The only sounds in the room came from the faint ticking of the clock and the sounds of our breathing. Opening my eyes I saw that he was just standing there, looking down at my body. On his face was the hint of a smile. My hands moved quickly to hide the fullness of my sex while I stared at him in mounting shame and horror. The next moment he moved his glance to my face and, still holding that smile—gloating and close-mouthed—gave me a small, grotesque wink. I sat up and reached for my dressing gown.
‘I think you’d better go,’ I said.
His brows arched in mock surprise. ‘That’s all, is it, sir . . . ?’
‘Just get out.’
Rising from the bed I pulled on my dressing gown and tied the cord about my waist. I took a step towards him and he shrugged, moved away to the table and unhurriedly took up the tray and the empty glass. His smile was unfaltering. Reaching the door he opened it and said casually as he stepped out:
‘If you want anything else, sir, just call me.’
* * *
I was sure now that I would never sleep.
Why had he done that? I asked myself. He had just been playing a game with me. But why? What strange satisfaction had he gained from it, from my shame and humiliation?—for surely that had been the only possible result of it all . . .
Further, I reasoned, my reaction to his provocative ministerings had been perfectly normal—and predictable; and even more so in view of the fact that for so long now I’d been without any form of sexual release . . . Yes, I told myself over and over, I had reacted in a perfectly normal way; had the massage been an ordinary one then the result of it would have been different. But Carl, surely, had worked on me with only one thing in mind—to arouse me. And he had succeeded . . .
Increasingly angry I berated myself for falling into the trap that he had set; while at the same time I tried to tell myself that it didn’t matter. Why should it? It couldn’t plant any flicker of doubt in my mind . . . I was quite secure in the knowledge of my masculinity . . .
My fury rising and ebbing through my rationalizations I lay on the bed, gripping the sheet between my fists. All I wanted to do now was sleep. Just let me sleep, I silently asked, and in the morning everything will be all right . . .
I covered myself up and put out the light. I had left one of the curtains drawn back a little and after a while as I stared into the dimness the room began to take shape again. In time I began to grow calmer. Sleep, though, was still a long way out of my reach.
* * *
I had heard that same noise—a brief, far-off, muffled shriek.
I sat rigid in the bed, listening for any further sound. There was nothing, though, and after remaining fixed and alert for several seconds I punched some more softness into the pillow and tried once more to settle. The echo of that cry was still lingering in my brain as I closed my eyes.
And then it was that I heard the sound of the running feet, pattering on the carpet in the corridor outside. They came closer, halting just outside the door. There came another sound, unmistakable and much nearer—the sound of the doorhandle turning.
As I sat up in bed the door opened and Catherine scrambled into the room.
Chapter Eleven
Very quietly she closed the door and moved to the foot of the bed. She was wearing her nightdress. As I peered at her in the dim light she moved her hand in a brief gesture for me to keep silent, all the while looking anxiously towards the door. I could hear the sound of her breathing, see the rise and fall of her breast.
After a minute I beckoned to her to come closer and she took a couple of steps towards me.
‘What’s wrong?’ I said. ‘Is it Hathaway again?’
She didn’t answer, but just stood there looking at me, and poised, as if listening for sounds from outside. There was nothing, though, and after a while she seemed to grow more relaxed; her breathing grew steadier and her eyes looked a little less wild.
Although the light in the room was dim I could see her quite plainly. The ribbon at the neck of her nightdress had come undone and now the flapping collar revealed part of one smooth pale breast. Her dark hair hung loose and heavy past her shoulders. As I gazed at her I saw her eyes brim with tears that spilled over and ran down her cheeks.
‘Oh, Catherine . . .’
As if the sympathy in my voice was all that she needed she stepped forward and, half-sitting, half-leaning on the bed, threw her arms around my neck.
I could smell the faint, fragrant woman’s smell of her along with the trace of some perfume of cologne. I lifted my hands and held her to my bare chest, wrapping her close. As I did so I heard over the sound of her muffled sobs a noise from outside in the corridor. Footsteps? I whispered into her ear, ‘Is that Hathaway out there?’ but she didn’t answer, only clung to me more fiercely. Giving no more than a passing thought to my nakedness I urged her aside, got out of bed and pulled on my dressing gown. Then, waiting until she had hurried into the bathroom and closed the door behind her I moved to the outer door and opened it. The corridor was empty.
I closed the door, locked it and moved across to the bathroom. ‘It’s all right,’ I said, opening the door. ‘There’s no one out there now.’
She came out and stopped just a few feet away from me. ‘I still don’t know, really, what this is all about,’ I said. ‘I’d like to be able to help you.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s okay. I shall be all right. Just—just let me stay a little longer, can I?’
‘Of course.’
I sat down on the edge of the bed. After a moment she came and sat beside me. She touched my hand as it lay on the coverlet. ‘You’ve been so kind, and all I’ve done is ruin your sleep.’ Her fingers were light on the back of my hand. She leaned forward and kissed me gently on the cheek. Her lips were soft, the touch fleeting. I slowly put a finger up to the spot she had kissed and then put the finger to my lips. She watched me.
Sitting beside her, looking at her, I was aware of feeling unusually warm; and the warmth was growing. I could almost feel the blood moving in my veins, moving faster, giving me a strange feeling of power. I became dimly aware that sweat was breaking out on my body. I reached out and took her in my arms.
Without knowing how or when I found that our positions had changed and we were lying on the bed. She lay the length of me, pressing her body to mine. There was nothing I could do to hold back; I couldn’t get close enough. My hand moved, seeking her breasts, and I held the soft, firm flesh while I pressed my own hardness against her thigh. In a swift, everlasting movement of floating cotton her nightdress was thrown, discarded, onto the carpet; a moment later I felt the cool air on my own body as my dressing gown was tossed aside.
That warmth in me was stronger than ever and spreading by the second. I could feel it sweeping over me, saturating, feeding my desire for the girl who lay naked beneath me. I revelled in the feel of my flesh on her flesh and the oil of our mingled sweat, while through it all my hands explored her body with a passion, a hunger and a curiosity they had not known in years.
For a split second I thought of myself lying there while Carl had rubbed and massaged my body. Carl, you bastard . . . I pushed the images away . . .
With my hands I traced the long, beautiful lines of her flesh; her thighs, her hips, her bent knees. And her own fingers, her own hands, moved on me, exploring, caressing, offering me glory in my nakedness, the shape of me, the essence . . .
Her face moved damply against mine as I pressed in, thrusting as if I would force my whole body inside her. Her lips, brushing my cheek, whispered unintelligible words into my ear while beneath me I could feel her pushing up to meet me, opening to me, matching my thrusts with her own. (Carl, you bastard; you with your smug smile. How wrong you were, you bastard.) A kernel of intensest feeling—like a small knot of palpable desire—took shape and grew, spreading up, taking complete control. I began to dr
ive faster, deeper. I heard grunts coming from my throat while from within my head a small voice, pathetic and inadequate, warned me that if I didn’t withdraw now it would be too late. My answer was to thrust even deeper, while Catherine, as if she also had heard the voice, pressed herself still harder against me.
I drove into her in one last ecstatic cleaving thrust, and with it the small voice, like a spark, was extinguished.
* * *
I was relaxing in a warm bath when I heard Carl knock and enter the room.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he called out. ‘You’re up very early this morning.’ I didn’t answer. After a moment he added, ‘I’ve brought your coffee . . .’
I grunted some grudging thanks in reply to this and a second later heard the door closing as he went away again.
When I’d got myself more or less dry I put on my bathrobe and carried my coffee over to the south windows, opened one of them and stood breathing in the fresh, sweet air. The landscape that stretched away was a mass of varied greens. The sky was blue and cloudless. It was going to be another very warm day.
Turning, I moved across to the window that looked out onto the courtyard—and Catherine’s room. I could see that her curtains had been drawn back; the space beyond, though, was in shadow . . .
I thought again of the events of the past night. They seemed more like a dream than reality. I pictured Catherine coming into the room; saw her standing there in the dim light. I thought again of the almost violent closeness we had known, the little time it had lasted and how, once it was over, she had so quickly risen to leave.
‘Don’t go yet,’ I said to her. ‘Stay a while longer.’
‘I dare not. I have to go. I’m sorry.’
She pulled on her nightdress and moved away across the room. I followed her. ‘Will you be okay?’ I asked, wrapping her in my arms.
‘Yes, if I go now.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed me, then broke away and stood aside while I quietly opened the door.
‘It’s all clear,’ I whispered, ‘—there’s nobody about.’ I watched her then while her eyes crinkled and her mouth opened in a little silent laugh that made her look like a schoolgirl. ‘I’ll see you at ten,’ she mouthed, and then she was gone, out into the corridor and hurrying quickly and quietly away.
Now in the clear morning light I could only view it with a kind of wonder. All of it. My performance in bed—had that really been me, that passionate, uninhibited lover? It was beyond anything in my experience and the memory of it was slightly unsettling—as if I’d discovered a facet of my nature that I hadn’t known existed . . .
Still, it was over now . . .
I put down my coffee cup and was just about to turn away when my eyes were drawn to movement below.
It was the nuns. There they were, all six of them, emerging from somewhere beneath my own window and moving sedately across the courtyard. I watched them walk in single file along the path between the lawn and the kitchen garden. Eventually they were lost to sight amongst the trees.
* * *
After breakfast—which I ate alone—I went up to the studio, prepared my materials and waited for Catherine to appear. When she hadn’t arrived by half-past-ten I went downstairs to see what had happened to her. I had just reached the hall when I saw Mrs. Weldon coming from the direction of the east wing.
‘Ah, Mr. Rigby . . .’ She smiled as she stepped towards me. ‘I was just coming to see you. I’m afraid Catherine won’t be able to sit for you this morning. At this moment she’s reading to her great-aunt. I’d much rather she was getting on with the sitting, but with Miss Stewart I’m afraid there’s a limit to having one’s own way. Odd, isn’t it, how old age enables one to be so demanding?’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, let’s just hope that Catherine will be free this afternoon.’
She left me then, to my own devices, and after I’d aimlessly kicked my heels for a while I took my sketchbook into the grounds where I made some drawings of various interesting trees. Later as I crossed the courtyard Catherine emerged from the rear of the house and came towards me.
‘I saw you from my room,’ she said, smiling. She nodded towards my sketchbook. ‘I see you’ve been busy.’
I shrugged. ‘Nothing of any note.’
We stood facing one another. Beyond her head the sunlight glinted on the windows.
‘I’m sorry about this morning,’ she said; ‘I was with my great-aunt.’
‘Yes, Mrs. Weldon told me.’
‘I’ve also promised to go and read to her again later on, but I can manage a couple of hours for the painting after lunch if you want . . .’
‘Good. I’d be glad of that.’
She lifted her head and glanced up briefly at the blue sky. ‘It’s such a beautiful day,’ she said. Turning, she moved back towards the house. I followed her. In the hall at the foot of the stairs she said:
‘Hathaway’s going.’ Her expression was grave.
‘He’s leaving?’
‘Any time—if he hasn’t gone already.’
‘. . . What happened?’
‘Well, after I talked to Mrs. Weldon yesterday she had a word with him and—it seems—gave him a warning. Obviously, though, he didn’t take it that seriously.’ She paused. ‘Now he has.’
‘She fired him . . .’
‘Yes.’ She added fervently: ‘I’m glad. It’ll be so much better without him around.’
‘I still don’t understand how you could have put up with it,’ I said.
‘I couldn’t have—for much longer. But—oh—anyway, it’s all—all dealt with now.’ She shook her head. ‘I’d rather not talk about it . . .’
After a moment I said: ‘Have you decided where you’ll go when you leave here?’
‘Well—not for certain. I shall probably go to London.’
‘You’re not tempted to go overseas with the other ladies—the nuns . . . ?’
‘Oh, good Lord, no.’
‘I don’t mean to join their order or whatever—I mean just to go and work abroad—nursing or something.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m dedicated to my job but I’m not fanatical about it. And I don’t believe in altruism.’ She paused. ‘I doubt that I have much in common with them at all.’
‘Have you talked to any of them . . . ?’
‘No, never. I just see them about the place from time to time. I’m sure they’re all slightly mad. They must be to do what they do, don’t you think?’
I smiled back at her. ‘I’m sure I have no idea.’
We went into lunch then and afterwards Catherine put on her white dress and met me in the studio. She could only stay until three-thirty, she had told me, and when that time came around I put down my brush with a sigh of disappointment.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, getting down from the dais. ‘Has something gone wrong?’
‘No, it’s all gone right. I’m sighing because I’d like to have continued—instead of which I have to stop.’ I looked up at the painting. ‘It’s so close now to being finished. I think I only need a couple more hours.’
‘I wish I could stay this afternoon,’ she said. ‘I just can’t, though.’
‘That’s okay; it can’t be helped. Will you be able to sit tomorrow?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Good . . . we’ll get it finished then.’
And then, I said to myself, I shall be away . . .
Thoughts of my departure were on my mind when I spoke to Mrs. Weldon later that evening. After dinner when we were alone I asked her whether, to her knowledge, my car had been repaired. She looked rather taken aback at my question.
‘Mr. Rigby, I am so sorry,’ she said, ‘but I have to admit that I forgot all about it. I’m dreadfully sorry. Please forgive me.’ She then went on to say: ‘No doubt you have been told that he—Sam—is no longer he
re . . .’
‘Yes.—Catherine did mention it to me.’
She nodded. ‘I’m afraid we just couldn’t—countenance that sort of behaviour.’
It was, I said lamely, a rather unfortunate business.
‘Yes, indeed—and I thank you for helping her. It was most understanding of you to—to let her in like that and calm her . . . She told me how kind you were.’
I found the greatest difficulty in meeting her eyes. ‘It was nothing,’ I murmured.
‘Oh, no, you were very kind. Very kind. I only hope your sleep wasn’t completely wrecked. I’m sure you didn’t bargain for that when you came here—having to comfort hysterical women in the middle of the night. But apart from your kindness—for which, as I say, I’m grateful—I’m also thankful for the fact that—well—that you—behaved as you did . . .’ Now it was her turn to look away. She lowered her eyes and, directing her words over to my left, added in a rather embarrassed tone:
‘I thank you for being a—a gentleman, Mr. Rigby. Other men would have taken advantage of—well—of the situation . . .’
‘Oh, please . . .’ I paused, cleared my throat, then, reaching for firmer and more comfortable ground, added: ‘So you don’t know whether anything was done to my car.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Mr. Rigby, though I would very much doubt it. For one thing I don’t think Sam even had time. When he left he—he left fairly quickly.’
‘He told me he’d have to go out and buy a spare part,’ I said, to which she replied that he had gone out during the morning, though for what purpose she couldn’t say. ‘Have you tried your car?’ she asked.
‘As far as I know he’s still got the keys.’
She looked really quite perplexed at this. Then, brightening, she said: ‘Don’t worry. We’ll get it all sorted out.’
‘I do hope so. I shall want to get off as soon as the portrait’s finished tomorrow.’
‘You expect to have it finished tomorrow?’
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