taken place last night. I could see nothing, though. However, as I studied her over the next half-hour sitting in the chair it seemed to me that she was becoming increasingly unhappy. In the end I put down my brush and moved towards her.
‘Catherine . . .’
‘Yes . . . ?’ She kept rigidly to her pose as she spoke.
‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘you can move.’
She didn’t look at me.
‘There’s something wrong, isn’t there?’
She shook her head. ‘I shall be all right in a while.’
‘Come . . . get down.’
I held out my hand to her and she took it, got to her feet and stepped down from the dais. As she did so the fine lace fell back from her wrist to reveal the darkness of an ugly bruise. I raised my eyes to her face and for a second our glances locked. Then, quickly, she pulled her hand away.
‘Please,’ she said, ‘—it’s nothing. Don’t concern yourself.’ She walked over to the window and stood gazing out.
‘It was Hathaway, wasn’t it?’ I said. I waited but she didn’t answer. I went on: ‘I think I know a little of what happened last night. I heard you outside my room and later I saw him—Hathaway—wandering about. When I asked him about it he told me you were “a bit upset”.’
‘I wasn’t,’ she said, her voice breaking, ‘—until he started—’ She came to a halt. Her hands were clenched so tightly that the knuckles showed white.
‘Have you talked about this to anyone?’
‘No . . .’
‘Don’t you think it’s time you did?’
She gave a distracted little shake of her head. ‘But he’s been with my aunt for years and—well—I shall be gone soon and—’
‘So in the meantime you’re just going to put up with it—? That’s ridiculous.’
‘Yes, I know it must seem very—feeble.’
‘He’s got to be stopped,’ I said. ‘You must tell someone—your aunt.’
‘I couldn’t tell Aunt Margaret about it.’
‘Well, then—Mrs. Weldon.’
She was silent at this. After a moment I added:
‘You must.’
‘Well . . . perhaps . . .’
‘No, Catherine, you must.’ I paused. ‘Listen, if you won’t speak to her I will.’
‘Oh, please—you mustn’t get involved.’
‘I already am. And I can’t stand by and do nothing.’
She didn’t speak for a few moments, then she said, ‘Look—I’m sorry, but I don’t feel up to it—the sitting—this morning. I’m very sorry. I’ll be all right later . . .’ She took a step towards the door. ‘—Perhaps I’ll see you this afternoon.’
I caught up with her. ‘—And are you going to say something—to Mrs. Weldon?’
Reluctantly she nodded. ‘Yes.’ She wouldn’t look at me.
‘You’re not just saying that?’
‘No, I will. I promise.’
‘Good.’ I smiled at her and she raised her dark eyes to mine. ‘I mean, it can’t go on, can it?’ I said.
‘No . . . No, you’re right. It can’t.’
When she was gone I sat in front of the painting for a while and stared up at it. Then I left the room and went upstairs. There was a carton of cigarettes on the table next to my bed. Mrs. Weldon had been as good as her word.
Taking another of the books I’d brought with me, Tess of the D’Urbervilles, I sat down in the armchair and tried to read. I found it impossible to concentrate, though. In past times I’d never failed to be moved by Tess’s vicissitudes in the face of chance, but this time my thoughts of Catherine’s unhappiness got in the way. After finding that I’d gone over the same paragraph three times and still hadn’t taken it in I closed the book and put it aside.
But it wasn’t only Catherine that disturbed me, I realized. It was something about this whole house. I would be glad when the painting was finished and I could get away again.
* * *
When I saw Mrs. Weldon at lunch she told me that Catherine was not feeling too well and that under Dr. McIntosh’s advice she’d be resting in her room for a while. I guessed at once that Catherine must have spoken to her about the business with Hathaway. After I’d expressed concern, and the hope that Catherine would soon be feeling all right again Mrs. Weldon said:
‘Oh, she’ll be fine. It’s a great pity, though, that you’ll be held up with the painting. But you’ll find something else to do, won’t you?—some other means of occupying your time?’
‘Oh, yes, certainly. Don’t be bothered about me.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Having dragged you down here the least we can do is try to make your stay a happy one.’
After lunch I took my sketchbook outside and, choosing a suitable spot in the shade, began to make a drawing of the house. It didn’t go well. Three times I started and three times I turned the page over in disgust. In the end I gave it up as a bad job.
I looked at my watch. Four-thirty. The rest of the afternoon and the whole of the evening stretched out before me. After deliberating for a while I got up and went into the house in search of Mrs. Weldon. I found her in her study.
‘Ah, Mr. Rigby . . .’ She smiled at me across the polished surface of her desk. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I just wanted to tell you that I shan’t be in for dinner,’ I said. ‘—I thought I might go out somewhere for the evening.’
She nodded. ‘Just what I was afraid of: you’re suffer
ing from an acute case of boredom.’
‘Oh, no, it’s not that,’ I replied, a bit too quickly. ‘I just thought I might take the opportunity to see a little of the area—not knowing this part of the world.’
‘Yes, of course. Where do you plan to go?’
‘Well, I thought—into Bath, perhaps.’
‘Bath is a beautiful city. Beautiful.’ She sighed. ‘Well, I’m sorry we won’t have your company for dinner but I quite understand. I’ll tell Sam to get your car ready for you. What time did you want to leave?’
‘Oh, about six-thirty or seven.’
‘Fine. I’ll see to it.’
Up in my room I had just put on my bathrobe when Sam Hathaway knocked at the door.
‘Mrs. Weldon said you’ll be needing your keys, sir . . .’
I took the Citroën’s keys from him and asked him where it was parked.
‘In the garage—the old stables.’ He gestured with a pointing finger. ‘You can’t miss them.’
When he had gone I continued getting ready. The thought of the excursion gave me a feeling of freedom such as I hadn’t experienced in years. I was going out for an evening of solitary enjoyment in a strange town. And I had no one to consider but myself. I combed my hair carefully and took time choosing my tie.
The garage was large, with sufficient room for at least three cars. There were two there at the moment; mine, and a Daimler from far gone days. Getting into the Citroën I switched on the ignition. The engine failed to turn over. I tried several times, but with no more success. After sitting there for some minutes and getting nowhere I got out and went back into the house to look for help. There was no one about—no Hathaway, no Carl, no Mrs. Weldon and no Miss Harrison. Growing increasingly angry and frustrated I mooched about the hall for a while and then in the end went back to my room.
I stayed there for half an hour then went downstairs again. This time, after a few calls of ‘Is anybody there—?’ I saw Miss Harrison coming towards me. I asked her if Sam Hathaway was anywhere around.
‘I couldn’t say, I’m sure,’ she said. ‘I saw him drive out a while ago, but I don’t know whether or not he’s back yet.’
‘Do you know where Mrs. Weldon is?’
‘Isn’t she in her study?’
‘No.’
‘Then I’m sorry, I’ve no idea.’
I left her then and, going out to the garage again, tried once more to start the car. Still no good. On returning to the house a few minutes later, though, I found Mrs. Weldon in her study.
‘Hello, I thought you were going out on the town,’ she said.
‘Something’s wrong with my car. I can’t get it started.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Her tone was sympathetic. ‘What’s the trouble with it, do you know?’
‘No, I don’t. I’m afraid I’ve never been much good at cars. I was hoping Sam might be able to look at it for me.’
‘I’m afraid he’s out. And he won’t be back for some time yet.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘What a nuisance for you—and you were so looking forward to your little jaunt. I’m afraid we can’t offer you another car, either. Sam’s taken the Mercedes and the old Daimler hasn’t been road-worthy for ages.’
‘Do you think Carl might be able to help?’
She smiled at this. ‘I’d be most surprised. I’m afraid you’d find him even less able than you when it comes to things like that.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know what to suggest. We could call one of the garages in the area but I know from experience they wouldn’t get anybody out here for a long time. I think the only thing for you to do is to wait for Sam . . .’
So, in my room I waited.
Close on eight o’clock Hathaway came to tell me that he had looked at my car and had spotted the trouble. Unfortunately, though, he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it until the morning, he said: a new part was needed and he’d have to go into Bath to get it.
So that was it. I wasn’t going anywhere after all.
‘I imagine then, sir, you’ll be staying for dinner—will you?’ he said.
I told him I would.
‘Right, sir.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll let Mrs. Weldon know.’
When I saw Mrs. Weldon a little later she remarked how unfortunate it was that man today was so completely at the mercy of his own inventions. I could do little but agree with her.
The appearance of Catherine, though, did a great deal to assuage my lingering annoyance and frustration. And she looked so much better too; happier and relaxed. I sat facing her across the table and realized that, after all, I was perhaps glad that I’d been confined to the house.
She got up to leave soon after dinner was over, telling me that she’d see me at ten in the morning so that we could continue the sitting. Left alone with Mrs. Weldon and the doctor I said that I too would skip coffee and go on up to my room. ‘I haven’t been sleeping too well,’ I added.
Upstairs I put on my dressing gown and sat in the armchair and tried to read. I felt wide-awake yet I lacked the ability to concentrate. I was just in the act of closing the book when there came a knock at the door. Carl entered carrying a small tray on which was a glass of some brown, milky-looking liquid.
‘Mrs. Weldon told me to bring this to you, sir. It’ll help you sleep.’
He put the glass down and I thanked him. ‘Her timing’s perfect,’ I said, ‘I was just about to go to bed.’
‘Uh . . . sir . . .’ He was standing over by the door.
‘Yes?’
‘I was just wondering, sir . . .’ He paused. ‘—A little massage might do the trick. I’m sure that would help you get to sleep . . .’
I hesitated. He added quickly:
‘I am very experienced, sir. I have had training. And it has often formed a part of my regular work.’ He stepped towards me. ‘If I might suggest, sir,’ he went on, ‘—you drink your drink and allow me to massage your back for you. As I say, I am practised in the art.’
The moment for declining his offer had passed by. I picked up the glass. The drink was of a malty, chocolatey concoction; rather sweet, but very pleasant. As I put the empty glass back on the table he said:
‘Uh . . . if you would like to slip out of your robe, sir . . .’ He came closer as he spoke and I took off my dressing gown and sat on the edge of the bed. In my nakedness I felt vulnerable and rather foolish.
He came and sat behind me and his hands came up to my shoulders, gently directing me to turn slightly sideways. For a moment his hands rested just above my shoulder blades; then they began to move.
He had been taught, all right, I said to myself; if not he possessed a gift for it. It was almost as if his fingertips knew every single nerve-end, every fibre of the muscles beneath my skin. I sat there while his hands continued with their movements, kneading, smoothing. I heard myself give a little moan of pleasure.
‘Is it agreeable, sir?’ he asked, and I inwardly smiled at the archaic phrase delivered in his clipped accent. ‘Yes, it’s very agreeable,’ I answered.
After a little while he lifted his hands and said, a note of professional efficiency in his voice: ‘—If you would care to lie down now, sir . . .’
Silently I acted upon his suggestion and stretched out prone upon the bed. He resumed his manipulations, his breath coming steadily and in rhythm with his exertions. His hands were like a musician’s, my body the instrument on which he played. I found myself relaxing more and more, sinking deeper into the comforting, blissful sensation.
‘Now . . . if you would just turn over onto your back, sir . . .’
I moved into a supine position. Now in my nakedness I felt totally exposed, and in an attempt to dismiss my sense of vulnerability I closed my eyes and tried to give myself up completely to the ease and comfort that came from Carl’s hands. I felt my left leg being lifted up and the calf and thigh muscles kneaded
with long, firm strokes. Then the right leg. And then his hands left my legs and lighted on my chest. Opening my eyes I saw that his face was only a few inches above my own, and as I looked his eyes shifted their point of focus and connected with mine. Embarrassed, I gazed past him at the ceiling. ‘Just try to relax, sir,’ he murmured, ‘—relax.’
His hands travelled further down my body. I closed my eyes again. I felt his light, firm touch shift onto the muscles of my stomach, moving caressingly, provokingly lower, and then lower still.
And I reacted. I felt, at my groin, the stirring of my flesh. All my awareness was centred on that rising. There was no pleasure in it; I felt I would do anything to prevent it, but there was nothing I could do. It was no good reminding myself that my reaction was a purely natural one; the more I thought of it and fought against it the stronger my reaction became.
Then, to my relief, I felt his hands leaving my torso and moving to my legs again. Opening my eyes just a fraction I saw him as, head bent down in concentration, he worked on the muscles of my thighs. With an attempt to appear as casual as possible I moved my hands from my sides and covered myself.
The moment I’d completed the pathetic little pride-saving gesture I regretted it. It only added to my vulnerability and my shame. Carl’s head had not moved; nor had his eyes; he had done nothing at all to show that he had even noticed. He had noticed, though. I was certain that he had. I closed my eyes again.
‘You’re a tall man, sir,’ I heard him say, and I answered, eyes still shut, ‘Six foot one . . .’
His hands were still on my thighs but his fingers had begun now to make different movements. They no longer used the same pressure; now it was more a teasing touch. He was drawing circles on my skin; brushing, light and tantalizing, I felt his hands move higher, higher, almost to the top of my thighs. I felt, too, the renewed hardening beneath my own hands; and still his touch continued, gently teasing, round and round, moving higher still, almost touching . . . almost . . .
One of his hands lifted and the next moment I felt it lightly connecting with my wrist, pushing my hand aside. Exposing me. And then suddenly I was aware that all the movement had ceased and that his hands were no longer upon me.
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