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Curricle & Chaise

Page 13

by Church, Lizzie


  She excused herself at the first opportunity and stopped off at the library. A big fire was blazing in the grate. A grizzled wolfhound was stretched out blissfully in front of it. A grandfather clock ticked steadily by the door. Lydia gazed at the fire. It looked a lot more tempting than her empty grate. The leather chair nearby invited her to sink into it. A table beside it was laden with enticing books. She looked at the fire again, mesmerised by the brilliance of the fiery caves between the logs. Surely Charles would not think to find her here? He scarcely ever set foot in the library, being no great reader himself, and after dinner he always spent the hours until bedtime drinking his father’s port and brandy in the dining room. And anyway, was she to become a prisoner in her own bedchamber until he went away? She was not afraid of Charles. He was a complete numbscull. And why should she freeze in her own room when the library was light and warm and oh, so restful? The temptation proved too great. She eased herself into the leather chair, tickled the wolfhound’s accommodating head (which said animal acknowledged with a lazy thump of the tail) and promptly fell asleep in the warmth.

  Lydia was never sure, thinking back on the incident later, whether it was the creak of the door or a squeaky floorboard that awoke her. It may have been simply the rustle of logs in the grate. Whatever it was, something certainly disturbed her, for scarcely had she closed her eyes than she was wide awake again, senses alert, certain that there was someone else in the room. She opened an eye cautiously. Her heart sank. Charles was standing in the doorway, candle in hand, a smile on his face. He closed the door carefully behind him and sauntered over to stand in front of her. She stared up at him, defiantly.

  ‘So you are here, Miss Lydia,’ he swaggered, planting his feet firmly at either side of her legs. ‘I thought you would not run away from me entirely. Where else would you hide than in the library? Maybe you hoped I should find you here, eh? After all, it is the obvious place to hide - warm, snug – and well away from the rest of the household. And now we may do exactly as we like and not be disturbed, mayn’t we? But do I detect some fear in those dark eyes of yours? Aye, I declare you are frightened of me – just as you were as a child. But I don’t want to frighten you, my darling. I just want us to be friends.’

  ‘I was never frightened of you, Charles Abdale,’ lied Lydia. ‘Bullies never frighten me. Rather, I despise you. Can’t you see that I dislike you? Yet you still insist on pursuing me. It’s insulting and ... pudding headed.’

  ‘Your face is quite flushed. It suits you.’

  Lydia refrained from further speaking her mind. It was apparent that Charles was not to be deterred, and further defiance may do more harm than good. She tried to ignore him and picked up a book from the table beside her. But it was impossible. He gently released the book and snapped it shut. Then he tried to grasp her hand but she whipped it away. Her resistance only seemed to make him more determined. He roughly pulled her to her feet in front of him and held her there. He still towered above her. That close he looked strong and threatening. She had lied when she had told him that he did not frighten her. The fear gripping her now was almost overwhelming. What did he intend to do to her? Surely he would do nothing to regret, here in his father’s house?

  ‘You have to kiss me,’ he commanded, roughly drawing her towards him. She forced her head away and his lips met her cheek. He swore and shook her. She raised her eyes to look at him.

  ‘Go to the devil, Charles Abdale,’ she directed.

  She tried to snatch herself free but there was no escape. Charles was stronger than she was, and determined. His lips met hers at last. His kiss was long and voluptuous and she found it difficult not to respond. But now he was fondling her hair and neck, now fumbling with her skirt, trying to lift it. She realised that the danger was real, and imminent, and that Charles was in a high passion and in no mood to give up. She had to do her best to escape. She tried to hit out at him with arms pinioned to her side. She tried to kick him with kid-slippered feet. She wriggled like a snake in his hands. Charles clung on to her in a vice-like grip. It seemed that nothing she could do had any effect on him whatsoever. But they had both forgotten the wolfhound, lying on the hearth. His sleep disturbed by what seemed to him to be a great game, he suddenly leapt to his feet, barking wildly, and jumped on the hapless Charles, knocking him to the ground. The wrench was so great that as Charles fell back there was an ominous ripping sound as Lydia’s sleeve gave up the unequal struggle and gave way under his weight. He lay there, stunned, for a second, Lydia’s sleeve still in his hands. The wolfhound thought this tremendous fun. Determined to release this enticing new toy from his master’s grip, excitement got the better of him. Charles gave out a sickening yell as the dog’s sharp teeth embedded themselves in the flesh of his hands.

  Lydia saw her chance. Rejecting the opportunity to discover the fate of either liberator or tormentor she took up her skirts and ran. The hall was empty. She raced towards the stairs and took them two at a time. Her heart was pounding but there was no question of slackening until she reached the safety of her own room. She slammed the door behind her. Heaving with exertion and fright she dragged her trunk to the doorway and wedged it there as best she could. She tested the door. It would only open with great effort. She balanced the heavy lid so that it would slam shut with a crash if the door gave way. Hopefully the noise would raise the household, if Charles decided to try his luck again.

  She stood in the middle of her room, quivering with fear, senses aroused, listening intently for some noise from outside to say that Charles was on his way. A second, a minute went by. Still silence. A faint glimmer of moonlight was illuminating a pattern in her rug. Her gaze fixed on the pattern. Round and round the pattern she went. Again and again the question reeled around her brain. What was she to do? Whatever could she do?

  Her first thought was to tell aunt Abdale but this was immediately dismissed as a nonsense. Aunt Abdale? No – she would never believe any wrong of her darling son – it would be Lydia’s fault, telling tales behind his back. Charles was only doing what came naturally. Lydia must have led him on. She deserved everything she got.

  And what of uncle Abdale? Ridiculous thought. He was totally uninterested in both his family and herself. If he thought about it at all he would probably find the whole thing a great joke, slap his son on the shoulder and tell his friends and relations about it. No. There was no help to be got from the Abdales. But who else could she turn to? Nobody.

  There was nothing she could do for now but to hope that Charles would have learned his lesson, that he would not attempt to insult her again. Perhaps the whole thing would blow over. Perhaps Charles would grow tired of the game. Deep down, however, she realised that this was something of a forlorn hope. It was perfectly obvious that, for now, Charles was obsessed by her and that he had no intention of giving up his pursuit. Her presence posed a challenge to his manhood. She had to get away from Abdale somehow.

  The moonlight disappeared and a few drops of rain began to spatter onto her window. Lydia suddenly realised that she was cold. She hurriedly took off her now ruined gown and snuggled into her bed. A wind blew up, the rain became more constant. She was mesmerised by the sound of the drops as they were blown onto the window. Confident from the silence within that Charles would not be back that night, she finally managed to drift off into a somewhat troubled sleep.

  Lydia decided to ensure, as much as possible, that she was always within sight of someone else whilst Charles was in the house. So the next morning she breakfasted with Julia in her room. Julia’s maid imparted the news that Mr Charles had been bitten by his dog last night but that the bite, though painful, had caused a flesh wound only. His hand, now wrapped in bandaging, had not been badly mauled. Julia greeted this news with unsisterly glee. Lydia wisely kept her thoughts to herself.

  It was fortunate that Julia was now sufficiently recovered to sit in the drawing room with her during the day. Even more fortunate, an Oxford friend of Charles arrived at Abdale House a
nd was prevailed upon to stay the night. This was an unexpected blessing. Despite providing the heavily bandaged Charles with the scarcely needed excuse to get very drunk on Mr Abdale’s best port wine, it also obliged him to pay some attention to his guest and less to annoying her.

  Suddenly much recovered from her own illness, Mrs Abdale, too, responded positively to the appearance of a guest. She was much concerned, in particular, that Julia should appear at her best and expended a good deal of effort in ensuring that this was the case. Losing much hope of any alliance with that peculiar Mr Churchman she was more than prepared to thrust her daughter at any semi-eligible young man who happened to come along, particularly if he were already an acknowledged friend of Charles. Poor Julia was therefore made the constant centre of attention, firstly being berated for her (false) modesty whenever she spoke a word to him, then having every expensive item she was wearing pointed out to him, and finally having to sit by their guest at dinner and be as pleasant as possible to an altogether unremarkable young man. Mrs Abdale’s fusses and stratagems failed to pay off tonight, however. When Julia was finally allowed to retire to bed some time after midnight the young men had failed to reappear, and when Lydia went upstairs not many minutes after her cousin (having first been obliged to pin up Mrs Abdale’s gown, which had unaccountably split along a seam again) she came across the butler in the hall hurrying towards the dining room with a further bottle of port on his tray.

  The candle was out, she was almost asleep. She could hear the whistle of the wind gusting in the courtyard beneath her window, rustling the leaves which lingered in hidden corners. Everything else was silent. Or was it? Was that not a footstep outside? She caught her breath, ears straining. She was certain that there was someone in the passage. Suddenly her heart leapt. Her chamber door was creaking open, the trunk, which she had again placed by it, gliding treacherously quietly across the floor. She was wide awake at once. A masculine silhouette appeared in the light from beyond. She stared in fascinated terror. He lurched into the room and over to her bed. She tried to scream, but the sound refused to come out. He bent over to touch her. She could see the grin on his face as the light caught it. The rest of his body was a shadow. He looked like some disembodied ghost. He touched her. She could smell the drink on his breath. She found her voice at last.

  ‘Charles Abdale, how dare you enter my room like this?’ she whispered, attempting to sound a lot more confident than she felt. ‘You are foxed, man, and in no fit state to be wandering about the house at this time of night. Get back to your room this instant, before I throw you out.’

  ‘Save your words, Lydia,’ he slurred, chivalrously, attempting to climb onto the bed. ‘God, woman, why ever do you have this room so cold?’

  ‘To keep out the likes of you,’ she retorted. ‘Get off my bed, you sapskull, and let me sleep in peace.’

  She realised that, tonight at least, he could do her no actual harm – he was far too drunk even to realise what he was doing. Had she not been so exasperated with him she might have found it amusing. Here he was, fully clothed (thankfully) making a mountain out of her high single bed and trying to get inside. But even so she didn’t quite know what to do. So she gave him a push, which sent him sprawling to the floor once more.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ he shouted, his voice echoing eerily across the otherwise silent room. ‘Let me back – I want your blanket – it’s devilish cold out here.’

  ‘Sssh,’ warned Lydia. ‘You’ll waken the family, Charles.’

  ‘Sssh?’ – said so loud that it sounded like a thousand snakes. ‘Let me in and I’ll be quiet again.’

  ‘You will not get in my bed.’

  ‘Let me in, let me in fair maiden...’ he was singing now in a vibrant baritone which was so incongruous with his situation that Lydia could contain herself no longer. At the sound of his voice she burst into a peal of laughter which rang around the room as an accompaniment to the song.

  Charles stopped in mid note.

  ‘Whassamatter?’ he demanded. He sounded hurt. ‘Are you laughing at my song? I’ll sing you another. A tragic lament. It’ll really break your heart.’

  He threw back his head and raised his voice. Lydia was beside herself. What with Charles’ singing and her own laughter it was enough to awaken the whole Abdale household but she was as powerless to stop herself as she was the lamenting Charles.

  The inevitable happened at last. It was Mrs Abdale who was first on the scene, magnificent in flowing drapes, candle in hand. Her figure blocked the light from the corridor as she was framed in the doorway. Before Julia had arrived the explosion had begun.

  ‘Lydia Barrington – whatever are you doing with my son in your bedchamber? How ever could you forget yourself and the position you hold in this family as to entertain such a thing? I am shocked and astounded...Why, if ever I were to have suspected the slightest part of this infamous business – this treachery – I should have packed you off immediately. I don’t know what to say. Charles – Charles, I say – come away from that bed at once. How could you sully yourself with that brazen hussy who even now has the gall to look me in the eye – me, an Abdale, having to suffer this evil in my own household – me, who has always...’

  ‘Charles is foxed, Mrs Abdale,’ said Lydia, softly. ‘He has entered my room in mistake for his own, I think. Allow me to...’

  ‘Silence, harlot – how dare you even speak to me with a man in your room like this – and Julia, leave me here this instant. I shall not have you contaminated by this woman any longer.’

  Julia, however, though profoundly shocked, had no intention of missing all the fun so she retreated only a little way into the corridor and listened to the unfolding drama with all her might.

  Charles, meanwhile, was sitting defiantly on the bed. The cold and the shouting were beginning to sober him up and he had a nasty suspicion that things were getting a little out of hand.

  ‘I wish you would not fuss so much,’ he said. ‘I have the devil’s own headache and I’m frozen to the bones.’

  ‘I can’t help that, my boy,’ was the motherly reply. ‘It’s your own fault, Charles, if you will insist on drinking like a fish every night. How you ever have a clear head on you I really do not know. It’s quite beyond me how you men ever manage anything, you are always so fuddle-capped at night. Get out of this room immediately, for goodness’ sake, and don’t you ever come near this disgraceful woman again.’

  Charles was well able to recognise defeat when it stared him in the face.

  ‘I am going, mama,’ he announced, in a resigned tone. ‘I am going to my own bed, wherever it is, and shall leave this ice box once and for all. I would advise you, mama, and Julia, to do the same before you each catch a chill.’

  He rose with dignity, if rather unsteadily, and made for the door. It was unfortunate that an unexpected stumble on his part knocked Mrs Abdale’s candle from her hand, extinguishing it as it fell, leaving her vast shadow to spread forebodingly over the bed.

  Lydia ignored her and settled down to sleep. Mrs Abdale hesitated, but feeling a sudden surge of cold, and noting her firstborn’s parting comment, she gravely retreated with only the forbidding words ‘I shall speak with you in the morning’ to mark her departure from the scene.

  It was Julia, however, who was the first to speak the next day. She had been truly shocked by the incident and seemed half inclined to ignore her cousin at breakfast but Lydia soon managed to convince her of her own innocence in the affair and, though she was not quite able to bring herself to laugh it off it as Lydia had done, was at least more inclined to feel kindly disposed towards the victim.

  ‘But what ever did you think when he came into your room?’ she asked, her curiosity finally getting the better of her. ‘I declare I should have fainted on the spot had he found his way into mine.’

  Lydia smiled.

  ‘It’s difficult to know just how one would react until the situation arises,’ she said. ‘I must admit that I was a li
ttle frightened at first, but as soon as I realised that he was as drunk as David’s sow I confess – I found the whole thing a huge joke.’

  ‘But what ever would you have done had mama not arrived when she did? After all, Lydia, foxed or not – Charles is very strong, you know. I doubt that I could overpower him on my own.’

  ‘Oh, as to that, why, there is very little he could have done to me there. He would soon have sobered up, I have no doubt – and then somewhat sheepishly departed my room, like as not. I should think no more about it, Julia – the least said the better, as far as I’m concerned.’

  The vision of righteous indignation that just then materialised in the doorway, however, hinted at the fact that one member of the household, at the least, would not be so accommodating as to let the matter lie.

  ‘Julia,’ stormed her mama, as soon as she found the two of them together. ‘Leave this room at once. I will not have you associating with this harlot any more.’

  Julia left.

  ‘And as for you, my girl – I have had enough of your shameless ways. You are worthless and immoral. You are not fit to sully the house in which you stay. How could you repay such kindness, such selflessness as I have shown you in giving you a roof over your head, enjoying the luxuries of the finest living – how could you do such a thing as to seduce my only son? Unprincipled girl – if ever I could have guessed...’

  ‘Seduced your son, ma’am. I assure you I have intended no such thing.’

  ‘...just what I had invited into my home I should have turned you out immediately. But of course, I should have known. Your mama was as foolish and worthless as you, and who knows but that your papa behaved in just the same way when he went off to war...’

  ‘Madam,’ broke in Lydia, unceremoniously, maintaining control of herself with difficulty. ‘Abuse me in whatever manner you choose. I care not what you think or say of me. But one more word about my dear parents and I shall reveal a side of my character that we would both be better not to see.’

 

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